Wilbur Smith - C07 A Time To Die

by C07 A Time To Die(Lit)

  Five hundred feet above the tops of the forest trees, Sean leveled the Hercules and, reading the throttle and pitch settings from the instructions engraved on the instrument panel, set her up for endurance flying.

  "Another two hours before it will be light enough to even start looking for an emergency landing field," he told Job. "In the meantime, we can try to find the Pungwe River." An hour later they spotted a gleam of water in the black carpet of forest ahead, and seconds later the stars were reflected from a large body of dark water directly below them.

  "I'm going back to check it," Sean warned Job. He put the Hercules into an easy turn and watched the gyro compass on the panel in front of him rotate through 180 degrees before leveling out again.

  "Landing lights on," he murmured and flipped the switch. The tops of the trees below them were fit by the powerful lamps, and they saw the river, a dark serpent winding away into the night.

  Sean threw the Hercules into a hard right-hand turn and then leveled out, flying directly along the course of the river.

  "Looks like it," he grunted, and switched off the landing fights.

  "But even if it is the right river, we won't be able to judge whether we are upstream or downstream of the fines until sunrise."

  "So what do we do?"

  "We fly a holding pattern," Sean explained, and banked the Hercules into the first of a monotonous series of figure eights.

  Around and around they cruised, five hundred feet above the treetops, crossing and recrossing the dark river at the same point, marking time, waiting for the dawn.

  "Sitting duck for a Hind," Job remarked once.

  "Don't wish it on us." Sean frowned at him. "If you have nothing else useful to do, get the gunner's bag. It's in the map bin."

  Job lugged the bag to the front of the cabin and set it beside his seat, then settled himself comfortably.

  "Read to me," Sean instructed. "Find something in there to amuse me and pass the time."

  Job brought out the red plastic-covered top-secret folders one at time and thumbed through them, reading out the titles and a chapter headings from each index page.

  The first three files were all field manuals for the Stinger SAM Systems, covering their deployment in every conceivable situation I I from the decks of ships at sea to their use by infantry in every he 1[i missile's performance figures in all conditions from tropical jungle climatic zone on the globe, setting out in tables and graphs t to high Arctic.

  "All you ever wanted to know but were afraid to ask," Job observed, and picked out the fourth manual from the bag.

  STINGER GUIDED MISSILE SYSTEM TARGET SELECTION AND RULES OF

  ENGAGEMENT OPERATIONAL REPORTS

  Job read aloud, then turned to the index and chapter headings.

  I. Falkland Islands 2. Arabian Gulf. "Sea of Hormuz" 3. Grenada landings 4. Angola Unita 5. Afghanistan Job read it out, and Sean exclaimed, "Afghanistan! See if they give us anything about the l*nd."

  Job set the bulky foe on his lap and adjusted the beam of the reading lamp fromiti recess in the cabin roof above his head. He paged through the manual.

  "Here we go! "Afghanistan,"" he read. ""Helicopter Types."

  "Find the Hind!" Sean ordered impatiently.

  "Soviet Mil Design Bureau Types, NATO Designation "H.""

  "That's it," Sean encouraged him. "Look for the Hind."

  aplite. Hound. Hook. Hip. Haze. Havoc "Hare," said Job. "H here it is. Hind."

  "Give me the gen," Sean ordered, and Job read aloud.

  This flying piece of artillery ordnance, nicknamed by the Soviets Sturmovich (or hunchback), known to NATO as Hind and to the Afghan rebels and many others who have encountered it in the field as the "flying death," has gained a formidable reputation which is perhaps not fully justified.

  Sean interrupted fervently, "Brother, I hope you know what you're talking about."

  Job went on.

  1. Impaired maneuverability, hovering, and rate-of-climb characteristics as a consequence of the mass of its armor plating.

  2. A limited range of 240 nautical miles fully loaded, again as a consequence of its armor weight.

  3. A low max. speed of 157 knots and cruise speed of 147 knots.

  4. Very high service and ground maintenance requirements.

  "That's interesting," Sean cut in. "Even this big baby"-he patted the Hercules" control column-"is faster than a Hind. I'll remember that if we meet one."

  "Do you want me to read to you?" Job asked. "If so, then shut up and listen."

  "My apologies, go ahead."

  It is estimated that several hundred machines of this type have been employed in Afghanistan. Generally they have met with great success against the rebels, although in excess of 150 have been destroyed by rebel troops armed with the Stinger SAM.

  These figures alone prove that the Hind can be effectively engaged by the Stinger SAM System, employing the tactics set out in the following chapters.

  Job read on, giving the engine type and performance, the weapons, and other statistics until at last Sean stopped him.

  "Hold on, Job!" Sean pointed toward the east. "It is getting light."

  The sky was pale enough to form a distinct horizon where it met the black landmass.

  "Put the book away and go call Ferdinand up here. See if he can recognize where we are and show us the way home."

  A strong odor of vomit surrounded Ferdinand as he stumbled onto the flight deck, and the front of his tunic was stained. He leaned on the back of the pilot's seat for support, and Sean moved to put as much distance between them as possible.

  "Look out there, Ferdinand." Sean gesticulated through the bullet-punctured canopy. "Do you see anything you recognize The Shangane peered dubiously around him, muttering 9100mfly. Suddenly his expression cleared and lightened. "Those hills."

  He pointed out the side window. "Yes, I know them. The river comes out between them at a waterfall."

  "Which way is the camp?"

  "That way, far that way."

  "How far?"

  "Two full days" march."

  "Seventy nautical miles, Sean translated time into distance.

  We aren't too far out. Thank you, Ferdinand." Sean broke out of the monotonous figure-eight pattern and leveled the Hercules" gigantic wings.

  Still low against the forest, he flew westward, the direction in which Ferdinand had pointed, while behind them the dawn came on apace, turning the eastern sky a hazy carmine. They chased the shades of night as they fled across the dark hills.

  Sean aimed the nose of the Hercules at the gap Ferdinand had pointed out and checked his wristwatch against the panel clock.

  "Time for News Desk on the Africa Service of the BBC," he said, and fiddled with the radio controls. He picked up the familiar signature tune on 15,400 megahertz.

  "This is the BBC. Here again are the news headlines. In the United States, Governor Michael Dukakis has convincingly carried the state of New York against Jesse Jackson in his bid for the Democratic Party presidential nomination. Israeli troops have shot dead two more protesters in the occupied Gaza Strip. One hundred and twenty passengers have died in an airline crash in the Philippines. Renamo rebels have high jacked an R.A.F Hercules transport from a ZimbabFean Air Force base near the town of Umtali. They have flown' it into Mozambique, where it is being pursued by aircraft " oF the Zimbabwean and Mozambican air forces. A spokesman said that both President Mugabe and President Chissano have given orders that the aircraft, which has no hostages on board but which contains sophisticated modern weapons intended for use against the rebels, is to be destroyed at all costs."

  Sean switched off the set and smiled across at Job. "You never thought you'd make the news headlines, did you?"

  "I can do without the fame," Job admitted. "Did you get the bit about being pursued and destroyed at all costs?"

  The Hercules was fast approaching the gap in the fine of hills The light had strengthened so that Sean could make out the pearly gleam in t
he throat of the pass where the river tumbled down over wet black rock.

  "Incoming!" Job yelled suddenly. "One o'clock low!"

  With his extraordinary eyesight, he had picked it up an instant before Sean did. The Hind had been lying in ambush, squatting like some monstrous insect in a hidden clearing in the forest, guarding the entrance to the river pass.

  As Sean saw it, he clearly understood the tactics Frelimo had used to cut him off from the Renamo lines. They would have sent the full squadron of Hinds in during the night, as soon as they guessed where he was headed.

  Operating at the limits of their range, the Hinds would have settled in a defensive line, landing to conserve fuel, hiding in the forest and sweeping with their pulse radars, listening in the silence for the sound of the Hercules" engines.

  Almost certainly they had guessed he would use the river as a navigational landmark. There would probably be other gunships waiting further upstream, forming an intercepting ring around the Renamo lines, but, erring too far south, Sean had run headlong into this one.

  It leaped out of the forest, rising vertically on the silver blur of its rotor, the deformed nose drooping like a minotaur lowering its head to charge, blotched with leprous camouflage, obscenely ugly and deadly.

  It was still below them but coming up swiftly, swelling in size as they converged. Within moments its Gatling cannon would bear; already it was training upward. Sean reacted without thought.

  He rammed all four throttle controls fully open, and the great turbos screeched as he thrust the nose down, diving straight at the helicopter.

  He saw the rockets leaving the weapon pods under the Hind's wings, each one a black dot in the center of a white wreath of smoke as it dropped clear. He remembered the statistics Job had read him only minutes before. The Hind carried two AT-2 Swatter imssiles and four 57-men rocket pods.

  He dived the Hercules through the barrage of rockets. They flashed past his head, a storm of smoke and death, and the Hind was only two hundred meters ahead, still rising to meet him, firing rockets at point-blank range but not allowing for his violent maneuver.

  "Hold on!" Sean shouted at Job. "I'm going to ram the bastard."

  The killing rage was on him, sweet and hot in his blood. There was no fear at all, just the marvelous urge to destroy.

  At the last moment, the pilot of the Hind guessed his intention.

  They were so close that through the canopy Sean could clearly make out his features below the helmet. The Russian's face was doughy white and his mouth a shocking red slash like an open wound. He flicked the Hind over on its side, almost inverting it completely, closing down his collective so the gunship fell like a lead weight, trying to duck under the Hercules" outspread pinions. Got you, you son of a bitch!" Sean exulted, and the Hercules" wing hit the tail of the gunship. The shock of impact threw Sean against his shoulder straps, and the Hercules shuddered and lurched. The airspeed was knocked off her and she quivered on the edge of the stall, only two hundred feet above the forest top.

  "Come on, pussycat," Sean whispered like a lover. He was babying the controls, coaxing her with gentle fingers. Her damaged wing was down, tatters of torn metal hanging from it, whipping and banging in the slipstream, and the forest tops reached up like the talons of a predator to claw them out of the sky.

  "Fly for me, darling," Sean whispered, and the four engines, howling with the effort, held her up, then gradually lifted her clear.

  The needle of the rate-of-climb indicator rose jerkily; they were climbing at two hundred feet a minute.

  "Where's the Hind?" Sean yelled at Job.

  "She must be down," Job called back, both of them screaming at each other with terror and excitement and the triumph of it.

  "Nothing could take a hit like that." Then his voice changed.

  "No, there she is, she's still flying. My God, will you look at that mother?"

  The Hind was hard hit, skittering out to one side, the tail rotor and rudder torn, almost completely gone. Obviously her pilot was fighting for her life as she lurched and rolled and wallowed about the sky.

  "I don't believe ill She's still shooting at us!" Job cried, and a smoking rocket trail blazed across their nose.

  "She's steadying." Job was watching her through the side window. "She's coming round, she's after us again."

  Sean met the Hercules'climb and aimed for the pass through the hills. The rocky cliffs seemed to brush their wingtips, and the foaming white waterfall flashed beneath them.

  "He has fired a missile." As Job called the warning, the pass through the hills opened up ahead of them, and Sean lifted the Hercules" maimed wing high in a maximum-rate turn.

  The huge aircraft hugged the cliff face, turning the corner just as the Swatter missile locked onto the infrared emissions of her exhausts and sped down the gut of the pass. The Hercules cut the turn so finely that Sean had to use full power to hold the nose level, j; and looking upward through the skylight of the canopy, he felt as ! though he could have reached out and touched the rock face as the Hercules stood on one wmgt1p. The missile tried to follow her around, but at the critical instant the Hercules disappeared from its line of sight and the rocky corner blocked the infrared emissions of her exhausts.

  The missile crashed into the cliff face, gouging out a great fall of rock and filling the pass behind the Hercules with dust and smoke.

  Sean brought the Hercules back on an even keel once again, gentling her, favoring her damaged wing.

  "Any sign of the Hind?"

  "No-" Job broke off as he saw the dread shape materialize through the dust and smoke. "She's there, she's still coming!"

  The entire rear section of the Hind's fuselage was twisted askew, and half her rudder was missing. She staggered and lurched through the air, only barely under control and falling rapidly behind the fleeing Hercules. The pilot was a brave man, serving her, keeping her in action to the end.

  "WS-fired again!" Job cried as he saw the missile drop from under the stubby wing roots and boost toward them on a tail of smoke.

  "She's down!" Job watched the tail rotor of the gunship break away and spiral upward while the body dropped like a spine-shot buffalo bull and hit the trees, breaking up in a tall burst of flame and smoke.

  "Break right!" Job called desperately. Although the Hind was dead, her terrible offspring blazed across the sky, bearing down on them mercilessly.

  Sean put the Hercules over as hard as she would go. The missile almost missed the turn and went skid din2 wide in overshoot, but it corrected itself and came around hard, spinning out a long billow of silver smoke behind it, and fastened on the starboard number two motor.

  For a moment, they were blinded as the smoke of the explosion swept over the canopy and was as suddenly swept away. The Hercules convulsed as though in agony. The missile blast threw her wing up, miraculously knocking her back onto an even keel, and adroitly Sean held her there.

  He looked across in horror at the damage. The number two engine was gone, blown out of its mountings, leaving a terrible gaping wound in the leading edge of the wing. It was a mortal blow. In her death throes, the Hercules careered across the sky, dragged around by the asymmetrical thrust of her five engines, the damaged wing flexing and beginning to fold backward.

  Sean eased back the throttles, trying to relieve the strain and balance the thrust. He looked ahead, and there was the river, wide and shallow and tranquil above the turmoil of the falls. The first rays of the sun were buttering the tops of the trees on either bank and the crocodiles lay black on the white sandbanks.

  Sean flipped on the intercom and spoke over the loudspeakers into the cargo hold. "Hold on! We are going to hit hard!" he said in Shangane, and pulled his own harness adjustment in tighter.

  The Hercules lumbered down heavily, both wings so ( am aged that Sean was amazed that she was still airborne. "Too fast," he muttered. She was dropping like an express elevator. They would hit the trees short of the river. He braced himself for losing a wing an
d the accompanying disruption of air flow, and gingerly pulled on full flap to slow her down.

  Far from destroying herself, the Hercules responded gratefully to the additional lift and floated in with a semblance of her old elegance. She skimmed the treetops on the riverbank and Sean switched off the fuel pumps, mains, and magnetos to prevent a fire.

  He held the nose high, bleeding off speed, and the needle on the airspeed indicator wound back sharply. The stall warning buzzer sounded, then the deafening klaxon of the landing gear chimed in, trying to warn him that his wheels were stiff up.

  The controls went sloppy as the Hercules approached a stall, but they were out in the center of the river, twenty feet up and dropping fast. The crocodiles slid off the sandbar directly ahead, chummg the green water in panic, and Sean kept feeling the control column back and back, fending her off until the last possible moment.