Alex Duncan - Sweating the Metal

First though, we both needed refuelling so we stopped off at Gereshk, which was our nearest refuelling base at the time. It’s pretty straightforward normally, but as our tanks were filling, JP’s aircraft had a massive fuel leak – and I mean massive. I’ve never seen anything like it. The Chinook has tanks on each side and they’ve got these vents that allow the air in and out to prevent the tanks collapsing as fuel is used, and to prevent them exploding under pressure when refuelling. There’s a shut-off valve on each tank that’s supposed to activate when it’s full – it’s a similar sort of principle to what happens when you fill up your car really; when the tank’s full, the nozzle cuts off. Except the valve on one of JP’s cabs failed and didn’t shut, so the fuel continued to pour in. With the tank full, it followed the only path available, which was out of the vent.

Now, Chinooks take a lot of fuel and it tends to flow at high pressure, so it was literally jetting out of the vent where it atomised in the air, just by the engine. It could have ignited at any time and we were right behind JP’s cab, still attached and taking on fuel ourselves.

We couldn’t move and we couldn’t call JP over the radio because of the risk of an electrical discharge from the aerials. If that happened, we’d do the Taliban’s job for them… boom, two Chinooks and their crews out of the game for good. Alex and I were both close to panic, sat immobile in the cockpit, and JP’s crewman was just stood by the cab refuelling and chatting away to his mate without a care in the world, a veritable Niagara Falls of fuel cascading out behind him. Eventually he turned around and saw it. His mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ as he realised what was happening, but fortunately he immediately shut off the fuel and we narrowly averted what could have been a major disaster.

It did mean that JP would be going nowhere though. The fuel pouring out of the vent had cascaded over the flares that the Defensive Aids Suite fire to create a white-hot target, thus deflecting heat-seeking missiles from the Chinook’s engines. Soaked in fuel, they were now useless. This was rapidly turning into a farce – what had started out a few hours earlier as a routine, run-of-the-mill three-ship tasking suddenly had just my aircraft on it. After the fuel fountain abated, I called JP over the radio.

‘Black Cat Two Three, Black Cat Two Two. Seeing as you’re stuck here, we’ll fly on to Bastion with the Apache and take over Rich’s tasking. We’ll get the VIPs on board and I’ll speak to Bastion Ops to arrange for an armourer to come to my cab. I’ll drop him off here, en route to Musa Qala with Rich’s pax, so he can change your flares over.’

‘Black Cat Two Two, thanks for that, copied. We’ll stay here and await the armourer.’

Pre-flight checks done, Coops calls me from the rear to confirm we’re clear above and behind and I pull power, lifting off en route for Bastion. So the VIPs Rich picked up from Lash have now been waiting at Bastion for at least an hour. They were then going to be JP’s pax, but he’s stuck at Gereshk and going nowhere so they’re now ours. Rich’s cab is fucked, JP’s cab is fucked. Can the day get any worse?

I see Bastion on the nose from miles away; it’s huge, you can’t miss it. Twenty miles of desert and nothingness and then suddenly the base appears out of nowhere and dominates the landscape, its 8,000ft concrete runway like a black scar along the belly of a sleeping giant.

‘Bastion Tower, Black Cat Two Two, request clearance to land.’

‘Black Cat Two Two, do you require Nightingale?’

‘Tower, Black Cat Two Two, negative, normal spots.’

‘Black Cat Two Two, cleared to land, spots.’

‘Tower, roger that. Cleared to land, spots,’ I say as I cross the perimeter fence, fly to the landing spots and turn the aircraft through 180° to land on. The wheels compress as the ground comes up to meet us and I call Bastion Ops to request the armourer, then sit back and wait. This could take a while – nothing happens quickly at Bastion as messages are passed up the chain of command and on to the right person.

Coops goes off to locate Rich’s VIPs and returns a short time later, a line of well-dressed passengers following him like he’s the Pied Piper of Hamelin. We wait. And wait.

The heat is stifling, the dashboard too hot to touch. A bead of sweat draws a path from under my helmet down my forehead and I can feel it heading inexorably for my eyes – my gloved hand swipes it away. The rotors turn, fuel burns, but we’re going nowhere. Where the fuck is the armourer?

I check my watch; we’ve been sitting ‘turning and burning’ for fifty minutes now.

‘Bastion Ops, Black Cat Two Two, where’s the armourer?’ I ask.

‘Black Cat Two Two, Bastion Ops, should be with you now.’

I twist and look over my left shoulder and see him walking up the ramp. I motion for him to sit on the jump seat. Bob Ruffles assists the armourer and plugs his helmet into the comms.

‘Okay, this is what we’ve got,’ I tell him. ‘We landed at Gereshk to refuel with our formation leader and his cab had a massive fuel leak. It’s completely soaked his Defensive Aids Suite, so his flares are now bathed in it. We’ll fly you to Gereshk so you can replace them. We’ll be back for you after our next sortie – it shouldn’t be more than about forty-five minutes.’

I look past him to the full load of VIPs. I don’t know who they are except they’re very formally dressed so they look a bit out of place. Their questioning glares and furrowed brows tell me they’re an unhappy group of suits. I’m pissed off and I’ve only been waiting for an hour; they’ve been sat in the cab almost as long as I have, and they were waiting in the heat for over an hour before boarding. No wonder they’re not smiling.

It’s time to get moving. But while we’ve been waiting, things have gone from bad to worse as yet another cab has developed a fault. Bastion Ops advises me that the Apache that has been with us all morning has also gone tits up. What the hell is going on today? Another AH is scrambled; it flies on ahead to take up station and await our arrival into Musa Qala.

‘Bastion Tower, Black Cat Two Two is ready for departure.’

‘Black Cat Two Two, you’re cleared for take-off and cross as required. Visibility is 5km, wind two-five-zero at 10kts.’

‘Pre-take-offs good, ready to lift,’ says Alex.

‘Clear above and behind,’ says Coops at the ramp. Bob mans the port Minigun as we lift.

‘Take off, Black Cat Two Two.’

I pull pitch and lift into the afternoon sky and turn towards Gereshk, just off to our east. We’re in the air no more than five minutes before I land us on and drop off the armourer. Thirty seconds on the ground, no more. Coops gives the all clear again and I lift us once more into the crystal-clear azure sky and turn due north for Musa Qala.

Ten more minutes and we’re about six miles from the target. I radio ahead to the Apache: ‘Ugly Five Zero, Black Cat Two Two. Inbound. Next location in figures five.’

‘Black Cat Two Two, Ugly Five Zero, visual. Be aware, enemy forces moving weapons along your route. Hold, we’re checking it out.’

We don’t have long to wait.

‘Black Cat Two Two, Ugly Five Zero. Enemy forces moving weapons to the south-west – suggest you try alternative routing. Guys, the ICOM chatter has got ten times worse. They’re up to something.’

That’s the second time they’ve told us that today. Maybe something is going on after all. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I click the PTT button on the end of the cyclic to confirm I’ve received the message.