by Peter Riva
Amogh waved Pero into the cockpit, as the engines caught. Pero climbed the starboard wing—all Beech Barons have the entry over the right wing—worried over the spinning prop only feet away and quickly sat in the co-pilot’s seat, leaving the door open for the antenna to work. They started taxiing. A man ran out waving, Pero took out the gun and pointed it at him as well, telling him he would shoot him dead. He retreated, running.
“Sorry Director, it’s a little busy here . . .”
“I can hear. Al-Jazeera went live throughout the Arab world seconds before, repeat, before the shooting. James Small had the radio detonators in his watch, so he could detonate them from nearer the stage, better timing. We’re jamming those signals in case there’s a backup. And you were right about the media angle.”
Amogh got them moving faster. Pero had to ask, “The Navy intercept? And who was hurt? The shooting . . .”
He went silent, Pero didn’t know if he lost the signal, moving that fast, sometimes you do lose satellite lock, or Lewis cut off. Either way, it was time to help Amogh. Pero clicked off. They were starting down the main runway, full throttle, and Pero was still fussing to shut and lock his door.
CHAPTER 21
Mungu La-Ubawa
The lumbering single turboprop Cessna was up here somewhere. A Beech Baron can cruise at two hundred and sixty miles per hour, Amogh had her at full throttle, full prop pitch left full from takeoff, doing two hundred and eighty. The Caravan, a workhorse, is much bigger, stronger but slower, doing only one hundred and sixty miles per hour, one hundred and seventy five tops. Pero knew they could catch her if they could just see her.
The wheels came up. “There, over there is the Meeting stage, but it’s too soon Amogh, he must be loitering around up here somewhere, waiting until all the media cameras are on, watching.” Pero scanned the skies hard, “Maybe hiding behind these clouds. I just know it. He’s here somewhere.”
Pero was right, the Caravan could be using the clouds as cover, it made sense. Solid, dense white, these thunder-bumpers were massive sentinels over the land, twenty or thirty of them dotted the land below, casting shadows. With a mile or so between each, each one twenty thousand feet high, they were beautiful, if deadly, cells of tremendous forces. More importantly, Pero could not see the other side of any of them. You could hide a Jumbo up here until it was too late.
Pero got on the radio: “Wilson Tower, this is an emergency, Baltazar here in a Beech Baron six, one, three, two, Foxtrot” Pero read the call sign off the dash where all pilots put it, in case they forget. “Clear all airspace, no excuses, over Wilson, Langata, Kibera, and western Nairobi, including the Hill. Confirm please. Over.”
“Six, one, three, two, Foxtrot, we copy. You have authority, there is a sailor here with a gun says so. Squawk four, three, three, five, six. Confirm. Over.”
“Squawking four, three, three, five, six” as Pero rolled the numbers on the transponder, “Urgent you clear airspace all other aircraft, we are in pursuit of Caravan seven, seven, three, two, Kilo, terrorists on board, suspect suicide attack into the Meeting on the Hill. Am expecting USA Navy fighter intercept, vector him to our target once identified. Over.”
“Roger Beech six, one, three, two, Foxtrot, airspace is now being cleared of even emergency cases. One aircraft transponder just turned off, suspect it’s your objective, we still have him on radar. Turn right to a heading of two seven zero, he’s above your position, plus three zero feet. Navy planes not on radar yet. Will advise. Over.” Amogh banked the plane and the compass came around to two seven zero true.
Suddenly they spotted him, three thousand feet higher, coming around from the southwest, circling a cloud fringe. Something about the way Pero could see him flying told Pero he was qualified, competent, but not local. He was fighting the currents, the updrafts, as one would in, say, Europe where you needed to maintain strict flight level. Here, in the bush, flight levels were, at best, a recommendation. The currents and turbulence were in real control over the equator for smaller planes. Your plane lasted longer that way.
Over the years, flying at these latitudes, there were many times that his pilot had to suddenly veer off when aircraft converged, off their assigned flight levels. Without on-board radar, clear visibility was often the only asset pilots had sometimes, to avoid midair collisions.
And that’s what Pero feared he needed to do, have a midair collision, if the Navy didn’t get here in time. Putting the Baron between the Caravan and the Meeting like a blockade was too easy to get around. They couldn’t block them. Defense was quickly becoming offence. As the faster plane, Pero hoped they would come off better. It was foolish to hope so, he knew. They were in a sports car compared to the Caravan, which was like a small truck, so the Baron probably wouldn’t win any kind of contact. But what else could they do? Pero’s mind was a blank to alternatives, so he concentrated on simply catching up, urging Amogh to make the little twin Beech climb and run faster.
As they came closer, climbing, the pit of his stomach protesting, cold sweat on his brow, the Cessna demonstrated a different option to the one Pero had thought of; from the open doorway, a fixed camera position, with telephoto camera lens protruding, a shooter was firing at them. One shot hit the nose and, after they peeled away, Amogh said, “killed the weather radar.” He turned it off. The color radar screen in the middle of the display, now a jumble of colors, all mixed up, faded to dark.
Pero got on the radio: “Wilson Tower, Beech Baron six, one, three, two, Foxtrot. Closing on target. Air-to-air shots fired. Will attempt to force him to the south, keep him away from the Meeting. If that is impossible, will make air-to-air contact between our two aircraft. But awaiting Navy intercept, please advise soonest.”
“Six, one, three, two, Foxtrot, we copy. No Navy planes on radar. Is contact the only option? If so, God be with you. Over.”
“Amogh, let’s stay behind him off to his left, port side, and slow down so they don’t shoot past. Flaps?” Pero suggested flaps so they could keep the prop speed up, allowing a quick burst of speed simply by retracting the flaps when needed. In the game of cat and mouse, speed was their principle advantage. Only in this game, Jerry was chasing Tom.
“Fifteen,” Amogh said. Pero put the flaps down to fifteen degrees and marveled that Amogh handled the Beech like his Porsche, with ease and firmness of command.
“You do realize that when he starts his descent, if the Navy isn’t here, we’re going to have to ram him.”
“Now you tell me? Not just a little bump and run?” Amogh looked at Pero. “Yeah, I guessed. I wish there were another way . . . How long will the Navy take to get here?”
“I don’t know. Watch them Amogh, stay with them, I have an idea, maybe State can help.” Pero opened the cell phone and called Amogh’s father. Thousands of feet up, the line of sight to several cell towers was clean and clear.
Pero had to yell to be heard over the engine. “Mr. Ranjeet? Baltazar here. Sorry to trouble you, but Amogh is flying and we’re chasing a Caravan with al-Qaida on board. We suspect a bomb-suicide thing. Meantime, they’ve fired at us, but we’re okay. Look, the satellite phone won’t work well here with the plane’s aluminum skin. Could you relay this to Director Lewis so I can stay on the cell phone?”
“I can call him right away and connect.” He went silent. “Here he is—can you hear each other?”
“Lewis here, this is unsecured. Go ahead.”
“We’re in the air chasing a Caravan with at least two operatives aboard. Their target is a suicide attack on Hill. Is the Meeting proceeding or canceled? Over.”
“Proceeding. Four dead, several wounded. JT is starting a funeral service for the dead and your Simon. All the media cameras are live. Your one punch scenario was right, the Meeting is live everywhere, throughout the world. Are you in a position to stop the other plane?”
“I was hoping the Navy would get here in time.”
“Answer! Can you interdict the Caravan to prevent the two punch o
n your own?”
“Yes, but maybe only by ramming, we have the speed, they have the mass.”
“Survivability?”
“Poor. Do you have any suggestions? Like a Navy Tomcat or F-18 on afterburner?”
“None may be inbound in time. Sorry. They estimate twelve minutes. Can you stall the Caravan?”
“Not more sorry than Amogh and I. We’ll try to stall them, but we can’t block them. How about a SAM or something?”
“Sorry, nothing on hand. The Kenyans were preparing to defend against those, not use them.” Lewis sounded paternal, “Sorry it has to end this way.”
“Yeah. And sorry for Amogh, Mr. Ranjeet.”
Mr. Ranjeet sounded paternal as well, “He makes me proud. He is a man. It is not your fault Mr. Baltazar.”
“Thank you Mr. Ranjeet, I will still regret it, always.” And Pero signed off. He wasn’t really being maudlin. It was not time to say good-bye, yet. He was simply busy and just wanted thinking time.
“Amogh, your father says you are a man and you make him proud.”
“Yeah, well, I would have liked to be a banker for a while, help rebuild the family fortune . . . never mind.” He smiled. They continued their game of catch-me-up whilst dodging the shooting angle with the Caravan. They were gaining time, though, keeping them away from the Hill, maybe those Navy planes would get there in time.
Amogh was doing all the work. Pero crossed his arms and frowned. Why can’t I think of something?
Through the cockpit glass, Pero mindlessly watched, as he often did during filming, for visual clues and interruptions. The sky was endless, punctuated by the white sentinel clouds drifting over a brown green landscape all the way to the Rift Valley 500 miles away. On location Pero had to be a jack-of-all-trades, an improviser, ready for things to go right and things to go wrong, and find a way through both. Permits, plane delays, lost reservations, canceled guests, and broken equipment always threatened shooting. Those clouds could spell rain for a shoot tomorrow; they indicated gathering humidity. Bad weather is usually the most common obstacle they faced in filming outdoors, clouds can also suddenly change the light and, in winter, obscure the horizon with haze. Rain, snow, ice, hail, they all . . . hey, wait a minute, Pero thought. He looked at the canceled weather radar and said, “Damn . . .”
Amogh, hands clenched on the yoke, looked over, “What’s wrong now?”
Sitting straight up, Pero put a hand on Amogh’s shoulder, “Amogh, my friend, I have an idea. If they make their move towards the Hill, we’ve got to take action, no waiting for the Navy, right?”
“Yes, I agree.”
“Okay, so here’s what we’re going to try. First, the Navy needs us to stall for time, right? And at the same time, we have to be ready to take action. You with me?”
“Sort of, I am, Mr. Baltazar, but I don’t quite see . . .”
“I’ll explain, just remember I have a one-two punch of our own to give the bastards. First, we need to put ourselves between the Caravan and the Hill. Every time they come around a cloud, I want you to get so damn close they will have to back off, a few feet, that’s all, just pressure them.”
“I’m not sure I can fly that well, Mr. Baltazar. Anyway, that won’t stop them dropping faster than we can, it’s a heavy bus that Caravan. And they will be homing in on the stage.”
“Okay, so we’ll always stay below them. And let’s hope the Navy shows up before then. If not, let’s hope this plan works before their suicide run. Let’s be prepared to give it a try. If not, we will have to dive on them like a World War Two fighter on a bomber.”
“Oh, great. What fun.” He imitated a British accent, “Tally-ho and all that.” He gave a small nervous laugh, “I’m more British every day . . . hardly. Or not, as you Americans say.”
He edged the twin-engined Beech to their left, the Caravan’s right and immediately the gun appeared and they saw puffs of smoke. They heard their airframe being hit, but Pero had no idea where they’d been hit. The air was much choppier now and the shooter didn’t have much of a chance to aim accurately. It was a chance they had to take. “Okay, go under their wing, Amogh, but keep the pressure on—I want them to think we’re trying to force them away. We are, but there’s something else I have in mind too . . . I know this is a dangerous game, but I have a trick in store for them, which I don’t think a pilot who’s not local will know about.”
Fighting the controls, using his feet on the pedals to yaw the plane, skirting the danger posed by their proximity, Amogh asked, “Care to explain it to me as well?”
“I want you to bump them . . .”
“You want me to do what?”
“I need you to make them think they have to get rid of us first or their mission is compromised. I need them to want to swat an angry wasp, us, wipe us off their chosen path. I need to force them to need to deal with us first.”
Adjusting the throttle, concentrating on the difficult job of proximity flying, Amogh raised his voice, “Holy shit, you are nuts. You want me to fly up and touch wings? Look, Mr. Baltazar, you’re talking Red Arrows’ skills. There’s no way I’m that good.”
“I don’t think you need to be. Look Amogh, if we don’t try all we have left is ramming them now, and there’s only one outcome of that . . .”
“Shit.” He was quiet for two seconds, “Okay, okay, I will try it.” He wiped his brow. “I will try, but crikey Mr. Baltazar, it could kill us just the same. If I bump them, we will probably lose control.” Then he smiled. “Oh, sure I get it, we’re dead anyway. Great options, can’t you think of anything else? Couldn’t we shoot at them?”
The Beech was a pressurized plane, no opening window except a tiny plexi flap, Amogh’s left side, next to his shoulder. To fly, dodge their shots, and have Pero fire over Amogh’s left shoulder at their right side—and their shooter—both men knew it didn’t seem possible. Amogh looked, Pero looked, Pero held up the small pistol, and they both shook their heads.
Amogh rolled his shoulders to try and reduce tension. “Damn. Okay, I will try it with your bump and run. But don’t you think touching them, wing to wing, will make them so damn mad they will run through the gap—any gap—when we open one up? After the bump, if we get away with it, we’ll have to roll out of it, away from them. Then, they could aim right at the stage, you’ll give them a direct line Mr. Baltazar. Why do all this to end up giving them a direct line?”
“Yeah, I know that’s a possibility. It depends on how close we can stay and how familiar he is with a Caravan’s controls. Look, this is a sports car, that’s a truck, he may not be able to dodge us that quickly.” Pero was feeling sorry for Amogh. The strain of flying close to a plane that was shooting at you and then some nut was telling you to bump . . . Pero knew in Amogh’s shoes he probably would be even more frightened and stressed. “Look, if the Navy doesn’t turn up—and Lewis said they may not in time—we will be giving them a gap, a gap of our choosing. We have to make sure they see the need to turn behind us, towards the stage, right, you get that?” Amogh nodded. “And then the only direct line they will have is through that baby there.” Pero pointed to the strato cumulous, thunder bumper, with an ominous darkening cap, about eight miles off.
“If they do, they will . . .”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m hoping. A serious ice hammering.”
“They can’t be that stupid, can they?”
“Look, at Gazelle Smythe’s entry for his license said it was a French license. He’s used to Europe. If I hadn’t seen that Cessna one fifty at Wilson, you know the dented one by the end of the line?” Amogh again nodded “Well, I would have thought anyone can get through that there puffy cloud with that big, fat, solid Caravan, don’t you think? In Europe you avoid them in case of lightening or rough winds. No one in Europe knows how damn dangerous those clouds are on the Equator. I didn’t, ‘til I saw that one fifty.”
Amogh was still nodding, keeping the Baron on a tight trail of the Caravan, “Okay . . . Let’s hope
you are right. But I’ll tell you one thing, the way that big thunder-bumper looks, if we can nudge them in there, or if they do turn into it trying to get away from us towards the Hill, the hail and the updraft will tear her apart. And we better not get sucked in either.” Amogh repositioned his right hand on the throttles and his left on the yoke, his feet controlling the rudder. “Okay, here we go. You take care of flaps, cover me on the throttles, I need to keep engine revs and prop pitch fully up for a quick acceleration or deceleration, the flaps will control the airspeed, okay?”
“Okay Amogh,” Pero rested his left hand atop Amogh’s on the throttles, “I have got the flaps. Set at fifteen.”
“Here we go . . . flaps ten.” Pero dropped his left hand to the flap wheel alongside the center console and spun the wheel to read “10,” then returned his hand to cover Amogh’s.
Planes flying in formation are at extreme risk. A good, solid contact can alter the pitch of any wing, making the plane unflyable, one wing up, the other down. The plane will spin in—crash and burn. On the other hand, any contact with a spinning prop will be even quicker and more deadly to both planes—the twin Baron more so than their single engined Caravan. They had the one fat turboprop engine up front. The Baron had one piston engine either side. If one of the Baron’s was disabled, they’d be flying like a crab, sideways, not to mention a broken prop, trying to rotate and rip the engine off the plane like a broken spin cycle of a dryer.
Aerial display teams practice for years to perfect flying in formation twenty feet apart. From the ground, it looks as if they are touching. They dare not. Any closer and you have the turbulence from one wing affecting the following wing’s performance, jostling the planes in dangerous proximity.
Amogh eased their plane up closer under the Cessna. Above them, leaning forward and looking through the top of the windscreen, Pero could see the shooter trying to lean out and get a shot down at them. As they hid under the Caravan, they were out of his line of sight, just. Then Amogh called for no flaps, Pero rolled the flap wheel to zero. The plane sped up suddenly and Amogh pushed the right pedal to put the rudder over slightly to the right, causing the plane to yaw to the right and, one second later, he turned the yoke to the right and pulled back on the yoke.
