Fire Strike 7/9

firing from the south side of the Helmand River.’

‘Roger, enemy mortar grid is: 3748567389,’ I repeated to Mikey.

Mikey Wallace and his mortar-tracking gizmo had come up trumps. It wasn’t a moment too soon. The enemy mortars were bracketing Butsy and his HQ element. The OC and his lads were having to sprint for a new patch of cover every third round that slammed into the dirt, or else they were going to get splatted. Mortars were smashing into the bush twenty metres from them, and Butsy was complaining that trying to command whilst eating dirt wasn’t very easy. There was nothing those poor bastards down in the GZ could do about the enemy mortar teams, for they were well out of their range. Only we could hit them.

He came up on the net, yelling above the deafening crack and thump of battle: ‘Bommer — you need to sort those mortars! Like now!’

‘Roger. Dude One Five, Widow Seven Nine, I want you to search for a hot mortar tube at grid: 3748567389. Readback.’

The pilot confirmed the tasking and the grid. No sooner had he done so than there was a faint boom in the distance, and another mortar came howling down. This one slammed into the Green Zone just metres from our troops.

There was another boom, and a second shell tore into the thick bush around our lads. A third went up, this one tearing into the rock and sand where the Vector had just been sitting.

‘Widow Seven Nine, Charlie One Zero,’ came Mikey’s voice on my TACSAT. ‘I have two more grids for you. Repeat, two more enemy mortar grids.’

Mikey passed me the coordinates. We now had three enemy mortar teams in action. One was targeting us lot, whilst the other two were dropping rounds on top of the lads below. It was complete carnage, and the platoons hadn’t even crossed their line of departure.

With two fast jets to control, Mikey muscling in on the net, three enemy grids to plot plus our friendlies, I had my hands full. I left Sticky and Chris to liaise with the OC, whilst I concentrated on finding and smashing the enemy. The OC had told us to crack on and get the bloody job done, and we knew he had every confidence in our abilities.

I decided to split the aircraft. ‘Dude One Five, I want you searching for enemy forces around our forward line of troops. Dude One Six, I want you overhead those three mortar grids, to find ’em and smash ’em.’

‘Dude One Five, affirmative.’

‘Dude One Six, roger that, sir.’

A tense few seconds followed as the F-15s began their searches, their sniper optics scanning the terrain below. Dude One Six was the first to come back to me.

‘I got a PID on three males around a straight heat source, three metres from the last ten-figure grid you gave me. It’s 2.7 kilometres from your nearest friendlies.’

‘Roger. Wait out.’

Before I’d said a word Chris was clearing it with the OC. ‘OC says he’s pinned down as are all platoons,’ Chris yelled over to me. ‘They need fucking space to move out from under those mortars…’

BOOOOOM! Another mortar round slammed into the dirt fifteen metres from the wagon. It rocked the Vector like a ship caught in a hurricane, shrapnel and rocks pounding into the wagon’s steel sides. No doubt about it, the enemy mortar operators were bloody good. They were close and getting closer.

‘Dude One Six, Widow Seven Nine,’ I yelled, above the echoing noise of the explosion. ‘Attack from whatever line is fastest, your choice ordnance!’

‘Roger. I’m banking up now to do a vertical dive on to target.’ A pause. ‘Tipping in and requesting clearance.’

‘You got clearance,’ I yelled. ‘Clear hot! Proceed with the attack!’

Bugger the procedures — we and the lads were getting smashed. Plus I needed my frequency clear to talk to Dude One Six’s wing.

‘Dude One Five, Widow Seven Nine — I need a sitrep.’

‘Sitrep: visual four armed pax with RPGs and small arms three hundred metres from the lead element of your troops. Visual…’

The pilot’s last words were lost in an enormous crack, as whatever ordnance it was that Dude One Six had dropped slammed into the earth on the opposite side of the river. Get in! Hopefully, that was one less bastard mortar team to deal with.

‘Dude One Six, BDA,’ I asked, as a mushroom cloud of smoke billowed above the impact point.

‘BDA: two pax killed, mortar tube is fucked. But one pax fled, ten metres from bomb impact point and got away.’

I was about to retask the pilot to join his wing searching for enemy fighters in around our platoons. But instead he had this for me.

‘I’m watching four armed males run away from that first mortar grid you gave me. I’m visual with them going into a tiny mud hut, two metres by two metres, more like a garden shed.’

‘Confirm the four pax are armed, and no civvies are in the target vicinity,’ I asked.

‘Affirmative. I have PID’d them with weapons, and I am happy under rules of engagement to proceed to attack.’

‘Roger,’ I confirmed. ‘Wait out.’

‘Chris!’ I yelled. ‘Get the OC. Do we hit ’em or what?’

Chris got clearance from the OC, and I passed it up to the pilot. ‘Confirm enemy pax are still at the target.’

‘Affirmative. There are no other doors to the building, and I’ve been watching it like a hawk. Sir, no one’s come in or out of there.’

‘Right, I want a GBU-12 dropped on target using a south-to-north attacking run.’

‘Affirmative. Tipping in. Call for clearance.’

‘Dude One Six, you’re clear hot.’

‘In hot,’ came the pilot’s reply. Then, ‘Stores.’

There was a thirty-second delay as the arrow-shaped munition streaked through the air. I hoped and prayed that the enemy mortar team didn’t decide to leave their garden shed. There was a stupendous crack as the eight- hundred-pound bomb hit, throwing up a dense cloud of dust and smoke on the horizon to the east of us.

‘Dude One Six, BDA,’ I requested.

‘ BDA: mud hut and occupants obliterated. They’re all dead, sir.’

I figured, that was two mortar teams taken out, plus one mortar tube. There was one team left to hunt for, but it looked as if they’d been warned that I was smashing their buddies from the air. The blokes were still in contact, but no more mortars were going up now. Plus we’d just received some intercepts suggesting the enemy knew exactly what the lads and I were up to.

‘Look for the man with the stubby black antenna,’ a Taliban commander kept yelling over his radio. ‘He controls the aeroplanes. Target him, and the tank on the high ground. The tank speaks to the jets that are hitting our brothers.’

There was nothing we could do about it. I got the F-15s flying low-level shows of force over our forward positions, as they probed for the enemy. Dude One Five came back on the air to me.

‘Widow Seven Nine, I’m visual with four male pax at the second, ten-figure grid you gave us. They’re gathered around a tube that I’m sure is a mortar.’

Result! We’d found the third mortar team. Chris radioed the OC, and the message came back to attack.

I felt a burst of adrenaline. ‘Dude One Five, Widow Seven Nine. I’m clearing you in. Ordnance and attack line of your choosing.’

‘Affirmative. Tipping in.’

I watched the dart-shaped form of the F-15 banking around in a fast but graceful turn, its twin vertical tail fins slicing through the sky, the gaping intakes to either side of the fuselage sucking in the air.

‘Widow Seven Nine, Dude One Five,’ came the American