LIFE OF A PILOT A convert mission to Afghanistan was an unusual and risky way to gain hours No way to build hours By David Keen, Log Board member Mazar-i-Sharif Afghanistan: the magnificent Blue Mosque magine my plight. No flying job, with seemingly no opportunities. Im 44-years-old, 400 flying hours, mostly on light singles, and an unused but once-renewed CPL/IR, nearly two years old. Out of the blue, one Wednesday morning, the phone rings with a tempting but daunting offer. Lets jump back to the beginning. At 18, I was accepted at the prestigious Hamble College of Air Training, in Hampshire. Having started the sponsored course, the end point was becoming a second officer at either BEA or BOAC, now BA of course. Nine months in, I decided flying was not for me, despite doing OK on the course. My decision was that of an immature young school leaver, one who had been made to feel intimidated and inadequate by a bully of an instructor. Regret set in almost immediately a career in airline flying had been my childhood dream. University followed, then a successful 18-year career in pharmaceutical marketing, taking me from London to Basel, Switzerland, Philadelphia, Paris, Mannheim, and finally Greenwich, Connecticut. Starting a family was less successful, ending in divorce and the return of my ex-wife and two children to England, by which time I had been promoted to director level in a large and somewhat ruthless French/American multinational. During those years, my dream of flying never left me. Two years of a quiet social life, assiduous saving and a decent tax-free pay-off allowed me to re-start training, while honouring payments for my childrens education and the rest. Downsizing meant living in a virtual squat not far from their home back in Reading. I kicked off by gaining an FAA Muti/Single CPL/IR in three months flat in Fresno, California. Back in the UK, the more arduous BCPL/CPL/Frozen ATPL/ IR took 14 months. At that point, I was able to return to the US and gain some 30 hours of unpaid flying on a Citation 2, thanks to my previous flying instructor. But upon returning to England, there was nothing further, despite sending out hundreds of copies of my CV and making numerous phone calls. I was getting ready to go back to pharmaceuticals at a much lower level now; the money was running out. The real story Now heres where the story starts, with a phone call. Would you be interested in flying a small jet that needs to be delivered to the Middle East? Afghanistan in fact. Quick decision needed. Departing from Biggin Hill tomorrow morning. And if youre interested, how much would you expect to be paid? I should have smelt a rat with the issues of Afghanistan and the potential blank cheque. I was legal, given that my FAA licences permitted me to fly any American-registered aircraft as a co-pilot, this one being an ancient Viper-powered HS125-1A. Before agreeing, I called my brother to consult, and also to advise of my unavailability to play golf that afternoon. He laughed his socks off. Afghanistan mate, they hanged the president from a lamp post there yesterday! This was, in fact, true. The first Taliban campaign had recently started in earnest. I called back the chap who had offered me this special opportunity. No worries, he said. Youll only be taking the jet as far as Mazar-i-Sharif, hundreds of miles north of Kabul, and the other side of the Hindu Kush mountain range. The Taliban will never reach there. And youll be flying with a HS125 IRE/TRE who might even train you on the trip. Theres a job waiting for you there, if you fancy it. Now, is 5,000 a suitable payment? Having never been offered a bean to fly an aircraft, I took about two minutes to consider and accept the offer. In hindsight, I should have taken two days, long enough to lose the opportunity. Instead, I set off in my old LH-drive Rover 420 (cost saving was a big part of the mission towards pilothood) and met up with my new colleague at the old airport hotel in Croydon. After dinner and an early night, we drove to the flight planners offices near LGW and acquired the necessaries for clearances and a route taking us via stops in Vienna, Ankara, Baku. Then on via Turkmenistan to the Afghan border and VFR onwards to our official destination on the other side of Afghanistan, there being no comprehensive ATC coverage for that country. Back at Biggin Hill, we boarded the ancient Viper-powered HS125-1A, N1230B, which was looking rather scruffy. It had been stored in the Nevada desert for a while, re-commissioned and then flown to the UK via Miami by a crew who were most reluctant to take the ship any further eastwards. No VSI was present on my side, as I recall, just a gaping hole in the instrument panel. There were quite a few other u/s stickers plastered around our workplace. Two passengers awaited, a young, up-and-coming Afghan warlord who was making his way to deal with the Taliban, from his studies in the USA, along with a young British ground engineer who was to accompany the aircraft on its delivery to its new owner, a most fearsome gentleman by reputation, one General Rashid Al Dostum. This man, I later discovered, was subsequently reputed to have the bloodiest hands in Afghanistan. (He then became Vice-President of Afghanistan, courtesy of the USA, until the Taliban again intervened.) Dostum required a personal transport to carry him between Mazar and his military base at Shebherghan, along with taking him on his business trips to his native Uzbekistan, as well as to other hotspots in Iran and Pakistan. Off and away Although we planned to depart around 1300 GMT, we first needed to await a hefty consignment of Johnnie Walker Blue Label Whisky. Two green Harrods vans duly rolled up, and the cargo was loaded. Apparently, the general was a fan of the stuff, and although not a big tourist, he had once ventured as far as Scotland to explore one or two distilleries. Our cargo of whisky was intended as an incentive or reward for his senior officers running his fiefdom, the historical region of Balkh. No weapons or ammunition were carried, I was relieved to see. Loading complete, we set off noisily for Vienna. After a refuelling stop there, a minor engine problem occurred while taxiing. The second donk just wouldnt turn over. After shutting the good one down on a quiet taxiway, our flying spanner went outside with a toolset and a determined expression. After 15 minutes and much banging, the problem was solved. Up and onwards to Ankara. Nothing much to report for that leg. Navigation was rudimentary, using two working VOR/DMEs and two coffeegrinder ADFs. For GPS, our engineers Garmin was sometimes of use when held directly above the skippers head, close to the thickly plated cockpit roof near the edge of the left window. The VHF radios worked well not so the HF. As darkness fell, we departed Ankara, heading over Armenia to then enter Azerbaijan, destination Baku. Chechnya was not far north of our route, definitely not a region to elect for a diversion. Taking prior note of the NOTAM warnings of wild dogs roaming the airport, we landed at Baku by following an old Russian-designed triple NDB approach, although only two were in service. Weather was OK. Once on the ground, we navigated to a remote part of this massive military/civil airfield, and parked up. Having set the parking brake, we were treated to a scene of duelling refuellers in front of us. Two independent fuel trucks rolled up close to the 125 and, following a heated discussion, the drivers eventually squared up to each other. After a couple of short rounds, they reached some sort of settlement as to which one was going to pump us full of Jet A-1. After locking the jet for the night, we were transported to Bakus only luxury hotel for the nightstop. En-route to the Hyatt Regency, we passed an appalling accident site. A catastrophic crash involving a lorry and a passenger bus had just taken place. Bodies were strewn all over the road, and no police or ambulance services were in attendance. Our driver nonchalantly ignored the sight, steered around the carnage and continued. As we drove into town, oilrich Baku started to feel like the Wild West, with guns and guards always in evidence. Evening view of the Hindu Kush mountain range As we drove into town, oil-rich Baku started to feel like the Wild West, with guns and guards always in evidence Flying blind Bright and early, we returned to the airport and reviewed our planned route to the entrance point of Afghan airspace, which was totally uncontrolled at that time. Departing eastwards over the Caspian Sea, we witnessed an enormous number of primitive looking oil rigs, which clearly contributed to the wealth of Azerbaijan. Ashgabat Control then approved our routing, which skirted Iranian airspace on its way to a border crossing town of Mukry. At this point we were handed over to nobody, with a request to confirm to Ashgabat when we had established two-way comms with Lahore. However, that was never going to happen. We then commenced VFR navigation, using US army maps to follow the wide River Amu Darya, to then cross into the northern plain at Qarqin. Landmarks on the desiccated Afghan landscape were not obvious, and there were no working navaids to assist. Our engineers old GPS was having trouble picking up any signal, even when pressed firmly against the left upper windscreen. Radio contact with Mazar was optimistically attempted, without any result. We then tried 121.5. without any real hope. After a few goes, our efforts achieved a most surprising result. An English voice replied very clearly, without initial identification, to enquire as to exactly where we were. Once we had given our helpers a couple of landmarks and bearings, they gave us some rough guidance to our destination city. Thankfully, we enjoyed clear if dusty skies, with no high ground to bother us. Apart from the awesome Hindu Kush mountain range, which was clearly visible about 100 miles to our south, there was nothing but flat and largely featureless terrain in all directions as far as the eye could see. International Rescue turned out to be another old British jet, this one a Liberian-registered BAC1/11. Flying under Dostums flag as the one aircraft of Balkh Airlines, it was on its way back from Mashhad (Iran) to Mazar, and was a few minutes behind us. With their advice, we found the airfield, and managed to avoid a few bomb craters on our landing. Disembarking, I tried to take a few snaps of our surroundings, including a few knackered old MIG fighter jets and some veteran Russian helicopters. An AK-47 was pointed at me by one of the airport guards, which discouraged any further photography. My colleague and I were eventually picked up in a minibus labelled The Islamic Front of North Afghanistan and taken to a villa somewhere near the famous Blue Mosque of Mazar-i-Sharif. Having again declined the offer of flying the little jet for the general, we were told we needed to wait a few days before our visas and tickets could be arranged for our return. In the meantime, we were asked to train the two 1/11 pilots to fly the 125. Actually, only the captain, a seasoned and much-divorced Australian chap, was remotely qualified. His FO was an assistant flying instructor from Elstree. Their ad hoc training programme involved a couple of sweaty days in a meeting room with the manuals and a blackboard, followed by a single rather eventful circuit of base training. Apart from there being no jet fuel immediately available at the airfield, the planned one-hour mission was aborted by a diverse range of warnings appearing before the gear was retracted. We landed forthwith. Training for the guys completed, we had a few days to wait before being shepherded to the border courtesy of the National Islamic Movement of Afghanistan, Dostums organisation. We filled our time with idle chat and filled our bellies with lamb and rice twice a day. Not great, after a while. The two permanent pilot employees had an interesting story to tell. They had been contracted, along with others who had since returned to their homes, by a gentleman with the initials CBJ. After a few months in the heat of Mazar, and the odd flight, the chaps had not been paid. With no obvious method of return to demand their dues, they used their initiative and flew the 1/11 empty to Dubai one sunny day. When they arrived home, they confronted CBJ in person. Having been paid their dues, and with promises of no further monetary problems, they returned to Mazar. Since then, four further months had elapsed, again without payment. A second escape plot was being hatched, but no further news of them ever reached my ears. CBJ ended up with a 20-year jail sentence in the UK not long after his Afghanistan operation was terminated. A long wait We spent two evenings at the nearby UN mission, drinking Fanta and watching BBC World News on their clapped-out TV. Walking back to the villa was hazardous, with wild dogs roaming the dusty roads and children practising their stone throwing, using us as targets. All too slowly, the day dawned for us to be sent home. Our transport took us 50 miles through the desert to the border with Termez, in Uzbekistan. We were dropped by the Friendship Bridge, which crossed the Amu Darya border river. We felt as if we were on a war film set. The bridge was closed to all traffic, but a sullen pair of Dostums soldiers took their time studying our passports and papers, some of which they were obviously reading upside down a rare skill. We then trudged across the long, Russian-built bridge, feeling rather apprehensive as we had our cash payments concealed upon our persons and flight bags. A sum of 5,000 in 20 notes took a bit of hiding, and I have no idea how and where my partner managed to stash his more generous amount of booty. Fortunately, the Uzbek guards on the other side showed little interest in us, despite the fact that we were probably the only border crossers that day. I guess they had been paid off. Once through, we were collected and driven to a very scruffy safe house near the border, where no-one spoke to us directly, but many armed and heavily-bearded men came and went. After an uncomfortable night sleeping on a smelly carpeted floor, we were fed goat and rice and told to standby for transport. Some hours later, yet another ancient people carrier rocked up to take us to the old Russian-built airport at Termez. Tickets were provided for our flight on a rather rustic Yak-40 to Tashkent. A delay in departure of four or so hours because of a sandstorm was no issue. At our destination, we were collected and driven to an apartment in the city for one more nightstop, again with no programme explained. Around 24 hours later, we were presented with airline tickets to travel with Uzbekistan Airways to Amsterdam, after which we were to find our own way home. Once airborne on the CityFlyer Express ATR-72, I think I consumed three passenger meals and a couple of beers. Edible food and alcohol had been in extremely short supply over the past week, and Id had strong concerns about food poisoning from whatever had been presented to me. The whole trip had taken 10 days from recruitment to completion. I drove back to my village in Hampshire and headed straight over the road to my local, to meet up with my usual golfing group. Unusually, I was bought many beers, as they had assumed that I was either dead or taken hostage in a country with which I had no business entering, UN sanctions and all that. For about 14 hours on a fairly useless type as P2, along with receiving a relatively small sum of money, I had put my life at serious risk. I felt more ashamed rather than exhilarated, given that my children could also have lost a father. The most significant risk that I had chosen to ignore was that the city of Mazar was overrun by the Taliban only weeks after my safe return. Thousands were reported dead, and the UN Mission was destroyed, along with its occupants. My flying career proper was kick-started a couple of months later on the Shorts 330, and finished some 20 years later at the age of 65, operating the Airbus 330. There were many fascinating adventures along the way, some of which will keep for another day. David during his journey