Will Laidlaw - Apache over Libya

So the evening arrived. The plan was briefed. It was agreed. It was low to medium risk – good for all. Even without any new imagery it was a ‘Go’ from the CAOC and the Commodore. Aircraft ready, Ocean in position. They were set.

I went up to the briefing room and signed the flight authorization. Nick and Reuben countersigned, picked up their personal weapons and ammunition and disappeared out through the airlock on to the flight deck. While they were starting up the systems an intelligence update came over the net from Matrix suggesting that there might be a ZSU 23-4 in the target area.

Nick thought, ‘Result!’ I thought, ‘Risk!’ It wasn’t enough to change the plan; they had considered the chances of something like this happening and how they would respond. The dispassionate risk appreciation had been done. It was still a ‘Go’. I settled in the Ops Room, John Blackwell beside me, radio headset on, text JCHAT streaming on the screen in front of us. I laid out the mission timeline and a printout of the map and plotted the potential ZSU 23-4. It was right on the first target. Still a ‘Go’.

Up on the flight deck both aircraft were online, engines up, and without a word or a signal they lifted one after the other exactly according to the timeline and disappeared into the low-level night transit south to Libya. I could read on the JCHAT that they’d checked in with Matrix and were on their way. Within ten minutes they were out of radio range of Ocean and I expected to hear nothing more until their in-flight hot report was given on their way back over the sea an hour and a half later. The clues as to what might be happening at the target end would be lines on the JCHAT if they spoke to Matrix and he, in turn, reported to the CAOC and us at sea. For the first time as the squadron commander I felt totally without control. I sat back and glanced at the timeline. At the top of the A3 page the crew names were shown: Nick and Little Shippers as Valkyrie One, Reuben and JB as Valkyrie Two. I quickly totalled up their combined experience. Valkyrie One: 4,400 flying hours, 400 deck landings, 2 years in Afghanistan in the Apache. Valkyrie Two: 7,600 flying hours, 250 deck landings, 2 years in Afghanistan in the Apache. They could win in any fight, and I had nothing to worry about; but I still wanted to know how they were at every stage of the mission.

Out over the Med the patrol neared the coast all bright and promising hostility. Choosing the crossing point for this mission had been difficult. There were no good places and the missions west of Tripoli in July had used up the best places to enter and leave. Any soldier knows that pattern-setting encourages ambushes. The pro-Gad experience of attack helicopters had so far been a very negative one for them. But we knew and they knew that one, just one, helicopter shot down would be a big win for the regime. We also knew that MANPADS will eventually get through, either by luck or through sheer number of missiles in the air. There would be a bonus, possibly even a shiny new technical, to the man who brought down an Apache. Good news for the regime on the ‘cognitive effect’ front, bad news for us. The Zlitan double and the Brega experience made us respect this threat, but it also gave us confidence that we could survive even the most sophisticated MANPADS. Tonight the patrol had to cross the coast close to built-up areas and over wires, gun actioned and searching for the threat with the FLIR.

The two aircraft crossed the coast simultaneously, guns slaved to FLIR, FLIR slaved to the right eye of the front-seaters. Where they looked the sight and gun aimed, picking out any suspicious heat spots among the dunes, trees and buildings. Their speed and height meant they only had a few seconds to interrogate any potential target. In the rear seat the handling pilot had his right thumb on top of the counter-measure dispensing button, ready to push out chaff and flares if the American lady in the wing gave the bad news. They wanted to keep low, but the massive electricity pylons and high-tension cables strung between forced them up and over, presenting a perfect shot to anyone with an AK or a PKM. As soon as the wires were beneath them they dived down, weaving and banking to break up their flight profile and make targeting harder. The advantage of a moonless night was temporarily lost among the streetlights and headlights, and they were agonisingly exposed to a quick-minded pro-Gad soldier. Both front-seaters were rapidly searching for weapons on vehicles, men moving suspiciously or a flag identifying a checkpoint; but no incoming came.

Within a couple of miles the industrial infrastructure and the towns gave way to the hinterland and then the great expanse of the desert. The patrol had got through the first obstacle and was now on the way to the target. Back on the coast, pro-Gad would surely be working out that at least two helicopters had just come from the sea, departed to the south and would have to come back north and cross the coast again. Troops on the ground would be alert and waiting, troops to the south would be notified of what was coming: another Apache patrol behind regime lines and roaring towards their target, Hellfire and 30mm just minutes from release.

In the Ops Room back on Ocean I noted the estimated 16 minutes to the coast and the additional 27 minutes across the desert to the first target were just about up. No news so far was a good thing. Out over the Libyan desert, Nick had slaved his FLIR to the pre-stored coordinates of the first vehicle checkpoint on the road linking Bi’r al Ghanam with Tripoli. He glanced out through the canopy with his naked left eye, then through a single Night Vision Goggle with the same eye, then exchanged the binocular rivalry in favour of his right eye via the infrared sight. A few seconds of this two-eyed, three-elements-of-the-electromagnetic-spectrum scrutiny and he had thoroughly interrogated the entire target area. All was just as he anticipated from studying hours of map and satellite imagery.

The lights of the town glowed against the backdrop of the mountains just beyond. Steep, jagged and black against the midnight sky, they concealed thousands of FLF and Colonel El-Moktar Firnana. This would be the first time the mountain rebels had heard attack aviation. It would also be a new experience for Gaddafi’s men blocking the road to Tripoli.

Nick broke the silence: ‘Two minutes, call ready.’

He was setting up for the first attack run. In his mind he recalled the target imagery: a hastily built checkpoint with armed technicals pointing down the road in either direction. He searched the target area for clues to recognize the target. This situational awareness building would be central to his decision to shoot. The target had to be right, just as described, for him to engage. He needed to have reasonable certainty that it was indeed a pro-Gad military target. Recognizing the target, gaining an appreciation of the reality on the ground and then deciding whether to attack or not was his responsibility; he was the mission commander.

He also needed it to be fast.

Reuben replied, ‘Ready. Breaking right.’

JB banked their aircraft away from Valkyrie One and set up on a new heading to give a different visual perspective on the target. They ran in as planned, bang on time, but neither aircraft could see a valid target.

Nick called, ‘No target, breaking off,’ and Little Shippers took them away to the north with Valkyrie Two covering their extraction.