by Ed Macy
‘Long-range missile launch,’ Bitching Betty announced. ‘Six o’clock.’ The flares continued to pour off. My neck cracked as I threw my head rapidly back and to the right. I could see Carl follow suit.
‘Ugly Five One, missile launch six o’clock.’ Carl’s voice sounded laboured. He pulled as hard as he could on the cyclic to throw the Apache onto its back. ‘Billy and Geordie are chucking flares too.’
We’d been locked on at exactly the same time, but no missiles had passed our windows. The two pilots compared notes.
‘Geordie, we’ve just had a long-range missile launch from the south-east. Confirm the direction on you.’
‘South-east. Long range too.’
‘Where the bloody hell is it then?’
All four of us craned our heads round. There were no telltale smoke trails to give away the firing point.
‘Maybe it was the sun. Our systems could be playing up.’
‘On both aircraft? You’re the Ewok, Carl.’
‘Yeah, I know. That’s bollocks. I don’t like it.’
Did the Taliban have a SAM down there now? They’d certainly had enough time to ship one in. Apaches had been scrapping over the fort for six hours now. If it was a SAM, it must have misfired. There was definitely something down there, but God knew what. Widow Seven One had more bad news.
‘Be advised Ugly Five One, Zulu Company will be a further thirty minutes. Keep suppressing for their assault.’
Billy was livid when Carl relayed. ‘What? For fuck’s sake … How much time do they think they’ve got?’
It was now 9.48am, and we’d been on station for an hour and eleven minutes. We’d prepped the area for a rescue now, not in half-an-hour’s time.
‘We’re not going to be able to do this for much longer you know, Ed. I’m down to one Hellfire, sixteen Flechettes and 120 thirty Mike Mike.’
‘Copied. We’re stuck between a rock and a hard place. If we slow down on ammo, we lose Mathew. If we continue at this rate and they’re not ready, we lose Mathew when we run out of ammo. I’ve only one Hellfire, eight of each rocket type and 80 thirty Mike Mike,’ I reported in return.
I got back onto the JTAC.
‘Widow Seven One this is Ugly Five One. We’re depleting our ammunition. We could really do with some fast air on the village.’
‘Affirm Ugly Five One. Still no fast air on station. I’ve requested it three times. I’ll request it again.’
We had to keep the pressure up. We swapped over again, and Billy launched his last Hellfire and eight more Flechettes into the village. Rather than swap again, Carl launched our last missile whilst I kept eyes on Mathew, and Billy gathered it with his laser and guided it down onto the roof of a building that posed a direct threat to him. We’d never done that before in combat. We’d never had to. A bolt of blindingly white light shot straight up into the air.
‘An alleluia missile.’ Billy sounded impressed.
Even though it now resembled an ancient ruin, battered by endless battles across the centuries, the JTAC reported outgoing fire from the village yet again. We were hammering them, but they kept on coming.
They couldn’t possibly have been there all along. There wasn’t a building that hadn’t been dropped by five million-lb-per-square-inch of Hellfire, smashed to pieces by HEISAPs, torn apart by Flechettes or torched by the M230’s High Explosive Dual Purpose cannon rounds.
The Taliban must have worked out the Mathew Ford situation by now. Why else would two Apaches be pummelling a shitty little village when there were no ground troops in sight? And why else would they have kept coming into our thunderous shower of lead, frag and fire? It was pretty obvious now: Zulu Company weren’t ever going to get back in there without fatalities.
Geordie got a second missile lock. His Apache pumped off another eight flares. ‘Long range, from the south-east again. No smoke trails. I’d love to know what the hell that is …’
We tried to ignore it. It was going to take more than a Taliban SAM to make us abandon Mathew. But whatever it was, flying around smack bang in the middle of the SAM belt was now getting spooky.
Carl and I ploughed sixty more cannon rounds into the one building left that could afford a firing solution onto Mathew. The main wall collapsed on the second burst and the rest followed suit. The village was burning and we still couldn’t see any Taliban moving between buildings.
It wasn’t just our ammunition that was running out. At 10.02am, Carl called ‘Bingo’. Bingo meant we were running low on gas. It was a call for the squadron commander’s ears – it was the last moment an RIP could be ordered and launched, because in thirty minutes’ time we’d only have enough fuel left to get back to Bastion.
‘Yeah, I’m Bingo too,’ Geordie chimed in.
The Boss acknowledged.
Our own clock was ticking down too. That made Billy even more impatient. He told Geordie to loop over the firebase on their way round for an attack run on the village so he could take a peek at Zulu Company. Now Billy really did his nut.
‘Ed, I can’t believe it. They’re still sitting on their Bergens. Their helmets are off and some of them are smoking. Nobody’s even told them to mount up.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Nope. They look like they’ve been told to wait.’
‘But the JTAC said they’d be assaulting in ten minutes.’
‘Those lads are going nowhere.’
Billy’s voice rose an octave. ‘We’re going to lose Ford, you know. He went down at what, 7am? That’s three hours ago.’
‘I know, mate.’
‘He’s just not going to …’
‘WIDOW SEVEN ONE, THIS IS TUSK.’
Billy’s voice was drowned out by a new voice on the air net. American, and professional.
‘Widow Seven One, Tusk is now on station and ready for trade.’
An A10 Thunderbolt. Top news. A fast jet with serious strike power that could do the enemy some real damage. It could also protect Mathew; it packed a Gatling Gun. Carl relayed to Billy and Geordie. Then more good news, this time from the Boss.
‘Ugly Five Zero and Ugly Five One, 3 Flight en route. They’ll be with you in figures Two Zero minutes.’
Billy heard that one himself. That was it. Billy’s waters broke.
‘Right Ed, that’s it. We’ve got our air cover coming, and Tusk can watch Mathew while we’re gone. I want to rescue him with Royals on the wings, and I want to do it now. We need to do it now. Get on the net and make it happen.’
‘Okay, stand by.’
I knew he was right. We had an A10 here, and Nick and FOG, with Charlotte and Tony, on their way. We had about twenty-five minutes of combat gas left, and the Taliban were getting stronger by the minute. The stars would never be better aligned for an Apache rescue attempt. We had one shot at this, and that shot was now. My blood was up too. Mathew was now kipping in the Last Chance Saloon.
‘Take us over the firebase will you buddy?’
It was still a huge call, and I wanted to see Zulu Company with my own eyes.
‘Will do,’ said Carl, and began to bank. Billy was spot on. They were still sitting on their Bergens waiting for the order.
I only had one question left. ‘Carl, can we really do this and get the aircraft back to Bastion?’
Carl made a swift calculation. ‘Yes. Just.’
Right.
‘Billy, affirm. I’ll push the ground commander until he gives us a go. Stand by.’
I could see Billy and Geordie running in, rockets exploding just shy of a thousand metres from their aircraft and showering the area with darts.
I got back onto Widow Seven One and explained exactly what we wanted to do and why. ‘Zulu Company are not ready. We are,’ I finished. ‘All we need you to do is sort out the fire plan from the artillery and fast air.’
‘Stand by.’
There was a thirty-second pause.
‘Ugly Five One, negative. Zulu Company are going to do the rescue.’
<
br /> Wrong answer from the JTAC. Time to up the ante.
‘Put Charlie Oscar on.’
‘The CO?’
‘Affirm. The CO.’
It was time to talk to the organ grinder, Colonel Magowan.
‘Stand by.’
Another twenty-second pause.
‘Charlie Oscar speaking.’
‘Charlie Oscar, Ugly Five One. What is your immediate plan?’
‘Zulu Company will cross the river to recover Lance Corporal Ford.’
‘How long is it going to take them to get ready?’
He sighed loudly enough for me to hear. ‘They say they’ll be ready in ninety minutes.’
What? I must have misheard.
‘Confirm, NINE ZERO minutes?’
‘Yes, H-hour is at 1130 hours.’
There was obviously some sort of problem with Zulu Company. We didn’t have time to go into it.
‘Sir, we can be across and back in five minutes maximum, but need to move now.’
‘How?’
He bloody knows how. This is wasting time.
‘Give me four volunteers and we’ll be in and out with Ford in two minutes.’
‘But I don’t have any pilots.’
Pilots? What was he on?
‘No sir, we are the pilots. I just need four marine volunteers. They will be strapped onto the wings of the Apaches.’
‘We don’t have any straps.’
‘We have the straps; we will strap them on …’
It dawned on me that this was the first time Magowan had heard any of our plan. None of the messages had got back to him. I explained the whole thing as succinctly as I could.
‘Give me two minutes to think.’
‘Tell him we don’t have two minutes, Ed,’ Carl said quietly over our internal intercom. He was watching the fuel level and the delay was getting on his tits.
‘We don’t have two minutes, sir.’
‘Give me twenty seconds then.’
Utter silence. For the first time all day, the mission radio net went quiet. Half of Helmand province was listening in now, and everybody was waiting for Magowan’s answer. You could have heard a mouse fart. He only took ten.
‘Ugly Five One, this is Charlie Oscar. Your plan is approved.’
‘Roger. We will be with you in four minutes.’
Now we’re really going to have to do this …
‘Billy and Geordie, it’s a go.’
‘Copied. You sort the fire plan with the JTAC and we’ll lead you into the desert. You spoke to the CO so he’ll be expecting you to brief the volunteers.’
‘Okay, Billy. Just give me twenty more seconds on station.’
Widow Seven One was already briefing up the A10 on how to protect Mathew. I stepped on their conversation because we didn’t have a second to lose. I had some terminal controlling of my own I wanted to complete. If we were pulling off, I wanted Black Turban’s warren nailed first.
‘Break, break. This is Ugly Five One. Tusk, I’ve got a tunnel system I would like you to destroy.’
‘Copy that. Go ahead Ugly Five One, I’m ready.’
‘Tusk, from the fort’s southern wall go south thirty-five metres to where the canal and the river join. Can you see five black circles?’
‘Visual, sir.’
‘That’s the tunnel system I want destroying. Now, confirm that you can identify the MIA on the southern side of the wall, thirty-five metres away.’
‘I have a good visual on the prone friendly just west of the crater, sir.’
‘He is well within Danger Close but there is no ricochet risk, and the ground is soft. Are you sure you can make the shot without hitting the MIA?’
‘I’m sure. I’ll get it right on the nose sir, don’t worry.’
‘Copied. You’re cleared hot on the tunnels.’
The A10 climbed up to 15,000 feet to set up his run, then dived. At 5,000 feet he opened up with a giant, six-second burst from his GAU-8 Gatling gun. The GAU-8 is the largest, heaviest and most powerful aircraft cannon ever built. The A10 is literally two wings, two engines and a cockpit bolted onto it. It fires 30-mm Depleted Uranium armour-piercing shells at a rate of 4,200 rounds per minute, or seventy per second. It is also highly accurate, with the ability to place 80 per cent of its shots within a ten-metre circle from 4,000 feet up. When the gun fired, you could hear its trademark roar and echo five miles away.
It didn’t miss the tunnels, either. Some 420 DU shells spanked into the tunnel system in a double sweep up. The soil erupted in flame and dust. It looked like a mini earthquake, the ground doing a Mexican wave. The dust cloud around the tunnels began to clear as the A10 pulled up, throwing off precautionary flares. The DU rounds had exploded with such heat that the earth itself was burning. The rounds lodged up to fifteen metres deep, ploughing up everything in their path.
‘That’s a Delta Hotel, Tusk. Excellent shooting.’
‘My pleasure “mate”.’ He put on a poor British accent. Tusk had a sense of humour, too.
The tunnels wouldn’t have survived that, even if they were lined with concrete. Nobody was walking out of there for a while.
‘Okay, Billy, let’s go.’
The JTAC took over with an almighty artillery barrage on the village as we departed.
Colonel Magowan’s Command Post was located in a wadi six kilo¬ metres into the desert, due west of the fort. Vikings, Pinzgauers and the UAV detachment’s Scimitar were corralled alongside large canvas tents from which the signallers worked. Everybody else sat around portable desks. Loudspeakers broadcast the mission net traffic. Colonel Magowan put down the radio handset and asked for four volunteers.
His Ops Officer and his JTAC stepped forward immediately, but were indispensable where they were. Captain Dave Rigg, the battlegroup’s Royal Engineers adviser, insisted on going. He’d been watching the Nimrod feed for the last ten hours, knew the exact location of Lance Corporal Ford and every inch of the fort.
The colonel called for the Landing Force Command Support Group’s regimental sergeant major, WO1 Colin Hearn, the only member of the command staff who hadn’t heard his radio conversation. Nineteen-year-old Zulu Company Marine Chris Fraser-Perry and Magowan’s twenty-six year-old signaller, Marine Gary Robinson, were also selected.
When the RSM appeared, he was asked to get his weapon, body armour and helmet, and told he was going on the side of an Apache to retrieve Lance Corporal Ford. Colin Hearn chuckled to himself and marched off to pick up his gear. He was well used to the CO’s sense of humour by now.
Magowan’s CP was the nearest place we could land out of Taliban mortar range, which was why it was there. The rolling desert sands thundering by 1,000 feet beneath us made a pleasant change from the intensity of battle at the fort.
Tusk may not have been able to hunt and kill the bad guys like we could, but he could tip in and shoot straight any time. The Desert Hawk UAV controlled by Magowan’s HQ, Predator and Nimrod were also watching Mathew like hawks. But I still didn’t like leaving Mathew Ford. I just hoped the Taliban didn’t catch up with him while we were away.
I looked at the clock: 10.16am. We’d been over Jugroom for the last hour and forty-five minutes and every second of it had been ferocious. I rubbed my eyes. I was starting to get an Apache headache. I hadn’t had one in six months.
Carl and Geordie were jabbering away, going over their fuel states again and double-checking each other’s HIDAS self-defence systems. While they talked, I tried to rehearse my brief to the four volunteers.
First, I was going to have to show them how to strap themselves onto the aircraft. I reached involuntarily for the black karabiner that clipped mine to the front of my survival jacket. Then I was going to have to tell them what to do if they get shot on the wing. What would we do if they got shot? Just press on. What if two of them got hit? Badly hit, and before we even reached Ford? We could cope with two.
What happened if we crash-landed on the way down there, or even in the
river? What if they were blinded by the dust during the flight and couldn’t see shit? What happened if they ran into the Taliban? Could we cover them from the ground? What if they got shot when they were on the ground – or if they turned around and saw their aircraft getting blown up behind them?
There were a million what ifs. I had the answers, but they weren’t going to like them one little bit. A three-day planning conference to iron out all the potential mishaps would have been nice. I only had three minutes. Bollocks. I’d just have to wing it.
Carl reared up hard as we closed on Magowan’s HQ. Our landing site 150 metres from the vehicles was marked with green smoke. Billy and Geordie came in first, turning 180 degrees to face into the wind and landing hard to limit the dust cloud. Carl put us down between them and the billowing smoke canister, fifty metres to our right.
As the dust cleared, I could make out two figures standing waiting for us, one in full battle rig and helmet, the other just in his shirt sleeves. Behind them were three more marines in full rig. I’d already unbuckled, reached for the door handle and was just about to disconnect my helmet when Carl stopped me dead.
‘The mission is off.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s off, Ed. Nick has just been on; he was given a message from Trigger. The Boss couldn’t reach us down here so he relayed it. It’s been canned.’
‘Who by?’
‘Zero Alpha.’
Zero Alpha. Our Commanding Officer in Kandahar.
That was it then. It’s was totally out of our hands. We couldn’t counteract our own CO. We didn’t even have comms with him. The regular babble between the marine units crackled away in the background as I sank back into my seat. What the hell had happened?
The disappointment welled up in me so vigorously I could almost taste it. We were out of the game. 3 Flight wouldn’t have top cover, so that ruled them out, too. There was no way Zulu Company would make it over and back without more casualties; the Tardis village would make sure of that. It looked like the Last Chance Saloon had called time on Mathew.
I looked out the window at the group of five servicemen standing there expectantly. Nobody had told them it was off. I wasn’t going to either. I couldn’t get out unless Carl shut down the rotors, a strict Apache rule. Knock the cyclic on your way, and the thing will roll itself straight over and thrash itself to pieces. Billy and I texted each other to minimise the chat on the Apache net.
