The Sahara Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  Serge switched on and the large four-blade prop began to turn. The 2,500 horsepower Wright R-3350 Duplex-Cyclone engine spat and sputtered a few times before catching. The warm-up sounded like a hungry bear attacking a garbage can as exhaust smoke puffed from the ports beside the cockpit. The powerful motor smoothed out and we taxied down the pitted tarmac to the runway. A green light from the tower and the Skyraider accelerated, the tail lifted, and moments later, we were airborne.

  The plan, relatively simple: leave N'Djamena at 1800 for security purposes, land at the sabaka in the moonlight at about 2000 and take about an hour to transfer fuel. We would leave at about 2100 and hit Al Wigh at about 2330. On the return leg, we needed to be back at the salt flat before the moon sets at 0200. Factor in an hour to transfer fuel. We would leave at about 0300 and arrive back at N'Djamena at about 0500.

  28 ~ Al Wigh

  Sunday, 19 October 1980, At a Remote Sabkha, Chad

  We flew for over two hours, 350 miles in all. Chad is a large country, more than twice the size of France. The sabaka, an Arabic word for an alkali flat, was in fact remote. The dry hardpan made for a serviceable runway free of sizeable rocks, dips, holes, or anything else that might cause difficulties, but the landing was rough, nevertheless. We touched down, bounced, and bumped across the pitted surface. Serge spun the aircraft around, taxied up next to the Dakota, and cut the engines.

  I swung out, paused to stretch my legs, and took in the wonder of an almost full moon and a bevy of constellations painted on a black cloudless sky. We landed a hundred miles from nowhere, no hills, no sand dunes, no nothing. A near featureless horizon only added to the lonely effect.

  Serge jumped down from the wing and shouted. Our ears were still numb from the constant roar. "How was the flight?"

  "It's pretty cramped back there. My stomach churned for a little while, unit we cooled off a bit. That small window doesn't give much of a view."

  "Oui, is not good to see." He shrugged and smiled. "Tonight will be dark and cool."

  "Well, at least I'll have something to keep me occupied."

  The cargo door of the Dakota was open with Joe Hardy and several French mechanics busy unloading five-gallon fuel cans. No Chadian Air Force people were involved.

  I said to Serge, "This is a pretty desolate location, how you going to find it on the way back?"

  "Pas de problème. The expanse of sabaka is visible from the distance and we have becon lumière stroboscopique activated by radio."

  "A strobe light beacon?"

  "Oui, is visible from long distance."

  "You fly a reverse course until you find the salt flat and then key the mike."

  "Oui, that is correct. You expérience à la navigation?""

  "Yeah, you might say I'm an amateur pilot. Have you done this before, I mean fly night missions from places like this?"

  "Oui, and we have largage de carburant caché for emergency use."

  "I don't understand."

  "The hidden dépôts for fuel."

  "How do you find them?"

  "In the head — the memory. They are not marked on the aviation chart."

  "Operational security, if you crash, they won't know where they are."

  "Oui — that is so. The dépôts marked on terrain by cairn of the rocks."

  "And you can find this place at night."

  Serge shrugged. "Nous allons le voir."

  Oh boy -- 'we shall see' -- I don't have a good feeling about this.

  We spent the next half hour manually loading fuel into the Skyraider — one can at a time. On the return trip, Serge and I would have to do it alone. The rest was stacked on the ground and the strobe tested.

  "You ready to go?" said Joe as he carried the last empty can back to the Dakota.

  "Yeah, looks like I'm in for a long night."

  "See you in the morning; we'll have a pot of coffee ready."

  Serge completed the process of going through the pre-flight checklist and cranked the engine. A cloud of exhaust smoke showed the radial engine was turning the four-bladed prop, then with a roar, the plane taxied away from the fuel depot. We were to take off first with the Dakota waiting to see if we had problems.

  He spun the aircraft around, revved the engine, released the brakes, accelerated across the moonlit hardpan, the tail lifted, and we were airborne. He climbed to our maximum altitude for the mission, 4,000 feet, where he reduced power to normal settings and set on our cruising speed of 150 knots.

  Our route to the target would take us northwest on a course of 340 degrees for 530 miles. Serge had his chart marked for the planned fuel-tank switching points. The return trip would take us to the limits of our fuel capacity.

  Monday, 20 October 1980, In Flight, Northern Chad

  There’s an old saying: flying consists of hours of boredom interspersed with moments of sheer terror. The next three hours would consist mostly of boredom. I would need a clear mind when it counted, an hour's nap could be helpful. I leaned back and tried to relax but couldn't sleep. The engine's constant roar and vibration made it difficult to steal a few moments. My thoughts wandered, thinking about Lisette and the baby, my future, and the prospect of dealing with Marsden. I couldn't do anything about Lisette, but Marsden lay within reach.

  I switched on the receiving set and began to scan the limited frequency range. The antenna offered only minimal directional capabilities, the main lobe being to the front of the aircraft. With no signal present, I concentrated on the small scope, waiting for the telltale sign indicating vengeance was at hand.

  The first hour passed, no signal, but I wasn't surprised. We flew low to avoid radar, so I didn't expect a hit so early. I unbuckled, crawled up, and edged into the cockpit.

  Serge asked, "Do you have radar?"

  "No, not yet. We're too low. Maybe in about an hour." I examined the navigation chart and scanned the horizon as the Sahara rolled below. The only variation in the dark expanse was a faint line of mountains to the east, the black volcanic peaks of the Tibesti.

  Serge said, "We have stronger winds aloft than expected. Take more time and fuel."

  "Will that cause problems?"

  "Only if we have the difficulties and must evade."

  By the second hour, the same results, if the radar was active, I should have at least been receiving a weak signal.

  Thirty minutes later, nothing. Another look out the window revealed an almost featureless landscape. I began to worry: too much had gone wrong. The distances involved in the flight were mind-boggling. The first leg was like flying from Albuquerque to Denver, the entire trip equal to a round trip from Albuquerque to a point just short of the Canadian border and return. Our lives depended on doing all that and finding a small spot on the chart, at night, using dead reckoning.

  Fifteen minutes later, I called up to Serge, "Still no signal. Why don't you climb up to 10,000, try a few 'S' turns and see if we can pick him up."

  "Roger."

  Serge climbed and executed several long wide turns to make sure the antenna would face the target, but still — no signal.

  Five minutes later, I asked, "Do you see anything, is the airfield visible?"

  "Oui, I see the hill and place for the camp. I circle around and fly low."

  I strained to see through the side window as we made a wide loop around the field. I caught a momentary glimpse of a long line in the desert. The moon was still high, but too dark to pick out much detail.

  "J'ai cible," said Serge, as he increased power and dived towards the north end of what seemed to be a runway.

  The twin twenty-millimeter cannon thundered away. I couldn't tell what he was shooting at, but another glance out the side window revealed flames receding in the distance behind us.

  "What was that?" I called.

  "A Hercules. The only aircraft on ground."

  "A C-130, did you see anything else?"

  "Non, no radar, no vehicles, is deserted."

  "Can you go around again, take another look
? Circle around one more time." It had to be there. Where would it have gone? We've got to find it.

  "Une time only. Must économiser le carburant for return."

  Serge climbed and put the Skyraider into a hard-rolling turn to the right, causing me to grab the seat frame. He circled in a tight loop as I looked out at the burning C-130, the only thing on the field. A scattering of small buildings revealed no clues.

  "Allons-y," shouted Serge as he completed the circuit.

  "Okay." I slumped back, deflated, defeated, and depressed, the mission a failure. It's all gone to hell in a hand basket, a waste and I'm going to die when we run out of fuel and land, who the hell knows where.

  Serge's voice cut short my bout of self-pity. "I fly south to Tibesti … Low through mountains … One hour to arrive … More difficult to find on radar."

  He was right, the Libyans had other radars, and that would mean they would send fighters. They didn't like to fly at night, but their East German pilots were capable of finding us and shooting us down. Maybe we'll get lucky and get shot down, it'll be quicker than dying of thirst.

  Serge banked left, put the Skyraider into a steep decent and eased back on the throttle to conserve fuel. We detoured to the southeast, to the rugged black volcanic crags of the Tibesti Mountains.

  * * *

  Midnight passed. Large rock formations sprang from the desert floor, creating an obstacle course. We approached the first outcropping from a low altitude, only a few hundred feet off the ground. I stayed back in my compartment. Serge needed to concentrate on flying as he hugged the mountains as close as he dared in the waning moon light.

  "The radio. I hear the pilot search for us. They speak the German."

  "Can you tell where they're looking?"

  "They fly from Faya and will be between us and the fuel."

  "Can they find us?"

  "Non, we fly with no lights, they are without radar. They will find us only if they have the good luck and we have none. — They have the limits of fuel also, more than we."

  Serge called again, "Two aircraft report to the north to the frontier and turn south to return."

  "We safe now?"

  "Not yet, they follow to the back. They pass soon or find us."

  Minutes later, Serge reported he could see the exhaust of two jet aircraft as they passed to the right at a higher altitude. I strained to look out the side window but could see nothing.

  "I don't see them."

  "Oui, we have la bonne chance."

  "How much longer?"

  "I turn sud at entrée de vallée de Zouar, in one demi-heure."

  "Thirty minutes, then how long to the fuel?"

  "One hour, we have the wind favorables."

  I cringed, that would be one hour over open desert, with no place to hide.

  * * *

  Having a good idea where you're at is important when you're attempting to find your way to a destination. Normally, one would use visual signs as points of reference. In the desert, at night, there are few reference points and terrain association is almost impossible because features may be similar in appearance. The moon set around 0200 and the desert floor became shrouded in total darkness, hiding all physical features.

  Most people think you can't find what you can't see. That's not necessarily so. Serge was a skilled desert pilot able to concentrate and recognize details invisible to the casual observer. The dark rock formations at the end of the valley served as a departure point. He drew a line on the chart between the point and the fuel dump. The line represented our course, indicating the direction and distance to safety. A calculation based on cruising speed gives the estimated time en-route. The next step is to steer a course by compass to the intended destination. If all goes well, at the appointed time, you are there.

  Dead reckoning is a simple idea, sailors use it every day crossing the ocean, the Sahara was little different, a sea of sand. One must create a mental picture that can harmonize the chart with the reality on the ground. Concentration is essential, inattention can cause one to wander off course, or winds may produce a drift in the wrong direction. An error of only a few degrees will result in being off course by miles at long distances. I trusted Serge and his navigation skills. I had no choice; it was too late to change my mind. His seemingly innate ability to follow a course azimuth was the key to staying alive.

  An hour later Serge called me up to the cockpit. "We are near. You will look to the left for the light." He turned to the pre-set frequency and keyed his mike.

  I strained my eyes, nothing. My heart sank. "I don't see anything, now what?"

  He pulled back on the yoke and began to climb. "We go higher." At 10,000 feet, he banked to the left and made a slow loop around our position as he continued to key the mike.

  "There, I see something." A faint flash of light caught in my peripheral vision. I picked up the binoculars and examined the indistinct horizon afraid the flicker had been only a star.

  "I see … Look," shouted Serge, his first indication of emotion.

  I scanned forward to ten o'clock and — there it is — a continuous flash, we were home free. "Got it … Serge you're a genius." He made a slight course correction and the light grew stronger.

  Serge throttled back to lose altitude and turned west to make our approach to the landing site. We had plenty of unobstructed hardpan giving him the luxury of a long run-in. About a mile from touchdown, something appeared ahead.

  "You see that?"

  "Oui."

  A chill shot up my spine as an object descended towards the flashing strobe. As we came closer, light reflected off the fuselage of an aircraft.

  "C’est pas possible."

  Seconds later, I recognized it. The telltale shape of a MI-8 Soviet made helicopter. "Is it Libyan?"

  He answered with a curt, "Oui," and advanced the throttle. Less than a quarter mile from the target, he depressed the firing button on the twin 20-millimeter cannons. The aircraft shuddered as a stream of tracers reached out.

  I felt a surge of adrenaline as the bright line cut through the helicopter. It hovered for a moment, the tail section lifted as the MI-8 pitched over on its nose, dropped like a stone, directly on the strobe and pile of fuel cans. The rotors hit the sand whipping the chopper to the right producing a fierce explosion.

  I gripped the pilot's seat as Serge banked a hard right to avoid the flaming plume of metal wreckage, aviation fuel, and sand. He pulled back on the yoke, gained altitude, and returned for a second look. Nothing recognizable remained, only a ball of flames that blotted out the darkness.

  "The fuel—"

  "Mince alors! Is no more."

  I yelled, "Now what?" over the roar of the engine.

  "I must find the fuel dépôt for the emergency use."

  "You can find it in the dark?"

  "We have not the fuel to search the night. We land here, stay for daylight, and search with the light."

  I asked, "What if you can't find the fuel dump?"

  "We go to altitude, call N'Djamena, tell our location, land, and hope they find us before Libyans."

  Once again, the aircraft bounced on the dips and bumps of the hardpan as we landed a mile past the flames. Serge lined the Skyraider up for a quick take-off and shut down the engine.

  "In the back, I have the net of camouflage. We cover to make the … how do you say—"

  "Disguise the shape from eyes from the air."

  "Oui, then we wait."

  29 ~ Second Chance

  Monday, 20 October 1980, In the Desert, Chad

  Dawn came early, at 0545. The sun peeked over the distant horizon. The smell of burned aviation gas from the crash site punctuated the fresh morning air. We had no time for a futile investigation. There were no signs of life, only a wisp of smoke remained.

  I helped Serge gather the camouflage net. He said we might need it again if forced to ditch the plane. We needed to leave before they realized one of their choppers was missing. I scanned the horizon with t
he binoculars for sign of a search party. Libyan jets could arrive any minute.

  Serge fired up the Skyraider and took off with minimum warm-up. He said we couldn't afford to waste fuel, the tanks were extremely low, and it would be close. The depot, by his calculations, lay 137 kilometers away on a course of 228 degrees. Flying at an economical 100 knots would take forty minutes.

  He took the Skyraider up to 4,500 feet. A field of dunes speckled with white salt deposits appeared. Minutes later, the white specks transitioned to an empty expanse of brown.

  Serge switched the radio to the Libyan military band. A faint signal emerged from the static, someone speaking German. "They search for us. He fly west from Faya."

  "Yeah, I understood." I grasped the situation only too well, someone was flying in our direction.

  We flew on for eighteen minutes, past another series of dunes, followed by more salt deposits. The radio blared again, stronger, a pilot transmitting to base — he was approaching the target.

  A gap appeared between the deposits. "C'est là ! … There is the place," said Serge. He dipped the wing, the engine sputtered, almost out of fuel. We passed over a last row of dunes and there, a small but distinct rock cairn loomed ahead on a flat brown stretch of desert.

  The radio sounded again, the pilot was circling his target, reporting the helicopter had crashed and burned with no survivors. Moments later, he described the scene, including the presence of tracks indicating an aircraft had landed recently.

  Serge wasted no time, approached the open area, and touched down. The engine began to sputter even more as the tail met the ground. We bounced and bumped across the uneven surface, heading straight for the cairn. He pulled up, shut down, and I could hear an audible sigh of relief.

  I scrambled out of the side door as Serge emerged from the cockpit. "That was cutting it close," I said.

  "The cat, he has no more the nine lives, we have much the luck."

  I expected to see a Libyan jet at any moment. "Where's the fuel?"