It’s a glorious sunset on the very southern tip of the island of Cyprus as we wait for total darkness and a call from David to confirm when we are good to go.
We have ripped any unnecessary luxuries out of the back of the helicopter including; bar, drinks cabinet, soft seats and even carpets, to reduce the weight as much as possible. We are just under the maximum allowable take-off weight here on the runway. By the time we get to the pick-up point we will have burnt about two hundred and fifty kilogrammes of Jet A1 fuel, otherwise known as Avtur. With four passengers jumping on board and the landing site being at about four thousand feet above sea level, we are going to be some way over weight for take-off. But I know this aircraft well and I am confident that, with gentle handling, we will be able to get airborne safely.
The outside of the helicopter has also been prepared. The judicious application of a little matt black paint here and there has made the last three letters of the aircraft registration indecipherable. The first letter is perfectly clear, that is an ‘N’ meaning that it is registered in the USA. In the unlikely event of anyone catching a glimpse of us then it is most likely to be reported that we are American. And if the pesky Americans get to take the flack for illegally flying into a sovereign state’s airspace, then that suits us just fine!
We have no need for maps or charts. We have studied this route meticulously and Simon has jotted a few notes on his kneepad to back up the GPS, should it fail. He has noted just the heading we need to hold till coasting into the south of Beirut, and the time we should pass to the north of Lake Bagram in the hills just west of Damascus. He will them adjust the heading and time if required to run in to the landing site. Flying at less than one hundred feet using NVG requires intense concentration and a constant lookout. There is no time for looking inside the cockpit reading maps or charts. The night vision goggles we are using are the best available and allow us excellent images of the surface, albeit in only differing shades of green. Lights stand out exceptionally well and can be seen from much further away than with the mark one eyeball.
The coded message comes in from David.
“The team are on their way to the pick-up point with Charlie One and family and we are good to go.”
I raise the collective lever to apply sufficient power to lift off to a height of four feet above the ground. I check the engine temperatures, oil pressures, and the amount of torque I am having to apply to maintain the hover. This indicates the margin of power I have in reserve – not much! It’s a fairly cool night for this part of the world, just under plus ten degrees Celsius. This helps a lot since the lower the ambient temperature the better the aircraft performance.
I turn on to our initial south-easterly heading which I will endeavour to maintain as accurately as possible until we cross the coast to the south of Beirut and five miles north of Saida. I set the cruise power at ninety percent which will give us about one hundred and fifty knots and, as Simon raises the landing gear, I level off at one hundred feet. The trick now is to maintain this flying configuration as precisely as I can and with any luck, we should pass just to the north of Lake Bagram as planned.
Once clear of the Cyprus coast I call for Simon to switch off all the lights, the Civilian Air Traffic Control radio, and the transponder. If left on the transponder will show Air Traffic Control our position, altitude and our registration. With it off they will, hopefully, see nothing. We have no intentions of speaking to any Air Traffic Control authorities in Lebanon or Syria, so the radio is left off and any communications from now on will only be over the secure network.
I set the radar altimeter to fifty feet, which will then flash a warning light if we descend to below that height, indicating that we are getting dangerously low.
I am working hard to concentrate on holding everything as steady as possible and maintain a good lookout. We are low enough to hit even a small fishing boat and at this speed, I would have only a second or two to take avoiding action. The sea is flat calm and with nothing but a dull green panorama ahead of me I struggle to keep changing the focus of my eyes to avoid a phenomenon known as empty-field myopia. This is a condition where, if the eyes have nothing to focus on, will gradually focus just a few metres ahead. This short focal range will not only mean, that I will not see that tiny fishing boat until the very last second, but it can also lead to spatial disorientation, a very dangerous condition for even the most experienced of pilots to cope with.
I know that at this ultra-low level, due to the curvature of the earth, the horizon is about twelve miles away, but with the mountains, the built-up areas and good visibility we should start to pick out the lights of Beirut and its environs at a range of fifty miles or so.
Simon is the first to spot what appears to be a radio mast on a hill in our eleven o’clock position. Over the next few minutes, the lights of the city and the mountains in the background start to become clear.
The silence is broken by, “Golf Golf, Quebec airborne standing by.”
This indicates to us that the QRF helicopter is now lurking at the edge of Lebanese airspace and ready to get us out of the shit if needed.
“Roger that,” Simon replies.
We cross the coastline about five miles to the north of the town of Saida, pretty much on track, and start to climb to cross the mountain range twenty miles, or so, ahead.
“Once we get to the top of this hill, give the guys on the ground a call please mate,” I ask Simon.
“Will do, skipper,” he replies. “We seem to be more or less on track at the moment. Not bad for a pongo. The way you held that course over the ogin was getting close to Royal Marines standards.’ He teases me. Royal Marines invariably refer to the sea as ‘the ogin and anyone in the Army as a pogo.’
I smile but continue to concentrate, finding it more difficult to maintain a constant height above ground as we climb steeply, our airspeed dropping to only one hundred knots.
As we pass over the hill – which is, in fact, an eight-thousand-foot ridge line – Simon presses the transmit button with his foot. “Alpha Alpha two zero.” Meaning that we will be at landing site Alpha in twenty minutes. “Roger Roger Alpha two zero,” comes the reply.
Great. That means that the ground party with the family will be there at the same time. Happy days, things are looking good. But not for long. Five minutes later, the shit hits the fan!