Hunter Killer

by T. Mark McCurley

  “We have a TIC in progress with troops pinned down,” Bulldog said. “Clearance on my authority. Call when ready 9-Line.”

  TIC, or troops in contact, meant US forces on the ground were in a firefight. Bulldog wasn’t going to wait for fighters to arrive. He wanted the Predator to engage. Droopy and his sensor operator looked at each other. They weren’t expecting that response.

  Bulldog paused for a second.

  “Roulette, ready 9-Line.”

  Within five minutes, Droopy fired both Hellfire missiles and broke the ambush.

  Mike was still grinning when he finished telling the story. It was a big day for our program and our community. Taking a shot in combat that saved American lives was something we could build on, the kind of thing that could flip morale 180 degrees, if we played it right.

  This wasn’t our first shot in combat. Not by far. However, it was an engagement where we acted like professional strikers.

  Droopy’s shot changed the face of Predator in both Iraq and Afghanistan. We had dipped our toes into the traditional fighter pilot’s pool. Word spread quickly among the JTACs that real pilots were starting to fly Predators. In the weeks following, our crews noticed a slight increase in missile strikes.

  Mike and I wanted to make sure Droopy’s success led to a more professional RPA community. We wanted to start bringing that standard to all the crews. I took every opportunity to mention the shot to guys in casual conversation. Pilots are natural gossips, especially about women, airplanes, and tactics. It was arguable which was more important to an aviator at any given moment.

  Probably airplanes.

  Life in a Predator squadron was a lot different from life in other Air Force units. The bar in most squadrons was the center of life in the unit. Guys sat at the tables, ate lunch, finished paperwork, or just shot the breeze. Everybody was on the same schedule and flew in pairs.

  Most Air Force squadrons buzzed with energy during the day as guys trained. But the Predator compound was quiet. We didn’t have a bar, and the flight briefing rooms and offices were deserted. Only the operations center had any life, but even then, pilots just checked in and out. It wasn’t a social scene.

  Predator pilots and sensor operators worked in shifts. I remember going to the Christmas party one year and meeting guys in my squadron for the first time. They were on a different shift. But even then, I didn’t have a lot of close relationships with the other guys because we rarely flew together, and even if we were in the same shift, working a dozen feet from each other, I might be flying in Iraq and the other pilot might be flying in Afghanistan.

  Unlike the fighter community, we didn’t fly in pairs. We didn’t use wingmen or talk on the radio with each other. The conversations were with the guys on the ground and our sensor operators in the cockpit.

  But even that relationship didn’t extend past the cockpit, because I was an officer and the sensor was an enlisted airman. In flight, we tried hard to break down those walls so we could be a good crew, but in the office, there was a line drawn between the officers and the enlisted, just like there is in all the services.

  Flying the Predator was isolating and unlike any other experience I’d had in the Air Force. But that didn’t stop me or Mike from trying to take the professionalism of the other communities and instill it in Predator.

  The 17th wasn’t an easy sell. Most of our operations did not involve ground troops. We didn’t need 9-Lines. When a raid was on the books, we flew solely in observation mode, so we didn’t need close air support procedures. Still, I peddled it to the guys in the 17th as a necessity if they flew with the 15th or returned to the 11th as instructors.

  I also focused on my own skills. After hearing about Droopy’s mission, I studied every facet of close air support. I needed to be ready to shoot when my opportunity came. I also needed to be proficient so I could test the other pilots in the squadrons. It was my job to make sure the pilots in the 17th were meeting Air Force standards even if our day-to-day job was different from that of most other pilots.

  —

  After Droopy’s shot, a shamal, which is a northwesterly wind, flowed out of Turkey and blasted its way across Iraq. The winds picked up small dust particles and turned them into a massive, choking sandstorm that blanketed much of the Mesopotamia Valley.

  Nothing moved on the ground. Helicopters and cargo planes were grounded. But the Predators continued to fly. Our IR targeting pod burned through the dust cloud as if it didn’t exist. The images weren’t spectacular, but they were clear enough for us to fly.

  I set the Predator in an orbit near a suspected safe house in Ramadi. The central Iraqi town sits along the Euphrates River about seventy miles west of Baghdad. Ramadi is the capital and largest city in the Al Anbar Province. The house was located near a main road frequented by American patrols, making its location an ideal staging point for launching attacks.

  Whoever lived in the house hadn’t made a move in hours. For all we knew, they were waiting out the storm. We watched for some time, observing only the occasional car or pickup pass. Iraqis hated dust storms nearly as much as we did. The dust from a shamal permeated everything, even sealed Ziploc bags and electronics. You tasted dirt, grit, and worse things with each tortured breath. I was running an ops check when a truck drove by. The aircraft’s oil was a little low but otherwise normal. I only glanced at it while I typed my log entries into our spreadsheet.

  “Sir,” Sarah, my sensor operator, said. “Was that a technical?” A technical was a small vehicle, usually a pickup truck, modified to carry mounted weapons like machine guns. They were mobile, fast, and dangerous.

  I had trained with Sarah at the 11th. We’d successfully outmaneuvered the F-16 together. It was nice to fly with a familiar face.

  My head snapped up to the HUD. It was too late. The truck had already passed out of view. Sarah zoomed out so she could keep the house in the picture while looking for the truck.

  “Stay on that house,” I said.

  I wanted to find the truck, but our target was the house. A moment later, the secure phone rang. I picked up the receiver.

  “Roulette.”

  “Check your chat.”

  It was the mission commander in the ops cell. I scanned our mission chat room. A note from the Marine Air Traffic Control caught my eye.

  DASC> Roulette, TIC in progress, cleared off tgt, get eyes on ASAP.

  I hung up the phone, and Sarah plugged the target coordinates into the rack and tracked the targeting pod around to get eyes on the location. The whirling video behind my stable HUD was disorienting. I looked away and focused on something in the cockpit until the picture settled.

  “Switching to day TV,” Sarah said.

  We usually flew in IR, but she wanted to see what the visible spectrum would give us. Seconds later all I could see was a solid orange glow. It was impossible to pick up any distinguishing images on the ground.

  “Going back to IR,” she said.

  A snowy image showed the bridge and some vehicles, but not much more. The sand was at a uniform temperature and blocked the heat signatures of High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicles (HMMWVs). Even when we drove in close, the image remained marginal.

  The lead vehicle appeared to be disabled. An insurgent driving nearby had noticed the stopped truck. He gathered several other fighters and ambushed the HMMWVs. Unfortunately for the insurgents, this convoy happened to have a JTAC with it. A frequency popped up in the chat room.

  I checked in with the JTAC, using the procedures I had been practicing. Secretly, I was a bit embarrassed that I felt nervous.

  “Vengeance Four One, Roulette Three Three. Ready check-in,” I said.

  “Go check-in,” the JTAC yelled into his mic. The loud pop-pop-pop of gunfire sounded close.

  I rattled off my check-in, focused on sounding professional.

  “Copy, Ro
ulette,” the JTAC called back immediately. “We are taking small arms fire from across the river. Unable to provide direction. Lead vehicle disabled and unable to move column at this time. No known friendlies across river. We see something south of the bridge, possible weapons fire. Scan and report. How copy?”

  “Roulette copies,” I radioed.

  I looked over at Sarah.

  “Shift right.”

  The bridge and the soldiers slid out of sight as Sarah tracked the camera down the river toward the truck.

  “Stop there,” I said.

  We could make out block-shaped buildings emerging from the sand as she followed a road that paralleled the river. The truck was parked on the road. It was small, like a Ford Ranger with a king cab. It was probably white, too. Most vehicles were, except the taxis that had orange quarter panels.

  “I can see some shadows,” Sarah said. “Could be pax.”

  Seconds later, a staccato of flashes erupted next to one of the shadows. The hot gases from the burning gunpowder showed like deep black accents against the gray screen. It was small arms fire. We’d found the shooter.

  “Whoa,” Sarah said.

  “Shots fired,” I called out.

  The JTAC had a ROVER kit, a small laptop device that could receive the video feed we transmitted from the aircraft. With it, he could see what we saw.

  “Copy,” said the JTAC. “I see it. Call when ready 9-Line.”

  I called ready.

  “Roulette, this will be Type II control by Vengeance Four One,” started the JTAC.

  Type II control meant the JTAC could see me or the target, but not both. He likely used our feed to identify the target. I scribbled the note on my whiteboard. It was easier than messing with the paper data card on my knee.

  “One, two, three—N/A.”

  The first three lines denoted a specific run-in for a target to include range and bearing. We didn’t use these lines for Type II or Type III control.

  The fourth line was the target altitude.

  “Two one three four feet.”

  Line five identified the target.

  “Personnel in the open.”

  The JTAC went off-line momentarily.

  “Stand by for coords—I’ve got to change my designator battery.”

  We waited and watched the enemy while he swapped battery packs on his laser range finder. I wondered how accurate that laser would be through the sand. I made a note to myself to check my laser before engaging.

  Once the JTAC was back online, he continued the 9-Line by compressing the last lines into one radio call.

  “Self-lase, friendlies one hundred meters south, no remarks or restrictions.”

  Sarah and I ran our checks. Sarah plugged the coordinates into the targeting computer. The video shifted slightly. The bridge and the enemy truck overlapped and were too grainy to distinguish at this point anyway.

  “You ready, Sarah?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  The camera remained locked in place.

  “You’ve got the target,” I said. “Let me know if I am getting too far away.”

  I kept the Predator close because visibility grew exponentially worse the farther we flew from the target. There was no threat the insurgents would shoot us down and it was unlikely they even heard us over their own AK-47 fire. I wanted to keep eyes on the target. If we lost them in the storm, we’d have to reconfirm the target and go through the 9-Line again. That would take too long.

  I turned outbound, away from the target to line up my run. By the time I could turn inbound, the picture had degraded so the bridge and vehicles were barely recognizable.

  “Sarah, you still have the target?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She sounded strained. Her face remained fixed on the screen in front of her. Her forehead creased in concentration.

  I was focused on the Hellfire’s missile parameters. My bearing to target had to fall within four degrees of the aircraft heading. This proved rather difficult as the nose tended to track with the changing wind currents.

  Firing the missile was a huge challenge with a light plane bouncing in the air currents. The Hellfire missile was designed for helicopters. Helicopters didn’t shoot them on the move. They hid behind hills or trees and popped up with just enough time to stabilize and fire from a hover. The Predator aircraft had to remain in motion at all times. Airflow over the wings kept it aloft.

  I used the rudder pedals to force the nose to track properly. Altitude was set at ten thousand feet. The autopilot would take care of that for me. I kept an eye on my range. I had to release the missile inside a one-kilometer window. Once I hit that mark, I’d have about thirty seconds to fire before I flew too close.

  Release too early and the missile would fall short. Shoot too close and the missile might not see the target when it armed. If I overshot, the errant missile could hit a house.

  Precision was key.

  I looked up at the tracker, which showed my approach as a blue ladder that led into a little red cross hair embedded within a circle on the target. A small green box sat just forward of my aircraft on the screen. That was the expected weapons engagement zone (WEZ), or best place to shoot.

  “Roulette in from the southwest,” I said.

  “Roulette, Vengeance Four One, you’re cleared hot.”

  Cleared hot. I was authorized to fire the missile. This call also told everyone else on the net to stay quiet.

  “Copy, cleared hot,” I said.

  I looked over at Sarah. She was still focused on her screen. I touched the rudder to align the nose. An indicator on my HUD lined up to show me angled properly. I selected the left missile.

  “Ready to fire left missile.”

  I slid my finger over the trigger.

  “In three, two, one . . .”

  Sarah suddenly leaned forward, staring intently at the picture.

  “ABORT, ABORT, ABORT,” she screamed out.

  My finger pulled away from the hot trigger. I was attuned to an abort call. Anyone on the crew could call it. We practiced it on every training sortie at the 11th.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, eyes scanning the HUD. Then my eyes focused on the picture. The shadowy glob we had been tracking was the command HMMWV. When the JTAC changed the battery on his laser, it reset and transmitted his coordinates instead of the insurgent’s truck. We had just about fired our missile into friendlies.

  The JTAC asked why we aborted. I didn’t want to tell him over the radio, but lives were on the line. He was decertified on the spot and a JTAC from the TOC had to come online, get updated, and pass the 9-Line again.

  This time, when I turned inbound I could make out the small pickup truck. Sarah zoomed in so the truck filled our field of view. We were both careful to make sure we were shooting at the right target.

  I checked the laser range data. The sandstorm could disrupt the laser to the point that it could not determine an accurate range. A bad data point could send the missile off target enough that it would never see the laser spot.

  The data was good.

  “In three, two, one . . .”

  I pulled the trigger. A white fireball blossomed in the HUD. The bracket indicating our track flashed once, twice, three times and then settled once again on the truck as the plume dissipated. I could still see the fighters firing near the truck.

  “Roulette, rifle, twenty seconds,” I put in chat, monitoring the GPS clock.

  I let the Predator drift in the wind so it would remain steady. Sarah needed a stable platform to guide the missile. Far below, the Army troops ducked for cover. The target was close enough that shrapnel might hit them.

  The cross hairs twitched as we passed over the truck.

  “Steady, ten seconds,” I told Sarah.

  She drew in a deep breath.


  I focused on the clock.

  “Five, four, three . . .”

  I paused. The missile hit the truck dead center. A large chunk of engine flipped end over end. The rest was engulfed in a cloud of smoke. The missile detonated with such force that the fighters were obliterated. The bodies remained invisible in the sandy gloom.

  “Cease laser, safe laser,” I said.

  “Good hit, Roulette,” the JTAC put in chat. “Incoming fire has ceased.”

  The rest of the flight was a blur. I rode a high for the rest of the day. I had taken a shot defending American troops on the ground. What more noble cause was there? I couldn’t think of one. I’d also proven to myself that I had the skills to carry out a strike mission. That wasn’t an easy shoot. Besides the sandstorm that made visibility difficult, we’d also discovered the JTAC’s error at the last moment and stopped certain fratricide.

  Sarah’s quick thinking only showed me what I already knew. The Predator community had the talent to be part of the strike team. Droopy’s shot was the first real victory. Mine, I hoped, cemented it.

  We were no longer just voyeurs.

  CHAPTER 6

  Sparkle

  The compound in Iraq rotating in my HUD matched the pictures from the mission brief.

  Circling above, I could make out several houses that served a variety of purposes. One was for the staff, one was for work, and the other was the main living quarters. The buildings were shoved against the north and east walls of the compound, leaving ample space for a courtyard. The gate was on the southeast side. A high exterior wall thwarted prying eyes.

  Sometime prior to my shift, the high-value individual, or HVI, had arrived. The lights in the compound were out, indicating that the target was asleep, or at least in the process of bedding down for the night. There were no hot spots, tracks, or motion to indicate any activity outside, other than a pair of dogs darting erratically about the courtyard. For all intents and purposes, the site was primed for the raid.

  It was 2005 and I’d fallen into the steady rhythm of the war. The 17th was now based at Nellis Air Force Base with the 15th. We shared a compound, but not the mission.