On the run in to Musa Qala, the Apache said there had been a ten-fold increase in ICOM chatter, but I didn’t think too much of it. The Taliban knew we could intercept their radio traffic – it’s not like it’s encrypted or anything – so they weren’t averse to trying to give us false intel. I registered it, but it was just there at the back of my mind and I wasn’t unduly concerned. We flew to Musa Qala without incident, landed on with JP and, after we’d offloaded our pax, lifted off again. On the way back, JP called me over the radio and said, ‘Look, Rich’s VIPs are stuck at Bastion so I think we’ll be a bit pro-active. We’re gonna do the tasking for his aircraft and take his passengers to Musa Qala.’
First though, we both needed refuelling so we stopped off at Gereshk, which was our nearest refuelling base at the time. It’s pretty straightforward normally, but as our tanks were filling, JP’s aircraft had a massive fuel leak – and I mean massive. I’ve never seen anything like it. The Chinook has tanks on each side and they’ve got these vents that allow the air in and out to prevent the tanks collapsing as fuel is used, and to prevent them exploding under pressure when refuelling. There’s a shut-off valve on each tank that’s supposed to activate when it’s full – it’s a similar sort of principle to what happens when you fill up your car really; when the tank’s full, the nozzle cuts off. Except the valve on one of JP’s cabs failed and didn’t shut, so the fuel continued to pour in. With the tank full, it followed the only path available, which was out of the vent.
Now, Chinooks take a lot of fuel and it tends to flow at high pressure, so it was literally jetting out of the vent where it atomised in the air, just by the engine. It could have ignited at any time and we were right behind JP’s cab, still attached and taking on fuel ourselves.
We couldn’t move and we couldn’t call JP over the radio because of the risk of an electrical discharge from the aerials. If that happened, we’d do the Taliban’s job for them… boom, two Chinooks and their crews out of the game for good. Alex and I were both close to panic, sat immobile in the cockpit, and JP’s crewman was just stood by the cab refuelling and chatting away to his mate without a care in the world, a veritable Niagara Falls of fuel cascading out behind him. Eventually he turned around and saw it. His mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ as he realised what was happening, but fortunately he immediately shut off the fuel and we narrowly averted what could have been a major disaster.
It did mean that JP would be going nowhere though. The fuel pouring out of the vent had cascaded over the flares that the Defensive Aids Suite fire to create a white-hot target, thus deflecting heat-seeking missiles from the Chinook’s engines. Soaked in fuel, they were now useless. This was rapidly turning into a farce – what had started out a few hours earlier as a routine, run-of-the-mill three-ship tasking suddenly had just my aircraft on it. After the fuel fountain abated, I called JP over the radio.
‘Black Cat Two Three, Black Cat Two Two. Seeing as you’re stuck here, we’ll fly on to Bastion with the Apache and take over Rich’s tasking. We’ll get the VIPs on board and I’ll speak to Bastion Ops to arrange for an armourer to come to my cab. I’ll drop him off here, en route to Musa Qala with Rich’s pax, so he can change your flares over.’
‘Black Cat Two Two, thanks for that, copied. We’ll stay here and await the armourer.’
Pre-flight checks done, Coops calls me from the rear to confirm we’re clear above and behind and I pull power, lifting off en route for Bastion. So the VIPs Rich picked up from Lash have now been waiting at Bastion for at least an hour. They were then going to be JP’s pax, but he’s stuck at Gereshk and going nowhere so they’re now ours. Rich’s cab is fucked, JP’s cab is fucked. Can the day get any worse?
I see Bastion on the nose from miles away; it’s huge, you can’t miss it. Twenty miles of desert and nothingness and then suddenly the base appears out of nowhere and dominates the landscape, its 8,000ft concrete runway like a black scar along the belly of a sleeping giant.
‘Bastion Tower, Black Cat Two Two, request clearance to land.’
‘Black Cat Two Two, do you require Nightingale?’
‘Tower, Black Cat Two Two, negative, normal spots.’
‘Black Cat Two Two, cleared to land, spots.’
‘Tower, roger that. Cleared to land, spots,’ I say as I cross the perimeter fence, fly to the landing spots and turn the aircraft through 180° to land on. The wheels compress as the ground comes up to meet us and I call Bastion Ops to request the armourer, then sit back and wait. This could take a while – nothing happens quickly at Bastion as messages are passed up the chain of command and on to the right person.
Coops goes off to locate Rich’s VIPs and returns a short time later, a line of well-dressed passengers following him like he’s the Pied Piper of Hamelin. We wait. And wait.
The heat is stifling, the dashboard too hot to touch. A bead of sweat draws a path from under my helmet down my forehead and I can feel it heading inexorably for my eyes – my gloved hand swipes it away. The rotors turn, fuel burns, but we’re going nowhere. Where the fuck is the armourer?
I check my watch; we’ve been sitting ‘turning and burning’ for fifty minutes now.
‘Bastion Ops, Black Cat Two Two, where’s the armourer?’ I ask.
‘Black Cat Two Two, Bastion Ops, should be with you now.’
I twist and look over my left shoulder and see him walking up the ramp. I motion for him to sit on the jump seat. Bob Ruffles assists the armourer and plugs his helmet into the comms.
‘Okay, this is what we’ve got,’ I tell him. ‘We landed at Gereshk to refuel with our formation leader and his cab had a massive fuel leak. It’s completely soaked his Defensive Aids Suite, so his flares are now bathed in it. We’ll fly you to Gereshk so you can replace them. We’ll be back for you after our next sortie – it shouldn’t be more than about forty-five minutes.’
I look past him to the full load of VIPs. I don’t know who they are except they’re very formally dressed so they look a bit out of place. Their questioning glares and furrowed brows tell me they’re an unhappy group of suits. I’m pissed off and I’ve only been waiting for an hour; they’ve been sat in the cab almost as long as I have, and they were waiting in the heat for over an hour before boarding. No wonder they’re not smiling.
It’s time to get moving. But while we’ve been waiting, things have gone from bad to worse as yet another cab has developed a fault. Bastion Ops advises me that the Apache that has been with us all morning has also gone tits up. What the hell is going on today? Another AH is scrambled; it flies on ahead to take up station and await our arrival into Musa Qala.
‘Bastion Tower, Black Cat Two Two is ready for departure.’
‘Black Cat Two Two, you’re cleared for take-off and cross as required. Visibility is 5km, wind two-five-zero at 10kts.’
‘Pre-take-offs good, ready to lift,’ says Alex.
‘Clear above and behind,’ says Coops at the ramp. Bob mans the port Minigun as we lift.
‘Take off, Black Cat Two Two.’
I pull pitch and lift into the afternoon sky and turn towards Gereshk, just off to our east. We’re in the air no more than five minutes before I land us on and drop off the armourer. Thirty seconds on the ground, no more. Coops gives the all clear again and I lift us once more into the crystal-clear azure sky and turn due north for Musa Qala.
Ten more minutes and we’re about six miles from the target. I radio ahead to the Apache: ‘Ugly Five Zero, Black Cat Two Two. Inbound. Next location in figures five.’
‘Black Cat Two Two, Ugly Five Zero, visual. Be aware, enemy forces moving weapons along your route. Hold, we’re checking it out.’
We don’t have long to wait.
‘Black Cat Two Two, Ugly Five Zero. Enemy forces moving weapons to the south-west – suggest you try alternative routing. Guys, the ICOM chatter has got ten times worse. They’re up to something.’
That’s the second time they’ve told us that today. Maybe something is goin
g on after all. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I click the PTT button on the end of the cyclic to confirm I’ve received the message.
What I don’t know is that the Taliban has brought in an assassination team especially to take out our cab – and with it our VIPs, who include Gulab Mangal, the governor of Helmand Province and a crucial figure in Britain’s long-term plan to stabilise the region. Mangal’s support for UK Forces in Helmand has been instrumental in securing approval for foreign troops among the Afghan population, but that and his hardline stance against corruption and the poppy trade have made the governor a prized scalp for the Taliban. Also aboard are his bodyguards and the Foreign & Commonwealth Office’s entire Provincial Reconstruction Team.
‘Okay guys, I’m not going to abort the mission for this, but we have to be a bit careful, so keep your eyes peeled.’
‘Agreed,’ says Alex. ‘Call it a sixth sense, but I’m feeling distinctly edgy. C’mon, let’s crack on.’
I decide to fly a feint to confuse anyone on the ground that might have something nefarious in mind. I share my thoughts with the crew.
‘I’m going to shoot an approach into FOB Edinburgh and pretend we’re unloading there.’
FOB Edinburgh is a couple of miles away from Musa Qala, but it’s on higher ground. If the Taliban are dicking us, they’ll think that’s our intended destination and stand down any weapons they’ve got at Musa Qala. It’s dusty there though – really dusty – and the dust cloud tends to completely fill the cabin on landing.
‘These VIPs are very well dressed, mate, and they look even more pissed off than when we took off,’ says Bob in the back. ‘I’m not sure that half a tonne of sand is going to improve their mood much.’
‘Yeah, fair point.’
I make a decision. ‘I’ll just do a low-level orbit over Edinburgh and use terrain masking so they won’t see us at Musa Qala.’
Obviously, FOBs and PBs are fixed sites and we’re into the same LSs every time; you can change your routes, your angles but there are only so many ways into the same destination. The Taliban know this so they’ll sit and wait. When we landed at Musa Qala earlier that day, I’d flown in from the south-west and JP had come in from the west. So this time, I decide to come in from the north-west and make a totally different approach.
I brief Alex. ‘Okay, I want you to put us four miles north of Edinburgh. There’s a deep wadi there and I want to be flying low through it at max speed on the approach. Bug the RadAlt down to 10ft; I’m gonna put the light on at 20 and we’re going to go in fast and low.’
‘Bob, get on the starboard Minigun. Standard Rules of Engagement; you have my authority to engage without reference to me if we come under fire. Clear?’
‘Absolutely, Frenchie.’
I want him on the right because, looking at the topography of the area, that’s where we’d most likely take fire from. He can scan his arcs, I’ve got the front and right, and Alex and Coops have the left. We’re as well prepared as we can be, even if it does feel like we’re flying into the lion’s den.
Alex gets us into the perfect position and I drop down low into the wadi as I fly us towards FOB Edinburgh at 160 knots. Trees are rushing past the cockpit windows on either side, but I’m totally focused on the job at hand so they barely register. We’re so low, I’m climbing to avoid tall blades of grass as we scream along the wadi, and I’m working the collective up and down like a whore’s knickers, throwing the aircraft around. Anyone trying to get a bead on us is going to have a fucking hard time.
It’s about twenty seconds later when I see the Toyota Hilux with a man standing in the back. It’s alongside the wadi in our 1 o’clock position and about half a mile ahead. It’s redolent of one of the Technicals – the flat-bed pick-up trucks with a machine-gun or recoilless rifle in the back that caused so much mayhem in Black Hawk Down. They’re popular with the Taliban too. Suddenly, alarm bells are ringing in my head. They’re so loud, I’m sure the others can hear.
‘Threat right,’ I shout as both Alex and I look at the guy in the truck.
My response is automatic. I act even before the thought has formed and throw the cyclic hard left to jink the cab away from danger. Except the threat isn’t right; the truck is nothing to do with the Taliban.
The threat lies unseen on our left, on the far bank of the wadi. The team brought in specifically to take us out is waiting there and they have a view of the whole vista below them, including us. I’ve just flown us right into the jaws of the trap they’ve laid just for us and Gulab Mangal, the VIP that the Taliban is so desperate to take out.
BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG!
The Defensive Aids Suite explodes into life and fires off flares to draw the threat away from us; too late though. Everything happens in a nanosecond, but perception distortion has me in its grip, so it seems like an age.
I feel the airframe shudder violently as we simultaneously lurch upwards and to the right. I know what’s happened even as Coops shouts over the comms: ‘We’ve been hit, we’ve been hit!’
There’s no time for Bob to react on the gun. The aircraft has just done the polar opposite of what I’ve asked of it. And for any pilot, that’s the worst thing imaginable – loss of control.
‘RPG!’ shouts Coops. ‘We’ve lost a huge piece of the blade!’
The Master Caution goes off and I’m thrust into a world of son et lumière. Warning lights are flashing and the RadAlt alarm is sounding through my helmet speakers.
‘Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! Black Cat Two Two, Mayday. We’ve been hit!’ says Alex over the radio. Then, ‘Frenchie, we’ve lost the No.2 hydraulic system and the AFCS, both secured.’
‘It could be worse,’ I think. The AFCS is an auto-stabiliser that helps keep the aircraft straight and level, but I can fly without it. The No.2 hydraulic system is more of a concern, but it’s not life-and-death. The real concern is the blade; I’ve no idea how badly damaged it is, or how long it will last.
I push the cyclic forward and left again and amazingly the cab responds. Something is seriously wrong though; it’s woolly and there’s a lag to my input. The aircraft is shaking like a bastard; the pedals are shaking, the cyclic is vibrating in my hand. The aircraft feels completely wrong as I’m trying to fly her; the rear is skidding – a sign of a big imbalance there. It’s the rotor head telling me that it’s missing a piece.
I manage to fly a wing over to get us out of the wadi. Suddenly, Roshan Tower looms large through the cockpit window and zooms past.
‘Fuck, where did that come from?!’ I ask. Somehow, I’ve been able to turn inside it.
The mast sits on the site of an old Afghan fort and stands 260ft over the Musa Qala district, providing mobile phone coverage to the whole of that part of Helmand province, so it’s of key strategic importance. The Taliban are forever launching rocket attacks against it – twenty-seven in the past three months at that point – so it’s well defended by us. I’ve almost brought it down single-handedly!
‘C’mon, think!’ I tell myself. I consider putting the aircraft straight down and immediately dismiss the thought. It’s not feasible – I have sixteen civilians in the back, we have four rifles between us to defend them with, and we can’t be any more than 400 metres from the firing point – we’d have no chance.
I’m really worried about losing the blade completely – if that happens we’re fucked. I set myself small targets – you know, ‘I just want to make it to that tree over there.’ My aim is just to put some distance between the cab and the kill zone. At the back of my mind I know I have the option of putting the aircraft down, just throwing it in. I need to gain a bit of height, but will keep us low. ‘Rebug the RadAlt to 40ft your side, Alex,’ I say as I reset the bug for the light to 50.
‘RPG!’ shouts Bob as another one streaks past us, fire streaming from its tail. It misses us by a matter of feet. I can almost feel its heat.
The whole cockpit is shaking like a food processor on its fastest setting.
‘How’re the Ts and Ps?’ Bob asks, but I barely register the question; it’s taking everything I have to fly the aircraft and I have no spare capacity. Alex, though, is doing a brilliant job of handling everything else.
‘Yep, they’re fine,’ he tells Bob.
‘Guys, I think we’re going to be alright. She’s a bitch to fly but she’s hanging in,’ I tell the crew, sounding more confident than I feel.
‘Coops is securing our pax, mate. They’re obviously a bit shaken up,’ says Bob.
I see FOB Edinburgh on the nose and for the first time since we got hit, I start to believe that we might actually make it.
‘I’m going to go for a baby basic dust landing at the LS,’ I say. ‘It’s dusty as fuck at Edinburgh, so I’m not going to fuck around and try to put it anywhere specific – just right in the middle.’
I need to minimise my input on the controls; I don’t want to damage the blade further. We’ll try for a zero-speed landing.
I call the Forward Air Controller at Edinburgh to let him know we’re inbound.
‘Widow Seven Five, this is Black Cat Two Two. We are inbound, your location in figures two.’
‘Black Cat Two Two, you’re cleared straight in. Site is clear and secure.’ I thank him and mouth a silent apology for the fact that we’re just about to block his HLS.
‘Okay, pre-landing checks please Alex,’ I say.
‘Holds out, CAP shows No.2 hydraulics and AFCS secured, otherwise clear; Ts and Ps are good, brakes are off, swivel switch is locked. Bug at 40ft on my side.’
Sweating the Metal Page 23