Wilbur Smith - C07 A Time To Die

by C07 A Time To Die(Lit)

  "Stand back!"

  The last vestiges of his panic were gone. He felt cold and resilient as a knife blade. His mind was clear and he knew exactly what he was going to do.

  He thrust the loaded fuse holder back into its slot. A blinding blue explosion of light like a photographer's flashbulb lit the darkened room, and Sean was sent flying backward. He crashed against the office wall, half stunned, shaking his head, his vision starred with memories of the blue flash.

  It took him a few moments to realize that the floodlights beyond the windows were extinguished and except for the fiery bead necklaces of tracer flying across the dark sky and the brief glare of exploding grenades and rockets, the base was in darkness.

  "Get the men into the Hercules," he shouted.

  Job was just a dark shadow behind the whirling Catherine wheels of fire that still disturbed his vision. "What? I don't understand," he stammered.

  "We are getting out in the aircraft." Sean grabbed his shoulder and thrust him toward the door. "Get Ferdinand and his boys on board and move your arse."

  Job ran, and Sean blundered blindly after him. His vision was returning swiftly. He turned toward the paler square of light that was the hangar doors.

  "What about the prisoners?" Job called from the dark depths of the hangar.

  "Turn them loose," Sean yelled back, and ran for the doors.

  He was trying to recall everything he knew about the Hercules.

  Although Sean had almost five thousand hours of flying time on multi engine types, he had never flown a Hercules or any other four-engined aircraft. He had, however, spent days on the flight deck of one while acting as an advisor to the South African Defense Force on antiterrorist opsin Angola and Namibia back in 1983. With a pilot's interest and keen eye, he had studied the pilot's procedures and discussed them with him in detail. He remembered what the man had told him: "She's a lamb. I wish my wife was so docile."

  At the hangar door, Sean stopped suddenly. "Matatu is right, you're getting old, Courtney," he castigated himself, and spun around. He charged back into the dark hangar and almost collided with Job.

  "Where you going?"

  "I forgot the bag!" Sean yelled. "Get the men on board! "of The gunner's bag was on the desk where Sean had left it. He stuffed it under his arm and ran back to where Job was waiting for him at the foot of the Hercules" loading ramp.

  "All the men are on board," he greeted Sean. "You should have let me keep the pilot."

  "We didn't have time to convince him to cooperate," Sean snapped. "The poor bastard was in a blue funk."

  "Are you going to fly?"

  "Sure, unless you want a shot at it."

  "Hey, Sean, have you ever flown one of these things?"

  "There is a first time for everything." Sean pointed forward.

  "Come on, help me clear the chocks."

  They ran forward and dragged the wheel chocks clear. Then Sean led the way up the steep angle of the ramp and stopped at the top.

  "Here is the control for the ramp." He showed Job the rocker switch in the side wall of the fuselage. "Move it to the "up" position when I have got the first engine started and the red light goes on in that panel. It will switch to green when the ramp is up and locked."

  Sean left him and ran down the length of the Hercules" body.

  The Shanganes were milling about uncertainly in the darkness.

  "Ferdinand!" Sean shouted. "Get them to sit in the side benches and show them how to strap in."

  Sean groped his way toward the flight deck. He found the wooden missile cases loaded over the Hercules" center of gravity between the wings. They were piled against the fuselage on wooden pallets and covered with heavy cargo netting. He eased past them and reached the door to the flight deck. It was unlocked, and he burst through it and dumped the heavy gunner's bag into the map bin under the flight engineer's steel table. Through the cockpit windows, he saw that the mock attack on the south perimeter was still in full swing, but that the volume of fire from within the base was now much heavier than from the raiders out in the bush beyond the wire.

  "The Fifth Brigade has woken up," Sean muttered. He climbed into the left-hand seat and switched on the lights of the Hercules" instrument panel. The vast array of glowing dials and switches was intimidating and confusing, but Sean would not allow himself to be daunted.

  It was a lot simpler than starting the old Baron. He merely switched on and ran a finger along the rows of circuit breakers to ensure that they were all in.

  "The hell with start-up checks," he said and hit the start switch for the number one engine. The starter motor whined and he watched the needle creep around the rev counter.

  "Come on!" he pleaded. As revolutions touched 10 percent the aircraft automatically primed her cornbusion chamber with fuel and the engine ignited. He wound her up to 70 percent of power while he adjusted the earphones of the radio set on his head.

  "Job, do you read?"

  "Loud and clear, man."

  "Get the ramp up."

  "It's on its way."

  Sean waited impatiently for the ramp warning lamp on the panel to switch from red to green. The moment it did so, he kicked off the wheel brakes and the Hercules rolled ponderously forward.

  He was taxiing on one engine and had to use gross opposite rudder to meet the asymmetrical thrust. However, as he followed the pale strip of the taxiway, he worked on the other three engines and one after the other coaxed them to life, adjusting the controls as the power thrust altered.

  "No wind," he muttered. "Makes no difference which direction for takeoff."

  The main runway lad been extended to accommodate the excessive takeoff and landing requirements of modern jet fighters. However, the Hercules was STOL-short, takeoff and landing. It required only a fraction of the available distance, and Sean steered her for the main intersection directly in front of the control tower.

  So far the Hercules had drawn no fire. The heavy machine guns at the gates were still firing wildly into the night sky. Poor fire control was always one of the problems with African troops, who in all other respects made excellent soldiers.

  On the other hand, at the southern perimeter the crack veterans of the Fifth and Third Brigades were showing what well-trained African troops were capable of Their fire was going in deadly professional sheets, and already they had almost entirely extinguished Alphonso's initial onslaught. Apart from a few desultory mortar shells, there was no longer any return fire from the dark sea of bush and forest beyond the base security fence.

  It would only be a short time before Carlyle managed fully to alert the garrison to the enemy within and the flight controllers in the blacked-out tower realized there was an unauthorized takeoff in progress.

  Sean was taxiing the Hercules at a reckless speed, so fast she was already developing lift and wanting to fly. He knew that if he came off the concrete taxiway onto the grass, there was a chance of bellying her or getting her stuck, but not as good a chance as having her shot up by the 12.7-men if he delayed the takeoff a moment longer than was necessary.

  "Job," he said over the intercom, "I'm going to give you cabin lights so you can make sure the lads are seated and strapped in.

  Takeoff in forty seconds."

  He switched on the cabin lights to prevent chaos in the dark belly of the fuselage, and then flicked his headset to the control tower frequency of 118.6 megahertz.

  They were calling him stridently. "Air Force Hercules Victor Sierra Whisky. State your intentions. I say again, Air Force Hercules-"

  "This is Air Force Hercules Victor Sierra Whisky," Sean replied. "Request taxi clearance to avoid hostile ground fire."

  "Sierra Whisky, say again. What are your intentions?"

  "Tower, this is Sierra Whisky. Request..." Sean mumbled and slurred his transmission deliberately, forcing the tower to ask for a further repetition. He was watching his engine temperature gauges anxiously as the needles crept up infinitely slowly toward the green.

 
"Tower, I am having difficulty reading your transmission," he stalled them. "Please repeat your clearance."

  Behind him Job barged open the door to the flight deck. "The men are strapped in ready for takeoff," he called.

  "Get into the right-hand seat and strap in," Sean ordered without looking around. The engine temperature gauge needles were touching the bottom of the green. The main runway was coming up fast. Sean toed the wheel brakes, slowing for the turn and lineup.

  "Air Force Hercules. You are not cleared to taxi or line UP.

  Repeat, you have no clearance from tower. Discontinue immediately and take first left. Return to your holding area. I repeat, return to your holding area. "Up yours, mate!" Sean muttered as he pulled on ten degrees of flap and revolved the trim wheel to slightly tail heavy.

  "Air Force Hercules. Stop immediately or we will fire upon you. and swung the monstrous Sean switched on the landing lights onto the main runway. She handled as lightly as his little aircraft twin Beechcraft.

  "You are a pussycat, darling." He'knew that, like a woman, an aircraft always responded to loving flattery. He advanced the bank of throttle controls smoothly, and at that moment the heavy machine gun beyond the tower opened up on them.

  However, the Hercules was accelerating strongly and the gunner had not learned the art of forward allowance. He was shooting at the place where the aircraft had been seconds before, and perhaps nd.

  his nerves were still rattling for his fire was high as well as behi The first long burst of tracer curved away over the high tail fin.

  "That cat needs shooting lessons," Job remarked calmly. Sean always wondered if Job's cool and phlegmatic behavior under fire was put on.

  The next burst was low and ahead; the tracer splashed across the concrete runway just under the Hercules" nose. "But he learns fast," Job grunted a reluctant admission.

  Sean was leaning forward slightly in the seat, his right hand holding the bank of quadruple throttles fully open, his left feeling the control wheel for signs of life, watching the airspeed needle revolve sedately around the dial.

  "Here comes your friend," Job said, and pointed out of the side panel of the canopy. Sean glanced around swiftly.

  An open Land-Rover was tearing wildly across the grass verge alongside the main runway, its headlights cutting crazy patterns in the darkness as it bounced over the uneven ground. It was attempt. to cut them off, 4Pd Sean could just make out the features of mg ood in the back of the speeding vehicle.

  the man who st "He doesn't give up easily, does he?" Sean remarked, and gave his attention back to the Hercules.

  Carlyle must have commandeered one of the guard Landits black driver. He was standing in the open back, Rovers and clinging to the mounting of the RPD machine gun, and his face was pale and contorted in the reflection of the Hercules" landing lights as he egged on the driver to greater speed. He really taking it to heart." Job leaned forward to watch with interest as Carlyle swung the machine gun in its mountings, aiming up at the cockpit of the Hercules.

  The driver swung the Land-Rover over on two wheels until it was tearing along beside the huge rolling aircraft only fifty yards away, almost level with the wingtip.

  "Hey, man." Job shook his head. "He's aiming at us personally." Carlyle braced himself behind the gun, and the muzzle flashes blinked rapidly at them. Bullets raked the Perspex canopy, starring it with silver dollars, and both of them ducked instinctively as shot flew past their heads.

  "He's a better shot than the other cat," Job murmured. With the tip of his finger he touched the drop of blood on his cheek where a splinter had cut him.

  Sean felt the controls come to life in his hand as the Hercules approached flying speed and the wings developed lift. "Come on, pussycat," he murmured. Carlyle fired another burst at the same moment the Land-Rover hit a concrete culvert and bounced wildly, throwing his fire high and wild. He steadied himself and lined up to fire again.

  "He's fast becoming my least favorite cartoon character." Without flinching Job watched him take aim. "Okay, here it comes!"

  From the off side the heavy machine gun at the gates fired again, and a stream of 12.7-men bullets skimmed the belly of the Hercules, then flew on to pour into the racing Land-Rover beyond.

  They tore the front wheels off her and she somersaulted forward, rolling end over end in a cloud of dust. From the corner of his eye, Sean saw Carlyle's body thrown high and clear.

  "And so we say farewell to one of the last authentic heroes," he intoned gravely, and eased back the control column of the Hercures.

  The great aircraft responded willingly, pointing her nose upward. He switched off the landing and cabin fights, plunging the machine into darkness so she no longer offered a target to the ground gunners. He hit the toggle to raise the landing gear and dumped flap. Immediately the airspeed mounted, and he put down one wing and went into a tight climbing turn.

  Another burst of tracer followed them, floating up slowly, accelerating as it approached, until it sped past their wingtip. Sean met the turn and banked the opposite way, weaving out of range.

  "You want to make me seasick?" Job asked. Sean ignored him as he checked the engine dials for possible damage.

  It seemed impossible that the enormous target offered by the Hercules had received only a single burst of fire out of all the hundreds of rounds fired at it, but the needles on the dials all registered normal and responded instantly as he eased back On the boost and set revolutions for climb at five hundred feet a minute.

  However, the slipstream was whistling through the bullet holes in the canopy, ruffling Sean's hair and making conversation difficult, so that he had to raise his voice as he told Job, "Go back and see if anyone was hit, then do a visual check for damage in the hold."

  The lights of Umtali town were off to the south, and beyond them Sean could just make out the loom Of mountains- He knew that the highest peak in the chain was 8,5oo feet above sea level, s I o he allowed a wide separation and leveled out at 10,000 feet, then checked his heading.

  Up to now, he had not thought about his navigation and was unsure of the bearings for a return to the Serra de Gorongosa fines.

  wont find them marked on any map." He grinned. "But we'll try 030 magnetic." And he banked the Hercules onto that heading.

  The adrenaline was still thick in his blood, the rapture of fear swirling him aloft on eagles" wings. He laughed again, just a little shakily, and savored the glorious thrill of it while it lasted.

  The dark mountaintops slid away beneath him, just visible in the starlight like the shape of whales deep in an Arctic sea. He picked out the occasional pinprick of light in the valleys, an isolated farm or mission station or peasant hut, and then, as he crossed the frontier into Mozambique, there was nothing but darkness ahead.

  and it seemed symbolic "Nothing but darkness," he repeated, and prophetic. They were going back into the wasteland.

  Sean eased back on power and began a gradual descent toward the lowland forests. Now that the mountain peaks were behind them, he didn't want to stay up high, offering an easy target for the attack radar of a pursuing MiG fighter or an intercepting Hind gunship.

  Job came back and lo*ed the door of the flight deck.

  "Any (image?" Sean Aked.

  Job chuckled. "Tht floor of the cargo hold is ankle-deep in puke.

  Those Shanianes don't fancy your flying, man, they are upchucking in all directions."

  "Charming." Sean groped in the side packet of the pilot's seat and came up with a packet of Dutch cigars, property of the R.A.F pilot.

  "Well, look what we have here." He tossed one to Job and they lit up and smoked contentedly for a few minutes before Job asked, "How long before the MiGs catch up with us?"

  Sean shook his head. "They are based in Harare. I don't think they can catch us even if they scramble immediately. No, I'm not worried about the MiGs, but the Hinds are another story."

  They were silent again, watching the ripe celestial fruit of the stars t
hat from the dark flight deck seemed close enough to pluck.

  "Are you ready to answer an embarrassing question?" Job broke the silence.

  "Fire away-"

  "You got us up here. How the hell are you going to get us down again.

  Sean blew a smoke ring that was instantly obliterated by the slipstream through the bullet holes in the canopy.

  "Interesting question," he conceded. "I'll let you know when I have an answer myself. In the meantime, just worry about finding the Renamo lines in general and China's headquarters in particular.