Hellfire

THE 7 Ps

FRIDAY, 2 JUNE 2006

Camp Bastion, Afghanistan

Billy and I headed for the duties board with a spring in our step. We’d heard whispers about the upcoming operation over the past few days, and been told we’d be on a deliberate mission.

Sure enough, Op Mutay was up there, lined up for the fourth. But our flight was marked HRF and IRT. We’d be on standby; we’d been taken off the mission.

As Helmand Reaction Force and Incident Response Team we needed to be ready for anything, and that included supporting the Deliberate Ops Apache pair. We’d be the next to fly, responsible for replacing Pat and his crews if needed. How on earth could we do that if we’d been kept in the dark?

Pat told us it was because we weren’t a constituted flight – we hadn’t operated together. The OC had his two flights up and running, under Pat and Dan. He wanted to keep it that way because they’d know what they were doing.

‘Why do you need constituted flights?’ I asked.

Pat shrugged. ‘Flight procedure.’

Billy beat me to it. ‘There’s no such thing.’

He wasn’t wrong. The only flight procedure was that any one of us could jump into any aircraft with any wingman and mesh in seamlessly. Pilots were matched in an aircraft and kept together until they operated as one, but periodic changeovers stopped errors creeping in.

‘Well, our flights are constituted,’ Pat insisted. ‘We’ve practised together.’

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. They’d flown together on a handful of missions in Afghanistan, that was all. We’d trained together for years.

We left, knowing only that Op Mutay would take place around Now Zad. Even the broadest brushstrokes were being kept secret from other aircrew.

The alarm bells kept ringing in my head. I turned to Billy and Jon. ‘What if it goes tits up and the rest of us have to step in?’ We hadn’t been here long and only had four Apaches up and running.

Keeping the circle of knowledge to a minimum was normal and necessary. A lot of locals worked at Camp Bastion. The Taliban could infiltrate their ranks, or intimidate them into handing over information. That was why we only ever discussed a mission in the secure Ops tents and briefing areas.

The OC and Pat – who commanded the only Apache flight designated to the mission – had taken this to extremes. They had attended the preliminary mission orders along with Dickie Bonn, the new Operations Officer, and decided not to allow any other crews into the planning process.

We discovered that confirmatory orders were going to be at 0700 on the morning of the mission – two days’ time – and knew we had to be there.

This was going to be 3 Para’s – but more importantly to us, the British Apaches’ – first ever deliberate operation in Afghanistan. We’d spent over two and a half years training for this, and by hook or by crook, we’d have what it took to make it work.

Back at the tent, 3 Flight’s lights were out. A quick shower and I was into my doss bag on my camp cot. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but then again, I wasn’t in the pissing rain in the middle of Dartmoor in December with a hunter force tracking me down with dogs and dragging me away for interrogation.

When the artillery temporarily eased up my mind still wouldn’t let me sleep. I’d been plagued by the fear of failure or rejection all my life; I didn’t want to be remembered as one of the bumbling idiots that fucked up our very first mission. Worse still, if we left a gap in the support to 3 Para and someone died we’d be dismissed as a shambles and never be trusted again. If the papers got hold of the details the whole Apache programme would be seen as a big white elephant.

Billy and I skipped breakfast the next morning and headed over to the Ops tent for a coffee. We had an escort mission – to insert the Gurkhas into Now Zad – but when we weren’t flying we kept pushing.

We finally decided to brief for the operation ourselves, late in the evening when the Ops room was quiet. We knew jack shit, but we could at least do a detailed map recce, and settle on a strategy if everything did go pear-shaped.

We crisis-planned. We went through all the what ifs. What if one of them was sick in the morning? What if the plan changed and they needed four Apaches? What if they crashed on departure, en route, in the target area or returning to base? What if they got low on fuel and 3 Para were in a firefight? We planned for every eventuality we could think of.

We were in the Ops tent bang on time the following morning. I’d had nightmares about not being able to start the Apache, about the CO of 3 Para shouting through the cockpit window that it was my fault his men were bleeding to death in Now Zad.

The boss barked, ‘3 Flight we need to get over for the JMB now.’

We asked our Ops Officer yet again if we could attend the Joint Mission Brief. Dickie Bonn finally relented; we could squeeze in if there was room.

We were off before he finished speaking. We didn’t even have time to make a brew.

The tent was packed and stiflingly hot. The briefing team stood in front of an array of maps and satellite photography. Most of the guys were seated, but for late arrivals and the officially uninvited it was standing room only, at the very back.

The 3 Para Ops Officer began the orders. The mission was a cordon and search operation of a known Taliban house and grounds. The commander of the operation was Lieutenant Colonel Tootal. The CO was an extremely astute man. He had delegated mission command to the lead Chinook for the insertion and extraction phases. The lead Chinook callsign, Hardwood Two Five, was captained by Nichol Benzie, a polite, dark-haired, highly capable naval lieutenant.

‘The Taliban commander is located at grid Papa-Romeo Four-Zero-One Eight-Six-Three. That’s Papa-Romeo Four-Zero-One Eight-Six-Three in Now Zad.’

The Ops Officer pointed to a satellite photograph – a house approximately twelve feet high, with ten-foot walls around the perimeter. The target was using it as a bomb-making factory. It was also a safe house for local fighters and an arms cache.

He and his associates were likely to have small arms and RPGs.

The 3 Para battlegroup was to fly into the Green Zone east of Now Zad, under the shadow of the mountain spine, between the town and the main wadi. It would use four Chinooks to land in three sites at exactly 1100 hours.

The first LS, codenamed Green One, was just to the north of the house. The second, Green Two, was one field to its south-west, and Green Three one field to the south. There were four alternative LSs further from the target in case it was too hot or unacceptable to the crews following a ‘boiling’ call.

‘Meanwhile,’ the Ops Officer said, ‘the troops in Now Zad DC will have moved out in their WMIKs to collect Haji Muhammadzai, the District Chief of Police.’

He’d only find out what was happening as the troops touched down on the LSs, so no warnings would be sent to the occupants by anyone. As they set up a cordon around the grounds, he’d be driven to the house by the troops from the DC, arriving before we went into the compound to confirm that the search and lift was done in a dignified manner with no harassment to any locals. Other troops from the 3 Para battlegroup would have secured the perimeter to ensure that no Taliban escaped and no reinforcements could infiltrate the target area.

The Patrols Platoon was going to move into and block the western side of the Green Zone. They had two JTACs, callsign Widow Seven Zero, qualified to bring in air support and with a secure radio giving direct communications to the jets.

The Ops Officer tapped a map with a long wooden pointer with an orange tip. ‘Ten Platoon of the Royal Gurkha Regiment positioned themselves in the DC yesterday and are going to secure the eastern perimeter. They are going to route north initially, under the normal watchful eye of the Apaches, to give any Taliban dickers the impression that this is a routine patrol.’

If they came under any trouble they’d get Widow Seven Three to command the air support onto the target. It was becoming pretty obvious that 3 Para’s offensive support would be from whatever fast air they had on standby while the Apaches took a back seat.

Nichol took over for the aircrew brief when 3 Para’s second in command (2i/c) had done his bit. The Chinooks would be supported by 3 Flight. Pat was flying with Tony in Wildman Five Two and Chris with Carl in Five Three.

I looked at the other three invisibles standing alongside me. I still found it hard to understand why we weren’t officially part of the briefing and there was no mention of Apache contingencies.

‘Deconfliction: the Apaches will operate below 5,000 feet over the target until their fuel has been used up. After the drop-off the Chinooks will hold not below 5,000 feet.’

‘Plan: on arrival the Apaches are to assess the target and LSs. If they think the LSs are hot – under imminent threat or under fire – they will give the codeword boiling to the Chinooks. If the LSs are cold – no threat and safe to land – they will give the codeword freezing.’

‘If the Apaches are in contact when the Chinooks arrive the Apache crews will give the codeword sausage followed by either One, Two, Three or Four, depending upon which sector they are engaging into. The Chinooks will then be able to adjust their flight profile and route, choosing the best sector to approach and depart without the fear of flying into the Apaches’ fire.’

‘Let’s go sausage side and give them what’s for!’ was the age-old Tommy refrain when doing battle with their wurst-loving German enemy.

‘Once the Chinooks have deposited 3 Para they will lift, egress the target area and hold above 5,000 feet for the guys to get in, find their man, search the place and call for their pick up. If the operation is taking longer than expected they will return to Bastion and wait on thirty minutes’ notice to move for a call to collect the troops.

‘If all goes to plan, the Apaches will cover the Chinooks in low level and then provide protection to us, finally returning to Bastion where they will wait with us on thirty minutes’ notice to move, ready to escort us back in.’

I couldn’t help smiling. Unlike us, the Chinook crowd could switch off their machines, go and have a drink in their air-conditioned tent, and still be off the ground within thirty minutes of the shout.

Apache crews wouldn’t get out of their aircraft. They’d be on the Auxiliary Power Unit, main engines off but with all systems running, ready to go. The APU hardly used any fuel, so time was on our side. I’d once sat in the bird for six hours without taking off, my arse as numb as a dead man’s.

It was swings and roundabouts, though. The Apache was air-conditioned and generally very comfortable to fly; the Chinook was boiling hot inside and filled with dust and sand.

Jon gave me a nudge as Nichol concluded with the extraction details. ‘It looks to me as if the Apaches are only trusted to escort Chinooks.’

I nodded. If it all went to ratshit it would be the Jet Jocks that would be mixing things up with the Taliban.

Our Intelligence Officer stepped up to the plate and briefed us on the specific threats to aircrew – which basically amounted to Stingers and an anti-aircraft gun that had been sighted in the area. ‘If the reports are true, it’ll be fitted to the back of a pick-up truck. This weapon system is a significant threat, especially if the operator is competent. Better have the radar ready to detect vehicles.’

Most of the operational detail had been thrashed out in our absence over the last couple of days, but I reckoned we’d now picked up enough to allow us to take over if all went tits-up.

At the end of the brief I brought up the million-dollar question: what was deemed ‘hot’ and ‘not’? Hostile fire would be obvious, but what if there were male adults – or of mixed ages – in the tree lines or the general area, with or without weapons?

We decided that there were four different levels of ‘hot’ – but knew that only Nichol could make the LS call.

We went and had a brew then corralled Dickie Bonn again.

We needed to know what would happen if one of the Apaches had a malfunction prior to arriving at Now Zad. Would the whole mission be postponed until its crew came back and changed aircraft? That would mean forty minutes in transit, twenty to swap aircraft and a further thirty to get it started – an hour and thirty minutes in total, assuming no snags. If the mission went ahead in the meantime, who would give the boys on the ground their Intimate Support? If we’d been read into the mission (fully briefed, prepared and ready to fly) we could be on the APU, waiting to go, a mere twenty minutes from being on station.

Worse still, what would happen if they got shot down and couldn’t return to the fight? Would they be sending out an unbriefed crew?

Dickie promised he’d have another word with the boss – when the boss had a minute to spare.

Nick was the squadron pin-up. He’d graduated from university, then Sandhurst, joined the Army Air Corps, and gone straight onto the pilot’s course. From there he’d been streamed directly onto Apache CTT1 and joined 656 Squadron. He was young, energetic, infuriatingly good-looking, and an enthusiastic and highly capable aviator.

He was to command our flight during this mission, despite being our least experienced pilot. It was the way the AAC worked. Jon – who had thousands of flying hours – would captain the aircraft from the back seat. While the commander was responsible for the success of the mission, the captain was responsible for the safe conduct of the sortie and the safety of the airframe and crew.

Jon had been a tank commander before training on the Lynx. His ability to interpret a battlefield was second to none, making him the perfect person to show Nick the ropes – even if he hadn’t been in combat with the Apache before. He was also our SupFAC. Supervisory Forward Air Controllers trained and coached the squadron’s pilots in the art of controlling fast jets and guiding their bombs onto targets.

Their callsign was Wildman Five Zero, and they were currently part of the IRT. If there was an incident in our AOR – in this case Helmand province – a road traffic accident, mine strike, injured personnel or even a compassionate case that needed to return home to their family, the IRT would respond. A Chinook did the ferrying while the Apache provided support. If the location the Chinook was bound for was deemed hostile, the second Apache, the HRF cab, would also go.

Apaches in combat were always flown in pairs – or more – for mutual support. Billy and I were in Wildman Five One.

Billy was the most experienced Apache pilot in the squadron, with more than twice as many Apache hours as any other pilot when we turned up in Afghanistan. Originally from the Royal Corps of Transport, he’d been driving vehicles on the ground and in the air for the best part of twenty years. He was qualified to fly both seats, and did so with immense gusto. Today he was captaining from the rear while I’d command from the front.

But for the time being we just had to sit it out.

Billy turned to me and said, ‘Do you think we’ll get away without firing a shot?’

I shook my head. ‘When was the last time you saw a plan surviving contact with the enemy? Prior preparation and planning…’

‘…prevents a piss poor performance,’ Jonny kicked a stone across the ground in front of him. ‘The seven Ps. Let’s hope you’re wrong.’

With just over an hour to go the mission timings slipped by an hour; 3 Para would now land in Now Zad at midday. We still didn’t have access to the spot maps of the area, the callsigns, the positions of the troops on the ground or the Chinooks and the fast air above.

We begged to at least be on the APU.

The answer was still no – if we were needed, we’d be given everything we’d requested ‘in sufficient time’.

3 Flight walked to their Apaches at 1030 hours.

We’d run out of road. We were into crisis management at the slightest deviation from the plan.