Following the failure to seize the Al Sahara airfield, the HQ Troop had rejigged M Squadron’s operational plan. A combined force of British and Australian SAS had pushed into the far western desert of Iraq. There, they’d had far better success than M Squadron had achieved at Al Sahara. The British and Aussie force had seized the
G2
and
G3
airfields—Iraqi oil pumping stations that doubled as airstrips.
Under cover of darkness the SAS force had assaulted the deep desert locations—which lay just across the Jordanian border—using fleets of desert patrol vehicles and the Aussies’ six-wheeled
version of the standard open-topped Land Rovers. From out of the night they hit the guard towers like a whirlwind, then moved in to clear the large hangars and office buildings one by one.
G2
lay to the north of the Iraqi settlement of Shab-al-Hiri and was the more northerly of the two air bases, but it was still the wrong side of the Euphrates River for M Squadron’s purposes. Even so, it did offer the Squadron the ability to insert into Iraq via C-130 Hercules, shaving a good hundred kilometers off their mission.
The strategy that had been adopted for the Squadron’s insertion was complex, and a lot could go wrong, but if all went to plan it would get them over the Euphrates and well into northern Iraq. The entire Squadron was to be flown into
G2
over one night using a fleet of C-130 Hercules operated by highly trained Special Forces aircrew from a unit that specialized in dropping elite forces deep behind enemy lines. From there they would be airlifted north by Chinooks.
Due to the shortage of available helos, it would take three nights to ferry M Squadron into their remote LZ (landing zone). But crucially that LZ was situated to the north of the Euphrates, enabling the force to leapfrog that mighty river.
Grey and his team had scrutinized the intended LZ particularly closely, for they were scheduled to be first onto the ground. Using maps and aerial photos, a patch of terrain to the east of Sabkhat Albu Ghars—a dry lake bed—had been identified.
The Iraqi
sabkhats
—sand flats—were known to be treacherous, with subterranean water making them boggy and impassable. But the plateau to the east of Sabkhat Albu Ghars seemed empty of human habitation and solid as a rock. It was a vast stretch of hard, barren land, with the odd sprinkling of sand here and there. As an added bonus, it was some seventy kilometers from end to end and at its northern extremity it merged into the Ninawa Desert—the bone-dry, lifeless wilderness that would take the Squadron most of the way to their objective. The LZ was about as far north as the Chinook pilots could afford to take them, bearing in mind the need to fly six runs with the helos over three nights so as to complete the infil.
But in spite of the rigorous planning, the risks involved in the coming insertion were legion. The
G2
airfield was a stretch of dirt runway surrounded by open desert. A fleet of C-130s would need to land during the hours of darkness and offload the Squadron vehicles, more than likely kicking up a violent dust storm. The wagons would somehow have to cross-deck from the C-130s to the waiting Chinooks in next-to-zero visibility. That alone had all the makings of a disaster.
In 1980, U.S. Special Forces had flown into deep trouble on a similar type of mission. Six helicopters had rendezvoused with a C-130 Hercules in the depths of the Iranian desert. The helos were carrying U.S. Delta Force operators, and their intent was to launch an assault on the American embassy in Tehran so as to rescue fifty-two American hostages being held there. But one of the helicopters had crashed in a dust storm, and another had damaged its hydraulic systems.
The decision was made by the then U.S. president, Jimmy Carter, to abort the mission, which was code-named Eagle Claw. But as the aircraft prepared for takeoff from their remote desert location, one of the helos crashed into a C-130, which was loaded with men and fuel. A massive fire engulfed the two aircraft, in which eight U.S. servicemen tragically lost their lives. A further five helicopters had to be abandoned and were subsequently captured by the Iranians.
In short, Eagle Claw—one of the first missions ever undertaken by Delta Force—was seen as an unmitigated disaster. And the two-stage airborne insertion for Operation No Return—as the operators had started to call M Squadron’s Iraq mission—was a similarly risk-laden undertaking.
In mid-March the entire Squadron flew out of their base on a fleet of C-130 Hercules to a remote base deep in the deserts of Jordan. There, the first of the teams to be lifted onward to
G2
prepared to get airborne. Each Land Rover was loaded up with all the ammo, weaponry, personal supplies, NBC, and other gear the three men using it—plus their quad biker—might need, with enough fuel, rations, and water for a good week or more of operations.
Each man carried twelve 30-round STANAG mags (magazines condoned by a NATO standardization agreement) for their personal weapon, the Colt C7 assault rifle, making 360 rounds in all. The Colt is a modified, ruggedized, lightweight version of the standard M16 assault rifle, and it’s the weapon of choice for Special Forces. The M Squadron operators also carried a secondary weapon, a SIG Sauer 9mm pistol with a 13-round magazine, plus rakes of spare ammo.
High-explosive and smoke grenades were placed around each wagon in easy reach of the occupants, plus there were extra grenades stuffed into the men’s Bergens. A one-use LAW (light antitank weapon) 66mm rocket launcher was strapped across the hood of each Pinkie, for use against larger buildings and light armor.
Each troop had also been issued with a highly experimental
SLAR
(
shoulder-launched assault rocket
)—an 85mm rocket launcher that fires an enhanced blast warhead, more commonly known as a thermobaric device. The fuel-air explosive creates a firestorm at the point of impact, followed an instant later by a vacuum that collapses just about any object it hits.
The
SLAR
’s thermobaric warhead had been developed by America’s Naval Surface Warfare Center, a cutting-edge military technology development facility based just north of Washington, D.C. M Squadron was very lucky to have got one
SLAR
per troop, for it was still in the experimental phases of the weapon’s development, and everyone wanted to get the chance to fire one.
Armed and outfitted as they were, the one thing the Squadron wasn’t equipped to take on was the Asad Babil—the “Lion of Babylon” battle tank. The Asad Babil boasts a 125mm main gun, a 12.7mm DShK antiaircraft cannon, plus a GPMG-type machine gun. Its armor is twelve inches thick, and it can maintain fifty kilometers per hour off-road. Being chased by a squadron of Asad Babils wouldn’t be much fun, especially as the heavily laden Pinkies weren’t capable of going a lot faster and even more so when moving across rough terrain.
No doubt about it, that kind of armored beast was best avoided.
The first C-130 flight into
G2
had four Pinkies packed into it, one of which was Grey’s wagon, plus a bunch of quads perched on the tail ramp. As the C-130 roared through the darkened heavens, Grey sat in the shadowed interior wondering what the days ahead might hold and how the young lads on his team were going to cope with whatever might lie ahead of them.
Grey had a massive admiration for the C-130 aircrew—guys who were basically flying into a patch of dirt deep in hostile territory, trusting absolutely that those on the ground had chosen a safe landing zone. The pilots would have to put the C-130 down with total trust on a night-dark patch of desert, knowing that one rock the size of a laptop could seriously mess up their landing.
If the SAS boys failed to notice just the one loose boulder, it could flip up and smash into the turbines. Worse still, the tip of a rock anchored in the desert could rip the guts out of the aircraft’s tires, causing no end of problems.
Over the years Grey had got to know some of those RAF Special Forces pilots passably well. They were fellow mavericks who were well aware that going into a Special Forces flight would rarely win them promotion. They were the guys who didn’t give a toss about rank or status, and who loved flying by the seat of their pants. They were fellow can-do rebels, which made them a natural part of the SF brotherhood.
In a standard air force setup, an aircraft can’t normally get airborne if so much as a flock of seagulls menaces the runway. By contrast, these guys would fly through all weather and just about any level of threat to put down on just about any vaguely usable piece of terrain—as their landing at G2 was hopefully about to prove.
The Hercules arrived above the Iraqi airstrip, and began a tactical descent toward the darkened earth so as to avoid being targeted by enemy fire. The SAS had thrown a ring of steel around G2 to enable M Squadron’s safe insertion, but that wouldn’t prevent an Iraqi surface-to-air missile team from targeting the C-130 from out in the open desert.
Once the vehicles had dismounted from the aircraft, the C-130 surged back into the sky leaving in its wake a thick and seething
dust bowl. Grey, Moth and Dude found themselves marooned in a blinding, choking cloud of fine sand. To their left and right were the half-obscured silhouettes of their fellow Pinkies, but no one had a clue in which direction the waiting Chinooks lay. The plan was for the wagons to move off the C-130’s ramp straight into the waiting helicopter’s hold, but not a thing could be seen of them. If they set off blind they risked running into each other, or worse still crashing into the waiting helos.
“Hold stationary!” Grey yelled at Moth, above the roar of the departing C-130. “Don’t make a fucking move until all this shit has settled.”
Moth gave a grunt in the affirmative.
They gazed all around, wondering what the hell to do next. Grey tried flipping up his sand goggles and strapping on his NVG to check if the enhanced night-vision gear might somehow cut through the dust cloud. But all it served to do was to drive some grains of wind-blown dust into his eyes.
He muttered a string of curses. Here they were, finally in Iraq, and marooned in a brownout of a dust storm.
From off to one side a voice rang out through the dark. “Steve Greyling! Grey! You there?”
The voice sounded familiar, and Grey figured it had to be one of his mates from his days spent working with “the Regiment,” as the SAS is known.
“Yeah! Over here, mate! Over here!”
Two points of eerie light emerged from the gloom. They turned out to be Cyalumes—chemical light sticks—one held in either hand of the SAS guy who was there to receive them. He waved Grey’s wagon forward, and at walking pace they followed him across the dirt strip. They made toward the ghostly form of a waiting Chinook, which loomed out of the murk like a darker patch of shadow amongst the dust swirling all around.
Grey indicated the helo’s open rear. “Take mega fucking care when you go up the ramp.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of their tailgate. “Especially with the camo netting.”
“Got it, boss,” Moth confirmed.
There were only a bare couple of inches to spare on either side when driving a Pinkie into a Chinook, plus the ass-end of their wagon had a rolled up camo net strapped across it. If that caught on anything it could rip the innards out of the helo or damage the hydraulic system that opened and closed the tail ramp.
With all the dust in the air, the men had pulled
shemaghs
over the exposed skin of their faces and sand goggles over their eyes. It was the only way to safeguard their vision, but it made it impossible to wear NVG, for both sets of gear wouldn’t strap over the eyes at the same time. It was only the dim light thrown off by the Cyalumes, plus the way the SAS guy guided the wagons forward, that got them safely into the Chinook’s dark hold.
There were two Chinooks waiting to ferry the Squadron onward, but each could only take one Pinkie and a couple of quads. Part of the aircraft’s hold was occupied by a bulging fuel bladder, which took up precious space but added extra range. They had before them a sixty-kilometer flight, after which they’d be dropped in the open desert to the north of the Euphrates to form up M Squadron’s vanguard.
Once they’d been delivered to their open-desert LZ, the men were to establish the Squadron’s forward mounting base for the mission. This was by far the most dangerous stage of the operation so far. A small, lightly armed force was flying into the unknown, tasked with holding a patch of flat, featureless terrain for three days and nights so the rest of the Squadron could be ferried in.
As Grey waited for the helo’s rotors to spool up to speed, his mind drifted to thoughts of his wife and kids back home. He couldn’t help but wonder if this was the mission that was going to get him. It was rare for him to feel as anxious as he did now; in fact, he couldn’t think of another moment in a lifetime of elite soldiering that had unnerved him so much. It was ominous and unsettling.
He glanced at Mucker squatting by his quad, but the tough northerner seemed to be showing no special signs of nerves or of tension. He, too, had a wife and young children back in the UK, so by rights he should have been equally worried. As for the Dude and
Moth, Grey figured they were the lucky ones right now. Sure, they lacked operational experience, but at least the young guns didn’t have the added burden of a wife and kids on their shoulders.
The turbines screamed deafeningly above them, and the Chinook clawed into the air for the next leg of the insertion. As the pilot banked the big helo round and set a course heading north, Grey could see his men checking and rechecking their weapons. Two of his team were untried and untested in combat, and he hoped and prayed that they weren’t about to fly into a patch of desert packed with a hidden enemy, one that their scrutiny of the satphotos had somehow failed to detect.
The Chinooks were operating on black light and the aircrew were flying fast, at treetop level. They were throwing the massive, cumbersome machine around like a sports car, and the effect in the rear was electrifying. They were going in blind to a potentially hot LZ, they had no one on the ground to guide them in, and they were unsighted and defenseless—apart from the door gunners hunched over their miniguns.