Hellfire

SCRAMBLE

SUNDAY, 16 JULY 2006

Camp Bastion

0325 hours local

My watch alarm went off and I forced open my eyes. It felt like only minutes since I’d crashed out.

I was shagged out, absolutely ball-bagged. We all were. We’d finished Op Augustus a couple of days before, and had been out the whole of yesterday. We hadn’t got more than a couple of hours’ sleep.

I strapped my head torch round my wrist then pulled on some shorts and a pair of desert boots. My flying suit was at the aircraft.

I joined the others at the Burco boiler. There wasn’t much chatter. What was there to talk about, except how completely fucked we were? I had my own coffee maker. I threw in some ground coffee Emily had posted to me, poured on boiling water and pushed down the plunger without waiting long enough.

It was pitch-black outside, but as warm as an English summer’s day. You could wander about in no more than a T-shirt and there was no chill to your skin. The nights were also absolutely, totally still, not a breath of wind.

We blundered our way to the Ops room, across ditches and berms. The Chinook IRT/HRF pilots and loadies fell in alongside us. Brews in hand, everyone was quiet. We’d got to the point where we didn’t really want to wake up. We were going through the motions, following where our exhausted bodies led.

Simon and I now flew as one pair and Jake and Jon the other, in what had become the newly constituted 2 Flight. Jake had turned up several weeks earlier following the birth of his first child, a little boy, Finn, at the end of May.

His arrival had coincided with a squabble over which flights were getting the most action. Dan’s 1 Flight and Pat’s 3 Flight had gone head to head, with 2 Flight-us-left on the sidelines. Some form of organised rotation would have sorted things out in an instant. It was all a bit ridiculous.

Jake’s response was typically phlegmatic. ‘I don’t care how many hours I fly or how many missions I do or don’t go on,’ he’d said, when we told him the score. ‘I’m not here to indulge in a load of bitching about who gets the plum jobs and which flight is the boss’s favourite. I only care about two things: doing what we’re asked to do, to the best of our ability, and getting home safely. And now I’m ready for a brief.’

Between then and now the Taliban had seriously raised the stakes.

We knew they were planning a spectacular; they’d set their hearts on either taking a District Centre or shooting down a helicopter.

Now Zad, Sangin and Musa Qa’leh were all under increasing levels of Taliban attack. Our lads were barely holding their own, and at considerable cost. The bases were grandly named District Centres – but, in fact, each held no more than a platoon, so the CO 3 Para was constantly forced to shift troops to whichever location was in most imminent danger of being overrun. We were forever chaperoning Chinooks, moving men between one DC and the next.

A Company 3 Para had moved into Sangin on 21 June, right on the doorstep of what our most secret order believed to be the Taliban’s southern headquarters. They were ordered to hold it at all costs. They were under heavy fire morning, noon and night. The cost was high. Five British soldiers had been killed in nine days.

Our job had been to pound the few hundred metres around the DCs pretty much 24/7. The troops on the ground were knackered, we were knackered, and the Chinook crews were two steps beyond zombie mode. They were having the toughest time of all.

Where they’d failed in Now Zad, the Taliban were succeeding in Sangin and Musa Qa’leh. They had good fields of fire onto the DCs and were hitting and killing British troops on a regular basis.

We were at our most vulnerable when flying casevac sorties, as the enemy well knew. The risk evaluation to the flight and medical crews on board the Chinooks was now so extreme they were only cleared to go into Sangin or Musa Qa’leh if an injured soldier would die unless he got to hospital in an hour. Now Zad was heading in the same direction. Even with the Shrine shielding the LS, we were running out of ways of getting safely in and out. The minute that happened, the troops would go without resupplies – like those holed up in Sangin and Musa Qa’leh.

In the meantime, intelligence had picked up plenty of Icom chatter between Taliban commanders about taking a helicopter out. There were reports of at least one shoulder-launched missile and possibly an anti-aircraft gun in the area.

We’d flown supporting missions throughout, even though the air temperature was regularly near 50°. Our operating limit of 44° Celsius was finally increased to 49° on 5 July, so at least we wouldn’t have the book thrown at us if we fucked up while flying beyond the Release To Service (RTS).

Now Zad, Sangin and Musa Qa’leh had been under sustained Taliban attack for a month solid. Because we’d been flying our aircraft around the clock, we’d been ordered to ‘slow-fly’ them for a week or so – cut the hours right down – but that was easier said than done; it was like the Alamo out there.

Jake glanced at his watch and groaned. ‘This timetable is killing me.’

‘Three and a half hours ahead of the UK?’ I croaked. ‘Where the hell did the half come from?’

It was common sense that 3 Para were on local time: they worked with the locals. Seven in the morning was 0700 local, and bingo, breakfast was served. Fast air worked differently. A B1 bomber from Diego Garcia, a Nimrod from Lossiemouth, an F15 from a ship in the Arabian Gulf and a pair of Apaches from Bastion could all be working together, so we all worked on GMT. To airborne assets there was no 0700 local; it was 0330 GMT and breakfast arrived in the middle of the night.

We still had to integrate with ground units, of course, so 0330 local was midnight to us, and that was when the codes changed and all the frequencies flipped over. It was barking mad. The codes changed, we were briefed, and we went back to bed again. It made sense that the changeovers took place at the quietest time; most attacks were during the day, it was heavy on the aircraft, and it was hot. But months passed before some bright spark worked out we could simply change over at the 1900 evening brief and everyone could get a solid night’s sleep.

However, for now, this was just the way it was.

The Ops tent was lit up like Wembley Stadium. We stumbled in and gathered round the map table. I was starting to wake up.

One of the Chinook boys checked the weather computer and came back with the forecast min and max temperatures, wind speed and direction. It was going to be red hot, a ten knot westerly blowing dust.

Kenny, one of our watchkeepers, told us what had happened in-theatre over the last twenty-four hours. ‘Now Zad’s being fired at again regularly. Half an hour after last light, the rounds started once more.’

The Taliban waited till it was dark, extracted their weapons from wherever they hid them, set them up, and started firing into the base. Half an hour of mortars and rockets then they’d stop. They knew our reaction times. They’d wait another hour or so then start again. Ken said Now Zad was also receiving accurate fire from a sangar that they were calling the Turret.

Then came briefs on Kajaki, Musa Qa’leh, Sangin, FOB Robinson and Gereshk. It always followed the same order – clockwise around the DCs and Forward Operating Bases – ending up at Helmand’s HQ in Lashkar Gah. We learned what had been happening to them physically on the ground, the routes, callsigns and timings of any patrols due out.

We then went on to the J2; intelligence. Jerry, our IntO, gave us his interpretation of any reports that had come through.

We were taking over IRT/HRF tonight. Jake and Jon were the IRT, callsign Wildman Five Zero. Simon and I were HRF, Wildman Five One; he and I were qualified in both seats and swapped regularly to keep up our flying and shooting skills. For this duty Simon would be in the front, I’d be in the back.

Brief over, it was always the same routine on a changeover night. We had to load up the aircraft and check them over. Brew recharged, the four of us wandered down to the aircraft. It was still pitch-black, and there wasn’t a single light out towards the flight line because it fucked with our night vision goggles (NVG).

The Milky Way arced in front of me, a swathe of cosmic confetti. I stared open-mouthed at Orion’s Belt and every one of the Seven Sisters, stars I’d never seen with the naked eye before. A couple of satellites drifted across the heavens. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

I suddenly felt achingly lonely, and a long way from home. I’d have given anything at that precise moment to have been lying on my back with Emily and the kids, heads touching, gazing up at the night sky, making up our own star signs from the shapes we could see.

A stumble on a rock brought me back down to earth, literally. I was on my knees, mouth full of dust, vaguely aware of a tired chortle from Simon, Jon and Jake somewhere nearby.

A few minutes down a rough track brought us to the hangar. Only the duty technician was awake; all the rest were sound asleep in various odd corners. They worked longer hours than we did, with precious few breaks. They’d only just finished and would be up in a couple of hours, so we crept past them like cat burglars.

We headed for our F700 books and checked how many flying hours we had available, any new restrictions or limitations, and what faults the Apache was carrying.

I signed the aircraft out. It was now on my flick.

I placed my most recent letter from Emily in the drawer of my locker. I sanitised myself, searching every pocket for anything I shouldn’t be carrying. I took out my NVG-compatible torch. It took two runs to get all my kit to the aircraft.

The HRF aircraft was always in the second bay – Arming Bay Two – but I still checked the tail with my torch to make sure it was ZJ227. The IRT cab sat to our left in Arming Bay One; it saved time and confusion on a scramble.

I took the starboard side and Simon took the port as we walked around the fuselage. The inspection was essentially what Scottie had taught me back at Middle Wallop, but now, instead of just noting there was a gun under the chin of my chariot, I inspected it carefully – that it was clean, it moved okay, the electrical connections were made, and most important of all, that it had big, dark yellow-banded HEDP cannon rounds leading down the feed chute.

The Hellfire missiles always impressed me. The seeker on the front was a work of art; I could see the precision engineering through the glass I polished with my sweat-rag. ‘AGM-114K’ was stencilled in bright yellow down the side of each. I made sure they were securely latched down before moving on to the rocket launchers, checking that their black noses were securely in place. I shone my torch down each tube. There were twelve HEISAP rockets, with their tiny but unmistakable six-spoked silver tips, and seven Flechettes, which just had a plain nosecone to protect the darts. All the blast paddles were down at the back of the launcher. The rockets were held securely in place, electrical contacts made. The Hellfire’s strakes – that enabled it to climb, turn and dive – all moved freely.

I lifted the little triangular panel behind the APU to the rear of the starboard engine and checked the pressure. I unclipped the eighteen-inch pipe, stuck it onto the spigot and gave it about fifty pumps, adding more pressure to the accumulator. I wanted the needle deep in the green. Unlike other aircraft, the Apache started on air pressure; it didn’t need an external electrical source. No matter where we were in the world, you could start this aircraft. I replaced the pipe in its bracket and closed the panel.

I dropped to my knees and opened the bottom hatch, which we called the boot. I always had my kit set in the same order – chest webbing on the bottom, flak jacket next and battle bowler perched on the top – with a bungee stretched over the lot so it stayed exactly where I wanted it. If we crashed behind enemy lines, I’d go straight under the wing, wrench open the boot and cut the bungee. I’d remove my escape jacket, don the helmet, flak jacket, webbing and replace the escape jacket over the top. Then I’d be off.

The flare dispenser was packed full; I would have woken the boys up there and then if even one had been missing. Along with the Bitch, these puppies were top of the list of things keeping me alive at altitude.

I walked down the tail, scanning every square inch to make sure it hadn’t been bumped into. I made sure that the tail wheel was locked so the wind – if it ever got up at night – wouldn’t blow her around. The position of the huge horizontal stabilator was even more critical. We always forced the aircraft to leave it in the horizontal position before closing down; if we didn’t, it would drop down at the rear. The Americans had once had a bit of a problem in strong winds. The wind caught them and flipped over a whole row of aircraft.

‘Your side okay, Ed?’ Simon asked.

‘Yep. Just check my cowlings and catches on the way down. I’ll do yours.’ It was easy to leave a panel open so we always checked each other’s work after the inspection.

I opened the cockpit, attached my carbine to the seat bracket and put a magazine of tracer on it. I threw my grab bag – what I referred to as my ammo bag – next to the seat and jumped in. I pushed the Data Transfer Cartridge (DTC) into its housing, pulled on my helmet, and fired up the APU. I made sure the aircraft was set up for night, turning down all the levels so I could barely see a thing. I pulled forward the coaming cover on top of the dash, flipped up the left batwing and Velcroed it to the top of the cowling. No light would leak from the left of the cockpit. I couldn’t do the starboard side right now because I had to climb out of the door.

I uploaded my information from the DTC and checked that the new codes had uploaded into the radios. We couldn’t afford another cock-up like we had on Op Mutay. The Apache’s radios were temperamental and we were learning the hard way.

Jon was the comms guru and reckoned he’d now fixed the radio problems we’d been plagued with since our arrival. I set them up ready for him to put them through their paces.

‘Wildman Five One, Wildman Five Zero,’ he called.’Check on one…

‘On two…’

I followed him through each one, making sure I could hear him. I flipped to radio three.

‘On three…’

I heard the beep confirming that he had sent his aircraft’s position digitally via the Improved Data Modem over the fourth radio.

I looked down. His icon appeared next to mine on the MPD’s Tactical Situational Display (TSD) page, confirming the IDM and fourth radio both worked.

I called, ‘Good data’, meaning I could receive and had his icon, but we were only half done. The system was so complex that hearing and receiving data didn’t mean you could transmit and be heard. And we needed to prove my IDM could send too.

I repeated the procedure in reverse and pushed the Present Position button on my MPD.

‘Good data, closing down.’

Once I was sure we had no snags I set the stabilator to horizontal and powered everything down again. I wedged my Flight Reference Cards between the coaming and its cover, put one of my gloves on the cyclic to remind me not to touch it with a bare hand when it was hot, then put my helmet on the dash. I climbed out, threw my escape jacket back on the seat and closed the door.

Simon and I wandered back up to the Ops room and let them know we were off to bed. Then it was back across the road, kit off, and into our scratchers.

The four of us were in the Apache IRT tent instead of our normal accommodation. It was closer to the Ops room. The Chinook crews were next door. We had a couple of camp cots lashed together as a sofa in front of a big TV with magazines strewn all over the place. This was where the guys on IRT/HRF spent most of their down time. If you weren’t in there, you had to make sure the Ops room knew where you were going, and take a walkie-talkie with you.

I was mostly writing requirements at the back of the Ops room in our admin area, where the Sky TV was playing next to the brew-making kit. I fired off memos about all kinds of stuff: for the rocket parameters to be lifted, in defence of using Flechettes, to justify buying a different type of warhead for the Hellfires – and a policy document for dynamic harmonisation for the gun.

When I wasn’t writing I was studying gun tapes I hadn’t caught up with from the previous day. There were a lot of battles going on, so hours and hours of tape. Every inch of it needed to be viewed so I could collate the data and send back my reports as well as advise crews on their techniques.

The four of us struggled awake again at 0700 local – 0330 GMT. I usually skipped breakfast, but these were crazy days and you never knew when you were going to eat next, so I grabbed a big bowl of porridge and a piece of fruit and washed it down with half a gallon of coffee.

I wasn’t part of Operation Daz today, so since all was quiet, a few hours later I let the Ops room know that Simon, Jon and Jake were taking the Land Rover on a laundry run and I was legging it across to the satellite phones. It was 0800 on Sunday morning back in the UK; there was a good chance of catching Emily at home. The phones were at the opposite end of the camp, just over a kilometre away, so I grabbed a radio and set off.

I’d only been chatting away with Emily for a few minutes when the Motorola chirped into life.

‘Mansell…Senna…Top Gear…Silverstone…’ Mansell was the call for the IRT, Senna was the HRF crew. Top Gear meant go fast, it’s an emergency. Silverstone was the Ops room. That’s where I needed to be. Bloody Nora: I was at the wrong end of the camp, without a vehicle – but I didn’t want to alarm her.

‘Who was that?’ she said.

Jon acknowledged the call before I got time to turn the volume down. ‘Mansell…Top Gear…Silverstone.’

‘Oh…er…some F1 advertising thing. Listen sweetie, you won’t believe it,’ I said, ‘but I’m desperate for a poo.’

I was right. She didn’t. ‘But you only just got on the phone…’

‘You know what I’m like…’

‘You’ll call me straight back?’

Oh bollocks.

‘I’m not near the toilets. If I don’t call it’ll be because the queues are that bad on a Sunday.’

I made my call the moment I put down the receiver.

‘Senna, Top Gear, Silverstone.’

It was 1145 local and as hot as an oven. Apart from my flying suit, I was in full gear with my pistol strapped to my right leg and roasting like a pig. I sprinted through the camp as fast as I could go. When I got to the end of the main boardwalk it dawned on me that Emily may have spotted that Senna was dead and Mansell hadn’t raced in years.

As I ran across the road I bumped into Jon coming from the other direction.

‘Straight to the aircraft,’ he yelled. ‘Now Zad is nearly Broken Arrow. Simon and Jake are getting the details.’

This was bad. The base was close to being overrun.

We left the Land Rover for Simon and Jake. I ran alongside Jon, up and down the berms, until we finally split between the two hangars, Jon going left and me going right.

Taff, Gifted and the boys were all over the aircraft, blitzing the blanks and covers and bunging the last few into their wooden storage boxes.

We had the Hardened Aircraft Landing Strip installed now, so we were off the engineering park and could do running takeoffs. The HALS, its taxiways, the refuel pads and arming bays were made of thick click – together corrugated steel and our boots slapped the metal against the sand as we ran across it.

An arrangement of eight-foot-high concrete bollards, open both ends, protected each Apache. You drove in one end and straight out onto the runway from the other. The bollards were just low enough for the back seaters to be able to see each other.

Finished with our two, the lads raced to clear the spare aircraft in Arming Bays Three and Four in case either of us had a problem on takeoff.

Still on the run, I scanned the back of the Apache to make sure the engine exhaust blanks were out. As I rounded the starboard wing, I checked all the covers were off the TADS.

Taff shouted, ‘Tee-fifty pin’s out!’

I clambered up and yanked open my door. One glance on the way up had told me the blanks were all off. I craned my neck out of the far window to check the other side of the fuselage.

I gave the key a twist.

‘Pylons…APU…stab clear…’ I grabbed my jacket.

They weren’t hollow warnings. The hydraulically powered pylons could cut a finger clean off when they jumped into position and the lads were always checking weapons as they powered up. The hot exhaust gas would soon be blasting out as the APU fired up and it wasn’t stifled like the main engines because it didn’t need to be: we didn’t fly with it on. When the stabilator got its hydraulic power it would bang straight down with enough force to kill anybody in the way.

‘Pylons, APU and stab are clear,’ Taff barked back.

From arriving at the side of the aircraft to being settled in my seat with my chicken plate in had taken six or seven seconds. Simon would probably be no more than fifteen or so behind. I flicked the MPDs and other settings to daylight while I put my harness on and powered up his TADS so it cooled the FLIR.

Simon ran round the side of the aircraft.

Taff had plugged his headset into the side of the starboard wing now I had my helmet on. He opened Simon’s front cockpit door. Simon climbed up beside me and shuffled forward along the IEFAB (pronounced eefab) to his cockpit. A bulky Improved Extended Forward Avionics Bay (IEFAB) sat either side of all Longbow Apaches. He jumped into his seat and pulled down the door. Mine was already closed.

He plugged in.

‘What’s the brief, mate?’ I said.

‘Now Zad are under attack. They’re trying to get into the base. Harriers are on their way from Kandahar. Soon as they turn up we’ve got to pull off, to save hours.’

‘Have we got launch authority?’

‘Yes.’

‘Brilliant.’

Mindful of Mutay, as soon as the aircraft came alive, I needed to check that the new codes hadn’t dropped out of the radios.

‘Good data,’ Jon called after the comms check.

We now knew we were talking on four radios, and we could send data between the aircraft.

The second Simon was ready I pulled forward and banged on the toe-brakes; I’d need them on landing. The nose dipped to an abrupt halt. As soon as the first aircraft was ready, it would pull forward to let the other one know. I rolled the Apache right onto the HALS runway.

I tracked down a bit and looked over my shoulder. Jon’s nose dipped. As soon as I saw him move again, I unlocked our tail wheel, spun the aircraft 180 degrees, locked the wheel up again and waited. I was slightly to the right of the centreline on the very end of the HALS, pointing towards Now Zad.

Saxon Ops gave us: ‘Hold-hold.’

Jon continued onto the runway and taxied towards me. He spun the aircraft around, ending up about ten feet forward and left of me. We both had maximum runway for takeoff.

Jake came on the radio: ‘Saxon, Wildman Five Zero, send update.’

‘They’re copying at the moment. Just stay on the APU.’

We brought both aircraft onto the refuel point, got pumped up, turned back and parked up in our bays. I was just about to switch off the main engines when Ops came back to us.

‘Don’t shut down. They’re under attack again.’

I was sure the Taliban had been studying our reactions. Aircraft hadn’t turned up after the first attack, so they knew they could give it another go.

We took off and Jake asked Saxon Ops for another update as his wheels lifted.

‘They’ve got right up to the compound and are trying to break in.’

We’d been expecting this. Ever since Op Mutay they’d been getting closer to the DC. They’d tunnelled their way through all the buildings to spring an attack on our doorstep.

‘Do you have exact locations?’

‘Negative. We don’t know where the Taliban are on the ground. All we know is the DC is getting hit hard.’

We gunned it low level across Highway Zero One and started climbing the instant we were over the desert.

Jake was straight onto the radio. ‘Widow Seven One, this is Wildman Five Zero.’

No reply.

‘Widow Seven One, Wildman Five Zero…’

Nothing. We were out of range. There was no point in us having a go now, but we would when we were closer, in case Jake’s radio was on the blink.

Jake ordered the patrol to keep climbing. If we could get line of sight we might get comms from further out.

About sixteen klicks from the town, we got eyes on Now Zad. At first glance, it was hard to see what Ops were on about. The town looked more peaceful than I’d ever seen it.

Jake tried again. ‘Widow Seven One, how do you read?’

‘Lima Charlie.’

‘Send update.’

‘We’re under heavy attack from all sides. The sangars are smashed and we can’t fire out. We think they’re trying to break into the compound from the south. We can’t get any men in the sangars. We need you to stop the attack on the south side. The Taliban are in the building ten metres south of the DC and close to breaking through.’