Hellfire

by Ed Macy

  The flare dispenser was packed full; I would have woken the boys up there and then if even one had been missing. Along with the Bitch, these puppies were top of the list of things keeping me alive at altitude.

  I walked down the tail, scanning every square inch to make sure it hadn’t been bumped into. I made sure that the tail wheel was locked so the wind-if it ever got up at night-wouldn’t blow her around. The position of the huge horizontal stabilator was even more critical. We always forced the aircraft to leave it in the horizontal position before closing down; if we didn’t, it would drop down at the rear. The Americans had once had a bit of a problem in strong winds. The wind caught them and flipped over a whole row of aircraft.

  ‘Your side okay, Ed?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Yep. Just check my cowlings and catches on the way down. I’ll do yours.’ It was easy to leave a panel open so we always checked each other’s work after the inspection.

  I opened the cockpit, attached my carbine to the seat bracket and put a magazine of tracer on it. I threw my grab bag-what I referred to as my ammo bag-next to the seat and jumped in. I pushed the Data Transfer Cartridge (DTC) into its housing, pulled on my helmet, and fired up the APU. I made sure the aircraft was set up for night, turning down all the levels so I could barely see a thing. I pulled forward the coaming cover on top of the dash, flipped up the left batwing and Velcroed it to the top of the cowling. No light would leak from the left of the cockpit. I couldn’t do the starboard side right now because I had to climb out of the door.

  I uploaded my information from the DTC and checked that the new codes had uploaded into the radios. We couldn’t afford another cock-up like we had on Op Mutay. The Apache’s radios were temperamental and we were learning the hard way.

  Jon was the comms guru and reckoned he’d now fixed the radio problems we’d been plagued with since our arrival. I set them up ready for him to put them through their paces.

  ‘Wildman Five One, Wildman Five Zero,’ he called.’Check on one…

  ‘On two…’

  I followed him through each one, making sure I could hear him. I flipped to radio three.

  ‘On three…’

  I heard the beep confirming that he had sent his aircraft’s position digitally via the Improved Data Modem over the fourth radio.

  I looked down. His icon appeared next to mine on the MPD’s Tactical Situational Display (TSD) page, confirming the IDM and fourth radio both worked.

  I called, ‘Good data’, meaning I could receive and had his icon, but we were only half done. The system was so complex that hearing and receiving data didn’t mean you could transmit and be heard. And we needed to prove my IDM could send too.

  I repeated the procedure in reverse and pushed the Present Position button on my MPD.

  ‘Good data, closing down.’

  Once I was sure we had no snags I set the stabilator to horizontal and powered everything down again. I wedged my Flight Reference Cards between the coaming and its cover, put one of my gloves on the cyclic to remind me not to touch it with a bare hand when it was hot, then put my helmet on the dash. I climbed out, threw my escape jacket back on the seat and closed the door.

  Simon and I wandered back up to the Ops room and let them know we were off to bed. Then it was back across the road, kit off, and into our scratchers.

  The four of us were in the Apache IRT tent instead of our normal accommodation. It was closer to the Ops room. The Chinook crews were next door. We had a couple of camp cots lashed together as a sofa in front of a big TV with magazines strewn all over the place. This was where the guys on IRT/HRF spent most of their down time. If you weren’t in there, you had to make sure the Ops room knew where you were going, and take a walkie-talkie with you.

  I was mostly writing requirements at the back of the Ops room in our admin area, where the Sky TV was playing next to the brew-making kit. I fired off memos about all kinds of stuff: for the rocket parameters to be lifted, in defence of using Flechettes, to justify buying a different type of warhead for the Hellfires-and a policy document for dynamic harmonisation for the gun.

  When I wasn’t writing I was studying gun tapes I hadn’t caught up with from the previous day. There were a lot of battles going on, so hours and hours of tape. Every inch of it needed to be viewed so I could collate the data and send back my reports as well as advise crews on their techniques.

  The four of us struggled awake again at 0700 local-0330 GMT. I usually skipped breakfast, but these were crazy days and you never knew when you were going to eat next, so I grabbed a big bowl of porridge and a piece of fruit and washed it down with half a gallon of coffee.

  I wasn’t part of Operation Daz today, so since all was quiet, a few hours later I let the Ops room know that Simon, Jon and Jake were taking the Land Rover on a laundry run and I was legging it across to the satellite phones. It was 0800 on Sunday morning back in the UK; there was a good chance of catching Emily at home. The phones were at the opposite end of the camp, just over a kilometre away, so I grabbed a radio and set off.

  I’d only been chatting away with Emily for a few minutes when the Motorola chirped into life.

  ‘Mansell…Senna…Top Gear…Silverstone…’ Mansell was the call for the IRT, Senna was the HRF crew. Top Gear meant go fast, it’s an emergency. Silverstone was the Ops room. That’s where I needed to be. Bloody Nora: I was at the wrong end of the camp, without a vehicle-but I didn’t want to alarm her.

  ‘Who was that?’ she said.

  Jon acknowledged the call before I got time to turn the volume down. ‘Mansell…Top Gear…Silverstone.’

  ‘Oh…er…some F1 advertising thing. Listen sweetie, you won’t believe it,’ I said, ‘but I’m desperate for a poo.’

  I was right. She didn’t. ‘But you only just got on the phone…’

  ‘You know what I’m like…’

  ‘You’ll call me straight back?’

  Oh bollocks.

  ‘I’m not near the toilets. If I don’t call it’ll be because the queues are that bad on a Sunday.’

  I made my call the moment I put down the receiver.

  ‘Senna, Top Gear, Silverstone.’

  It was 1145 local and as hot as an oven. Apart from my flying suit, I was in full gear with my pistol strapped to my right leg and roasting like a pig. I sprinted through the camp as fast as I could go. When I got to the end of the main boardwalk it dawned on me that Emily may have spotted that Senna was dead and Mansell hadn’t raced in years.

  As I ran across the road I bumped into Jon coming from the other direction.

  ‘Straight to the aircraft,’ he yelled. ‘Now Zad is nearly Broken Arrow. Simon and Jake are getting the details.’

  This was bad. The base was close to being overrun.

  We left the Land Rover for Simon and Jake. I ran alongside Jon, up and down the berms, until we finally split between the two hangars, Jon going left and me going right.

  Taff, Gifted and the boys were all over the aircraft, blitzing the blanks and covers and bunging the last few into their wooden storage boxes.

  We had the Hardened Aircraft Landing Strip installed now, so we were off the engineering park and could do running takeoffs. The HALS, its taxiways, the refuel pads and arming bays were made of thick click-together corrugated steel and our boots slapped the metal against the sand as we ran across it.

  An arrangement of eight-foot-high concrete bollards, open both ends, protected each Apache. You drove in one end and straight out onto the runway from the other. The bollards were just low enough for the back seaters to be able to see each other.

  Finished with our two, the lads raced to clear the spare aircraft in Arming Bays Three and Four in case either of us had a problem on takeoff.

  Still on the run, I scanned the back of the Apache to make sure the engine exhaust blanks were out. As I rounded the starboard wing, I checked all the covers were off the TADS.

  Taff shouted, ‘Tee-fifty pin’s out!’

  I clambe
red up and yanked open my door. One glance on the way up had told me the blanks were all off. I craned my neck out of the far window to check the other side of the fuselage.

  I gave the key a twist.

  ‘Pylons…APU…stab clear…’ I grabbed my jacket.

  They weren’t hollow warnings. The hydraulically powered pylons could cut a finger clean off when they jumped into position and the lads were always checking weapons as they powered up. The hot exhaust gas would soon be blasting out as the APU fired up and it wasn’t stifled like the main engines because it didn’t need to be: we didn’t fly with it on. When the stabilator got its hydraulic power it would bang straight down with enough force to kill anybody in the way.

  ‘Pylons, APU and stab are clear,’ Taff barked back.

  From arriving at the side of the aircraft to being settled in my seat with my chicken plate in had taken six or seven seconds. Simon would probably be no more than fifteen or so behind. I flicked the MPDs and other settings to daylight while I put my harness on and powered up his TADS so it cooled the FLIR.

  Simon ran round the side of the aircraft.

  Taff had plugged his headset into the side of the starboard wing now I had my helmet on. He opened Simon’s front cockpit door. Simon climbed up beside me and shuffled forward along the IEFAB (pronounced eefab) to his cockpit. A bulky Improved Extended Forward Avionics Bay (IEFAB) sat either side of all Longbow Apaches. He jumped into his seat and pulled down the door. Mine was already closed.

  He plugged in.

  ‘What’s the brief, mate?’ I said.

  ‘Now Zad are under attack. They’re trying to get into the base. Harriers are on their way from Kandahar. Soon as they turn up we’ve got to pull off, to save hours.’

  ‘Have we got launch authority?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  Mindful of Mutay, as soon as the aircraft came alive, I needed to check that the new codes hadn’t dropped out of the radios.

  ‘Good data,’ Jon called after the comms check.

  We now knew we were talking on four radios, and we could send data between the aircraft.

  The second Simon was ready I pulled forward and banged on the toe-brakes; I’d need them on landing. The nose dipped to an abrupt halt. As soon as the first aircraft was ready, it would pull forward to let the other one know. I rolled the Apache right onto the HALS runway.

  I tracked down a bit and looked over my shoulder. Jon’s nose dipped. As soon as I saw him move again, I unlocked our tail wheel, spun the aircraft 180 degrees, locked the wheel up again and waited. I was slightly to the right of the centreline on the very end of the HALS, pointing towards Now Zad.

  Saxon Ops gave us: ‘Hold-hold.’

  Jon continued onto the runway and taxied towards me. He spun the aircraft around, ending up about ten feet forward and left of me. We both had maximum runway for takeoff.

  Jake came on the radio: ‘Saxon, Wildman Five Zero, send update.’

  ‘They’re copying at the moment. Just stay on the APU.’

  We brought both aircraft onto the refuel point, got pumped up, turned back and parked up in our bays. I was just about to switch off the main engines when Ops came back to us.

  ‘Don’t shut down. They’re under attack again.’

  I was sure the Taliban had been studying our reactions. Aircraft hadn’t turned up after the first attack, so they knew they could give it another go.

  We took off and Jake asked Saxon Ops for another update as his wheels lifted.

  ‘They’ve got right up to the compound and are trying to break in.’

  We’d been expecting this. Ever since Op Mutay they’d been getting closer to the DC. They’d tunnelled their way through all the buildings to spring an attack on our doorstep.

  ‘Do you have exact locations?’

  ‘Negative. We don’t know where the Taliban are on the ground. All we know is the DC is getting hit hard.’

  We gunned it low level across Highway Zero One and started climbing the instant we were over the desert.

  Jake was straight onto the radio. ‘Widow Seven One, this is Wildman Five Zero.’

  No reply.

  ‘Widow Seven One, Wildman Five Zero…’

  Nothing. We were out of range. There was no point in us having a go now, but we would when we were closer, in case Jake’s radio was on the blink.

  Jake ordered the patrol to keep climbing. If we could get line of sight we might get comms from further out.

  About sixteen klicks from the town, we got eyes on Now Zad. At first glance, it was hard to see what Ops were on about. The town looked more peaceful than I’d ever seen it.

  Jake tried again. ‘Widow Seven One, how do you read?’

  ‘Lima Charlie.’

  ‘Send update.’

  ‘We’re under heavy attack from all sides. The sangars are smashed and we can’t fire out. We think they’re trying to break into the compound from the south. We can’t get any men in the sangars. We need you to stop the attack on the south side. The Taliban are in the building ten metres south of the DC and close to breaking through.’

  BROKEN ARROW

  SUNDAY, 16 JULY 2006

  Now Zad

  The sky over Now Zad was cobalt blue, a stark contrast with my first view of it during my initiation six weeks ago. There wasn’t any smoke or sign of battle. The place looked like a ghost town.

  ‘Widow Seven One,’ Jake called, ‘this is Wildman Five Zero and Wildman Five One. We have 600 cannon, seventy-six rockets and four Hellfires. Five minutes to run to the overhead. Confirm all friendly forces are in the DC and the Shrine?’

  ‘A-firm affirmative; hurry up please.’

  Shit. The short hairs rose on the back of my neck. It wasn’t protocol to use ‘please’ in fire control orders, even in the opening calls. Widow Seven One was a top JTAC; for him to say please, the situation must be desperate.

  ‘Wildman Five Zero,’ Jake said, ‘any civvies in the area?’

  He got a nervous laugh. ‘You must be joking. They all moved out long ago.’ I could hear loud bangs in the background but none of the gunfire we were used to when the troops were in contact.

  ‘Copied,’ Jake replied.

  The Shrine momentarily blocked my view. As we closed in I saw the bright white building beside the DC. It looked brand new.

  ‘Widow Seven One, this is Wildman Five Zero. Four minutes to run. Where are they attacking from?’ Jake asked.

  ‘Widow Seven One. We’re getting smashed to pieces from the north. They’ve tunnelled between the terraced houses and every house on our east is firing at us. Stand by for more…’

  I could hear the distinctive cracks and snaps of bullets passing the JTAC and sporadic pops and bangs.

  ‘…and we think they’re trying to get through the southern wall,’ he continued, ‘but we can’t really tell because the sangars have been taken out.’

  Bloody hell, he had no men on lookout. They must be under some horrendous fire.

  ‘Copied. Three minutes to run,’ Jake said. ‘I can see a white H-shaped building just to your south.’

  ‘Widow Seven One. A-firm. Hurry up. We’re having a grenade fight over the southern wall.’

  The Harriers had been crashed at the same time as us. We were still supposed to hand over to them when they arrived. It was just as well they hadn’t. Harriers with their bombs and rockets can’t shoot anywhere near this close to our own troops; they would have been unable to help them.

  Fuck, neither can we really…

  My view of the white building was improving. It was orientated side-on to us and shaped like an ‘H’. Just behind it was the base. It looked like they were virtually joined together. I knew they weren’t, because I’d looked down there on a few occasions. There was a tight alleyway.

  When the troops came out for a resupply run, they would turn right and then right again to go down the alleyway between the white building and the southern wall of the DC. This was goin
g to be tight.

  The Taliban had been changing their tactics ever since we kicked off on Op Mutay. Prior to 4 June they had engaged Apaches in the open and had little respect for them. They rushed around taking potshots at us and then laid their weapons down.

  After we’d spanked their arses in Now Zad they’d do anything to attack when Apache cover wasn’t expected. Now they only fought hard from concealed cover. They were tailoring their attacks to our reaction times. Thirty minutes of fighting followed by a break then thirty minutes of fighting, on and on until the early hours. This war of attrition had gone on, day and night, for weeks. It was wearing the troops down.

  The Taliban were so wary of us, they’d tunnelled through buildings to get as close to the DC as possible. They’d bluffed us earlier with a half-hearted attack to test Apache cover, and when we didn’t turn up they went for it.

  We’d now arrived with the battle raging and we stood a chance of catching the scumbags with their pants down. My only worry was proximity. Too close and we’d either shoot and risk killing our own troops or hold fire and film their deaths instead. I needed a piss badly now.

  I looked down at the screen by my knee. Simon’s TADS image gleamed in the midday sun. There was no sign of activity in the main street.

  We kicked left of the Shrine by about a kilometre, as if to go round Now Zad. Jon kicked right. We were separated by about a kilometre and getting into combat attacking positions on the DC’s southern flank.

  Our sights and sensors zoomed in the white building. Puffs of smoke blossomed along its rooftop.

  We tracked west of the town, and came in perpendicular to the alleyway between the DC and the white building; the area of interest. The place was heaving with Taliban, whirling like dervishes as they lobbed grenades over the fifteen-foot wall. Our guys in the DC were flinging back their own.

  They had been forced out of their sangars at the south-east and south-west corners of the DC by weight of fire, so had no idea their grenades were exploding ineffectively on the enemy’s roof.