Rogue Element

Timor Sea, 0605 Zulu, Friday, 1 May

One of the V22’s enormous propellers whirled overhead, hot gases exhausting onto the baking steel deck from the 6100 horsepower Allison turboshafts. Its identical partner on the opposite wingtip began to turn slowly. The AV-8 pilots were back in the saddle, helmets on and heads down, going through their pre-flight checks.

The operation now had an audience. The unusual sight of what were patently foreign special ops troops milling about on deck, fully camouflaged and bristling with firepower, had attracted spectators. The fact that they were about to leave in the United States Marines’ newest toy to an exotic and obviously troubled place fired the collective imagination. The attention made Wilkes uncomfortable. The SAS preferred anonymity.

The LM appeared on the ramp at the back of the V22 and waved the troops in. The Australians shouldered their heavy packs and weapons and, bending forward under the load, walked out of the tropical sun and into the shade of the aircraft’s belly.

Captain McBride put his mouth close to Wilkes’s ear and shouted above the jet whine, ‘We’re set up to fast-rope you in.’ Wilkes nodded his understanding. Where they were going, there were no open grassy hills for the V22 to land on. Most likely they would put down over the treetops. They would have to abseil off the back of the aircraft’s loading ramp, which could be lowered in flight, down into the canopy and the unscouted terrain below it. It was a dangerous way to deploy, but the SAS trained for it. All in a day’s work. It was best, however, to get all the ropes organised now, beforehand. There might, for example, be a firefight going on in the drop zone that required their immediate attention and it would not do to fiddle around in the confined space of the aircraft’s interior at the last minute, organising ropes with bullets flying about.

Inside the V22 there was significantly more room than in the Black Hawk. The LM showed them where to stow and secure their packs and weapons and directed them to the rows of surprisingly comfortable seats, which reminded Wilkes more of a commercial aeroplane than a military one. Now this is luxury. By comparison, the seats in a Herc, their usual mode of transport, were crude benches running down both sides of the aircraft’s fuselage.

There was room for thirty or more soldiers in the cavernous space. The aircraft had been well thought out. It could airlift a platoon-size force plus gear. And it didn’t require a landing strip at its destination because it could land and take off vertically. Wilkes saw the sense in such an aircraft immediately. With its range and speed, the V22 also gave the US marine and navy ships the ability to stand off a troubled coastline further than ever before, way out of the destructive reach of the enemy’s missile envelope. And, with its obvious cargo-carrying ability, the V22 would make an ideal resupply vehicle. It allowed the marines to get in and out quick, and hit harder and more effectively when and where it counted.

The LM handed Wilkes and his men abseil harnesses. Wilkes climbed into the webbing, fastened the straps comfortably, and then checked the assembly for error. He identified the rope on which he would exit the rear of the V22. It was colour-coded to the wrap-rack on the harness and already fastened to a hard point over the rear door.

Wilkes was directed towards a seat. Ellis sat on his right with a place for McBride on his left. McBride handed out headphones with boom mikes to the soldiers. Low-powered interior lights winked on as the tail ramp closed shut on heavy hydraulic struts.

Wilkes and Ellis glanced around. ‘Do you think they’ll be serving snacks?’ enquired someone through the phones. The seats were almost luxurious. And it was relatively quiet. The Black Hawk was god-awful noisy and, with the sliding doors opened, windy. Being inside a Herc was like someone putting a metal garbage can over your head and beating it with a stick. The V22, however, felt almost like travelling first-class. It was even air-conditioned!

The vibration through the seat coupled with the change in sound pitch that he could feel rather than hear told Wilkes that the giant propellers whirling overhead were synchronised. There were only a couple of small porthole-style windows in the side of the fuselage so there wasn’t much of a view. Wilkes felt the aircraft rock gently from side to side on its undercarriage, settling back on the deck of the carrier before it lifted clear.

The feeling in the pit of his stomach and the pressure popping in his ears told him the aircraft was going straight up. On the flight deck, the pilot took the Osprey from helicopter to aircraft mode with the flick of a switch. The wingtip nacelles rotated through ninety degrees until they were aligned with the plane’s longitudinal axis. Wilkes felt the change of direction in the muscles of his neck as the aircraft accelerated briskly towards its cruising speed. One moment it was a helo, the next a fast transport aircraft. Bloody Yanks had all the good shit, thought Wilkes. A few babies like this would give the SAS real kick-arseability.

The captain’s voice through the phones interrupted Wilkes’s train of thought. ‘We’re going to climb to 18 000 feet and hold that cruise altitude over East Timor. Then we’ll drop down to wave height under Indon radar. The AV-8s will ride shotgun for us.

‘We’re going to skirt around to the east of Sulawesi. We’ll have to RV with a KC-135 tanker out of the Philippines a couple of times — those AV-8s are thirsty mothers. When we do pop up to refuel, there’ll be an EA6B Prowler orbiting to fry any hostile radar and keep us stealthy, ’cause you can never be too careful on these kinds of ops. We’ve also got an AWACS bird to direct the whole show when we get closer to Sulawesi.

‘And if things really go to shit, we’ve got a flight of three Super Hornets on station with the tanker that we can call in on fifteen minutes notice,’ the captain added reassuringly, reading off a computer printout.

Christ, thought Wilkes. This is a covert mission? It sounded like the whole goddam United States cavalry was riding on in. But this was something the Yanks had a lot of practice doing in theatres all around the world — they called it CSAR, Combat Search and Rescue — and he wasn’t going to argue.

‘What about when we get to Sulawesi?’

‘Okay, as I said, we plan to come in from the east rather than the south. That way, we can ride the wave tops for longer and stay under their noses. Also, we want to avoid Hasanuddin AFB in the south of the island.

‘Once we get abeam of the plane crash site we’ll turn inland flying nap of the earth. It’ll get bumpy. We’re not sure exactly where we’re gonna put you down just yet. We’re hoping for more up-to-date intel. That should come through about an hour and twenty into our flight time. We’ll go over deployments then.

‘Total flight time to insertion is updated to one hour, fifty-four minutes, plus or minus one minute.’

Jesus, that was quick, thought Wilkes. ‘Comms?’

‘I’ve talked to your radio guy already. You’ve got HF, sat phones and TACBEs?’

Wilkes nodded.

‘Okay. An AWACS will stay on station at all times to relay communications. Your call sign is Ferret, ’cause we’re stickin’ you down a dirty black hole. That okay?’

Wilkes gave the captain a thumb’s up. This was slick. Getting in unannounced and in double time was the major issue. ‘What about getting us out?’ he asked, another concern on a long list of them.

‘Okay, that’s a bit trickier. The only place we know of for sure where there’s enough space to put the V22 down is the area cleared by the 747. We’ll make that our RV, unless you tell us different when you call us back in. Transmit the coordinates indicated on your GPS and set off a TACBE when we’re two minutes out. We’ll track in on that. We’ll let you know when to turn it on.

‘This bird can get in and out pretty damn quick. Once we get you and your guests secured, we’ll make for the USS Pellieu, an MLP cruising in the Celebes. We’ll be no more than an hour away. And don’t forget you can call in those Super Hornets on fifteen minutes notice, maybe less. You need anything, just ask,’ said the captain, smiling.

Wilkes returned the good news with another thumb’s up. He let his head fall back against the padded headrest. He set his internal clock to wake him in an hour and ten, allowing time to go over the refreshed intel before arriving at the LZ. Within two minutes he was asleep. Sleep was good for stress. Two of his men were already snoring.