Each month when the moon was at its fullest pro-Gad could use his NVG to target us. This tipped our risk equation too far in his favour and we sought to avoid flying on those nights. To take advantage of the break from missions Ocean returned to port to re-stock, conduct maintenance and give her crew some respite from defence watches.
After three weeks on the line Ocean pulled in alongside in Sicily, over a month since we had last stepped ashore in Crete. First nighters was about to be launched once more. One of the peculiar things about fighting a war from a ship is that you can go to sleep at the end of a combat mission and then wake up in a harbour in a different country, in a very different world. This time, when we woke, the concrete that we found ourselves attached to was the industrial port of Augusta.
A high-tempo programme of maintenance was scheduled for the ship. For 656, aircraft maintenance continued too. For the aircrew it was a chance to reflect on what we had done and to consider how we could do it better and safer. Jack Davis and Chris James brought the Attack Helicopter Force Commander over from Italy. The lawyer and the senior RAF officer in the CAOC came too. We pored over the guntape, read the initial SA-24 analysis and discussed the best way to fly in the coming weeks. It was great to see some friendly faces and share some stories, and these visits were vital face-to-face links with the planning centre. But what we all wanted was to step ashore and put combat aside for a night or two.
Finally, it was time to sanitize and take a trip down the gangway. The team went out and kept to their night routine, remaining energetic well beyond breakfast. A spontaneous lock-in at an old town jazz club continued till dawn, then half the aircrew were invited for pizza and to watch the sunrise over the Mediterranean. We justified it to ourselves by claiming that we were in a night routine and therefore needed to remain nocturnal – no point in jet-lagging ourselves just for a few days. It was such a good night that we inadvertently repeated the itinerary the following night. Much thanks are due to the brothers who ran the club, who were not only wonderful hosts but, coincidentally, had grown up in Libya whilst their father was serving in the Italian military.
At the end of the second first nighters, with weary heads, we travelled back by taxi to the ship. As we approached the dock, the driver, who spoke no English, having listened to JB’s persistent monologue, leaned over to us, pointed to JB and exclaimed, ‘Il Radio!’Henceforth JB had a new nickname.
After a couple of nights off the line Ocean made her way back towards Libya, and having lived through one turn of the wheel we were anxious about our return. But morale was on the up because Wings had worked more magic; on board had arrived the 56th Rescue Squadron and three HH-60G Pave Hawks packed with well experienced rescue crews and a ‘brother aviators never get left behind’ attitude to their work. The extraordinary pararescuemen carried their motto, ‘That Others May Live’, with a calm, determined modesty. Five hours notice to move was replaced by seven minutes, and we knew they would come and get us no matter what. The following week brought them close to a call-out on several occasions as we encountered some extraordinary resistance from the ground.
The SA-24 of mission three was no isolated instance. Only a week after the first MANPAD shot against us, Reuben Sands and JB, with Big Shippers and Jay Lewis as wing, were leading a patrol on their way back from an inland strike west of Zlitan when SA-24 shot number two arced out of the monochrome nothing.
Big Shippers and Jay were the front aircraft of the pair, with a mile or so split between them. To their right lay the flat rural hinterland and in the distance the partial lights of Misrata. Zlitan was on their left, well lit and innocent-looking, as though war was a distant thought. In the front seat Jay was willing the sea on and their safety with it, knowing that these last few miles to the coast were their most vulnerable. But theirs had been an inland mission; they had crossed the coast, further north, an hour earlier and Khamis knew they would have to cross it again within the hour, low on fuel and ammunition. With a well-connected communications network he would also know where they had overflown, and if he was quick he could predict where they might attempt to exit Libya on their way back to Ocean. And on this night he got it right.
With the lights of Zlitan ahead and the safety of the sea beyond, the two Apaches pulled in the power and pressed hard for the coast. Pro-Gad on the ground could hear them and an SA-24 team with NVG would be able to see them too.
While interrogating the infrared and symbology in his right eye Jay sensed a streak of light low to his right in the black space below. They had been spotted and an illumination round was launched from a mortar, signalling pro-Gad’s intent. The now familiar pattern of anti-helicopter operations was in full swing.
Jay announced to Big Shippers, ‘Illum round, watch for the tracer…’
They watched the illum round rise, searching around it for the inevitable triple-A or machine gun fire. But the illum did not rise vertically as usual, but appeared more direct, perhaps at 45°, and it travelled quickly. Then it appeared to stop, pause, turn and rush at them.
A fraction of a second later, in Jay’s cockpit, the American lady announced, ‘Missile launch, 3 o’clock!’
A second later, JB transmitted from the other aircraft, ‘Missile seen! Your right.’
Jay and Big Shippers both now realized the illum round was in fact a heat-seeking missile, and it was heading for them. Milliseconds of comprehension in brilliant intense light, hands scrambling for the counter-measures, releasing both chaff and flares, Jay and Big Shippers could only watch and wait. The flares pumped out and away but still the missile kept its course, now straight and level, directly, it seemed, for the cockpit. This was it, the moment when you realize you are defeated, the part when you die. This was the end. Then one last release of flares with the missile metres from impact sent it dipping below the aircraft, close enough for Jay to recognize its markings and guidance fins, and into the ground.
‘It’s gone!’ Jay shouted simultaneously on the radio and through the intercom to Big Shippers.
Big Shippers banked sharply to the north-east and took the patrol away from danger, before making the quick plan to deal with the shooter. ‘Use the FCR, have a scan, could have been vehicle-mounted,’ he directed Jay.
Within a few seconds the FCR presented them with an array of possibilities. Linking the FLIR to the FCR, Jay visually examined the most likely firing point.
‘Got it! Vehicle, something hot on the flatbed, runners moving away… Two Ks! Come right, actioning missile…’ Between two palm trees sat a technical; they were still dangerously close, close enough for a PKM shot and well within MANPAD range. On the rear of the technical a multi-tubed missile system sat pointing upwards with one tell-tale warm tube.
‘That’s it, coming into constraints…’ Big Shippers steadied the aircraft and brought their own Hellfire seeker in line with Jay’s now constant laser.
‘Good messages, good range.’ Jay rushed through the last of his checks and pulled the left-hand trigger, sending the Hellfire into the technical, now less than 2,000m from them.