by Chris Ryan
These were designated 'E1KV One, EIKV Two' and so on. They existed only in our minds, and there were no marks on any of our 1:50,000 maps, but those sets of figures could easily prove lifesavers.
We also concentrated on correlating the latitude and longitude readings punched into the Magellans with the old-fashioned grid-system on the maps. The lat-long figures were more accurate, and there was always a chance that the batteries in the GPS sets would fail or that there'd be a shortage of satellites overhead at some critical moment. If either of those things happened, we'd be forced back on to the more primitive avigational system of grid-references and compasses.
Our Here remained under guard where it had come to rest, and it attracted no attention because the field was dotted with similar planes, landing and taking offall day as they ferried personnel and stores southwards towards Egypt and the exercise. Soon after midday a bowser-truck went across to refuel ours, and when it was clear we walked back to the plane to break out the bundle of desert clothes; but we soon spewed out of the cargo bay cursing horrendously, because with its tailgate closed the aircraft had heated up like an oven, the inside temperature had soared well into three figures and we decided the job could wait until we were airborne that evening.
It was at lunchtime that we hit a problem. At the far end of the long mess hall Stew spotted someone he'd known pretty well in his parent regiment, the Cheshires. We realised that they must be acting as marshals on the base for the duration of the exercise, and that this created a serious risk that somebody would recognise him and start asking questions - potentially a major disaster, and a prospect which haunted all members of the SAS on covert operations. All Stew could do was slip away as soon as he'd finished his meal and lie low in the room he'd been allocated until it was time to leave.
For the rest of us, the best feature of the sergeants'
mess was the supply of fresh oranges. We reckoned they must have come straight off the trees on the island, because they tasted a hundred times sweeter and fresher than any orange we'd had before. A great big basket of them stood at the end of the counter, and after Pat had eaten-four, straigh down, I said to him, 'Watch it, mate, or you'll have the runs.'
'Last vitamin C for a week,' he retorted as he put away yet another - and we all pouched a couple to eat during the next leg of the journey.
This time our departure ran smoothly, and within a minute or two of take-off we were heading southeast over the Mediterranean. As soon as we were in level flight we sorted out our civilian clothes and changed into them, bundling up our DPMs for return to Cyprus.
Our desert gear smelled musty and unfamiliar - Christ alone knew who had worn the stufflast. Whinger yelled that his shirt stank like an Arab's jock-strap, and Stew shouted back, 'It'll stink of you soon enough.' My own shirt wasn't much better, and I shook myself around inside the drab, buff material to get the feel of it. The shirt, a pair of sand-coloured trousers and a thin grey jersey were all I reckoned I'd need.
Our makeshift hammocks had remained in place, so we climbed back into them and lay there in the dim light, ear-defenders in place, each thinking his own thoughts. Mine were of Tim and Tracy - and in particular the boy's paintings I'd found in the desk at home. There was one I remembered in detail: a tank blowing up, with a brilliant, jagged flash of flame all round it and some spiky wrecks of shattered trees in the background. Where could a kid of four have picked up such violent images? Only from the TV, or maybe from listening to me talk about the Gulf. I wished he'd get interested in nature and try drawing the things like squirrels and rabbits that he saw every day. Perhaps when he was older.
And fight now? I had a sudden, horrible thought that
his captors would be trying to indoctrinate him against me, teaching him foul language and filthy ideas. I remembered how kids his age in Belfast shout 'Fucking pigs!' whenever they see a Brit soldier come past, and hoped to hell that the PIRA wouldn't have time to corrupt Tim's mind in that way.
After a while, unable to relax let alone sleep, I went up on the flight deck, and I was there when we crossed the Egyptian coast. Far off to our left a spread of lights was twinkling hazily in the dusk.
'Alexandria,' said the skipper.
Beneath the nose the odd cluster of lights marked smaller towns along the shore, and the occasional flares we saw were from oil wells burning off gas; but beyond them, inland, the desert stretched away black as night, with nothing to break its monotony. At this point our target lay about eight hundred kilometres away to the east. Pity we can't just fly across and drop a bomb on the bastard, I thought - and I was on the point of saying as much to Pete when I remembered that he knew nothing of our operation, and had been too professional to make the smallest enquiry about what we were up to.
So for the time being I returned to my hammock but half an hour later Pete called me back to the fligh deck to say he'd been in touch with an 1LAF liaiso officer in the control tower at Siwa.
'Your Chinook's ready for you,' he said. 'God know where it's come from, but it's parked on a pan near the western perimeter of the airfield. As soon as we hit th, deck they're going to send out a vehicle to lead us to it.
'That's excellent. Will there be other Hercs on the field?'
'Absolutely. It's just like Akrotiri. The place i heaving with them - all part of Bright Star.'
'That's what the chopper's been on too,' I said 'Officially it's gone tits-up and been retired sick fron the exercise for a few days.'
Full darkness had fallen by the time we began ou descent. The loadies helped us unshackle the quads an get ourselves organised. Without head-sets on it wa impossible to hear spoken orders, so Big Alf, who w listening in to the flight deck, resorted to his usu system of hand-signals as we were coming in.
At five minutes to touch-down he gave us fly fingers outspread, then three two minutes later. Wit two minutes to go we started our engines and sat ther with the quads ticking over, ski goggles on in case gr: flew about when we landed. With all the noise it w hard to tell if the individual engines were still runnin so I reached down with my right hand to feel m exhaust. Exhaust fumes began to fill the hold, but befor they built up to a serious level we were getting on finger. I realised I needed a piss, but told myself it would have to wait.
The top half of the tail-gate rose slowly, letting in rush of warm, fresh air, and with it an even fierc engine scream. Through the rectangular opening a could see lights shining from latticed towers are vehicles moving. Then, with a thump, the plane was on the deck and rolling.
The bottom half of the tail-gate began to go down while we were still taxiing. The Here made a couple of turns, left and right - I guessed it was following a lead vehicle - and we had barely come to a standstill before Alf was waving us off. First down the ramp was Tony, and the rest of us followed swiftly in single file, Stew and his trailer bringing up the rear.
Outside, the first thing that hit me was the smell of an African settlement, the inevitable stink of heat and drains and dust hanging in the hot night air. The Chinook was within fifty metres of us, tail-gate down, rotors whirling. In seconds all six quads were at the bottom of the ramp, and we leapt off to manhandle the trailer backwards up the slope - first on, last off. Then, one after another, with Stew leading, we reversed into the belly of the chopper and parked in another zigzag alongside the big, black rubber sausage of an extra fuel tank.
Our new head loadie was sitting in the hatchway of the partition that separates the hold from the flight- deck. He twisted round to get a look at us, and the moment I gave him the thumbs-up he hit the button to raise the ramp. He also passed word to the pilot, who immediately revved up his engines, put on pitch and lifted away.
The transfer couldn't have been accomplished any faster. I didn't believe that anyone could have seen us, but even so for the first few minutes the captain headed due south, to confuse anyone who might be watching, and made sure that he was out of sight before he swung on to an easterly heading. When I waved at the cockpit to in
dicate that I wanted to make contact, the head loadie pointed to a head-set, which I plugged into a socket on the wall.
I had to think for a moment who our new skipper was. Then I remembered him and his crew coming to Hereford. Of course: it was Steve Tanner, another Geordie, a small, dark fellow with sticking-out ears.
'Evening, Steve,' I went. 'Geordie Sharp here.'
'Hi, Geordie,' came the reassuring voice. 'Good to have you aboard. We've crossed the border already.
Welcome to sunny Libya.'
'Great! That was a neat pickup.'
'Not too bad.'
'What's our flight time?'
'We're estimating one hour fifty. There's no wind to speak of, so you should be on your location just after midnight.'
'That'tl do well. Can we just make sure we're all agreed about where we're going?'
We spent a few minutes double-checking not only that night's destination, but also the precise location of EPV Six, the spot in the desert from which the Chinook would recover us once the operation had gone down. There seemed to be no problem: the figures tallied, and I was able to relax for the time being.
All the same, I stood for a while, peering out of a porthole. The night was clear, the moonlight bright. I knew that the crew's PNGs must be giving them an excellent view ahead - and they needed it, because they were skimming the desert at 150 m.p.h, and at no more than fifty feet, low enough to stay” beneath any radar, and seemed confident that no obstructions lay in-our path. lather them than me.
'As far as we know there's nothing whatever between us and the MSR,' Steve said, 'and that's nearly an hour ahead. A hundred and thirty miles of f-all but sand. '
In the back the guys were sorting out their weapons and ammunition and re-lashing the remainder of their kit. I followed suit, loading one full magazine into my AK-47 and sliding four more into the pouches of my belt-kit. These final preparations didn't take up much time, and there was still an uncomfortably long wait ahead. My mouth felt dry, as it used to before football matches at school, so I ate one of my oranges to slake the thirst.
As we flew, Steve kept up an intermittent com mentary over the intercom. 'Got a fire to our left,' he said suddenly. 'Looks like a bedouin encampment on our port front. We'll give that some space, I think.'
The heli took a violent heave to the right and climbed, then, a minute later, another to the left as we straightened back on to our true course. Presently Steve said, 'There's the MSP now. Not much moving on it.
One set of lights heading north to starboard, and that's all . . . unless some mad bugger of an A-rab is driving without lights - which is quite possible.'
I felt the Chinook climb again, and imagined the
thick red line on the map, which ran across our line of advance almost at right-angles. Then, as Steve banked right, I knew he was swinging north to keep away from three small settlements that lay either side of a kink in the road.
'That those villages on the MSI?' I asked.
'Clearing them now.'
A few minutes later he came on for the last time and in his best railway official's poncified tones announced, 'This is your next station stop. All passengers prepare to alight.' Then he reverted to his normal voice and said, 'When we're on the deck, Geordie, I'll wait for sixty seconds to make sure you're OK. Then, if you don't shout, assume there's no drama and we'll be off.'
'Roger,' I answered. 'That's fine.'
'Good luck, then. See you in a couple of days.'
'Thanks,' I said. 'Nice trip.'
Once mor6 we settled ourselves on our quads. I ran over my equipment mentally, also feeling everything I could: AK-47 slung on my back, spare magazines in belt-kit, Browning in waist-holster, knife in sheath, water bottle on belt kit, ski goggles on forehead, PNGs round neck. I tugged at all the straps on my racks, fore and aft, to make sure they were secure. Looling round, I saw that everyone else was doing the same. Tony, who was behind me, gave a wink and a grin, sticking up his right thumb.
At the two-minute signal we started our engines, wound our shamags round our heads and settled ski goggles over our eyes. I switched my radio to the copilot's channel and said, 'OK, Gerry. I'll call if there's any problem. If I don't come on in sixty seconds flat, it'll mean we're OK.' 'loger,' he answered.
At one minute, the Chinook started settling into a hover with the tail-gate descending. A blast of sand and grit came flying into our faces and there was a bump as the wheels touched; out of the corner of my right eye I saw the tail-gate loadie give me a raised thumb, and a second later I was rolling down the ramp.
Our plan was to fan out in an instant bomb-burst. I aimed forty-five degrees to the left through a storm of dust and sand. Tony did the same to the right, Pat at sixty degrees behind me, Whinger behind Tony, and Stew and Norm straight forward With the trailer to a position in the centre of our circle. In that mass of flying shit it was impossible to tell how far I'd gone, but when I reckoned I was seventy metres out I stopped, brought my rifle to the ready and sat facing outwards with the engine ticking over. Out there, I was clear of the dust- ball, but when I looked back, all I could see was a huge cloud seething and heaving in the moonlight.
If there'd been any sort of drama I'd have called the co-pilot, put a couple of bursts in the direction of the trouble, and driven straight back up the ramp. But after a minute, when no SOS call came, Steve built his revs back to a peak and the aircraft lifted away. In a few seconds the heavy, thudding beat of its rotors had faded into the night, leaving us alone in the desert's tremendous silence.
There was sand beneath me - I could feel it shift under my toes - but it seemed quite firm, as if there was a hard bottom a couple of inches beneath the surface.
That augured well for our run in. So did the three- quarter moon, which was on its way down. The air felt warm on my face, and out here, away from civilisation, it smelled completely clean.
My watch was reading eight minutes past midnight.
I waited, watching the dust-cloud settle and disperse.
Then I switched my radio back to our chatter channel and jabbed the pressel. 'Everyone all right?' I asked.
'Tony?'
'Yeah.'
'Pat?'
'Yep.'
'Whinger?'
'Yep.'
'Norm?'
'Aye.'
'Stew?'
'Fine.'
'OK. Check Magellans.'
I switched mine on and pressed the button for the light that illuminated the little screen. Stuck in its special holder above the handlebar panel the instrument was at easy reading height, but we still had to sit and wait for a satellite to come over the horizon and pass within range.
Because the satellites are all in different orbits, they come past at irregular intervals: sometimes you have to wait half an hour, then get three in twenty minutes. We could have moved off right away, and I knew that the guys must be itching to go, but Tony had agreed that it was better to get an accurate fix before we started. With luck, the Chinook should have dropped us right on the spot, but if we were a bit off target we might be all to cock in our navigation.
Five minutes passed. Ten. 'Come on, you son of a bitch,'
Tony muttered over the radio. 'Shift your butt.'
I knew how he felt. We seemed to be very exposed, sitting there in the moonlight with the desert stretchin away level all round and not a stitch of cover in sight, l tried to imagine the next satellite, zooming round th earth at 17,500 m.p.h., and smiled at the thought ofi shifting its butt in response to Tony's exhortation. The Whinger came on the net with, 'Oh, for fuck's sak Let's let going.'
'Chill out,' I told him.
A moment later Tony said, 'There we go. Thaf number one. It's looking good. We just need two mol for a triangle.'
The second and third satellites came up within couple more minutes. 'OK,' I announced. 'We're twenty-one East, twenty-four thirty-four. Twenty eight North, fifty-nine twenty. Everyone agreed?'
Skipper Steve had done u
s proud. We were withil few yards of the drop-off point chosen in Herefo Now all we had to do was follow our pre-set course the location of our lying-up point, about sixty-f kilometres due north - and navigation was dead e because the displays on our screens showed us if were on track, or deviating to right or left.
'tight,' I said quietly, 'we've all got the anything happens. Pat, you do lead scout to start w Go as fast as you can manage comfortably. Prob.
Stew and the trailer will set the limit at the back, ' weight of the stores will make him the slowest - see how it goes. The rest keep in line ahead, at whatever interval we can see at. Try it out. Keep fight in each other's tracks if you can. When we get nearer the target, we'll put pickets out.