Eyes in the Sky: Chronicles of a Drone Pilot

Hello again readers,

When people first stumble upon my LinkedIn profile or strike up a conversation about my profession, their eyebrows often arch in surprise. The most common question I get is, "What's it like to be a drone pilot?" This is usually followed by a curiosity about the adventures, challenges, and technological marvels associated with this unique career. Today, I’m going to share a fragment of my story and provide you a window into this fascinating world, maybe I will do a few more of these if they are of interest.

Please bear in mind that in the interest of discretion, I will be leaving out certain names and specific mission details. But I assure you, the essence of the journey will remain intact.

The year 2006 stands out prominently on the timeline of my life. It was during this year, after a deeply unsettling incident involving a Nimrod, that I felt a compelling need to switch paths.?

This urge was not just to seek new opportunities, but also to escape the ghosts of the past. Late one evening, while scouring the military intranet for potential postings, an unexpected opportunity from Las Vegas flashed on my screen. Without even diving into the specifics of the role, I immediately rang up my wife. Both of us, being fervent fans of the series CSI: Vegas, were instantly thrilled at the idea of moving there. A deeper investigation into the job posting, however, unveiled something even more exhilarating—it was an opportunity to be a part of an emergent drone squadron, working closely with our American counterparts.

Fast forward a few months, and there we were, disembarking on the sun-baked tarmac of Nellis Air Force Base, located to the north-east of Las Vegas. While my introduction to drone technology was elementary at best, the world of unmanned aviation gripped me from the very start. I wasn't just learning to fly a machine; I was at the forefront of aviation innovation.?

My zeal and dedication paid off as I was honoured with the top pilot student award. It wasn't just about the flights or the drones—it was the magic that happened at the confluence of age-old aviation principles and the dawn of cutting-edge technology.

Upon my arrival at the base, it was immediately apparent that our initial ground control systems (GCS) were very much in their infancy. They looked almost makeshift—resembling noisy Porto-cabins more than the state-of-the-art operations centres one might imagine. These rudimentary cabins, crammed with chunky computers and an assortment of wirings, buzzed with an odd mixture of tension and excitement. But appearances can be deceptive. Despite their unassuming exteriors, the power these systems packed when executed in the field was nothing short of astonishing.

My inclusion into the singular operational Predator Squadron was akin to entering a secret society. Our base, incongruously located behind an innocuous shopping mall at Nellis, was a realm of contrast. To an unsuspecting passerby, it was just another mundane structure, but closer inspection would reveal a very different story—the heightened security, the guarded entrances, and the buzz of covert activities. This discreet facade protected one of the military's most significant assets.

Our shifts were rigorous, often stretching the limits of endurance. Days would blur into nights and vice versa. But the fatigue paled in comparison to the sheer marvel that was the Predator drone. Its capabilities were awe-inspiring—able to soar at 15,000 feet for a continuous 24-hour flight, and armed with the devastating precision of hellfire weapons. This was the cutting edge of warfare technology.

One of the most rewarding aspects of my role was the support we provided to ground troops. With the omnipresent eye of our drones overhead, we became their guardian angels, especially during clandestine operations humorously dubbed as "sneaky beaky" ops. Knowing that our surveillance and support could tilt the scales of an operation provided an immense sense of fulfilment.

Engaging in "sneaky Beaky" operations is one thing, but being at the centre of a mission with global ramifications is another level entirely. Circa early 2007, our team found ourselves in the treacherous terrain of northeastern Afghanistan, specifically in an area colloquially dubbed "Nixon’s Nose" due to its distinctive map outline.

The quarry of our chase was no ordinary fugitive. His name, which I shan't divulge, resonated with urgency and importance across global intelligence circles. Countries, several of them, were eager to have him in their clutches. Over a couple of weeks, we primarily utilised then-novel detection systems—highly classified at the time—to pinpoint and shadow him.

The eve of the planned strike was unforgettable. As we closed in on our target's location, the skies above his compound transformed into a buzzing hive of activity. It was an aerial traffic jam like I'd never witnessed: close to fifty aircraft, each circling, waiting, poised. The very air was thick with anticipation. Yet, despite being in the thick of things, us Brits were left somewhat in the dark. Post our operational briefing, we'd respectfully step out, leaving our American counterparts to deeper, clandestine discussions. It was necessary, yet undeniably vexing.

The weight of the forthcoming day pressed heavily on me. Rumours had it that footage from drones, during times of significance, found their way to the screens of presidents and prime ministers. And the gravity of this operation definitely qualified it as "significant". Wanting to be ahead of the curve, I reported to work earlier than usual the following day, only to be met with an unforeseen hurdle—my entry card was disabled.

Upon inquiring, I was met with the astounding revelation: My services, along with those of my fellow Brits, would no longer be needed on this mission, or at the squadron. My immediate call to my off-duty boss, who was probably unwinding with a pint or two, resulted in a terse directive to head home while he sorted things out.

The subsequent days, although in reality, only a few, felt agonisingly long. Uncertainty hovered. Our family, having recently made personal and financial sacrifices to relocate, now faced the prospect of an abrupt return to the UK. A young family, in a foreign land, grappling with a sudden twist in the narrative. As an aside and obviously the remaining Americans lost the target the following day, although not blaming them, perhaps keeping us Brits around may have helped!

However, as is often the case with the military, change was on the horizon. Word came down the line that our previous squadron was transitioning into a special forces outfit. Concurrently, another regular drone squadron was slated to be established at Creech. For many today, Creech is synonymous with drones. Back then, it was a nondescript piece of desert real estate with a handful of structures, serving as a backup for a far more renowned base further north—a base that remains the stuff of whispers, even today.

As the days turned into months, the growth of our Squadron was nothing short of meteoric. The headcount, which seemed to multiply every time I blinked, stood at a staggering 300 within months. Ground control systems became ubiquitous, procured from every conceivable source as the raging war showcased the unassailable potential of drones. In a move that showcased just how vital drones had become, they even transformed ground control stations at training centres into operational hubs. For a period, training became an on-the-job experience as newcomers were integrated directly into the squadron without a formal training system.

The insatiable demand for drones was palpable. Airbases that launched them resembled bustling metropolises. To put it into perspective, these drones took off and landed with a frequency that rivalled commercial airliners at Heathrow and in fact a query stat was that those bases were the busiest UK airfields (even while not in the UK).

It was around this time that the Multi-Aircraft Control, or MAC, made its debut. Originally undergoing tests and evaluations, its deployment was fast-tracked due to our strained resources. Where conventional setups had a single pilot, a sensor operator, and a mission coordinator, the MAC pushed the envelope: up to two pilots, four sensor operators, and an identical number of mission coordinators. Often, a solo pilot would expertly juggle four aircraft, each involved in different conflicts and operating from distinct airbases, each with unique weapon configurations.

The promise of a three-year tenure began to stretch, with the prospect of serving a minimum of five or six years. Around the three-year mark, in a move that surprised many, I was appointed to a commanding role at the command centre overseeing all drone operations. Traditionally, such a responsibility would be vested in someone two ranks above mine. But my track record, combined with a temperament that didn't shy away from confrontation when necessary, had made me a prime candidate. My directive from the Americans was clear: shake things up. And I dove into that role with gusto.

A vivid memory from my tenure in the joint operations command centre exemplifies the dynamic nature of our operations. One evening, distressing news reached us: a US Marine had plunged into a river. Inclement weather in Afghanistan had grounded our conventional aircraft. While wrapping up my shift, I made the call to dispatch a drone to locate the marine, given our ability to take risks conventional aircraft couldn't. The following day, I returned to learn the drone hadn't been dispatched, and tragically, the marine had perished. A heated exchange with a UK Group Captain revealed a discrepancy in the operational manual, which I quickly recognised as outdated—written before the advent of drones. To rectify this, I dispatched an email with my suggestions, only to face a major faux pas. Instead of addressing it to one Group Captain, it landed in the inboxes of four-star generals, including General Petraeus, the American overseer of the war.

In a twist of irony, while I was being reprimanded by the UK Group Captain for my blunder, General Petraeus himself lauded my initiative, leading to a rather amusing scenario where the same UK Group Captain attempted to take credit for my proposal!

Upon my return to the stateside, it was evident that the British squadron was burgeoning, making strides in drone technology and expanding its operational capabilities. The facilities were state-of-the-art, the team was passionate, and the work conditions had notably improved. However, amidst these advancements, there was an underlying unease that started to gnaw at me. The very essence of our mission seemed to be undergoing a subtle shift. Drones, initially deployed as aerial lifeguards for troops in immediate peril, were now increasingly commandeered for special forces operations.

It's an inquiry I've fielded countless times. From inquisitive reporters to the persistent crew at Sky News, the question about civilian casualties in drone operations is a perennial one. While I can't speak for other nations and whether they flout international rules with their aircraft, I can confidently say that in all my years of service, I have never been part of such missions. The media has reported on it, so it's not a covert topic. The sole instance of civilian casualty that I've witnessed was heart-wrenching. A colleague, and more importantly, a good friend of mine, a commendable pilot, had been tracking a vehicle believed to have a high-value target. After hours of surveillance, he took the shot. It was only after the fact that a chilling reality emerged: children had been in the car the entire time, unseen. This tragic oversight was immediately reported within the military channels. In the span of seven years, this was the lone error I encountered.

There I was, having served in diverse capacities, pondering my next move. It was then that whispers of the QWI (Qualified Weapons Instructor) course reached my ears. To my American counterparts, earning the QWI patch was the equivalent of the Top Gun recognition in the civilian world. With the introduction of an intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance-focused QWI patch, there was a push to have representation from Reaper and Predator operators. Seizing the opportunity, both I and a colleague, who served as a sensor operator, embarked on this rigorous journey, lasting just under a year. It remains a point of pride for me to say that, to my knowledge, I am the only QWI-certified drone pilot.

The year was 2013, and the drone landscape was rapidly evolving. Civilian drones were no longer novelties but promising ventures. Opportunities to pilot drones outside the military context were on the rise. It was this promising horizon that prompted me to transition from the disciplined corridors of the military. But, of course, that's a tale for another day.

Keep pushing boundaries, stay curious, and always remember to?#StayCuriousStayInnovative .

#DroneJourney #EthicsInWarfare #ModernBattlefield

P.S. Please let me know if this article was of interest, or would you rather stick to the innovation and tech stories?