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.
‘THIS IS AN AUSTIN POWERS PARKING MANOEUVRE RIGHT NOW.’
DEAN, REAPER PILOT
DAY 1
I exit the building through the crew room door with an empty bladder and a full bottle of water. By the time I return in a few hours the water will have swapped locations. I don’t know why I am preoccupied with bodily functions. My mind is on overload, trying to take in everything I have seen and heard in less than one hour. Open cups or mugs are forbidden because accidental spillage in an electronically dense environment could cost huge sums of money in damages and vital lost hours of operational capability.
The desert heat hits me and I almost laugh at the extreme sensation. Such a temperature has never been experienced in my native Scotland. I am wearing a short-sleeved shirt and after a few seconds my pale forearms feel like they are being assaulted by the sun’s rays.
It is only a few yards to the entrance to the first of four sand-coloured GCSs. They are lined up and spaced out with military precision, all under a canopy that tries to protect them from the direct heat of the sun. An air-conditioning unit hums gently next to the first container, where I will spend most of the next ten hours. Black arteries snake into the GCS carrying electricity, audio and video signals, telephone lines and millions of digital 1s and 0s per second that make up the complex, secret computer coding that makes it all work. For the most part.
Over the years I have seen many, many pilots and other aircrew walk out of their squadron buildings to their aircraft. From Norway in the Arctic Circle to Scotland, England, Gibraltar, Cyprus and the Falkland Islands the pattern is largely the same. Some similarities stand out as I watch the Reaper crew walk to the GCS. The Reaper guys are wearing standard flying suits with 39 Squadron patches and relevant rank slides. They carry themselves with the kind of confident nonchalance that has been the mark of aircrew for more than a century. The same confident nonchalance that bugs the crap out of non-aircrew the world over. Some differences stand out: they do not have flying helmets; nobody is wearing the G-suits that help fast jet crews resist the effects of gravity; and there is no waterproof layer. This Reaper crew will not be crash landing or ditching in the sea if there is an in-flight emergency.
But something about them is off, doesn’t make sense. Something does not quite fit as the three of them file in to the metal container ahead of me. As I follow behind my subconscious dredges the answer from somewhere. Two of the crew are actually carrying cold weather flying jackets with them, in 100 degree desert heat that is quickly turning my pale blue shirt into a damp, dark blue dishcloth.
As I step inside, the temperature drops 40 degrees to around a steady 17°C (620F). For me this is pleasant; for the acclimatised Reaper crew it feels like winter and a jacket is an essential requirement. The temperature drop is accompanied by a sudden gloom as I enter what I first imagine to be the inside of a giant computer from a 1980s sci-fi film. A wall of computer equipment faces me in the narrow corridor that runs about 15ft from the pilot and SO who are taking their seats to my right, to the MIC who is sitting in front of his own screens to my left at the back of the cabin.
The SO beckons me to a seat in between, and just behind, him and the pilot. I close the door, shutting out the Nevada desert. Another desert landscape will soon occupy our attention. In the meantime I am fascinated by the fact that the walls, floor and ceiling are all carpeted. Not high quality woollen Axminster carpet, more the kind of hardwearing industrial weave. I make a mental note to ask someone what the carpet is for. I make a second mental note that there are more important things going on.
I am handed a set of headphones with a chord that looks long enough to reach right back to the MIC station. As I adjust them for comfort I can hear that the pilot and SO are already running through their pre-flight checklist. I look up to see a bank of around a dozen small television-size screens in front of them, with four smaller screens. In between them are two old-fashioned telephones.
Then the pre-flight checks grind to a halt. There is a problem with one of the live information feeds. The Auth in the Operations Room next door will not approve the start of the mission until it is sorted out, which could take a couple of hours. There is so much information flowing into the GCS from different sources that I am intrigued that this one problem is a show-stopper. During a lull in the conversation the SO – who also happens to be the Squadron Commander or Boss – explains the situation in terms he thinks I will understand.
