by R G Ainslee
Dylan wasn't convinced. "Yeah, but can you fly the bleedin thing?"
"Oh, ye of little faith." I didn't tell him, but I was asking the same question.
"Are we all going on this—"
"No two people are sufficient. Use less fuel. — But I will need someone to handle the controls while I use the receiver. Think you—"
"Not me. How about Ruiz?"
"You're probably right."
* * *
We returned to the compound. Roger lay asleep on the couch, the doctor's painkillers doing their job. I checked on Harry Dawson, still tied to the chair with the bag over his head. Alix sat across from him, butcher knife in hand.
"How's our guest?"
Harry whimpered on hearing my voice. She must have replaced the duct tape over his mouth.
"Oh, he's a good boy now." She glided over behind him and stroked his neck with the blade. "When he's rested, we can continue with the foreplay." She leaned down and moaned, "Was it good for you?"
He trembled and mumbled incoherently. Poor Harry was in the throes of expectation, unfortunately for him not the kind he bargained for at lunch.
I patted him on the shoulder, "Glad you're having fun. She's a wildcat, but kinda tame compared to Helga. Maybe later she can take it to another level, wouldn't want you to leave disappointed." I said to Alix, "You should do something about the cut on his leg. Don't let it get infected, what with you using that nasty knife."
Harry struggled to speak as she rummaged the medical kit. She pulled out a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I nodded approval. She walked over, twisted off the cap, and poured a generous measure over his exposed wounds. He screamed the scream of a man on fire, loud even through the duct tape.
"Sorry, the nurse's bedside manner leaves something to be desired. Don't worry though; she'll make it up to you later." I turned to Alix, "Won't you sweetheart?"
She leaned over, tugged the bag up over his ear, and bit him on the back of the neck. He let out an animal like groan. She whispered, "Tell me when you are ready." He twisted to the side, tumbling to the floor, hitting his head with a loud thud. We both kneeled down and returned the chair upright.
I motioned for Alix to leave and we exited the room together, closing the door behind us. "That's a pretty good act," I said. "You really have him on edge."
She hooked her arm inside my elbow. "Who said it was an act?"
Amadeo smiled at the sight of us walking arm in arm. "Sounds like you guys are having all the fun."
"You can take over watching him for a while. We should keep him disoriented, so why don't you talk to him in Ethiopian or something."
"Can do, but I don't think I can top your act," he said winking at Alix.
Dylan, sitting at the table, held up a bottle of Danish beer. "Cheers mate."
"Where did you get the beer?"
"Ali had some put up for Roger. I'd share, but there's only three left. How's our Aussie friend doing?"
Alix answered, "I don't believe he will give us any trouble. One more session and he will be a broken man."
Dylan gave me an apprehensive look. "He sounds broken already, don't you think?"
"Close," I said. "Alix— I mean Tamara here—"
"Tamara." She squeezed my arm. "How did you pick that name?"
"Just came to me, met someone with—"
"Oh," she huffed, feigning indignation, "You have another woman."
"Yeah, I got another woman — I'm married."
"All right, all right," said Dylan. What's next on your plan? We've got a bloody airplane. Now what are you going to do for a co-pilot?"
Alix piped up, "My graduation present from high school was pilot lessons. I spent the entire summer flying and soloed. Although, I have not flown in years."
"You ever flown a twin engine?"
"No, it was a small Cessna, one motor only. Is that a problem?"
I thought it over. Some experience was better than none. Hell, she may have more airtime than me. Then again, do I want to be cooped up with her flying over hostile territory? Can I trust her? What if she goes crazy again? In the end, I had no choice, "Okay your elected. Now we need to decide when to do this."
* * *
Harry Dawson was indeed a broken man. After we decided what to do, I re-interviewed him. He answered every question promptly and even offered more information than I asked for. He gave up his team's radio frequencies and identification codes. More importantly, he confirmed my suspicion the Libyan air force did not routinely fly at night and the gang used Marsden's radar at night for surveillance purposes.
I considered using him to pilot the Twin Beech, but decided the risk was too great. One other person on board would be needed to watch him and I couldn't spare the extra fuel.
Later we gathered around the table as I pointed out the route on Harry's aeronautical chart. "The Twin Beech has a normal range of 1,200 miles. Al Wigh, our target, is 300 as the crow flies, but we'll have to slip south over the Idhan Murzug, a large expanse of sand dunes, adding almost fifty miles. At a cruising speed of 140 knots, we ought to be back in, oh say, four or five hours, or so."
"Do you think flying at night is the best approach?" said Roger, awake and feeling better.
"Yeah, less chance of being sighted, and, from what Harry says, the radar should be operational. It's risky, but we don't have any choice." I checked my Timex. "2100 hours now, we lift off at midnight."
"What about the authorities at the airport?" asked Roger.
"Harry said they go home at sundown. No scheduled flights at night. Said nobody bothered him when he took off the other night."
"Do you think you can trust what he tells you?"
I said to Amadeo, "I told him if we don't return — he's dead meat. He understands. Am I right?"
Amadeo answered, "Yeah, big time. I told him he belonged to Alix—"
"But she will be in the plane—"
"He don't know that."
Roger took a deep breath, "It appears your plan might work. I agree. You go with my permission."
I didn't say I didn't require his approval but decided to leave it at that. If things turned sour, I would need someone to share the blame. The French are always handy in that regard. "Thanks." I told Alix, "Let's take a little nap before we take off. It's going to be a long night."
From her raised eyebrows and the sparkle in her eyes, I realized I said the wrong thing. She took my hand and cooed, "Come, if you think you can sleep."
"I— I think I'll—"
She pulled me towards the sleeping room and looked back to the others. "Please do not disturb. We need our privacy."
I thought, uh-oh, and followed her through the door.
As I closed the door, she said with a serious tone, "You take that rug on the floor in the corner, and I will take the bed. No monkey business, remember you are married."
"Sounds like a plan." I grabbed my sleeping bag, spread it out, and was dead to the world in less than a minute.
* * *
I was deep asleep, not even dreaming, when a boot nudged my elbow, "Okay lover boy, it's time to rise and shine." I rolled over and presented Amadeo with the universal hand gesture.
"You snore," snapped Alix from the door, on her way out.
"Well excuse the hell out of me." I took Amadeo's extended hand and he pulled me to my feet. "Let's roll."
I was shocked as I walked into the main room. Harry Dawson sat unfettered at the table having a beer with Dylan. He eyed both Alix and me nervously as we approached.
"What's this?" I asked.
Dylan leaned back and smiled. "Harry here decided to throw his lot in with us." He patted the nervous Aussie on the shoulder, "Meet the newest member of our team."
"How do you figure that?"
Amadeo intervened, "We had a long talk with Mr. Dawson while you two horsed around in the love nest—" Alix snorted derisively. "—and we convinced him it would be in his best interest to cooperate. He even promised to assist you with the Beech."
"I'll fly the thing myself." I looked Dylan straight in the eye, "Why do you think we can trust him?"
Harry answered, "I ain't got no choice mate. I throw in with your lot or die. If I go back, I'm dead. No two ways about it."
"Okay, but you've got to understand. You're a probationary employee. One false move and you're terminated. Get the drift?"
"An employee?"
"Only in a matter of speaking. Your compensation is you get to keep on living." I paused for a thought, "Your first duty is to check me out on the Beech before I take off."
Harry trembled as Alix glided over and caressed his neck. "You will be a good boy, won't you?"
He gulped. "Yes, I—"
She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. "Later, we can talk some more."
I checked my watch. "2300 hours, let's round 'em up and move 'em out." I glared at Dylan, "Why did you give him the last beer?"
"He's Aussie, what more can I say."
20 ~ The Flight
Tuesday, 7 October 1980, Djanet Airfield, Algeria
Harry had been correct. The airport shut down for the night. Only a couple of security guards at the main building. Dylan smooth-talked the young soldiers in Arabic and peeled off a few dollar bills to ease their conscience. They would be no problem.
True to his promise, Harry paced me through the start-up procedure for the Beech and imparted a little advice. "Some blokes call this a flying rat trap, but don't you pay it no mind. Just handle her easy, like a…" He glanced back at Alix standing behind the cockpit seats. "… ah, fine lady, and she'll give you no trouble."
The Twin Beech is what you might call a vintage aircraft, first produced in the late thirties. My only previous experience with the aircraft had been in Thailand during the war. Air America, the CIA sponsored airline, flew a few ex-military versions doing whatever they did. I suspected Harry's Beech had been one of those.
"Let's go ahead and start her up. We'll taxi out to the end of the runway and I'll let you out before takeoff."
"If you want mate, I can—"
"No and remember what's going to happen if I don't make it back."
"Righto, that's why, I—"
"I said no." Something occurred to me. "IFF … What kind of system?"
"Bugger mate, I'm sorry, they installed a Russkie module on board."
"Kremni Two?"
"Right mate, sorry I forgot."
Alix asked, "What is—"
"Identification, friend, or foe. The radar sends a coded signal to an aircraft illuminated by its beam. The aircraft replies with a coded message. In other words, the radar sends a challenge and must receive a valid response. Failure to do so will deem the target as potentially hostile."
Harry looked at me with a question in his eyes. He didn't need to know if I was going to use the IFF. I ignored him and continued. 'Okay let's get back to firing this thing up. What's first again?"
"Apply the brakes and get the fuel pressure up with the hand lever pump."
I wiggled the lever a few times, reached forward, and pulled a couple of handles six times each to prime the engines. "That about right?"
"Right mate, now power up the right engine first." I turned the engine over six times before engaging the magneto. The motor coughed twice and then responded with a reassuring roar.
I pumped the right throttle. "Check temperature and oil pressure," he instructed. "Running smooth, now start left engine." I repeated the procedure and we began our taxi to the north end of the runway.
As Harry exited the rear door, he yelled back, "Don't forget to lock the tail wheel." I did, not wanting to ground loop on takeoff.
I eased the throttle forward, holding the brakes, as the engine revved. The black asphalt spread before me, a dark streak barely penetrating the moonless starlight. I couldn't see the end of the runway but intended to be airborne well before that became an issue.
I waved to Dylan and Harry standing in the sand. Amadeo waited at the vehicle with the radio. Roger stayed behind. I released the brakes, rolled forward, and tapped the brakes to make sure the tail wheel locked in place.
Moments later, I placed the rudders in neutral position and we accelerated down the runway, weaving only a little. I turned the yoke to the left to return to the centerline, the tail wheel lifted, and presto we were airborne.
"That went smoother than expected, should be easy from here on."
"Aren't you going to raise the wheels?"
"Oh, yeah, guess that would help our fuel consumption."
She smiled. "And you thought I was just window dressing."
I brought the gear and flaps up, banked to the southeast, and gently pulled back on the yoke to climb. Soon we were at our planned cruising altitude of 6,000 feet. I reduced power, checked our ground speed, trimmed up the control surfaces, and turned on a course I hoped would lead us to our first waypoint. Alix keyed the mike twice. Two clicks came in quick response. Raven-One was back in business.
* * *
Flying under night visual flight rules require the pilot to be able to see outside the cockpit. Over the Sahara, at night, on a secret mission, without an official flight plan — you make up your own rules.
Navigation was a matter of flying from one point on the chart to the next, a process of estimating your current location by projecting course and speed from a known position using a watch, the airspeed indicator, chart, and compass. In theory, the return trip is a matter of doing it in reverse.
Luck was with us. Our ground speed showed upper winds weren’t a factor. Alix made a few calculations and figured out we could fly at two-thirds power and maintain a three-hour fuel reserve. If we ran into headwinds later, I would reduce power to conserve fuel.
Our route took us southeast on a heading of 135 degrees for forty-five minutes to skirt the southern edge of the range before turning northeast on a course of 70 degrees. We initially flew across sand dunes, then between black volcanic peaks. The mountains of the Tasilli n'Adjjar lay to the left and yellow sands to the right, and then over a mass of black lava, across a rough plain.
I struggled with the blackness of the jagged peaks on my flanks. Ahead I recognized a peak prominent on the chart, a black truncated cone emerging from the grayness of the desert floor, floating like an iceberg on the sea.
"Is that Mont Tiska?" I asked.
Alix consulted the chart. "Yes, you must stay to the left."
"It's sure difficult in the starlight to distinguish between sky and terrain. The horizon is ill-defined and demands all my attention to keep an even flight level. We'll need more light to be able to land this thing. Right now, I'm not sure if I could make it down safely. Check the almanac over in the pocket. See what time the moon comes out."
She turned on a light, flipped through the pages, and said, "A crescent moon will appear about 0330. Will that provide enough light for our return journey?"
A waning moon, that'll be almost dark. "That'll cut it close, but I guess anything's better than nothing."
After a few minutes of silence, she asked, "Do you believe Harry Dawson is sincere?"
"Don't know …" Thought it over for a moment, I was bothered by him not telling me about the IFF, but then again it could've been a simple omission. "He convinced the others. What do you think?"
"He is sincere for the moment. But he is the type of man who will go where the wind blows. Does that make sense?"
"Yeah, I think we're on the same page. Tell me what was the deal with the knife?"
She kept quiet for few seconds. I was about to say something when she answered, "The goal was to disorient him. My instinct told me he was vulnerable."
"How'd you come up with that?"
"A woman can always tell what a man is thinking when they are — how would you say — engaged in a romantic meal that serves as a prelude to something more."
"I guess that's why I don't like to eat out."
"With you it is easy. You are an open book. American men tend to be so �
�� how would you say—"
"Predictable."
"Yes, that would apply, but there are—"
"Hey, let's change the subject." This type of conversation never works out well. Why are women always trying to get inside your head? I kept on flying, eyes glued to the horizon, but I could feel her gaze.
After three quarters of an hour, we sighted the first giant dunes. Starlight reflected off waves of sand. We were at our first waypoint near the border with Niger. We turned to a new heading across the wasteland. Two more hour's flight time to Al Wigh, distance 200 miles, or so.
The luminous slopes of a ridge loomed ahead like a fortress. I gradually increased altitude to keep us at least 3,000 feet.
Sand, more sand, endless sand, below lay the huge expanse of the Marzuq Sand Sea, a mass of classic large and small dunes — like the ones you see in National Geographic. At night, the yellowish orange dunes cast a cold grey effect. Features became less distinct, like flying across an ocean.
The immenseness of the desert makes one consider their mortality. Alix mused, "The French writer de Saint-Exupery flew over this place. He wondered if the land had lain for a thousand years, to be seen only by the stars … Is that not interesting?"
"Yeah, but didn't he die when he crashed in the Sahara?"
She sighed. "That is so."
"We should reach our turn around point in about forty-five minutes. Take the controls and I'll set up the gear." I slipped out of the seat, made my way back to the main cabin, and returned a minute later with the modified receiver and a cassette tape recorder.
Alix examined the gear and smiled. "You must have a low-budget operation. Do you buy your instruments at Radio Shack?"
"Yeah, something like that. President Carter wants us to be economical. There's a recession on."
"Is that why you have to steal an airplane, too?"
"I guess so. We even hitchhike with the French."
"That is not so bad, is it?"
"Could be worse."
It could be a whole lot worse, that's what I was worried about. First, we had to get close enough to intercept the signal, if the radar was operational. Then, we had the return flight, find the airfield and the biggest concern of all — survive the landing.