Apache

‘Maverick Zero Bravo. Another man will join the four in the compound,’ the clipped voice continued. ‘He will walk past the donkey.’

Sure enough, a fifth man appeared a few seconds later and walked behind the donkey to join his companions. Bloody hell, that’s clever. It was good enough for me. Whoever and wherever he might be, Maverick Zero Bravo must have been controlling the Predator feed. He must have been ‘Higher’.

‘Ugly Five One will prosecute that target with rockets; stand by.’

‘Bring her in Carl; we’re going to use Flechettes.’

Carl rolled us out, pointed the nose north-east and began to line up early. I actioned the rockets. The steering cursor flashed up on my screen.

‘Four rockets. Come co-op, Carl.’

I positioned the crosshairs over the group of five and began to lase.

‘Match and shoot, Carl.’

‘Match and shoot… Stand by.’

‘Ugly Five One. Engaging with rockets.’

Carl steadied the rocket steering cursor on the crosshairs as the fifth man approached the moped.

‘Firing… Good set.’

Four bright orange flashes and four rockets whipped towards the centre of the crosshairs on the MPD. They looked good. Less than a thousand metres out, the white-hot cradles that had held the Flechette darts inside the rocket broke away, twisting and jinking through the air as the darts themselves flew at near hypersonic speed towards the target. Two seconds later 320 searing pinpricks blossomed across the north-eastern corner of the compound and its far wall. The five men hit the deck; we needed to nail them big time before they got busy with the RPG.

‘Smack on, Carl. Don’t break, we’re going for another four. Match and shoot.’

The rules stated that after one volley of rockets we must change heading to avoid colliding with the Flechette cradles. I was utterly mission focused; they were no longer a factor. I’d seen them drop off the screen.

Carl let rip again from 1,500 metres. The second concentration was even tighter – a ten-metre circle, max.

‘Good work, buddy. And another four.’

Carl pulled the final trigger at 1,100 metres.

The second the rockets streaked past our windows I flicked up for gun. Three final bursts from the cannon – slightly offset – would finish the job.

We had flown through the wake of twelve rockets and the environmental control system couldn’t handle the pollutant saturation. The acrid stink of rocket propellant seeped into the cockpit and burned into my nasal membrane. A few seconds later, we were almost over the compound. I zoomed in the FLIR for a thorough battle damage assessment (BDA).

The moped was in pieces, and the RPG launcher broken in two, with its warhead still in place. Where the five men had been, there were heat sources galore across the ground and wall, but none in any recognisable human shape. I found another heat source scanning left, but still standing on four legs and looking okay. The donkey had escaped unscathed, but the five men had been shredded.

‘Good arrows, good arrows,’ Maverick Zero Bravo purred.

‘Ugly Five One, target destroyed.’

‘Ugly Five Zero, target destroyed also.’

Knight Rider had been waiting in line. The Nimrod had pinged enemy movement in two long sheds east of the canal, 500 metres north of our original target. It was a perfect job for Bone, but Bone had a more pressing engagement with an airborne fuel tanker.

I picked up the frustration in the BRF JTAC’s voice. He couldn’t see any of these new targets. He had become a relay station for the eyes of others. At least he no longer had to whisper.

It was our third new target. There were clearly even more Taliban down at Koshtay than the recce had established. They hadn’t just confined themselves to the central complex; they’d spread their tentacles into the adjoining compounds too. The whole kilometre-square neighbourhood was a seething mass of Taliban.

‘Five One is out of Hellfires.’

‘Five Zero. Copied. You check out the original target for movement and I’ll take on this target. All buildings in the chisel have gone. No leakers.’

The Boss and Billy stuck their final two Hellfires into the sheds whilst we surveyed the area of the battle. There were no leakers; the place was finally silent.

I checked the clock: 4.54am. I brought up my Hellfire Shot at page on the MPD. Hellfire 01 struck the target at 23:52:02 Zulu – 4.22am. We’d been fighting solidly for thirty-two minutes. And we were almost out of combat gas.

‘Knight Rider, Ugly Five Zero. Ugly callsigns have five minutes left on station. Is there anything else you want us to do?’

‘Ugly callsigns, Knight Rider. Affirmative. RTB, rearm and refuel. We have more intelligence. Callsign Bone One Three is coming back on station any minute to hit more targets for Higher. We’ll need you back down as soon as you can.’

We’d put down twelve Hellfires, twelve rockets and 360 cannon rounds; an Apache record for one sortie. And still they wanted more. It couldn’t get any better.

13. A GOOD NIGHT’S WORK