Fire Strike 7/9

compound, and firing from rooftop positions.’

‘That’s our compound!’ I yelled at him. ‘That’s us! That’s friendlies!’

‘Roger that,’ the pilot confirmed. ‘Visual friendlies. Call for clearance.’

‘Chris — sixty seconds for cannon!’ I yelled.

Chris gave me a thumbs-up, and bent to his radio to pass a warning to all stations that the strafe was coming in. For a moment I considered running up on to the roof to get visual, but I knew there wasn’t time.

‘Dude Zero Five, Widow Seven Nine. I’m not visual your attack. Repeat: not visual. You’re clear hot.’

‘In hot,’ the pilot confirmed. ‘Engaging.’

‘Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrttttttttttttt.’

For what seemed like an age the deep-throated growl of the strafe hammered around the walls of PB Sandford. I wished to hell I’d seen it go in. I needed to know he’d nailed the enemy and not hit our lads. Knowing that I’d sent him in blind — without eyes-on — the pilot came back with an immediate BDA.

‘BDA: I put a strafe three hundred metres down that treeline. Two pax confirmed dead.’

‘Roger. Good work, Dude Zero Five. Bank around south, and do an immediate re- attack on new woodline. Stand by for grid.’

As I pawed the map, trying to work out the eight-figure grid for the next hit, the noise of battle was loud as ever. The next enemy position wasn’t identified by any Golf Bravo prefix on the map, so I needed to talk the pilot on and lock him on to a grid.

‘Next target is a south-east to north-west treeline. Bisected halfway by a shorter treeline at right angles, forming a X-shape. Grid is: 03759284. Readback.’

The pilot confirmed the grid, and slaved his sniper optics to the coordinates.

‘Visual X-shaped treeline,’ the pilot reported. ‘Visual two males lain at the base of trees, with muzzle flashes.’

I ordered him to attack, and cleared him in to do the strafe. The F-15 put a long burst of 20mm cannon fire into that second woodline, tearing the position to shreds. The pilot reported immediately that two more enemy were dead.

Still there was a barrage of RPGs and machine-gun fire slamming into Alpha Xray. I got the pilot to bank around north and do an immediate attack on the third enemy position. I passed him the next grid, and gave him the talk-on.

‘Visual with three pax running up the east side of that woodland,’ the pilot reported. ‘They’re running away from your friendlies. Tipping in.’

If the enemy were running, maybe the airstrikes were breaking their will to fight. The pilot put a long strafe into that wood, his third in as many minutes.

‘BDA: one killed,’ the pilot reported. ‘Plus I can see one pax dragging a wounded figure by his arms to the east.’

‘Roger: leave them,’ I told him. ‘They’re out of action. Scan the woodlines to the north of Golf Bravo Nine Zero.’

‘Roger. Scanning now.’ A short pause. ‘Visual with two pax with weapons on their backs crawling towards your friendly position.’

‘Attack from west any way you can to the east,’ I radioed the pilot. ‘Keep the strafe away from friendlies.’

The F-15 came screaming in on its fourth attack run. The jet’s six-barrel cannon roared, saturating the woodline with high-explosive 20mm rounds.

‘BDA: two more dead,’ the pilot radioed. ‘Low fuel. Bugging out. Stay safe, Widow Seven Nine. Out.’

As the F-15 left the battle space, the contact down at Alpha Xray was still rumbling and smoking. Just as soon as the jet was gone, the crack of gunfire and the ripple of explosions spiked. The enemy fighters must have realised that we had no air cover.

Again, I was back on the TACSAT screaming for jets. I got Recoil Five Five, a Harrier, inbound four minutes. We’d improvised a staircase out of ammo boxes leading up to my rooftop position. I raced up to get eyes-on.

From JTAC Central, I could see the sparking of muzzle flashes and the flaming kickback of RPGs. In spite of the repeated strafes, the enemy had Alpha Xray surrounded and were closing in. Where the fuck was that Recoil call sign?

From below me Naji, our terp, started yelling out some intercepts of enemy comms. Commander Jamali was screaming for his men to press home their assault. With the skies above the battle clear of warplanes, they were to overrun their objective — Alpha Xray.

‘I’m in my hardened position!’ Jamali kept yelling to his men. ‘I’m safe in my hardened position! Push onwards with the attack! Overwhelm them!’

I was standing on the domed roof scanning the terrain below. Where the fuck was this Jamali’s bunker — his ‘hardened position’? A round cracked past, whining off the mud roof. I guessed an enemy sniper was on to me. But the light was fading fast, and I didn’t rate his chances. In any case, I wasn’t moving. I ran my eyes across the Green Zone. Where was this Commander Jamali? Where was this bunker? Where in the Green Zone could his ‘hardened position’ be? If I searched hard enough, might I be able to sniff this Jamali out?

As it happened, I was just a whisker away from nailing him.

Seventeen TEA AND CRICKET

Major Butt and Chris joined me at JTAC Central. We had a few hurried words about this Commander Jamali fella. He was clearly the big cheese in the area. We threw around a few ideas about where his ‘bunker’ might be, but we didn’t come up with anything definite.

The Harrier checked in to my ROZ. I got him banked up to 25,000 feet, so the enemy couldn’t hear him. I passed him the search coordinates and got him scanning for enemy RPG or small arms firing points. As the pilot began his search, I flipped out my Rover screen and logged on to the downlink. The Harrier had some awesome avionics and night-vision capabilities. The terrain below the jet appeared on my screen in close-up, ghostly green detail. The hotter a heat source — a human form; a warm car engine; a recently fired gun barrel — the more it showed as a glowing shape picked out in fluorescent green.

Chris and Butsy gathered round, our eyes glued to the grainy image. The battle was still raging, our lads and the enemy trading fire with fire. Tracer arced through the darkened sky, painting angry red lines across the valley. We just needed the Harrier to find those firing points.

At 2015 I got the call.

‘Widow Seven Nine, Recoil Five Five. Visual RPG position north of the treeline at Golf Bravo Nine Two. Visual armed enemy pax on a compound roof at that position.’

As he said the words, there was a flash of green like a water splash on the Rover screen — the blast of an RPG being unleashed at our lads. The glow of the rocket firing lit up the entire enemy position. On the south-west corner of the roof there was what looked like a sangar. Nine heat spots — human-shaped ones — were lying in and around it.

‘Recoil Five Five, Widow Seven Nine. I want you to hit that position with a thousand-pound JDAM.’ As I said the words I glanced at Butsy, who gave me the nod. ‘I want you in on a south to north run, and I want the bomb put through the roof of that building.’

‘Roger. Thousand-pound JDAM on a south to north run. Positioning. Stand by.’

‘Nearest friendlies three hundred metres to south-west. Call for clearance.’

‘Tipping in.’

As the Harrier pilot began his attack run, the figures on the Rover screen ceased firing. We watched the glowing blobs grab their weapons, and disappear through a door into the building. They must have heard the jet