Ed Macy - Apache

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.

UNLUCKY 4 FORD… SAD , Billy wrote.

UNLUCKY 4 ZULU… HELL HOLE

AFFIRM

At 10.24am Nick and Charlotte checked in with the JTAC.

‘Ugly Five Two and Ugly Five Three, on station.’

That sealed it. We had been relieved.

BREAKFAST TIME… MY LEAD , Billy texted.

But he couldn’t hear the mission net. A brand new voice had just come on it – an officer’s voice, older than the others, and extremely authoritative. Brigadier Jerry Thomas spoke slowly and clearly, so everybody could hear. And he made sure everybody knew where this order came from.

‘All stations, from SUNRAY…

‘Option One is a recovery of Lance Corporal Ford by the Apaches. Option Two is a recovery by Zulu Company. Option One has been approved.

‘Repeat, Option One is APPROVED. Prosecute ASAP.’

It was an extraordinary message. The phone lines between Lashkar Gah and Kandahar must have been red hot. I didn’t care about that now. We’d lost five minutes of precious fuel sitting with our thumbs up our arses. It was going to be tight now. Painfully tight.

‘This isn’t funny, Ed,’ Carl muttered.

‘Buddy, do we have enough fuel to do this now?’

Carl had crunched the stats as soon as he’d heard the brigadier’s voice.

‘No, but yes.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Legally no, because we’ve only got 890 lb left. Direct to Bastion from here at endurance speed is twenty-six minutes using up 390 lb of gas. Take off the 400 lb Minimum Landing Allowance we must land with and we have 100 lb of Combat Gas – or just over six minutes’ flying time. It will take you longer than that to brief them. I’m prepared to bust the limit and land with 200 lb. That gives us twenty minutes from now and perhaps a minute or two extra when we’re on the ground. So, illegally, yes. We’ll just get away with it. But you need to be very, VERY quick.’

Brief, strap ’em on, fly six klicks, rescue Ford, fly back six klicks… Twenty minutes? Jesus … We’d have to make do.

‘You’re a genius, Carl. Grab the stick.’

The rotors were turning but I was already halfway out of the cockpit. The rules didn’t mean much now. Carl leaned out to pass me his strap.

‘Ed, I mean fucking quick. If we’re not pulling pitch for home in twenty minutes we’ll end up in the desert.’

‘Okay, relay the lot to…’

‘I have via text, while we were talking. They’re up for it. Don’t waste a second. Go.’

The first man I reached was Dave Rigg.

‘You know what’s going on?’

He nodded. ‘I’ve seen the Nimrod feed.’

Good.

He extended his hand. ‘Hi, I’m Dave Rigg, I’m the–’

‘Sorry, we’re mega low on time. Follow me.’

I grabbed Rigg and pulled him up to the right side of the aircraft while I pulled out my strap. The other three followed. I asked for their surnames. The rotors were thumping so hard I had to shout.

‘Right…’ I held up the strap. ‘You’ve got to strap yourself on because if you get shot while you’re on the wing, you need to stay on it. Lots of things might happen out there. I’m not going to go into them all.’

I pointed to the grab bar beside Carl’s door.

‘This bar here is what you’re going to strap onto.’

I demonstrated.

‘Okay, with that?’

Three of them nodded, wide-eyed and hanging on my every word. But RSM Hearn didn’t appear to be paying much attention. Instead, he just grinned. I hadn’t the time to ask what he was finding so funny. I thought that perhaps he was nervous; I would have been, in his position.

‘Right, this is what’s going to happen…’

I drew a line in the sand with my finger in front of the Apache, and put a small pebble beside it. ‘That’s the wall, and that’s Mathew Ford. Both aircraft will land in the field here, with the wall on our right. As soon as the pilots give you the thumbs up, go. Run to the wall. When you find the big hole in it, Mathew is just to the left. Grab one limb each and go to the nearest aircraft. Strap him onto the foot step in front of the right wheel with one of your straps.

‘Get back on the aircraft you got off, in the same place. If you don’t have a strap left, just hold on tight. Don’t run round the back of the aircraft or the tail rotor will chop your head off. If we go down, stay with the aircraft. The crew will guide you. If the crew are dead, make for the river. The firebase will cover you across it.’