Diamonds Are But Stone

by Peter Vollmer

  I was no longer able to conceal my annoyance. What arrogance! The current situation merely acted as a catalyst for my growing anger.

  “Don’t be fuckin’ crazy! I’m not undertaking any clandestine flights, dogging Cuban Migs and SAM’s, no matter what’s offered. If you survive being shot down, nobody knows you... they just fuckin’ summarily shoot you - no prisoners. Besides that, nobody knows precisely what the South African government’s stance is on this - they could suddenly decide to arrest everybody. Christ man! Why me?”

  Gavin ignored my outburst.

  “Well.., you’ve done it before. Don’t forget, that’s how you got your share together to start our business in the first place! Trichardt has always been impressed with you. You’ve pulled off a couple of hairy missions for him and probably saved him a shitload of money - in fact, I know you have!” Gavin retorted vehemently.

  “Dammit man! I’m glad to be still alive - a good reason not to do it again.”

  “Fifty thousand Rand a flight? A couple of those and we would be out of the woods.” Gavin prevailed.

  “Who says all flights pay fifty thousand Rand? Where did you hear that?” I replied angrily. There were moments when my partner could really piss me off and make me forget he was my friend as well. “Why me particularly?” I added

  “Well, as I said, you’ve done it before. You’ve flown into hundreds of bush-strips. I always had ten thousand foot runways. You’ve a lot more experience - and you can get by in Portuguese.” Gavin retorted. Clearly, he was not about to let me off easily. I realized that he’d already given this a lot of thought.

  I did not want to admit it but I knew he had a point; this was one way of getting the money together, and in a short time.

  The support of the American CIA and South Africa for Savimbi’s UNITA movement was just one large grey area - nothing could be assumed; it all hinged on international politics at the time, which could be good today and bad tomorrow.

  However, if the private sector, who was invariably paid well from Savimbi’s war coffers, proposed to fly in cargo, which included weapons for his movement, the South African government turned a blind eye as did the CIA - most of the cargo was government-sanctioned anyway. Nobody ever endeavoured to verify the cargo against the manifests. Mostly these were just bogus documents, the cargoes contained thereon innocuous; the South African government was not seen to be directly involved.

  The world carefully watched South Africa: the country had no friends and was ostracized by most others in the world. Besides, I knew that Trichardt was well connected, and this opened a few government doors. No doubt, the man was a member of the Nationalist party and clearly also a member of the ruling Afrikaans establishment. Currently the government was kissing the CIA’s ass, probably one of the very few friends it had, even if the association was covert. It was no more than an association of convenience: helping UNITA suited South Africa as did it the CIA.

  UNITA, covertly supported by the west, and SWAPO supported by the communist bloc, were enemies. SWAPO, the South West African rebel movement, waged a civil war against South Africa in neighbouring South West Africa/Namibia, demanding independence and a democratically elected government. That meant a government elected by all races, something apartheid South Africa opposed on principle!

  “Christ! I don’t know. Just thinking about it scares the shit out of me - I’ve already done this once too often. If you’re shot down anywhere up there, you’ve got no friends, - you’re truly on your own,” I muttered.

  “Com’on Peter, just speak to Trichardt... it can’t do any harm.”

  Chapter Two

  That Trichardt had made millions supplying any African guerrilla movements with their needs was blatantly obvious. The only distinction the man-made was that he supported only those movements that were anti-communist. Not that I didn’t harbour the same feelings. However, Trichardt also had business tentacles in other industries - arms manufacture, electronics, petroleum, and publishing.

  He sat behind his ornate desk on the fifteenth floor of the Sandton Towers, a prominent landmark on the Johannesburg skyline, resplendent in his Christian Dior suit, Gucci shoes. Trichardt had run afoul of the law on a number of occasions but the serious crimes division had never been able to pin him down - his lawyers were too good and his bribes too substantial, or so it was rumoured. Many believed that the national prosecuting authorities’ attempts to charge Trichardt with transgressions related to organized crime were no more than a sham to appease those liberals who chanted for his head. God only knew what went on behind closed doors in the top Afrikaner circles.

  Trichardt stretched his hand across in greeting; I took it. I knew him to be in his mid-fifties. A tall man with a still trim physique, his square face square had white lines radiating from the corner of his grey-blue eyes, evidence that he was the outdoors type. He sported a healthy tan, enhanced by thick, near snow-white hair cut short in military fashion. The colour of his eyebrows matched his hair, and the combination gave him a distinguished look.

  I had heard that he was an ardent sailor and owned an ocean-going yacht moored in Cape Town, a stone’s throw from the Royal Cape Yacht Club, which overlooked the yacht basin. The rental alone for that mooring would make most blanch at the excess! His other passions were said to be women and golf. These would be my hobbies as well, had I the money!

  There was no doubt that he cut an imposing figure; a man of wealth and power - but certainly not a man to cross.

  “So, you are having second thoughts? I must say, your phone-call surprised me,” he said, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

  “Well... that depends,” I replied hesitantly, not really happy to be in his office again. “I’ve a few questions.”

  “What, is it the money?”

  “More money certainly would help - you know the job’s dangerous, getting more so each day what with the Cubans now involved. But, this time I would like to know a lot more.” I paused. “What type of aircraft and what’s the cargo, and of course, exactly where to in Angola.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Let’s cut the bullshit,” Trichardt said brusquely. “I’ll give you seventy thousand for the trip I’ll have ready in a few days, half up front, the balance on return. It’s a large aircraft this time, a Hawker Siddeley 748, converted to carry cargo - no additional crew but one passenger pretending to be your co-pilot.” Trichardt saw that I was about to object and raised a hand. “Wait, I know that’s illegal, the aircraft’s supposed to have a crew of two. But then I would have to reduce your payment.”

  I’ll fly it myself,” I replied without hesitation, “but who’s the passenger?” I was apprehensive. Passengers could be bad news on these flights.

  “He’s just aboard to make sure the transaction is handled amicably at the other end - that would be at UNITA headquarters at Jamba - you’d not want to get involved, believe me,” Trichardt replied.

  “Okay, if he keeps out of my way, I’m fine with it.”

  Trichardt nodded.

  “All right, take-off is on Sunday night from Lanseria, its quiet then, not many people around. You can have access to the aircraft from Sunday morning. Your passenger will meet you there around sunset. You can have your half payment now by cheque or cash. Your company can invoice me - how’s that? I can trust you; it’s not the first time we’re doing business.”

  I agreed.

  Trichardt called his secretary, asking her to prepare the cheque. Well... secretary? I had to admire the man. She was a stunner, a truly beautiful woman. She looked very efficient in a blue business suit, the short skirt revealing long sheer legs and a well-proportioned body, the crown of golden hair and striking green eyes. I just couldn’t help believing that she was definitely more than just somebody to make out his cheques, keep his diary, and do his filing!

  I met Gavin in the shopping mall below and handed
him the cheque.

  How did it go?” Gavin asked, eyebrows raised.

  “The man wants an invoice. Make it out for the full amount, okay? As to how it went, well, let’s say the only good part was that woman of his. Christ! What a piece of whoopee!”

  Gavin laughed, the relief evident on his face. He took the cheque from me and stared at it,

  “Christ! This will keep us going for a while. At least we can now settle the fuel bill.”

  “The fuel bill? Hell, it’s my bacon I’m worried about. Fuck, I didn’t believe I would have to do this again! On top of the trip, I’ve some asshole accompanying me and I’ve got to bring a bloody woman back as well.”

  “A woman out of Jamba?” Gavin asked astounded. “Who is she?”

  “He wouldn’t say but said I should rather not ask. Some bloody cloak and dagger stuff, I’m sure. Somehow or other he’s connected to the CIA. You know they’re into Zaire and the FNLA as well, they’ll support anybody as long as they are against the bloody Commies; who cares how many people are tortured, maimed, and killed in the process. If you want American support, all you have to do is hate the Commies,” I replied, still annoyed at the prospect of passengers.

  The Hawker Siddeley certainly had seen better days. It was evident that she previously was a passenger aircraft; the row of windows along the fuselage had been removed and covered with aluminium sheet, the rivets clearly visible under the paint. She was a 748 Super, the 2500 shaft-horsepower Rolls-Royce Dart turbo-prop engines fitted with hush kits, which made the aircraft quieter - not a bad idea when flying into Angola. She was devoid of any insignia, just painted a drab unreflective grey. The only lettering on the aircraft was her South African registration number. A closer inspection of the aircraft and logbooks revealed that she was an old lady with nineteen thousand airframe hours. However, the books also revealed that she had been well maintained.

  Trichardt owned or rented a collection of hangars situated on a corner of the airfield and this was where the aircraft was parked, far away from prying eyes. Still, if anybody wanted to find out what was going on, this would not have stopped them; no security was evident.

  I met the loadmaster, a man in Trichardt’s employ, a huge man dressed in khaki with a distinctly Afrikaans guttural nuance to his English.

  “I’m Johan, are you the pilot?” he asked his voice harsh.

  “Yes - call me Peter.”

  “Come, let me show you around. She’s a good plane; used to belong to some Canadian crowd. She’s loaded - medical equipment and medicines. I’ll give you the load plan. Also, she’s fuelled up, ready to fly. By the way, she’s fitted with a radar altimeter which will allow you to fly pretty close to the ground.”

  Christ! What bullshit. Medical supplies... that’s what Trichardt had told me I would be flying to Angola but I knew this would not be true. I decided not to ask, this could only implicate me more. It was always better to say ‘I don’t know’ and mean it. Just fly the damn aircraft and get home safely, I thought.

  I had no love for Savimbi and his UNITA crowd. I had seen too many atrocities on previous flights. Sometimes forced to stay over for a week or more at the UNITA logistic airfields that dotted the Cuando Cubango province in south-eastern Angola, I had seen boy-soldiers armed to the teeth, juvenile rape, public executions, and all the other abhorrent acts that seemed to accompany war in this territory. The local inhabitants were press-ganged to serve in the ragtag army equipped by a host of western-inclined African nations and the CIA and, of course, South Africa. The American President Ronald Reagan and the conservative Senator Jesse Helms had come out in open support of Savimbi and his movement. They had even established a foundation supported by other high profile conservatives, its purpose to garner further support for the UNITA movement.

  Not that Savimbi’s enemies were any better; the MPLA and their Cuban consorts were just as guilty, inflicting their own brand of atrocity on the local population.

  Johan had done a professional job. An inspection revealed that the cargo was properly distributed in the cargo hold, well within the aircraft’s load limitations, the pallets and crates secured with straps and ratchets. All the weights appeared on the manifest.

  “We’ve even filed your flight plan,” Johan commented. “Take-off is scheduled for eight tonight. Here’s a copy.”

  He handed the paper to me and I scrutinized the document and chuckled sarcastically to myself. The whole damn thing was just so much poppycock.

  The plan revealed a crew of two, no load and the final destination as Maun in Botswana. Maun is a large town with buildings dotted over a few square miles on the flat arid bush plains, the buildings all invariably roofed with corrugated iron sheets, their unpainted silver-finish reflecting the desert sun. The town is situated on the edge of the Okavango Delta, a vast swampland where the Okavango River disappears into the sands of the Kalahari Desert, never to reach the sea; it and its surrounds are all game reserves, a true paradise of flora and fauna in a barren land.

  This meant the aircraft would have to land at Maun on schedule, which would be duly recorded so as not to start an emergency when it did not arrive. Obviously, Trichardt must have some connection at Muan to ensure that no such situation arose when it did not arrive. Fictitious notations in airport logbooks cost money... but if you’ve got enough money, you can buy anything in Africa! Actually, I was supposed to land at Maun, but that would be only on my return flight in order to refuel. The aircraft would have off-loaded its discriminating cargo by then.

  Johan handed me an envelope.

  “There’s a thousand dollars US... mind, this is only to be used in an emergency in case you have to buy your way out of any shit that hits the fan.”

  I took the money without comment. This was standard procedure; on previous flights, they had supplied these emergency funds as well; US dollars worked miracles in Africa.

  By six that evening I had completed a thorough inspection of the aircraft, looking into every nook and cranny with a flashlight, checking electrical and hydraulic lines, control surface hinges, wheel wells, brakes and tyres. The engines had recently been through the workshops. The bird was ready to go.

  It was near six-thirty, the sun just dipping below the horizon when a silver Mercedes 500S pulled up, and Trichardt and another man alighted.

  “Hi Peter,” Trichardt greeted me. “This is Kowalski... he’ll accompany you as we discussed.”

  We shook hands. I looked at the man. I guessed him to be about forty. Dark brown hair with a distinct military cut, chiselled features and dark eyes, of medium height. Dressed in khaki chinos with a washed-out denim bush-shirt, designed with a light blue chest panel on each side and bare epaulettes, with sensibly stout hiking boots and a bush hat. He carried a leather briefcase.

  “You’re not armed, are you?” I asked.

  The man shook his head.

  “Good.”

  Being civilians, it would not be a good idea to be armed when dealing with any rebel forces.

  Our departure from Lanseria was uneventful. Once airborne I contacted Johannesburg Control who cleared us to our assigned flight level requesting that we report their FIR outbound. Nobody seemed suspicious. The aircraft was lit up, its navigational lights and rotating beacon flashing. I had put Kowalski in the seat next to me with instructions not to touch anything. Kowalski had protested, preferring one of the jump seats, but I insisted. He wasn’t talkative which suited me. All I had gleaned was that the man was Polish but had been in the country for many years and was a naturalized South African. His spoken English was good

  We soon crossed the Botswana border. I contacted Gaberones, which controlled all Botswana’s airspace, reporting our flight-level and ETA for Maun. Air Traffic Control requested that I report operations as normal at half-hourly intervals.

  The Americans had built a large airbase just outs
ide Gaberones, a facility far larger than what the Botswana military required, ostensibly to accommodate the NASA Space Shuttle in the event of it experiencing an emergency. Such emergency airfields with long enough runways were dotted around the world. While it would serve such a purpose well, in reality it had been built to provide the Americans with a springboard from which to launch whatever military intervention would be required if South Africa, with its apartheid policy, were to erupt into civil war, which might provide the communists an opportunity to gain a foothold in the country. The Americans were adamant that the communist bloc should never control South Africa and its mineral wealth.

  Of course, the Americans would vehemently deny this.

  We flew over the Kalahari Desert. Here the landscape was flat desert bushveld, the ground elevation never varying by more than a few feet or so every few miles. I intended to descend to treetop level but had to wait; I was sure that the American radar network still tracked us. Their system had to be the most sophisticated in southern Africa. Only when we were a hundred and fifty miles from Gaberones did I descend, switching off all navigational lights and activating the radar altimeter. I brought the aircraft down to just three hundred feet, my eyes glued to the instruments.

  There was only a quarter moon, the surrounding bush virtually devoid of any light and certainly insufficient to create any sort of horizon. The ground and night sky merged into total blackness. I changed course from Maun to another heading to take us to Jamba, a UNITA logistical base in the south-eastern corner of Angola, just beyond the borders of South West Africa/Namibia and Zambia.

  Jamba boasted a nearly ten thousand feet runway hacked out of the Angolan bush, levelled, with hard packed dirt, and capable of handling aircraft as large as the C130 Hercules transport plane. Jamba also housed Savimbi’s headquarters and a few thousand men. The rebels themselves lived spread out in the bush, their presence hardly noticeable from the air, yet anti-aircraft and radar batteries surrounded the facility. Although never admitted, Jamba had been the brainchild of the American CIA, a vast military encampment through which many countries supplied Savimbi’s army with military support. The Americans had even supplied Savimbi’s army with Stinger missiles to combat the Cuban aircraft and Mig fighters.