The Sahara Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  Serge reached into the rear compartment and produced a shovel. He smiled and pointed to the cairn. "We dig, under the rock."

  Digging like madmen in the cool morning air, we uncovered fifteen five-gallon cans of fuel. We alternated shoveling and hauling cans to the aircraft. One can was dry with an unfortunate leak. Both of us kept a wary eye to the east.

  An hour later, emptying the fourteenth and final can, I asked, "Will this be enough to make N'Djamena?"

  "Oui, if we have no problem. The amount we calculate for flight to N'Djamena, the empty will be no problem."

  "How long?"

  "Deux heures."

  Two hours couldn't be too soon. I felt exposed, wondering how the Libyans managed to find the site just hours before. "How did they find us? An accident, they saw the strobe, or did they know where to look?"

  "They see the light. It would not be difficult to know the direction we go."

  The fueling finished, we climbed back into the aircraft, and Serge fired up the engine. He told me over the intercom one of the magnetos wasn't operating, but we could still take off. The radio was still set to the Libyan military band. The voice of a different German-speaking pilot came through loud and clear.

  "He look for us. He flies west from Koro Toro."

  Koro Toro was 175 miles to the east. He was flying in our direction. — We need to get out of here — Serge goosed the engines and sped down the track, we were airborne, and at last on our way back.

  * * *

  We landed more than four hours behind schedule. Serge taxied the Skyraider to the hangar housing the maintenance crew. The pilots and mechanics expressed no surprise. Serge's delayed arrival and escape from death deemed a normal occurrence. The same couldn't be said for LeGrande who soon arrived in a jeep driven by Corporal Bernad.

  The commandant confronted Serge and they became involved in a heated conversation. I listened for a minute or so and left the French to sort out their problems. I was tired and hungry, my in-flight meal only a half baguette of bread.

  Joe Hardy jogged over, and I met him halfway.

  "We thought you guys were goners. What happened?"

  I explained the raid on Al Wigh, the flight back, and the refueling fiasco, "…and then we lifted off and here we are." I glanced back at Serge and the commandant. "Serge is a good pilot. Hate to say it, but he's better than Barker. In my book, he pulled off a miracle. There's no way he should've found those specks in the desert at night … he's one hell of a pilot, plus he put down two Libyan aircraft."

  "Yeah, one of the other pilots, the one that talks good English, told me about him. Rumor is the Libyans got a price on his head."

  "Wouldn't doubt it."

  "Whad 'ya think happened to the radar?"

  "Not sure. We missed it, or more likely, they've moved the thing. I expect the flight from Djanet might've spooked them. Who knows? — By the way, any word from Wilson?"

  "Dunno. I'm not in the loop here. That French officer ain't said two words to me."

  I glanced back again. They were still at it. "Come on let's get a ride to the hut. I'm famished and need a nap."

  * * *

  Sometimes you can be so tired, you don't even dream, or at least don't remember. Spending most of a full day flying in a cramped space, fearing for your life, and hammered by the occasional adrenalin surge will do that to you. When Serge shook my shoulder, I awoke from the dead.

  "Ross, Réveillez-vous!"

  "Reveille … What time is it?"

  "We must go. We have the new l'intelligence.

  I rose up, unbelieving, trying to get my bearings. Then I realized where I was, but still confused. "What are you talking about?"

  "A message from your chef."

  "From my chef?" The first thing I thought of was food. I had hit the rack without bothering to eat.

  "The radar has moved."

  He held out a yellow tear sheet from a teletype, a communication officielle in French from the count in Paris. My bleary eyes strained to read the faint print from a worn-out ribbon. The message was addressed to LeGrande, informing him satellite imagery spotted a Long Track radar at a new location in eastern Chad. The coordinates meant nothing to me.

  "Come we go, the mécaniciens are préparer the aircraft."

  "Where's this place?"

  "Oum-Chalouba. A village primitif in désert, a campement nomade. The distance is the sept cent … ah 700 kilometes, a voyage de trois heures."

  "Three hours, you can fly without refueling?"

  "Oui, the aérodrome at Abeche is for the emergency use."

  "When do we leave?"

  "Tout de suite — before the night."

  "You're sure it's there?"

  Serge frowned and shrugged. "Qui sait?"

  Who knows? Didn't matter, it was our last chance. "We need to get Jamison to check the missile. All that take-off and landing may have—"

  "I have ask the mécaniciens. They not see him."

  Joe Hardy walked in holding a teletype message. Before he had a chance to speak, I asked, "You seen Jamison?"

  "No. Everyone's looking for him. He seems to have come up missing. … Probably in town on a bender."

  I shook my head. "Not in this town.

  Joe thrust out the tear sheet. "You better read this."

  I read the faded print, crumpled the paper, and tossed it back to Joe. Serge gave me a quizzical look. The gist of the message: Return to Bangui ASAP. Take no further action. I told Serge what the message contained.

  "So, you are fini?"

  "No way … I'm going."

  Waving the crumpled sheet, Joe said, "You got written orders."

  "Marsden's up there, this may be my last chance to get him. Anyway, I don't care."

  "This could mean your job."

  "Don't care, this job cost me everything I care for, don't need it."

  "What'll you tell the colonel?"

  "I'm just taking a joyride with a friend, doing it on my own time."

  Joe grimaced. "You really think he'll buy that line?"

  "Hey, it's after five, my workday is over."

  Joe examined his Timex. "My watch says half past two."

  "Like they say, it's five o'clock somewhere."

  "How you gonna respond to the message?"

  I turned and strolled towards the hangar. I felt good. A second chance, maybe my last opportunity to get Marsden had dropped into my lap. Nobody, not even Colonel Wilson was going to deny me.

  Joe called out, "What ya gonna tell him?"

  I shouted back over my shoulder, "Message garbled, please re-transmit." Figured it should take him about a half hour to reply, by then we'd be in the air.

  * * *

  The plan was simple: leave at 1500 and hit the terrorist camp at about 1800, before dusk. On the return leg, arrive back at N'Djamena around 2130. In case of emergency, we had the option to divert to the airfield at Abeche, 140 miles south of the target.

  LeGrande briefed us on the expected situation on the ground. Oum-Chalouba, a nomad herder's camp at latitude 15.8' longitude 20.8' had a primitive dirt track useable as an airstrip. A small SkB force recaptured the place sometime in the last five days. LeGrande believed they would use the site as one of their forward bases.

  The sudden disappearance of Jamison worried me. I checked again before we took off. Le Grande was irritated but didn't seem concerned. My sixth sense told me something was wrong, but it was too late to worry. We were operating on an ever-diminishing timeline, Wilson would be looking for me, and the Chadian army wanted the Skyraider's back providing tactical air support. Time was running out on my one last shot at Marsden.

  * * *

  The first two hours of the flight proved to be more of the same. Scrub prairie followed by open desert, sand dunes, salt flats, more sand dunes, and more salt flats. Serge flew on the deck, less than a thousand feet above the dunes radiating the heat of the day. We would wait until the last minute to expose ourselves to the radar.

 
; I switched on the receiver after takeoff and monitored the frequency continuously. With an hour to go, I heard the first weak emissions and instructed Serge to drop down a little lower. He nosed over and flew on at 300 feet. The signal popped up again.

  The AGM-45 Shrike is a relatively simple system. The seeker locks in on enemy radar and flies to the target on an electronic beam sent out by the transmitter. I estimated the standoff delivery range for the early model AGM we were using to be between ten to fifteen miles. At a Mach-2 speed, the missile would take less than thirty seconds to impact with 145-pounds of high explosive.

  Twilight passed, and I began to feel the excitement of the hunt. A surge of adrenaline overcame the fatigue of the past two days. I called to Serge, "Do a couple 'S' turns so I can check the signal bearings."

  "Roger." He completed the long shallow turns and made a slight adjustment to line up on the strongest signal strength. Our biggest problem was estimating distance to the radar. I had no means to measure our standoff delivery range. Because Serge would have to make an estimation from his chart, we needed to get as close as possible. A dangerous proposition if they decided to fire their missiles.

  Serge counted down the kilometers in five-klick increments. The early warning signal continued loud and clear, still in the scan mode, a blip every 4.5 seconds. I waited anxiously for the tracking mode to appear, but the unit remained in a repetitious scan.

  At twenty kilometers or twelve miles, I turned on the seeker embedded in the missile. The readout indicated a signal from the Long Track. I told Serge to take us up to firing position. He pulled back on the yoke and climbed as I tensed, waiting for a steady strong tone indicating the operator switched to tracking mode.

  Serge called out, "Nous sommes prêts." I rechecked to make sure the seeker remained locked on to the radar — it was. I hit the switch and the Skyraider shuddered as a plume of flame and smoke shot past my window on the right side of the aircraft. The missile was away, I crossed my fingers, hoping it would be true and hoping beyond all hope Marsden was at the controls.

  "Merde," cried Serge, then a second of silence followed by a string of colorful French expletives.

  "What happened?"

  "Le missile s'est écrasé à terre."

  "What?"

  "It crash to earth."

  "It crashed. You said it crashed?"

  "Oui. Look."

  I looked out the side window and saw a faint plume of smoke and sand in the dimming twilight. "What happened?"

  "Je ne sais pas."

  He didn't know. Neither did I. However, we both knew what needed to be done. "The rockets and cannon—" I didn't get to finish; he was banking to the left and diving down as low as he dared.

  "Oui, we attack par le nord."

  I held on to my seat as he made a series of violent turns and straightened out for a strafing run. The radar continued in scan mode. They hadn't taken notice of us. The missile's crash a mystery, Jamison said they had only a twenty-five percent success rate, but this was unexpected. I was ready for a miss, but not a total failure. My heart sank. The mission would be a disaster unless Serge could find a target with his rockets and cannon.

  The scan halted, and a steady tone emitted through my headset. —They got us. — The aircraft shuddered again as Serge fired off the rockets in quick succession, lighting up the twilight with a trail of flames. Moments later, he cut loose with a burst of 20-millimeter, then another, followed by a third and longer blast.

  The Skyraider roared past the burning radar now visible through the rear window. He made another brutal turn, forcing me against the tight straps holding me in the seat. The cannons fired again, even before he straightened out. He made one more wide turn. The radar, fuel dump, and several vehicles were ablaze. Hairs on the back of my neck bristled as green tracers peppered the darkening sky — then a large explosion.

  "What was that?" I asked.

  "The missiles in le camion."

  "In the truck, they didn't have them deployed."

  "D'accord."

  It hit me — we done it, the radar is destroyed.

  Serge banked one more time and lined up for another run. Seconds later the cannons roared. This time there was an effective response from the ground. A series of ping -ping-ping sounds startled me into a reflexive jerk as small arms fire found its mark.

  I checked for damage, then shoved against the straps as the Skyraider groaned, making a tight turn to the right. A spark and crackle noise told me a round had hit the receiver. Smoke started to well up from the equipment rack.

  I yelled out through the intercom, "Fire, we got a fire." Serge didn't answer. I pulled the fire extinguisher from its mount, jerked the pin, and depressed the handle. Nothing happened. I screamed again — no answer.

  I unbuckled and crawled up to the cockpit and was pressed against the fuselage as Serge made a final turn to head south. I tapped him on the shoulder and yelled, "Fire we got a fire."

  "Hein?"

  "Can't you hear me?"

  "Non, the interphone is fini."

  "My fire extinguisher doesn't work, let me use yours."

  He handed me the cockpit extinguisher and I descended into the nauseous smoke. My eyes burned as I searched for the source but couldn't find a flame. I pulled the pin and depressed the handle. A welcome spray shot out covering the equipment and adding to the deteriorating conditions. I reached for the side door and cracked it open. A loud roar of air from above told me Serge had opened the canopy.

  Queasy from noxious smoke, mouth dry, I almost threw up before making my way back to the cockpit. I took a breath of warm fresh air from the outside. "Fire's out. I jammed the door open to vent off the smoke … Any other damage?"

  Serge worked the dials on the radio. "The interphone and the radio are finis."

  A faint line streamed from the fuel pod. "Looks like we're losing fuel, can we make it to N'Djamena?

  Serge unbuckled and rose up to check it out. "Je ne … I am not certain." He pulled out the chart, recalculated the distances and remaining fuel, and looked back at the streaming fuel one more time. "N'Djamena," he shook his head, "the distance not good … Must go Abeche."

  "How far?"

  "Deux cents kilomètres."

  200-k's — about 120 miles. "Sounds good, less than an hour away."

  "Pas de problème."

  * * *

  We spotted lights off to the left. "What's that?" I asked.

  "La ville de Biltine."

  "Who controls the town?"

  "Je sais pas."

  "You don't know?"

  "Non, the attack is très rapide."

  "But you're sure Abeche is still in friendly hands?"

  "Oui, is safe."

  A few miles later, spotted a string of dim vehicle lights.

  "A convoi Libyen," said Serge as he banked the Skyraider to the left. An approach from the rear indicated the column was moving south. A quick burst of cannon fire expended the remaining twenty-millimeter ammunition. Several explosions punctuated the line of vehicles.

  "Looks like you got a few," I said.

  "Oui, now we go home. A success is to land with no munition."

  30 ~ Abeche

  Monday, 20 October 1980, Abeche, Chad

  Serge spotted lights ahead. Fatigue had overtaken me, accentuated by the shock of near death, smoke inhalation, and dehydration. The ground fire punctured my water bottle. I climbed back down and strapped in.

  He circled around, approached from the direction of N'Djamena, and lowered the landing gear, a relief, the hydraulic system undamaged. A half-mile from the field, he flashed the lights, and moments later touched down. The Skyraider bounced and bumped across the pitted surface of the single runway, a stretch of crushed gritty lava interspersed with filled in bomb craters, a raw scar in the desert, testament to the continuing struggle to hold the strategic position.

  Serge spun the aircraft around, taxied to a pad, and cut the engines. The field was barely adequate, with only
enough facilities to support a forward combat base: a rudimentary tower, a fuel tanker, a metal hangar, a few sheds, and an anti-aircraft gun mounted on a flatbed truck.

  Oven-hot heat gripped me as I stepped out. Serge inspected the damage, ordered the ground crew to plug the holes in the fuel tank and refuel the aircraft, and departed to consult with the Chadian army commander. Left to stand guard, I slung the AK-47 over my shoulder, and leaned back against the fuselage.

  The Sahara leaves no sense undisturbed. Sounds of a drum called in the distance. A young boy with a herd of goats sauntered past. A nearby fire lit the faces of soldiers gathered around laughing and talking loudly. The air was alive with smoke combined with dust stirred up by the winds. Pungent smells of cooking fires fueled by dung floated gently from the town.

  Serge returned, carrying a small sack, and accompanied by a Chadian officer. "The capitaine say we stay overnight and fly back the morning. Je suis d'accord."

  "Did you contact N'Djamena?"

  "Oui, they advise same. We have no radio, is best."

  "Okay, where do we sleep?"

  Serge smiled. "Ici, à l'avion. We must be ready to leave if l'attaque comes."

  "The Libyans are getting close?"

  "The capitaine say so. Advance units may—" A single burst of AK-47 rounds cut through the night. We waited for a response. None came. We exchanged anxious glances and the officer shrugged and made a comment in French. "He say pas de problème, only a soldier nerveux."

  Serge and the captain traded salutes and the young officer returned to his jeep parked near the hangar. The soldier's fire crackled as someone threw on a fresh chunk of wood, sending up a shower of sparks. I un-slung the AK and chambered a round.

  "We sleep and guard tonight," said Serge. "I sleep first, quatre heures." He reached into the rear compartment, pulled out a ragged army blanket, shook out the fire extinguisher residue, and spread it out on the ground beside one of the front wheels.

  "Any chance we can find a decent meal around here?"

  Serge opened the sack and produced four tall green bottles of Gala, a local beer, and a baguette. He sensed my disappointment. "The soldiers have the viande de chèvre. You may ask them."

  Goat meat, just what I need. "No thanks, I'm not that hungry. This'll do fine." I took one of the brews and chugged it.