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

from Dunfermline near Edinburgh, originally.’ I could see her face soften. The Celtic connection was made.

      She replies, ‘My grandmother is from Edinburgh, from a place called Pilton. I’ve always wanted to visit.’

      Take your gun with you if you visit Pilton, is what I was thinking. What I said was, ‘I hope you get the chance – go in the summer time.’ It would all be plain sailing now.

      ‘Where is your escort?’

      ‘Escort?’

      ‘Yes, you need to be escorted at all times.’ My plain sailing ship just sailed. I tried not to panic.

      ‘I have some other printed instructions in my bag. Can I check them?’ No unauthorised movements – she has a gun and a bloodline from Pilton. She nods.

      I start pulling out every bit of paper related to this project, and there are a lot of them. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a car pull up on the inside of the checkpoint. Someone in a flying suit steps out of the car, and the lack of weapons and military bearing tell me right away that he is from the RAF. My escort?

      Guard 1 walks over to him, exchanges a few words and checks his ID. She fills in a pass which, smiling, she hands to me with my other paperwork. ‘Welcome to Creech Air Force Base.’

      As he jumps back in his car, a series of incomprehensible hand signals from my escort suggest that I should follow him. He holds up his palm with fingers and thumb splayed wide. Is he indicating five miles or five minutes? I wave, nod and move before I get left behind.

      There is little chance of getting lost at this stage. On either side of the sand-strewn road stands an honour guard of 2ft high boulders that would wreck the underside of a truck if it decided to take a detour. In the distance more buildings come into view, hangars and offices, the support units that are needed to keep a military base functioning. My escort shows no sign of slowing down, or of arriving anywhere for that matter. The distance we are driving surprises me slightly but it probably shouldn’t in the country that does everything BIGLY. Including offences against grammar.

      A couple of days later an American airman explained why there was such a long drive from the main gate to the airfield. Local legend has it that when the Predator squadrons were first activated at Creech, the USAF personnel who operated them needed to live in Las Vegas. The distance from the edge of Las Vegas to the airfield was just far enough for a particular home-to-work mileage allowance to kick in, at considerable benefit to the commuters and considerable expense to the government. This prompted the new entrance to be built next to Highway 95, taking the distance from Vegas to Creech officially below the mileage allowance threshold. I decided not to try and verify the story because I did not want to discover that it was untrue. Even if it is an urban myth it somehow speaks to an ageless truth I have encountered in several countries: if there is a financial allowance, personal benefit or some other factor that makes life more tolerable for military personnel and their families, someone, somewhere, is working out how to remove it.

      Eventually a sign indicates life: ‘Home of the Hunters, 432nd Wing, United States Air Force.’ Somewhere ahead lies 39 Squadron, RAF – a lodger unit amongst the permanent American residents.

      Approaching the squadron area and taking in the view, my mind is prompted towards a scene from the film Independence Day. Desperate survivors of an alien-invasion apocalypse descend upon the secret government programme at Area 51, which, ironically, is not very far from here. Massive multi-layered security systems protect a secret world where giant, shiny glass and metal doors give way to a brightly lit, futuristic complex where all manner of other-worldly weapons and technologies are hidden. An army of white-clad scientists and military specialists work on projects beyond imagination and beyond accountability. Even the President is kept in the dark. My excitement level rises.

      Then a seemingly invisible but shockingly effective speed hump jolts my head into the car roof and shocks my mind back into the present. As my escort guides us into a car park my anticipation sensors rapidly reconfigure from the excitedly overwhelmed to simply being ‘whelmed’, before heading rapidly for the distinctly underwhelmed. Why? While the sign on the chain link fence behind the car park says ‘39 Squadron, Royal Air Force’, the buildings behind the fence do not yell out ‘Area 51 Futuristic Facility’ or even ‘Secret Hi-Tec Drone Lair’. They just mutter ‘Dusty Portacabins with some sand-coloured shipping containers lined up outside’. It looks like an RAF detachment in 1920s Iraq.

      The car park itself is almost a caricature of the Brit abroad: a smattering of American muscle cars and motorbikes hint that several boyhood fantasies are being lived out by some nearby ground-dwelling Top Gun wannabees. Tom greets me cheerily with that most British of welcomes, ‘Dr Lee, I presume!’ Livingstone and Stanley in the searing Nevada heat.

      Tom has, no doubt, been volunteered to make the practical arrangements for my arrival. He has done the job well and hands over a folder of useful information, the most important of which is a provisional list of people who have agreed to be interviewed. I heave a huge sigh of relief; I’d travelled all this way with only one confirmed interview in place. The second thing he hands over is a swipe card and security code number. ‘This will get you in everywhere. Don’t lose it.’

      I played it cool and nodded knowingly: ‘I’ll be careful.’ But inside I was thinking, ‘Secret shiny drone lair here I come.’

      The revolving security gate is particular effective at keeping out intruders. And at keeping out those who should be getting in. Multiple swipes of our passes are accompanied by beeps, red lights, muttered curses and a complete lack of access. We shall not enter. There is something mildly ironic about the being able to fly a Reaper thousands of miles away while being thwarted by a temperamental electronic lock.

      Some helpful assistance gets us past the blockade and into the Squadron Operations building. The main door opens into the crew room and tea bar. This is definitely not a secret shiny drone lair. If the interior designer is aiming for jumble sale chic with shades of unwanted military supplies, all decorated with uneven standard issue framed pictures of the Reaper and other RAF aircraft, then the look is a triumph. The ambience is completed by the lingering scent of microwaved curry, the sound of the BBC News channel and an air conditioner losing its rear-guard battle against nature.

      I quickly lose track of the introductions and names. The daily briefing is due to take place in a few minutes and nobody is loitering. More instructions as I am steered towards an internal security door. My electronic equipment – laptop, tablet, digital recorders and mobile phone – is abandoned with everyone else’s outside the SECRET operations area. I grab my notebook and pen. The swipe card works first time and gets me into the secure zone. More introductions and the occasional promise of ‘I’ll speak to you later.’

      Around me, last-minute preparations are taking place for the briefing. To my left the Duty Auth’s (Authoriser’s) desk would be familiar to anyone who has ever visited an RAF flying squadron. Any lingering vision of a chrome and glass wonderland is replaced by the reality of varnished plywood topped by Perspex: a classic air force design. Its angled top surface holds the documentation for the Reaper aircraft that is thousands of miles away, but which the pilot will later sign for before taking command of it.

      In the Ops Room across the corridor from the desk, some footage of a strike the previous day by XIII Squadron in the UK is being examined. I ask a passer-by if there is something unusual about this particular video but it turns out to be routine: footage of every weapon release is shared between the squadrons for training purposes. Various levels of critique are being offered involving angles of attack and weapon settings, all underpinned by a general sense of ‘39 Squadron would have done it better.’

      I smiled and thought: Everyone’s an expert. My second thought was: Actually, everyone watching is an expert, and they are analysing the minutiae of destroying and killing in forensic detail. I can just see past the small group huddled around the screen but cannot quite fathom the details being discussed. In a few weeks’ time an instructor at RAF Waddington would talk me through a broad selection of different weapon