Hunter Killer

by T. Mark McCurley

  “Sir,” the lieutenant said. “I’ve got a video to show you.”

  The lieutenant knew why I was in the squadron. “Greatest Hits” was a common title for flying squadrons’ videos. Normally, the videos showed a series of important shots the unit had taken. I smiled inwardly. Apparently, the name stuck for nonshooting squadrons as well.

  He guided me into the ops cell. He slipped the disc into a laptop on a table nearby and brought up a video on one of the computer monitors mounted on the wall.

  “This one, we’re proud of,” he said.

  The video flickered on and showed footage of a typical road scan. A paved road filled the screen as the targeting pod flitted about searching for telltale signs of IEDs. As it passed across a four-way intersection, the cross hairs stopped on a car parked at one corner, its hood up.

  “When was this?” I asked.

  “About two months ago,” he said. “We scan the roads outside town to find the guys arming IEDs.”

  When no convoys required support, the Pioneers flew over the outskirts of Fallujah looking for car bombs. Bomb making required skill and a light touch. The slightest mishandling could kill the bomb maker and level several houses. For safety, the insurgents built car bombs and then sent the driver out to the edge of town to arm it by connecting the bomb to a car battery. If it detonated, only the suicide bomber died.

  On the video, the crew called the QRF after it spotted the car with the hood up and sent them to check it out. The Pioneer continued to orbit the vehicle just in case something happened before the QRF wound its way through the city. After a couple of loops, the sensor operator noticed a head pop out of the driver’s window. The image wasn’t very good, but it looked as if the person looked right at them.

  “What’s he doing?” I asked.

  “At this point, we didn’t know,” the lieutenant said.

  A man slowly emerged from the car and walked out to the center of the intersection. He threw his hands up in the air and turned to face the aircraft. He shifted his position, shuffling his feet to turn to continue facing the Pioneer as it flew in its orbit.

  Voices on the video discussed what they were watching in real time.

  “I think he’s surrendering,” someone on the Pioneer’s crew said.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” another crew member said.

  “At this point the pilot called the watch officer,” the lieutenant told me.

  “Who was that?”

  “I was on shift,” the lieutenant said.

  On the video, I heard the Pioneer call the lieutenant.

  “What do you want us to do?” the Pioneer said.

  “Stay on him,” I heard the lieutenant say on the video.

  Soon, I could see HMMWVs coming down the highway toward the car. The man never wavered. He always faced the aircraft with his arms raised. The Marines parked outside of the suspected blast radius, dismounted, and slowly walked up to the man.

  I leaned in toward the screen, waiting for the slightest movement that would indicate that the man was activating a detonator. More Marines walked into the blast radius. My heart raced. I was ready for the Marines to kill the Iraqi as he went for a weapon or detonator. With each step, the Marines moved slowly forward, as if sensing the fear I felt. The danger was palpable. The man kept his hands up, frozen in place.

  The first Marine reached the Iraqi with an interpreter in tow. The other Marines waited and watched. The Marine and interpreter chatted with the man, who gesticulated wildly as he explained his case.

  Another Marine wandered over to the car to examine it. The Marine looked inside, then glanced under the hood.

  Over the radio, we heard the QRF report.

  “All clear.”

  Then the video ended.

  “So what happened?” I asked. They didn’t touch anything. No one opened the trunk, where explosives could have been hidden.

  “The man’s car actually broke down,” the lieutenant said. “Few Iraqis actually own cars. They are expensive status symbols. The man didn’t want his car destroyed by an air strike and decided to surrender to keep it safe. We helped him out by calling for a tow.”

  I nodded, finally understanding.

  “You are probably the first RPAs to capture a prisoner.”

  “Exactly,” the lieutenant said. “It could’ve been the first time someone surrendered to a plane, ever.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that, but it was possible.

  “Anything else?”

  “Just videos of raids and stuff. That was our big thing to show.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  It was a nice mission for the history books, but what impressed me was how the Marines were using the Pioneer’s negatives for positives. The Iraqis knew the buzz of the Pioneer meant the Americans were watching. And the Marines used it as a deterrent. I was impressed.

  “Hey, you should talk to the Shadow guys,” the lieutenant said. “They do some neat stuff too.”

  “Who?”

  About a mile down the flight line was an Army Shadow platoon. These guys were regular Army and were sent to Al Anbar to support Marine forces during the worst of the fighting for Fallujah. The platoon itself was split between Al Taqaddum and their main post at Forward Operating Base Ramadi.

  The Shadow platoon flew the newer RQ-7 Shadow. Similar in size and shape, the Shadow was essentially an upgraded Pioneer. Despite the newer feel, it remained as limited in function as the Pioneer due to its engine noise. The Army used the aircraft the same way the Marines used the Pioneer, but in Ramadi it was used for base security.

  I hopped a flight to Ramadi before heading back to Camp Fallujah. I wore a Gore-Tex jacket to ward off the cold night wind at altitude. The Marines laughed at me when I got onboard the CH-47 Chinook until we reached altitude. The chopper pilots discovered that the open side doors, essential for the protective gun mounts, acted like a wind anchor slowing the aircraft. The crews lowered the back ramp a crack to give incoming air an escape route. That resulted in subfreezing temperatures in the cabin. I shivered in the web seating while the Marines around me turned blue.

  Silly Marines, I thought. Adapt and overcome.

  The looks on their faces said the irony had not escaped them, either.

  As we got close, I could see the city and the river. The base sat inside a bend in the Euphrates. From the air, I saw how the city of Ramadi wrapped around the north and east sides of the base. Farmland stretched out to the south and west. The river provided a natural barrier to direct assault, making the south and west the most vulnerable areas.

  The air was thick with white dust as I climbed out of the helicopter. The winter shamals were blowing out of the west again, kicking up dirt and contaminants.

  An Army staff sergeant picked me up at the ramp. Nearing his fifties, he was slightly overweight and carried a saltiness that came with having done his job for decades. He was a National Guard soldier from Pennsylvania, as was the entire Army brigade combat team in Ramadi.

  “Morning, sir,” he said over the noise of his HMMWV. “Welcome to FOB Ramadi.”

  I bounced along in the right seat as the HMMWV drove along the rutted streets.

  “The FOB is a bit busy these days,” he said. “Activity has picked up lately and we are seeing more attacks than usual. Occasionally, you will hear angry bumblebees go by. When you do, go stand behind a wall.”

  Angry bumblebees piqued my interest.

  “Say again.”

  “Insurgents get froggy from time to time and unload a magazine at the base,” the staff sergeant said. “They usually do it from a safe distance where we can’t see it. The rounds lose a lot of energy at these distances. Once they start tumbling, all you will hear is a hum like a big bumblebee.”

  “Dangerous?”

  I hadn’t experienced this phenomenon
. I’d been shot at before. Usually, the accompanying sound was a crack caused by the supersonic shock wave of the round’s passage. The “bumblebee” was a new one for me.

  “It’ll poke a hole in ya,” he said. “A lucky hit could still kill ya. Cinder block and sandbags are usually enough to protect you.”

  “Got it.”

  I dropped my bags in borrowed quarters. The soldiers who normally lived there were away on leave. My stay was meant to be just for the day and then I had a night departure back to Al Taqaddum. The guys would never know I was there.

  After dropping my bags, I drove over to the Shadow Flight. As I got close to the unit’s area, I saw they had stacked several Sea-Land shipping containers, on top of which they affixed their transmitters. It was completely nonstandard from what we saw in Predator. The bottom container housed their control station, where they flew the sorties. Next to it was another Sea-Land container used as office space.

  Seasonal rains made the parking area a bog. Huge puddles littered the roads and parking lots. I pulled up to a palm tree, hoping for a patch of dry land. An Army captain greeted me as I shut off the HMMWV. He was a young kid, probably wearing freshly minted rank.

  “Welcome to the Shadow platoon,” he said.

  We shook hands.

  He filled me in on the unit’s mission while we walked across wooden pallets to get to his office. The filthy pallets provided the only solid footing in a lake of mud. Though interested in his brief, I was more intrigued by the mud. Both the water and the mud had a slick sheen, giving it a tie-dyed effect in the sunlight.

  “What’s with the colors?”

  The captain looked disgustedly down at the mud as he walked.

  “Diesel fuel.”

  “Pardon?” I said.

  “When we took the base, the troops poured diesel fuel on the ground to control the dust. Now, when it rains, the diesel leaches out of the soil.”

  I nodded. Diesel was lighter than water and would float to the surface of the puddle.

  The office was cramped with mismatched chairs and a desk made of plywood. Shelves built into the wall were crammed with gear, radio chargers, and manuals. On one wall was a map of the local area. On the other wall was a map of the base.

  The captain explained that pilots and sensor operators at Al Taqaddum simply launched and landed the aircraft. Without the benefit of satellite control, they could fly the aircraft only within line-of-sight limits. The main force at Ramadi flew the mission portion.

  It was a representative of what we did at Nellis. They used LOS for the mission, where we used satellite. Other than that, it was the same concept of operations.

  “We don’t fly raid support anymore.”

  “What do you do now?”

  “Most of the attacks against the base tend to come from the city,” he said. “They don’t assault the front gate anymore. Usually, they just lob mortars at us.”

  “That must be frustrating,” I said.

  The captain shrugged.

  “The insurgents are pretty predictable,” he said. “They have twelve POOs that they launch from.”

  “Okay,” I said, looking at the map.

  “The plane is too loud to be used to support a raid until after the action starts,” the captain said. “By then it’s a bit of a waste. Their noise can be used in other ways.”

  On the map of the area, the captain started pointing to the POO sites.

  “We fly each sortie the same,” he said. “The aircraft goes to the POO coordinates and watches. The insurgents are predictable enough to go to that site first. They drive up in a HiLux and park in the middle of the intersection. The other cars steer clear of them. An insurgent will get out and walk around for a minute as if listening. If they don’t hear us, they attack.”

  “And if they do hear you?” I asked.

  “They move on to the next POO,” the captain said. “They’ll do the same routine at each location throughout the day.”

  “Has it been effective?” I asked.

  “Mostly,” the captain said. “We’ve been in position for most of the teams. But sometimes one will get through. Not often, though.”

  “So you use the airplane as an area denial weapon, like the Marines in Fallujah?”

  The captain considered that for a moment and said, “Yeah, I guess so.”

  I judged the mission a success and an ingenious way of turning the aircraft’s faults into gains. This kind of forward thinking is what won wars, in my opinion. The RPA community, from the Pioneers and Shadows to the Predators and Reapers, was forging a new kind of air war. From using the buzz of the engine as a deterrent to the use of the buddy lase, it felt like the RPA community was quickly becoming a fixture in the American method of war. It was unlikely American forces would ever go into harm’s way again without an RPA.

  That night, I traveled back to TQ by convoy after my flight was grounded because of weather. We ended up driving Route Washington around Lake Habbaniyah, past rows of Iraqi mansions, the Baath resort, and Al Taqaddum, before finally reaching the main gate.

  It was my first time outside the wire on the ground in Iraq, since I did most of my traveling by helicopter. I was riding “bitch,” or in the seat behind the driver of the command HMMWV. In every patch of high grass, I imagined RPG teams popping up and firing. My goggles fogged over as I sweated in the heat of anticipation. I wondered if this was the same emotion these guys felt each and every time they left the base. How often did those targets just pop up in front of them? I was nervous on that trip. I’d hate to feel like that every day for a year.

  But the ride, while nerve-racking, finally gave me a sense of just how bad Iraq was. Route Washington was a microcosm of the insanity.

  The route wound through decrepit slums and farmhouses near the base in Ramadi and then joined a beautifully maintained six-lane highway that flashed past massive mansions of the Baath elite. The Sunni minority built a tragically wide income gap that kept the ruling party wealthy while average Iraqis lived in squalor. I wasn’t sure our attempts to establish a free-market-based society would work. Too much hatred existed between the Sunnis and Shia to let any real peace exist.

  When we finally reached the gate near Fallujah, I was exhausted. I walked like a zombie back to my room and collapsed on my cot. I needed to remember those emotions the next time I supported troops on the ground.

  I spent sixty days in Iraq working on my assessment. My last stop before leaving Iraq was Al Asad Air Base. I had to speak with Bruiser, the JTAC who controlled Operation Steel Curtain. I wanted to debrief him on our actions there. I also wanted to get the perspective of the guys controlling the fight from the air.

  The second largest airbase in Iraq, Al Asad was the main hub for Al Anbar Province. It had an indoor pool, a massive Base Exchange (think military Walmart), and several American fast-food chains. It was a stark contrast to Fallujah and the diesel-soaked dirt of Ramadi.

  I met Bruiser in the basement of an old office building that served as staff offices. Naked bulbs provided a little light as we talked around a folding white plastic picnic table. The lights dimmed and dust sprinkled down on us as artillery nearby sent rounds downrange against mortar teams.

  Mark was a Marine major who looked far older than me. He could easily have been younger, but the weight of some burden clearly aged him beyond his actual years. He slumped in his seat like he was huddling in on himself.

  We slowly went over all the actions at Al Qaim. I had some briefing slides showing what we’d done on target. Mark nodded along, but his eyes were haunted.

  “I killed over sixteen hundred people in that fight,” he said. “But they were all bad guys.”

  He said “bad guys” as if seeking absolution for his actions, confirmation that he had done the right thing. He may not have pulled the trigger himself, but he felt the responsibility anyway. Ev
ery time he mentioned an engagement, he repeated his bad-guy mantra to himself.

  Toward the end of the brief, I mentioned what I’d done. When he learned that I flew Predators, his eyes lit up.

  “Really,” he exclaimed. “I owe you a beer, man.”

  “How so?”

  “You guys kick ass,” he said, alive again. “Predator killed at least fourteen hundred in Steel Curtain.”

  The number shocked me, and I had him confirm it. I didn’t think we had shot so many.

  For the rest of my stay, word spread around base. Random guys constantly offered me beer, even if it was nonalcoholic. It was a fame I had neither expected nor knew how to handle. I ended up waving off the praise and saying things like, “It’s our job to keep your guys alive.”

  The Marines always smiled when I said that. I felt lame. But I was pleased at how the Predator had become their number one choice for air cover. It wouldn’t last, I knew. But for now, Predator got to bask in its fifteen minutes of fame.

  Before leaving the base, we ran by the ScanEagle detachment to see what a smaller aircraft could do. The Marines didn’t have enough Pioneers to cover the whole province, so they brought in the little ScanEagle.

  The squadron occupied an abandoned MiG-21 revetment at the far end of the airfield. The concrete barrier supported three aircraft in individual compartments. The squadron, after removing the MiGs, had installed small Conex quarters. One section housed the living areas, the middle section contained their ops cell, and the opposite end held their dining and rec room.

  Above the bunker, the crusty, old lieutenant colonel, nearing his twenty-eighth year in the Corps, had built a cabin out of two-by-fours and plywood he scraped together from around the base, complete with porch and hammock.

  “It’s the only retirement home I could afford,” the squadron commander said, kicking back on his twenty-square-foot covered porch.

  If the Pioneer was a medium-size unmanned aerial vehicle, then the ScanEagle was borderline small. Dainty, it had no landing gear at all. The crews launched the aircraft from a catapult and recovered it by snaring a cable with hooks mounted on its wingtips.