Bearing in mind the ‘seven Ps principle’ – prior planning and preparation prevents piss poor performance! – drummed into us by the military, we get our heads together.
Just before seven o’clock, we have a more detailed plan which we feel has a reasonable chance of success.
The fixed wing side of things is straightforward. Richard will fly, with one of the members of the group of UKD agents as co-pilot, into RAF Akrotiri after taking a refuelling stop in Italy, and simply sit and wait until required for the transit back to the UK. Upon arrival at Lydd Airport in Kent, he will be met by an RAF helicopter flown by our old mate Lex from the S and D Flight who are normally based in RAF Odiham. The family will then be flown into the garden of a safe house for processing. As soon as the operation is given the go ahead, Bob will set off in the Agusta 109 with another member of the group, Simon, as a co-pilot planning three refuel stops en route. Simon will carry the appropriate cover of a Film Production Location Manager, working on a planned documentary about the troubles in the Middle East.
For the duration of the operation, Bob will become Captain Robert Grayling, chief pilot of Grampion Aviation Limited, who have been commissioned by the film company for aerial photography around Lebanon, Israel and the Golan Heights.
The team on the ground must select a minimum of two landing sites, no further east than the centre of Damascus since the limited range of the helicopter is crucial and any further east would leave it with insufficient fuel for the return leg.
The distance from Akrotiri to Damascus is a little over two hundred nautical miles. With a mountain range rising to almost ten thousand feet to navigate across, and with a total distance of over four hundred and fifty nautical miles to fly, the 109 will be left with a reserve of only ten minutes flying time and very little room for error. After take-off, all lights will be extinguished, and the route will be flown at less than one hundred feet above the surface using the Anvis Night Vision Goggles.
Shortly after take-off, the QRF, ‘Quick Reaction Force’, a heavily armed team of six professional soldiers will get airborne and fly close to the limits of Cypriot-controlled airspace, ready to fly into the landing site if given a coded message, ‘Zulu, Zulu’. The message, which will be passed from Bob, will indicate the team are in imminent danger and request assistance to fight their way out to safety.
The Search and Rescue helicopter will also be put on immediate standby ready to launch should the 109’s ten-minute reserve diminish to zero, and a night-ditching into the Mediterranean become necessary.
The preferred landing site will be designated ‘Alpha’. Should the site be compromised then any member of the team will transmit, ‘Zulu Zulu’ over the secure communications system and the pick-up will be transferred to the backup site ‘Delta’.
Mike, the RAF liaison officer, will make all the arrangements with the station commander in Akrotiri for any essential support including preparing the SAR and QRF teams, and the supply of personal weapons for Bob and Simon. Both of whom request Heckler and Koch HK-53s and Walther PPK pistols with calf holsters and two full magazines for each weapon.
David nods intermittently as he scribbles away on his notepad then, as if for theatrical effect, emphasises coming to a close, with a large full stop.
“Right, that’s all done then,” he says. ‘I will get that all written up and aim to have it on the Minister’s desk by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Oh, yes, one last thing, Bob, what would you put as the EMSR for this operation?”
“Err, pardon, the EMS what?” I mumble. “Oh, yes, of course, that! Umm.”
Just as my jaw begins to drop and my eyes glaze over, Richard comes to my rescue.
“We have given this considerable thought, and in our opinion,” he says with an air of confidence.
‘Why the fuck has his voice become so affected?’ I think to myself.
“We would put the Estimated Mission Success Ratio as somewhere between fairly slim, and no fucking chance whatsoever! My part of the job is simple, but if Bob manages to pull his part off then he doesn’t deserve a medal. He deserves a fucking knighthood!”
“Oh… ah… well’, says David. “I will put that down as fifty-fifty then.”
As usual, Richard and I are the only ones to laugh.
It’s almost midnight before I get back home, open the safe and lay Bob Davidson to rest on his tray.
Just before ten o’clock the following morning I get another text from Sandra. I open the secure communications on my laptop.
‘Ministerial approval granted.’
‘Operation Castaway is on!’
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Before deploying on any operation, I have, what I call, the ‘Dry Cleaning’, ritual to perform. Anything that is going with me such as; bags, clothes, documentation, brochures, letters, books. In fact, anything at all is put to one side. I search through every corner of the bags, every pocket of every jacket or pair of trousers, leaf through every piece of paper and every page of every book.
That done, I feel confident that there is nothing hidden away that might expose my true identity to any inquisitive foreign official. I then plant the bits and pieces that will hopefully, convince anyone rummaging through my kit that I am who I say I am. On this occasion, I will be Captain Robert Grayling, chief pilot of Grampian Aviation Limited.
Upon arrival at the hangar, Simon and I check out each other’s stories. How do we know each other? When did we first meet? Do we have any similar passport entries and dates? With no apparent evidence to contradict us, we decide that this is the first time we have ever met and therefore we know very little about each other.
We meet up with David, Mike, and of course, Richard in a small room within the underground operations centre of the RAF station. David confirms that the family have landed safely and are now on their way to the Four Seasons Hotel on Shukri al-Quwatli Street in downtown Damascus, and it is believed, but by no means certain, that Charlie One has a couple of meetings tomorrow but, as yet, no evening engagements.
Mike informs us that we have been allocated rooms in the officers’ mess and that he will deliver the weapons and ammunition to our rooms later. He makes it clear that any facilities of the operations centre, including the Met Office, are completely at our disposal.
I look at the forecast weather chart on the desk in front of me for a few seconds.
“Looks to me like the high-pressure system dominating the whole area is likely to stick around for, at least the next day or two,” I say after studying the chart.
“Tomorrow may be the only evening when the whole family are not tied up with social engagements, so… if the guys on the ground can get their act together at such short notice, then I reckon we should aim to lift off straight after last light tomorrow.”
David gives a little nod.
“I agree. We simply cannot risk having them out with the diplomats till all hours of the night, or the weather taking a turn for the worse, and before we know it they will be on the plane back to Tripoli. So, let’s strike while the iron is hot.”
We all agree that an early night would be a very sensible course of action but, of course, it doesn’t happen. Instead, we finish up in the bar of the officers’ mess staying until closing time and staggering off to bed well after midnight.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
It’s a glorious sunset on the very southern tip of the island of Cyprus as we wait for total darkness and a call from David to confirm when we are good to go.
We have ripped any unnecessary luxuries out of the back of the helicopter including; bar, drinks cabinet, soft seats and even carpets, to reduce the weight as much as possible. We are just under the maximum allowable take-off weight here on the runway. By the time we get to the pick-up point we will have burnt about two hundred and fifty kilogrammes of Jet A1 fuel, otherwise known as Avtur. With four passengers jumping on board and the landing site being at about four thousand feet above sea level, we are going to be some way over weight
for take-off. But I know this aircraft well and I am confident that, with gentle handling, we will be able to get airborne safely.
The outside of the helicopter has also been prepared. The judicious application of a little matt black paint here and there has made the last three letters of the aircraft registration indecipherable. The first letter is perfectly clear, that is an ‘N’ meaning that it is registered in the USA. In the unlikely event of anyone catching a glimpse of us then it is most likely to be reported that we are American. And if the pesky Americans get to take the flack for illegally flying into a sovereign state’s airspace, then that suits us just fine!
We have no need for maps or charts. We have studied this route meticulously and Simon has jotted a few notes on his kneepad to back up the GPS, should it fail. He has noted just the heading we need to hold till coasting into the south of Beirut, and the time we should pass to the north of Lake Bagram in the hills just west of Damascus. He will them adjust the heading and time if required to run in to the landing site. Flying at less than one hundred feet using NVG requires intense concentration and a constant lookout. There is no time for looking inside the cockpit reading maps or charts. The night vision goggles we are using are the best available and allow us excellent images of the surface, albeit in only differing shades of green. Lights stand out exceptionally well and can be seen from much further away than with the mark one eyeball.
The coded message comes in from David.
“The team are on their way to the pick-up point with Charlie One and family and we are good to go.”
I raise the collective lever to apply sufficient power to lift off to a height of four feet above the ground. I check the engine temperatures, oil pressures, and the amount of torque I am having to apply to maintain the hover. This indicates the margin of power I have in reserve – not much! It’s a fairly cool night for this part of the world, just under plus ten degrees Celsius. This helps a lot since the lower the ambient temperature the better the aircraft performance.
I turn on to our initial south-easterly heading which I will endeavour to maintain as accurately as possible until we cross the coast to the south of Beirut and five miles north of Saida. I set the cruise power at ninety percent which will give us about one hundred and fifty knots and, as Simon raises the landing gear, I level off at one hundred feet. The trick now is to maintain this flying configuration as precisely as I can and with any luck, we should pass just to the north of Lake Bagram as planned.
Once clear of the Cyprus coast I call for Simon to switch off all the lights, the Civilian Air Traffic Control radio, and the transponder. If left on the transponder will show Air Traffic Control our position, altitude and our registration. With it off they will, hopefully, see nothing. We have no intentions of speaking to any Air Traffic Control authorities in Lebanon or Syria, so the radio is left off and any communications from now on will only be over the secure network.
I set the radar altimeter to fifty feet, which will then flash a warning light if we descend to below that height, indicating that we are getting dangerously low.
I am working hard to concentrate on holding everything as steady as possible and maintain a good lookout. We are low enough to hit even a small fishing boat and at this speed, I would have only a second or two to take avoiding action. The sea is flat calm and with nothing but a dull green panorama ahead of me I struggle to keep changing the focus of my eyes to avoid a phenomenon known as empty-field myopia. This is a condition where, if the eyes have nothing to focus on, will gradually focus just a few metres ahead. This short focal range will not only mean, that I will not see that tiny fishing boat until the very last second, but it can also lead to spatial disorientation, a very dangerous condition for even the most experienced of pilots to cope with.
I know that at this ultra-low level, due to the curvature of the earth, the horizon is about twelve miles away, but with the mountains, the built-up areas and good visibility we should start to pick out the lights of Beirut and its environs at a range of fifty miles or so.
Simon is the first to spot what appears to be a radio mast on a hill in our eleven o’clock position. Over the next few minutes, the lights of the city and the mountains in the background start to become clear.
The silence is broken by, “Golf Golf, Quebec airborne standing by.”
This indicates to us that the QRF helicopter is now lurking at the edge of Lebanese airspace and ready to get us out of the shit if needed.
“Roger that,” Simon replies.
We cross the coastline about five miles to the north of the town of Saida, pretty much on track, and start to climb to cross the mountain range twenty miles, or so, ahead.
“Once we get to the top of this hill, give the guys on the ground a call please mate,” I ask Simon.
“Will do, skipper,” he replies. “We seem to be more or less on track at the moment. Not bad for a pongo. The way you held that course over the ogin was getting close to Royal Marines standards.’ He teases me. Royal Marines invariably refer to the sea as ‘the ogin and anyone in the Army as a pogo.’
I smile but continue to concentrate, finding it more difficult to maintain a constant height above ground as we climb steeply, our airspeed dropping to only one hundred knots.
As we pass over the hill – which is, in fact, an eight-thousand-foot ridge line – Simon presses the transmit button with his foot. “Alpha Alpha two zero.” Meaning that we will be at landing site Alpha in twenty minutes. “Roger Roger Alpha two zero,” comes the reply.
Great. That means that the ground party with the family will be there at the same time. Happy days, things are looking good. But not for long. Five minutes later, the shit hits the fan!
CHAPTER FIFTY
Just as I’m asking Simon if he can see flashing lights in the vicinity of the landing site, the radio burst into life.
“Zulu Zulu Alpha fucking crawling with Zulus!”
Not quite the standard of radio procedure we would hope for but it certainly gets the message across – the landing site we have called Alpha is full of unwanted guests, most likely police or Army.
“Roger that revert to Delta send ETA Over,” I reply.
Simon gives me a new heading for landing site Delta, which is now only five minutes flying time away.
A female voice comes over the radio with the sound of a screaming engine in the background. “Delta, Delta two zero with any luck, but think we are being followed!”
“Roger. Pretty sure we can see you, and yes, it looks like there are flashing lights a mile or so behind you,” Simon replies.
I slow down to sixty knots to use less power and therefore less fuel. Don’t want to land too early, and the change of locations is already eating into our meagre reserve of ten minutes flying time.
As we identify the landing site at a range of about two miles we can now clearly see the rapidly approaching vehicle, a Toyota Land Cruiser, and a convoy of three vehicles with, what we assume are, blue flashing lights, but, of course, they just look a different shade of green to us.
I time the landing in order for us to be on the ground just a few seconds before the first vehicle arrives.
“Don’t waste any time. Zulus are right up your arse!” I scream into the radio.
Simon is out of the aircraft in a flash, HK-53 in his right hand and his left holding the rear door open. The Land Cruiser screeches to a halt in a cloud of dust only feet away. The doors fly open and six people stumble out and dash towards Simon.
As everyone is piling into the back, the first of the Zulus arrive, with the next two rapidly approaching. Two figures, which I guess are police, brandish their pistols and start to take un-aimed shots towards us. Simon reacts immediately, two bursts from his Heckler and Koch send the police officers scurrying behind their vehicle.
Simon is back on board with the six passengers, two more than we expected, crammed into the back.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here!” shouts Simon, as he sticks his weapon fa
r enough out of the window to avoid red-hot spent cartridges rattling around the cockpit, the last thing we need right now, as he sends another couple of bursts of automatic fire towards the police vehicles.
Getting the fuck out of here is easier said than done. We are now way over our maximum take-off weight and a quick lift-off just isn’t possible. The only way to get airborne is by using a technique known as a ‘cushion creep’ to very gently ease forward at no more than four feet from the ground and then dive over the edge of the plateau. We can now only hope to pick up sufficient airspeed to give us the lift we need before hitting the bottom of the valley. The technique works, the airspeed steadily increases. Simon gets the landing gear up and we slowly gain height. I am now able to pull sufficient power to, just about, get us over the ridge and towards the Mediterranean.
“Well, wasn’t that fun. Just like being back in the mob,” Simon says with a chuckle.
“Not over yet, I’m afraid mate,” I reply. “With the extra two passengers we are having to burn more fuel and I reckon there is a reasonable chance we could be taking a quick dip before the night is over.”
A long period of silence follows as I contemplate the options and, I guess, Simon is doing the same. With a fraction over two hundred kilogrammes of fuel remaining in the two main tanks, and the auxiliary tank completely empty, according to the gauges. We still have over one hundred and sixty miles to run, one hundred of them over water, and I calculate that leaves us about ten miles short. Fuel gauges are not entirely accurate and are usually set to under-read slightly, but I can’t be certain.
I decide to go for it.
I call the QRF, “Quebec Quebec this is Golf. Charlie safely extracted. Returning to base Over.”
Kisses From Nimbus Page 19
