Fire Strike 7/9

the call sign clearing you in to do this drop.’

What the fuck — I had another JTAC trying to break in and take control of my mission. Before I could say anything, the B-1B pilot was back on the air.

‘Widow Seven Nine, this is Bone Two Three — who the hell’s controlling this drop?’

‘I’m the call sign with eyes on,’ I told him. ‘I’m the controlling station.’

‘I’m over target without dropping,’ the pilot announced. ‘Widow Seven Nine, that’s an aborted drop. I’m coming around for a new attack run.’

‘Roger that,’ I replied. ‘Stand by.’

I couldn’t believe it. My first live drop, and it was a fuck-up due to some bastard JTAC trying to take it off me.

‘Widow Seven Nine, Bone Two Three, banking around. Two minutes to my attacking run.’

Bringing around a B-1B was like turning the Titanic. It was a big beast of thing, hence the two minute delay. I’d told the forward unit of our company to pull back from the 611, to get a safe distance from the drop. They were no longer visual with the mortar team, so I had no eyes-on telling me whether it was a live target or not. It was all going to rat shit. The commando’s JTAC got on the net to the guy who had been trying to take over my drop.

‘Mate, you listen to me: you do that again and I’ll get you sacked. You fucking leave the JTAC on the ground to do his job. You’re not fucking jumping in. Got it?’

The JTAC on the other end said he understood, and that it wouldn’t happen again.

Bone Two Three came up on the air. ‘I’ve got eyes on the white pickup. Starting attack run now. Tipping in.’

As I waited for the pilot to call for clearance, I was double- and triple-checking the map, making sure I had my figures right, and that no other friendlies were in the vicinity of the blast.

‘Clearance,’ came the pilot’s call.

‘Nearest friendlies, four hundred metres south. Clear hot.’

‘In hot.’

There was a pause for thirty seconds or so, as the monster bomber came in. I could hear the faint roar of jet engines at high altitude echoing through the skies. Had the mortar team also heard it, I wondered, and bugged out? There was no way of knowing.

‘Stores.’ The pilot gave the bombs-away call.

The GBU-38 was on its way. I was stood on top of one of the Viking armoured vehicles, with the commando’s JTAC on my shoulder. We were watching for the flash of the explosion in the darkness. There was the howling scream of the munition cutting through the night skies, then nothing. It just stopped dead.

‘Confirm you’ve released your weapon,’ I radioed the B-1B.

‘Affirm.’

‘Well, nothing’s happened. It’s a dud. I’m requesting immediate re-attack.’

The pilot banked around, on another two-minute mega-turn. What were the chances of this happening? My first live drop, and a rival JTAC forced it to abort. Then the pilot drops a dud. The bastard mortar team would be halfway to China by now. The darkness and the terrain would have given them ample cover to sneak away.

I cleared the B-1B again. We heard the scream of the bomb coming in, then an almighty explosion lit up the night sky as it slammed into the desert just to the north of us. I had no idea if I’d hit that mortar team, but at least I hadn’t smashed any of our own lads. It was my first live drop, and in spite of the fuck-ups it felt good. All the nerves and the fear were gone.

We did a final pre-assault check in the desert darkness, and I went through all the gear that I’d be carrying on my back. We had no idea how long we’d be in there on foot. I had to be fully mobile with all my personal gear, weapons, plus my JTAC kit. I had little doubt that I was carrying more weight than most of the commando lads.

Apart from my SA80 and my Browning, and all my mags, I carried the TACSAT, with the donkey dick aerial stuck of out the top of the pack. Then I had an infrared pointer device — like a maglite, but only detectable by night-vision — plus an LF28 Laser Target Designator (LTD), a bulky laser-firing gizmo. A few spare batteries for all the electronic kit really pushed the weight.

I gave a couple of extra batteries to Throp and Chris, for I knew the FST would remain together as a stick. With all the gear stuffed into my Bergen, I had forty kilos in there. I chucked in a few grenades — smoke, white phosphorus and high-explosive. I managed to squeeze in one ration pack, and three litres of water, plus some photos of the family, and that was it. I was chocker.

On my wrist I strapped a Garmin 101 GPS, a civvy device that I’d purchased in the UK. It’d cost me ?109.99, and was probably the most useful bit of kit a JTAC could carry. Wherever I might be, it would give me a ten-digit grid reference of my position. It could display both latitude and longitude, and Military Grid Reference System (MGRS) — MGRS being the standard type of grid you’d pass to the air.

I had my name, blood group and ZAP number scribbled on my helmet in thick marker pen. I double-checked I had my St Christopher on the dog-tag chain around my neck, the one that Nicola had got for me prior to my coming to Afghanistan. St Christopher is the patron saint of travellers, and she’d made me promise to wear it at all times.

I was good to go.

At 0300 we set out under cover of darkness, a massive column of Viking armoured vehicles doing a classic ‘thunder run’ into Sangin in the pitch darkness. As we roared in I was thinking to myself: I’ve been on the ground a week; I’ve just completed my JTAC course and exams; I’ve been taught a trade and how to speak a brand-new language; and now I have 120 commandos relying on me.

As the convoy went in I had a pair of Apaches overhead malleting anything that looked even vaguely like it might be an IED with 30mm cannon fire. We reached Sangin centre and dismounted. We left a skeleton crew with the Vikings, and moved off on foot just before first light. We stuck close to the OC’s HQ element, as the company pushed forwards. The town was eerily quiet. Apart from the dogs barking, there was an ominous silence. The dog howls went back and forth across the dark, deserted streets, and I just knew the threat was all around us. I could feel the enemy presence; sense it; touch it almost.

The lads hit the first compounds, and started going through them, bar-mining the walls, then chucking in frag grenades, followed by a burst of fire. The Apache above the forward line of troops, looking for enemy in the compounds, called in.

‘Widow Seven Nine, Ugly Five Three: two male pax on rooftop position at governor’s compound. They’re in a tiny shed-like building, and they’re watching your movements via binoculars.’

I reported it to Chris who passed it to the OC. He told us: ‘Hit them.’

‘Ugly Five Three, engage the OP position with one times Hellfire. Nearest friendlies three hundred metres west.’

‘Stand by. Planning my run. Visual with two pax and preparing to fire.’

‘Clear hot.’

‘In hot.’ A beat. ‘Stores.’

The Apache came in over the top of us, the Hellfire blasting away from its launch rail. I saw it streaking in, and a second later it went straight through the small door of the shed and exploded inside, shredding it. All that was left was an angry ball of smoke billowing skywards, and a fringe of blown-up walling.

I’d called in my first strike of the mission and we’d killed some enemy. My adrenaline was pumping at eight million miles an hour. I was caught up in the action. I didn’t ask the Apache for a BDA. I didn’t need one. But he did have this for me.

‘Widow Seven Nine, I’m visual with a large number of pax inside the main building below the target just hit. It’s crammed full of them. Through the windows I can see weapons.’

‘Roger. Stand by.’

The building beneath the destroyed shed was a large, concrete structure. Our lads would be advancing right past it, and it was an ideal ambush position. An armour-piercing Hellfire would go through it, not smashing it