Читать книгу Reaper Force - Inside Britain's Drone Wars - Peter Lee M. - Страница 11

‘YOU’RE FLYING WITH ME TODAY’

SQUADRON BOSS

It is an odd feeling, knowing that I am about to watch someone be killed. Perhaps not today, and perhaps not even tomorrow, but almost certainly before the week is over I will see someone’s life ended before my eyes. Deliberately, precisely and with extreme prejudice, using a missile or bomb from an RAF MQ-9 Reaper – a drone, in popular terminology, or an RPAS to use its more technical term. The very possibility transports me to another time and place that I try not to think about too often. To a military hospital in Cyprus in 2003 where I spent five months of the Iraq War at the bedsides of the wounded, injured and dying. Maybe I haven’t thought this through properly. But here I am, not in Cyprus… in Vegas. And not to gamble. (No way. The house always wins.) My cheap casino room is merely a base from where I will venture into one of the most secretive communities on Earth.

An hour’s drive from the epicentre of Vegas’s hedonism stands Creech Air Force Base, home to an array of USAF capabilities, the most famous – or infamous, depending on your opinion – of which are the MQ-1 Predator and MQ-9 Reaper. It is also one of the two places from where the UK operates its own Reapers, the other being RAF Waddington. I am about to spend several days alongside the RAF Reaper crews of 39 Squadron, with a behind-the-scenes view of the war they are waging against IS in Syria and Iraq. I cannot dignify the jihadists’ self-styled use of the bogus name ‘Islamic State’, and I’m not sure how neutral I will be as I watch events unfold. Any group that kidnaps, sells and rapes thousands of young girls, and murders Muslims and others in pursuit of its aims, does not have the hallmarks of Islam or of statehood.

The early morning traffic is accumulating rapidly as my condescending satnav guides me briefly along the Las Vegas strip and then away on a circuitous route to US95. Highway 95 takes me northwest out of Vegas towards Creech where 39 Squadron has been based since its re-formation as a Reaper Squadron in 2007.

As the Vegas suburbs give way to desert the transition comes quickly. The last signs of civilization – if that is the right word – are the power cables above the highway. High- and low-voltage cables: the twenty-four-hour pulse that keeps the city alive. No electricity, no lights; no electricity, no pumped water; no electricity, no pinging slot machines.

There are no signs of life as far as the eye can see. The car thermometer says it is 43ºC (109ºF) outside and the sky is a rich morning blue, edged with paler shades around the horizon. No clouds, no hope of rain. The road is arrow straight for miles ahead and a constant shimmer maintains its distance half a mile in front of me as the sun works its magic on the tarmac. In the mirror an identical shimmer follows me a half mile behind. Las Vegas begins to disappear. The ultimate illusion: making a whole city – this city in particular – disappear in its own mirage.

A few miles to the left and right of the road stand parallel rows of mountains. Perversely, given the desert heat, I pass a road sign that points to a distant, elevated ski resort. As my eyes follow the direction of the sign the mountains become craggy, foreboding. Their rock strata emerge from the ground at shifting angles. Immediately to my left a peak rises steeply, while for several peaks further on the angle to the land below is much shallower. I wonder about the forces that can shape trillions of tons of rock in that way over millions of years, or over just six days, according to the sign I saw earlier.

To my right a twin mountain range stands over the desert, except this time the strata are contoured – waves of rock rather than hard, straight lines. Sandstone colours are packed between the darker, harder layers. Between both sets of mountains lie desert and scrub, bisected by black tarmac. A sign to the right points towards a tribal Visitor Centre on one of thirty-two Nevada Indian reservations and colonies spread across the state.9

An upward glance spots criss-crossing vapour trails high overhead, probably commercial airliners. Much lower and far more interesting are two pairs of fighter aircraft – they look like F-16s and F-22s – flying several miles apart, one pair in close formation, the other combat formation. From their trajectory they are heading back to Nellis Air Force Base from the Nevada Training Range. I recall watching Top Gun when it first came out in 1986 and I wonder which of these pairs ‘won’ their aerial dance of death. I like to imagine that a couple of grizzled, middle-aged dudes in the F-16s whipped a pair of young guns in the F-22s. In reality, the F-22s would have released a couple of over-the-horizon missiles and ended the argument before it began. The jets remind me that this trip is about flying, not sightseeing. But the aircraft I am interested in are flying over a different desert landscape on another continent.

This is the road that thousands of Reaper and Predator crews have used over the years on their daily commute to Creech. These have been mainly USAF personnel. However, for over a decade a fair smattering of British crews have joined their number, and it is their stories I am here for.

I wonder how many of the Predator or Reaper pilots have watched fighters like these, masters of the sky, and envied the pilots who do their flying up there? How many of them have been there and done that, and are now happy to swap fighter cockpits for static cockpits: metal containers firmly anchored to the ground? Another question springs to mind from the numerous debates, discussions, media events and conferences on drones I have taken part in. How many people have no idea that Reaper and Predator ‘drones’ are every bit as piloted as the F-16 fast jets now rapidly disappearing in the distance? The only real difference is that instead of several feet between the fighter pilot’s controls and the aircraft’s engine and wing surfaces, signals from the Reaper pilot’s controls travel several thousand miles via satellite.

I put on the radio and find a local station. Someone is beyond excited about today’s sunny weather in Las Vegas, which makes me wonder if a corresponding radio presenter is equally excited about another day of snow in Alaska, thereby keeping climate karma in balance.

Then the morning show presenter introduces Coolio and I chuckle to myself. A distinctive synth riff sits over a groaning bass line and leads into the only lyric of his that I know: ‘As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I take a look at my life and realise there’s nothin’ left.’ From Psalm 23. Here I am driving through a valley of death, but now with biblical allusions to add to my self-induced mind games. Thanks Coolio.

Every military funeral I have conducted or attended has featured Psalm 23 and I visualise them in a mental torrent. Countless war memorial services flash through my mind until I settle on one I conducted in 2005 in the Falkland Islands for a small group of Welsh Guards, veterans of the 1982 war. One of them read those later words from Psalm 23, ‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.’ I was angry then and I begin to feel angry now. The only thing that had followed those particular soldiers throughout their lives was scarring from third degree burns and PTSD.

I try to focus on the road. I cannot see how this particular drive will distract the Reaper crews from their thoughts of the death that they regularly consider and occasionally deliver. Then slowly, finally, Creech starts to sneak into view in the distance. First, some small buildings that can barely be seen through the heat haze rising up from the road. Then, gradually, expanses of concrete, roads and runway come into view. Runway lights on their intricate frames point the way to the landing threshold. As I get closer, more and more buildings appear. And then a green sign against the mountain backdrop: ‘Creech AFB’.

I take a few moments to reflect on how long and difficult it has been to get this far. Not to make the simple drive out from Las Vegas. Rather, the process that started with a simple phone call to the RAF’s Director of Defence Studies almost a year and a half ago. To his credit he didn’t put the phone down on me, though if he knew what lay ahead he may well have done. What I thought I was requesting was access to some interesting people to capture what I hoped would be some interesting stories. What he heard was someone asking to access one of the most secretive and controversial programmes in the armed forces, in the hope that enough of these over-busy men and women would be willing to talk to him in enough numbers to fill a book.

I’m sure I still don’t know the full extent of the work he had to do on my behalf; how many phone calls and emails it took. For his own security I can’t even give him a name check. Yet here I am, nearing Creech, with a wad of clearances, approvals and passes stacked on the front seat.

I swing off the main carriageway onto a narrower road that winds round to the checkpoint at the entrance to the base. The speed limit drops to 15mph and suddenly everything looks more ominous with ‘Stay Out’ signs and razor wire topping the fences. I queue behind two cars and watch the guards, attentive and serious as they check vehicles, identification and documentation. There are no cursory glances. I have entered military bases on several continents and am yet to meet any guard who takes their duty more seriously than an American soldier under orders to keep a place safe.

Both guards are decked out in the full Robocop: body armour, two-way radio, pistol, rifle, fingerless gloves with armoured knuckles, reflective sunglasses. They look like they could storm a bridgehead or defend an isolated outpost in Helmand Province, Afghanistan. Maybe they already have.

Guard 1 does not smile as she bends to look in the first car and talk to the driver. Guard 2 has her head on swivel mode and almost seems to be in a slow-moving dance, her partner being the rifle she holds across her torso. I wonder if the safety catch is on. She looks in the back of the first car, all the while glancing up at me and the vehicle between us. Are the RayBans to keep out the sun or to keep a psychological barrier between the watcher and the watched? Perhaps both. It takes a lot of self-discipline to pay this much attention to detail in stultifying heat.

Car 1 is waved through and Car 2 gets the same treatment. The smiles and relaxed banter of countless guards I have met at the gates of many British military bases are conspicuous by their absence. I have been warned not to try to make small talk. Jokes and witticisms are out, while sudden movements would make things go loud and ugly. I glance once more at the passenger seat where my passport and documents are neatly, obsessively neatly, clipped together. Two years of preparation, worrying and hoping have come down to this: whether a private soldier recognises and accepts the security certificate that was printed, signed and stamped by an RAF police sergeant a continent away.

I am motioned forward. Still no smile. I recognise a distinctly Scottish surname velcroed to the body armour of Guard 1.

‘Identification and purpose of visit?’

‘I am visiting 39 Squadron for a few days.’ I hand over my passport and papers, and she leans away to pick up a clipboard from the adjacent booth. I have arrived at precisely my allotted arrival time.

The documents are scrutinised for errors or flaws and checked against whatever is written on her clipboard. Without looking up, she asks, ‘You Scottish?’ If there is an ounce of Scottish blood in her ancestry things might get a bit more relaxed.

‘I’m from Dunfermline near Edinburgh, originally.’ I could see her face soften. The Celtic connection was made.

She replies, ‘My grandmother is from Edinburgh, from a place called Pilton. I’ve always wanted to visit.’

Take your gun with you if you visit Pilton, is what I was thinking. What I said was, ‘I hope you get the chance – go in the summer time.’ It would all be plain sailing now.

‘Where is your escort?’

‘Escort?’

‘Yes, you need to be escorted at all times.’ My plain sailing ship just sailed. I tried not to panic.

‘I have some other printed instructions in my bag. Can I check them?’ No unauthorised movements – she has a gun and a bloodline from Pilton. She nods.

I start pulling out every bit of paper related to this project, and there are a lot of them. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a car pull up on the inside of the checkpoint. Someone in a flying suit steps out of the car, and the lack of weapons and military bearing tell me right away that he is from the RAF. My escort?

Guard 1 walks over to him, exchanges a few words and checks his ID. She fills in a pass which, smiling, she hands to me with my other paperwork. ‘Welcome to Creech Air Force Base.’

As he jumps back in his car, a series of incomprehensible hand signals from my escort suggest that I should follow him. He holds up his palm with fingers and thumb splayed wide. Is he indicating five miles or five minutes? I wave, nod and move before I get left behind.

There is little chance of getting lost at this stage. On either side of the sand-strewn road stands an honour guard of 2ft high boulders that would wreck the underside of a truck if it decided to take a detour. In the distance more buildings come into view, hangars and offices, the support units that are needed to keep a military base functioning. My escort shows no sign of slowing down, or of arriving anywhere for that matter. The distance we are driving surprises me slightly but it probably shouldn’t in the country that does everything BIGLY. Including offences against grammar.

A couple of days later an American airman explained why there was such a long drive from the main gate to the airfield. Local legend has it that when the Predator squadrons were first activated at Creech, the USAF personnel who operated them needed to live in Las Vegas. The distance from the edge of Las Vegas to the airfield was just far enough for a particular home-to-work mileage allowance to kick in, at considerable benefit to the commuters and considerable expense to the government. This prompted the new entrance to be built next to Highway 95, taking the distance from Vegas to Creech officially below the mileage allowance threshold. I decided not to try and verify the story because I did not want to discover that it was untrue. Even if it is an urban myth it somehow speaks to an ageless truth I have encountered in several countries: if there is a financial allowance, personal benefit or some other factor that makes life more tolerable for military personnel and their families, someone, somewhere, is working out how to remove it.

Eventually a sign indicates life: ‘Home of the Hunters, 432nd Wing, United States Air Force.’ Somewhere ahead lies 39 Squadron, RAF – a lodger unit amongst the permanent American residents.

Approaching the squadron area and taking in the view, my mind is prompted towards a scene from the film Independence Day. Desperate survivors of an alien-invasion apocalypse descend upon the secret government programme at Area 51, which, ironically, is not very far from here. Massive multi-layered security systems protect a secret world where giant, shiny glass and metal doors give way to a brightly lit, futuristic complex where all manner of other-worldly weapons and technologies are hidden. An army of white-clad scientists and military specialists work on projects beyond imagination and beyond accountability. Even the President is kept in the dark. My excitement level rises.

Then a seemingly invisible but shockingly effective speed hump jolts my head into the car roof and shocks my mind back into the present. As my escort guides us into a car park my anticipation sensors rapidly reconfigure from the excitedly overwhelmed to simply being ‘whelmed’, before heading rapidly for the distinctly underwhelmed. Why? While the sign on the chain link fence behind the car park says ‘39 Squadron, Royal Air Force’, the buildings behind the fence do not yell out ‘Area 51 Futuristic Facility’ or even ‘Secret Hi-Tec Drone Lair’. They just mutter ‘Dusty Portacabins with some sand-coloured shipping containers lined up outside’. It looks like an RAF detachment in 1920s Iraq.

The car park itself is almost a caricature of the Brit abroad: a smattering of American muscle cars and motorbikes hint that several boyhood fantasies are being lived out by some nearby ground-dwelling Top Gun wannabees. Tom greets me cheerily with that most British of welcomes, ‘Dr Lee, I presume!’ Livingstone and Stanley in the searing Nevada heat.

Tom has, no doubt, been volunteered to make the practical arrangements for my arrival. He has done the job well and hands over a folder of useful information, the most important of which is a provisional list of people who have agreed to be interviewed. I heave a huge sigh of relief; I’d travelled all this way with only one confirmed interview in place. The second thing he hands over is a swipe card and security code number. ‘This will get you in everywhere. Don’t lose it.’

I played it cool and nodded knowingly: ‘I’ll be careful.’ But inside I was thinking, ‘Secret shiny drone lair here I come.’

The revolving security gate is particular effective at keeping out intruders. And at keeping out those who should be getting in. Multiple swipes of our passes are accompanied by beeps, red lights, muttered curses and a complete lack of access. We shall not enter. There is something mildly ironic about the being able to fly a Reaper thousands of miles away while being thwarted by a temperamental electronic lock.

Some helpful assistance gets us past the blockade and into the Squadron Operations building. The main door opens into the crew room and tea bar. This is definitely not a secret shiny drone lair. If the interior designer is aiming for jumble sale chic with shades of unwanted military supplies, all decorated with uneven standard issue framed pictures of the Reaper and other RAF aircraft, then the look is a triumph. The ambience is completed by the lingering scent of microwaved curry, the sound of the BBC News channel and an air conditioner losing its rear-guard battle against nature.

I quickly lose track of the introductions and names. The daily briefing is due to take place in a few minutes and nobody is loitering. More instructions as I am steered towards an internal security door. My electronic equipment – laptop, tablet, digital recorders and mobile phone – is abandoned with everyone else’s outside the SECRET operations area. I grab my notebook and pen. The swipe card works first time and gets me into the secure zone. More introductions and the occasional promise of ‘I’ll speak to you later.’

Around me, last-minute preparations are taking place for the briefing. To my left the Duty Auth’s (Authoriser’s) desk would be familiar to anyone who has ever visited an RAF flying squadron. Any lingering vision of a chrome and glass wonderland is replaced by the reality of varnished plywood topped by Perspex: a classic air force design. Its angled top surface holds the documentation for the Reaper aircraft that is thousands of miles away, but which the pilot will later sign for before taking command of it.

In the Ops Room across the corridor from the desk, some footage of a strike the previous day by XIII Squadron in the UK is being examined. I ask a passer-by if there is something unusual about this particular video but it turns out to be routine: footage of every weapon release is shared between the squadrons for training purposes. Various levels of critique are being offered involving angles of attack and weapon settings, all underpinned by a general sense of ‘39 Squadron would have done it better.’

I smiled and thought: Everyone’s an expert. My second thought was: Actually, everyone watching is an expert, and they are analysing the minutiae of destroying and killing in forensic detail. I can just see past the small group huddled around the screen but cannot quite fathom the details being discussed. In a few weeks’ time an instructor at RAF Waddington would talk me through a broad selection of different weapon strikes, what the crew are looking at, how the pilot is flying the aircraft to set up the shot, and so on. I’m not sure how I would feel about every lecture I deliver being dissected, line by line, by all of the other lecturers in my department but I am certain I wouldn’t like it.

The screen goes blank and everyone makes a final move for the seats in the Briefing Room. A junior officer is on the receiving end of some banter about the length of his hair. He shrugs it off with threats of revenge and vague promises to get to a barber. I am struck by the banality of the exchange. The comments seem simultaneously appropriate, given that this is a military unit, and inappropriate – given the significance of an extra 5mm of hair in the context of what the squadron will do today.

The room itself is nondescript and functional, maintaining the ‘every expense spared’ theme of the building. A few maps enliven the walls. The INT board with the latest intelligence updates reminds me of the local Items for Sale boards in many supermarkets. Useful for the right person at the right time with very specific needs, but otherwise generally disappointing.

The focal point is the lectern where last-minute adjustments are being made. Beside it, the screen onto which the first PowerPoint slide of the pre-flight briefing reminds us where we are. The mission crews are going to spend the day, mentally at least, in another country and in a different time zone. The relief crews – who will step in to provide rest and lunch breaks for the mission crews – could be operating in two different places throughout the ten to twelve hours ahead, depending on what and where the missions are.

When we start to take our seats the bonhomie subsides. Notebooks appear, quiet descends and attention turns to the screen. Everyone stands when the Commanding Officer enters. As he walks past he taps me on the shoulder and says quietly, ‘You’re flying with me today.’

‘Great,’ I whisper in knowing agreement. I don’t know exactly what he means but things are getting more interesting by the minute.

‘Good morning sirs, ma’ams, ladies and gentlemen.’ The Auth, who must have at least 500 hours’ experience on the Reaper to qualify for this particular duty, begins the briefing. It is one of several responsibilities he will hold for the duration of his duty period. The most important of these is being legally empowered by the Station Commander, via the Squadron Commander, to ensure that flying and legal standards are maintained throughout the day’s missions. He will sign the crews out, sign them back in, be available for advice and, in between, monitor what they are doing through the live video feeds from their respective aircraft. He has hotlines to the Command Headquarters, lawyers and anyone else he might need to speak to.

The briefing replicates that found in every RAF squadron, for every type of aircraft, everywhere in the world. It begins with the MET (meteorology) briefing, which provides a detailed weather forecast for the transit route of the Reaper, from its launch site to the day’s area of operations over IS-held territory near Sharqat in Northern Iraq. The next image on the screen depicts what the wind, cloud and temperatures will be in the area for the next twenty-four hours and at different flight levels. The daytime reading can be summed up as ‘hot and sunny’ followed by ‘hotter and sunnier’, all interspersed with limited viz (visibility). A thirty-year-old memory resurfaces. I recall drawing a similar MET map on acetate as a university air squadron flight cadet at RAF Leuchars in Scotland and presenting it on an overhead projector. It probably said ‘cold and cloudy’ followed by ‘colder and cloudier,’ all with zero viz.

Important information follows, signposted on the screen by ‘IMPORTANT INFORMATION’ for the inattentive. A general recap of the last few days of the campaign against IS follows, updating those who are returning to work after a couple of days off. Actually, instead of IS the Auth actually uses the term ‘Daesh’ – an Arabic term with vaguely insulting undertones – as mandated for all UK government departments. Recent activities by both 39 Squadron and XIII Squadron are summarised. Short videos are played of the destruction of both a pickup truck with a weapon on the back – mobile light artillery known as a ‘technical’ – and a bunker system. ‘Squirters’ appear from both strikes.

Squirters are enemy fighters who somehow survive a missile or bomb strike and run off; depending on the RoE they may be re-attacked by the crew. It is a lucky squirter who lives to tell the tale. I try to imagine how disorienting it must be near the blast of a 100lb Hellfire missile when it impacts at many hundreds of miles per hour. I have a sneaking admiration for the survivors who have the presence of mind to run and hide.

A quick summary of aircraft serviceability follows: no problems today. That will shortly turn out to be a bit optimistic.

The dedicated crews for the two ‘lines’ are identified. A line is shorthand for everything involved in a single mission from take-off to landing. One line will be devoted to direct support for Iraqi forces fighting against IS. The other will support operations against IS in Northern Syria.

Flex crews are also detailed. Their job is to relieve the duty crews for their breaks and meals by taking temporary charge of the Reaper in question. They dutifully write down the planned timings. The German strategist Helmuth von Moltke is attributed with the words, ‘no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy’. That extends to the Reaper crew meal plans.

Finally, the specific briefing for today’s operation generates a noticeable increase in interest. The satellite image of the operating area is annotated with lines, arrows and various indicators of the enemy disposition, according to the most recent intelligence reports. I wonder why the Auth didn’t just use the regional map I looked at yesterday on the BBC website; it definitely seemed much clearer. An arrow at the top of the slide points upwards with MOSUL typed next to it, giving me some rough bearings. It would be many months until the battle for Mosul got under way. Different phases of the operation are detailed in relation to Iraqi Army progress, or planned progress, on the ground.

All of this takes place at breakneck speed, much closer to that of a horse-racing commentator than to a bingo caller. A quick ‘Any questions?’ is followed by a few clarifications. Then, before I know it, the whole thing is over. My neighbour tells me that the briefing is kept shorter than that at XIII Squadron at RAF Waddington because 39 Squadron will be flying long transits to the operating area, and further information can be passed on to the crews then.

Everyone rises for the departure of the Squadron Commander, i.e. the Boss. The crew I am to shadow will be walking to the GCS in fifteen minutes. On the way out the pilot tells me to get a drink and a toilet break: it will be nearly three hours before the next opportunity. I wrestle with dehydration as a preferred option if I am three hours from the next toilet break. I definitely don’t have the bladder to fly a Reaper.

I leave the Briefing Room somewhat dazed by the speed and amount of information given. One thought dominates. In this mind-bending world of remotely piloted aircraft, the war against IS is roughly seventy-five feet from where I am standing.

9 For further information see http://www.nevadaindianterritory.com/, accessed 10 June 2018.