Will Laidlaw - Apache over Libya

Both Nick and I were searching hard. We were closing on the speedboats, which were steadily crossing our south-westerly track from left to right. This meant they were heading up to Al Khums. Nick beat me to it.

‘Got it! Two movers, bearing of 265° and 5 miles, stand by for data…’ Nick had found the speedboats. Viking, able to detect everything that moved in the sky, in the sea and on the land, confirmed we had the correct target. We were clear to engage.

I called to Nick and Little Shippers, ‘You shooter, me looker, your QBOs.’ He had found them first while I was still getting my sights into the area. It was his turn to lead the patrol, give the quick battle orders and do the shooting.

When it came, less than 40 seconds later, the 30mm was devastating. The two speedboats were racing, six men to a boat, one behind the other, parallel to and a couple of miles from the shore. Nick closed to a point where he was sure his first rounds would hit, no adjustment needed, and threw four sharp 20-round bursts at the rear boat. Every round hit, stopping the boat dead, no survivors. The lead boat immediately turned south-west and headed for the shore, but Nick already had his sights predicting its path. Another four rapid bursts of 30mm, anticipating the track and speed of the boat, came from his gun. Again they tore through the boat and its occupants, and all pro-Gad SF activity at sea ceased. The pro-Gad SF speedboat teams, previously operating with impunity, were now out of business and Gaddafi’s grip around the throat of Misrata had been loosened a little.

I scanned the scene with my infrared. The first boat burned intensely, indicating fuel and ammunition on board. The sea around the wreck was cold and empty; her former occupants were beneath its gentle swell. The second boat was partially submerged and listing heavily to the stern. Around her, in the water, I could make out three areas of heat. As I zoomed the infrared to observe closer, the heat spots were becoming less defined. We circled closer to identify the heat, and they faded all the while. Those men who went into the water had done so mortally wounded, and they were now succumbing to their injuries, limbless and haemorrhaging in the sea.

I watched their final ghastly, fearful and lonely expiration, waves washing over and darkness surrounding. The horror of the violence and our action in war was once again clear, as it is every time we use lethal force. Their plight in the sea beside their stricken vessel was hopeless, and we had nothing to offer that might ease their passing.

‘Okay, my lead for Mother,’ I transmitted, and we turned north-east, hoping for an early end to the evening’s mission. I relayed to Matrix what we had left behind and let the flying suits in Italy wonder what it might be like to be dying in the sea.

Our cockpits were silent during the 5-minute transit back to Ocean , minds half on the task of landing and half on the horror of the speedboat strike. The well-honed procedure of joining to land was dealt with like a drill, and John and Little Shippers lined up from a long way out for a straight-in long final approach to Wing’s clockwork deck. I wanted the night to be over, to be able to debrief the strike and deal with the guntape, but no such opportunity came our way. As soon as we were both down on the deck and the lashings were on, the CO urgently tapped on my canopy and gave me a sheet of paper.

‘ZSU 23-4! Here! Image too slow on the network, but it looks like this.’ He had drawn a quick diagram. ‘A copse, the ZSU is right in the middle. There’s a building, here, close by, about 50 metres away. CAOC says the ZSU is good to strike with Hellfire. Pred is on task to give you a laser handover. He’s low on fuel so you need to get going!’

This was precise, no unnecessary words. He gave me all I needed and let me get on with the job.

I got on the radio to Nick on the spot to my front: ‘Urgent task, only take ammo until you’re refuelled, then we’re off. ZSU, Pred handover, limited time window, got to get moving.’

‘Ready in 30 seconds,’ came the reply, and I saw the soldier removing the high-pressure fuel nozzle from the starboard side of his aircraft.

Then, looking up at Flyco where I knew Wings was in the know and coordinating the deck and the ship, I called on the radio, ‘Machete ready’.

Flyco cleared us both in turn to depart and within seconds we were again on our way into the darkness. I had Charlie’s threat brief whizzing around in my head:

ZSU, radar finds its target. It lays all four barrels on to the azimuth and elevation and fills the space with 800 bullets with each 3-second burst, reaching out to 5 kilometres.

Here we were rushing to go toe-to-toe with the one of the most feared anti-helicopter weapons ever made. The coordination between the Pred and me had to be quick, and I had to identify and engage the ZSU before it was brave enough to turn its radar on and engage me. I had no chance of knowing whether it was hiding and hoping to avoid detection or whether it was an active part of Khamis’ plan to bring down a NATO helicopter.

The most likely sign of its intent was us getting hit; then it would be all over for John and me, leaving Nick and Little Shippers to deal with the aftermath. This scenario was my own personal fear throughout the summer – an aircraft being taken down by the regime, behind their lines, low fuel and limited rescue opportunities constraining the consequence management. If one aircraft went down we hoped the other one of the pair would be able to assist. As the surviving on-scene aircraft, their job would be to hold pro-Gad back from our wreckage while, if we had survived the shoot-down, we made an escape, and then attempt to coordinate a hasty rescue; but the recovery option was still on five hours’ notice to move. Meanwhile, the Attack Helicopter Force Commander, Jack and Chris would be watching live on Pred TV from Italy.

Now once more low-level over the sea, I rushed through the radio calls to establish our new mission with Matrix. The CAOC and the CO had arranged our passage, and as soon as I made contact Matrix pushed me once again to our own Apache frequency, telling me the Pred was waiting. I reached up into the sky to gather the facts: ‘Hello, Nomad three-five, this is Machete, send SITREP.’ Fifteen thousand feet above Libya the remotely piloted Pred had its eyes on the target. Its pilot could have been sitting anywhere in the world, but tonight he was in Creech Air Force Base, about 50 miles north-west of Las Vegas in the USA.

‘Machete, got you loud and clear, I have eyes on the ZSU, no other movement, call ready for talk on.’

I glanced at the two multi-purpose displays in my cockpit and, using the fixed buttons around the outside of the screens, I rushed through the weapons page and selected Nomad’s laser frequency while simultaneously checking the navigation figures. The aircraft did the calculations for me – I could be in the right place to fire in seven minutes.

‘All copied, on scene in seven minutes. Are you able to give me a laser handover?’

‘Affirm. You’re gonna need to hurry, I only got nine minutes fuel left and then I’m off.’

John and Little Shippers raised the collectives and bled every last knot out of our heavily laden gunships in the charge towards the ZSU.

With the Pred inside his last three minutes of fuel I settled the FLIR on to the coordinates the CO had given me. At long range I could vaguely make out a copse in a field with a single-storey farm building about 50m to its right. If the ZSU was in the copse I needed a laser handover from the Pred to get my sight on to it. John set the aircraft on a steady heading, no angle of bank, no change in height. With everything set, all I needed was confirmation of the target and then I could go into the firing sequence.