Alex Duncan - Sweating the Metal

What I don’t know is that the Taliban has brought in an assassination team especially to take out our cab – and with it our VIPs, who include Gulab Mangal, the governor of Helmand Province and a crucial figure in Britain’s long-term plan to stabilise the region. Mangal’s support for UK Forces in Helmand has been instrumental in securing approval for foreign troops among the Afghan population, but that and his hardline stance against corruption and the poppy trade have made the governor a prized scalp for the Taliban. Also aboard are his bodyguards and the Foreign & Commonwealth Office’s entire Provincial Reconstruction Team.

‘Okay guys, I’m not going to abort the mission for this, but we have to be a bit careful, so keep your eyes peeled.’

‘Agreed,’ says Alex. ‘Call it a sixth sense, but I’m feeling distinctly edgy. C’mon, let’s crack on.’

I decide to fly a feint to confuse anyone on the ground that might have something nefarious in mind. I share my thoughts with the crew.

‘I’m going to shoot an approach into FOB Edinburgh and pretend we’re unloading there.’

FOB Edinburgh is a couple of miles away from Musa Qala, but it’s on higher ground. If the Taliban are dicking us, they’ll think that’s our intended destination and stand down any weapons they’ve got at Musa Qala. It’s dusty there though – really dusty – and the dust cloud tends to completely fill the cabin on landing.

‘These VIPs are very well dressed, mate, and they look even more pissed off than when we took off,’ says Bob in the back. ‘I’m not sure that half a tonne of sand is going to improve their mood much.’

‘Yeah, fair point.’

I make a decision. ‘I’ll just do a low-level orbit over Edinburgh and use terrain masking so they won’t see us at Musa Qala.’

Obviously, FOBs and PBs are fixed sites and we’re into the same LSs every time; you can change your routes, your angles but there are only so many ways into the same destination. The Taliban know this so they’ll sit and wait. When we landed at Musa Qala earlier that day, I’d flown in from the south-west and JP had come in from the west. So this time, I decide to come in from the north-west and make a totally different approach.

I brief Alex. ‘Okay, I want you to put us four miles north of Edinburgh. There’s a deep wadi there and I want to be flying low through it at max speed on the approach. Bug the RadAlt down to 10ft; I’m gonna put the light on at 20 and we’re going to go in fast and low.’

‘Bob, get on the starboard Minigun. Standard Rules of Engagement; you have my authority to engage without reference to me if we come under fire. Clear?’

‘Absolutely, Frenchie.’

I want him on the right because, looking at the topography of the area, that’s where we’d most likely take fire from. He can scan his arcs, I’ve got the front and right, and Alex and Coops have the left. We’re as well prepared as we can be, even if it does feel like we’re flying into the lion’s den.

Alex gets us into the perfect position and I drop down low into the wadi as I fly us towards FOB Edinburgh at 160 knots. Trees are rushing past the cockpit windows on either side, but I’m totally focused on the job at hand so they barely register. We’re so low, I’m climbing to avoid tall blades of grass as we scream along the wadi, and I’m working the collective up and down like a whore’s knickers, throwing the aircraft around. Anyone trying to get a bead on us is going to have a fucking hard time.

It’s about twenty seconds later when I see the Toyota Hilux with a man standing in the back. It’s alongside the wadi in our 1 o’clock position and about half a mile ahead. It’s redolent of one of the Technicals – the flat-bed pick-up trucks with a machine-gun or recoilless rifle in the back that caused so much mayhem in Black Hawk Down . They’re popular with the Taliban too. Suddenly, alarm bells are ringing in my head. They’re so loud, I’m sure the others can hear.

‘Threat right,’ I shout as both Alex and I look at the guy in the truck.

My response is automatic. I act even before the thought has formed and throw the cyclic hard left to jink the cab away from danger. Except the threat isn’t right; the truck is nothing to do with the Taliban.

The threat lies unseen on our left, on the far bank of the wadi. The team brought in specifically to take us out is waiting there and they have a view of the whole vista below them, including us. I’ve just flown us right into the jaws of the trap they’ve laid just for us and Gulab Mangal, the VIP that the Taliban is so desperate to take out.

BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG!

The Defensive Aids Suite explodes into life and fires off flares to draw the threat away from us; too late though. Everything happens in a nanosecond, but perception distortion has me in its grip, so it seems like an age.

I feel the airframe shudder violently as we simultaneously lurch upwards and to the right. I know what’s happened even as Coops shouts over the comms: ‘We’ve been hit, we’ve been hit!’

There’s no time for Bob to react on the gun. The aircraft has just done the polar opposite of what I’ve asked of it. And for any pilot, that’s the worst thing imaginable – loss of control.

‘RPG!’ shouts Coops. ‘We’ve lost a huge piece of the blade!’

The Master Caution goes off and I’m thrust into a world of son et lumière . Warning lights are flashing and the RadAlt alarm is sounding through my helmet speakers.

‘Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! Black Cat Two Two, Mayday. We’ve been hit!’ says Alex over the radio. Then, ‘Frenchie, we’ve lost the No.2 hydraulic system and the AFCS, both secured.’

‘It could be worse,’ I think. The AFCS is an auto-stabiliser that helps keep the aircraft straight and level, but I can fly without it. The No.2 hydraulic system is more of a concern, but it’s not life-and-death. The real concern is the blade; I’ve no idea how badly damaged it is, or how long it will last.

I push the cyclic forward and left again and amazingly the cab responds. Something is seriously wrong though; it’s woolly and there’s a lag to my input. The aircraft is shaking like a bastard; the pedals are shaking, the cyclic is vibrating in my hand. The aircraft feels completely wrong as I’m trying to fly her; the rear is skidding – a sign of a big imbalance there. It’s the rotor head telling me that it’s missing a piece.

I manage to fly a wing over to get us out of the wadi. Suddenly, Roshan Tower looms large through the cockpit window and zooms past.

‘Fuck, where did that come from?!’ I ask. Somehow, I’ve been able to turn inside it.

The mast sits on the site of an old Afghan fort and stands 260ft over the Musa Qala district, providing mobile phone coverage to the whole of that part of Helmand province, so it’s of key strategic importance. The Taliban are forever launching rocket attacks against it – twenty-seven in the past three months at that point – so it’s well defended by us. I’ve almost brought it down single-handedly!

‘C’mon, think!’ I tell myself. I consider putting the aircraft straight down and immediately dismiss the thought. It’s not feasible – I have sixteen civilians in the back, we have four rifles between us to defend them with, and we can’t be any more than 400 metres from the firing point – we’d have no chance.

I’m really worried about losing the blade completely – if that happens we’re fucked. I set myself small targets – you know, ‘I just want to make it to that tree over there.’ My aim is just to put some distance between the cab and the kill zone. At the back of my mind I know I have the option of putting the aircraft down, just throwing it in. I need to gain a bit of height, but will keep us low. ‘Rebug the RadAlt to 40ft your side, Alex,’ I say as I reset the bug for the light to 50.