Then I was ready. On leaving my cabin I had made the transition. We sometimes refer to this as being in your ‘mission bubble’. We get used to it from our earliest sorties on the Army Pilots’ Course. Aircrew need their own space for mental preparation. They need to organize their thoughts and rehearse in their mind how they wish the sortie to go. On the Pilots’ Course test sorties are always nervous affairs, and those who complete the course and then complete the equally demanding Apache Conversion Course know very well the pressure of testing sorties and develop their own individual coping mechanisms to deal with that pressure. Once in a Regiment, there are six-monthly check rides and periodic sorties with Aviation Standards to keep you going. My coping ritual was a product of that evolution, but it now had the additional concern of the very real prospect of perishing within the next two hours.
My next stop was back in the flip-flop. Signatures were exchanged for a Sig Saur 9mm pistol, a 5.56mm L22 A2 Carbine assault rifle and two morphine syrettes. The morphine was placed next to each tourniquet in their respective pockets, my logic being that come the moment of injury and the need for self-aid I would have some chance of locating a tourniquet and some morphine if they were kept together. John had already passed this stage on his way to signing out the aircraft, conducting the walk-round and flashing up the systems.
I had one more moment of professional consideration. About an hour before launching each mission the Commodore held a Go/No Go Brief. The mission, the Rules of Engagement, the threat, the ship’s systems and the weather were all discussed, and the last word prior to the Commodore’s decision would be the view from his Policy Adviser, a sharp mind from the Civil Service with a direct line into the top of Downing Street. He would give an informed opinion as to where this mission sat in the strategic political context of the whole operation and advise how the intended course of action contributed to that political end and how it was compliant with the ministerial submission that bounded our activity.
It was declared a ‘Go’. All we had to do now was fly it!
That final Go/No Go Brief was the last dispassionate check of our planning. I would stand to the rear or to one side, as discreetly as possible, aware that people would be looking at me but not wanting to be seen. I would be nervous, because now I wanted to get on with it: get in the aircraft, listen to the radios, build a picture in my mind, test and check the systems, count down, launch, go and get the task done, avoid coming unstuck. I always did my best to look quiet, appear a picture of focused professionalism. But a closer look would have noticed that my toes were folding and unfolding in my boots, my teeth were slowly grinding together; I was out there, my mind was rehearsing the fight, my body was readying to deal with the fear and all I wanted to do was get out and get on with it.
With a final ‘Go’ from the Commodore, the command team from the ship and the battle staff would take their places in the Operations Room. I would check that nothing had changed, the target was still valid, there was no new information and the Rules of Engagement were still good. Then I’d grab my kit and walk to the flight deck.
It’s a long walk through passageways and up ladders to get from the Operations Room to aircrew lockers and out on to the flight deck. On my way I would pick up my go-bag – a shoulder bag full of ammunition for the Sig and the Carbine, some water and other survival items I might need should I end up on the ground in Libya. Evidence from combat experiences of aircraft landing or crashing in a hostile environment is that what is attached to the pilot will leave the aircraft with him; what is not may well get left behind in the chaos of the moment. Aircrew wear a load-carrying vest which houses some survival equipment, a radio, a GPS, a rescue strop; it also holds our body armour. On to this I attached my own breakout knife, my Sig and as much ammunition for the Sig and Carbine as I could find room for. My final port of call was the engineering space, where the REME quietly managed the paperwork and coordination of engineering in a darkened environment. John had already signed for the aircraft and I could hear it running on the auxiliary power unit on the flight deck outside. I would check the paperwork, make an appreciation of the aircraft weight and centre of gravity, its engine performance estimates and its weapon calibration, and note any engineering limitations. A brief word of thanks to the crew chief, then in went my in-ear protection, on went my flydanner[8] followed by my helmet, and I was off through the airlock and out on to the dark, hot flight deck. Typically, the senior ground crew sergeant was on hand overseeing our arming and refuelling on the darkened deck. He would also shake my hand and say, ‘Have a good one, boss’ as I stepped up to the aircraft. I’d nod, smile, count the remaining lashings holding the aircraft to the flight deck, have a quick check of the missiles and then climb inside the front seat. The front seat of the front aircraft; there is nowhere else to command an Apache squadron from.
Once in the cockpit, straps on, helmet-mounted display over the right eye, door shut, air conditioning taking the edge off the humidity, everything was better.
‘On in the front…’ I was plugged in and able to talk and hear through the intercom.
‘Got you, sir,’ from John in the rear.
‘All good on the wing,’ the Arming and Landing Point Commander added.
‘Any dramas with the aircraft?’ For these missions everything had to be in full working order; we could not carry any faults with us.
From John: ‘All good, just weapons checks to go.’
‘Okay, ready weapon ops checks.’
We cycled through each weapon, with the Arming and Landing Point Commander confirming the gun moved as it should. Each missile was interrogated and confirmed to be responding correctly. After that there was nothing else to do, just wait, listen in to the various mission frequencies that were being flown by the jets and keep to our timings.
‘Forty minutes to launch.’
From John: ‘Roger. All ready for engines when you are.’
I would count down to the last ten minutes. Everything went on a timeline, there was no need to use the radios or a runner. Up in Flyco, Wings knew the timings; on the bridge, the Officer of the Watch knew the timings; down in the Operations Room, the team knew the timings. The ship would turn on to a flying course, and with eight minutes to launch we started the engines. Engine One, then Engine Two, auxiliary power off. I could see my wingman doing the same just a few feet in front of me, his tail-rotor uncomfortably close to my eyes. Perfectly synchronised activity, no words exchanged, perhaps fifty individuals within the ship all performing a function to deliver us to these final few minutes.
John: ‘Ready pre-take off checks.’
I’d go through a list of challenge and response and together we’d set the aircraft ready for launch.
Me: ‘Lashings.’
The team outside untied the lashings that secured us to the deck. I counted each lashing, gave a brief flash of my torch and then looked at the marshaller. He looked up and down the flight deck then pointed at me with both marshalling wands and gave us the signal to lift.
John: ‘Lifting.’
Me: ‘All good. FMC is in, my canopy jettison, your stores jettison.’