Diamonds Are But Stone

by Peter Vollmer

  With no landmarks and at three hundred feet in the night, navigation was exceedingly difficult. At over two hundred miles an hour, the aircraft skimmed the desert in total darkness. As the aircraft neared Jamba, the UNITA forces operating the airfield would activate a beacon, permitting the Hawker Siddeley to home in on the signal using a radio direction finder. When nearly upon the airfield, runway lights would be switched on, for a short period only, in order to allow the aircraft to land. A transponder signal would tell me how far we were from the airfield so that I could ascend to a safe height above the airfield and prepare the aircraft for landing. It was then that we would be at our most vulnerable. Fortunately, the Cuban pilots seemed to have an aversion to night flights, especially in this area - no lights, no horizon, and virtually no navigational aids easily lead to disorientation.

  When the transponder indicated the airfield nearly below, I pulled back on the stick to take the aircraft above a thousand feet. I lowered the under-carriage and flaps, and brought the aircraft tightly round to line-up with the runway lights and commence descent: the runway was now a double strip of white in front of me.

  No sooner had we slowed to a near walking pace than the runway lights were extinguished and a vehicle materialised out of the darkness to lead us to the parking area.

  A forklift appeared and hoisted a platform up to the exit to allow us to disembark. Three officers, clad in camouflage uniforms and berets, met us on the ground. They spoke Portuguese. I was surprised that Kowalski understood and was able to speak to them. I wondered what the man’s real function was. Somehow, I did not believe the Pole was there to assist me.

  The most senior officer drew me aside.

  “You must leave tonight,” he said abruptly in Portuguese.

  “Tonight?” I retorted, surprised at this turn of events.

  “Yes, it’s too dangerous. There are too many Cuban aircraft patrolling this area... they’ve actually taken over and are operating the Angolan Air Force now, piloting the Migs. Rumour says that a few Russian pilots may also be flying these. You should take off an hour before dawn so that you fly over Angola when still dark. When you cross back into Botswana it will only just be light.”

  It was pointless arguing. Here UNITA was boss and you did exactly as you were told. Actually, I was pleased - the sooner we got away the better.

  “Where’s my passenger?” I asked.

  “Kowalski? No, he will come with me -I’ll bring him back later.”

  “Not Kowalski, I meant the passenger I’m to take back.”

  “Ah, she’ll arrive later once the aircraft is off-loaded,” he officer replied. With that, the man turned and walked off into the darkness with his fellow officers.

  Another forklift appeared with about ten uniformed men who immediately started off-loading the aircraft. Everything was boxed and crated; it was impossible to establish what the cargo comprised of as the boxes and crates bore no markings. However, by the weight, I was sure that whatever the contents were, it wasn’t medicine.

  Within half an hour, the aircraft was off-loaded. The men ignored me, although I never was further than a few yards away.

  It was almost four in the morning when a Jeep pulled up with four occupants; two officers, a woman in khaki fatigues and well-worn suede bush-boots, and Kowalski, now carrying two briefcases.

  One of the officers approached me with the woman in tow.

  “This is Maria Garcia. She’ll be returning with you,” he said, the man’s tone indicating that this was not an issue open to discussion.

  The woman nodded but did not offer to shake my hand. She was slim with black hair, which she wore short. She had a cap on her shoulder, buttoned-down by a shirt epaulette, but her khaki clothing was devoid of any insignia. From her appearance, I guessed that she was probably from a Mediterranean country, maybe Portugal; most whites I’d met here before were either from Portugal or the States. In the semi-darkness, she appeared to have an olive complexion and dark eyes. Her only baggage was an olive-green holdall, which hung from a strap over her shoulder.

  With the assistance of the forklift, we soon boarded. Kowalski indicated that Maria should go and sit up front with me. He seemed more concerned with his new briefcases. He no longer had his leather briefcase; these were metal, painted a dark matt black and quite large. He placed these carefully on each side of him as he sat down on a jump seat bolted to the bulkhead that separated the cockpit from the cargo hold, facing down the length of the fuselage.

  ”There’s no co-pilot?” she asked as she slid into the right-hand seat, her English tainted with an American accent.

  I was surprised.

  “No. You’re American?”

  “Well, originally from Cuba. My parents fled to the States when I was a child.”

  “Now it makes sense..., I did think Garcia was Portuguese. Spanish...hey? I take it you still speak the language?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, pleased to meet you, Miss Garcia,” I said, infusing my voice with a hint of welcome as I smiled and offered my hand.

  She took it. “Call me Maria...Hi.” Her fingers were cool to the touch.

  “Okay Maria, so what’s an American woman like you doing in this part of the world?” I asked.

  “I can’t say. And I won’t ask you any questions either, okay? Better, we don’t know too much about each other. No offence, but its best that way. At least we’re both on the same side,” she countered, indicating clearly that the subject was taboo.

  “Sure.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. Christ, who was she? Probably some damn agent or something, I thought. Well, if she wanted to remain silent, that was fine by me.

  Chapter Three

  Once airborne I again kept the aircraft at three hundred feet, the large plane just skimming the ground, hopefully too fast for anybody to launch a missile. I sat slightly hunched over, staring at the radar altimeter. Using the trim switch on the control yoke, I wound in some up trim as a safety factor. This required that I constantly maintain forward pressure on the yoke to keep the aircraft from climbing, a safety precaution in case my attention wandered. The aircraft would then automatically start to climb and not nose into the ground.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of my left eye, I saw a flash. A split-second later, the starboard engine exploded with an enormous bang. The cockpit interior was briefly brightly illuminated by the explosion. A violent shudder passed through the plane and the aircraft began to yaw towards the starboard side.

  I immediately hauled back on the stick, the aircraft clawing for altitude. I stomped my foot on the left rudder correcting the yaw caused by the drag of the damaged and now dead engine. The aircraft zoomed skyward, borne up momentarily by its forward momentum, but this rapidly was rapidly bleeding off..

  “Holy shit! That was a rocket from a fighter or a SAM,” I shouted. Risking a quick glance at Maria, I saw that she now clutched both armrests, her eyes wide with shock. I’d heard Kowalski’s loud shriek of surprise and fear but could not afford him a look, the crippled aircraft demanding my total attention. Fed by fuel, which spewed from severed fuel lines, and fanned by the slipstream, rippling flame now encompassed the turbo-engine and streamed over the wing. Reflexes took over. Without thinking, I shut off the fuel supply and activated the engine’s fire extinguishers. The searing hot flames would otherwise melt the aluminium and eventually burn through the wing’s main spar, causing the end of the wing to break off. It would then be impossible to keep the plane in the air.

  The aircraft had gained about a thousand feet in altitude, but I saw that the fire extinguishers had been ineffective: they probably damaged in the explosion as well.

  The first light of dawn blossomed rapidly on the horizon and I realized that the dark streak to the east was the Cuano River floodplain. The Angolan border with Namibia and Botswana to the so
uth had to be nearby: the Cuano River demarcated the border with Zambia. I thought frantically. The starboard engine trailed flame like a blowtorch. I knew that we would never make Maun, it was too far away; anyway, landing there with a shot-up aircraft would raise a near diplomatic furore.

  I didn’t have a choice. I would have to put the aircraft down in Angola.

  Soon!

  There was another airstrip on the banks of the Cuano River to the east. I could not be sure, but I thought the gravel strip to be about five to six thousand feet in length. It was a dirt strip and the only one near enough. Putting an aircraft this size down in the virgin bush was bound to be fatal for us all; it would have to be at least an open area hacked out in the bush. Although the airfield was long unused, it was my only option.

  I turned the aircraft east estimating that the strip would be no more than ten or fifteen miles away. The light had improved, I was now able to distinguish features on the ground. I saw the river in the distance, its flood plain quite clear, about a mile to a mile and a half wide although the actual river was less than two hundred yards wide, this a meandering strip of water in the centre of the floodplain.

  The burning engine nacelle was slowly disintegrating. I knew we had only minutes before the main spar succumbed to the flames; already burning bits of metal were breaking off and disappearing into the slipstream in a shower of sparks. I lowered the flaps and undercarriage intending to fly the plane straight onto the runway. Thank God, I thought; at least the landing gear and flaps still worked. Like all runaways in this part of Africa, this one was built in a northwest-southeast direction, as here the wind predominantly blew from the northwest..

  As the strip came into sight, I saw that it was partially overgrown with stunted bush and trees. It had obviously not been used for years. Anthills were my greatest fear. Prolific in this region and not easily discernible from the air as they blended in with the ground. They could stand up to three meters high. And if the airfield had been out of use for long, there was every chance a few could have been built by the termites on the runway.

  As soon as the main wheels touched, I pulled the throttle back and harshly applied the toe-brakes. The nose dropped, the nose-wheel slamming onto the ground, the propellers chewing up the bush and small trees that had invaded the disused strip. Branches and twigs flew in all directions, some hammering on the fuselage.

  The port undercarriage leg slammed into an emerging anthill and the strut collapsed, slewing the plane to the left, the engine’s propeller blades clawing up the ground. The aircraft slid off the runway into the bush , this over-stressing the other landing strut which now also collapsed, dragging the burning wing on the ground, leaving a trail of flame setting the bush alight.

  The bush alongside the runway was virgin, the trees higher. Seconds later the wing hit a huge tree, one of the many large trees that grow in the gallery forests along the rivers. With a loud crack and the rending of metal, the wing was ripped from the fuselage and ignited fuel sprayed from the ruptured fuel tanks, further fuelling the trailing fire.

  The cacophony of sound was deafening and terrifying.

  I had long ago lost control of the situation and was just praying that the aircraft would stop before we were all incinerated. Slowly the aircraft came to a grinding crunching halt. I immediately undid my seatbelt and shoulder harness.

  “Get out, get out!” I shouted, dragging the woman from her seat and diving through the bulkhead door. Kowalski was still in his seat fumbling to undo his harness, abject fear distorting his face. I bent down to help.

  As soon as he was free, the Pole grabbed the two briefcases and rushed towards the exit at the aircraft’s tail end, which I was kicking open. The aircraft was lying on its belly, as the nose-wheel had also collapsed. We dropped to the ground, only two or three feet, and ran away from the burning wreck.

  We had hardly covered fifty paces when with a loud whoosh, more fuel ignited. The whole aircraft was enveloped in flame. Seconds later there was a loud explosion, which ripped the plane apart. Pieces of metal whistled past us. We dropped to the ground as a huge mushroom-shaped fireball rose into the dawn sky.

  The heat was intense; I raised my arms to cover my face.

  “Come on, we’ve got to get further away,” I screamed.

  We scrambled to our feet and ran deeper into the bush. When I thought the distance to be safe, I dropped to the ground and looked back. Kowalski was still trying to catch up with us, overburdened by the two heavy briefcases.

  “For God’s sake, leave the fuckin’ cases,” I shouted.

  Kowalski ignored me and clutched them tighter. He finally fell to the ground next to us, his chest heaving as he fought for breath, the smell of singed hair emanating from him.

  “Why are you dragging these bloody cases around? Are you nuts? You could’ve have died!” I berated him.

  “I can’t leave them. They’re the reason I’m here!”

  Jesus! Let him hang onto his cases, I thought. He would abandon them soon enough - they were just a hindrance now.

  Within a few minutes everything had changed. Our lives were now seriously in danger - wild animals roamed this virtually uninhabited area, the war having long driven the few inhabitants from the land. The only humans now were the rebel soldiers from UNITA and their enemy, the MPLA.

  We had neither weapons nor water.

  Although the river was nearby. Early morning light bathed the bushveld, the sun just peeping over the horizon. There was no wind and a huge pall of black smoke hung over the area from the burning fuel and bush.

  “Christ! That can be seen for bloody miles. It certainly will bring somebody along in a tearing hurry,” I thought aloud.

  “You’re right - not good,” the woman murmured, standing right next to me. “We had reports of two MPLA groups in this area - just a few men in each, but well-armed, probably accompanied by a Cuban adviser. One of them may have shot us down. They said to be carrying SAM8s with them.”

  “And you happen to just know these things?” I asked turning to stare at her, my eyebrows raised in surprise.

  “Yeah, I know these things,” she replied, a trace of sarcasm noticeable in her voice, not flinching from my look.

  I wanted to ask her again who she was and how she fitted into the civil war, which had raged for years in the region, but thought better of it - she probably would evade my questions anyway. I was supposed to give her a lift - no more than that. Well, she certainly was enjoying the lift of a lifetime!

  She was a beautiful woman. I guessed her to be about thirty. Even dressed in the now dirty fatigues I could see that she was trim, with curves in the right places, near voluptuous. Now that it was daylight, I saw that my first impression was right; she had a swarthy complexion with strikingly dark eyes, slightly prominent cheekbones, and her smile revealed perfect teeth.

  “Well, Capitano, what do you propose we do now?” she asked with a trace of a smile.

  “First off, let’s be thankful that we are alive and so far unharmed. Then to be perfectly honest, I don’t know quite what to do. Crossing on foot into Zambia or South West Africa and being found by the authorities will create enormous problems; we would probably locked up while diplomats try to sort out the problem. Or, and more probable, we could be captured by SWAPO terrorists - we’re whites, they’ll kill us without hesitation.”

  It didn’t look good at all, I thought glumly as I talked to myself.

  “The South African government will certainly ignore our existence - it’s too damn embarrassing, not being able to explain what a South African civil aircraft was doing in Angola in the first place. They’ve done it before - just played dumb. I know of an instance where the whole bloody crew landed up in front of a firing squad. Although admittedly, that was in another country north of us, also plagued by civil war.”

  I looked at Kowalski
. “I take it you are South African?” I asked.

  Kowalski nodded, still clutching the two briefcases.

  “And you?” I asked the woman, although she had already implied she was American.

  “It’s complicated, but let’s say that at this stage I can’t ask for assistance either. I’ve no papers; they’ve gone up in smoke, so it would seem we’re going to have to sort this problem out on our own.”

  “Mine too,” I said; my flight bag had not escaped the flames.

  “What I do know is that we are going to be picked up by a patrol pretty soon if we don’t cross the border,” she said. “Frankly, I believe we should stay here and take our chances. If a UNITA patrol finds us, we should be okay. They can take us back to Jamba where we’ll be able to wait for another flight.”

  I realized that interestingly she was right.

  “Okay, let’s hide and wait till somebody arrives. We can then decide whether we want to reveal ourselves.”

  “I’ve got to get these briefcases to Johannesburg,” Kowalski suddenly blurted.

  Maria guffawed.

  “Fuck the briefcases; it’s your ass you should be worrying about. What the hell’s in them anyway?” she asked, inclining her head towards the two cases at his side. The woman’s coarse outburst surprised me.

  Kowalski sighed.

  “You now also work for Trichardt... I better tell you in case anything should happen to us.” He looked at me. “It’s payment from Savimbi for the past few shipments - a considerable amount. Plus the product of his diamond mining operations in Lunda Sul and Lunda Norte near the Zairian border in the north. Normally these are routed through Zaire and then Burkina Faso, but the bush-war has made that route too dangerous as the MPLA has taken control of the north of the country.”