Meanwhile, far from Jugroom Fort, the Joint Operations Cell was teeming with officers, all desperate to follow the action on a tiny black-and-white monitor. Unable to offer any tactical support, all they could do was stand and watch, powerless as the nerve-wracking action unfurled...

On a quiet morning in Helmand, there would normally be less than a dozen people in Camp Bastion’s Joint Operations Cell. But by 9.30am that Monday morning it was full to the brim. More than 50 officers and senior NCOs had packed themselves into the 48-foot-long, 12-foot-wide, air-conditioned tent. Even those who didn’t have a good reason to be there had suddenly conjured one up. The temperature was rising and the place stank of testosterone.

The corporals in charge of putting coloured pins into the JOC’s centrepiece, a giant map table, were finding it hard to move. It was ringed by a series of section desks for each of the Helmand Task Force units: 42 Commando, 45 Commando, 29 Commando Royal Artillery, the Royal Engineers, the JTACs, Explosive Ordnance Disposal, ISTAR, Forward Planning, Immediate Operations, the Air Desk, the Bastion Security Company – the list went on. At each desk, the sections’ appointed representatives – captains or young majors – hovered nervously while the young marines and soldiers listened intently to their radios through sweaty headsets.

On the back wall hung the MERC – a giant TV screen broadcasting a permanent video printer with one line sit reps on ongoing operations across Regional Command South. Every pair of eyes flicked towards its flashing cursor every 30 seconds or so in the hope of an update from Jugroom Fort.

The huge tent was eerily quiet. You could cut the atmosphere with a knife as the anticipation grew and tempers frayed.

The Ops Sergeant Major broke the silence by bellowing his habitual refrain at critical times. ‘Gentlemen, once again. If you’ve got no business in the JOC, please leave NOW. We don’t need bloody sightseers.’ His irritation escalated as he was completely ignored. Nobody wanted to leave.

The largest group crowded around the green metal box on the ISTAR desk with its lid hinged open to reveal a keyboard and monitor: the only link to what was really going on in the south. A black-and-white image flickered across the screen – a live feed beamed down from the Nimrod flying thousands of feet above Jugroom Fort. It was the perfect bird’s-eye view.

Trigger stood in prime position, one foot on a green canvas chair, directly in front of the MR2 downlink. He held a telephone receiver to each ear: one the Apache net, the other a direct line to the Commanding Officer in Kandahar.

Much to his disgust and concern, the feed was intermittent.

When it did come in, it showed a thermal image of the entire Jugroom Fort area. The river, tributary and canal were pitch-black and the individual fields varied shades of grey; it was a bitter morning, and they’d absorbed little heat from the winter sun. Its rays had marginally warmed the roofs and south-facing walls of the buildings and the maze of battlements that zigzagged around the boundaries of the villages and fort, converting an average thermal image into something approaching a perfect black-and-white TV picture.

The heat generated by my weapons and Billy’s shone white on the western side of the canal. The Taliban village was so hot that Trigger thought none of the enemy occupants could still be alive. But as the Nimrod zoomed in, he became increasingly alarmed. Beams of white light streaked out of the village, towards his men. More sliced their way from the fort and the village to its east: RPGs, and lots of them.

The image froze once more. Trigger had seen enough. But he was too far removed from the battle to commit to an operational decision on this scale.

42 Commando’s 2i/c had drawn the short straw that day; he was running the JOC. Trigger asked him if there was there any chance he could find out exactly what was going on at Colonel Magowan’s HQ.

‘My guys can get Lance Corporal Ford out if they get top cover. All they need is 3 Flight down there to cover them. 3 Flight is launching in a few minutes, but they’ve been told no by Colonel Magowan’s JTAC...’

The 2i/c rang through to his opposite number at 3 Commando Brigade HQ in Lashkar Gah. It was the first they’d heard of the Apache plan. The 2i/c was told to wait.

Three minutes later, he called Trigger over.

‘Okay, they’ve spoken to the brigadier. He now knows about your guys’ plan, and he knows Zulu Company is preparing a rescue mission too. His verdict is: whoever’s ready first, goes.’

Trigger pushed his way through the crowd to let Billy know that his idea had been planted all the way up the chain of command. As he arrived at his desk, a signaller handed him the secure telephone. ‘Sir, it’s the CO from Kandahar…’

‘Chris, I’ve just been briefed about the Apache rescue mission idea.’

‘Yes sir. I was just talking to –’

‘Turn it off.’

‘Say again, sir?’

‘Turn it off. Now. They are not going in there.’

‘But, sir…’

‘Understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The Colonel hung up.

As our two Apaches touched down at Colonel Magowan’s Command Post, the message was relayed to us loud and clear: the mission was off. The disappointment welled up in me so vigorously I could almost taste it.

Suddenly a new voice came on the radio – an officer’s voice, older than the others and extremely authoritative. He spoke slowly and clearly, so everybody could hear. And he made sure everybody knew where this order came from: Brigadier Jerry Thomas.

‘All stations, from SUNRAY…

‘Option One is a recovery of Lance Corporal Ford by the Apaches. Option Two is a recovery by Zulu Company. Option One has been approved.

‘Repeat, Option One is APPROVED. Prosecute ASAP.’

It was an extraordinary volte-face. The phone lines between Lashkar Gah and Kandahar must have been red hot. I didn’t care about that now. We’d lost five minutes of precious fuel sitting with our thumbs up our arses. It was going to be tight now. Painfully tight. But we were ready to pick up our marines and get on with the job of rescuing Lance Corporal Ford.

Colonel Magowan’s Command Post was located in a broad wadi six kilometres into the desert, due west of the fort.

Land Rovers, Pinzgauers and a whole host of other vehicles had it corralled in the middle of the shallow wadi, Wild West style. Small canvas tents had been erected for the signallers to work from, and everybody else sat behind portable desks under camouflage netting rigged up to the vehicles. It was a lean headquarters, and everyone was assigned a specialist job.

Colonel Magowan had everything he needed to fight a small war from under one roof. Everything was at his command – fast jets, eyes in the sky, attack helicopters, artillery, Scimitars and Viking fighting vehicles capable of swimming rivers and delivering two fighting companies.

Loudspeakers broadcast the mission net traffic. The busy HQ staff listened intently to Magowan’s conversation with me.

The Colonel put down the radio handset. He looked around slowly, eyeballing every staff member under the camouflage net. Nobody moved an inch.

The decision he was about to make was much more than just a tactical one – it was the most difficult decision of his life. He had a man down in a Taliban stronghold which the marines had failed to enter when the odds were stacked in their favour. There was no guarantee of success if his men went back into the fort – and a very strong possibility more of them would be killed. They would be seen coming a mile away, and if the Taliban put two and two together, they would do everything in their power to locate and capture the missing marine. The Apaches would be fast, but a huge target. How could he possibly risk two of his greatest assets and eight men?

It seemed his only option was to trust the words of a man he had never met; an option that seemed more ridiculous with every passing second. ‘Right. I need four volunteers. Get a fireplan together.’

His Ops Officer raised a hand within a second of the question being asked. ‘I’m going, sir.’

‘You’re my Ops Officer. I need you to fight the battle here.’

His JTAC – Widow Seven One – was next.

‘No, you’re my bloody JTAC!’

The third to volunteer was Captain Dave Rigg, the battle group’s Royal Engineers adviser.

‘No, Dave, I need you here to watch the feed.’

Since there hadn’t been any actual engineering tasks on the attack, the thirty-year-old’s job had been to watch the Nimrod footage as it came into HQ.

‘Sir, I’ve been eyeballing the feed solidly for the last ten hours. I know exactly what’s happened. I know exactly where Lance Corporal Ford is and I know every inch of the fort. There is nobody better suited to go.’

‘Okay, Dave, you’re going. Thank you.’

Before anyone else volunteered, the Colonel spoke again.

‘This is a job for my RSM. Where’s the RSM? Someone get him.’

The Landing Force Command Support Group’s Regimental Sergeant Major, WO1 Colin Hearn, was the only member of the command staff not to have heard the CO’s radio conversation.

With a receding hairline and wind-beaten features, Colin Hearn looked every inch the grizzled old commando that he was. He’d done twenty-two years, was the Commandos’ most senior soldier, and Afghanistan was his last operational tour.

‘If only we had someone from Zulu Company here,’ the Colonel continued. ‘It’s a Zulu Company mission.’

At the far end of the camouflage netting, a nineteen-year-old Scouser spoke up.

‘I’m Zulu Company, sir.’

‘Right. You – and you – outside.’ Magowan pointed to Marine Chris Fraser-Perry and the twenty-six-year-old signaller, Marine Gary Robinson, who happened to be standing next to him. ‘You’re going on a mission.’

RSM Hearn appeared.

‘Ah, RSM. Get your weapon, body armour and helmet. You’re going on the side of an Apache to retrieve Lance Corporal Ford.’

‘Right you are, sir.’ Hearn’s grin broadened.

‘Are you okay with that, RSM?’

‘Of course, sir. No problems...’

Colin Hearn was used to the CO’s odd sense of humour by now. But he still thought it was a bizarre time to play a practical joke, what with everything that was going on. He only had a few weeks of service left, but he knew it would be unsporting not to go along with it.

RSM Hearn chuckled to himself as he marched off to pick up his gear. ‘A flight on an Apache. Yeah, right.’