Those were the worst, incidents in the night; sudden panicked messages in a foreign language, the half-asleep operator in the COC stirring to receive and the translator over his shoulder speaking to the room as the message shouted in: a small outpost of entirely ANP or ANSF separate from us under attack.
They were deliberately targeted—swift, heavy, and overwhelmingly in the night—exploiting a sleeping or half-stoned sentry with a cut throat before the full barrage opened up in close killing quarters.
The speech was fast and racing jibberish to us, and we spun up support and responses as quickly as we could, pushing aircraft overhead and using tools of our night-hunting to get eyes and effects targets.
…And then nothing.
No more communication, no more panic, or race for response…just silence.
The radio operator in the room repeated his messages for response…again and again…to only silence.
You had eyes on. Did you unleash, uncertain of friendly and enemy positions, if there were any friendlies remaining at all. All you could make where white heat signatures moving methodical across the position–barrels of their weapons glowing white from heat as well—with the chaos of combat seemingly quelled and, with it, the life of resistance.
That was the worse, knowing someone was in heavy—chaos and fight—and then only quiet for an answer.
When the radios went silent, they rarely came back.