by Tom Young
“Cleared for the visual to Two-Two,” Chartier said. He released his transmit switch and said to Parson, “I am surprised they have any equipment to put on standby.”
“We’re lucky they even have a tower,” Parson said, “but that guy sounds like he knows what he’s doing.”
Parson had landed this DC-3 on dirt strips in Somalia with no facilities beyond a wind sock. At least this time he had nearly ten thousand feet of pavement, and personnel to help with an emergency.
A dusty plateau of reddish soil and scattered vegetation stretched below. Acacia trees studded the terrain. The seedpods from acacias made good livestock fodder, and the blooms supported honeybees. But the acacias bristled with thorns. Everything about life came hard and painful in this part of the world.
Baidoa slid into view through the distant haze. Home to more than a hundred thousand, the city had suffered a tortured past. When militias blocked food shipments during a 1992 famine, Baidoa became known as the city of walking skeletons. Starvation killed up to sixty people a day. Aid groups and UN troops helped ease the famine the following year, but the city remained a battleground.
In 2006, the country’s Transitional Federal Government attacked Islamists holed up in Baidoa. Somali government troops, aided by Ethiopian forces, routed Islamic Courts Union fighters. Two years later, another terrorist group, al-Shabaab, laid siege to the city, and Baidoa fell temporarily to the militants. Ethiopian and Somali troops eventually retook the city. Somalia’s new government now controlled Baidoa—at least for the moment. But terrorists still fought to turn the entire country into an Islamist caliphate under sharia law.
Today, Parson just hoped Baidoa remained stable enough for him to land and get the engine fixed.
“All right,” he said, “let’s see if we can get this pig on the ground.” He throttled back on his one good engine and began to descend.
The airport lay southwest of the city, and Parson approached from the north. The DC-3 glided above the rubble of blasted concrete and cinder-block buildings. Other structures showed glimpses of life within: clotheslines draped with bright fabrics, smoke from cooking fires.
“Mon Dieu,” Chartier said, “That is a bleak-looking place. What if you always had to cook over a fire in this heat?”
The outside air-temp gauge read thirty degrees Celsius. Mental math told Parson that meant eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit. Not as hot as the Iraqi desert, which Parson knew well, but plenty warm in a place without the luxury of air-conditioning.
“At least they got something to cook,” Parson said.
“Oui.”
“Gimme one-quarter flaps, will you?”
Chartier reached down between the pilots’ seats and pulled a lever until it clicked into a detent. Parson let some of the airspeed bleed off. The airspeed indicator, old enough to show miles per hour rather than knots, read 120. The luminescent paint on the needle had yellowed and cracked with age. Reminded Parson of the dashboard in an old hand-cranked car.
“Thanks, Frenchie,” Parson said. “Put the gear down.”
“Yes, sir.”
Parson started to tell Chartier not to call him “sir.” Their ranks held no relevance in World Relief Airlift. But Parson let the honorific stand. Military courtesy meant more than respect for those of higher ranks. Sir implied a respect for the overall institution, a regard for shared experiences, acknowledgment of an ordered brotherhood and sisterhood. Get a group of veterans together who’ve not worn a uniform in decades, and you’ll still hear “sirs” and “ma’ams.”
Chartier moved the landing gear lever, on the floor near the flap handle, from NEUTRAL to DOWN. The gear extended and locked, and Parson felt the increased drag slow the plane further. He shoved the throttle for a few more inches of manifold pressure to hold his airspeed.
Geedi returned to the cockpit and buckled into the jump seat.
“Cargo all secure, sir,” he said.
“Good,” Parson replied.
The tower called again. “World Relief Eight-Two Alpha, you are cleared to land, Two-Two. Altimeter setting three-zero-zero-one.”
“Eight-Two Alpha cleared to land,” Chartier answered. He dialed the new barometric pressure setting into both altimeters.
The altimeter needles swung through four thousand feet. Baidoa lay at a field elevation of eighteen hundred feet above sea level, so Parson knew he was roughly two thousand feet above the ground. The runway loomed straight ahead, centerline stripes faded nearly to invisibility. Parson saw no traffic on the taxiway, and only three aircraft parked on the ramp. He recognized an Ethiopian Airlines Dash 8 turboprop, along with a UN helicopter, and an Antonov An-24 from who knew where. Maybe bringing in the daily shipment of khat.
“I think we got the field made now,” Parson said. “Full flaps.”
Chartier moved the flap lever again, and Parson pitched for ninety-five miles per hour. With the power almost back to idle on the operating engine, the old bird floated smoothly down to the pavement. Parson had spent little time in tailwheel airplanes, but he managed a good landing.
For all Parson’s grousing about the outdated aircraft, he loved returning to the cockpit. The responsibilities of a full-bird colonel had kept him on the ground for most of the last year. He took it easy on the brakes, let the DC-3 roll along and slow itself to walking speed. In the scrub brush off the runway, two derelict Hawkers lay in the dirt on collapsed landing gear. Artifacts of a defunct Somali air force, the old aircraft were subsonic fighter bombers built by the British in the 1950s.
Parson shook his head. What a sad end for once-magnificent jets. The sight added to the aura of decay and anarchy.
Near the end of the runway, Chartier unlocked the tailwheel. Parson tapped the right brake to begin a turn, and he goosed the left throttle ever so slightly. The plane handled a little differently on the ground with a dead engine, but Parson used differential braking to make up for the loss of differential power. He rolled onto the taxiway while Chartier cleaned up the after-landing checklist.
“Geedi, does any of this look familiar?” Parson asked.
“Not really. My family moved to Minneapolis when I was little.”
Parson scanned the temperature gauges so he could watch the good engine cool down in idle before he shut it off. He kept the palm of his hand cupped over the engine’s throttle.
“Who the hell are those guys?” Geedi asked, pointing out the windscreen.
“Oh, boy,” Chartier said. “What a welcoming committee.”
Parson looked up. Four Somali men walked toward the airplane, brandishing automatic weapons. Three of them carried AK-47s, but one wielded a PKM, a belt-fed machine gun. Bandoliers of ammunition dangled from his neck. The armed men strolled casually, and they wore civilian clothes and ratty tennis shoes.
Alarmed, Parson wished he could take off on one engine. But if these guys wanted him to stay on the ground, they could riddle the engine—or the cockpit—before he ever got airborne. Parson pulled the left mixture control to idle cutoff, and the propeller spun down to a stop. Without taking his eyes off the gunmen, Chartier reached overhead and turned off the magnetos.
Underneath his flight suit, in an elastic bellyband holster, Parson wore a Beretta nine millimeter. A lame defense against a PKM, but all he had. He unzipped the suit, drew the weapon, zipped his suit back up. Parson held the pistol low, below the cockpit windows, invisible to the gunmen on the ramp. Clicked off the safety.
“You’re armed?” Geedi said. “We’re not supposed to be armed.”
“Neither are they,” Parson said.
3.
Four armed men surrounded Parson’s airplane. In one of the world’s most lawless countries, he knew anything could happen next. What did happen was the last thing he expected. Sophia Gold came out of the terminal building. Or what passed for a terminal building, with its broken windows, peeling paint
, and sagging electrical wires. She wore her ever-present green-and-black Afghan scarf, a green bush shirt, khaki tactical trousers, and desert combat boots. Given her choice of clothing and her straight-postured walk, even a civilian would have pegged her as ex-military. A former U.S. Army sergeant major, Gold now worked for the United Nations. Still, Parson was surprised to find her here. When he’d spoken to her on the phone yesterday, she was in Mogadishu.
Gold talked with the armed men, and she smiled as if greeting cousins. Chatted briefly with the PKM guy, put her hand on his arm for a moment. She looked up at the cockpit and waved to Parson. Parson waved back, still a little dumbstruck.
Parson put his weapon on safe and slid it back into his concealment holster. Wiped sweat from his nose with the sleeve of his flight suit. Now, on the ground in the Somali sun, the DC-3’s aluminum hull turned into an oven.
Chartier had also drawn a pistol—the biggest stainless-steel revolver Parson had ever seen. The third big surprise in the space of about a minute.
“Damn, son,” Parson said. “What the hell is that?”
“A Smith & Wesson .500 Magnum.”
“You planning on shooting elephants or something?”
“If necessary,” Chartier said, grinning. “As your southern Americans say, my maman didn’t raise no clown.”
Parson laughed. “You mean fool,” he said. “Your mama didn’t raise no fool.”
“Oui. She didn’t raise no fool.”
“I agree, but put that thing away before we scare Sophia’s friends.”
“D’accord.”
Chartier stowed the big revolver in his flight bag. Geedi smiled and shook his head. Outside, Gold disappeared under the wing as she headed toward the door near the back of the DC-3.
“Well,” Parson said, “let’s not just sit here. Open the door and let the lady in the airplane.”
“Yes, sir,” Geedi said.
The flight mechanic unstrapped and headed aft. Parson heard him stepping around the cargo, and then the boarding door squeaked open. Now that Parson no longer worried about getting shot, he turned his thoughts to his other problem. He took off his headset, unbuckled his harness, and looked over at Chartier.
“I wonder why that engine failed,” Parson said. “These Pratts are old, but they’re usually pretty reliable.”
“How much time have they flown since the last overhaul?”
“Less than forty hours.”
Chartier shrugged. “Geedi will figure it out.”
Parson didn’t doubt that; he knew he had a good flight mechanic. He worried more about how long they’d stay stuck in this rat hole of an airport. Had the engine thrown a rod or cracked a piston? What if they had to wait until a newly rebuilt engine could be flown in?
Like any sensible flier, Parson carried an emergency overnight bag. But he didn’t relish the idea of sleeping in the terminal on his bedroll. Better to get back to the Sheraton Djibouti Hotel, preferably before happy hour. Get cleaned up and sip an old-fashioned while looking out over the Red Sea. He flew pro bono for WRA, but at least they put him and his crew in decent quarters. Mama didn’t raise no fool.
The sound of Gold’s voice interrupted Parson’s thoughts. She had climbed aboard, and Parson heard her exchanging pleasantries with Geedi. He turned to see her making her way through the cargo compartment toward the cockpit—an uphill walk in this big taildragger. She smiled when she saw him. Parson had last seen her two weeks ago in Djibouti; running into her today was a bonus.
“I see you guys made a dramatic entrance,” Gold said. “What’s wrong with the engine?”
“We don’t know yet,” Parson said. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Mog.”
Gold stepped into the cramped flight deck. Parson rose to greet her, but in the cramped cockpit, he managed to stand up only halfway. Gold embraced him and kissed the top of his head. Even in Somalia’s heat and dust, she smelled of scented lotion.
“I was, but I had to come out here to arrange for more security guys,” Gold said. “You saw them when you taxied in.” Gold turned to Chartier, who remained sitting in the copilot’s seat. “Hello, Captain Chartier. I’m delighted you could volunteer your time and talent.” She took his outstretched hand.
“Enchanté,” Chartier said. “Call me Alain.”
“Or Frenchie,” Parson said. “He answers to that, too. And Froggy Bastard.”
“We’ll make it Alain,” Gold said.
“You see?” Chartier said to Parson. “She does everything with class. Why can’t you be more like her?”
Parson smiled. For him, or anyone, to be like Sophia Gold would amount to a tall order. He considered her the smartest—and toughest—person he knew, and Parson knew a lot of military badasses. He had first met her in the worst of circumstances. Years ago, she had boarded his C-130 Hercules at Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan. At the time, she served as an Army interpreter accompanying a high-value Taliban prisoner. Soon after takeoff, a shoulder-fired missile downed the Herk. After the crash, Parson and Gold endured a winter ordeal as they evaded capture and kept the Taliban mullah in custody.
They had shared many missions since then, most recently in North Africa to stop a terrorist group armed with chemical weapons. That’s when they’d met Chartier.
Parson loved her dearly, though their relationship defied definition. No strings, but strong ties. Because Gold wanted to save the world, Parson had agreed to spend his military leave hauling relief supplies in an antique airplane.
And getting paid nothing—except time with her.
The humanitarian work did have another appeal: He’d gotten checked out on the DC-3, one of the classic machines of aviation history, and he could write off the expense as charity. He was even considering taking a longer break with a new sabbatical deal the Air Force offered. Under the Career Intermission Pilot Program, he could take off one to three years for charity work, a graduate degree, or whatever struck his fancy—then resume his military career.
“So who are those choirboys out there?” Parson asked. “You got the U.S. and French air forces working for you. Did you manage to recruit al-Shabaab, too?”
“Oh, no,” Gold said. Her tone turned serious. “Don’t even joke to those guys about that. They hate al-Shabaab, like a lot of Somalis.”
“Sorry, no offense.”
“It’s okay. Actually, they’re private security. And al-Shabaab is the reason the UN hired them.”
“How’s that?” Parson asked.
“With all the refugees coming home, Somalia’s government wants to show it can handle the situation. Al-Shabaab wants to prove the government can’t.”
“Bastards,” Chartier said.
Parson considered the implications. The terrorists might try anything. Interrupting food shipments—a tried-and-true tactic in Somalia. Attacking government facilities. Assaulting civilian crowds. The African Union Mission in Somalia—AMISOM—provided troops to fight al-Shabaab, but the terrorists remained active and dangerous.
And here we are in the middle of it, Parson thought. With a geriatric airplane and two pistols. Perfect.
He didn’t blame Gold for getting him into a risky situation. After decades of anarchy, piracy, civil war, and Black Hawks going down, he hadn’t expected a trouble-free Somalia. If Parson had wanted to spend his leave doing something easy, he’d have gone fishing. But he liked to keep moving, to keep facing challenges. Though he loved the solitude of water and woods, those quiet moments gave him too much time to think, invited painful memories.
Clanging noises came from the cargo compartment. Parson glanced back. Geedi was removing cargo straps from an aluminum ladder. The flight mechanic needed the ladder to inspect the bad engine.
“Lemme help you with that, Geedi,” Parson called.
“Thanks, sir.”
“I see you met our flight
mechanic,” Chartier said to Gold. “He comes from the Somali American community in Minneapolis.”
“He’s a good dude,” Parson said. “Knows his shit. But I better give him a hand with that ladder before it falls on his skinny ass.”
Parson went aft and helped Geedi lift the ladder that had been strapped to the floor. They slid it halfway out the boarding door, and Parson jumped down from the aircraft. He took the ladder by its base, and he and Geedi moved it out of the DC-3 and set it up under the right engine.
Black droplets of leaking oil already spattered the dusty pavement beneath the engine, but that was normal. Geedi climbed the ladder. He wore a Leatherman multi-tool in a sheath attached to the waist strap of his flight suit. The flight mechanic took out the Leatherman, opened a screwdriver blade, and began turning the Dzus fasteners that pinned the cowling panels in place. He worked with a practiced hand, popping open each fastener with a quick leftward flick of his wrist.
Gold and Chartier emerged from the airplane and headed toward the terminal.
“I’ll get some people to unload your cargo,” Gold called.
“Thanks, Sophia,” Parson answered. “Just make sure they don’t take our oil and stuff.” In addition to the relief supplies, the DC-3’s cargo compartment also contained cartons of oil and hydraulic fluid, a spare tire, jacks, spark plugs, and other items Geedi used to maintain the old airplane.
“Will do,” Gold said.
Parson waited underneath the wing to see what Geedi might find. He unzipped a chest pocket on his flight suit, took out his aviator sunglasses, and put them on. While Geedi examined the engine, Parson folded his arms and admired the DC-3’s lines.
The old girl had style, no doubt about that. The sweep of the wings’ leading edges, the rounded nose, the twist of the three-bladed props hinted of 1930s art deco. Built originally as a twin-engine airliner, by modern standards she was small for a passenger plane: She’d have carried twenty-one people. The plush seats had been removed long ago to make way for cargo. A decal on one of the blades read HAMILTON STANDARD PROPELLERS. Reliable enough to survive decades of constant flying, she was a tough plane designed to handle tough conditions and do it with class.
