Apache

12. OP GLACIER 1: KOSHTAY

It was a thirty-five minute flight to our holding area in the desert. We’d chosen a spot fifteen kilometres due west of the Taliban base at Koshtay, giving us a run-in time onto the target of four minutes and three seconds. Nobody would hear us that far out; we’d do racetrack patterns at seventy knots and fifty feet off the ground until the time came.

Carl and Billy kept the aircraft 200 feet off the ground as we headed south. We would normally have gone lower to prevent detection, but the Dasht-e-Margo lived up to its name and was void of all habitation.

The Boss and Billy were 500 metres to the left and marginally in front of us. The TADS FLIR camera was slaved to my eye; I could see them clearly with my right eye, but in the complete absence of ambient light, my left eye might as well have had a patch over it.

It had been a while since I’d been a gunner on a night flight. I used some of the transit time to re-familiarise myself with the feel of the firing grips. The front seat had exactly the same controls as the back seat, as well as a bloody great targeting console bolted into the middle of the dash, at the centre of which was a three-inch TV screen providing an additional display for one of the cameras or sensors. I selected the Longbow FCR option. If there was anything remotely threatening in the desert, it was sure to find it and give us a heads up so we could box around it. A large metal PlayStation-like grip sat on either side, with buttons and cursors galore to control the cameras and weapons. Each grip also had a trigger: the right for the laser range finder and designator, the left to kill.

I moved my thumb and fingertips across the buttons, rockers, switches and pads, instantly recognising each different shape and function, and ran through a dozen different combinations until I was completely comfortable. It didn’t take long.

The night was unusually still for January. It made me fidget even more. I needed to keep myself occupied. I tried chatting with Carl but he wanted to concentrate on his flying. I sparked up the Automatic Direction Finder (ADF), a radio navigation system we used to pick up homing beacons in bad weather, and absentmindedly scanned the local stations. I’d already preset the channels with the strongest signals to help counter the boredom of desert flying.

Apache pilots never met any Afghans. Life in the cockpit was remote from the real life of the country; it was the one disadvantage of the job. The nearest we could get was listening to their radio. We all used to do it. Local Pashtun songs were my favourite.

A Pakistani station broadcasting at 900 kilohertz was often the clearest. I tuned into a mullah in mid rant. I had no idea what he was saying, but he sounded pretty angry about something; maybe he didn’t like having to whip up the faithful at ten to three in the morning.

‘Hey Carl, check out the ADF Preset 1. I think they’re onto us. “Come out and kill the mosquito pilots,” they’re saying. “The infidels are nearly here.”’

Carl remained unmoved. ‘I’m not listening to it, Ed.’

‘Okay buddy, suit yourself.’ I turned the volume back up in my helmet.

This was getting more surreal by the minute. The infidel-hater had been replaced by the opening chords of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. So there we were, armed to the teeth at the dead of night in The Land That Time Forgot on our way to give a whole load of Taliban a rude awakening, and an insomniac radio producer somewhere in Baluchistan had managed to provide us with the perfect soundtrack.

As we reached the holding area, Trigger put a call into the BRF’s JTAC. I turned off Beethoven as Knight Rider Five Six whispered, slowly and softly. We knew he was in position and perilously close to the enemy before he told us.

‘Ugly Five Zero, Knight Rider. I can’t get hold of Bone One One. Can you try to establish comms with him? We need his time on target.’

The Boss made several calls, each of them unanswered. Sometimes prearranged fast air left their arrival right to the last minute. We’d all just have to wait.

Two fresh icons popped up on the map page on my left MPD. Our Radar Warning Receiver had just pinged two other air assets over the battlespace, tens of thousands of feet above us. Their radar codes identified them as the Nimrod MR2 and a Predator UAV. We hadn’t been told about the Predator. We often weren’t.

Five minutes later, at 3.20am, a southern US drawl broke the silence.

‘Knight Rider Five Six, Knight Rider Five Six. This is Bone One Three. How do you read, sir?’

‘Bone One Three, Knight Rider Five Six, Lima Charlie. We were expecting to hear from Bone One One.’

‘Affirmative, sir. The pre-planned B1 has gone unserviceable in Diego Garcia. We are a B1 and we have been tasked to you as the airborne alert from the Afghanistan stack. How many targets do you have for us?’

The BRF JTAC whispered his reply. ‘Bone, Knight Rider. I have many targets. How many grids have you been given and how many bombs can you drop in one go?’

He could drop a maximum of ten in a oner and had not been given any of the pre-planned targets. Knight Rider asked him if he could have all ten.

‘That’s an affirmative.’

‘Okay. Stand by to copy…’

The JTAC read over each and every fifteen-digit grid and four-figure altitude in the same strained whisper. It can’t have been easy with Taliban sentries on the prowl and no wind to hide any noise.

‘Target Number One.’

Pause.

‘Priority target.’

Pause.

‘Forty One Romeo… Papa Quebec.’

Pause.

‘One Zero One… Three Two.’

Pause.

‘Two Double Four… Four Zero.’

Pause.

‘Altitude… Two Two Five Seven… Feet.’

Pause.

‘Target Number Two…’

It made for painful listening, and it took for ever. I copied the ten grids down as well and cross-referenced them on the map. Each of the three accommodation blocks was getting a 2,000-pounder and the middle one was getting two; one in each half. The four highest priority buildings would be on the receiving end of enough 500-pounders to flatten the Pentagon. The B1 could carry a total of twenty-four GBUs or sixteen thermonuclear gravity bombs.

‘Bone, Knight Rider. Read back.’

Bone had to repeat each and every grid and altitude correctly to ensure that he wasn’t going to rain down merry hell on innocent civilians.

There was a pause as the B1’s offensive systems officer tapped in the grids.

‘Bone, Knight Rider. Call Time on Target.’

It was 3.29am.

‘Knight Rider, Bone. TOT in four-zero minutes. I am nine-zero miles to your south.’

Bloody hell. He’s still in Pakistan, about to cross the border.

‘We haven’t got the fuel to wait all night for these jokers,’ Carl grumbled.

They’d slashed the time we’d have over the target by almost half. We’d started off with ninety minutes and now had barely fifty. And that was only if Bone dropped when he said he would. Bone’s problem was that he had to programme each bomb with the coordinates of the starting and finishing points of its journey. To ensure pinpoint accuracy, he also needed to radar map the ground beneath him and then commensurate the grids.

‘Let’s just hope they’re all still fast asleep.’

Many orbits later a third air icon flashed up on the map page, a jet heading towards us from the south. The B1 was now close by. Bone spoke again at 4.05am.

‘All stations, Bone One Three. Time on target in five minutes. Bone is running in.’

It was our cue. Billy and Carl held back for another sixty seconds to ensure we didn’t catch any of the blast, and pointed the aircrafts’ noses hard down for Koshtay. The two Apaches were neck and neck, fifty feet from the ground and going max chat. Trigger and Billy were 500 metres to our left. We’d divided up the workload by splitting the target area in two. They’d take the northern half of the site, working north to south; we’d take the south, working south to north.

‘Ugly callsigns, Knight Rider Five Six. You are cleared hot to engage any leakers on the bombs’ impact.’

I shifted forward and hunched over the gunning grips. The moment that lazy Texas voice told us his bombs were in the air, Carl and Billy would climb hard to our engaging height. We should hear Bone when we had around five klicks to go. We didn’t. Bone came on at the four-kilometre mark instead.

‘Bone is off. No drop, repeat no drop. Resetting.’

Fucking hell.

‘Steady tu –’ Billy began.

‘Slow turn,’ Carl unintentionally interrupted.

God only knew why Bone didn’t drop. It could have been for any one of a dozen reasons. It wasn’t the time to ask. We needed to reset immediately. We were less than 4,000 metres from the target. Any closer and they’d hear our rotors. A gentle 180-degree turn was crucial to stop the blades chattering and why both pilots made the same call: we could blow this big style.

‘Ugly, Knight Rider. I can hear you. Move back, move back.’

We cruised back towards our holding area. Shit. More time down the drain. It would take Bone at least five minutes to reset, and another five to run in. We were down to forty minutes of combat gas. One more delay and we’d have to go home. It was already agonising, and about to become humiliating. We’d have to tell Knight Rider that he’d have to drop with no follow-up, or delay ninety minutes so we could gas up back at Bastion.

The next time there was no mistake; Bone was early.

‘Bone One Three is off hot. Twenty-six seconds to impact.’

I hit record on the left grip; I didn’t want the rest of the squadron to miss this. But we were still six kilometres out. ‘Climb, climb, climb!’

Keeping their speed up, both pilots heaved on their collectives to max torque and began a rapid climb. We soared up to 2,500 feet and I slaved my TADS straight onto the Taliban camp. I made out the line of seven tall, bushy trees directly in front of the complex, then the canal in front of the trees. No movement from what I could see. That was good. It was still pitch dark.

‘BUSTER,’ the Boss ordered. Our nose tipped forward momentarily before the big stabilator wing on the back of the Apache levelled us out again. We couldn’t risk any delay between the bombs’ impact and our arrival over the target.

But where were the bombs? My clock: they’d been in the air twenty seconds, but it felt like an eternity. I looked out of a side window and my left eye made out flicks of tree below. My right confirmed the desert was ending and the Green Zone about to begin. Jesus, we only had a few klicks left to run. I looked back at my MPD. A pattern of tiny pinpricks of heat fell towards the earth, angled towards the seven trees.

At 4.13 on the dot, all ten of the B1’s GBUs exploded directly in front of us. A series of stroboscopic flashes melted into one blindingly bright light, followed a split second later by cylinders of angry orange flame. The biggest explosion I had ever seen played out in total silence; we still couldn’t hear a thing in the cockpit. The whole complex had turned white on my FLIR.

‘Did you see that?’ Billy was beside himself.

‘Awesome.’ So was Carl.

‘And then some!’

‘Kick right, Carl.’

We couldn’t make it out in the dark and the FLIR would see right through it, but it would be there – the fallout from the blast site: earth, brick and humanity, all vaporised.

‘Ugly Five Zero is looking for the northern sentry,’ Trigger said, as Billy banked their Apache away from us. Then: ‘I’ve got him, he’s still there. Engaging now.’

The sentry must have been sheltered within the mosque’s safety distance. Trigger opened up with his cannon, but his quarry had slipped into the small, roofless outbuilding through a doorway on its northern side. ‘He’s taking cover in the sentry post… Engaging…’

He squeezed off two further bursts. The second threw the sentry around like a rag doll until he finally slumped motionless against a wall. The smoke and dust was starting to clear at ground level, though it still hung high above us. As we circled I scoured the complex for any sign of movement.

It was like the B1 had dropped a nuclear bomb. The trees were stripped of their branches and star-shaped scorch marks covered the earth. There wasn’t a single crater. The living quarters on the southern edge of the target and the L-shaped building had totally disappeared. Not a single brick remained. The B1 Lancer had set all the fuses to super-quick. The bombs had blown apart the buildings – and everyone inside them – before they’d even landed. Not surprisingly, I couldn’t see any runners, but one long single-storey affair remained standing by the edge of the canal.

‘Knight Rider Five Six, Ugly Five One. I have one building still intact. It’s on the southern side of the target. Confirm you want it destroyed.’

‘Ugly Five One, that’s an A-ffirmative. Engage all remaining target buildings with Hellfire. Leave nothing standing.’

Carl banked hard right, taking us back the way we had come. There was enough heat from the place to indicate it was still inhabited but too much around it to allow me to lock it up. I’d need a straight line of sight to it all the way in.

‘Ugly Five One. Running in from the west with Hellfire.’

I flicked the weapons select switch with my left thumb; right for missiles. On my right MPD I lined up the crosshairs on the middle of the target’s front wall. My left MPD told me that a missile on the right wing had spun up and was ready to go. The dog was well and truly ready; it just needed a glimpse of the rabbit.

‘Confirm we’re on the correct side, Carl.’

It was imperative that the missile didn’t pass in front of the camera lens on launch as its heat haze would have destroyed my line of sight on my FLIR image. If it did, I would lose the target and have to keep searching for it whilst the Hellfire sped on, in search of my laser beam. Carl eased down his foot pedal, moving the aircraft’s nose a fraction to the right. Perfect.

‘I’ve stepped on it, Ed. Clear to engage.’

I flipped the guard and pulled the laser trigger with my right index finger whilst maintaining enough thumb pressure to keep the crosshairs on the centre of the building. My left index finger also flipped its guard.

At 2,000 metres, I pulled the weapons trigger, ‘Engaging with Hellfire.’

A one second pause. No bang, judder or jolt – just a rush of jet propulsion as it slipped gracefully off the right rail.

‘Missile off the rail and it’s away.’ Carl treated us to the usual pilot’s running commentary.

MSL LAUNCH flashed up on my TV screen.

‘Missile climbing, Ed.’

My entire focus shot to the thumb cursor on my right grip. The helicopter swayed slightly, but I had to keep pointing the laser beam bang in the middle of the building. For those seven seconds, it was the only thing that mattered in the whole world.

Two seconds later, MSL LAUNCH was replaced by the Hellfire’s Time of Flight countdown in seconds:

TF 5…

‘Missile levelling off now. Missile coming down.’

TF 4…

Shit. As we closed on it, I saw a cool ridge running through the middle of the target, front and top – two buildings, joined together.

TF3…

To do the most damage, I needed to hit each section individually.

TF2…

I adjusted the crosshairs to the right side of the building.

TF1…

As I centred them on the apex of the walls the missile struck, smack on the laser beam. A flash, followed by a billowing cloud of dust as the roof lifted. The dust cleared to reveal a huge chunk missing from two-thirds up the front of the building. The right-hand and back walls had collapsed, bringing down the roof. The left-hand side of the building still stood firm.

‘Good hit, mate.’

‘Take us back out for another run-in.’

‘I’ve got the second sentry hiding behind a tree near the remains of the northern accommodation block,’ the Boss reported. ‘I need to get in close.’

‘We’re clear,’ Carl called.

‘Engaging with cannon.’

I swung the TADS across in time to see the earth and a low wall erupt beside the base of a bare tree fifty metres south-west of the mosque. As Carl banked us back in to the target I saw the lone heat source drop to the ground from behind the trunk. Trigger was in his element. My adrenalin was pumping like a piston engine too.

Carl pushed Billy north to give us a clear shot. I put a second Hellfire into the cooler stripe where the roof met the interconnecting wall. Two minutes and twenty-one seconds after the first Hellfire impacted, the building was in ruins, but I caught a glimpse on the left of my screen of a small guardhouse still standing twenty metres to its north-east. We were just 1,000 metres off now; could I get it on the same run?

‘Hold it steady, Carl. Going for one more.’

‘No, Ed. There’s not time left for–’

‘Firing Hellfire!’ The third missile streaked off the rail to my right, between two skeletal trees. It never had time to climb, or even to count me down; it just slammed straight into the middle of the six-foot by six-foot building, reducing it to rubble.

The Boss came on again, cool as a cucumber.

‘Ugly Five Zero has got a leaker, running east. Stand by…’

‘Engaging with cannon.’

I couldn’t see anyone in my half of the target area, so I swung my TADS sharp left to catch his second burst cut straight through the guy’s path. He was hurled forward, a metre off the ground, then hard down on one side. The 30-mm round that hit him had failed to explode, but it hadn’t done him any favours. It had powered straight through his back and out of his chest, leaving a hole the size of Trigger’s clenched fist.

Only the mosque was left without a scratch. They were strictly off the target list. It was where Trigger’s leaker had appeared from. And if there was one, there would be more. We needed to nail them before they reached their DShKs and Stingers, and our fuel clocks were ticking.

‘Okay Carl, bring us in close. Complete sanitisation now.’

Carl threw us into an anticlockwise orbit as I scanned the southern half of the site. Nothing.

‘Ugly Five Zero, Knight Rider Five Six. Intelligence from higher has identified a further enemy compound at the following grid. Ready to copy.’

Intelligence from higher?

‘Ugly Five Zero has identified a building in the northern sector.’ The Boss hadn’t finished with his half of the target yet. ‘Pass grid to Five One. Five One acknowledge.’

I was only too pleased to copy.

‘Break… Break… Engaging with Hellfire.’ The Boss was doing an increasingly bad job of disguising his excitement.

I copied down Knight Rider’s grid, punched it into the keypad and slaved my TADS thermal camera to it with a push of a button. It was a small, chisel-shaped compound surrounded by fields, 200 metres directly east of the Taliban base. Whoever wanted us to have a look at it wasn’t part of the stack. We’d be able to talk to the Nimrod, and the B1 had a radar. ‘Higher’ was either connected to the Predator feed, or had picked up a SigInt hit from the place – or both.

High and to the east, I zoomed into the chisel-shaped compound as three men ran through its main entrance and ducked into the first of the five single-storey buildings inside it.

‘Runners to the north, closing in fast on the compound.’ Keeping a broad sweeping arc – out of Billy’s and Trigger’s way – Carl had spotted two more sprinting down a path to the south. We hadn’t seen them leave the complex, which made them a fresh target; I needed permission to engage.

‘Knight Rider, Ugly Five One. Two men heading south towards the second compound; confirm clear to engage?’

I flicked the weapons switch forward, tracked him with the crosshairs and began lasing to update the gun’s range to target.

‘Knight Rider Five Six, you are clear hot–’

‘Firing with thirty Mike Mike.’

I gave the path a burst as the first runner reached the nearest building, throwing up mud and dust. The second runner was still 100 metres short. He’d stopped to see his mate get through and knew he wouldn’t be so lucky.

I centred on him and squeezed off a twenty-round burst. I saw the heat of the rounds arc down and knew they were going to miss him too. Bollocks. He stumbled as the ground erupted behind him then legged it into the field.

I aimed off, slightly to the left of him, as he picked up speed and angled back towards the compound. The cannon thundered beneath my feet and the heat pulses shot towards him, close enough this time to catch him with a few fragments of red hot metal. He stumbled back towards the path and rolled down the bank of a tiny irrigation ditch. It may have looked like good place to hide, but he was glowing from his exertions. I moved the crosshairs onto him, adjusted them a little further this time to compensate for the inaccuracy of the gun, and gave him another burst of twenty. His running days were over.

‘Knight Rider, Ugly Five One. I have got at least four individuals complete in the buildings within the second compound.’

‘Copied. You are cleared to destroy all the buildings in that compound. Intelligence from higher says they’re Taliban commanders.’

‘Higher’ was clearly exceptionally well informed. The first three runners had turned right and the one I’d missed had gone left. That meant Taliban in at least two different buildings now.

‘Carl, set us up for a missile run from the north. I’m giving them two Hellfires at once on the first run.’

It could work if I was quick. Really quick. Carl told Billy that we would hit the first three buildings and break back north-east after each engagement. Billy would run in straight after us from the west to take out the remaining two and the one attached to the compound on the southern edge, breaking south-west.

I focused the laser beam on the right-hand building and let Hellfire Number 4 go at 4,000 metres. It shot from under the left wing, climbed, levelled and dived. Still holding my laser trigger, I launched Number 5, so I had both missiles locked onto the beam. The instant I saw Number 4’s white flash, I slewed my crosshairs ten metres east, onto the apex of the building immediately left of the entrance. Hellfire Number 5 screeched into it four seconds after the crosshairs had gone stationary.

We’d come so far in we were now ‘Danger Close’.

‘Ugly Five One resetting and…’

Carl threw the aircraft onto its left side and powered up violently; the G sucked my arse deep into the seat.

‘…clear.’

‘Ugly Five Zero running in from the west with Hellfire.’

I craned my neck to keep my eyes on the compound. There were still three buildings untouched. If these guys really were senior Taliban commanders, they’d have a SAM close by. We couldn’t give the bastards a single second to pull it out.

‘Carl, just get us round as quick as poss.’

‘I am, I am…’ The engines screamed as he ratcheted up the torque. The poor guy was doing his best.

‘Engaging,’ the Boss called.

A thousand metres would have to do. ‘Right, bring us in now, Carl.’ We needed to cover each other; we couldn’t have both aircraft turn tail on the enemy.

As Trigger’s Hellfire impacted on the far south-easterly building, Carl rolled us back to face the compound. I waited for Five Zero to get clear before aiming Hellfire Number 6 at the building immediately to the north of the one they had just destroyed. We were far too close to it, but had run out of choices. I squeezed the trigger 650 metres out then Carl wrenched us around in the tightest turn I had ever experienced.

As the Apache lurched upwards, I went from twelve stone to nearer thirty. My head, encased in its helmet, NVGs and monocle, immediately tried to bury itself between my shoulder muscles. I didn’t have time to brace myself. I didn’t even have time to reach for the steel grab handles on the roof frame. I threw my hands onto the console and held it fast.

My monocle drilled into my cheekbone as it pressed against the console’s brow pad. My harness clamped down on my shoulders and the survival jacket forced the chicken plate deep into my bladder. I felt the blood rush from my head to my feet, now pinned firmly to the floor. As the foam cushion in the seat was squashed flat and my haunches dug into the Kevlar base, I heard myself give a low moan. Carl rolled us back out level, and normal transmission was resumed.

Billy and Trigger were turning inbound for their next Hellfire. We were out of missiles, but needed to provide cover for them as they ran in. We didn’t get the chance.

‘Ugly Five Zero, Knight Rider. Intelligence from higher; there are enemy in a compound by the canal two hundred metres north of the original target. Stand by for grid.’

‘Ugly Five Zero. Running in from the west with Hellfire. Ugly Five One you take that target; I’ve got two buildings to finish off here.’

There was an awful lot of smoke and dust in the air so Carl swung us away from the hornets’ nest and over to the west side of the canal. It kept us out of Ugly Five Zero’s way and gave me a better view.

The new compound was the furthest north of a cluster of three. We held off 2,500 metres south-west of it, so as not to spook the enemy and to give Carl eyes on our wingman.

I picked up a series of white shapes on my FLIR and zoomed in: four men stood in a group against the high compound wall. One had what appeared to be an RPG alongside him. Two others had a moped in front of them. A donkey flicked its tail disconsolately in the top left-hand corner of the compound, thirty metres to their west. I needed to confirm that this was the correct target, but there wasn’t a single unique identifying feature.

‘Knight Rider, Ugly Five One. Can you confirm the target precisely?’

‘Ugly Five One, Knight Rider. I am told there are people in the north-east corner of the compound. You are cleared hot on those people.’

Yes, but who was telling him all this? And was I definitely looking in the right compound? Knight Rider couldn’t know; he didn’t have eyes on. The targets were getting progressively further from the main Taliban base. I didn’t want to open up on third party information without better clarification. If I was going to kill, I needed to be 100 per cent sure.

‘Ugly Five One. I need something to hang my hat on. Can you give me more information on the target?’

‘Ugly Five One, this is Knight Rider Five Six. Higher has cleared you hot onto that target.’

‘Ugly Five One. Give me a unique feature or tell me who’s buying my weapons. I must confirm that we are both looking at the same target.’

‘Ugly Five One, this is Maverick Zero Bravo. How do you read?’

Maverick Zero Bravo? Who the hell was that? No callsign I’d ever come across. The voice was short and clipped, its nationality indistinguishable; I put the accent as mid-Atlantic at best. I flicked through the top pages of my Black Brain; no joy there. Maverick wasn’t a callsign we’d been given for the operation. But it was impossible for him to be on the secure net if he wasn’t authorised so he had to be 100 per cent bona fide.

‘Maverick Zero Bravo, Ugly Five One. Lima Charlie. You, me?’

‘Maverick Zero Bravo. Lima Charlie also. Stand by… Can you see the donkey in the north-west corner of that compound?’

‘Ugly Five One. Affirm.’ But that didn’t mean a thing. Everyone had a bloody donkey!

‘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.