Hunter Killer

by T. Mark McCurley

  The Captain leapt from the bike and ducked into a wheat field. The two teams took off after him. I could see some of the men ditching their disguises.

  “Stay with the target,” I said.

  I reported the Captain’s location and direction to the JOC.

  The cross hairs followed his path into the field, finally catching up to him as he ran. He made it across the field and dashed into a one-story mud house.

  “Target is in the house,” I reported to the JOC.

  The response I wanted was authorization to strike the house. I almost spun up my Hellfire missiles just in case.

  “Stay on the house,” Tony said.

  “Roger.”

  On the ground, the teams surrounded the house. One man crept to the front door and tossed a tear gas canister inside. Gas started to billow out of the door and the windows. Seconds later, the Captain stumbled out and surrendered. We stayed on station for a few minutes before peeling off.

  On my way home that night, the Captain’s capture was on the news. When I heard the report, I had to smile. The next morning, I was excited to be back at work. The halls were buzzing about the capture of the Captain. It was another small victory for Predator.

  It was nice to see two months of work take a terrorist off the street. But as much as I had wanted a shot at him, it was even better that the Captain was alive.

  According to reports, he spilled his guts to the interrogators.

  —

  The intelligence shop gave an out brief from the operation. Those of us on shift at the time attended. I sat next to Mongo. The brief ran as expected. Intel issued a laundry list of actions from our aircraft, supporting units, how the roll-up went down, and finally results.

  Intel claimed that the Captain told his interrogators that he saw and heard us following him. Evidently, each morning he would go outside for his morning constitutional and watch the sky for his followers. To the west, every day, our wings reflected against the morning’s rays. A bright flash of light let the Captain know we were there. Unbeknownst to us, we were directly stroking his ego, since he believed he was untouchable.

  The revelation set me back. We had been so convinced of our stealth that we had shown our hand to the enemy. While we played games, he watched us and reveled in the attention he received. His arrogance grew epically, its flames stoked by our miscalculation.

  In the end, I didn’t know who was monitoring whom. The enemy had stared back.

  “Not much we could do about it,” I said to Mongo.

  Mongo agreed, saying, “There was no way we could get to the other side of his house.”

  All pilots learn in training that flying with the sun at their backs makes it hard to spot them in the sky. In the mornings, we tried to set up orbit east of a target so he’d have to squint to see us. It didn’t change our sound signature. For that we had other techniques. Unfortunately, the limited airspace forced us to fly west of the target. That made us easy to detect, even if the Captain couldn’t hear us.

  “I think we just got the topic for our next training day,” I said.

  Every pilot made a note of the mistake, because the Captain was only the start. We vowed the Captain’s replacement would have a more difficult time finding us.

  CHAPTER 8

  Strike

  The weather forecast over the Afghanistan-Pakistan border looked like a Rorschach diagram. Winter had thrown out one more storm before finally giving way to spring.

  It was my Saturday shift and I knew for the next eight hours I’d be fighting storms with a HUD full of gray clouds. It was with that vision that I stomped out into the warm sun of Nellis Air Force Base. On my way to the GCS with Jantz, I wished the weather was as good over the target. I knocked twice on the door and got two knocks in return. Securing the door behind me, I waited a second to let my eyes adjust to the darkened room.

  Mongo was in the pilot’s seat.

  “Squirrel!” he crowed.

  “Hey, Mongo,” I said. “Any news?”

  Mongo shook his head. A quick glance at the HUD told me the whole story. Everything was white or gray. It was impossible to see the countryside.

  “No,” he said. “I haven’t seen the ground all day and the target’s been quiet. Nothing in the chat room either.”

  My heart sank. It looked like another dull day. After the last mission, our focus had shifted to the Facilitator, a known planner and bomb maker. After the Captain’s capture, the Facilitator was the next man up. We’d spent the past six weeks mapping his pattern of life. We set up orbits near his last reported location based on intelligence and waited for him to do something.

  The Facilitator was expanding his operations and the JOC officials were concerned that he would soon go into hiding.

  But tracking the Facilitator was harder.

  His house was near Afghanistan’s rugged border. It was a four-hour flight from our home base to his location. We couldn’t maintain twenty-four-hour coverage. We had only two GCSs but needed three aircraft in order to maintain a “constant stare” over the target. To accomplish this, we would have to let one aircraft fly uncontrolled back to base. No pilot wanted to do this, because if the uncontrolled aircraft crashed, it would mean the end of someone’s career.

  Thankfully, “General” John was in charge of the JOC that day. His solution provided the right balance. The squadron used its two cockpits to fly to and over the target and released the returning aircraft to fly home alone. This way, we could fly one aircraft over target with the first GCS. The other GCS would control an aircraft en route to the target. The crews would sever the link to the third Predator, and it would fly itself on autopilot to the landing and recovery unit in Kandahar.

  As soon as the JOC and the 17th leadership signed off on the plan, we set up a steady stream of aircraft to the target area.

  While the Facilitator’s movements didn’t adhere to a pattern, his meetings did. He concluded each meeting with a phone call to his wife. So he had a habit of walking outside. After the call, he disappeared for the night. We’d watch the house until the next day, when he’d emerge for his next round of meetings and travel.

  We were motivated after the success of the previous mission, but after thirty days we sagged a little in the seats. Groundhog Day weighed heavily on us again as we tracked him each day. The tedium of following the same actions became mind-numbing until I climbed into the seat to start my Saturday shift.

  “All right, I’ll take it from here,” I said, patting Mongo on the shoulder.

  We swapped seats and I took five minutes to run a few status checks. Mongo and his sensor headed to the back of the GCS, on their way out. I happened to glance at the chat room as Mongo hit the switch to unlatch the door.

  Written in red: Spin up your missiles.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Mongo and Jantz looked at me.

  “What?” they said in unison.

  “AGM-114 prelaunch checklist. Go,” I said. “Mongo, you’re safety observer.”

  Mongo sent his sensor back to the ops cell, then rolled up a chair behind the crew seats. Safety observers were required in the 17th to ensure that all shots were executed according to the rules of engagement. It never hurt to have another set of eyes to make sure we did everything perfectly.

  I felt the adrenaline race through my veins as we ran the checklists. I looked at the HUD and made sure I wasn’t going to hit the other Predator in the area. The missiles flashed a “green-for-go” icon. All I needed was clearance and a target.

  “Hey, Pusher,” I said into my mic.

  “Go ahead,” he responded.

  Pusher was the LNO deployed to the JOC. He was a career special operations helicopter pilot recently transferred into the Predator program.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Target’s active,” Pusher said. “Looks l
ike he’s sending the execute orders for strikes. I’ll get back to you.”

  I checked the HUD. A solid deck of clouds below the aircraft extended out to the horizon. I couldn’t see the ground at all.

  “Okay, man,” I said. “You know I can’t see anything right now, right?”

  “Yeah, we’re working that.”

  The adrenaline faded into a calm born of resignation and frustration. An essential skill in any military organization is the ability to hurry up and wait. After getting the order to spin up our missiles, we waited for the order to move for the next three hours. Mongo sat quietly in the back of the GCS as Jantz and I dodged clouds, rain, and ice. We had our hands full just keeping the bird in the air.

  The thick, layered cloud decks meant icing. Temperatures remained frigid at altitude even if the terrain far below had thawed. We still couldn’t see the ground and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stay airborne before the threat of ice sent us home. The Predator had no way of de-icing.

  I kept pinging Pusher for information. I wanted to start thinking ahead if I was asked to attack. I’d need to find a path through the clouds, and I figured it would be smart to start finding a way without the stress of setting up the shot.

  But Pusher didn’t have anything for me.

  “Yeah, we’re working that,” he said over and over again.

  Jantz was scanning the clouds when he spotted a hole. When we got to it, we could see all the way to the ground. In our cross hairs was a man walking in a field and animatedly talking on what appeared to be a phone. My eye flicked up to the tracker above the HUD to check to make sure the coordinates matched.

  This had to be the Facilitator. Jantz tried to zoom in closer, but the clouds closed in again and we lost visual. The weather just wasn’t cooperating for an air strike.

  “Hey, Squirrel,” Pusher said. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

  “I can’t help the clouds,” I said. “How’s the checklist?”

  We still didn’t have clearance to engage, even if I could see long enough to shoot.

  “Working it,” Pusher said, his familiar refrain.

  Of course, I thought sarcastically.

  “ROE is done, just awaiting final approval,” Pusher said a minute later. “I need you to get below the clouds.”

  That shocked me. ROE complete meant only the final decision authority remained. Right now I guessed staffers were calling the White House for the go-ahead.

  “The weather is kind of in the way,” I said as I searched for another opening in the clouds.

  “It’s bought,” Pusher said. “We got you clearance. We need you down now before he gets away.”

  “Copy,” I said.

  I pushed the stick forward and slid into the cloud bank. The move went against everything I’d been taught, but the JOC was afraid the Facilitator might go to ground. After six weeks, I was willing to push it a little.

  A thin layer of ice coated the aircraft. The delay from the satellite already made the aircraft hard to fly, but now the controls were even more sluggish. I hoped the air was warm enough below the clouds to melt the ice. No one spoke in the GCS as I concentrated on the HUD. My eye moved from gauge to gauge, checking my heading and altitude. It was tense and I could feel the stress in my jaw as I waited for the cloud cover to thin. I had no idea what to expect at the bottom of the cloud bank.

  The Predator finally broke through the clouds, and a mountain filled my HUD. The slopes jutted upward into the overcast. I could clearly make out the scraggly brush on the slopes. The brush was not as far underneath as I would have preferred.

  The canyon walls pressed in like a flytrap.

  “Zoom out,” I told Jantz, hoping that I could get a view of the terrain around me.

  I glanced up at my tracker and saw some open space to my right side. I immediately put the Predator into a turn to stay in clear air while I looked for a route to the field. Jantz rotated the ball as we both looked for a path to the target. As we scanned, I checked the tracker.

  “Over there,” I said. “That canyon mouth.”

  A nearby canyon followed an arcing path directly to the field. It was our only chance, but once I started down the canyon I couldn’t abort. There wasn’t enough room to turn the aircraft around and I couldn’t climb into the cloud bank for fear of crashing because of the ice. If we went down the canyon, we would have to overfly the target and burn it if we didn’t shoot. I didn’t want to waste six weeks of work.

  “Squirrel, we need you to get closer to the target.”

  “Pusher,” I said. “I can’t. Terrain is blocking. I’m committed once I start in.”

  “Well, everyone in here is getting a little nervous,” Pusher said, indicating the JOC ops room. “You are on the edge of the airspace.”

  I knew he was right. I had descended fairly far to the east to punch through the thinnest part of the cloud layer.

  “I will do what I can, but I need clearance to get closer.”

  “Get closer,” he said.

  His persistence revealed the tension at the JOC.

  Clouds flashed through my picture and I could see the brush close underneath as I turned to fly up the canyon. Just as I was turning inbound, I heard the door of the GCS open, and Alan, a more experienced sensor operator, walked up behind Jantz and me. The squadron commander maintained a shooter list, and new guys were never on it. Jantz was still too new to take such a critical shot.

  Alan’s arrival took me by surprise. I shot Jantz a look to stay put. Stew, sitting mission commander today, hadn’t said anything to me about the change. Alan was a kid from somewhere in the Midwest, I think. He and his brother had joined the Air Force shortly after September 11. Now they both were Predator sensor operators. Alan had joined the 17th after training and had been with the squadron since the beginning.

  I was frustrated. Flying in this weather was hard enough. Crew changes should have been coordinated with me well before we made the turn into the canyon. Changing a crew member just before the shot increased the chance of a miss.

  “MCC, pilot,” I called the squadron’s mission commander.

  “Go ahead,” said Stew, speaking in his calm monotone.

  “Sir,” I said. “Why is Jantz being pulled?”

  “Because I want Alan in the seat.”

  “Sir,” I reasoned, “Jantz is spun up. We’ve got this wired. I don’t think it’s a good idea to swap sensors just before a run-in.”

  “Put Alan in the seat,” Stew said.

  The discussion was over. The squadron commander’s word was always final. This was the one time aircraft commanders did not have the final say. I watched Jantz unplug his headset and climb out of the seat. I will never forget the look of anger, betrayal, and loss of confidence on his face.

  I looked away and refocused on the mission. I put the Predator into a turn and waited for Alan to get comfortable. There was no way I was going to fly the canyon until Alan was briefed on the target.

  Alan was a small, blond kid with delicate features. He looked as if he still belonged in junior high instead of in the military. He was eager to improve his skills and we talked a lot about tactics. When he wasn’t flying, he was quiet and never brought a lot of attention to himself. But he was respected in the squadron as one of the most competent sensors we had.

  Alan had watched the video feed play out from the op cell, so he just needed the target brief and a minute to ready the controls. Alan gave me a thumbs-up, and I guided the Predator into the canyon. We were seven miles out when Pusher came back over the intercom.

  “Squirrel, you are cleared to engage,” he said. “How copy?”

  I couldn’t answer for fear of losing focus on the canyon. Mongo jumped on the radio.

  “Copy that, Pusher, cleared to engage.”

  The Facilitator was still on the phone. The cal
l was key. When the Facilitator hung up, he’d get back in the van and disappear into the village. We had to strike now. Mongo patted me on the shoulder.

  “Okay, Squirrel, the checklist is yours.”

  “Copy,” I said.

  I felt a sudden calm descend over me. The stress of waiting for approval was gone. Now I had only to concentrate on putting the Hellfire missile on target. Alan, the new sensor operator, rolled the ball so that it was pointed right at the man.

  I banked left and angled the aircraft deeper into the canyon. Because of the shot, I had the targeting pod displayed on my HUD. I couldn’t see ahead of the aircraft to see the weather. I knew the clouds were low. Wisps of white cotton flitted through the targeting pod’s picture.

  Canyon flying was one of the things most pilots think would be cool until they do it. Air Force history is littered with the wreckage of men who flew too close to the rocky walls. From day one, pilots are cautioned not to fly into a canyon since they don’t know what’s on the other side. This canyon was really a valley, I told myself. It was the only way I could fight off the claustrophobic feeling as we got deeper and deeper into it.

  I concentrated on the tracker, watching the ever-tightening contour lines of the chart. The walls were growing steeper and closer. My eye skipped from the HUD to the tracker and back. Scrub brush flashed close by and my natural impulse was to climb. I couldn’t do that because of the clouds. Just when I thought the walls were closing in on me, the mouth of the canyon emptied into a plain. We could see the van waiting for the Facilitator. He was still on the phone and disappeared behind the van as we cleared the canyon.

  I turned to the left, hugging the canyon wall.

  “What are you doing?” Pusher asked.

  “I need to get to the other side,” I explained. “To see the target.”

  “We don’t have time.”

  He was right. The Facilitator appeared to fiddle with his phone. I turned back and pointed at the van. The Facilitator wandered back to the front of the vehicle. The HUD in front of me became my world as I looked at the man. He walked at a slow, relaxed pace, unaware of my approach. The pixels on the screen sharpened and I could make out the folds in his clothes.