by R G Ainslee
"Over there, a patch … open ground," said Santini, pointing to what seemed like a clearing about a half mile away. "Can you do it?"
"Let's see."
Glanced forward, the spot was small — no, tiny. Is Barker nuts?
Barker flew over the postage stamp sized patch and circled around. Tightened my harness and Santini did the same. Barker lined the Porter up, deployed the flaps, and set the craft down. We bounced once and rolled to a stop with fifty yards to spare.
"I'm impressed," said Santini. "If this was a real mission, I'd recommend you for a DFC." He was talking about the Distinguished Flying Cross. I had noticed back at Huachuca, Santini wore one on his dress blues. Barker didn't respond and took a deep breath.
We taxied to the far edge of the clearing where Barker wheeled the Porter around, ready for a quick take-off. He was preparing to shut down the engine when a dozen armed men popped out of a clump of trees a hundred yards away.
"Looks like we found them," said Santini. "Captain, get out and talk to these guys. I’ll stay here and keep the prop turning." Barker agreed.
I unbuckled and opened the cockpit door. "Coming with you."
"Who gave you permission," snapped Barker.
"Your wife, just following orders. She told me to keep an eye on you."
"She told me to keep an eye on you too. — Come on." He paused, surveyed the clearing and the armed men, and asked, "Think we should we leave the weapons?"
"Yeah, we're outgunned. Don’t want to die in a bush shoot out."
We pushed through the shin-high grass towards the group now fifty yards away. A motley crew: Black men, not Arabs, tall and thin, typical of southern Sudan, dressed in ragged traditional outfits with a smattering of military garb. Their arms varied, about half carried Soviet or perhaps Chinese made AK-47s. One guy toted an old musket.
Barker greeted them in Swahili, "Jambo rafiki."
A tall young man dressed in an assortment of military gear, stepped forward, and answered. They spoke for a few minutes. The leader, his forehead scared by tribal marks, glanced at me with cold dark eyes. Barker gestured towards the Porter, and then in the direction of the approaching Sudanese troops. That got his attention.
The man barked an order to one of his companions who whirled around and sprinted into the bush. He produced a wad of qat, bit off a chew, and mumbled a command. They all squatted on the ground and eyed us with palpable curiosity.
"What's going on?"
"He's sending for the boss man. Told him government troops are on their way and we landed to warn them."
"What about our guys?"
"They're in a camp located between us and the Marchetti. Must’ve missed it coming in. What you think?"
Glanced back at the Porter, Santini sat ready to go at a moment's notice. A dust cloud billowed up, making it easy for the Sudanese troops to find us.
"We're still alive, that's a positive sign. Let's sit down and wait."
"Okay, but I'll stay here. You go back and help Santini top off the fuel with the spare cans. We need to dump them and be ready to load up ASAP."
I returned to the Porter and we carefully refueled the still running aircraft. Santini called it a hot pit refueling, not recommended except in emergencies. We now had plenty room inside and almost a full fuel load.
Santini confided, "I'm worried about getting out with six people on board, the added weight will make for a dicey takeoff to say the least." I agreed.
A little more than fifteen minutes later an old Soviet made GAZ-69 light truck broke through the bush and pulled up beside Barker and the main group. Amadeo and Marsden sat in back, their hands tied in front. I hurried back fast as I dared. Santini took his place in the Porter and revved the engine, ready to go at a moment's notice.
A tall thin man stepped from the front passenger seat. The guy was dressed to the hilt: old camouflage pants, a black tee shirt with a skull and cross bones, and brown leather boots. A red beret with a large gold-cross adorned his head. He peered disdainfully through mirrored sunglasses, examined us individually and then a long stare towards the Porter.
The man spoke slow and deliberate, "Welcome … to headquarters of … the Peoples Salvation Front of the Nile … I am Commander James Bond … How may I … be help to you?"
"We have come to take these men back to their people." I pointed to Amadeo and Marsden. "Their families wish to have them home." Wanted to get to the point, we didn't have time to beat about the bush.
"These men and you … come to my headquarters … illegal." He held himself up erect, chin raised, trying to project a commanding presence. His band seemed to buy it and murmured in agreement.
Needed to change the subject and took a chance. "We wish to reward you for your kindness. You are good Samaritans, are you not?" I detected a slight flick of his head when I mentioned reward.
"Yes, it is so." His mirrored glasses sparkled in the sunlight.
I started with a low figure, needed some room to bargain. Time was at a premium. Nevertheless, bargaining is always customary — that's just the way it is. "5,000 dollars American money."
His mouth twisted in a gesture of disappointment.
I upped the ante. "Plus 2,000 dollars in Kenyan Shillings."
He spread his hands and looked to the sky. "Very small sum … for two people."
Two people? A bad feeling. "Where are the other two men?"
"They dead … two Ethiopian spies die … try to escape … we not take Ethiopians here."
"Dead … Why?"
Commander James Bond became agitated. "Ethiopians like … dogs from Khartoum … we not take such dogs … not prisoners … No."
Barker broke in, "Government soldiers are just a few kilometers away. We observed a troop convoy before we landed."
"You saw them?" He screamed, "Where?"
Barker pointed in direction of the column. "Due west. Not far, they will be here soon."
His impassive face changed to an expression of disdain. "They do not come here." He waved his right arm. "They are cowards … much afraid." He spat on the ground.
"We spotted them from the air, three open trucks, two smaller vehicles, and fifty men."
"No … we are strong." He turned to his band and yelled. They raised their weapons above their heads and shouted in response. One guy fired-off a volley into the air. "We are lions … they are dogs." He was really into it and held both arms to the sky. "They do not—"
Without warning, gunfire erupted in the distance. First, a few rifle shots, AK-47's. A crescendo of automatic weapons fire grabbed everyone's attention. A primal fear registered in the eyes of the ragged band. The commander's eyes remained hidden by the mirrored sunglasses but couldn't hide his apprehension.
"Give reward … you go."
The gunfire paused for a few seconds, two single shots thundered closer, automatic fire resumed at an even more furious pace. I dashed to the Porter, pulled out the wad of Kenyan money and a stack of dollars, and frantically stuffed them in to Santini's canvas navigation folder.
Without bothering to count, I hustled back, keeping an ear attuned to the ever-closer chatter of automatic weapons.
The commander grabbed the bulging folder. "Ayee … is it all here?"
"Yes, and an extra bonus for you." Hoped he didn't take time to count, wasn’t sure how much was in the folder.
"We sing halleluiah … may God bless you."
He placed the loot under his arm and yelled at his crew to release the white men. They jerked Amadeo and Marsden out of the truck and dumped them on the ground. The GAZ-69 sped off, careened across the clearing with reckless abandon, and disappeared into the bush.
I yelled, "Let's saddle up and get the hell outta here while we're still alive."
Barker untied Amadeo. Marsden's hands stayed bound.
Amadeo said, "We need to find Rasta Man's body, I'm not leaving him behind," a statement of fact, not a pleading.
"We saw them at the crash site. There's nothing lef
t to recover. Hyenas and—"
"Come on we've got to move now," Barker grabbed Amadeo's arm, he resisted. "We're leaving, if you want to stay — stay. Troops are only minutes away. If you stay here, they'll get you for sure." Amadeo cursed and ran with Barker towards the Porter.
I seized Marsden by the arm and gave him a hard jerk. He resisted. "Do you want to stay here? If not, come on."
Marsden twisted and struggled to get away. "I'll take my chances with the Sudanese Army."
"Listen you SOB, if you stay all they'll have to do is bury you. Understand?"
"You won't kill me. You think I told you everything?" he spoke defiantly with fire in his eyes.
I was ready to rip his throat out but wasn't sure if he was bluffing. In any case, we didn't have time to sit and bargain. "Need a hand here." Amadeo rushed back carrying an AK-47.
"Give me the AK." I grabbed the weapon. Marsden reacted, spun around, and started to take off. Caught him five yards later and whacked him in the head with the rifle butt. He staggered, dropped to his knees, and collapsed face first into the grass. Blood oozed from a nasty cut and the duct tape bandage covering his missing earlobe peeled off and fell to the ground.
"Get up, you SOB," I applied a swift kick to the ribs, "Get up," and another. He lay motionless, out cold, in the dirt and grass.
"Let's drag him, don't have time to fool around," shouted Amadeo.
We each grabbed an arm and dragged him back to the Porter. His shoes plowed through the dry soil leaving a plume of dust. Santini helped us stash him behind the seats. Amadeo produced a rope and lashed him to a tie down. I tapped Barker on the shoulder, told him we we’re ready to go, and strapped myself into the rear seat.
Barker pushed the 500 horsepower Lycoming engine to full revolutions. He held the revs for another two seconds and released the brakes. The Porter thundered across the clearing towards the waiting trees, bounced off a hummock, airborne for a moment, bounced once more, airborne again. Barker pulled back on the yoke and we shot over the trees with only feet to spare.
The take-off led us into the path of the advancing Sudanese troops. Muzzle flashes sparkled around the vehicles straight ahead. A large caliber machine gun chattered from the bed of the lead truck. In seconds, we would be directly over them.
Barker yelled, "Hold on," and sharply banked the craft to the right, away from the fire. Thump — thump. Rounds struck the metal fuselage. Marsden's unconscious body rolled around in the back. I hazarded a look at the ground — we were clear.
"Everybody okay," asked Santini. Amadeo and I glanced at each other and nodded. No one, except Marsden, seemed to be injured.
Barker stayed low. "We need to circle back to the south, we're headed north. We'll give the troops a wide berth, so they can't tell which heading we're on."
"Want to see the crash site. Can you fly over?" asked Amadeo.
Santini shouted, "Bogie at ten o'clock," and adjusted the binoculars, "Got a chopper, looks like a troop transport … okay … a Soviet Mi-8 … can't make out the markings."
"On that heading, must be Ethiopian," said Amadeo. I agreed.
"He's landing near the clearing." Santini glanced over at Barker. "Captain, can this thing outrun a helicopter?"
"Not sure, but bet we have a higher operational altitude than he does, especially if he's carrying troops." Barker gained some height and banked the Porter to give Santini a better view.
"They're on the ground, take us home, Captain." He turned to Amadeo. "Sorry, we won't be able to go over the crash site, we've got to get out of here ASAP."
Barker banked right and headed south. "We'll stay low to avoid radar until we pass over the border."
"Not a problem." I remembered an important detail. "Studied the current Ethiopian and Sudanese electronic orders of battle before I left Mildenhall, this is a dead zone in both the Sudanese and Ethiopian air defenses."
"Stay low anyway until we clear the area," ordered Santini. "If the chopper comes after us, it'll make it harder to spot us."
Checked on Marsden, he was still out. The bleeding stopped, but he would have a knot on his head. Didn't care.
Santini asked Amadeo to tell us what happened.
"We almost made it. The Ethiopian pilot miscalculated the amount of fuel and ran out over the bush. He wasn’t able to start with a full load. Planned to refuel at Pribor. When we took off, he flew low and guess he used up too much over the mountains." Amadeo slumped in his seat and stared off into the distance.
"What happened then?"
"It was almost dark when the engine quit, and he attempted to make a dead-stick landing in what appeared to be a clearing, but the ground was too rough. We touched down, rolled for a couple hundred meters, hit a rock, and spun around till we stopped."
"Is that when they were killed?"
"No. The pilot broke a wrist when we came to a sudden halt, but everyone else was uninjured."
"But what happened? We recognized two bodies from the air."
"I was wrapping up the pilot's wrist when a group of armed men emerged from the bush, less than five minutes after we landed, and took us prisoner." Amadeo gasped for air. "Rasta Man tried to talk to them in Ethiopian, but it just set them off. They started screaming about Ethiopian spies."
"What happened to Rasta Man?"
"They knocked him out and set on both of them with machetes and spears. Never seen anything like it in all my life and I've been in this business since Nam. Hate to leave him behind… but you say there's not much left." He paused and inhaled another deep breath. "Thought we were all dead for sure, but that James Bond character believed the white men might be worth some money … you know the rest." He glared sadly at me. "Was it worth it?"
"Don’t have an answer … really don't know."
"Trouble behind us," warned Santini.
Amadeo snapped out of his daze. He transitioned back into a different state, ready to confront the enemy. The harsh reality of survival displaced his grief, the mark of a true professional.
I stuck my head out into the slipstream and looked back. The Mi-8 was airborne and heading in our direction. Barker increased altitude and banked the Porter to the left for a better view.
Santini peered through the binoculars. "They’re coming after us."
Amadeo picked-up the AK-47's, inspected the magazines, and passed one to me. It was clear what he was thinking. He instructed when and where to fire and briefed Barker on when to cut across the chopper’s path. Apparently, he had done this before.
It became clear the helicopter was slowly gaining on us. Santini examined the chart and made calculations. He told Barker, "At this rate he'll catch up with us before the border."
Barker had the Porter at maximum speed. They continued to gain and would catch us in another half hour. "Take her up," ordered Santini, "Let's see if we can out climb 'em."
Barker pulled back on the yoke and we began to climb. The helicopter matched our climb rate. We passed 5,000 feet, still gaining, but at a slower rate. At 10,000 feet, it began to get cold and the chopper continued to close the gap.
At 12,000 feet, Amadeo said, "He's gonna catch us. We'll wait and try to get a shot at him when he gets close enough."
Laid down my AK-47 and reached back for the Weatherby. "Let me give this a try."
"What's that?"
"A Weatherby four-sixty elephant gun, fires a 500-grain bullet at 2,600 feet per second. Only have three rounds though." I loaded a round into the chamber and wrapped the sling around my arm. "I'll rest it on the open window. Amadeo, you lean up against my back for support. Barker, give me a wide turn."
"Try for the engine cowling," said Santini, "If you miss you might hit a blade."
"You fired this weapon before?" asked Amadeo with a skeptical tone.
"No, but I hunted antelope back in New Mexico."
Amadeo responded with a nod. "Okay, let's do it."
Barker banked left, and a clear shot came into my sights — the twin-engine cowling. Buck f
ever took over and I squeezed the trigger. The explosion of the huge round drove me back against Amadeo and we both collapsed to the deck. My right shoulder went numb.
"Yow'ee," Santini yelled. "You hit the cockpit and smashed the canopy wide open … he's lost control."
Amadeo pulled me up off the deck and I peered out the open window. A blast of cool air revived my senses. The Mi-8 had rolled off to the right and descended several hundred feet. By the time the pilot regained control, we had gained a half mile and a thousand feet in altitude.
"He's not giving up the chase," said Santini. "Don't think he'll catch us now. You all right?"
"Not sure I can move my arm." Tried to lift my right arm but couldn't raise it above shoulder level. The old gunshot wound came back to haunt me. "I'll be okay, let's get outta here, don't want to try that again."
"Awesome shot," said Santini. "Did you aim for the cockpit?"
"No, aimed for the cowling … forgot about the drop in trajectory at that distance. All's well that ends well, I guess."
At 15,000 feet, we pulled away for good. The helicopter made a quarter turn and headed towards Ethiopia. Breathing became more difficult in the thin chilly air. Barker leveled off at 16,000 feet, the same altitude as the glacier on Mount Kenya. We passed over what Santini thought was the border. Barker banked to take a good look — we were in the clear.
Chapter 25 ~ FUBAR
Tuesday, 21 February: Northern Kenya
Marsden came around sometime after we crossed into Kenya and complained vigorously until I threatened to cut his tongue out. The sorry bastard believed me and kept his mouth shut for the rest of the trip.
We landed at the bush camp to refuel. Dom gave Amadeo a curious glance and greeted him warily. Amadeo answered in Spanish and they chatted while we refueled. Dom didn't ask any embarrassing questions, not even about the obvious bullet holes in the rear fuselage. Before we left, Barker pulled several hundred dollars out of the cash box and stuffed them in Dom's safari jacket pocket.
