The lights of Umtali town were off to the south, and beyond them Sean could just make out the loom Of mountains- He knew that the highest peak in the chain was 8,5oo feet above sea level, s I o he allowed a wide separation and leveled out at 10,000 feet, then checked his heading.
Up to now, he had not thought about his navigation and was unsure of the bearings for a return to the Serra de Gorongosa fines.
wont find them marked on any map." He grinned. "But we'll try 030 magnetic." And he banked the Hercules onto that heading.
The adrenaline was still thick in his blood, the rapture of fear swirling him aloft on eagles" wings. He laughed again, just a little shakily, and savored the glorious thrill of it while it lasted.
The dark mountaintops slid away beneath him, just visible in the starlight like the shape of whales deep in an Arctic sea. He picked out the occasional pinprick of light in the valleys, an isolated farm or mission station or peasant hut, and then, as he crossed the frontier into Mozambique, there was nothing but darkness ahead.
and it seemed symbolic "Nothing but darkness," he repeated, and prophetic. They were going back into the wasteland.
Sean eased back on power and began a gradual descent toward the lowland forests. Now that the mountain peaks were behind them, he didn't want to stay up high, offering an easy target for the attack radar of a pursuing MiG fighter or an intercepting Hind gunship.
Job came back and lo*ed the door of the flight deck.
"Any (image?" Sean Aked.
Job chuckled. "Tht floor of the cargo hold is ankle-deep in puke.
Those Shanianes don't fancy your flying, man, they are upchucking in all directions."
"Charming." Sean groped in the side packet of the pilot's seat and came up with a packet of Dutch cigars, property of the R.A.F pilot.
"Well, look what we have here." He tossed one to Job and they lit up and smoked contentedly for a few minutes before Job asked, "How long before the MiGs catch up with us?"
Sean shook his head. "They are based in Harare. I don't think they can catch us even if they scramble immediately. No, I'm not worried about the MiGs, but the Hinds are another story."
They were silent again, watching the ripe celestial fruit of the stars that from the dark flight deck seemed close enough to pluck.
"Are you ready to answer an embarrassing question?" Job broke the silence.
"Fire away-"
"You got us up here. How the hell are you going to get us down again.
Sean blew a smoke ring that was instantly obliterated by the slipstream through the bullet holes in the canopy.
"Interesting question," he conceded. "I'll let you know when I have an answer myself. In the meantime, just worry about finding the Renamo lines in general and China's headquarters in particular.
Five hundred feet above the tops of the forest trees, Sean leveled the Hercules and, reading the throttle and pitch settings from the instructions engraved on the instrument panel, set her up for endurance flying.
"Another two hours before it will be light enough to even start looking for an emergency landing field," he told Job. "In the meantime, we can try to find the Pungwe River." An hour later they spotted a gleam of water in the black carpet of forest ahead, and seconds later the stars were reflected from a large body of dark water directly below them.
"I'm going back to check it," Sean warned Job. He put the Hercules into an easy turn and watched the gyro compass on the panel in front of him rotate through 180 degrees before leveling out again.
"Landing lights on," he murmured and flipped the switch. The tops of the trees below them were fit by the powerful lamps, and they saw the river, a dark serpent winding away into the night.
Sean threw the Hercules into a hard right-hand turn and then leveled out, flying directly along the course of the river.
"Looks like it," he grunted, and switched off the landing fights.
"But even if it is the right river, we won't be able to judge whether we are upstream or downstream of the fines until sunrise."
"So what do we do?"
"We fly a holding pattern," Sean explained, and banked the Hercules into the first of a monotonous series of figure eights.
Around and around they cruised, five hundred feet above the treetops, crossing and recrossing the dark river at the same point, marking time, waiting for the dawn.
"Sitting duck for a Hind," Job remarked once.
"Don't wish it on us." Sean frowned at him. "If you have nothing else useful to do, get the gunner's bag. It's in the map bin."
Job lugged the bag to the front of the cabin and set it beside his seat, then settled himself comfortably.
"Read to me," Sean instructed. "Find something in there to amuse me and pass the time."
Job brought out the red plastic-covered top-secret folders one at time and thumbed through them, reading out the titles and a chapter headings from each index page.
The first three files were all field manuals for the Stinger SAM Systems, covering their deployment in every conceivable situation I I from the decks of ships at sea to their use by infantry in every he 1[i missile's performance figures in all conditions from tropical jungle climatic zone on the globe, setting out in tables and graphs t to high Arctic.
"All you ever wanted to know but were afraid to ask," Job observed, and picked out the fourth manual from the bag.
STINGER GUIDED MISSILE SYSTEM TARGET SELECTION AND RULES OF
ENGAGEMENT OPERATIONAL REPORTS
Job read aloud, then turned to the index and chapter headings.
I. Falkland Islands 2. Arabian Gulf. "Sea of Hormuz" 3. Grenada landings 4. Angola Unita 5. Afghanistan Job read it out, and Sean exclaimed, "Afghanistan! See if they give us anything about the l*nd."
Job set the bulky foe on his lap and adjusted the beam of the reading lamp fromiti recess in the cabin roof above his head. He paged through the manual.
"Here we go! "Afghanistan,"" he read. ""Helicopter Types."
"Find the Hind!" Sean ordered impatiently.
"Soviet Mil Design Bureau Types, NATO Designation "H.""
"That's it," Sean encouraged him. "Look for the Hind."
aplite. Hound. Hook. Hip. Haze. Havoc "Hare," said Job. "H here it is. Hind."
"Give me the gen," Sean ordered, and Job read aloud.
This flying piece of artillery ordnance, nicknamed by the Soviets Sturmovich (or hunchback), known to NATO as Hind and to the Afghan rebels and many others who have encountered it in the field as the "flying death," has gained a formidable reputation which is perhaps not fully justified.