I ran the final 500 metres to the flight line. The air chilled my lungs as I mounted the berms and ran up out of the ditches. Carl had already got the Auxiliary Power Unit running but the Chinook 100 metres to our left was empty. The RAF guys only need five minutes to flash up a Chinook. As soon as I slammed my cockpit door shut, Carl threw forward the engine power levers and our rotors began to turn. A minute later, he radioed into the Ops Room.
‘Ugly Five One, ready.’
We waited for the Chinook – then it dawned on us: the IRT / HRF pair had just left. This one was not due out for two hours, so the crews would have been sleeping during the shout. Another busy day for the RAF. Just as the Chinook started to turn and burn, the second surprise of the day arrived. ‘Ugly Five One, this is Ops, hold. The CH47 will go down alone. Wait out for more information.’
Now what was this about?
‘Look who’s coming,’ Carl said. Billy and Geordie ran across the flight line towards the Apache alongside us as the Chinook lifted and thundered over their heads.
‘Ugly Five One, this is Ops. You will be joined by Ugly Five Zero. You are now going to RIP with Five Two and Five Three down in Garmsir. RIP time is 0820 hours.’
‘Ugly Five One copied.’
‘Ugly Five Two will brief you en route. Out.’ We’d be lucky if we could make that.
So we’re going to do a Relief in Place with 3 Flight. We rarely did unplanned RIPs on deliberate attacks. There just weren’t the spare aircraft or crews. It meant only one thing – life was under immediate threat down there, and would continue to be for the foreseeable. Things had obviously gone badly wrong.
Billy and Geordie flashed up in record quick time, ‘Ugly Five Zero Flight Airborne at 08:01 hours.’
‘Ops, good luck.’
A minute into the flight, Billy came through on the Apache FM radio net. ‘Ed, I’ve got a problem mate. Both our VU radios are tits. Crypto has dropped out; we have no secure voice.’
‘Bloody typical,’ Carl said.
‘Copied Billy. What do you want to do?’
Carl was right. This was a certifiable pain in the arse. Billy was down as mission commander for the day, as he’d planned to requalify Geordie on his flying skills if we were called out. Losing his VU radios meant he was off both the mission net for the operation and the Helmand-wide air net. The only people he could speak to securely over his two remaining FM radios now were the other Apache crews and our Ops Room – that meant nobody on the ground down at Jugroom, and not even the JTAC, so he’d have no way of following the battle. Normally we’d have gone back and Billy and Geordie would have jumped in the spare. There was only one answer when the clock was ticking for an urgent RIP like this, and we all knew it.
‘Screw it, let’s press on. Nick is already well short of gas.’
The mission commander was now flying deaf.
‘You better take tactical lead, Ed.’
‘Okay. My lead. Carl will relay.’
‘Copied. Thanks.’
I was now the point man with the outside world, while Carl listened in on the mission net and repeated everything to Billy and Geordie on the FM channel. Billy had to maintain command of the mission though, as he’d had a more comprehensive briefing on the battle. In our Apache I had mission lead but Carl was still the aircraft captain; we hadn’t had time to change our paperwork earlier that morning.
Billy sent an encrypted burst transmission. ‘Check data, Ed.’
With the push of a button Jugroom’s coordinates joined the tactical situational display on my MPD’s black map – the fort’s four corners were outlined alongside the firebase overlooking it on the western side of the river, six klicks east of our artillery’s gun line in the desert.
‘Good Data.’
The TADS was cool now so I readied it for the mission. The focus had jammed close up on me, making it utterly useless. The FLIR was shagged but at least the day TV camera was working. It was like opening a bag of tools to find you had a pair of pliers but no adjustable spanner. I could still do my job but it was going to be that much harder.
I broke the news to the rest of the flight, which was greeted by more groans from Carl. Billy would have to sort out all the thermal imagery we needed. This was getting complicated, even for seasoned multi-taskers.
We were cruising at 138 mph at an altitude of 5,000 feet, heading on the most direct line south over the GAFA, with Billy and Geordie about half a mile back to our left. It was a sixty-two-mile flight directly into the low and blinding winter sun. Even my visor couldn’t save me from having to squint.
Fifteen minutes into the flight, the casevac Chinook shot right under us on the way back to Bastion. It was a mighty quick turn around and they were bombing it, flying low and straight – route one. It meant the casualties were in a bad way. We’d heard over the net that they’d then be loaded up to the gunnels with ammunition for the 105-mm guns which needed an emergency replen.
At fifteen miles to go, I checked in with the JTAC. ‘Widow Seven One, this is Ugly Five One, how do you read?’
‘Widow Seven One, Lima Charlie.’
‘Ugly Five One are two Apaches, Ugly Five One and Ugly Five Zero. We have 600 rounds of thirty Mike Mike, forty-eight rockets and eight Hellfire missiles. We have the usual amount of playtime.’
‘Widow Seven One copies your last. You’ll need to route west around the gun line as they’re firing onto the target.’
‘Is there any way we stop the guns and route direct?’ A big loop into the desert to go behind the guns would lose us a few minutes and we’d miss the RIP time.
The reply was firm and impatient. ‘NEGATIVE. We have a situation here. Wait out.’
The JTAC was obviously having a bad day; we didn’t want to compound it. We didn’t subscribe to the ‘large sky, small round theory’ and didn’t fancy testing our armour plating with a 105-calibre shell. We would comply. Then everything changed.
‘Ugly Five One, this is Widow Seven One. No longer five casualties. Now four casualties and one MIA.’
I felt the rush of adrenalin and the all too familiar taste of metal flooded into my mouth. It was preparing me for fear.
‘All other troops have withdrawn, but the MIA is still on the objective. Repeat, the MIA is STILL on the objective.’
My mind flashed back to Sangin in June – our search across the fields for the two SBS lads. Looking down onto the desert floor I pictured what I had seen that day and remembered what the Taliban had done to them. Acid leaked into the hollow space in my lower abdomen. I could have put it down to missing breakfast, but I knew myself too well. Christ, not again.
Carl was on the ball immediately. He relayed the news to Billy and Geordie and shoved his cyclic forward. The aircraft’s nose dipped and the rotors growled as we accelerated to full speed.
‘Fucking hell,’ Billy said. ‘What the hell is going on down there?’
I tried to think it through. How the hell had they lost someone at the fort, and then all withdrawn without him? The Taliban were clearly still holding the place. Now they might have one of our guys, too.
There was a silence as the four of us shared the same thought. The memory of Sangin wasn’t the only thing disturbing me. There was also the fresh intelligence about the bastards’ plan for a TV skinning.
Geordie broke it. ‘Check Data.’
A text from Billy was waiting for us. It read MIA… NOT ON OUR WATCH.
I radioed in our reply. ‘Good Data. Affirm.’
Widow Seven One checked back in. ‘Ugly Five One, be aware Ugly Five Two Flight are chicken. They’ve only got enough fuel left for a direct flight back to base. They’re going off station now. We need you on station immediately to help locate the MIA. Send ETA.’
The bright green number in my monocle dropped from 11 to 10.