Carl pulled on the collective and we began to lift steadily into our own swirling dust cloud.
Magowan looked up. The loneliness of command was stamped onto his troubled face. I felt for him; whatever the outcome, he would be judged. I wanted to shout, ‘Fortune favours the brave!’ but I didn’t want to count my chickens yet either.
It was not for some hours that I found out that our four passengers had barely heard a word I’d said.
17. INTO THE LION’S MOUTH
We flew directly east, and very low – just ten feet off the desert floor. Only the odd opium runner’s tyre tracks punctured the sea of sand beneath us.
‘We’ll be over the ridgeline at 10.38, Ed.’
‘Copied, buddy.’
The ridge was our cover. As long as we kept low, the enemy wouldn’t see us until the precise moment we crossed it. And by then they’d have other things to think about, if Widow Seven One had done his job. I needed to know that everything was set up right for us.
‘What’s happening with the fire plan, Carl?’
‘The JTAC was sorting it while you were out of the aircraft. We’ve got a B1 on station now; callsign: Bone One One. He’s been tasked to drop a 2,000-pounder bang in the middle of the village at 10.37, just as we approach the berm.’
That was good news. It would give us a far bigger dust cloud to hide behind than the A10’s 500-pounder.
‘So he’s called off the A10.’
‘What?’
‘Tusk said they had to deconflict. Otherwise the B1 could drop on him. We’ve got to go with the B1 mate. They say they’ll be there.’
‘They’d better be.’
The B1s were good but their equipment took an age to get bombs on target.
The rest of the fire plan was simple. Nick and FOG would suppress the enemy to the north of our landing position, the main body of the fort, and Charlotte and Tony would hit them in the east – the treeline that ran down to the river. The A10 Thunderbolt had already strafed the tunnels to the south of us.
That just left the west – and all those lunatics in the village that just wouldn’t die. The B1’s 2,000-pounder should kill most of them, and stun the rest. More importantly, the mess it made would block the Taliban’s view of us just long enough for our smash and grab.
In any fire plan there is always one critical moment. Bone’s drop was it for us. And even if he dropped on time, we’d have no more than two minutes on the ground.
I tried to visualise the marines unclipping the straps, hitting the dirt; how quickly they could shift Mathew. Thirty seconds to get to him, a minute to get him back, and thirty seconds to tie him onto the aircraft.
Yes, it was doable – but in two minutes, tops. Any more than that, and the Taliban would be onto us big time, and not just from the west. They’d go ape-shit from every point of the compass.
What about Fraser-Perry?
Shit.
My stomach lurched. I twisted as far as the confines of the cockpit would allow, and craned over my left shoulder. The young marine was exactly where I’d left him, one leg jammed hard against the weapons pylon forward of the wing, the other against the Hellfire rail. I could see his teeth clench and his knuckles white against the grab handle. If he gets hit, he’ll fall off; his hand should be tucked into his body armour.
‘Just remember to keep it at fifty knots, buddy.’
Carl hadn’t forgotten. But I was sure Fraser-Perry would have thanked me for reminding him. Fifty knots was a pain in the arse; this low it made us sitting ducks. Our normal attack run was three times that. But these boys had a job to do when we got to the fort, and they had to be firing on all cylinders if we were to come out alive. The thump of the rotors and whine of the jet engines would already have half deafened them. Any faster and we’d have blinded them as well, with all the dust and shit in the air.
I focused my TV camera on Billy and Geordie’s Apache, 500 metres to our left and just ahead, to check on their two marines. They were both there, one perched either side of the cockpit. I wondered if Hearn had lost that grin.
Jesus. Were we really doing this?
I just knew there was going to be something about this tour… All those promises I’d made Emily… I couldn’t bear to think about them. I couldn’t bear to think about her and the children. My hand moved to my pocket. I could feel my angel under my survival jacket.
It’ll be okay. Just as long as the B1 drops on time…
Billy and I had agreed we’d loop south of the firebase so we wouldn’t obstruct the marines’ arcs onto the fort. We’d duck down over the river and swing up north when we hit the sandbanks on the far side. Then we’d charge the final 200 metres and wheels down right in front of the fort’s ten-foot outer wall, where we’d last seen Mathew. I prayed he’d still be there.
‘Two minutes to target,’ Carl said.
Jugroom Fort was only two-and-a-half klicks away now, still hidden beyond the ridgeline. Double the amount of orange and red tracer now arced high above it before burning out in the bright morning sky. The marines at the firebase had upped it from suppressive to rapid fire, and were giving the Taliban everything they had.
Tony cut in. ‘Ugly Five Three has had a long-range missile launch from the south-east.’
‘Ugly Five Two has also,’ FOG echoed. ‘We’re chucking out flares too.’
Whatever it was, it was still there. And there was still nothing any of us could do about it. But soon they would have four helicopters to aim at instead of just two. A lazy southern US drawl came on the air net. It sounded familiar.
‘All callsigns, this is Bone One One. Bone is running in.’
Excellent news.
‘Ugly Five Zero and Ugly Five One; be advised, our coordination for the 2,000-lb strike will take seven minutes. Dropping seven minutes from now.’
Appalling news. We didn’t have seven bloody minutes. Bone was the weak link in our master plan and that link had just snapped. We didn’t have the fuel to wait. If he wasn’t there, we’d just have to go in anyway. Otherwise Ford wasn’t coming out. And landing in full view of the west village was unthinkable. We were starting to feel like sitting ducks. Carl was even unhappier than I was.
‘Ed, Bone needs to get on this sharpish. Bloody tell him.’
‘Negative, Bone. We are inbound with the rescue team now. Repeat: we are running in NOW. You must drop at one zero three seven hours.’
That reminded me: time to make ready my own personal weapons. A loaded weapon was the Number One No-No in an Apache cockpit. A round going off would ricochet around the Kevlar until it found me. But the rule book had already been thrown out of the window. If we went down, my SA80 carbine and 9-mm pistol were going to be my only life support systems.
The carbine first, clipped into the bracket on the right of my seat. I fished a full mag of thirty tracer rounds from the ammo bag wedged in next to me, clipped it on, pulled down the cocking handle and clipped it back onto the seat. Red tracer was the emergency signal for downed Apache pilots to get help from the other gunships; you put a burst into where you wanted some suppressing fire, so your mates above could keep you alive until someone picked you up.
The 9-mm Browning next. I unfastened the Velcro straps of the holster on my right leg, pulled back the top slide then let it go with a metallic click and re-holstered it – this time without the Velcro. Both weapons with a round in the chamber, ready to go. Screw the rules; it made me feel better.
‘Sixty seconds to target, Ed. Where the hell is Bone?’
Time, fuel. Time, fuel. Carl was doing his nut. We were just 1,100 metres from the fort now, and within enemy range. Better push Bone for a…