Reaper Force - Inside Britain's Drone Wars. Peter Lee M.

begins to disappear. The ultimate illusion: making a whole city – this city in particular – disappear in its own mirage.

      A few miles to the left and right of the road stand parallel rows of mountains. Perversely, given the desert heat, I pass a road sign that points to a distant, elevated ski resort. As my eyes follow the direction of the sign the mountains become craggy, foreboding. Their rock strata emerge from the ground at shifting angles. Immediately to my left a peak rises steeply, while for several peaks further on the angle to the land below is much shallower. I wonder about the forces that can shape trillions of tons of rock in that way over millions of years, or over just six days, according to the sign I saw earlier.

To my right a twin mountain range stands over the desert, except this time the strata are contoured – waves of rock rather than hard, straight lines. Sandstone colours are packed between the darker, harder layers. Between both sets of mountains lie desert and scrub, bisected by black tarmac. A sign to the right points towards a tribal Visitor Centre on one of thirty-two Nevada Indian reservations and colonies spread across the state.9

      An upward glance spots criss-crossing vapour trails high overhead, probably commercial airliners. Much lower and far more interesting are two pairs of fighter aircraft – they look like F-16s and F-22s – flying several miles apart, one pair in close formation, the other combat formation. From their trajectory they are heading back to Nellis Air Force Base from the Nevada Training Range. I recall watching Top Gun when it first came out in 1986 and I wonder which of these pairs ‘won’ their aerial dance of death. I like to imagine that a couple of grizzled, middle-aged dudes in the F-16s whipped a pair of young guns in the F-22s. In reality, the F-22s would have released a couple of over-the-horizon missiles and ended the argument before it began. The jets remind me that this trip is about flying, not sightseeing. But the aircraft I am interested in are flying over a different desert landscape on another continent.

      This is the road that thousands of Reaper and Predator crews have used over the years on their daily commute to Creech. These have been mainly USAF personnel. However, for over a decade a fair smattering of British crews have joined their number, and it is their stories I am here for.

      I wonder how many of the Predator or Reaper pilots have watched fighters like these, masters of the sky, and envied the pilots who do their flying up there? How many of them have been there and done that, and are now happy to swap fighter cockpits for static cockpits: metal containers firmly anchored to the ground? Another question springs to mind from the numerous debates, discussions, media events and conferences on drones I have taken part in. How many people have no idea that Reaper and Predator ‘drones’ are every bit as piloted as the F-16 fast jets now rapidly disappearing in the distance? The only real difference is that instead of several feet between the fighter pilot’s controls and the aircraft’s engine and wing surfaces, signals from the Reaper pilot’s controls travel several thousand miles via satellite.

      I put on the radio and find a local station. Someone is beyond excited about today’s sunny weather in Las Vegas, which makes me wonder if a corresponding radio presenter is equally excited about another day of snow in Alaska, thereby keeping climate karma in balance.

      Then the morning show presenter introduces Coolio and I chuckle to myself. A distinctive synth riff sits over a groaning bass line and leads into the only lyric of his that I know: ‘As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I take a look at my life and realise there’s nothin’ left.’ From Psalm 23. Here I am driving through a valley of death, but now with biblical allusions to add to my self-induced mind games. Thanks Coolio.

      Every military funeral I have conducted or attended has featured Psalm 23 and I visualise them in a mental torrent. Countless war memorial services flash through my mind until I settle on one I conducted in 2005 in the Falkland Islands for a small group of Welsh Guards, veterans of the 1982 war. One of them read those later words from Psalm 23, ‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.’ I was angry then and I begin to feel angry now. The only thing that had followed those particular soldiers throughout their lives was scarring from third degree burns and PTSD.

      I try to focus on the road. I cannot see how this particular drive will distract the Reaper crews from their thoughts of the death that they regularly consider and occasionally deliver. Then slowly, finally, Creech starts to sneak into view in the distance. First, some small buildings that can barely be seen through the heat haze rising up from the road. Then, gradually, expanses of concrete, roads and runway come into view. Runway lights on their intricate frames point the way to the landing threshold. As I get closer, more and more buildings appear. And then a green sign against the mountain backdrop: ‘Creech AFB’.

      I take a few moments to reflect on how long and difficult it has been to get this far. Not to make the simple drive out from Las Vegas. Rather, the process that started with a simple phone call to the RAF’s Director of Defence Studies almost a year and a half ago. To his credit he didn’t put the phone down on me, though if he knew what lay ahead he may well have done. What I thought I was requesting was access to some interesting people to capture what I hoped would be some interesting stories. What he heard was someone asking to access one of the most secretive and controversial programmes in the armed forces, in the hope that enough of these over-busy men and women would be willing to talk to him in enough numbers to fill a book.

      I’m sure I still don’t know the full extent of the work he had to do on my behalf; how many phone calls and emails it took. For his own security I can’t even give him a name check. Yet here I am, nearing Creech, with a wad of clearances, approvals and passes stacked on the front seat.

      I swing off the main carriageway onto a narrower road that winds round to the checkpoint at the entrance to the base. The speed limit drops to 15mph and suddenly everything looks more ominous with ‘Stay Out’ signs and razor wire topping the fences. I queue behind two cars and watch the guards, attentive and serious as they check vehicles, identification and documentation. There are no cursory glances. I have entered military bases on several continents and am yet to meet any guard who takes their duty more seriously than an American soldier under orders to keep a place safe.

      Both guards are decked out in the full Robocop: body armour, two-way radio, pistol, rifle, fingerless gloves with armoured knuckles, reflective sunglasses. They look like they could storm a bridgehead or defend an isolated outpost in Helmand Province, Afghanistan. Maybe they already have.

      Guard 1 does not smile as she bends to look in the first car and talk to the driver. Guard 2 has her head on swivel mode and almost seems to be in a slow-moving dance, her partner being the rifle she holds across her torso. I wonder if the safety catch is on. She looks in the back of the first car, all the while glancing up at me and the vehicle between us. Are the RayBans to keep out the sun or to keep a psychological barrier between the watcher and the watched? Perhaps both. It takes a lot of self-discipline to pay this much attention to detail in stultifying heat.

      Car 1 is waved through and Car 2 gets the same treatment. The smiles and relaxed banter of countless guards I have met at the gates of many British military bases are conspicuous by their absence. I have been warned not to try to make small talk. Jokes and witticisms are out, while sudden movements would make things go loud and ugly. I glance once more at the passenger seat where my passport and documents are neatly, obsessively neatly, clipped together. Two years of preparation, worrying and hoping have come down to this: whether a private soldier recognises and accepts the security certificate that was printed, signed and stamped by an RAF police sergeant a continent away.

      I am motioned forward. Still no smile. I recognise a distinctly Scottish surname velcroed to the body armour of Guard 1.

      ‘Identification and purpose of visit?’

      ‘I am visiting 39 Squadron for a few days.’ I hand over my passport and papers, and she leans away to pick up a clipboard from the adjacent booth. I have arrived at precisely my allotted arrival time.

      The documents are scrutinised for errors or flaws and checked against whatever is written on her clipboard. Without looking up, she asks, ‘You Scottish?’ If there