Apache

Appalling news. We didn’t have seven bloody minutes. Bone was the weak link in our master plan and that link had just snapped. We didn’t have the fuel to wait. If he wasn’t there, we’d just have to go in anyway. Otherwise Ford wasn’t coming out. And landing in full view of the west village was unthinkable. We were starting to feel like sitting ducks. Carl was even unhappier than I was.

‘Ed, Bone needs to get on this sharpish. Bloody tell him.’

‘Negative, Bone. We are inbound with the rescue team now. Repeat: we are running in NOW. You must drop at one zero three seven hours.’

That reminded me: time to make ready my own personal weapons. A loaded weapon was the Number One No-No in an Apache cockpit. A round going off would ricochet around the Kevlar until it found me. But the rule book had already been thrown out of the window. If we went down, my SA80 carbine and 9-mm pistol were going to be my only life support systems.

The carbine first, clipped into the bracket on the right of my seat. I fished a full mag of thirty tracer rounds from the ammo bag wedged in next to me, clipped it on, pulled down the cocking handle and clipped it back onto the seat. Red tracer was the emergency signal for downed Apache pilots to get help from the other gunships; you put a burst into where you wanted some suppressing fire, so your mates above could keep you alive until someone picked you up.

The 9-mm Browning next. I unfastened the Velcro straps of the holster on my right leg, pulled back the top slide then let it go with a metallic click and re-holstered it – this time without the Velcro. Both weapons with a round in the chamber, ready to go. Screw the rules; it made me feel better.

‘Sixty seconds to target, Ed. Where the hell is Bone?’

Time, fuel. Time, fuel. Carl was doing his nut. We were just 1,100 metres from the fort now, and within enemy range. Better push Bone for a…

An ear-splitting metallic blast on the right side of the aircraft.

‘What on earth was that?’

Jesus. Please don’t tell me Rigg has been shot…

Our heads shot right and I scoured the airframe for damage. ‘Christ knows. Are we hit?’

‘Can you see anything?’

There was no damage. Rigg grinned sheepishly, pointed to his SA80 rifle and gave us the thumbs up.

‘Rigg has let one go by mistake!’

‘No, it was probably on purpose.’ I remembered my conversation with Rigg at the RV. ‘He said he hadn’t had a chance to test fire his weapon in theatre.’

‘He hadn’t what?’

‘Yeah, I know. He wanted to let one off to make sure it worked.’

‘Oh, right…’

What a time to check-fire your weapon. But I couldn’t blame him.

I looked forward again and started to get my first visuals of the air above the target area. FOG was over the lip of the ridge, at altitude on his first gun run, Nick’s cannon already spitting flame. Tony circled on a wheel directly opposite him and kept silent. Charlotte was waiting for us to come in on her eastern flank. She didn’t want to do anything to risk giving away our plan of approach. Good girl.

Fresh smoke and dust spiralled up from the last salvo of artillery shells that had exploded on the Taliban village. The three 105s were going like the clappers. They’d stop the second we landed and came in range of their shrapnel.

Again, that’s why we needed Bone. For Christ’s sake, we were almost on top of the firebase. Widow Seven One just had to sort him out.

‘Widow Seven One, this is Ugly Five One. Confirm Bone’s time on target.’

Bone didn’t even give the JTAC a chance to reply.

‘Break, Break… This is Bone. Bomb in the air. Impact in Five Zero seconds, sir.’

Yes. Bone had come up with the goods after all.

‘I bet that’s the longest gliding bomb he’s ever dropped.’

‘Thank fuck for that.’ Carl’s relief was so strong I could touch it.

But we were still going to get there a fraction too soon. The ridge was only 600 metres from the fort and the village, and the Danger Close distance for a 2,000-lb bomb was 590 metres. We didn’t want to be anywhere near that thing when it went off.

‘Carl, tell Geordie to slow up a little and come right. We’re going to be ten seconds too early now.’

‘Okay. Ugly Five Zero, Ugly Five One: kick right.’

We banked gradually right. But something was wrong. Geordie hadn’t changed course.

‘Carl, tell Geordie to come right now.’

‘I just have.’

I stamped my left foot on the floor pressel to operate my radio microphone. ‘Kick right, Geordie. The bomb’s inbound.’

No change. Fuck. The radios were blaring.

I tried a third time to break through. ‘Geordie! Break RIGHT!’

Geordie heard us just before they reached the ridgeline and flared their aircraft hard right. Carl slowed up and banked too, keeping in formation. As soon as our wings levelled, the bomb went off. And it was monumental.