The Sahara Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  N'Djamena airport was in disarray, bombarded by air and land, few buildings remained intact, the rest a collection of ramshackle shells. We found ourselves in what was left of the terminal building, standing before a table, hands bound, awaiting our fate.

  You have a problem when you land an airplane at an airport without permission. The situation is further complicated if you arrive in a stolen aircraft. If the airport happens to be in a war zone in a third-world country and you're carrying weapons — you're in a heap of trouble.

  The officer sitting at the table, a heavily built man with speckles of grey in his hair, dressed in a crisp new khaki uniform, eyed us with contempt. His eyes had an almost empty look, not fanatical, but conveying a disconcerting sense of menace. A look I had seen before, one that embodied mindless unpredictability, dangerously coupled with the power of life and death.

  I couldn't understand what he said, but his French sounded crisp and precise, a man with some education. Judging from the tone of his voice, he wasn't happy with our arrival.

  Over the past few years, I'd been in close scrapes, even detained, but this was my first serious experience as a prisoner. I was in unfamiliar territory, consumed by a sense of isolation and desperation.

  The officer drew on a cigarette, ironically a pack of Camels. He tilted his head back, exhaled, and continued his diatribe, pounding the table with his fist at regular intervals. He appeared to have some serious anger management issues.

  I scanned the walls: a few pictures of airliners, far away destinations, and was surprised to note, no picture of the current leader. Maybe things change too fast in N'Djamena. Here today, gone tomorrow. I was afraid that could just as easily apply to us.

  When I tried to ask Jack, what was going on, a camouflage clad soldier doled out a wallop to the kidneys with the now familiar butt of an AK-47. The blow brought on a case of severe nausea as I fought back the urge to throw up. Pain from the crack to my skull had subsided, replaced by a dull ache. My head swam. I struggled to stay on my feet.

  After a final high-pitched harangue, they hustled us out of the building and a young lieutenant marched us back to the metal storage shed that served as our cell. The so-called accommodations wouldn't have made a good goat shed. However, multiple bullet holes offered much appreciated ventilation and an eye to the outside world.

  The lieutenant, a man in his early twenties, thin with ebony skin, ordered a soldier to untie our hands. As I massaged my wrists to restore circulation, Jack asked for food. The officer replied tersely and slammed the door shut as he left.

  We stood in a darkness punctuated by leftover smells of aircraft lubricants. A rifle discharged nearby resulting in a whiff of gunpowder that brought a chill to my spine. I backed against a wall and settled to the dirt floor.

  Even though the captain spoke clear French, I understood little of his discourse. I asked, "What was going on back there?"

  "They think we're spies," answered Jack with a poignant tone. "As best I could tell, that proceeding was the preliminary to a firing squad."

  "You said something about food. Do we get a last meal?"

  "I don't think that's part of the service," quipped Amadeo. "I thought John would be here to greet us." Nobody laughed and we all settled in, silent and alone with our thoughts.

  It was mid-morning of the next day, eighteen hours after we landed. Since our incarceration, our captors provided water, but no food. We spent the night, cold and isolated. No one had entered or spoken to us until an hour before when the lieutenant appeared and led us to the captain's office.

  The events after landing remained unclear, I remembered the soldier swinging a rifle, then nothing. Sometime later, I awoke in a dark smelly room, my head throbbing with a wet sticky splotch on my temple. Jack said Dylan had been carted away still unconscious. We hadn't seen him since.

  * * *

  Later in the morning, the door creaked opened and the young officer stepped in. He left the door open to provide light and spoke to Jack in French. They carried on a congenial conversation with Amadeo interjecting questions along the way. Another soldier entered with a bucket of water and a chunk of rough bread.

  The officer started to leave, turned, and said forcefully, "Vous serez fusillé si vous tentative d'évasion." He eyed us with an air of authority and left.

  "What was that all about?" I asked.

  "He said we would be shot if we tried to escape."

  "Are we allowed to contact our embassy?"

  "Yeah, I requested help from the American embassy. He said there is no American embassy. It shut down back in March."

  "That's great. How about Dylan, did you—"

  Amadeo said, "I asked him about him and he said he didn't know."

  "So, we're SOL?"

  "These guys aren't sure what to do with us," said Amadeo.

  Jack said, "Fortunately, we're using our real passports. Eventually somebody will get the word."

  "Yeah, preferably sooner than later."

  * * *

  The young officer returned and ordered us to follow. Accompanied by four soldiers armed with AK-47's, we marched across the field towards the Twin Beech sitting on the tarmac. Jack spoke to the lieutenant and received a brusque reply.

  "What did he say?" I asked.

  "They discovered our weapons. Something about us smuggling arms to the rebels."

  "All we got is a couple of Makarovs and an AK."

  "Whatever, don't think it would make much difference if it had been a nuke."

  The lieutenant shouted, "Ta gueule!" He wanted us to shut up.

  The sound of gunfire erupted: rifles, machine guns, and anti-aircraft cannon shattered the relative quiet of the morning, the northern sky peppered by a torrent of tracers.

  The officer screamed a warning, "Une attaque, l'avion," and ran for cover, followed by the soldiers.

  "Air raid," yelled Amadeo.

  We bolted for a shallow ditch. A brown and green flash roared over the airfield. A large shark-like jet released a bomb at low altitude, followed by an explosion nearby. The Twin Beech disappeared in a ball of flames. Debris landed all around and a piece of hot metal grazed my left arm.

  I recognized the aircraft: a Tupolev Tu-22, a Soviet made supersonic bomber, code named Blinder, with Libyan stripe camouflage and markings. I last saw one a couple of years ago, in the Indian Ocean. It had been searching for me then. Now, it seemed, one returned to finish the job. I looked back and it was gone, the attack lasting only seconds.

  "You okay?" shouted Jack from behind me.

  "Yeah, something hit my arm. — Did you see that? A Blinder, those SOB's were after us."

  Jack yelled, "Amadeo, you all right?"

  Amadeo laid half in and half out of the ditch ahead and didn't answer. Jack crept past and turned Amadeo's still form over. Blood oozed from a cut on his head. I feared the worst. Seconds passed like hours until Amadeo opened his eyes and shook his head.

  Amadeo rose up and looked around. "What happened? We dead yet?"

  Jack said, "No, they bombed our plane." He noticed my arm.

  "Just hurts a little, I'll be alright." I noticed someone running in our direction. "Uh oh, here he comes again."

  A symphony of chaos engulfed the airport, soldiers fired wildly into the air, vehicles rushed back and forth, and anti-aircraft guns blazed away. The officer ran up to us screaming, ordering us to return to the hut. Jack tried to tell him we needed medical help but got the butt of an AK instead.

  The lieutenant shouted for us to move and hustled us past the burning Beech, back to the metal shed. The door slammed shut and we hunkered down on the floor. The firing slacked off and ceased a half hour later. We agreed we were lucky to be alive.

  * * *

  In the night, I awoke with a chilling thought: the tape. I patted my clothes, no tape, no passport, no nothing. They took everything. What if they listen to the tape? What will they think? These guys will think it's some sort of secret code. Even if they don't liste
n to it, it's gone. The whole mission's been a waste.

  "Hell — Hell — Blast it all to hell."

  "Ross, that you" You okay?" asked Amadeo.

  "What do you think?"

  Jack tried to offer reassurance. "Relax; we'll be out of here in the morning. Somebody's sure to notice we're missing."

  "They took all our stuff, our passports, the—"

  "Hey, cool it. Opsec. You remember opsec?"

  "Yeah … Okay." Opsec, operational security, he was right, the walls might have ears, these guys might have a mike planted, waiting for us to incriminate ourselves. Most likely, they were too disorganized. But why take chances. Chances we had too few of.

  Saturday, 11 October 1980, N'Djamena, Chad

  A metal storage shed isn't the best accommodation one could hope for, and by the third day, it was even less so. — As a matter of fact, it sucked … sucked big time. — The water stale and dirty, the bread, what there was of it, was stale too, maybe even more so. The facilities, as it turned out, was a corner of the hut — and yes, it reeked — a real first-class stench, stank like … well you get the idea.

  We still had no word about Dylan. The young lieutenant, by now we learned his name was Idriss, offered no information, would not confirm if Dylan was alive. Idriss would've made a perfect Sergeant Shultz, except our captivity in no way resembled Hogan's Heroes. These guys never heard of the Geneva Convention, probably couldn't even spell it. Worry gave way to gloom.

  "I'm tired of stale bread and dirty water … tired of constant stench … tired of daytime heat … tired of nighttime cold … tired of mosquitoes … tired of flies … tired of creepy crawlers … tired of rats … tired of the dull ache in my head … tired of waiting, and … tired of having no plan, or hope."

  "You're beginning to sound impatient," said Amadeo.

  "Yeah, I'm impatient alright, I'm downright … Hell, we need to figure out a way to escape, this whole thing's turned into a FUBAR."

  "Where you figure on escaping to?" asked Amadeo with a hint of a sly smile.

  "I remember from the chart, there's a town across the river in Cameroon. It's a different country, and as far as I know they ain't trying to kill each other non-stop."

  "Okay, we just high tail it out of here, swim the river, and … then what?" said Jack. "We don't even know which direction to go. Do you feel up to traipsing around the desert? Your head don't look too good and neither does Amadeo's."

  "I'm willing to give it a try. The chart showed the airport close to the border and the runway points to the river. We can't be far away."

  "Which end of the runway?"

  "Hey, you guys are supposed to be the pros here. Don't you have some snake-eater tricks up your sleeves?"

  "Speaking of snakes," said Amadeo, "Did you feel something slither by last night…"

  '"No, I'm serious. You ain't going to just sit here and wait for them to come kill us. You got to have a plan."

  "The plan is," said Jack, "to be ready when the opportunity presents itself. If they were going to kill us, we'd already be dead. Our biggest advantage is time. We wait. Our people know we were due here. The French have assets on the ground; word will get back, so just keep your cool."

  "Yeah, that's easy for you to say." I slumped back down to the dirt floor. Jack's optimism wasn't infectious. A cloud of despair descended: I'll never see my family again. — Maybe that's for the best, she'll be better off without me. Exposed her to too much danger already … was good while it lasted, but it's all over. — What am I gonna do? … What I should have done from the beginning — Pray.

  * * *

  An hour or so later, about time for what passed for lunch, the sound of screeching brakes cut through the air as a vehicle halted outside the hut. The presence of a vehicle was new. Lieutenant Idriss always arrived on foot.

  A chilling premonition occurred to me: They're coming to take us away — we're dead.

  The latch clanked and the door started to creak open. In a flash, Jack and Amadeo jumped up, ready to deal with whoever came through the entry. A dark form appeared in the blinding ray of sunshine that obliterated the sight of everything past the door. Instinctively, I reached for my knife and realized it was gone.

  A voice boomed out, echoing against the metal walls, "Okay, get your crap together and get out here. — Yeo-way, this place smells like—"

  "John— John Smith, where did—"

  "Come on," his tone imparted a commanding presence, he wasn't there for a family reunion, "Let's get your butts out of here before these bastards change their minds."

  Jack replied casually, "Hi John," as if he was expected.

  I was too stunned to say anything. — Prayers answered ASAP: Thank You Lord. — Amadeo reached down and pulled me to my feet and we stumbled out into the bright sunshine. Through a squint, I could make out the image of a jeep. We shuffled our way over to the vehicle, and crawled in. John hopped in, shifted into gear, and tore off down the tarmac.

  "Next time why don't you guys leave a message at the front desk? I had a hell of a time finding you." He shook his head. "You boy's look like crap. — What the hell did you do?"

  "It's a long story," I said. "Any word on Dylan Kirby?"

  "He's dead…" John paused to take a deep breath, "…died the evening you landed."

  Jack asked, "What happened?"

  "They didn't want to fool with a wounded prisoner and shot him."

  Amadeo yelled, "Hijos de puta."

  "His body, we—"

  "No, they wouldn't tell me anything beyond the fact that he's dead."

  "Where we going now?" asked Jack.

  "Over there — that French Transall is waiting to take us to Bangui."

  "Thanks' for coming, I always knew we could count on you," I lied.

  John chuckled. "Wilsons gonna pass a brick when he finds out how much it cost to spring his precious Raven-One crew. I hope it was worth it."

  Then it hit me. "Our stuff, did you get—"

  "Yes, I retrieved most of your personal gear, less the weapons and money of course. — Oh, and they seemed to have lost your passports."

  "The tape, was there a cassette tape, a music tape?"

  "Look in that bag, all your things are in there."

  I dug through the contents — no tape. I threw the bag to the floorboard and turned back to Jack and Amadeo. "It's gone."

  "What's it— Oh no, you've got to be kidding me," said John.

  "Yeah, the intercept, the tape was in the cassette box. Think we can—"

  "No, we can't go back … You made a recording, you found the radar?"

  "Yeah, four, or is it five days ago, the radar was in Al Wigh."

  "You know this for sure?"

  "It's Marsden's radar. Heard the telltale shift but wasn't able to get the harmonic. It's Marsden's, I'm positive."

  The jeep hit a pothole or bomb crater, it's hard to tell sometimes, and shook me back to the grim reality. We were free, but Dylan was dead and the mission a failure without documentation. I slumped in the seat defeated, unable to contemplate what might come next.

  We pulled up to the French and German made C-160 Transall, a turboprop transport similar to a C-130. John motioned for us to stay in the jeep and spoke to a French officer. He waved back towards the airport buildings and the officer gestured an emphatic no.

  John returned. "No soap. I asked him to wait, but he wants to take off ASAP. After that bombing a couple of days ago, they don't like hanging around. Come on, load up."

  The specter of failure was overwhelming. I risked everything, lost my family, and people had died. Without the tape, it would all be for naught. I had to do something, take one more risk. I couldn't let it go.

  "John, that air raid, it was meant for us."

  He gave me a skeptical look. "What makes you think—"

  "They sent a Binder to take out our aircraft. It was the target. We were only a hundred yards away when it happened."

  He looked back down the tarmac an
d rubbed his chin. The French pilot called from the cockpit window for us to hurry up. John said, "But you can't be sure."

  "They sent fighters after us," said Jack. "One flew right up beside us north of N'Djamena, piloted by an East German. We bluffed our way out, but I agree with Ross, they were after us. They're most likely afraid of what we may have found out."

  "I'm going back." I jumped out of the jeep. "Leave me the jeep and a weapon."

  The pilot shouted out the cockpit window for us to dépêchez-vous.

  "Hell, I don't even need a weapon."

  John inhaled a deep breath. "Richards, you come with me. You two get on the plane, you require medical attention. We'll catch up with you on tomorrow's flight." He shouted to the French officer as I started to protest. "Get onboard. We don't need too many boots on the ground for this."

  I hesitated and started to protest. "I'm—"

  "Now — Get your butts on that aircraft." Amadeo slipped out of the seat and stood beside me.

  John glared at Jack. "You know what this tape looks like?"

  "Sure, has a picture on the front … some dude riding a camel."

  John shifted into reverse and spun the jeep around.

  We watched him speed down the tarmac and then entered the rear door of the big transport. On takeoff, the pilot climbed steeply and turned west over the river to avoid stray rebels with a shoulder-fired missile, then turned south. Al last, we were safe, airborne, and on our way to Bangui.

  25 ~ Bangui

  Saturday, 11 October 1980, In Flight to Bangui

  The interior of the Transall, set up much like a C-130, offered web troop seats and no amenities. It didn't matter, we were on our way out of N'Djamena, a place I never wanted to see again. The crew chief said the flight would take an hour and forty-five minutes. The burly sergeant viewed us with disdain, our smell too much even for the French.

  I settled back against the webbing and closed my eyes. We were safe, but everything else had come to nothing. Dylan and Goulon dead, Roger wounded, and the tape missing, leaving no proof, the whole enterprise a waste of time and lives. And to top it off, I lost Lisette along the way.

  Everything's gone to hell — gone straight to hell.