Hunter Killer

by T. Mark McCurley

  “Guys, need you to proceed to your assigned targets,” he said. “Pacman, prepare to return control to the 15th.”

  As I turned the Predator toward my target, I couldn’t stop thinking about the two fighters playing possum. We took a little heat off one of our bases for a while. But there was something strange about the mission. I still didn’t understand why Al had pulled us off our planned mission to chase a random group of fighters.

  I got my answer a few days later. News agencies reported that a local Taliban warlord and more than 130 of his men were killed in an air strike. When news broke about the strike, I followed up with our intelligence staff to get some answers. The intelligence officers had known the warlord was in the area and used the fighters to lead us to him.

  Attacks on Forward Operating Base Salerno slackened significantly after the strike, for a while at least.

  CHAPTER 11

  Steel Curtain

  The Marine Air Traffic Control message popped into my chat room just as I was flying over Al Anbar Province in western Iraq.

  DASC> DR31, new coords. State ETA when able.

  I was Dagger Three One, or DR31 in chat. My target was a low-level facilitator somewhere in Haditha, but the Marines needed help. They had new coordinates for me and wanted to know how long it would take me to arrive.

  I was flying a mission for the 3rd Special Operations Squadron as a favor. Air Force Special Operations Command had officially entered the RPA field and tapped me to help train their initial cadre. The new squadron was still part of the 15th for the time being. Once the unit was sufficiently manned, the 3rd and the 15th would split and become two autonomous squadrons.

  Until then, we had to lend a hand. My job as chief pilot was to train the squadron’s new instructor corps. When not training, I chose to fly missions as often as possible to maintain my skills. It added to my credibility in the eyes of the students. Plus, I joined the RPA community to fly missions. After two years at Nellis, I was finding myself pulled into more duties that kept me from getting stick time. So when I got the chance to fly, I took it.

  Most of our missions were in support of a specific Army unit. We needed permission to leave the unit to help another. But a fundamental shift in Army tactics occurred over the summer. Leadership decided that minimizing casualties was more important than offensive operations against al Qaeda. In the risk-averse atmosphere of Iraq, Army commanders recognized the potential of the Predator and how it could maximize their advantage on the battlefield by providing up-to-the-minute intelligence on a target. But they needed control of the aircraft. The Air Force wouldn’t give it up. So Army units began to assign operation names to simple missions so they could get air support.

  Too often we orbited trees or empty buildings while the Army companies planned operations elsewhere. To admit they had no targets for the day meant they would lose their asset. We were never released for TICs for the same reason. Cutting us loose would lead someone in Baghdad to realize we weren’t busy enough.

  The Marine controllers, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate to pull us off a target if troops were under fire. They owned all the airspace below ten thousand feet in Al Anbar Province. When operating in that area, the Army wanted us to stay high and under their control. We tried to get low and out of their control when we could. That way we might get pulled off target for something interesting.

  I plugged the coordinates from the Marine controller into FalconView. A new target icon appeared over Al Qaim, a small Iraqi village near the Syrian border. I sent an update via chat.

  DR31> En Route, ETA 30 mikes.

  Al Qaim was only thirty minutes from our current target in Ramadi. I turned the aircraft to the west and pushed up the power. The Predator was still slow, but we could shave a few minutes off the transit time if I could eek out a couple more knots.

  DASC> C, contact BRUISER 21 for further guidance.

  As summer ended in 2005, the situation in Al Anbar Province had become the center of the war in Iraq. Syria, like Iran, was actively supporting the insurgency. They weren’t sending troops, but they were allowing thousands of foreign fighters to cross the porous border. Young, idealistic, militant men from throughout the region flocked to Iraq to fight.

  Al Qaim was a hotbed of terrorist activity. To call the fighters in the region insurgents would be a great disservice to insurgents everywhere. Terrorists had taken over the city. They raped, tortured, and murdered the local Sunni residents, the very residents who had supported their presence only days before.

  When I got close to Al Qaim, I contacted Bruiser Two One (BR21). He was in the tactical operations center in Fallujah. At this distance, all our conversations with the JTAC would be through the chat rooms.

  DR31> BR21, checking in.

  BR21> C, post when you get eyes on coords, say when ready AO Update.

  The AO Update was a briefing on the local area of operations (AO) the JTAC was working.

  We were still about fifteen minutes from the target area. The FalconView map showed a bright red target where the main east-west highway bisected the Euphrates River. A road paralleled the highway on the opposite bank and marked the border of the town.

  DR31> Ready update.

  I saw no reason to wait.

  BR21> We have a convoy under fire, taking heavy casualties. No air threat, no artillery. Expect small arms and RPGs. Friendlies at coords only. You are third UAV on site.

  We were the third aircraft to arrive. Last in the fight meant we were not in charge. I dialed over to our Predator radio frequency to check in with the other aircraft on scene. The private frequency allowed us to coordinate without gumming up the radio traffic for the other aircraft.

  Dragon Four Two was on the radio.

  “Looks like a seven-ton got hit. It’s burning.”

  A seven-ton truck was a large flatbed troop carrier with up-armored sides to protect troops sitting in the rear. It was part of a convoy ferrying troops back to Al Asad Air Base as American forces prepared to launch Operation Steel Curtain. The Marines were in the process of surrounding Al Qaim. Civilians were encouraged to evacuate while the Marines attempted to restore order. Anyone left in the town was a target.

  I pushed up the power a little more. The small airplane didn’t have much left to give. I dropped the nose a bit more, trading altitude for a couple more knots of airspeed.

  “Dragon, Dagger coming in from the east, seven thousand.”

  I was at seven thousand feet, give or take.

  “Copy, Dagger, we are at 5K, and Mace is working at 6K.”

  Dragon and Mace were the two other crews flying for the 3rd Special Operations Squadron. They were flying at five thousand and six thousand feet, respectively.

  “I’ll stay at 7K,” I said.

  “Dagger, take south bank. Help Mace find the incoming fire.”

  “Copy.”

  Brett, my sensor operator, was on one of his first missions. He came to the program from Air Force Special Operations Command, where he had flown as an enlisted crewman. I couldn’t remember the aircraft. I hadn’t flown with him yet, and we’d been called to help before we could really get to know each other. But I was confident he was ready if we had to shoot. I didn’t subscribe to having a shot list like the 17th did. If you passed the training and the check ride, I considered you ready to perform when called upon.

  We were about ten miles away. A smoke plume from the burning seven-ton armored truck cast a nasty blotch on our screen. The auto-contrast in the sensor ball tried to compensate but managed to only suppress most of the image as it filtered out the worst of the illumination.

  Brett adjusted the picture, using the sensor’s manual controls. Looking at the burning wreck in the HUD was like looking into the sun. At eight miles, the flare from the fire reflected off something inside the ball, sending ghosts fleeting about the picture. Brett tried to balanc
e toward the bright spot, but the detail bled out of the remainder of the picture.

  “Zoom in on the riverbank,” I said.

  The camera might work better if it focused on another area. The camera could zoom in only so far. The minimum setting was called ultra narrow. The next setting cut the picture in half digitally and expanded it on the screen. It wasn’t a real zoom. It just made a part of the picture larger. We still couldn’t see much, but I hoped the resolution would improve once we got closer.

  “Dagger on target,” I transmitted.

  I backed it up in the chat room.

  BR21> c.

  As we got closer, the picture cleared up and we could make out some of the details. Rocket-propelled grenades had hit the front quarter of the truck, destroying the engine and igniting the fuel. Another barrage of RPGs had battered the thick armored plating around the bed, killing fourteen soldiers.

  The convoy was stopped on the road and we could see soldiers recovering the bodies. Two HMMWVs blocked the bridge while the others set up a security perimeter near the burning truck. Their turrets were trained down the bridge. The other seven-ton trucks moved to a safe distance down the road, their troops spilling out to support.

  Across the river, twenty or so terrorists crouched, firing RPGs and spraying the Americans with a steady stream of AK-47 rounds and PKM machine-gun fire. The American soldiers were pinned down.

  I was excited because we were in a position to make a difference. We couldn’t help the dead, but we could help the guys still struggling to survive down below. My Hellfire missiles were ready. I started to develop my shot solution. I assumed the two other Predators on scene had done the same.

  MC80> TGT in sight. Request clearance to engage.

  Mace Eight Zero beat me to the punch.

  BR21> C. STBY ROE.

  Bruiser Two One was still working clearance and told Mace Eight Zero to wait for the rules of engagement. While we waited, the terrorists across the river stopped firing and, as if signaled, retreated back into the town.

  The sensor ball rolled and Brett put the cross hairs on a group of terrorists as they picked their way through labyrinthine alleys. The terrorists avoided the deserted main streets, sticking to the narrow passageways between the flat-roofed single-story buildings.

  The irregular track of the alley made it difficult to see the enemy as we orbited.

  Mace and I pressed in closer to keep an eye on them. From time to time, I saw Mace shoot through my screen. I flinched and peeked at my side monitor. It showed me where and how high Dragon and Mace were flying. Mace was still a thousand feet below me, but because of the magnification, it looked like he was in my lap.

  The terrorists formed a single-file line as they ran through the alleys.

  “Dagger, Mace,” I said over the radio. “You got the leader. I’ll take the tail.”

  “Copy,” Mace said.

  I recognized the voice. There were only a handful of female pilots in Predator at the time. She was a very experienced special operator and likely the sharpest of the three of us flying today. She had flown gunships before joining the Predator. The AC-130 was a converted cargo plane armed with Gatling guns and an M102 howitzer. The gunships flew only at night, providing air support mostly to special operations forces. They could loiter over a target longer than a jet fighter, and the aircraft’s immense firepower would be devastating at close range. She brought with her a quiet confidence that I admired.

  “Watch for them to split,” I said to Brett.

  Mace and I bracketed the fighters. At each turn, we were ready to split off, but they stayed together. When we finally got cleared to shoot, we planned to block them in with two shots—one on the leader and one on the tail—and wait for friendlies to kill or capture them. We’d developed a groove anticipating their route when a message popped up in the chat room.

  BR21> DN/DR/MC—contact KL36 flight on [frequency].

  The communication card indicated that KL was Klyde, two Marine Corps Cobra attack helicopters. They looked like dragonflies, with a large canopy and fuselage and two tiny wings with rockets. A machine gun sat below the nose. The helicopters had been used by the Army in Vietnam but had been replaced by the Apache. The Marine Corps version, known as a Super Cobra, resembled its Vietnam-era cousin with upgraded weapons and avionics.

  We all switched radio frequencies.

  “Klyde, Dragon Four Two.” Dragon maintained his role as lead.

  “Dragon,” the lead helicopter responded. “Klyde up.”

  Dragon passed the most current coordinates for the retreating terrorists.

  “Confirm eyes on?”

  “Negative, buildings are ruining line of sight.”

  “Okay,” Dragon said. “We’ll let you know if they break into the open. I’ve got two assets about to engage.”

  “Negative,” Klyde said. “We get the shots.”

  His voice left no room for discussion. These were his boys. He was going to get payback. Normally, the Cobras worked in tandem with a spotter. The spotter was usually a light helicopter with a bulb-shaped sensor pod mounted over the rotor. The spotter could hide behind trees, exposing only the sensor. The Cobras would pop up to launch a missile and then drop back down while the spotter guided the weapon to the target. This was an old Cold War tactic for countering Soviet armor.

  It didn’t work so well in Iraq.

  Neither the Cobras nor the spotter could see the targets. They also weren’t about to fly close enough to get eyes on. RPGs could take them out of the sky. The Cobras had to keep their distance.

  “Any chance you can buddy lase for us?” Klyde asked.

  Theoretically, we could lase any weapon. Weapons didn’t care who fired a laser, only that it contained the right codes.

  The issue had come up a few weeks earlier. I had just finished my three and a half hours in the seat and was on break before starting a mission commander shift. Limited manning meant we all took shifts in the box. It was only fair. Crews sat in the seat for up to eight hours a day. The MCC would give them breaks, let them eat and hit the latrine.

  When I’d left to fly, a Predator and a Reaper found a camp where a source reported that a regional warlord was meeting with a high-level facilitator. The meeting was to exchange weapons and to coordinate a strike against one of our bases in Kunar. Our job was to find the meeting location and eliminate the warlord.

  Two tents sprouted like an odd triangle out of the dirt. A truck was parked just off the road to the north of the camp. Box, one of our senior pilots, stood behind the MCC desk when I got back to the ops cell. He alternated between looking at the plasmas and talking on the phone.

  “What’s going on, Box?” I asked.

  “Upstairs is trying to decide what to do.”

  Upstairs was our code for the JOC. It was a double entendre of sorts, referencing both their actual location on the fifth floor of their building and the fact that they were our bosses.

  “Oh?” I said.

  “They want to hit both tents, but they are too far apart for one bomb to hit.”

  I could see he was frustrated.

  “Can’t we hit one at a time?” I asked.

  Box shook his head.

  “They want simultaneous hits.”

  Both targets were very important. A single hit would wake or warn the other man and he’d run. Hitting a running target in the mountains and trees was difficult. All our engagements were single shots. Even my two missiles against the Facilitator had been a first.

  Box looked disgusted.

  “I’m going to hit the head,” he said.

  What he didn’t say was that he wanted a break to think about the situation. Maybe I had the benefit of seeing the problem cold, but the solution seemed so obvious. I followed him into the hall and stopped short of the men’s bathroom.

  “Box
,” I called. “Buddy lase.”

  He looked back at me like I had a third arm growing out of my forehead. He shook his head and disappeared into the bathroom. I waited in the ops cell until he returned. He had one question for me.

  “Why?”

  I looked up at the plasmas.

  “We train to buddy lase for other strikers. This is no different. The targets are close together. Bombs have different PRF codes.” The pulse repetition frequency, or PRF, codes were an identification mechanism embedded in a laser beam that a weapon, if programmed for the code, would home in on. “Drop on one target and the other bomb will still have the energy to reach the second.”

  Box looked at the screen.

  “And the Pred lases it in.”

  “Built-in support,” I said.

  Box looked skeptical. We had never used two RPAs together for a strike. It had always been a Predator doing the lase for a manned fighter hauling the bombs for us.

  “And the crews already know how to do it,” I added.

  “All right,” he said after a moment of consideration. “Thanks, Squirrel.”

  I stuck around to watch. Box passed the new plan to the Reaper pilot. He would be the one to drop both bombs.

  A few moments later, the bombs sailed into the picture. One HUD video blossomed with an incredible explosion. The GBU-12’s detonation was so much stronger than the smaller “cat fart” of the Hellfire.

  The second bomb did not detonate. The weapon streaked into the other HUD video and ended its flight with a puff of dust. The bomb was a dud. A ground team later confirmed that the weapon actually hit the warlord, killing him instantly. Even though the weapon failed to operate properly, we considered the attack a success, since the weapon still accomplished its mission. The “buddy lase” worked flawlessly.

  A few weeks later, I wasn’t sure if we could lase the Cobra’s weapons.

  The squadron’s new weapons officer said the Hellfire could not be lased from a separate source. But that wasn’t entirely true, since the missiles didn’t activate their IR sensors until after they launched. At that point, it didn’t matter who fired the laser.