Fire Strike 7/9

by Paul 'Bommer' Grahame

  ‘Negative. I can’t do that. I can’t PID any weapons.’

  ‘Well who the hell else would be running around with bundles in the middle of a firefight?’ I demanded. ‘It’s hardly fucking Tom and Jerry, is it? Our forward platoon is getting smashed by fire coming from that very compound, and I want you to hit it.’

  ‘Negative. Under the rules of engagement I can’t be certain …’

  I buried the Harrier pilot’s words in a string of curses. He may have been technically in the right, but that meant fuck all when we had lads deep in the shit and getting smashed.

  Ten minutes later, and with our lads hunkered down under fire, I got a pair of Apaches inbound. At this stage I had no idea if it was the same pilots as before. I started to give a briefing over the air. I mentioned the compound where the Harrier had seen all the males of fighting age, plus the ‘suspicious’ white vehicle.

  My biggest concern was that the enemy were trying to outflank us, after which we’d be well and truly fucked. If they got us surrounded at close quarters, even the Apaches wouldn’t be able to help us. Their weapons systems have a small margin of error, and no one wanted to be on the wrong end of an Apache’s 30mm cannon fire.

  Just as soon as the pair of gunships were audible, the firefight died down to nothing. I could feel myself burning up with frustration.

  ‘Get your lads to go firm in their positions,’ the lead Apache pilot told me. ‘Go firm until we’ve completed our air recces. We were overhead thirty minutes ago, so we know the lie of the land pretty well.’

  ‘Roger that,’ I confirmed. ‘Going firm.’

  So, they were the same aircrew as before. I hoped there were no bad feelings about what I’d said to them.

  Being an Army Air Corps unit – as opposed to Air Force or Navy – many of the Apache pilots had been soldiers on the ground at one time or another. It meant that they could think like ground troops, with the same kind of instinct. And they could put themselves in the mindset of the enemy, to try to work out where to find and kill them.

  At 1445 with the lads still firm, Ugly Five One told me he was visual with three males in the same compound as where the Harrier had seen them. They were covering and uncovering ‘long bundles’, and peering through the walls at our line of troops.

  ‘They’re peering through the walls, not at them?’ I queried.

  ‘Affirmative. They’ve got spyholes in the walls, looking out over your positions.’

  At that moment the Harriers told me they had to bug out, for they were low on fuel.

  ‘Keep safe, and watch what you’re doing,’ the pilots told me.

  I snorted. ‘No shit.’

  With the Harriers gone, I got allocated a lone F-15, call sign Dude Zero Three. I wondered if the American pilot would have the same qualms about firing on what had to be enemy fighters as our Harrier pilots had. Somehow, I doubted it.

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Ugly Five Zero,’ the Apaches were back on the air. ‘We’re 105 per cent certain those pax in that compound are enemy fighters. What d’you want us to do?’

  I got Chris to put a call through to the OC, asking for clearance to fire warning shots. Butsy gave the green light.

  ‘Ugly Five Zero, I want you to fire warning shots outside the compound wall, and see how they react.’

  ‘If we put it outside the wall we won’t get a reaction,’ the Apache pilot replied. ‘It needs to be inside the compound – just to make sure they’re not doing a double-glazing survey, or something.’

  ‘How big is the compound?’ I asked. I was too wired to appreciate the joke.

  ‘Thirty to forty metres square. We can put a ten-round burst of 30mm into the far side of the compound.’

  ‘Roger that. You’re cleared to fire.’

  The Apache is equipped with a state-of-the-art surveillance pod, which sticks out of the aircraft’s nose like an angry zit. It provides unrivalled day and night-vision in close-up detail. It was via that pod that the pilots above me were peering into the compound, the images from their daytime cameras playing on laptop-sized screens in the two-man cockpit.

  Each gunship has a single-barrel 30mm cannon slung beneath the forward, gunner’s seat. It can be aimed using pistol-grip hand controls, or ‘slaved’ to follow the pilot’s eyeline via a series of sensors mounted in the cockpit. In that mode, wherever the pilot looks and pulls the trigger, the cannon fires. Plus the stub-wings set to either side of the aircraft carry pods of CRV7 70mm rockets, and Hellfire ‘tank buster’ missiles.

  From the chin turret of Ugly Five Zero the 30mm cannon barked. A tongue of white flame shot out from the Apache’s gun. There was a couple of seconds’ delay, and then the heavy-calibre explosive rounds tore into the hard-beaten surface of the compound’s interior.

  ‘No change the pax inside that compound,’ the Apache pilot reported. ‘They glanced up at us; now they’re back peering through their spyholes.’

  I cleared them to fire a second warning burst. Only one of the figures reacted. He turned away from the peephole, put his arms behind his back as if on a leisurely stroll, and moved down the wall to the next spyhole.

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, it looks to me like ambush positions,’ the Apache pilot radioed. ‘I know how I’d react if someone put ten rounds of 30mm next to me, and it’s not like these guys are doing.’

  Via Chris I put it up to the OC. Butsy came back saying we were clear to engage. I cleared the Apaches to open fire, and sat back to enjoy the show.

  Both aircraft opened up on target. The boom-boom-boom of the 30mm cannons firing was slow enough for the individual shots to be audible to the ear. I counted: ‘one, two, three … ten … twenty.’ Before the last rounds were out of the guns, the first were slamming into the target.

  The twenty-round bursts tore into the position, the 30mm shells exploding on and around the western wall, throwing up gouts of mud and shrapnel. Figures came running out of the dust storm, abandoning their positions in their haste to get out of the killing ground.

  The Apache pilots tracked the figures as they crossed the open ground and linked up with others, giving me a running commentary as they did so. As the fleeing figures paused, the Apache pilots spotted the weapons that they’d been trying to hide. The blanket-bundles concealed AK-47s, RPGs, machine guns and shedloads of ammo.

  Now the Apaches hit them with a vengeance, 30mm cannon fire tearing up the hard-beaten earth all around the gunmen. Four sprinted for cover, but there was nothing left of the rest. They’d been vaporised, as the heavy-calibre rounds tore into them.

  The survivors split up, legging it in all directions. The guns of the Apaches tracked the runners, firing twenty-round bursts that chased them all across the compound, gouts of dirt and shrapnel exploding at their heels. I had to let the Apaches do their work now. I knew they’d brief me as and when they could.

  At this point, the lone F-15 came on the air.

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Dude Zero Three, inbound to your ROZ. Standard loads, two hours’ playtime. Where d’ya want me, sir?’

  I gave him an area update. Then: ‘I want you flying air recces all around the compound the Apaches are hitting. The enemy’s fleeing it like rats leaving a sinking ship. Check the treelines and any other cover. If you see any enemy fighters, smash ’em.’

  ‘Roger that, sir. Commencing my search.’

  Chris passed a message to the OC that we’d hit paydirt. The OC ordered the company to go firm as the Uglys did their work. The lads had been in full-on combat for nine hours now, and most had had precious little sleep the night before. They were exhausted, and running on adrenaline. As they took a much-needed breather, Sergeant Major Peach drove a lone WMIK resupply, dumping fresh ammo and water with the platoons.

  Sticky and I sat on the roof of the wagon watching the gunships mallet the compound, with repeated attack runs of 30mm. We’d lost some lads and we needed to regain the initiative. There was nothing better to get the blood pumping than seeing a pair of Apaches tearing the enemy
to pieces.

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Dude Zero Three,’ the F-15 pilot radioed. ‘I’ve been watching the contact and I’ve seen your Ugly call signs kill fourteen of ’em. Repeat: fourteen enemy fighters confirmed killed.’

  ‘Roger,’ I replied.

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Ugly.’ The Apache pilot was breathless. ‘We have survivors holed up in two dome-roofed buildings to the north of the compound. We’re hitting those with Hellfire.’

  ‘Roger,’ I confirmed.

  From two kilometres out the pair of Apaches lined up on target and fired. Seconds later a paid of black, needle-like objects flashed through the air above the compound, and tore into the roof of the two buildings, hurling up a plume of rock and debris. As the roar of the explosion reverberated around the battlefield and the dust settled, I asked for a BDA.

  ‘Stand by,’ the Ugly pilot replied. ‘BDA: both buildings direct hit. It’s horrific down there. Carnage. It’s clearly a big ambush position. There’s armed pax running everywhere. The enemy are fleeing into the treeline – engaging!’

  The Apache’s cannons spat fire again, as they thundered and spun above the compound, raining death from above. They were hitting the ‘leakers’, the survivors of the missile strike that were fleeing the shattered buildings.

  But above the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the gunship’s cannons, there was a new sound now – the staccato roar of machine guns. The enemy fighters were returning fire. Tracer arced and spat skywards, clawing at the Apaches as they hunted in the air.

  A fighter broke cover wielding a PKM, a powerful light anti-aircraft weapon. It’s a 7.62mm weapon capable of firing 650 rounds a minute and accurate up to 1,000 metres. The gunner sprinted out the compound gate and along the southern wall, keeping to the cover and the shadows.

  As he went to open fire, the Apache’s cannons roared, and the earth at the gunner’s feet erupted in a hail of jagged shrapnel. The dust cleared, and the wounded fighter was seen to crawl, and then fall into a crescent of shadow at the base of the wall. All of a sudden he disappeared.

  The Apache pilots zoomed in the cameras in their nose pods. We were about to discover just where the enemy forces had been hiding.

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Ugly. We’re visual with an entrance into a tunnel or a cave, at the base of the southern wall of the compound. We’re panning our camera along that wall: there are four tunnel entrances, which seem to run beneath the entire compound. Each entrance is half hidden by a pile of straw or hay, or maybe dry poppy stalks.’

  ‘Roger,’ I confirmed. ‘So the bastards are hiding underground.’

  ‘Affirmative. I can lase the tunnel entrances and pass you the grid?’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  The Apache pilot passed me the ten-figure grid of the tunnel entrances, and I scribbled them down in my JTAC log. Now we had an exact fix on where the enemy fighters had been holed up, in between smashing our lads. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind now that this was the enemy stronghold. The only things we didn’t know were how many of the bastards were in there, what they were armed with, and how exactly they’d been able to hide. Wherever the pilots spotted movement, or the sparking of a muzzle, they slaved the cannon to that flash, and nailed it.

  ‘Visual six more enemy fighters,’ the pilot announced. ‘Engaging.’

  The lead gunship spun on its axis, as it tracked figures sprinting out of the building and making for the cover of the woodland on the southern side of the village. Before them lay a shallow canal, and as they hit it the gunship opened fire. The second gunship opened up from the opposite bank, sandwiching the enemy in a blast of 30mm cannon fire. Gouts of water plumed up like steam, obliterating the enemy fighters.

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Dude.’ It was the F-15. ‘I got three more dead. Now two more hit. Them Apaches sure are going berserk down there.’

  A lone survivor sprinted for the cover of the woodland on the far side of the canal. Both gunships turned their weapons on the treeline, plastering it with cannon fire. As the 30mm rounds tore into the woods, a storm of shrapnel went ripping through the foliage. Moments later, a series of violent explosions rippled through the shadows beneath the trees.

  It looked as if the Ugly call signs had hit the jackpot in there.

  TWELVE

  APACHE FORCE

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Ugly. Secondary explosions in the woodstrip running along the canal. It looks like a big enemy position. We’re lining up for an attack run using CRV7. Are you happy with us using flechette?’

  ‘Chris,’ I yelled. ‘They’re requesting flechette.’

  Chris, and Sticky, just stared at me. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a CRV7 rocket firing tungsten darts,’ I explained. More baffled looks. ‘Sticky, put out an all-stations warning for the lads to get their bloody heads down.’

  ‘Ugly, Widow Seven Nine,’ I got back to the Apache pilot. ‘Happy with CRV7 and flechette.’

  ‘Roger. Stand by.’

  As Ugly Five Zero flew a tight orbit above the enemy compound, searching for new targets, Ugly Five One headed out into the desert to the west of us to start his run-up.

  The CRV7 rockets are aimed by the trajectory of the aircraft, so the pilot would need to fly down the enemy gun barrels. Each flechette rocket carries eighty needle-sharp tungsten darts – tungsten being one of the hardest metals known to man. It’s the stuff they tip bunker-busting bombs with. The pilot would need to get his attack line just right, so as to saturate the woodline, while not nailing any of our lads.

  The lone Apache turned and began its attack run. There was a belch of dirty brown smoke from the pods on the stub-wings, as the gunship fired. Four CRV7 rockets streaked away, trailing fire in their wake. An instant later there was a sharp pop as the missiles released their tungsten darts.

  The air above the battleground was filled with the ghostly fzztfzzt-fzzt-fzzt-fzzt of the projectiles streaking in. I winced. I was no Carol Vordeman, but that was going to rasp. The three hundred and twenty darts struck the target in a hail of devastation, chewing into tree trunks and splintering branches like a massive chainsaw.

  ‘Get in!’ I yelled. ‘BDA: one-hundred-and-eighty!’

  I couldn’t resist it, and it sure got a laugh out of Sticky. Even Throp couldn’t help grinning.

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Dude.’ I had the F-15 on the air. ‘I got enemy pax extracting to the south-east of where the Uglys are hitting ’em. I got armed pax going into a bunker position. This is the grid: 98375826.’

  ‘Roger: 98375826. Stand by.’

  I glanced at the map, tracing my finger to the coordinates. It was on the far side of the village from our lads. We could hit the bunker no problem.

  ‘Pass the grid to the OC,’ I yelled at Chris. ‘Dude Zero Three, I want you to hit that bunker with a GBU-38. Attack line north-east to south-west, to keep the blast away from the Ugly call signs.’

  ‘Affirm target and attack line. But Widow Seven Nine, I can do better ’n’ that. I’ll hit it with two GBU-38s simultaneously?’

  ‘Happy with that.’

  ‘Tipping in. Call for clearance.’

  The F-15 began his attack run, as I warned the Apaches of the airstrike going in.

  ‘Clearance,’ came the F-15 pilot’s voice.

  ‘Clear hot,’ I replied.

  ‘In hot.’ A beat. ‘Stores.’

  After several seconds there was an enormous kaboom-kaboom on the far side of the village. A double-headed mushroom cloud of smoke and debris was thrown high into the air, chunks of wall and wood and sandbags spinning off in all directions.

  ‘Dude Zero Three: BDA,’ I asked the pilot.

  ‘ BDA: the bunker’s gone. Enemy pax obliterated.’

  As the Apaches hunted above the battleground, squirting off ten-round bursts of 30mm at enemy fighters, I passed the F-15 the coordinates of two of the enemy tunnels.

  ‘Dude, I want you to hit those caves with a double-drop GBU-38. I want a bomb in each cave entrance, with a ten-millis
econd delay on the fuses to penetrate deep before exploding. Attack run as before. I’m asking Ugly to talk you on to the caves.’

  ‘Affirmative. But I’m running on fumes here, Widow Seven Nine, so make it snappy.’

  ‘Roger. Ugly, Widow Seven Nine. I want you to talk the Dude call sign on to those caves. You can see it better from the air, and you can lase the bombs on to target.’

  ‘Roger that,’ came the Apache pilot’s reply. ‘Dude Zero Three, Ugly Five Zero. Target is a series of two cave entrances, at the base of the southern wall of the main compound. I’m lasing the first cave entrance now. Confirm you see my laser spot.’

  ‘Visual your spot,’ came the F-15 pilot’s reply.

  ‘Spot-on: we’re lasing the target for you now, Dude.’

  ‘OK, good spot,’ the F-15 pilot confirmed. ‘I’m starting my attack run now. Widow Seven Nine, Dude: call for clearance.’

  ‘Clear hot,’ I confirmed.

  ‘In hot.’ A pause. ‘Stores.’

  The F-15 released a pair of GBU-38 smart bombs, programmed to home in on the Apache’s laser beam. The ‘hot-point’ of the laser – the spot where it bounced back from the target – was the lock-on point for the bombs to strike.

  A second double concussion rocked the battlefield, as the F-15’s thousand pounds of ordnance smashed into the enemy stronghold. The noise of the double blast was muffled, as the five-hundred-pound bombs had burrowed deep before exploding. Each threw up a tight plume of shattered earth and debris, and the strikes looked to be bang on target.

  ‘Dude: BDA,’ I requested.

  ‘Stand by,’ the pilot replied. ‘BDA: both bombs went into the cave entrances. Caves obliterated. Widow Seven Nine, I got to go to the tanker, ’cause I’m sippin’ on air.’

  ‘Roger,’ I confirmed. I radioed the Apaches. ‘Ugly, I’m switching foxtrot.’ I was changing frequencies. ‘Widow TOC, Widow Seven Nine. My Dude call sign is at the refuelling tanker. I need something with a big-hitting potential overhead.’