Fire Strike 7/9

‘Aye. Top op, sir,’ I confirmed.

‘It all went without a hitch, sir,’ Chris concurred. ‘From the FST’s perspective, not a single problem with the guns or the air.’

Chris was actually the second most senior rank in the company after the OC. The mission plan allowed for him to take over command, if the major got injured or otherwise taken out of action.

‘Still, let’s not underestimate these guys,’ Butsy remarked. ‘Look how swiftly they reacted to us being on the ground. As we were massing for the op those black-clad figures were forcing women and children out of the village. They pushed their fighters forward, and got the civvies out. And you saw the sophistication of their dicking procedures? They had guys on the high ground flashing with mirrors and torches all around us.’

I took a slurp of tea. ‘Aye.’

‘There was one moment we saw them looking through their binos,’ the OC continued. ‘I had this instinctive sense of let’s not move forwards, and ordered the lads to stop. In that instant three RPGs flashed in front of us. If we hadn’t stopped the four of us would’ve been whacked. There was this voice in my head that told me to stop, and the RPGs flashed in front of our bloody noses. I reckon we make our own luck, but that was the first time I realised they were targeting the HQ element specifically.’

‘They were?’ I let out a half chuckle. ‘I guess that explains why it was you lot kept getting smashed. How many times did I put up the call — “HQ element surrounded and getting smashed…”’

The OC grinned. ‘There we were lying in the dirt, and eventually the penny dropped: they’re trying to take out the HQ. That’s how smart they were…’

For a while I lay on my back half-listening to the OC, and gazing up into the wide expanse of the burning, starlit sky. Then Sticky came to have words.

‘Bommer, someone’s trying to raise you on the air.’

‘Who, mate?’ I asked. ‘What’s his call sign?’

‘Fuck knows,’ he shrugged. ‘He won’t tell me. Says he wants the JTAC.’

I grabbed the TACSAT. ‘This is Widow Seven Nine for any call sign in my ROZ.’

‘Widow Seven Nine, good evening, sir,’ came back the unmistakeably American voice. ‘This is Tin Can Alpha.’

I nearly choked on my brew. ‘Tin Can Alpha!’ I spluttered. ‘Are you winding me up?’

‘No, sir. That’s our call sign, sir: Tin Can Alpha.’

I’d never once heard of the call sign Tin Can Alpha. It had never been mentioned, not even in the briefings I’d received at Kandahar airfield at the start of the tour.

‘Well, what kind of platform are you, Tin Can Alpha?’

‘You don’t need to know that, sir,’ the voice replied. ‘We’re an American airframe in overwatch your position. Sir, I’m tasked to ensure that you don’t get ambushed down there.’

I felt a horrible sinking feeling. ‘Erm… right-oh, Tin Can Alpha, how long do I have you for?’

‘We have five hours’ playtime, sir.’

Oh shit. I glanced at my watch. It was 2300 hours. That meant I’d have this wanker until 0400, whilst everyone else was getting their brackets down. I was gutted. Three hours later Tin Can Alpha sounded bored shitless with flying orbits over a deserted patch of desert. But I’d bet my bottom dollar he wasn’t as bored, or as knackered, as I was. I switched from tea to coffee in a desperate effort to stay awake. As a way to kill time the pilot started asking me all about the battle for Adin Zai. In return, I started asking him about the capabilities of his top-secret aircraft, but he wasn’t telling.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I can’t tell you that,’ he kept repeating. ‘It’s classified, sir.’

It was like he was on permanent replay. I loved the American attack-jet pilots, and I loved the American warplanes — it was just Tin Can Alpha I could have done without. Somehow, we reached 0400 with me still awake, and Tin Can Alpha finally signed off the air.

‘You stay safe and happy down there, sir,’ were the pilot’s closing words.

‘Aye,’ I replied. ‘I’ll try to, mate.’

I felt like adding — as long as I don’t get sent any more platforms with idiotic fucking call signs. Instead, I got my head down on the sand and was instantly asleep.

An hour and a half later someone was shaking me awake. I’d been kipping on the deck, curled up against the wheels of the Vector.

‘Bommer. Bommer. You’ve got air.’

It was Sticky. I was dog-tired, and I didn’t say a word. I grabbed the TACSAT, plus the fresh brew he handed me.

It was 0530. First light. A sickly-yellow sun was clawing its way above the low mountains to the east. I had a Harrier GR-7 above me, flown by one of the pilots I’d been working with at the start of the previous day’s action.

‘How’re you doing?’ he asked, once I’d finished the area of operations update. ‘I hear you’ve been busy down there.’

I told him I had, and that it was all-good. He stayed with me until 0730, checking out positions around Adin Zai, but nothing much was moving. Then he signed out of my ROZ low on fuel.

‘Watch yourselves,’ the pilot told me, ‘and good luck with the rest of the op.’

I dozed a little, but it was useless. Everyone was awake and making a racket, for the entire company had done stand-to at first light. I gave up and decided to give my teeth a good scrub. Then I went and helped Sticky get the breakfast on.

At 0800 the OC set off for the Green Zone, to rendezvous with the elders of Adin Zai. His psyops (psychological operations) team had arranged for a shura — an Afghan powwow — with the village chiefs, the aim of which was to explain exactly what yesterday’s shitfight had been all about.

Basically, we’d been in there and smashed the enemy, and it was the gentlemanly thing to make clear why. We’d targeted a known Taliban stronghold, and only fired upon when fired at — and that’s what the OC would explain to the elders. If they understood why we’d been fighting our way through their village, it should help keep them onside.

Apart from his HQ element of four men, the OC had two platoons with him for security. As he headed to the shura, Major Butt planned to leave men guarding the route out, in case of any foul play. That way, they should be able to fight their way through any ambushes and extract if they needed to.

Sticky, Throp, Chris and I loaded up the wagon, and set off for our favourite position. Butsy wanted air on hand, as a deterrent to any nonsense at the shura. I had two F-18 Hornets check into my ROZ, call signs Wicked Three Three and Wicked Three Four. Apart from the tractors and trailers which were still at work hauling out the dead, nothing much was seen by the pilots.

The OC made the rendezvous with the villagers without incident. A crowd of old men with turbans, and younger men with beaded skull caps gathered, whilst the OC stood out front and addressed them via a ‘terp’, or interpreter.

The elders reported that thirty enemy fighters had been killed. As a result of the battle, the entire Taliban presence had been forced out of Adin Zai. The OC radioed us the good news, and warned us that he was starting his push back towards the laager. Once he’d rejoined us, we would depart for FOB Price the way we’d come in.

Major Butt had barely left the shura when it kicked off big time. From the Vector’s open turret I could hear the repeated crunch of RPGs and the long bursts of small arms fire. The OC radioed us that his HQ element had been hit in a double-sided ambush. He was hopelessly outnumbered.

From the west, the men of the platoons were trying to fight their way through to relieve him. The enemy forces were 140 metres north and east of the OC’s position, and closing fast. This was danger-close, but it was nowhere near as tight as some of the air missions I’d done during the previous day’s battle.

I radioed the F-18s.

‘Wicked Three Three, Widow Seven Nine. Sitrep: I’ve got