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
