A Relentless Enemy
WES BRYANT
We were at once honored and exhilarated to be part of the small group of U.S. forces pushing back the ISIS advance and thwarting their campaign of torture, terror, and genocide. Knowing the bloodshed and butchery that ISIS had been unleashing on so many innocent people throughout Iraq and Syria, and the subsequent threat they posed to the free world, incensed us with a deep vehemence toward them.
Frankly, we couldn’t kill enough of them. We had a craving for ISIS blood that was satisfied only through our ceaseless airstrikes against them and our ever-increasing ISIS body counts as a result.
It was a crisp, clear night and we’d gotten notification from our Special Forces team embedded at Iraq’s Anbar operations center that Iraqi troops were in a heavy fight with ISIS at a water treatment plant in Ramadi.
We sent a Predator over the area. Unfortunately, the drone wasn’t armed and the fighter jets we’d just had on station were switching out with another flight of jets, and we were waiting on the new set of fighters to show up. It was a less-than-ideal scenario, but in the meantime we got eyes on the area to assess the situation.
We quickly pinpointed the water treatment plant situated off the south bank of a stretch of the Euphrates River. Its large circular basins provided easy identification. It was a large complex with multiple separate compounds inside. We soon found armed individuals maneuvering in and among buildings, firing on one another.
Handfuls of fighters—three or four separate squads—maneuvered in teams, periodically taking cover behind buildings as they engaged one another. But we didn’t yet have enough information from the Iraqi commanders at the operations center. We had no idea who was who, and so we couldn’t do much more than observe.
Those were some of the most frustrating moments in the strike cell—when we were forced to watch battles with our hands tied. But, in reality, we couldn’t help the Iraqis fight off the ISIS forces because we couldn’t tell for sure which ones were Iraqi forces and which were ISIS.
Our holy grail of information came after ten or fifteen minutes. Iraqi Security Forces clarified that one of their convoys was pinned down on a road right off the river. The convoy had tried to enter the main compound to counterattack ISIS positions when they encountered ISIS fighters in a strong defensive position on an embankment. The ISIS force was within 100 meters of the Iraqi convoy’s location, battering them with recoilless rifle and rocket-propelled grenades. They’d disabled the Iraqi convoy.
The Iraqis sent us a rough grid to the location and we pushed our Predator drone sensor overhead. Right away we saw it—picture-perfect as far as target descriptions go. We identified the halted Iraqi convoy off a small road on the south bank of a stretch of the Euphrates. To the west, slightly over 100 meters and across an open area, a large berm provided ample cover to an eighteen-man force of ISIS fighters.
We watched as the ISIS fighters took turns sporadically running to the top of the berm and laying down AK-47 and machine gun fire at the halted ISF convoy, then withdrawing back to the west side cover of the berm. The Iraqi troops took cover behind and inside their vehicles, but they couldn’t counter the heavy ISIS fire.
When we’d first received the report, I had dispatched a runner from the cell to fetch General Pittard for briefing and strike approval. He walked in just as we’d identified the ISIS force at the berm.
“What’s going on, Wes?” Pittard asked as he came up calmly to Adam and me, his eyes on the drone feed in the front of the room.
We explained the situation. He was all about it. Let’s do this.
A single ISIS fighter scrambled to the top of the berm, carrying a large tube on his shoulder. It was a recoilless rifle—which looks like a rocket launcher but fires modified artillery shells, not rockets.
BOOM!
We couldn’t hear the explosion, but we saw it and all but felt the round explode out of the rifle to strike the Iraqi convoy. Most of us were all too familiar with the brain-splitting blast of a recoilless rifle shot. Our Predator feed had an infrared sensor, so we could see the heat reverberation from its huge rear backblast.
“Kill those shitheads, Wes!” Colonel Kehoe exclaimed.
I only wished it was possible in that moment. We were still waiting on our strike aircraft to arrive on station. Instead, I detailed to Colonel Kehoe and General Pittard the weaponeering plan that Adam and I planned on executing once our fighter jets showed up. All we could do until then was watch the situation develop and hope ISIS didn’t either wipe out the entire Iraqi convoy or maneuver somewhere where we couldn’t track them with our drone.
Luckily, ISIS never made a move away from their well-fortified position. They had the advantage, or so they thought. Of course, they had no idea that U.S. and coalition airpower was on its way to destroy them.
Ten or fifteen minutes had gone by since we’d pinpointed the ISIS location—but it seemed like hours. We finally had a flight of two F-16 Vipers check in on station. My biggest concern, though, was that they weren’t American pilots—they were coalition.
Language barriers with our allied pilots sometimes proved to be a real problem. On top of that, the targeting abilities of some coalition pilots were not always up to U.S. standards. This would be a danger close mission, and we could not afford any error in targeting.
Fortunately, as I briefed the pilots on the situation and got their targeting verifications and weaponeering inputs, I was relieved to find that they had solid English skills and were competent and efficient pilots. I coordinated for the Vipers to drop two GBU-49s: laser-guided 500-pound bombs with optional GPS guidance equipped with warheads specifically designed to kill enemy forces in the open.
The ISIS fighters were divided into two groups north and south, on the west side of the berm. My plan was to put one bomb at each of their locations. Our Predator drone would laser-guide the target closest to our friendly Iraqi position. That would offer us the least risk of accidentally impacting friendly troops since it was the most accurate guidance option. The second bomb would guide by GPS only, targeted by the pilot’s aircraft sensor. We couldn’t lase in the second bomb because we’d risk the laser being obscured by the smoke and haze of the first impact and the second bomb never finding its mark. That wasn’t a risk we could take.
I emphasized to the coalition pilots that it would be better to miss the target completely than to inadvertently injure or kill any of our Iraqi partners in the strike. But I also knew that if we didn’t strike the ISIS fighters soon, they would overtake the Iraqi convoy. Danger close or not, there was some risk we had to take.
Still, I relied on quite a few “mitigation” techniques to reduce any chance of injuring our nearby Iraqi force: A combination of laser and GPS guidance for precision strike capability. Restriction on the attack heading of the F-16s to ensure the trajectory of the bombs was not in line with the Iraqi convoy. Keeping the bomb impact points on the west side of the berm in order to shield the Iraqis from fragmentation. And ensuring the pilots switched their selectable fuse option to “contact” versus “airburst” to keep the risk of fragmentation to our Iraqi forces at a minimum.
As I was planning the attack with our coalition pilots, Adam and our special operations team liaison had been coordinating with our Special Forces team in the Anbar operations center. We needed to ensure the Iraqi force knew that we were about to drop bombs on the ISIS position in front of them. We warned the ISF on the ground to stay with their convoy and take cover, and to not attempt to advance on the ISIS location until our strikes were complete.
I set our Vipers in position to strike, controlling them over satellite radio as Adam controlled the Predator drone crew over secure phone. The ISIS fighters continued their furious cycle, pounding the ISF convoy with gunfire and RPGs then maneuvering back down the berm to take cover before the Iraqis were able to effectively counterfire from their gun trucks. The ISIS force was still separated into two entities, more or less, with about thirty meters between.
General Pittard sat behind us, relaxed and still nursing a small lollipop, watching the Predator feed on the screen at the front of the cell. That was his way. After giving his approval and guidance, he would sit back and quietly observe while casually snacking on a bag of pistachios or nursing a lollipop and drinking from a vat of iced tea. In fact, we had a running joke that if the pistachios or lollipops came out, the kill was on.
Steadily, I directed the fighter pilots to strike.
“Dash one—cleared hot. Dash one—cleared hot.”
The lead Viper pilot called inbound with the first bomb. A few seconds later in heavily-accented English he came back, “One bomb away, south target, forty-five seconds to impact.”
Adam had the drone crew on speakerphone. The Predator sensor operator came through and verified that he was lasing for the bomb. “Laser on…good lase,” said the focused voice through the secure phone.
Adam and I took a few seconds to examine our Predator video feed and verify that the sensor operator was, indeed, marking the correct location and that the operator had the right laser code entered that matched the bomb’s code. If he didn’t, the bomb would never catch the laser energy from the Predator and wouldn’t hit on target.
Over my radio the Viper wingman called in for clearance to drop the second bomb. I verified that he was inbound within my directed attack parameters, and cleared the strike.
“One bomb away, north target, forty seconds,” came the equally thick-accented notice from the F-16 wingman.
Then came the waiting game.
Both bombs were in the air on their way down to impact an ISIS force barely 100 meters from our ISF convoy. The final seconds between weapons release and impact were always tense for me in these situations. It was the time when I hoped I hadn’t screwed up, that my target didn’t suddenly move, or that the friendly ground force didn’t start advancing toward the impact point. Though only a matter of a few dozen seconds at most, it felt like an eternity. I nearly always second-guessed myself. My mind would race through the entire control process as I analyzed my performance within a consolidated timeline of microseconds.
It wasn’t really because I doubted myself. Over the years I’d found that it was the mark of a good controller to have such anxieties—the bad ones tended to think they could do no wrong. Overall, I felt solid about the attack. My feelings were soon validated.
BOOM…BOOM!
We watched near-simultaneous impacts as the two bombs smashed their intended targets. Clouds of smoke obscured the west side of the berm where the ISIS fighters had been.
It was a tremendous strike. Everyone in the strike cell was ecstatic.
“Fuck yeah!” Adam and I yelled almost in unison.
We immediately directed our F-16s and Predator to search around the settling debris. Inevitably, we knew there would be squirters. It never failed to surprise me how often we had survivors even from 500-pound bomb strikes. Typically, we’d have to wait a couple of minutes to spot them—not only for the smoke, haze, and debris to settle, but for the shell-shocked fighters to come to their senses and get oriented enough to clamber to their feet and run.
The smoke slowly cleared in light winds. Soon we distinguished bodies strewn all over the west side of the berm—some with limbs separated and others in contorted positions. Those were always solemn moments, but ones that we were conditioned to appreciate as warfighters battling a bloodthirsty enemy. As strange as it may seem to some, for guys like us it was a scene of somber beauty to see our enemy cut down and lying in pieces on the ground in front of us.
I praised the pilots and the Predator sensor operator for their first-rate precision. No sooner had I done so than the drone feed displayed two ISIS fighters running west away from the strike location. We weren’t done yet.
Since the coalition F-16s had unleashed all their weapons in the strike, we had to call in the follow-on team—a pair of U.S. Navy F/A-18 fighter jets that had been on standby just outside the airspace waiting to get into the fight. We also had another coalition drone that had checked in on station, an MQ-9 Reaper. It was unarmed as well—that particular coalition country had yet to approve arming their drones for the fight in Iraq. (That was unfortunate, because Reapers could carry a lot of firepower.)
We used the coalition drone as a second pair of eyes. Adam directed the pilot to search west following the Euphrates for more enemy activity. Before I could direct a strike onto the fleeing ISIS fighters with the new set of Hornets, I had to follow procedures—which included passing a targeting brief, setting safe attack parameters, and directing all the other air assets in the airspace to de-conflict from the approach of the attacking jets. Delays like that were sometimes unavoidable. It would have been nice of the enemy to wait until we were ready, but that was never going to happen. You had to play the hand dealt.
The lag between strikes was only a few minutes, and that turned out to be a good thing. We watched as the two fighters pushed further west and maneuvered through the thick vegetation on the bank of the Euphrates. They linked up with more enemy fighters and gave us an even better target.
At that moment, General Pittard directed us to continue hunting ISIS in the area until all the fighters were killed. We now had free rein to hunt and kill ISIS. Adam and I directed our fighter and drone pilots to find every ISIS fighter they possibly could. We wanted to eliminate as many of them as possible that night.
The F/A-18 Super Hornets carried a compliment of 500-pound bombs, 300-pound missiles, and on board 20mm cannons. I directed them to posture their aircraft to strike the maneuvering ISIS fighters with bombs. While our aircraft positioned, we watched in delighted surprise as even more fighters appeared and linked up with the same group. We now had twelve to fifteen ISIS fighters in our sights.
Strangely, the ISIS fighters began moving back toward the positions we’d just hit near the Iraqi convoy. We couldn’t believe it! We’d known ISIS to be bold, but we were awestruck that they seemed to be reinforcing their original positions even despite our airstrikes. Maybe they thought we were out of bombs and ammunition? If that was the case, they were about to be in for a shock.
I directed the Hornet pilots to drop two GBU-54s: 500-pound bombs with both laser and GPS guidance capable of hitting targets that moved far faster than a squad of ISIS fighters in thick vegetation. The bombs were a direct hit. They killed all but one of the ISIS fighters.
The lone squirter ran west.
As we tracked the lone wolf, our coalition Reaper crew reported even more ISIS fighters making their way toward our two previous impact locations from further to the west.
Full night had fallen.
We watched as more squads of ISIS fighters maneuvered the tight trails of thick underbrush along the river. On the infrared video feeds, we saw them as stark black figures moving through lighter shades that depicted the water and vegetation around them. They weren’t running anymore. They were moving more tactically and regrouping into smaller units, presumably so we couldn’t hit them all at once. The ISIS fighters were clearly rattled and scared; but were determined to continue the fight and hold their ground.
We held off, biding our time until we could attack with maximum efficiency. After ten minutes or so they played into our hands, forming a group of about a dozen fighters. I immediately began coordinating for another strike as four of the fighters branched off again. The coalition Reaper tracked the four, and we kept eyes on the other eight with our Predator.
Within minutes in another adept strike, our Super Hornets killed the entire group of eight using two more 500-pound bombs. Meanwhile, the coalition drone pilot observed the four fighters fleeing into a building even further west along the river. While we’d been directing our strikes to the east, he had observed slews of ISIS forces coming and going from the building.
The Reaper drone had identified an enemy stronghold—likely a bed down for the local ISIS forces. It would have served as a living quarters, ammunitions and weapons storage, rear area command and control, and defensive fighting position. I turned and asked General Pittard what he wanted to do about the building, since targeting buildings carried more concern for collateral damage and civilian casualties. He was finishing the last remnants of his lollipop—iced tea in hand.
“I want that building destroyed, Wes,” he told us. “And try to get as many ISIS fighters in it as possible when you drop.”
He took a swig of his cold tea and stared intently at the screens displaying our two drone feeds. The coalition Reaper operator estimated at least eight enemy fighters were in the building. We watched two of them intermittently pop out of what appeared to be a covered porch at the main entrance. They’d periodically move to a position near the edge of the front wall and peer out east where we’d been striking, then quickly move back under the concealment of their covered porch. It seemed that they were trying to recon the area without moving too far from their cover and concealment.
I worked with the lead Hornet pilot to decide what firepower we wanted to unleash. The target was a single story, house-sized structure. Our plan was to hit dead-center with their remaining two 500-pound bombs. We’d drop the first with a delayed fuse, and the other would hit shortly after, detonating on impact. The combination would completely obliterate the building and all fighters inside.
I postured the aircraft for the strike. I held off briefly as the two roving ISIS scouts made their rounds. I wanted to give the command to strike once they went back inside the building—I was never interested in survivors.
Direct hit.
Once the smoke and dust cleared, no trace of the building remained except for the heat signature on the ground where the bombs had impacted and a few scattered pieces of incinerated debris. There were no survivors.
We’d been on the offensive for nearly two hours and killed more than forty ISIS fighters. We’d also destroyed what was most likely a key command and control stronghold in the area. But we weren’t done yet. Our drones picked up more enemy fighters who’d been hiding among the thick underbrush along the river.
Our Hornets were out of bombs. We were down to using either their AGM-65 air-to-ground Maverick missiles or the on board 20mm cannons. The cannons weren’t exactly peashooters, but my weapon of choice was the laser-guided Mavericks. 300 pounds of death-dealing destruction, I’d used Mavericks with great success plenty of times against enemy fighters both on the move and in the open. The missiles were always deadly accurate and devastating. Maverick missiles were, by far, my favorite weapon to use for their versatility, accuracy, and killing power.
We tracked a group of six ISIS fighters maneuvering erratically on the main trail along the river. They were in pure survival mode by then—careful to space themselves out to avoid giving us a consolidated target. We waited them out, knowing they’d eventually have to come together to pass information and plan what to do next. As anticipated, that’s exactly what they did.
I cleared the Hornet flight to launch a Maverick.
In the forty or so seconds of the missile’s flight, the ISIS group broke up and continued moving down the trail. I wasn’t too worried. The exceptional laser guidance capability of the Maverick missile would allow the Hornet pilot to easily track the maneuvering personnel while the missile was in flight and adjust the impact point as the fighters continued down the trail.
The problem was, the group was separating further and further. The further apart they got, the less chance we would have of the missile’s blast and fragmentation killing all of them.
IMPACT.
Four were killed instantly. One of the fighters who had pulled away from the pack in the last seconds survived the blast and ran for cover. Another got up from the ground a few seconds after impact, clearly injured but able to move, and ran to link up with his friend. We had one Maverick missile remaining. I wanted to use it to kill the two final ISIS fighters.
But Colonel Kehoe had an issue with that plan. He asked why we couldn’t just use the 20mm guns and save the more expensive missile for another possible follow-on target that might present itself later. It was a valid question. But I knew the 20mm cannon of the F/A-18 was originally optimized for air-to-air use. Because of that, its effectiveness as an air-to-ground weapon at night against two fighters on the move and separated by at least ten meters would surely be poor. I’d had a lot of experience with 20mm cannons in similar situations. They often missed their target. I advised Colonel Kehoe to that end, but he was concerned about munitions resources.
“I just don’t think it’s worth wasting a Maverick on two guys,” he said. “Try to kill them with the guns, Wes. If we miss, we’ve killed enough of them here anyway.”
I continued to press for a minute or so longer, but the director insisted so I reluctantly complied. Unfortunately, what ensued after that was perhaps the most frustrating end to what had up to that point been nothing short of an awesome mission.
During the few minutes that the colonel and I had debated over what ordnance to use, the last two ISIS fighters kept moving. By the time we settled on our weaponeering decision, they’d traveled a couple kilometers from the original target area into a network of orchards with large trees. Their movement was now intermittently obscured by the trees.
I briefed the Hornet pilots the new plan: clean up the enemy squirters with 20mm guns. They didn’t like the idea. They contended. They insisted on using their last remaining Maverick missile just as I had advised the colonel. After some arguing on their part—and understandably so—I plainly told the pilots that we had a directive from higher to use their guns and that was that. They reluctantly conceded.
The Hornet pilots couldn’t make out the moving ISIS fighters in the orchard, but our Reaper was still tracking them. I now had to rely on “Plan B.” I’d have the Reaper put a laser mark on the two fighters, tracking them with the mark as they moved down the trail. I’d direct the fighter pilots to strafe with their 20mm cannons right on the laser mark from the Reaper. It wasn’t an optimal plan as we always wanted a pilot’s eyes on a gun target for accuracy’s sake. But it was the most viable plan I could go with at the time.
Within a few minutes, the Hornets came in from far above and behind the two ISIS fighters while they now almost casually walked a narrow trail through the orchard. Adam and I laughed that the ISIS fighters probably believed they were finally safe.
On my clearance, the jets fired two separate 20mm volleys right on the Reaper’s laser mark. The rounds sprayed the dirt and trees around and in front of the fighters...but missed them both. They split up and ran frantically.
We lost sight of them as they hid among the trees. I advised the Hornet pilots to wait and re-position themselves for another volley of guns. I knew the ISIS fighters would move again. After a few minutes the two fighters began making short, quick bounding movements through the trees to link back up. Once they got back together, they half-walked/half-ran along the riverside trail—likely hoping in vain that they were safe and had survived the last of our onslaughts.
I requested another round of guns from our Hornets, but this time received no response.
I gave the order again.
No response.
I came over the radio several more times. Still nothing.
We watched, frustrated, as the two enemy fighters ran toward a thicker section of the orchard. We knew once they got there that they’d be even harder to track. And under such thick foliage, even if our drone kept its sensor on their general location, we wouldn’t be able to effectively lase to direct another volley of guns—and the Hornet pilots surely wouldn’t be able to pick up the fighters with their sensors.
Still, no response from the Hornets.
I had to wonder if my Hornet pilots were so pissed off about being forced to use their guns that they’d decided to call it a day and were intentionally ignoring my commands. They didn’t know how forcefully I’d argued with the strike cell director. On the other hand, they didn’t know the pressure Colonel Kehoe was under from higher to reserve our ordnance for the most optimal use.
My body could have made an effective weapon of mass destruction at that point. There was enough volatility boiling in me to wipe out a small army. We’d spent the last two-plus hours rounding up dozens of ISIS fighters—all of it frustrating, all of it intense, all of it exhausting. The last enemy standing needed to be killed, but I couldn’t get our pilots to do the job.
“Does anyone on this net want to kill these two ISIS fighters?!” I yelled over the radio. “Request immediate reattack with guns. HOW...COPY?!”
Finally, the lead pilot came back over the radio with acknowledgement. Within less than a minute, he and his wingman swooped in to fire off another round of 20mm strafe onto the mark from our Reaper. Foliage from the orchard trees flew everywhere, but the luckiest pair of ISIS fighters on the planet was still on the run. They headed in different directions.
Then our F/A-18s called in low on fuel. They’d been flying for hours before even being tasked to support our mission, and they had to return to base.
I looked for something to punch in my immediate area that wasn’t a valuable piece of communication equipment, but I couldn’t find anything. I snatched my communications headset off and threw it on the table in front of me. I couldn’t stand to leave enemy survivors. We didn’t always know who we were letting live. For all we knew that could have been one of the most senior leaders in ISIS that we’d just let walk away unscathed into the orchard.
I gave begrudging credit to the two ISIS fighters who’d survived our onslaught, but I sure as hell didn’t wish them well for the future. You may have survived an encounter with the world’s most effective killing force, but there will be another day of reckoning for you soon.
Everyone in the strike cell gave me room to cool off. Well, except for Adam who was laughing. I muttered angrily to myself, shaking my head.
“You okay, Wes?” came a calm voice from behind.
I turned around to see General Pittard in his chair, casually placing his lollipop back in his mouth and offering a slight smile. I knew he’d stepped out earlier to take a phone call from his interpreter, Ali, and I thought he was still gone. I hadn’t even noticed his return to the strike cell. I was a bit embarrassed and tried to laugh it off.
“Yeah, I’m good sir…” I started. “I just get a little heated sometimes.” I continued offering excuses for my outburst. “I don’t know what was going on with those pilots on the last few strikes—”
“It’s alright, Wes,” he said smiling. “Good mission.”
• • •
As I later learned, the pilots began having communications difficulties at the tail end of the mission. They weren’t getting most of my transmissions. The reality was that we couldn’t always count on 100 percent clear communications—and sometimes there was just nothing anyone could do about it. Truly, the Hornet pilots had performed magnificently during the mission.
Within twelve hours of the strikes, communications intercepts and intelligence reporting confirmed that we had taken out a key ISIS leader along with nearly fifty of his fighters. In addition, we’d liberated the water treatment plant and safeguarded an Iraqi unit facing annihilation by the larger ISIS force.
The next morning, Vern and I stood at the edge of the crowded operations center at the special operations task force as Commander Black received his morning updates from the SOTF-I staff.
“Last night, the Iraqi Air Force killed fifty ISIS fighters along with a key ISIS commander at a water treatment plant in the vicinity of Ramadi,” the intelligence analyst began.
Vern and I exchanged glances then listened in disbelief as the task force intelligence officer finished giving a completely inaccurate briefing to Commander Black and the dozens of SOTF-I staff huddled at the Glass House—that our strikes had been accomplished by the Iraqis using Iraqi strike aircraft.
We looked at each other and smirked. Our own task force didn’t even know that their very JTACs—standing right there in front of them—were the ones who’d controlled the strikes they were briefing about. And all from a strike cell about 300 meters up the road.
Vern and I said nothing. We didn’t feel a need to correct anyone that morning. We knew it was just a reflection of the general disconnect between our task force and everyone else. And, we knew who was making the difference in the fight against ISIS. We shook our heads, half smiling, as we walked out the door to get on with the hunt.