Subdued, DJ and Ali wandered back to the crew room.
‘You were going in a bit hard there, weren’t you?’ Nick said as they walked out to the car.
‘Just trying to make sure all that youthful enthusiasm doesn’t wind up getting them killed.’ Drew floored the accelerator.
‘There’s obviously been a misunderstanding,’ Nick said, peering through his fingers at the swathe Drew was cutting through the traffic. ‘I thought the combat missions didn’t start until tomorrow.’
‘Just testing your nerve. If you can’t handle a threat from a Ford Cortina on the A1 near Finnington, there’s no hope for you against a SAM 2 over Banja Luka.’
Drew screeched to a halt outside Nick’s house and dropped him off, promising to be back inside twenty minutes.
* * *
Back at Finnington, Drew emerged from the briefing room and hurried down to the crew room. ‘Anyone seen Michelle?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, you’ve missed her,’ Jumbo said, as he smeared peanut butter on a pile of cold toast. ‘She was looking for you a while ago, but she’s airborne now. They were taking off as we came out of the briefing.’
‘On a sortie?’
‘No, recalled to base.’
Chapter Eleven
Drew and Nick were in the first formation of Tempests to touch down at the enormous base at Gióia del Colle. Like the seasoned veterans they were, they made an immediate dash for the accommodation block and claimed two of the better rooms for themselves. Then they drove out of the domestic site on to the perimeter track leading to the operations area.
They passed a number of open doors as they walked down the corridor to the crew room. The detachment commander, a group captain, was already at his desk, wrestling with the problems involved in shoehorning the Tempest and Jaguar personnel into a space barely big enough for a single squadron.
Across the corridor was the Ops room. ‘Nice to see the mud-movers hard at work,’ Nick said, nodding to the Jaguar pilots already planning missions at their operations desk, surrounded by racks stuffed with Ordnance Survey maps.
The Tempest crews had a separate area, presided over by the authoriser, who was flanked by a battery of status boards and secure radios to talk to the aircraft, Combat Operations Centre and Air Traffic Control. An engineer stood ready to report on the availability of the aircraft and a Met man was busy fumbling with his charts.
The crew room was at the far end of the corridor. Drew nodded to DJ, Ali and the others, then stood contemplating the bare concrete floors, second-hand equipment and decrepit furniture.
He gestured towards the geriatric kettle and chipped mugs on the table. ‘The Americans bring everything from coke machines and jukeboxes to a fully fledged Dunkin Donuts franchise. What do we bring? A small jar of Nescafé and a packet of digestive biscuits.’
‘We can’t afford to get too comfortable,’ Nick said. ‘We’re on dawn patrol tomorrow.’
The room fell silent, each man lost in his thoughts. Combat was what they trained for, but it was also what got them killed.
As Drew settled down in a corner with a paper, DJ came over to him. He took a look around, making sure the others were preoccupied with their own conversations. ‘Drew, can I have a word?’
Drew saw the strain in DJ’s face. He put down his paper.
‘You’ll think I’m stupid, but…’ DJ began.
‘Try me.’
DJ gave him a grateful look. ‘I’m scared I’ve lost it. Every time I go up there I’m thinking about what happened on the way to Aalborg. I still don’t know if it was me or the aircraft, but I’m scared it’s going to happen again. If I lost it in training, how will I keep it together in combat?’
Drew paused, searching for the right words. ‘We’re all scared, DJ. We all have that, no matter how many times we go up. Anyone who tells you he isn’t every time he crosses into hostile territory is a liar. But you can’t allow it to take hold of you. Use the fear as the fuel to keep you alive. It can make your eyes keener and your reactions sharper, but only if you control it. If you don’t, it’ll take control; panic will kill you quicker than anything.’
DJ nodded, but Drew knew he was still unconvinced. ‘Take a look at my face as we go out of the changing rooms tomorrow morning, DJ. I guarantee what you’ll see is white, tinged with pale green. I’ll be shitting myself all the way to the aircraft, but, as I start to strap the jet on, I’ll push that fear to the back of my mind. Do the same.’ He paused. ‘What happened on the way to Aalborg has made you a better pilot: you’ve looked into the abyss and come back from it. I don’t have any worries about going into combat with you as my wingman. I just feel sorry for the Serbs.’
DJ gave a weak smile.
‘Anyway, I don’t know what you’re worrying about. Nothing that happens up there could be more dangerous than breathing the same air as him.’ He gestured towards Ali, who was lighting his next roll-up from the stub of his last.
* * *
An alarm call woke Drew at two the next morning. He showered but was still bleary-eyed as he shuffled into the canteen. He had to force himself to eat some toast. Nick sat down next to him, immediately wolfing down an enormous cooked breakfast.
Drew shuddered.
Nick smiled and reached across him for the toast. ‘You should get stuck in. If we’re shot down, this could be the last meal you’ll get in a week.’
As they rose to go to the Ops room, the ground crew began to file into the canteen for their own customary, artery-furring mixture of bacon, sausages, eggs and fried bread.
As lead crew, Drew and Nick had to prepare the briefing for the sortie. Four crews had come in prepared to fly the two aircraft and they lounged around the makeshift briefing room as Drew began talking them through the mission. ‘Everybody here? Where’s Bob? We can’t start without him.’
Jumbo held up the Ops room cat, which had been nestling on his lap.
‘Right. Welcome to Operation Decisive Edge.’ Drew gave a grim smile. ‘Only time will tell if there’s an “in” missing from the title.’
There was a knowing laugh from veterans of the previous Bosnian patrols.
‘Unless AWACs tells us different, we’re flying a roving CAP over north-west Bosnia, from Dohovacu in the east to the Bihać pocket in the west. We’re there to patrol the no-fly zones, to identify and if necessary intercept any aircraft. The rules of engagement are that calls for authorisation go back to AWACs – codename Magic – back to the COC – codename Sunray – and then back to the UN – codename Gotham – who answer whether you can engage… unless they’re out at dinner.’
Once more there was laughter.
‘The call sign of the tanker is Texaco, we’re refuelling three times off him today. Aviano and Bari are the diversions we’re using. Make sure you’ve got the authentication codes for the day. You’ll almost certainly be challenged when you check in with the AWACs controllers and, if you’re in doubt about any identifications and orders, be cautious and challenge the other person. Even if you recognise my voice, there’s nothing to stop someone recording it and playing it back to spoof you.
‘There are fixed points for entering and leaving the hostile air space. No deviation is permitted from this except in emergency and only then after receiving permission from AWACs. Our height is twenty thousand feet, our specified entry gate is Gate 5 and we will be travelling along the fixed corridor to our drop point – Drop 4. After that, we’re free to fly our particular CAP as we – or the AWACs controller – think fit.
‘We’re flying with live weapons, live flares and live chaff. Make sure that you make the weapons safe every time you come out of the area to go to the tanker.’ He smiled. ‘And if you cock things up and accidentally let off some chaff, a flare or, God forbid, a weapon, there are codes to let AWACs know we didn’t really mean it. The Serbs will have to work it out for themselves.
‘If we’re switched to a static CAP, boredom will be the main problem… apart from Triple-A and SAM
missiles.’ He raised his watch. ‘Right, take-off is 0500 hours, the time is 0310… now!’
Nick took over. ‘Okay, combat survival brief. Rule One: the whole of Bosnia is hostile territory. There are no friendly forces. Stay in the air if you possibly can; if you must hit the ground, the only people likely to help you rather than shoot you are the American troops in the rescue helicopters.
‘Today’s word is Bullfrog, the letter of the day is B for bravo, the number of the day is twenty-two. Please commit these codes to memory. If you get shot down or have to bang out, they could save your life, but they could also get you blown up if you forget them or get them wrong. I know you all know this, but I have to stress it again, particularly for those of you flying over hostile territory for the first time.’
He gave DJ and Ali a wink. ‘When Combat Rescue come in, they may ask just the number or letter of the day, or if they’re feeling particularly fiendish they may ask the number of the day minus seventeen, or the third letter of the word of the day.
‘Please also review your ISOPREPS. Make sure that all the information is correct and that your fingerprints, photograph and dental record are on the form; they are sometimes needed. All they found of one bloke in the Gulf was a hand and he had to be identified from his fingerprints.
‘You must also check your four personal questions. You’ve chosen them, so you ought to remember the answers, but you’d be amazed how many people forget the name of Auntie Nelly’s budgerigar or Great Aunt Maud’s secret lover from Bridlington when they’ve been shot down and are under major stress. If you don’t remember the answers when the rescue team come looking, don’t be surprised if you’re suspected of being a Serb and blown away.
‘Finally, dress to egress, and that means arctic survival gear. It’ll make you uncomfortable in the cockpit, but it could save your life if you have to bang out over the mountains. Your other lifesaver – in theory at least – is your UN blue beret. We haven’t got many – there’s a UN shortage apparently – so you’ll have to sign them in and out. We could only get seven in sensible sizes, so the last to pick one up will find it sits on his head like a cocktail cherry on an ice cream.’
Drew added, ‘Whether you wear it if you have to bang out is entirely up to you. The theory is that no one will shoot at you if you are, but the UN casualty rates so far suggest that isn’t entirely correct. It’ll also make you stand out like a teetotaller at a squadron party; there’s not much point in wearing camouflage if you’re going to put a pale blue Belisha beacon on top of your head. Official Air Force policy is to wear them, but the final decision is yours.’
Drew paused to let it sink in, then nodded to the intelligence officer.
‘Intelligence brief,’ she said crisply. ‘These missile sites are active. There are SAM 2s around Banja Luka and mobile SAM 6s at the places marked with smaller red circles on your maps. There was heavy gunfire around Donji Vakuv last night and helicopter activity over Banja Luka yesterday afternoon.
‘There’s also an unmanned aerial vehicle in the area marked blue, spotting Serb gun positions. It’s flying round in cloud between five and twenty thousand feet. It can’t see you, so be aware if you’re between those heights in that area – you may suddenly find something the size of a sofa coming straight at you.’
She paused and gave a thin smile. ‘And finally, we have already reached a total of nine hundred and ninety-two violations of the no-fly zone. I’m counting on you to get us past the magic one thousand mark today.’
The Met man, a round-shouldered Welshman with a diffident manner and a soft, almost inaudible voice, stood up next. ‘Met brief.’
‘Louder,’ came the immediate call from the back of the room.
He cleared his throat and began again. ‘Met brief. The weather here is fine, cloud ceiling at five thousand feet. Expected to break up after dawn, no visibility problems anticipated. Cloud’s on the deck over the target at the moment.’
Those crew who preferred boredom to danger smiled, those who didn’t frowned. With low cloud, there was no threat of handheld missiles or Triple-A being fired at them, but it would mean flying around all day without seeing anything at all.
‘However, we expect it to lift within the next few hours,’ he continued, ‘giving reasonable visibility, say six miles.’
After the briefings, Drew and Nick had one final official duty to perform. All aircrew were deeply superstitious and failing to feed Bob, the Ops room cat, was tempting fate. The lead crew on the dawn patrol always did so and even the most sceptical crewman would give the cat a furtive stroke as he filed past on his way to fly a sortie.
Ninety minutes before take-off, the crews started to get ready. Drew began putting on his combat gear. Every item of clothing had been sanitised – stripped of identifying marks and potentially embarrassing labels – even a Marks and Spencer tag could be enough to get them shot in a volatile area.
He pulled on a vest, long johns and two pairs of clean socks, then a big woollen arctic coverall and an arctic flying suit. Nick preferred an extra layer and opted for two woollen coveralls, followed by a normal flying suit. Their combat smocks were in camouflage pattern instead of the usual olive green and unmarked apart from rank tabs on the shoulders.
After hauling on their G-pants, they stuffed them with kit, mostly maps and spare water sachets. The combat jacket came next, supplied by the USAF and jammed with every conceivable survival aid from a fishing line and a sleeping bag to a combat map on canvas, doubling as an emergency blanket, which was stitched into the back of it. There was also a survival pouch with emergency rations and more sachets of water, distress flares, a first aid kit and a second secure radio, an American one, for most rescue missions were flown by them.
Finally Drew hauled a life jacket over the top of all his other gear. He looked around. ‘If we get shot down, they’ll think they’re being invaded by Michelin men.’
‘If they give us any more kit I’m going to have to find a new job,’ Jumbo grumbled. ‘I can’t get into the cockpit with my combat jacket fastened. I’ve got to squeeze myself in first and then jam the jacket down around me afterwards.’
‘You could always try a diet, Jumbo,’ Nick said helpfully, ‘or is that just too silly for words?’
They waddled slowly past the Ops desk where the intelligence officer issued them with a pistol and two magazines – eighteen rounds of ammunition – and the code book with the remainder of the secret codes for the day. Each minute of the mission had a separate code, so that any order could be challenged and authenticated by its time code.
She also had a pile of UN berets. Drew looked doubtfully at his, but stuffed it into one of his pockets.
He picked up his pile of three thousand Deutschmarks in assorted bills, for use as bribes if shot down, and his goolie chit, promising a substantial reward to a captor for returning Drew unharmed – with goolies intact.
Nick collected a stills camera, a video camera and a stabiscope – an incredibly powerful pair of stabilised binoculars. ‘It’s like Christmas shopping in Dixon’s. How the hell am I supposed to fit all this crap in? It’s crowded enough with just you and me in the cockpit.’
Jumbo shuffled along the line, looking thoughtfully from the mountain of kit on the table to his equally mountainous form. He picked it all up, but, after a furtive look over his shoulder at the intelligence officer, he stuffed a few items into his locker. As he closed the door, he caught Drew’s eye and grinned.
Drew and Nick followed him through to the Ops room for the final outbrief. The authoriser stepped up to the platform, cutting through their chat with a brisk, ‘Right, pay attention. Have you briefed weather, call signs and the tanker? Do you know who you’re joining up with in the area?’
There were nods of assent.
‘You’re taking over from the French Mirages and the Turkish F16s will then replace you.’
‘If they turn up,’ Nick whispered.
‘There are also American F15s and F18 HARM-shoo
ters tasked in your area, so things might get a bit crowded.’
The crews were beginning to fidget.
‘Last thing,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘Have you sanitised? You should all have got rid of your wallets and be carrying absolutely nothing personal other than your ID card and your UN passport.’
Several faces stared blankly back at him. ‘Those of you who have them, that is… it’s another UN shortage, I’m afraid. That’s all, thank you.’
The aircrew were on their feet and heading for the door before he’d finished speaking. A grey bus was waiting outside, belching diesel fumes into the dark. All four crews clambered aboard and were driven out to the shelters, where ten steel-grey Tempests stood on the line.
Drew tapped DJ on the shoulder as they got off the bus. ‘All right?’
DJ nodded, though his voice cracked a little. ‘I’ll be fine once we’re up there.’
Swathed in their layers of kit, the crews waddled across to the first four of the jets. As Drew signed for his aircraft, Nick started looking it over.
‘Did I ever tell you about a guy on my previous squadron during the Gulf?’ Nick said as he checked the weapon safety pins. ‘He forgot to check the pins in his Sidewinders and accidentally fired one while he was winding the jet up on the ground. It killed six ground crew as it careered across the base.’
‘Thanks, Nick,’ Drew said. ‘I’m sure we all find that very reassuring.’
The power was put into the aircraft and Nick began loading the data into their computers. An hour before take-off, Drew gave the signal to start up the engines. The jets were cold and wet and in no mood to go flying. Engines sputtered and died, inertial navigation systems wouldn’t align, hydraulics systems leaked fluid.
Twice they had to jump out of their aircraft and start all over again in another one, while the engineers began working on the faults. ‘At this rate we’ll have to use all ten just to get two airborne.’ Drew lowered himself into yet another cockpit.
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