Excerpt of Patriot by A.S. Bond

“Scramble Scramble Scramble!” The call came at the start of
the shift. For
Captain Brad Jones and his crew, every trip into combat
began with those
three words and a siren, now yowling over the desert
airfield. Barely seven
minutes later, Brad guided his AH-64E Apache gunship into
the air. In the
front of the tandem cockpit, Brad’s friend, Gunner Chuck
Willows, sat at the
controls of the Target Acquisition and Designation System.

This was a mission they had flown several times; racing to
the scene of an
ambush to take out a Taliban position.

“Be advised, we have a small arms fire report and three
explosions.” The
voice of Joe Blake, Detachment Command back in the Tactical
Operations
Centre, crackled in Brad’s ear. “And there are two civilian
journalists
embedded with the platoon.”

“Copy that.” Two miles out from the target, Brad flew the
Apache above the
bed of a dried up wadi. Lower than much of the surrounding
countryside, he
knew it would be invisible to the enemy until the last
possible moment. The
ground flashed by, a herd of goats fled in terror and a
small boy waved a
stick at the helicopter. Tomorrow’s enemy, thought Brad as
he banked to the
left, following the dry water course.

“Half a mile, Captain.” Chuck called out the range to
target.

“Going visual.” Brad eased up the Apache to a hundred feet.
Ahead, he saw
smoking ruins of an Afghan compound sheltering the American
patrol and the
flash of gunfire from insurgents on other side of the
valley.

“This is Crazy Horse One Seven, we have forty individuals
with weapons, two
hundred meters from the compound, over.” reported Chuck to
Command, reading
the screens.

“Crew, we have personnel west of your position, over.”
replied Command.

“We have visual on the target. No strobes. Repeat, no
strobes. Confirm
position of friendlies, over.”

“Roger that. Friendlies going green, over.”

Moments later, clouds of luminous green smoke billowed up
from the compound.
Smoke grenades.

“Copy that Command, we have visual on the friendlies. Be
advised we’re gonna
set up an inbound run, over.” Brad levelled out the chopper.

“Range Mike Bravo 565888617.”

“Mike Bravo 56888617 copy that.”

“Clear to fire.”

“Firing.”

A staccato of 30mm rounds from the Apache’s cannon sliced
into the fields and
the enemy fire over the compound lessened.

“Good shooting.” said Command, as Brad banked away from the
immediate danger
zone.

“We got multiple enemy positions here.” Chuck watched the
screen and counted
the heat signatures of at least two dozen more Taliban
hiding in the fields.
“This is gonna go high risk. There’s a group with rocket
launchers at four
hundred meters.”

“You got auto range on it?” asked Brad.

“Affirmative.”

Chuck pressed a button and Brad felt the deck tremble as a
Hellfire missile
shot away from the Apache. On the other side of the valley,
the missile
exploded a Taliban position, taking a rocky outcrop with it
and leaving a
huge crater in the hillside. The smell of cordite filtered
through the
cockpit.

Immediately, Brad swung away the gunship, taking it out of
RPG range. Flying
this low and slow made them easy targets.

“We’re taking fire from the north!” shouted Chuck, as if on
cue. Red lights
blazed across the central warning panel in the Apache.

“Missile lock!”

“What the hell?!” muttered Brad, as he instinctively pulled
the helicopter
into a hard evasive turn, raising the collective for full
power, and pushing
forward the cyclic to gain speed. Flares and chaff deployed
automatically
from pods, designed to confuse and misdirect any heat or
radar seeking
missile.

“I got visual on the launch. Incoming – get us outta here,
man!”

“I’m on it.” Brad focused on flying the chopper as hard and
as fast as he
could towards the wadi.

The missile flew an almost perfect circle, 2000 feet above
the helicopter;
its internal microprocessors comparing the heat and the
electromagnetic
signatures from its target with the data profile in its
systems. As though
making a conscious decision, the missile banked over and
descended towards
the Apache.

“It’s on our ass, man.” reported Chuck. “Do your thing.”

“Where the f*** did the Taliban get a SAM?” Brad shouted as
he drove the
Apache down into the wadi, hoping to lose the missile in the
tight turns and
confusion of the terrain.

Behind them and closing, the missile passed through the
cloud of metallic
chaff, its sensors registering them as a possible target,
but the
electromagnetic signature detectors instantly overrode the
signal. The
missile pressed on, homing in on the fleeing Apache.

Brad, his hands clenched and sweating on the controls, took
a bend, and
glimpsed a group of insurgents hit the ground below him. A
small – a very
small - part of his brain registered a flash of bright
blonde hair among
them, then he saw the missile take the bend too.

“I can’t lose it – f***, what is that thing? Chuck, on my
mark, hit it with
all the CM we have left and brace yourself. I’m gonna try
something.”

“Do it.”

Brad gave the Apache full power and headed straight towards
the high bluff
edge.

“3,2,1 MARK.” Chuck nailed the countermeasures button and
braced himself for
the move. Brad yanked back on the controls, pointing the
gunship’s nose at
the sky and putting it in a high vertical climb, more like a
fighter plane
than a helicopter. Struggling against the effects of the G
force required to
pull this unconventional manoeuvre, he prayed the missile
would lose their
trail in the counter measures and impact on the wall of the
wadi.

At the same instant the missile passed through the chaff and
easily made the
turn up and out. The vertical climb slowed the helicopter
and the missile
closed the gap until it was within a meter or two of its
quarry. The onboard
proximity censors matched the helicopter’s EM signature and
the warhead
detonated. Brad and Chuck were briefly aware of an intense
light, before a
wave of heat and pressure enveloped them.

The Apache hurtled into the sky, its rotor blades spiralling
futilely before
they gouged into the sand. The fuselage continued to
somersault upwards,
until it seemed finally to surrender, and smashed into the
hot, dry earth
below