The huge Shetsov-ASL62 1000hp nine cylinder radial engine spluttered and coughed, it still cold. I eased the throttle slightly forward increasing the revs to warm it up.
Finally, we were ready. The airfield had no tower, it was a matter of having a good look to ensure that the circuit was clear and if satisfied, you took off.
I slowly eased the throttle forward to its stop, and the An2 gathered speed. I pushed the yoke forward and the tail rose from the ground. She lifted into the air after a few hundred feet. There certainly was nothing wrong with the An2’s short field capabilities!
We had filed no flight plan and as far as the authorities were concerned, the aircraft was still on the ground in Alldays. The last record they had was when the aircraft had landed there a few days ago.
I kept the aircraft low, not wanting to be picked up by the South African Air Force radar systems, which dotted the northern approaches to the country. Our track would take us just west of Palapye in Botswana, over the Caprivi Zipfel in Namibia and into Zambia. During the last leg of the flight, we’d have the Angolan border below our left wing. The total distance was about three hundred miles, about two and a half hours in the air.
Gavin kept on at Maria, wanting to know the contents of the aluminium case. Finally, with a show of irritation she unclipped it from where it was lashed down and dragged it to her seat. With it in front of her feet, she opened it. Gavin turned his head and glanced down, then jerked his head back in disbelief. Three Heckler and Koch 9mm machine pistols nestled in foam rubber, with three full clips of ammunition for each. It also contained three hand grenades and a Heckler and Koch 9mm automatic.
“Holy shit! Are you bloody mad? We aren’t going to war! Christ! If anybody catches us with this lot, we’re as good as dead!” he blurted, his eyes wide.
Maria stared at him for a few seconds.
“Listen, Gavin,” she said quietly. “If we run into a patrol in Angola, be sure they’ll shoot first... okay?”
Gavin was decidedly unhappy, shaking his head, but I agreed and said so.
We approached Luiana from the Zambian side crossing the Cuano River, which was the border, where the river was reasonably wide, although the waters had not penetrated the flood plain due to the lack of rain. I held the aircraft just a few hundred feet above the ground. We flew over the village at Luiana. As expected, it was clearly deserted and had been so for a long time.
I then swung the aircraft towards the airfield lowering the airspeed. The aircraft hung on its propeller as we flew as slow as possible, traversing the gravel strip at about a hundred feet to make a closer inspection. It was overgrown, with small bushes and trees and the occasional small anthill that had erupted from the gravel. We spotted the burnt-out wreck of the Hawker Siddeley and even saw the hulk of the destroyed Russian personnel carrier.
“Can’t land here, even with this aircraft,” Gavin said shaking his head. I agreed.
We swung back towards Zambia across the river.
Simjembela was a small settlement on the Zambian side directly opposite Luiana. A straight gravel road was discernible this in a north-south direction parallel to the river flood plain. There were no other roads, only tracks.
“I’m going to put it down on the road,” I said, checking on the smoke that emanated from the village. Making sure that I was landing into the wind, I reduced power and bled off the airspeed. Automatically as the speed reduced, the wing’s leading edge slats extended, the aircraft slowing down further. We touched the ground at no more than thirty miles an hour and the plane quickly rolled to a stop. I taxied the An2 off the road onto an open patch where I parked and shut everything down, the magneto’s tick-ticking as the prop spun to a stop.
Immediately, a crowd of people assembled, mostly children who stared at the plane in awe. Then the people parted and an elderly black man with white hair and similarly white small beard approached.
He was obviously a figure of importance in the community, as the crowd displayed a degree of deference towards him.
“Good afternoon, lady, and gentlemen,” he said in perfect upper class colonial English. “You appear to be in need of assistance.”
Never expecting to be greeted in this manner this far from civilization, I was quite taken aback. We were in the sticks, and the nearest police or government office was at least fifty miles away. We were surrounded by virgin bushveld. We saw no telephone lines, no hospital, and nothing that even resembled a shop.
At first, I did not know how to respond, but I eventually found my tongue, deciding that the straight approach was probably the best approach.
“As to the assistance you referred to, we actually wanted to land our aircraft on the airfield on the other side of the river,” I said gravely.
The man stared at me for a moment.
“That’s too dangerous, that’s Angola.”
“I know”
“Why do you wish to go there?”
“About a year ago our aircraft crashed there,” I pointed to the airfield across the river. “There are a few things we need to collect from the crash, but to do so I must land this plane on the airfield. It is now overgrown. If your people are prepared to help us clear the strip we will pay handsomely.”
The old man laughed disparagingly. “They shoot people there.”
“I know,” I replied. “That’s why we are prepared to pay well.”
Of course, once we landed the plane on the opposite side, we had no intention of going anywhere near the crashed plane, but then they would not be around to see that as they would have already returned to the Zambian side.
The old man stepped away to confer with some of the other men.
“Why don’t we just fetch the cases with the raft?” Gavin whispered.
At times, I thought that Gavin could be an insufferable prick. This was one of them.
“Because with a good few million dollars at stake, we don’t take fuckin’ chances! We don’t take those cases into a boat with a score of people around,” I hissed.
The old man returned to confront us. “You pay fifty dollars a man and we’ll do it. You also give me one hundred dollars.”
Believe me when I tell you that in this part of Africa fifty dollars is a bloody fortune, but I wasn’t going to argue. I wanted it done, and I wanted it done today.
I agreed.
We hauled the collapsed Zodiac and the outboard out of the aircraft. Ready hands took these from us and we moved in the direction of the river. A small crowd of curious locals followed.
Maria purposely left her steel case locked in the aircraft; we would enter Angola unarmed this time.
The Cuano River has its source in the Bie Plateau, a massive domed highland a few hundred miles in width that dominates central Angola. This is an area of abundant tropical rain, and the source of a number of several other large rivers not least of which is the mighty Zambesi. During the course of the summer these rivers often flood, changing from a hundred yard wide rivers into massive expanses of water over a mile or wider flowing across the flat bush plains south of the highlands.
As we approached the river, we disturbed a few crocodiles basking in the sun. With a flick of their huge tails, they scrabbled, slid, and disappeared into the muddy water. We got to the water’s edge after trekking through the reeds and grass of the floodplain, the soft mud sucking at our boots.
The river was in near-flood although it had not yet broken its banks. The current was strong; the surface broken by swirls and eddies. It was only alongside the banks that the pools were relatively placid; a few of these were occupied by hippos that were grunting and snorting as they usually do.
The men who proposed to help did not intend to share the raft with us. They all wore loincloths, their torsos and legs bare, each brandishing a wicked looking panga. From the reeds, they dragged their own dug
out canoes and with little ceremony launched these into the river, scrambled aboard and then punted vigorously across using long wooden poles, careful to avoid the hippos.
It took us a little longer, having to first bolt the outboard to the stern. Then a tribesman held the raft against the bank as we climbed aboard. The engine took with the first pull of the starter rope, blue smoke bubbling from the exhaust. The hippos all surfaced and looked at us, just their eyes and ears visible.
The man released the raft, the current slowly drawing it into the river. Once all were properly seated, I twisted the throttle sending the boat surging across the water to the opposite bank passing the dugouts on the way. I slowed down so that our bow-wave did not swamp them but it still it left them rolling precariously in the disturbed water.
The raft slid aground on a bar of sand, we all jumped out and grabbed the raft by the rope handholds along its gunwales and dragged it onto higher ground.
“May be we should hide the raft,” I said.
We pulled it towards some reeds, which we cut down with the machetes we had brought with and then spread these over the boat, doing a fair job of hiding it. At least, from the air it would not be easy to see.
The dugouts were also ashore now and we all trooped off in single file towards the airfield, which was only a few hundred yards away. From the air, the dugouts would not appear suspicious.
Gavin looked around nervously. We were the only people on this side of the river and it was unlikely that we would see others. This area was deserted, a legacy of the war.
“We should have brought Maria’s guns,” he said.
“Yes? And get our fuckin’ arses shot off? Look, the moment any patrol sees us and notices that we are armed, they’ll shoot first and leave questions for later. Let’s not go that way. What’s with you anyway? First you object to the guns and now you sorry we didn’t bring them!” I said irritably.
“I don’t know about that. Anyway, I’ve changed my mind; the guns would have been a good idea. Why don’t we just dig the briefcases out of the ground and skedaddle it back to Zambia, Christ, we could do it an hour.”
Shit! The man just wasn’t thinking.
“What about all these onlookers? Do you think they won’t wonder what the hell we’ve dug up? What do you think will stop them from robbing us? I really don’t think we should reveal any weapons and start shooting people on Zambian soil. Keep it low key - remember, our plane is flashing a South African registration number!” I said, hoping that I was getting through to him. It seemed I was, as he said no more.
We soon climbed the slight incline from the flood plain that took us into the narrow gallery forest along the riverbanks.
I saw the burnt-out personnel carrier, partially overgrown by bush, but purposely ignored it. We came to a halt at the beginning of the runway. From the ground, looking over its flat surface, the airstrip was hardly recognizable. Our assumptions were correct; the runway was overgrown with long grass and stunted bush and occasional anthill. The small trees, which had taken hold, were already six to eight feet high.
I indicated that the tribesmen should start clearing the runway from the southeast end, this being nearest to the river. I then paced the airstrip from that end and when I thought the distance eighteen hundred feet, I stopped. Using my machete, I cut down a small tree, which I lay on the ground to show to where the strip should be cleared up to. This would give me more than sufficient room in which to get the aircraft airborne.
The headman had chosen strong men to help us. Soon, we all were busy clearing the strip; several were chopping down the trees and bush while others slashed the grass down to no more than ankle-high. The remaining two cleared the loose debris from the runway to its side.
Maria chose to help clear the cut bush and trees from the runway. Fortunately, we had brought strong leather gloves to protect us from the thorn-infested branches.
Working in the sun, we soon were all soaked in sweat, continuously slaking our thirst from the water bottles we had the foresight to include in our itinerary. It wasn’t long before we had removed all our clothing except for essentials - a loose shirt and trousers. Maria was down to a thin blouse, the tails of which now hung out of her rather tight fitting chino pants.
Maria had gathered a few bushes by their stems and was dragging these towards the edge of the airstrip. Gavin dropped the hand holding his machete to his side and stared at her butt.
“Do you think she’ll strip off her bra?” he jokingly asked, standing next to me.
“Careful, my friend,” I said, the tone of my voice surely telling him that he was now on dangerous ground.
He turned to look at me.
“So... I’m right. There is something going on between the two of you. Christ man! What about Francine hey?” he asked exasperatedly.
“Just leave it, Gavin. That’s my problem.”
He mumbled under his breath, clearly upset, and resumed hacking at the bush and grass, venting his anger, swinging wildly.
“Don’t tire yourself,” I said placatingly. He ignored me, moving away.
Damn it, I thought, this was just what I needed to complicate matters - Gavin delving into my private life!
We took a break every hour or so to rest, moving into the shade, careful where we put our feet. We had just returned from a break under the trees and were moving towards the strip, when I heard a humming sound in the distance. I immediately recognized it; it was an aircraft, definitely a twin - pilots recognize these things. The sound rapidly grew in volume - it was at a low altitude. It sounded like a DC3.
Suddenly it was upon us, over-flying the airfield at two to three hundred feet, the roar of the radial engines deafening. It passed overhead and then swung out in a gradual turn, which took it over the river and over the village at Simjembela. It then came back at us and as it roared overhead, it rocked its wings.
Suddenly I felt an acute sense of dread. A quick glance at Gavin told me he felt the same. I knew - this had to be one of Trichardt’s aircraft. I was stupefied. This was the last thing I expected. If cargo aircraft without any military markings were seen in this vicinity then they belonged to Trichardt. Sure, there were others supplying Savimbi’s need for food, weapons, and equipment but these did not operate in south Angola.
“God, the man’s timing couldn’t be better. Do you think they saw us?” Gavin demanded, staring frantically after the departing aircraft.
“Of course they bloody saw us, as well as our South African registered AN2 on the other side. Be sure, they couldn’t have missed that! The question is what will they say or do? I mean, it could look quite innocuous.” I ventured, hoping my voice sounded calm and did not reveal my inner feelings. Innocuous? Whom did I think I was kidding!
Maria approached us at a trot, breathing heavily.
“Was that Trichardt’s plane?” she asked a slight expression of alarm on her face.
What could I say? I had to confirm it.
“Who else?” I replied sarcastically.
I saw her pale, even with the perspiration dripping off her face. I thought I’d better qualify my statement.
“Hang on. That only means it belongs to him, but it’s extremely unlikely that he is aboard. This is probably incidental. Don’t forget, this airfield is nearly on the direct track from Jamba to Johannesburg and if the plane were from Rivungo, it would have to fly directly over us. It’s highly improbable that this will lead to anything.”
God, did I really believe this?
They both stared at me, clearly not happy with my reply.
‘Look, let’s discuss this to-night... okay? Don’t jump to conclusions. Any way, we won’t be able to finish this job today. Yes, we’ll clear the field but by the time we get back it will be dark. We’ll fly in here at first light to-morrow,” I said hoping that I didn’t sound concerned.
<
br /> It had struck me that the locals had not been concerned, so may be an over-fly like this was a regular occurrence. Nothing more was said and we all returned to work.
We removed the last of the small trees and flattened the final large anthill at about five that afternoon, and immediately returned to the river. During the course of the day, the level of the river had risen appreciably, the water now up to where we had hidden the raft and dugouts. So also, had the mood of the water changed; the current was stronger and I realized that the dugouts might experience problems. The agitated discussion amongst the local worker confirmed this.
We retrieved a lifeline rope from a pocket on the raft and with the approval of the locals tied the dugouts in line, one behind the other to the zodiac, the idea being to tow the dugouts across. We all took our places in the boats. I started the motor and then gingerly manoeuvred the string of craft into the stream, the nose of the raft pointing slightly upstream to compensate for the rather strong current.
Well, the moment we got into the current proper, it wiped the dugouts in a straight line dead astern into the current, and all I could do was slowly crab the line across the river trying to match the speed of the raft with the current. We were actually stationary relative to the shore. I realized that if the motor cut out, we would be swept miles downriver.
It was nearly dark by the time we got across. The headman was waiting for us. I paid him and his men, and they disappeared into the growing darkness. We deflated the raft and packed it back into the aircraft with the motor.
We all were in need of a wash. Only Maria had the forethought to include soap amongst her personal things. It was too dangerous to bathe in the river, so Gavin borrowed a bucket, this actually an empty five gallon kerosene drum, from a nearby cluster of huts. Keeping a sharp lookout for crocodiles on the banks of the river, we stripped to our underwear. We then scooped water from the river and poured this over each other; thereafter we vigorously soaped ourselves, following this with a good rinse of further water.
Diamonds Are But Stone Page 9
