Fire Strike 7/9

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