by R G Ainslee
I taxied up to the building that seemed to serve as a terminal. We had a valid flight plan and I coordinated the landing with a guy that almost spoke English, nevertheless two men in uniform rushed up waving their hands.
"Wonder what these guys want?" I asked to no one in particular.
"Must be airport officials, I'll handle 'em," said Jack.
I shut down the engines and Jack met them on the tarmac. Everyone seemed to be excited, talking loudly, and gesturing. They accompanied Jack to the terminal and he returned about five minutes later.
"How much?" I asked.
"One hundred-sixty bucks. They wanted landing fees, parking fees, entry fees, and a few I couldn't decipher."
"We get ripped off?" asked Amadeo.
"Nah, seemed about standard. When I showed 'em Harry's papers, they quieted down, and everything smoothed out. Oh, by the way, the telex office is in town, we need a taxi."
"How about fuel?"
"The truck will be here in a minute. May be expensive though."
"Okay — Amadeo, you stay with the plane. Jack give him some cash for the fuel. — Dylan, you keep an eye on Harry. We don't need him doing another runner."
"Done, no problem … Harry you—"
Harry responded indignantly. "Hey mate, where would I go, besides I'm with you lot now. You can trust old Harry. Count on it."
Jack strode over to Harry. "I want you to stay inside. If I see you—"
"Right o mate, I ain't goin nowhere."
I started towards the terminal. "Come on, I want to be out of here within the hour."
One of the airport officials met us outside the main building. Jack spoke with him in French and peeled off another twenty-dollar bill.
"What now?"
"His cousin has a taxi and we're set. He'll take us to the telex and get us back pronto."
"Twenty bucks seems like a lot for a taxi in this town. That should about buy one."
"You wanted speed, you got it. We don't have time to bargain. Besides he could have asked for a few more fees."
"You getting receipts for all this?"
"No, guess Wilson will just have to trust me on this one."
* * *
Tourist attractions in Agadez, a town of mud and brick buildings bisected with a warren of unpaved dirt streets, include a historic mosque, a bazaar, and a livestock exchange for cattle, camels, and goats. Interesting as they may be, we had no time for any of them, most of all, the goat market.
On our wild taxi ride across town to the Post Telephone and Telegraph office, we did manage to steal a fleeting glimpse of the mosque as we sped by. The driver informed Jack the design was much the same as the one in Timbuktu. I took his word for it. Timbuktu would have been an upgrade as far as I was concerned.
The telex office was open. We got there moments before they closed for the afternoon break, or siesta, or whatever they call it in these parts. A five-dollar bill ensured their attention.
We sent the following: — To: Agence de voyage du Sahara — From: Jacque Richard — Message: Arrivent Agadez. Djanet a été bonne. Départ à N'Djamena.
"Think he'll understand the part about Djanet being good?" asked Jack.
"That's his problem. It's short and to the point. What does he expect, a full travelogue? He should get the drift."
"I just wish I didn't have to sign my name."
"Don't worry. We're saving him money … and time. Besides, he should expect the unexpected by now."
The guy at the window told Jack there would be an extra fee to speed up matters, in other words, if you want the message sent today, fork over something to sweeten the pot. Jack slipped him an extra five.
As we left the office, I said, "You're setting a new standard for baksheesh in this town."
"You're the one who said we need to hurry—"
"Hold it." I stuck my arm out to keep Jack from stepping through the door. "That yellow car…"
"Yeah, it's a Mehari." We were familiar with the French made Mehari, sort of a low-slung open jeep type vehicle. Something only the French could come up with.
"No, one of the passengers, the Nazi looking one, I recognize the guy. We got trouble, big time."
"You know him? … From where?"
"Saw his picture. He was with Penwell's gang in Beirut."
"They don't look like tourists, do they?"
"Got goon written all over them. He's Georg von Hoffmeister, the chief operations planner for the Škorpion Brigade, Helga Bremmer's main squeeze."
The vehicle passed without the occupants taking notice of our presence. Jack said, "They're gone. Let's get back to the plane before they show up there."
"I'm getting this bad feeling again." My sixth sense shifted into overdrive, trying to figure out what to do. I remembered the tape in my pocket. "We do need to make one stop, let's hit the market first."
Minutes later, we were back in the taxi on our way to the airport, after a quick interlude to pick up a cassette music tape and a couple of Tuareg head scarves. Much to the merchant's delight, we dispensed with the bargaining and paid first price.
Jack handed me one of the long bandanas. "Here, fold the scarf lengthwise, tie a knot in one end, place the thing on your head with the knot in the back, and wrap around a couple of times. Then wrap the rest around your neck with the last bit over your mouth." He demonstrated. "Voila, the perfect disguise for Agadez, a taguelmoust. I saw a few tourist types wearing them on the way, no one seems to notice when hippies try to go native."
"Yeah — nobody'll give us a second glance."
I followed his instructions and ended up with what looked like a loose-fitting turban. Then switched out the cassette from the plastic case and replaced it with the intercept. The driver smiled when I handed him the tape with some local music. Couldn't translate what it said, must have been the Tuareg-two-step or something.
"Think that'll work?"
"Dunno, worked for me before. It's the best I can come up with on the fly."
* * *
The driver let us off near the main building. We hustled around to the side, intending to sprint to the Beechcraft. As we rounded the corner, we stopped in our tracks. Ahead, twenty yards away, sat the Mehari.
"This don't look good," I said. The occupants stood beside the vehicle talking to two other tough-guys. They wore similar outfits: jeans, tee shirts, and mid-cut desert boots. The Nazi looking guy sported a wide-brimmed hat.
We retreated around the corner. Jack said, "They seem to be focused on the plane."
"If we try to cross the tarmac, they'll spot us for sure. Whad'ya suggest?"
"A diversion." Jack rushed over to the soldier guarding the exit from the main building. He spoke to him with a flurry of gestures and ended up pointing in the direction of the Mehari. The man rushed inside, and Jack trotted back over to me. "Come on, let's move around behind the next building, we'll work our way towards the plane."
"What did you tell him?"
"I saw a couple of men with guns in the Mehari. Told the soldier, I thought they might be Libyan spies."
We edged along the side of the building and waited. Our next move would require a dash to the Beech, parked about seventy-five yards away.
Moments later, a squad of armed soldiers led by an officer, burst out of the terminal. They double-timed over to the Mehari, rifles at the ready. The SkB team, taken by surprise, raised their hands. We could hear the officer shouting as we made our final dash to the plane.
Amadeo stood by the door, taking in the altercation down the tarmac. Our sudden appearance wearing scarves over our faces startled him.
I said loudly, trying not to yell, "Get in we're out of here."
He seized my arm. "We got a problem."
"What else is new? See those guys with the soldiers. They're SkB — we need to move quick — ASAP."
Jack opened the side door. "Where's Dawson?"
Amadeo, looking sheepish, replied, "He knocked Dylan out, took his weapon, and escaped."
"How in hell did that happen?"
"Dunno. I was standing here and felt a pistol pressing against my neck. He grabbed my Makarov and hightailed across the tarmac and disappeared down one of the streets over there."
"Dylan, okay?"
Jack answered from the cabin, "He's out cold."
I clutched Amadeo's arm and shoved him towards the door. "Load up, we gotta go."
It didn't take long to fire up the Twin Beech. Out of necessity, I skipped the walk around inspection every pilot performs before takeoff. This time the prudent thing to do was get the hell out of Dodge before bullets started flying. I barreled down the taxiway at full power, made the sharp left turn without a ground loop, and was airborne halfway down the runway. The international language of air traffic control is English. I guess it doesn't apply if you're excited. The radio speaker squawked for a while until they gave up.
"What'd he say?" I asked Amadeo as we reached our cruising altitude.
"He started with orders to return and ended with some graphic descriptions of your heritage. Seems you have donkey relatives."
"Those guys gotta lighten up, take themselves much too seriously. They'll have their hands full with the SkB goons, don't ya think?"
"Imagine they'll bribe their way out pretty quick."
"But at least we raised the baksheesh bar high enough to make it expensive for them."
Amadeo shouted back to Jack, "How's he doing?"
"Still out. The bastard hit him with the fire extinguisher. Come take a look at him."
Amadeo and Jack exchanged places. Jack asked, "You on course for N'Djamena?"
"Yeah, hold this heading for a couple of hours and then we need to make a decision."
"About what?"
"Nigerian airspace, the direct route takes us over the northeast corner. Not sure if that'll be a problem."
"We have an alternative?"
"We can go around and come in from the north."
"Do it."
"Yeah, but that's the direction they might expect a Libyan attack to come from."
"I see." Jack studied the chart for a minute or so. "My advice is to avoid populated areas. Fly in from the north. You can always come in low and call them on the radio. Maybe Wilson will have contacted them by then."
"Yeah, he could have put out a shoot on sight order."
Jack feigned seriousness. "Didn't think of that."
"I'm joking. — We'll come in from the north."
* * *
An hour later, I told Jack, "Switch to the Libyan military frequency. They might send someone to intercept us."
He looked up from the chart. "We're a long way from Libyan airspace. That'd would be a stretch don't you think?"
"I wouldn't put it past them. They tried it before."
Jack switched frequencies and scanned across the band. On the fourth scan, a weak voice transmission cut through the static. "Can't tell what he's saying. If you increase altitude, the reception might get better."
Amadeo standing at the door said, "How about I get Hardy's radio and try to pick something up on his special band."
"If the radar's in the same place, we're too far over the horizon for him to track us. Go ahead and try it. See what you find."
Amadeo fired up the set and moved the antenna by hand. "Got a faint signal, comes in about every five seconds."
"Most likely that's it. Don't worry. We're too low, and the weather isn't right for ducting. — Dylan still out?"
"Yeah, he don't look too good, shallow breathing. Think he's got a bad concussion."
The aircraft radio began to squawk, a voice came through, jabbering something in Arabic. Jack recognized the transmission. "Air to air … a pilot speaking … can hear only one side of the conversation … sounds like they're within sight of each other … they're searching for something … he says nothing on his search mode. What do you think?"
"Let's hope they don't get stronger. If it's a Mig-23, he has limited lookdown capability. He's good for about fifty miles or so. This far from his base, he won't have much time to loiter and search for us. Shouldn't be too much of a problem."
The transmissions ceased and we flew on closing in on the border with Chad and our waypoint. Dylan remained unconscious.
* * *
"Look at that ahead," I said. The color of the flat terrain changed from yellow to a darker hue. We kept our 3,000-foot altitude for the last two and a half hours and were approaching the point where we would turn south for the run into N'Djamena.
"That's the beginning of Lake Chad. Read some about it earlier. Seems the lake level varies a lot. We should see water a bit later." Jack adjusted the caliper over the chart. "N'Djamena is a little more than an hour away past the turn point … you got about five minutes."
A burst of static and a voice — too clear for comfort — ripped the air. "Sounds close," I said.
"He is … says he's got a target … range seventy kilometers."
"Going down." I pushed the yoke forward and began a rapid decent. The engines started to cough. I eased the mix levers until they smoothed out. At 500 feet, I pulled back and leveled off. I noticed Jack's white knuckles as he gripped the armrest. He took a deep breath and adjusted the volume on the radio. "You okay?"
"What you think?' — The voice returned — "Says he lost the target … will continue the search … two minutes' fuel margin left."
The next two, then three minutes dragged into eternity. The Libyan pilot informed his controller he was returning to base. Jack asked, "Can they detect us at this low altitude?"
"Too much ground clutter, he'd have to be real lucky, or good, to find us."
"Hey, the waypoint is now … vector to a heading of 145 to the southeast, and take us on in."
* * *
"Look, there's water, an actual lake." Jack continued, looking down at the chart, "Past the lake, just follow the river on down to N'Djamena."
"N'Djamena — Aunt Jemima — that reminds me of pancakes, I'm hungry. We missed the lunch stop back in Agadez."
"Maybe that guy knows a good place to eat?"
"What do—" Jack was looking past me, to the left, I swiveled my head, and there sat a MiG-21 flying beside us, the pilot intently scrutinizing the Twin Beech. We still wore our Tuareg scarves. "Wave to him, he's looking us over."
"I'll do one better." Jack keyed the mike and started speaking Russian over the Libyan military frequency. A few moments later, he halted and waved to the pilot, who maintained his position off our left wing. "Told him not to interfere, we're on a mission authorized by the special command."
"What's the special command?"
"Hell if I know and I'm betting he doesn't know either."
"Look how his nose is wandering," I said. "The wings are beginning to rock a bit. Bet he's on the edge of stall speed."
Seconds later a transmission in German, followed by halting Russian came from the MiG. The pilot pointed to us and we waved back.
I said, "He's telling us in German to turn back. Must be one of those East Germans we heard about. What did he say in Russian?"
"Same thing…" Jack keyed the mike and spoke forcefully. The pilot tried to call his controller with no results. "He's asking for orders, nobody's answering. Think we're too low?"
"Yeah, I'm gonna turn on the Libyan IFF, see what that'll do for him." I flipped the switch. "If he goes around to get in position to shoot us down, his radar will trigger the IFF, maybe it'll confuse him."
Jack keyed the mike again, shouted, and waved his fist at the MiG. The pilot tried to call his base with no results. Seconds later the MiG accelerated, shot ahead, and curved skyward in a long arching turn.
"He's gone," said Jack.
"Or coming around to line up for a shot." The jet swung in a long arc and disappeared behind us.
The MiG pilot called again. Jack answered. A minute, then two minutes of silence, Jack called, and the pilot responded. Jack smiled and put the mike away. "He asked control for instructio
ns and told them he was returning to base."
"What did you tell him?"
"Told him to have a good day and give my regards to Colonel Petrovsky."
"Who's Colonel Petrovsky?"
"Common enough name, they must have a Colonel Petrovsky somewhere."
Amadeo appeared at the cockpit door. "Man, remind me never to play poker with you guys."
* * *
We lined up for the approach to N'Djamena airport. Attempts to contact the tower proved unsuccessful. Buzzards circled in front of us. Tanks and other military vehicles stood prominent on the taxiway. The place appeared to have been bombed not long ago.
"Looks like we got a reception committee," said Jack.
"Yeah, hope they got something to eat. I'm still hungry."
The landing was smooth, except for a couple of hard bounces and a swerve at the last second to miss a bomb crater near the end of the runway. I swung the plane around and taxied towards the oncoming convoy of vehicles. A large truck and two jeeps halted, blocking the tarmac.
"Guess this is where we stop." I said to Jack, "You handle this, your French is better than mine." About that time, a soldier emptied the magazine from an AK-47 into the air and the officer looking guy waved his hands. "Think they want me to shut it down." I pulled the throttles all the way back and killed power. Seconds later, soldiers were pounding on the side door.
"Let's go find out what's up," said Jack.
I opened the hatch and two soldiers jerked me out to the ground. I shoved back. "Hey, we're friendly—"
The last thing I remembered was Jack yelling something in French as a soldier in ragged fatigues raised the butt of his AK-47 and swung in my direction.
24 ~ N'Djamena
Thursday, 9 October 1980, N'Djamena, Chad
War is hell and Chad was at war. It wasn't clear whose side was in charge, not that it mattered. This was a third-world war, not World War III, just another nasty brutal conflict. Call it a civil war, proxy war, rebellion, invasion, take your choice. To the little guys, the ones doing the fighting, the wretched of the earth, it didn't matter, dead is dead.