Bravo two zero by Andy McNab Page B

you can't get in touch with him; he's on another planet.
        And Zanussi was what this looked like-another world. Our map studies told us the ground was like this all the way up. We were going to have problems, but it was too late to do anything about it. We were committed.
        Now and again there'd be a bit of chat on the headphones as the pilots talked to AWACS. I loved watching the two lo adie warlords getting ready for the Big One, checking their guns and hoping, no doubt, that they would get shot at soon.
        All the time, there was the deafening zsh, zsh, zsh of the rotor blades.
        Not much was said between ourselves because of the noise. Everybody was just pleased that they weren't rushing around any more, that we were just lying around on the kit drinking water or pissing into one of the bottles we'd just emptied. I was wondering if my life might have been different if I'd stayed at school and got my CSEs. I might have been sitting up in the cockpit now, chatting away, looking forward to a pie and a pint later on.
        The front lo adie door was half open, like a stable door. Wind rushed through it, cool and refreshing. The straps hanging off the insides of the Chinook flapped and slapped in the gale.
        We got to the same refueling point as before. Again, the pilot kept the rotors turning. An engine failure at this stage would mean canceling the operation. We stayed on the aircraft, but the back lo adie was straight off into the darkness. The Yanks, God bless 'em, have so much kit they just throw it at you. He returned with Hershey bars, doughnuts, and cans of Coke. For some unaccountable reason, the Yanks had also given him handfuls of Biros and combs.
        We waited and waited. Bob and I jumped down and went for a dump on the side of the tarmac about 100 feet away. When we got back the lo adie motioned for me to put on my headsets.
        "We have the go," the pilot said, with just the faintest detectable hint of excitement in his voice.
        We started to lose altitude.
        "We're over the border," the pilot said matter-of factly I passed the message on. The blokes started putting their webbing on.
        Now the aircrew really started earning their money. The banter stopped.
        They were working with night viewing goggles, screaming along at 80 knots just 70 feet off the ground. The rotor blades had a large diameter and we knew from the map that we were flying in amongst a lot of power lines and obstructions. One lo adie looked out the front at the forward blades, and the other did the same at the rear. The copilot continuously monitored the instruments; the pilot flew by visual and instructions received from the rest of the crew.
        The exchange between pilot, copilot, and loadies was nonstop as they flew low between features. The tone of the voices was reassuring.
        Everything was well rehearsed and well practiced. It was all so matter-of fact they could have been in a simulator.
        Copilot: "100 feet… 80 feet… 80 feet." Pilot: "Roger that, 80 feet." Copilot: "Power lines one mile." Pilot: "Roger, power lines one mile. Pulling up." Copilot: "120… 150… 180… 200. That's half a mile. 500 feet now." Pilot: "500 feet. I have the lines visual… over we go-"
        Loadie: "Clear." Pilot: "Okay, going lower." Copilot: "150… 120… 80 feet. 90 knots." Pilot: "Roger, staying at 80 feet, 90 knots."
        Copilot: "Reentrant left, one mile." Pilot: "Roger that, I have a building to my right." Loadie: "Roger that, building right." Copilot:
        "80 feet. 90 knots. Power lines five miles." Pilot: "Roger that, five miles. Breaking right." The loadies were looking at the ground below as well. Apart from watching for obstructions, they checked for any "incoming."
        Copilot: "80 feet. Metal road coming up, two miles." Pilot: "Roger that. Metal road, two miles." Copilot: "One mile to go. That's 100 knots, 80 feet." At anything below 80