Killsong

by Mark Mannock

  Lazlov continued, “You may be aware Taji is divided into two halves. The first of these is for coalition military personnel and coalition contractors, the other half is for the Iraqi forces we are assisting and advising. Please restrict your movements to the coalition side of the base.”

  We all got the picture.

  Lazlov indicated a burly-looking Marine that was standing next to him. “Now Sergeant Bushby and his team will show you to your quarters. I will be around later to discuss arrangements for your performances.”

  Fifteen minutes later we were settled in our very simple military-style barracks, six to a room. This certainly wasn’t the luxury of the US Embassy or the Al-Faw Palace, but we didn’t care.

  While some of the others went for a look around with their Marine minders in tow, Greatrex and I elected to stay behind.

  “Well, clearly we can rule the embassy and the palace out as possible locations of the chemical weapon samples.” We were past that point.

  “So, it has to be here at Al Taji or the Al-Qa’im side trip.” Greatrex responded.

  “I don’t see what we can do except wait until we’re told what to do. What I don’t understand is with Kaitlin out of the picture, who is our controller? Who has Winter organized to guide us to his stash?”

  “I expect we’ll find out soon enough,” said Greatrex, masking his own impatience with the situation.

  “Even then, we still have no plan,” I responded.

  “When have we ever had a plan that didn’t change anyway?”

  “Good point,” I conceded, “We wait. I don’t like it, but we wait.”

  An hour later the rest of our band had returned. We were just sitting around talking musician stuff when there was a knock on the door.

  Elliot Brooks and Marine First Lieutenant Eric Lazlov walked in. Robbie West was with them.

  Lazlov began, “We have made a small change to your itinerary, gentlemen. Mr. West here suggested I consult all of you. Although he is the leader of your band, he is of the belief any decision about movements here in Iraq should be agreed by all of you.”

  Greatrex and I looked at each other—another change to the itinerary.

  “Now, a big consideration here is weather. The forecasters tell us winds are picking up in the area. You may not be aware that this region is frequently exposed to rather major sandstorms when conditions are like this.”

  Jack Greatrex and I had lived and worked through many Iraqi sandstorms, but the others looked surprised.

  “Accordingly,” Lazlov continued, “we feel it would be better to get the Al-Qa’im side trip over and done with early, so you are not marooned by weather near the Syrian border. How does this sound to you?”

  Robbie chimed in. “This all made sense to me, but I wanted to check with you guys first, particularly as Kaitlin isn’t around to help with these decisions.”

  Brooks had said nothing until now.

  “I don’t see any alternative,” he began. “Those troops at the forward base near Al-Qa’im are expecting you. The trip should proceed as soon as possible.”

  I noticed two things about what Brooks said. One was that he was very insistent that we go, the other was that he said “you” not “we.” He was not coming with us. Even if he wasn’t suspected as Winter’s man anymore, something still felt a little wrong about him. I looked at Greatrex. His face seemed to echo my thoughts.

  “If we go before the weather changes, are we sure we’ll get back before the sandstorm hits?” I asked.

  “Most likely,” was Lazlov’s simple response. “We should make it back in time.”

  We. I was starting to like this guy.

  There was a bit of back-and-forth, but essentially, we all agreed to go early.

  “Excellent,” said Lazlov. “Now, a few points regarding logistics. You are aware that it is only you people in Mr. West’s band that are going to Al-Qa’im. The only exception, civilian-wise, is Mr. Greatrex will go to be your tech and do your sound.”

  “You’ll only use a small PA and basic instruments,” said Brooks.

  “Everything including people and musical equipment must fit into two helicopters. No negotiation there, I’m afraid.” Lazlov was definite.

  Brian Pitt and Barry Flannigan looked decidedly nervous.

  “Is this safe? Is there anything here to worry about?” asked Brian.

  “Not really,” replied Lazlov. “We send people up the border all the time. It is rare that there is an incident these days.”

  “Rare,” repeated Barry. “Rare but not unheard of.”

  This didn’t seem to reassure anyone. We all took a big breath.

  “Are you still up for it? We did promise,” Brooks playing the guilt card.

  Robbie looked around the group; everyone slowly nodded.

  “We’re still up for it,” he said to the lieutenant.

  “Right,” said Lazlov with the resolve of a military man who is decisive by nature, “we leave at 0900. That’s nine in the morning, civilian time.”

  “We better sort out the gear,” said Greatrex.

  “We can pack the choppers tonight,” instructed Lazlov. Deal done.

  He and Brooks left the room.

  “Robbie, is there any news regarding Kaitlin?” asked Barry Flannigan.

  “Nothing,” replied Robbie. She seems to have vanished off the planet.”

  I doubted that, but at that moment I doubted everything.

  Greatrex moved up beside me, out of earshot of the others.

  “This could be it,” he said.

  “It could,” I answered, “or not.” Nicholas Sharp sitting on the fence.

  “One thing is for certain,” I continued.

  “What’s that?” asked my friend.

  “Nothing is certain.”

  18

  At 0900 the following morning we climbed on board the two Pave Hawks sitting on the Tarmac at Al Taji. Although the band was getting used to traveling by chopper, no one seemed very relaxed about this journey. This wasn’t helped by the fact that two US Air Force Apache gunships were on the tarmac next to the Pave Hawks, preparing to escort us.

  Barry Flannigan looked at me skeptically as we walked toward our rides. As I was about to reassure him, he just looked at me and said, “I know, precautionary.”

  Nothing more to say.

  We had packed light. Most of the group were in the first chopper with Robbie. Jack Greatrex and I were in the second aircraft with all the gear, carefully secured for flight.

  Once aboard, we took off quickly. As I looked down, I saw Elliot Brooks’ face staring up at us. I couldn’t read his expression.

  The Apaches stayed close. They were our protectors. There was no doubt now that the Air Force crew were very focused on the job at hand, their demeanor suggesting this was a bit more serious than the usual job of ferrying musicians and entertainers around. I looked across at Greatrex. This was something we had both done before; flying sniper teams into remote positions was not unusual in our former line of work. Next to Greatrex sat Lieutenant Lazlov. He was as good as his word and was here with us. His offsider, Sergeant Bushby, and a couple of others were in the lead Pave Hawk with the rest of the band. Next to me was a Marine who introduced himself as Lance Corporal Evan Taylor.

  The flying time to Al-Qa’im was about an hour. Our route wasn’t direct, as military wisdom suggested leaving plenty of space between us and any potential insurgent trouble spots.

  There was not a lot of talk; the helicopter engines were loud, as was the sound of the wind. Everyone seemed to be concentrating on the landscape below, almost attempting to ensure a smooth and safe trip by willpower alone. The terrain started out flat, but as we approached Al-Qa’im steep foothills appeared in the desert landscape. It did not look very hospitable down there.

  Finally, we landed at the forward base near Al-Qa’im without any trouble.

  Once all the choppers had landed on the gravel landing area and the engines wound down, the whole band
helped Greatrex unload the gear. Our Marine chaperones helped as well. The gear was taken by trucks to a small stage near the center of the base. Around ninety minutes later we were set up and ready to play. Although this was an acoustic set, we could still perform all of Robbie’s hits; we just pared them down a bit to suit the instrumentation and production. A good song is a good song no matter how you present it.

  It appeared that all the personnel who were able to leave their duties and come to hear us had done just that. The troops we played to all looked tired and a bit dusty. Their enthusiasm, however, was contagious, and we all got into the music pretty quickly. It turned out that our young Marine chaperone, Corporal Evan Taylor, was an enthusiastic amateur guitarist, so we got him up for a couple of songs. The crowd loved it, and it even put a smile on Lieutenant Lazlov’s face as he watched over us. It was a great afternoon, and I got the impression everyone was just glad we’d made the effort to come all this way and provide them with a distraction from their daily duties and the tension of their environment.

  Seventy minutes later, the show was over. Everyone seemed happy with it, and Robbie looked quite relieved. We all spent a little time chatting with the military folk. It was almost like we were all celebrities here, not just Robbie West.

  Greatrex supervised the packing up of the equipment, and the Air Force and Marine personnel took it back to the helicopters for loading while we did the PR bit.

  Throughout the afternoon Greatrex and I had kept glancing at each other to see if some contact had been made from one of Winter’s people. There was nothing.

  Late in the afternoon we climbed back on board our helicopters. Everyone went to the same aircraft they arrived in. Military order, but this time Jack Greatrex was sitting next to me and Lieutenant Lazlov and Corporal Taylor were sitting opposite.

  As the undulating desert landscape fell away beneath us, I was certain I saw a look of contentment on Corporal Taylor’s face; he had enjoyed his impromptu performance earlier, although now he was again focused on his role as our protector. His job, and that of all the other military personnel on board the two choppers, was to ensure that we, their guests, returned safely to Al Taji. They were all intent on making this so. I was doubly reassured by the now-familiar sight of the two Apache gunships shepherding us home.

  Soon we were shooting along at around one hundred and twenty knots, flying at a very low altitude. The reasoning behind traveling so low was that we would only appear over the horizon at the last minute, giving any enemy little time to prepare an attack. Apparently, we were also taking a different route back to Taji. Unpredictability was an important defense strategy, no need to advertise our whereabouts.

  Conversation was still too difficult in this noisy airborne environment, although we were wearing headphones that were patched into the helicopter’s communications system. I leaned back against the seat, deep in thought. The fact that there had been no contact from Winter was confusing. I couldn’t help but feel we were running out of time. On the positive side we were all safe and the most outwardly dangerous part of our tour had turned out to be uneventful.

  Although I didn’t know it at the time, within minutes I would realize that, by any and every definition of the term “uneventful,” I could not have been more mistaken.

  About fifteen minutes into the flight my thoughts were shattered by a sudden burst of static through the headphones. The voice from the pilot of the lead Apache came echoing through. “We have a visual of a possible insurgent group identified ahead, northeast ridge. It looks like they have a launcher of some sort. All craft, bank west now.”

  Then, “We have a SAM spike at three o’clock.”

  No sooner had we heard that than we heard a loud explosion ahead of us. We could see the Apache gunship in front of us seemingly shaking in midair and then spiraling down out of view. Plumes of smoke trailed from it.

  It had all happened too fast.

  “This is Apache One, we are hit, preparing for forced landing,” came the pilot’s urgent voice. Then there was another explosion, then nothing.

  You don’t get to be a Pave Hawk pilot in the US Air Force without having lightning reaction times, and our pilot went into immediate action. He banked sharply to the left and then began to reclaim some height.

  At the same time, he gave urgent instructions to his copilot: “Dispense countermeasures.”

  Within two seconds flares were going off behind and below our machine.

  The atmosphere within the cabin was electric, but it was frustrating that there was nothing any of us could do but trust our pilots.

  The gunner on the lower side of the aircraft began putting down some intense fire, I assumed in the hope of deterring any more attacks.

  All this happened over a period of about five seconds.

  “Apache One down,” came a voice over the comms. It was not the voice of the damaged Apache’s pilot.

  There were frantic interchanges between our pilot, the pilots of the remaining Apache, and the other Pave Hawk carrying the rest of the band.

  “SAM spike at four o’clock—incoming, incoming.” With an element of alarm I thought I recognized the voice as our pilot’s. “Taking evasive action.”

  Not the words we wanted to hear.

  Our helicopter seemed to roll at a ninety-degree angle to the ground. We all held on for our lives. Where a minute ago we were looking at sky and distant hills out the open doorway, now we were looking directly at the desert floor.

  Seven seconds later, as we were all becoming a little hopeful, our world was quickly shattered. An incredibly loud explosion rocked our craft. My eyes closed involuntarily, but I could feel our chopper start to rotate. As I opened my eyes, I saw a bloody mess where our guitar-playing Corporal Evan Taylor had been sitting. Behind his prone body, a gaping hole in the side of the Pave Hawk exposed the desert and wind. Sitting next to Taylor was a badly injured Lieutenant Lazlov; his left arm looked completely mangled, and blood was seeping from his forehead.

  Our pilot must have put us into an autorotation, which was sending us into some sort of controlled descent, but it was obvious, even to me, we were going down too fast, much too fast. The pilot seemed to push the nose forward, and our momentum picked up.

  A second of hope.

  “Prepare for a hard landing,” came his voice over the headphones.

  About five seconds later we hit the ground at way too high a speed; the whole aircraft seemed to stretch and implode at the same time. Every bone in my body felt as though it had been crushed. Among a blaze of noise and dust we eventually came to a halt.

  Then there was silence.

  19

  As my senses returned, I looked around the damaged cabin. My first thought was for Jack Greatrex. He was still sitting next to me, conscious but stunned, a few cuts on his face, but other than that, thankfully all right. We had both been sitting on the protected side of the aircraft. I looked across at Evan Taylor. The young corporal was gone, there was no life left in his eyes. Next to him Lieutenant Lazlov was moaning and barely conscious. He would need some urgent medical attention. I seemed to be all right, but I was feeling very disorientated. Nothing broken, I thought. The gunner on the blast side of the chopper looked badly injured; blood flowed from a large wound in his side. He was unconscious. The gunner on our side of the craft seemed trapped by his massive gun. He, too, was only semiconscious.

  Surprisingly, the aircraft’s comms were still working. I picked up the headphones, which had flown off my head, and listened. There was no sound from our brave young pilot. I could make out the weakened voice of his copilot reporting to the other choppers.

  “Hawk One down, the captain is unconscious, possibly worse. I’m trapped in here, no intel on our passengers.”

  We had no microphone on our headsets, so I couldn’t inform him, or anyone, as to our situation.

  I heard the other Pave Hawk respond.

  “We are clear, all civilian passengers on board are unharmed.”
/>   Thank God for that.

  Their protector, Apache Two, responded.

  “RTB, I’m going to escort you and your civilian cargo back to Taji. I will call for SAR to come in and retrieve personnel from the two downed ships. Coming out of Al-Qa’im they should be Delta fifteen away.

  “Roger that.” It was Pave Hawk Two responding.

  I was relieved our bandmates were going to be all right; fifteen minutes was not long to wait for help.

  I released my seat belt, then helped Greatrex release his. He took off his headphones and we clambered out of what was left of the aircraft.

  We stood there for a couple of seconds, letting the events of the last few minutes sink in.

  “You find the first aid kit and see what you can do for the lieutenant and the crew. I’m afraid there is nothing we can do for young Corporal Taylor.”

  It took a second for him to process my words.

  I continued, “I’ll check on the flight crew.”

  “On it,” he responded. There was a sadness in his voice.

  Greatrex went straight into action attending to our injured. I made my way around the front of the aircraft; my feet were unsteady, but at least I was able to move.

  When I got to the front of the aircraft, I could see the copilot’s description was accurate. There was a lot of damage on the pilot’s side. I wasn’t sure whether it was from the missile that attacked us or the landing. Our pilot was clearly unconscious; I went around to him and reached through the shattered window. I could feel no pulse.

  I made my way back to the copilot. He seemed to be all right but was quite obviously trapped in his seat. It would take some cutting to get him out, and we didn’t have the equipment to do it.

  I knew help would be here soon.

  At this point I sensed rather than felt a blast of moving air as a bullet struck the windshield of the helicopter. Then another. Unsurprisingly, the copilot looked extremely alarmed.

  I called out to Greatrex. “Jack, enemy fire, rifle, coming from the northeast.” The old job skills just kicked back in. I knew I had to draw the fire away from the front of the chopper, where the pilot was a sitting duck.