

### Long Way Home

By P X DUKE

Copyright 2013 P X Duke

All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-0-9869558-6-0

Disclaimer

What follows is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Places mentioned by name are entirely fictitious and purely products of the author's imagination, and are not meant to bear resemblance to actual places or locations.

Long Way Home

Rescue Me #2

_When Harry's ex-wife, Sasha, and their daughter accompany her oil-company boyfriend on a working vacation to Africa, the trio goes missing. They get out a call for help that will lead Harry on an air and ground chase across the Horn of Africa to rescue his family before kidnappers can move them to their den on the Indian Ocean._

Contents

Catching Up

Long Way Home

More

About

**Catching up**

In _Dead Reckoning_ , Harry and Mike burned through their R&R on mainland Mexico, looking to lie low and escape an adventure that got the better of them in North Africa.

Sitting in a Mexican cantina drinking beer and doing a little dirt-floor dancing with the local _señoritas_ got them into more trouble than they bargained for. Harry picked up something he didn't own. To escape the consequences of his misdeed, it forced them on a one-way trip across the Sea of Cortez in a beat-up airplane.

A chance encounter with two _gringas_ on an isolated stretch of Baja beach ended up complicating things even more. Harry and Mike had no idea the girls were attempting to enhance their bottom line by doing a little smuggling of their own. After cheating their suppliers, Sasha and Barbara were being chased up the Baja by people intent on recovering their missing product.

Mike's disappearance forced Harry to take some drastic measures to recover him from kidnappers bent on trading him for stolen drugs. With Mike rescued and Sasha out of the hands of the hit-men, the foursome crossed the border at Tijuana, broke and disillusioned.

After much soul-searching and a lot of convincing, Sasha and Barbara married the smitten duo. Mike and Barbara moved to Canada and started a successful aviation company that served the oil patch in northern Canada. Business boomed and the company prospered.

Harry and Sasha didn't fare so well. Although their marriage worked for a number of years and produced Christa, a daughter, Harry couldn't sit still for long. He was unable to reign in his wanderlust for overseas adventure.

Consequently he and Sasha ended up divorcing.

The parting was amicable and they remained on good terms. Harry's obligation to support his ex-wife and daughter kept him roaming the world, doing the specialized jobs afforded him by his background and experience in the aviation business.

Long Way Home

~ 1 ~

PILOT WANTED

_For Pilatus Porter PT-6 STOL. 1,000 hours turbine time on type required. Mountain, jungle, desert experience definite asset. Rotation three weeks on/one off. Paid in/out. Cable ZANZIBAR._

**MIKE FLIPPED THE NEWSPAPER** across the table.

—Did you see this? It looks like it might be over in Africa somewhere.

Harry picked up the paper to peruse the ad.

—Somebody must have some pull. An ad for a pilot in the International Times isn't something you see very often these days.

—And a cable address? It must be really out in the boonies—or off the edge of the map.

—Just what you're looking for.

It was true. Harry was getting bored with his present job. It was getting to be too tame for his liking.

—If it hasn't been filled, consider the cable already sent.

—Don't forget about your old friend.

He knew Mike shared his feelings for their present job.

—I'll let you know when I get there.

**The overseas call** Harry placed from the shit-hole he was living in finally got through to Mike. Misery loves company, and Harry felt a need to share some of it with his longtime friend.

—Your presence is requested.

—What have you got for me?

—One beat-up, timed-out, tired pile of aluminum. But you know what? It's still flying and so am I.

—Well then, I won't need to be around much to work on it, will I?

—I wouldn't say that. But don't take my word for it. You'll find out all you need to know when you get here.

—I can't wait.

—In that case, let me know when you're arriving and I'll meet you.

**Mike picked up** his duffel and tool kit and walked out to the Pilatus and its idling PT-6 engine beside the outbuilding. He thought he might throw up, but at the last minute he gulped air, swallowed hard, and carried on. If Harry saw him puke, he'd never hear the end of it, even if the sketchy hotel bar where he spent the night was an adventure in itself.

—Throw your tools in the back and hang on.

—That's an understatement. Where's my seat belt?

—I'm the only one that gets the luxury of a belt unless you want up front.

—Thanks. I always wondered what it was like to fly first class.

Mike joined Harry and took the right seat in the Pilatus before strapping in.

—If you thought I was going to climb into the back of this tin can, you're sadly misinformed.

The duo low-fived.

—Don't worry. It was a test.

Mike turned to look back into the sparse cargo deck. There were no seats or belts. Outfitted for cargo-only, it was stripped of every piece of useless weight. The floor had a thin layer of aluminum cut to size. It was bolted down.

—Christ, Harry, it was no lie when you said she was a beat-up, ugly pile of flying junk.

—Yes, but think of the experience you'll be getting. I can tell you're impressed with the utility configuration. You should have seen her before I showed up.

Harry dialed in eight turns of flap, pulled the column full aft and stood on the brakes. He pushed right rudder to counter the massive amount of torque the PT-6 put out as he advanced the throttle on the single-engine aircraft purpose-built in Switzerland for high-altitude mountain work.

The Porter was an aircraft in high demand for its load-carrying ability at lower altitudes. It could get into and out of landing strips that nothing other than a helicopter could get to.

He rotated onto the tail-wheel and the Porter became airborne in 200 feet. He set up the climb and the old friends settled into an easy banter that had developed along with their friendship over the years.

—What took you so long?

—The fuel control needs some tweaking. I gave it a try but that's the best I could do. Besides, that's why you're here.

—How long to camp?

—About an hour.

—Plenty of time.

Harry set up for cruise and began filling Mike in on the job.

—I fly out ivory and tanzanite in exchange for arms or whatever else will fit into this crate on the back haul. Money fits, too. Lots of it.

—That's it?

Harry looked across at Mike.

—Well, not exactly. I pack this thing with six or ten people every now and again. It's my job to make sure they get to where they need to be. It's what keeps my people-handling skills from deteriorating.

—That'll be the day. Where's the base?

—Everywhere and nowhere. We work out of uncharted landing strips, so to speak.

—A true bush operation.

—If you only knew.

—I suspect I'm about to find out.

Mike settled back in the seat and closed his eyes. Hungover as he was, there was no sense wasting good sleep time. He suspected he wouldn't get much of it once he arrived at the bush camp.

**Harry elbowed Mike** in the ribs.

—We're here. Strap in and hang on.

Harry cranked in three turns of flap to prepare for the short-field landing. When the strip disappeared under the nose he throttled back, put the prop into Beta and shoved the nose down to a 45-degree angle. With wheels on the ground and the prop in reverse pitch, he had the turbine-engined Porter down and stopped in 200 feet.

—It feels like the brakes are shot, too.

—You could probably take a look at them when you get a chance. You'll find plenty of spares. Whoever heads up this disaster doesn't scrimp on aircraft parts.

Harry held the column full aft and taxied the Porter to its spot on the side of the strip. He used the engine to back it beneath the tree canopy and shut down.

—Come on. Give me some help manhandling this thing.

—You never told me the job required actual physical labor.

They arranged the Pilatus under the bush cover and strung up the camo netting to ensure invisibility. When they were done, Mike looked around at the campsite. The dark-colored tents sat off to the side of the strip beneath the canopy. More camo nets covered them. There were no vehicles.

No people, either.

—What are the living arrangements like?

—We'll be sharing quarters. Laundry is done every day. Just leave your clothes on the foot of the bed. At the end of the day you'll get them back, cleaned and pressed. Clean sheets, bed made, floor swept. All you have to do is keep that thing in the air for me. Once in a while you'll get to eat and sleep, too.

—How much time do I have?

—I told them you'd have the plane tied up until tomorrow morning. They weren't happy about it, but I'm the only one here who can fly it. You make two, but I didn't tell them that.

—In that case, take my bag to the tent for me. I'm going to be busy until dark. When's your next flight?

—Tomorrow in the a.m.

—Do we have any lighting?

—There's a small generator and a couple of trouble lights if you get desperate. I'd advise against using any light after dark. It's liable to bring down rain from hell.

—Give me a hand getting set up and then you can disappear.

—One more thing, before I forget.

—What's that?

—You mentioned disappearing. Don't do it. Don't walk past the perimeter after dark.

**Mike pulled the** cowlings to open up the engine compartment. It was clean. No oil leaks evident. No fuel weeping, either. It looked like someone had been doing some work on it to keep it that way. He'd have to ask Harry. The prop seals were good. Fuel filters were clean—no fungus, at least.

He cleaned up the dust and grime and lubed the brake controls as best he could. It would stop on a dime from now on.

He chocked the wheels and fired up the engine in order to do a run-up. A quick check of the gages indicated one of the limits didn't look good. Not wanting to chance it with the normally reliable PT-6, he shut down right away. He searched through boxes stacked under the wings and came up with another set of cargo-compartment seat belts and a fuel control unit. By the time he finished it was dark.

Without light he couldn't do more. The run-up and test flights would have to wait. It was time to eat. Mike ambled over to what he figured was the cook tent and pushed through the flap. Two huge men wearing camo glared at him with surly looks. Beside them, automatic weapons leaned against the table.

—Greetings, gentlemen.

The answer-back was accented—the first South African; the second, Belgian by the sound of it. Mercs. Mercenaries. Dogs of war.

—How's the grub?

—It's okay, but we can't talk the pilot into back-hauling enough to make us happy.

He could solve that problem easily enough. His solution would give him a leg up once the eats started arriving. He figured that keeping these guys happy was going to be the least of his worries. He took a seat across from the mercs.

—Have I got a deal for you.

### ~ 2 ~

**MIKE ROSE BRIGHT** and early to finish up Harry's snag list. Satisfied, he replaced his tools and fueled with minimums in mind. He pulled off the netting and stowed it before patting the wad of cash stuffed in his pocket.

Satisfied, he climbed into the cockpit to do his engine run-up and test flight. He looked over his shoulder for stowaways. It was old habit in some of these bush jobs. He had everything he needed. Last night during his conflab with the mercs, he got them to agree not to shoot him down on the test flight. At least, that was his story, and so far, he was sticking with it.

He taxied the Pilatus out of the bush shelter. By the time he got to the end of the strip the PT-6 was warmed and ready to go. He cranked in take-off flaps, pulled the stick full aft, and stood on the brakes before firewalling the throttle.

He looked right and then left to the tents. The way forward was clear. Men were lined up, probably not expecting to see the plane on the runway with Harry still drinking coffee in the mess tent.

He pushed right rudder to overcome torque from the 550 horsepower engine and stay straight. Super-light, he rotated on the tail wheel and was airborne in fifteen feet.

If that didn't leave them clapping, nothing would.

The thousand-feet-per-minute climb rate he set up had the Pilatus at altitude in no time. He started backtracking on yesterday's route into camp. He set the DG and tuned in the ADF to the local radio station. It would lead him to the riches he promised to deliver to the mercs.

**Harry noticed Mike** scoping out the market on yesterday's drive to the airport. He already had it figured where the Porter was headed when Mike didn't show up back at the strip right away. When he did return, he was pretty sure the Porter would have a load of fresh grub on board.

No matter where he was in the world, food and having enough of it was a constant complaint in every bush camp he had ever been in. Even if the cook was a former five-star chef, everything revolved around food and whether they were getting the best they could.

With nothing to do, he eavesdropped on the grumbling going on around the breakfast table. The new guy was taking a beating for keeping the mercs from making their rounds. They liked to do their aerial recons first thing in the morning while the smoke from campfires still floated over the bush.

The mining consortium depended on the mercs to keep anyone and everyone from interrupting or halting the profitability of the mining operations. It was a full-time job. The dozen mercs were broken up into two teams. Each team had a responsibility to perform clean-up ops in the region.

The bitch session came to an abrupt end when the Pilatus on noisy final drew the attention of the mercs. They shouldered their equipment and headed to the strip. He stayed put to watch the show as they dropped their weapons to unload boxes, bags, containers, fresh fruit and vegetables. All of it was carried to the kitchen by the sweating mercs.

Two AKs complete with packs stuffed with ammo and clips, delivered in person by Mike, was the last of it.

—What are you planning on doing with those?

—I made a bargain with the devil last night. All I had to do was come up with the equipment. Fresh food and plenty of it in exchange for small-arms training. In this job I figure we're eventually going to need it.

—I was wanting to do something like that, but I kept putting it off. You're right. It's overdue. We could both use the training.

—There's no reason to put it off now. You can thank me later when you get stranded out there some day. They're going to throw in some RPG lessons too.

—Here?

—Hell no. When we get back to some semblance of civilization on an R&R.

—So then, you're telling me that my next R&R is going to be spent doing weapons training.

—You betcha, buddy. Like I said, thank me later.

—I'm not doing laps.

—Yeah. Until you find a woman to chase. Then you'll be doing laps.

—Is that what they call it back in civilization now?

**The flying became** routine now that Mike had arrived to take over the chore of maintaining the Pilatus. He cleared the entire snag list in a couple of days. To alleviate the boredom, Mike and Harry took turns flying the recon missions. With the Porter in good condition and the engine operating at its peak, positioning the mercs at the bush strips proved to be lot less difficult.

Every ten days, a flight into town saw to it that the kitchen was outfitted with fresh grub and beer. The mercs were grateful, and when six of them flew out for an R&R, they convinced Harry and Mike to start their weapons training regimen.

—Christ, Mike, these guys are treating us more like a legionnaire brigade than a goddamn guy with a rifle.

They huffed and puffed their way to accompanying the mercs on every run.

—Maybe, but just think of the many ways you'll be able to talk yourself out of being kidnapped with an RPG backed up with an AK and grenades.

—It won't hurt to have the know-how. The single merc they leave with us when we're parked out on some of those strips will probably be grateful for the extra fire-power.

—Especially if we know how to load and fire. That plane is their lifeblood. It's ours, too. Destroy it and we'll all be royally screwed in this place.

—You're right. We definitely don't have any friends out there.

—Let's get a shave, shower and shoe-shine. I have it on good authority that the bar in this shit-hole is a real treat.

—Really? Whose authority?

Harry grinned.

—Mine.

### ~ 3 ~

Present Day

Canada

**HARRY LOOKED AROUND** at the three corporate jets that dwarfed him in Mike's huge hangar. They were gleaming white spectacles indicative of the stature his old friend had acquired as he climbed towards the top of corporate aviation's ladder. It was obvious that this was no fly-by-night operation.

—Well, what do you think?

—I think you're into it up to your neck, Mike.

—I have to admit it's unusual to have them all here at once. This is a rare occurrence.

—Those 300s are nice. How many aircraft are you operating for the oil patch?

—All of them. The Twin Otters are up at our northern base.

—How do you fill vacancies for the jets?

—We don't very often. Once a pilot gets into one of those beauties they pretty much stick it out.

—What about the Twin Otter drivers?

—They're all experienced old-timers. If we get a new hire, he or she will get into the right seat with an experienced Captain for a long-term evaluation before we put one of them in a pilot-in-command role.

—That's the way to do it.

—By the time I get my hands on them they're fed up with living in the bush or the desert or the arctic. By then they've got a ton of flight time in a variety of operations and aircraft. Most of them are IFR-rated.

—The oil business can be chancy. By the look of it you're doing all right.

—We're making good money. We don't have to go begging to get paid. The blue-eyed Arabs pay their bills on time It's not like the old days any more.

—Yes, I know them well. I'm still living in the old days.

—You also know you've got a job here if you want it.

—I'm not ready yet. One day.

—If you're done with your base inspection it's time we headed over to the house.

—Are you still in the same place?

—Christ, you should get home more often. No, we moved two years ago.

—Right, I knew that. I just forgot, is all.

—Just so you know, Barbara invited Sasha and Christa.

Mike wanted to prepare Harry in advance of seeing his ex-wife and daughter. He knew they got along, but even so he thought better of blind-siding him.

—They both know you're going to be there. I think that's why they're coming.

—Is she still with that oil guy?

—Gene? Yeah. He's with CAN-AL Oil, one of our biggest customers. They're all over the world. He might be at the house, too. It's time you met him. He's playing dad to your daughter.

—What's he like?

—He treats Sasha and Christa pretty good, but he can be a pain in the ass. I don't think he's been out in the world a lot. He's from one of those oil tycoon families. He was born into the business.

—No seat-of-the-pants flying.

—Definitely not. He seems to be more of a by-the-book guy. That's okay with me. Like I said, as long as the bills get paid on time, it's all good.

**The instant the** door opened, Harry's daughter Christa squealed and ran to his open arms.

—Harry!

—Hi honey. How's my little girl?

Harry scooped Christa up, hugged her and twirled her around.

—I missed you.

—I missed you just as much, sweetheart. I always miss you.

Sasha smiled watching the two of them chase after each other as they got re-acquainted. Christa never left his side, and Harry, patient man that he was, gave her all the time she wanted. If only he wasn't so far away most of the time, then just maybe—

She ended the reminiscing and concentrated on Harry and their daughter.

—I've missed you too, Sasha, just so you know.

—It's always good to see you, Harry. It doesn't happen often enough any more. There's something I need to talk to you about. Can we do it after dinner?

—Of course we can.

—Come on, I want to introduce you to Gene.

One look at Gene told Harry all he needed to know. Tall and slim going to skinny. Clean cut. Plenty of hair to keep neat and tidy and clean-cut. Clean hands. Fresh-pressed shirt and pants.

He shut out his thoughts, happy that his ex had found someone. His eyes wandered to Sasha. She was still beautiful. She kept her black hair long. There was no gray, but she probably took care of that-not that it would have mattered in the slightest.

All he had to do now was find someone for himself.

—So this is the guy who's been stealing my daughter's affections. I finally get to meet you.

—I've heard a lot about you, too.

Harry snapped back to the immediate reality at the sound of Gene's high-pitched voice.

—Not all of it bad, I hope.

—No. None of it bad, actually.

The two stood apart, each sizing the other up. Satisfied, Harry backed off and made an excuse to go looking for Barbara.

—Where's the real owner of this dump?

Barbara, overhearing him, called out.

—She's trapped in the kitchen, where the hell do you think? Get your ass in here.

—Yes ma'am!

—Where's my hug?

—Right here, gorgeous, where it always is. It's great to see you. What's for dinner?

—Always right to the point. I'm not going to ruin it by telling you.

—Your home-cooked meals are what keep me coming back.

—If that was the truth, you'd be back here more often. Did I hear your daughter call you Harry out there?

—Yes, well, I'm not proud of it. I was hoping no one would notice.

—I'm sorry. I always thought you three should be together, just like old times.

—People change. When Sasha told me she wanted out, I let her know I'd keep paying the bills until someone came along for her and Christa. I'm just glad they stayed close to you and Mike.

—We are too.

—We've all been through a lot together. It's tough to let go sometimes, but it was the thing to do. I wasn't going to fight her.

—Just between the two of us, I get the feeling Gene is going to ask her to marry him.

—Isn't it about time? He's been seeing her for a year, hasn't he?

—Like I said, you should come by more often. They've been seeing each other for almost two years.

—If that's true it took him enough time to make up his mind.

—Well, it looks like he finally has.

Harry poked around the huge kitchen.

—Are you looking for anything in particular?

—Is that Mike's old shotty stashed up there?

—It is. I thought I'd keep it around, just in case.

—Just in case of what, Barbara? Better times and happier memories?

—Something like that.

**Barbara stood with** hands on her hips and watched as Harry stacked the last of the dishes and wiped the counter.

—You'd have made someone a good house-husband. It's too bad you're so old and set in your ways.

—Don't bury me yet, girl. I've only got one of my feet in the graveyard.

—Yes, and sometimes you have the other planted firmly up your rear end. You need to do right by that woman out there, Harry. You're going to let her get away again, aren't you? And what about your daughter? What's going on there?

—I think Sasha has pretty much made up her mind about what she's going to do—and I support her in it.

—You're going to lose her.

—You're right—and there's nothing I can do about it. Now I have to go and find her. She said she wanted to talk.

—Don't tell me I've got you on the run already. You just got here.

**Sasha paced back** and forth, already waiting for Harry. It had been two years since they last saw each other, but she knew they'd get along. She still liked him. Maybe she still loved him just a little, too.

—What's happening with you two—or you three now, I guess.

—I get the feeling that Gene is going to ask me to marry him.

—Will he want to adopt Christa?

—We haven't talked about that yet, but he'd better if he wants a family with me.

—Whatever you want to do is fine by me. I'm her father. That won't change. I trust your judgment. You already know that.

—Yes, but it's nice to hear you say it.

—I heard Gene is going to be taking you overseas on one of his trips.

—Barbara told you that, didn't she?

—Of course she did. You know she talks to me about you and Christa—and you'd better not mind, either. Do you know when you're going?

—He wants to take Christa, too. I need time with him to help me make up my mind. I won't be saying yes until after the trip.

—You have my blessing no matter what you decide. Christa needs the stability. I think you do, too.

Harry pulled a box out of his backpack.

—What's that?

—It's for my two favorite girls. When I heard where you were going, I picked up a GPS transmitter. When you turn it on and press a button, it will transmit your location to a map and send out a pre-programmed message.

—Do you think we'll need that? We're going for a week at most. We won't be out in the middle of nowhere. Christa and I will be seeing the sights and doing some shopping.

—Of course you won't need it. Do you know where you're going to be?

—Gene hasn't told us yet.

—I set it up with Mike and Barbara's email address, and their corporate one as well. They know all about it.

—Are you going to put yours in? That's the one I want in there if I ever have to use it.

—You know I'm all over the place. If you ever have to press the button, you're going to want to have someone who can take the call.

—Will you show me how to use it?

—Of course. I'll show you both before I leave.

Harry was always off to somewhere.

—You're still hitting the high spots, aren't you? Where are you off to this time?

She never knew where any more.

—NBO.

—Nairobi.

—Yes.

—Please be careful.

**Christa pulled the** Tracker out of the box and took it to show Gene.

—Look what Harry gave us.

—Yes, that's nice, sweetheart.

—Harry showed me how to turn it on. He says it will help to find us if we get in trouble.

—Put it away before you break it.

She put the Tracker in her backpack and zipped it shut.

—They won't be needing that thing, Harry. They'll be with me the entire time.

—Well, they have it if they want it. It's for them to decide.

—We'll be three or four days at most, then back home in no time. The batteries will probably be dead by then.

Exasperated, Harry had nothing more for the man.

—Whatever you say, Gene.

~ 4 ~

Present Day

Canada

**MIKE HAD BEEN** trying Barbara's number for an hour. She finally picked up.

—Where have you been? I've been trying to get you.

—I was at the neighbor's drinking wine and telling lies. What's up?

—Sasha's Tracker sent out an email.

—Oh shit. Where are they?

—According to the position map, East Africa. On the Horn. So far, three hits are showing. I've got the guys installing the utility interior into the jet now.

—I'll try to track down Harry. Christ, what time is it in NBO?

—That's your part of the job.

—After I find him I'll get our bags to the hangar as soon as I can.

Mike didn't want his wife coming on this exercise. He already knew it would be impossible to keep her away. Barbara and Sasha had become even closer since their adventure on the Baja.

—This isn't going to be a picnic. It's going to be dangerous. It won't be easy to get them out of there. Are you sure you want to come?

—You couldn't keep me away with your old shotty.

—What we had on the Baja will be a picnic compared to this exercise, believe me. There's nothing out there—and I do mean nothing. No roads. No towns. Nada. You can't depend on anyone. Life is cheap. People you can trust can turn on you in an instant. Sometimes, people you can trust are non-existent.

—We're going to do this together. In fact, all three of us need to do this. I'll be with the people I need to trust. I wouldn't have it any other way and I don't think you would, either. I know everything has evened out between you and Harry since the Baja, but between Sasha and me, it will never be even. It will always be equal.

—I'm getting some of the guys together. It'll be another couple of hours by the time we're loaded.

—If I get hold of Harry I'll tell him we have a charter into NBO. There's no way I'm going to tell him we had a hit from the Tracker. He'd be crazy by the time we got there.

—I'm more concerned about him going off on his own. He's got plenty of contacts over there, but he's going to need a lot more than that.

Nairobi was a long way off. Barbara knew Mike wouldn't be stopping for anything until he got to Harry. She began unloading the fridge to put together a cooler full of food for the extended flight.

**Mike gathered his** people in the hangar. Meetings weren't his style, and he called few of them. He liked to deal one-on-one with all of them. It was more personal that way.

—Guys, I've just received some bad news. A very good family friend has gone missing on the Horn of Africa. I'm going to need some help. If any of you want to volunteer, I'd be happy to have you come along.

A single employee made the mistake of speaking up.

—You want volunteers? What's the pay?

—Pay? Pack up your tools and get out. That's the pay. Don't bother coming back.

Art was an old Africa hand himself. He knew Mike well enough to caution him.

—Take it easy, man. What the hell is going on?

—I just told everyone what was going on, Art.

—I'm on board, no matter what, but the young guys need to know more than that. They don't operate like we used to.

Mike changed his demeanor to one more easy-going.

—I'm going to need at least two of you. A welder. A mechanic. Someone who knows how to handle firearms. If you can figure out who to bring, do it, Art.

—Bill was a Huey door-gunner in Nam.

—Then do what you have to do to get him on-board. I'm glad you're coming, too. Unless someone else shows up, you can plan on being my First Officer. Pack your tools. Treat it like we're going on an extended field operation back in the old days. Load some welding equipment—tanks, hoses, sheet metal, whatever you have to. A generator and lights. Put in our sat phones too. We'll charge them on the way.

—How much time do we have?

—When Barbara gets here, we're gone, ready or not.

—How many passengers do I need to plan for?

—Cabin seats for our crew plus three.

Art and a couple of helpers began stripping the interior from the jet. He'd make sure to get it as light as he could in order to load as much gear as possible.

**Even after Harry** married Sasha, he had to spend long periods of time away from home to pay the bills. He was doing the flying jobs he loved. Neither of them was happy with it, but his work provided a level of support for the three of them that was beyond reproach.

Eventually, Sasha had enough of the never-ending lonely days and nights, and she put her foot down. By then, it was too late. The free-wheeling Harry took an extended overseas jaunt and Sasha filed for divorce. He didn't contest it. He let her have full custody of their daughter. He knew he wouldn't be able to offer his daughter a home, given his around-the-world adventures.

Christa was three when they split up. They stayed on good terms. Harry continued to pay the bills while Sasha raised Christa. He didn't begrudge his ex-wife a thing. He knew she was doing one heck of a job with his daughter.

It was one he couldn't do on his own.

Sasha stayed close with Barbara and Mike. She was always welcome in their home. She knew Barbara told Harry about her comings and goings, but she didn't object. In the back of her mind she knew Harry still loved her—and in some way, she still loved him, too. If the son of a bitch would just come home and stay home, she'd go back to him.

She didn't tell Barbara about that, though. She kept it to herself, knowing her friend secretly wanted them to get together and would tell Harry.

**Barbara arrived at** the hangar just as the jet was being fueled.

—Did you pick up the cash?

—Yes.

—You packed the shotty, didn't you? Did you bring shells?

—Yes, and yes.

—Did you locate Harry?

—He's in NBO. Holed up at the Flying Club.

—Art and Bill volunteered to come along for the ride. See if they need any help.

—Will we have access to Sasha's Tracker page?

—We'll have en-route access. I told Art to put our satellite phones on board. Check that he does. We'll fuel in Gander and Naples. If everything comes together, we should be 25 hours elapsed into Nairobi.

—What about a co-jo?

—I ran out of volunteers for this job. It's going to be Art. When he gets tired, it'll be you.

—That's not legal.

—Maybe not, but ten years ago, nothing we did was legal. We've been sitting pretty getting fat, dumb and happy. It's time for a little adventure in our lives again, wouldn't you say?

—Whether it's time or not, it seems like it found us again. Let's hope it's the last time.

### ~ 5 ~

Present Day

Nairobi

**NEVER ONE TO** doubt the capabilities—or the ETA—of his friend and former bush pilot, Harry waited for Mike and the 300 at Nairobi. He was proud as hell as he watched Mike taxi the jet onto the fixed-base operator's tarmac. It was obvious that Mike was doing well in the cutthroat aviation business. He had no doubt the man had been doing some throat-cutting of his own as well.

—Come aboard, Harry, I've got some people I want you to meet.

—Hi, guys. Holy shit, Barbara is here, too. Playing tourist, are you?

—No, Harry, I'm not.

He passed off her gruff response to fatigue and air-sickness.

—What's going on with such a quick trip?

He took in the gear packed and strapped into the back of the jet. Mike didn't give him time to ask.

—Harry, this is Art. He's an old Africa hand. He's also the best engineer I've got. That's Bill sleeping in the seat. He's a little younger but he gets tired easier.

—Whoever the hell it was that called me in the bar at the Flying Club cost me a round of drinks. You owe me.

—It was Barbara. And you're going to get repaid real quick.

It dawned on Harry that something wasn't right.

—What the hell is it? You didn't bring your wife and a team all the way over here to brag about it.

—I got an email from Sasha and Christa.

—They should be over here about now, shouldn't they?

—It was a GPS hit.

—Shit. No wonder Barbara wouldn't tell anyone why she was looking for me.

Mike opened the laptop and loaded the mapping page.

—There's where she pulled the pin. Since we left they've been on the move towards the coast. The signal is intermittent. She's probably turning it off to save batteries.

—Those hits look like they're close to one of our old operations.

—You're right. I noticed that, too. At least we've got something going for us.

—They're not moving very fast.

—No, but they're on the move east towards the coast and Eyl.

—The pirate den on the Indian Ocean.

—Yes.

—The easy targets on the Gulf of Aden and the Indian Ocean have proved lucrative up to now. Do you think they could be branching out into new territory? Oil company territory on dry land?

—This is all news to me. As far as I knew, the pirates were strictly sea-going and kept to the waters off the coast. It seems out of character, but I guess they could have made a decision to move on to people on dry land.

—If they have, that means unlimited ransom demands.

—There's been renewed oil interest in that area, most recently by CAN-AL. Don't take this the wrong way, but I'd be wondering if CAN-AL would pay up.

—I'm not going to stand around with my hands in my pockets scratching at my balls waiting to find out. That's my ex and our daughter out there. I'm thinking that you didn't come all the way over here to talk me out of doing something.

—Of course not.

—What have you got up your sleeve, Mike?

—Here's what I think. They're headed overland. Helicopter access will be impossible. It won't have the fuel range. There's no way we could come up with one on such short notice anyway, even if we steal it.

—We've got work to do and not enough time to do it. Just off the top of my head, we're going to need a DC-3, at least two technicals and people to man them. Maybe a translator.

—And weapons. Don't forget weapons, Harry.

—Why are my girls out in the open desert? What the hell did that dumb son of a bitch do?

Barbara knew Harry would crawl through hell to get to his wife and daughter. He wouldn't let up until he had her. She pitied the men who did when he found them.

—We'll get her. We always do. We got her on the Baja. We'll get the two of them in the desert.

—Don't you mean the three of them?

—All of them. We'll get all of them.

Outwardly, Harry appeared to be satisfied with that, but Barbara could tell the wheels were still turning. She wasn't wrong.

—Art, before I forget, there's a couple more things we're going to need.

—You bet, Harry. Just let me know.

**Art didn't want** to be the one to disappoint Harry, but he was going to have a hard time keeping up with his demands. He didn't want to say no, either. From what he'd seen so far, Harry didn't like to hear the word.

—Whatever it is, you've got it.

—You might end up being sorry you said that. We're going to need two .50 cal's.

The look on Art's face said it all.

—And five thousand rounds to go with them.

Art shook his head again and grinned like a dog trying to screw a football.

—I've got some old legion contacts in Djibouti. I'll make some calls.

Barbara handed him a phone.

—Get to it. I'm going to find us a hangar.

Art moved off to make his calls. Harry wasn't finished with him yet.

—We're going to need some AKs. Extra magazines. A thousand rounds. See if you can dig up some RPGs too.

—Jesus. Anything else?

—Yes. See if you can get a line on an old DC-3 to hold it all. We'll need it to launch.

—I'll see what I can do about the Dakota, but I can't make any promises.

Harry's eyes bored into Art's.

—If you run into any problems, mention my name. Both Mike and I have been around these parts before. We're just not current at it, is all.

—When Mike said you'd been around, I didn't take it to mean you were once on the black market with arms.

Harry didn't answer and Art disappeared to make his calls.

—Bill!

Young Bill scrambled to Harry's side.

—Yes, sir.

—Art tells me you were a Huey door gunner. Is that right, or is it bullshit?

—No bullshit, sir.

—Don't call me sir. You're almost as old as Art. By any chance could you rig up a dual mount for a pair of .50 calibers? We'd need a floor mount to hang them on a DC-3. I'll want them pointed out the cargo door.

—I could do it better if we had the .50s sitting on the ground beside the airplane. I'd get it done a lot faster, too.

—I'll let you know.

Barbara returned from her search.

—I found a hangar. There's a tow coming up. We'll be behind closed doors shortly. Fuel is on the way.

—We're not going to need the hangar.

Mike was anxious to get airborne now that he knew where they had to be to join the crew providing the hardware they were buying.

—We'll be heading to JIB as soon as we take on fuel.

Nothing would delay him now. If something came up, he knew Harry and Barbara would see to it that there'd be no interference.

**The fuel bowser** approached the jet and halted beneath the wing. Barbara hurried towards it carrying the briefcase. An agitated Mike searched for Harry.

—Where the hell did Harry get to?

—I'm right here. I don't have a line on a DC-3 yet, but it looks like everything else is coming together.

In fact, Harry had a line, but he knew he couldn't tell Mike and Barbara about it. It would be too upsetting. In fact, he still hoped Art would make good and come up with his own plane.

—That was quick.

—Art had better not fail on the hardware acquisition.

—How many favors did you have to call in?

—More than a few, but one in particular is sure to come through for us.

—So you do have a line on a Dakota.

—No. But I managed to get a call through to our old friend in Galkayo.

—Ali? You mean that old bugger isn't dead yet?

—Not yet. He's got half a dozen technicals sitting around in parts.

—Parts won't do us any good.

—That's what I told him. He says not to worry. By the time we get there he'll have two put together from what's left of the others.

—Then he'll come through. He's never failed us yet.

—He gave his word he'd keep the strip open for us as soon as he could get to it. I told him we'd be another day.

—That's pretty optimistic, considering what we have to get done. In case you haven't noticed, we don't have an airplane.

Harry ignored Mike's comment about the plane. He didn't want to show his hand.

—He has a condition, though.

—We're bringing that old bugger guns and he has a condition?

—He sure does. He said he wants to meet the woman that got us both over here at the same time after so many years have passed by.

Barbara wasn't about missing a chance to get in a dig.

—I'm thinking he must have said something else, too.

—He did. He said she must be quite the woman.

Barbara couldn't let Harry off the hook that easily. In fact, she was surprised he was even talking about it. Something must have changed.

—Why is it that Ali knows that, even though he's never met Sasha, and you, who knows her better than anyone else, hasn't figured it out yet?

—You just have to start in on me, don't you?

Mike couldn't resist piling on.

—She's right, and you know it. Now what did you have to promise Ali?

—I told him we could probably come up with some munitions for him if he absolutely needed them.

—At least that part of it is settled. Having Ali's support is one less worry. If someone shows up to shut down the strip before we get there, Ali is capable of keeping it open.

—Bill says he'd be able to fabricate the dual mount for the .50s. He wants to have the guns sitting on the tarmac outside of the cargo door. He said he could eyeball it better that way.

The fuel truck disconnected and pulled away. Barbara paid with cash from the briefcase and climbed aboard the jet.

—We're good to go.

—Great. Now all we need is a couple of .50s and an airplane to put them in.

Art rushed up the stairwell into the jet looking far too happy.

—Let's fire up the APU and get this tin can to Djibouti. Thanks to some old legionnaire buddies, I've got a line on twin .50s and five thousand rounds. And all for the bargain price of seventy-five hundred.

—That's great. Now tell Harry. He'll be happy to hear it.

—Funny thing about that. When I mentioned his name, they dropped the price. Who the hell are you guys?

—I'll explain it when we're all sitting in a bar so I only have to tell the story once. In the meantime, Barbara is going to be our new First. While we're en route to Djibouti, you're going to help Bill sketch up a gun mount of some sort for the cargo door on a DC-3. That's where the twin .50s will be going. Oh, and maybe you could talk to your suppliers again and find us some RPGs to go along with the .50s.

—Harry already asked me to do that. I'm waiting for a call-back.

Bill slipped aboard. He ended up at the back of the jet on top of the cargo. His eyes were closed and he was breathing easily, fast asleep.

—Is he always that way? He'd better be one well-rested son of a gun by the time we arrive. Do you think he'll have any objection to being promoted to door-gunner again?

—You never told me you wanted a helicopter, too. Christ, where are we going?

—We're on our way to hell and back.

**Mike made sure** Harry took over the right seat on the flight to Djibouti. If there was ever an opportunity to encourage him to consider trading in his foot-loose and fancy-free lifestyle as a lifelong bush pilot to a more stable corporate environment, this was it.

—Do you think you could get to like this, Harry?

—Well, it has benefits for sure. Large airports over bush and desert strips. Hotel rooms over tents. Modern maintenance. How's the pay?

—Are you thinking of applying?

—I might be.

Mike grinned.

—In that case, I'll need you to fill out an application.

He went to reach into his briefcase.

—Not so fast. I'm going to need more time to think about it.

Mike straightened and switched off the autopilot.

—Why don't you get a feel for it? You have control.

The grin on Harry's face told him everything.

—I have control.

—I'll talk you through the settings we'll need for the approach to JIB when we get closer.

**Mike coordinated his** efforts in the cockpit with Harry's abilities at the flight controls. Harry was no amateur. He had plenty of flight time and experience in all kinds of aircraft types—none of them jet, of course.

Even so, his manner was smooth and his efforts were coordinated. Mike knew it wouldn't be long before Harry would be jet-qualified if he wanted to be.

—All of this is nice, Mike, but it's not taking my mind off of what's coming up. We're out of time. We have to stop the kidnappers in their tracks, fast. If they get to Eyl, they'll be unassailable in that pirate den. We'll never get my girls back.

—You're not alone in this. In my opinion, Art is one of the most qualified people on board. Bill, sleepy as he is, is no slouch in the art of metal-working.

—I didn't think you'd bring any slackers on this run. Even so, you're not going to like what I have to tell you.

—Don't stop now. I can take it.

—I was pushed to the edge. I had to sell my soul to get a DC-3 delivered to Djibouti.

—Don't worry about it. We'll cover it off together.

—Not this time, I'm afraid. I gave a personal guarantee just so you wouldn't be involved. There's a lot more to it than I'm going to tell you.

Harry checked the DME and changed the subject.

—We're almost there. It's time you started talking me down.

### ~ 6 ~

Tanzania

**HARRY SPOTTED THEM** first in the dark, dingy bar. In the dim light, they stood out like a lighthouse in a desert. One was blonde, the other brunette. They weren't much to look at, but the lights were low and so were expectations. A belly-full of beer didn't hurt either.

— _Wazungu_. What the hell are white women doing here? They're wearing camos.

—I noticed that. We have to check this out.

—You're right. Camos can hide a lot. You're closer. They are women, right?

The girls weren't shy. One kicked a couple of chairs in the right direction and Harry and Mike became instant prisoners. Irit was the brunette. The blonde was Eloria.

—We heard you're doing some bush flying in the area.

Harry gave Mike the look. You could never tell what was going on around here, and these were two he'd never seen before. No sense igniting controversy when none was warranted.

—We're doing some exploration work for a mining company in the area. By any chance are you new transfers with the company?

They finished their beer and laughed.

—You might say so.

—Your accent. I've heard it before. Israeli?

—Good guess, but no. Not even close. We're Canadian.

Harry rolled his eyes.

—Don't try to bullshit us. We've both worked with Israelis. You have the same accent when you speak English. _Aleichem Shalom_.

Mike disappeared in search of more beer. Harry stayed with the brunette.

—What are a couple of nice girls like you doing in a shit-hole like this?

They answered with more laughter and pulled out Galils hiding behind their chair-backs. Harry gave Mike the in-like-Flynn look when he came back.

—If I get in a bar fight, I want you two backing me up.

Mike agreed.

—And I'm guessing you work for the mining company, too.

There was more laughter while the girls stashed the Galils out of sight.

—You could be right. Now you know all about us, but we know nothing of you. Are you American?

—Hell no. We're a couple of lost Canadians looking for a place to live and women to love.

Irit was definitely interested. Harry wasn't so sure about Eloria, but what the hell, that was Mike's job.

—Canadian? That's all right with us, right Eloria? Come on, you two. Curfew is coming up. We have somewhere we need to be.

**Harry pulled the covers** back to get what he thought would be a last early-morning look at Irit sprawled across the bed on her stomach, arms and legs akimbo. Damn but he wanted to turn her over for a better look.

It wasn't to be this time. Last night his hand had been forcibly removed from under her pillow when his fingers brushed against cold steel. Whether a gun or a knife, he couldn't tell.

Mike stumbled into the bedroom from down the hall.

—It's time to get the hell out. We need to get far away from this trouble until we can figure out what's going on.

—I'm with you on that. Mine sleeps with steel under her pillow.

—You're lucky. Eloria has a loaded sawed-off under hers.

—There's no way I'm going to be pissing these two off. I'll be counting on you to remind me if I forget.

—The getting is good right about now. They're both snoring.

The ten minute walk to the plane gave them enough time to chase away last night's cobwebs. Harry began the DI on the Pilatus to ready it for the return flight to base camp. Two Jeeps screeched to a halt. Dry-heaving, still mostly drunk and hung-over mercs stumbled out.

—Check out the drivers.

—Christ. What the hell are they doing here?

—Well, you did tell them you were looking for a place to live and someone to love.

—I might have made a mistake. It wouldn't be my first.

Harry started in on the girls. They were just as hung over as the rest of them and in no mood for an argument. Eloria gestured towards the mercs with her Galil.

—Back off. We're with them.

—You should have mentioned something last night.

—We didn't know who you were last night.

He knew enough that around here, it wouldn't have been smart to announce it, either.

—Load those drunken excuses for mercs on board. You and your friend can wait here with Mike until I get back.

**Reverse pitch halted** the Pilatus in a thick cloud of red dust. Harry didn't shut down, but instead set the throttle to ground idle. Irit and Eloria took in the ratty condition of the plane. It looked like they were about to change their minds. Mike waved and instead, they loaded their gear. They climbed aboard and planted themselves on the floor.

—Doesn't this look cozy. No seat. No seat belts. No intercom. Nobody told us this was going to be an accident looking for a place to happen.

—Check out the AKs strapped to the bulkhead. Do you think they're for show or go?

Harry was hung over and in no mood for backtalk.

—Stop whining, ladies. You're in the army now.

—No, we were in the army back home. To get where we are now, we sold ourselves to the highest bidder.

Mike motioned for Irit to move up front with Harry.

—There's your seat and harness. Lock in. We're going on a ride.

Harry taxied the PT-6 to the end of the strip. He set flaps, locked the brakes, pulled the column full aft and powered up. He kicked in right rudder as he dialed in the engine. He rotated on the tail-wheel and set up the Porter for a steep climb-out. He banked and headed for the bush camp.

—You did that pretty good. How are you at landing?

—You're about to find out in just a bit.

At circuit height Harry waited for the strip to disappear under the nose of the Pilatus. He pulled the prop into Beta, dropped the nose to 45 degrees and the Porter descended like a summer fair carnival ride. At the bottom of the dive he flared to get the Pilatus into a three-wheel attitude for touchdown.

The high-pitched screaming wasn't coming from the engine. It didn't stop until the Pilatus gently bumped the runway. Harry couldn't shut down fast enough. Both passengers jumped out, ran to the tail and threw up.

—How was my landing?

The response came in stereo.

—Fuck you!

—Grab your gear and find a tent. The rest of us have work to do.

Six fully-armed men climbed aboard. One handed Harry a map and pointed at several spots marked on it.

—When we land, we'll be leaving one man with you and the plane. His orders are to let no one touch it or you on pain of death. Is that understood?

**The women walked** through the tents scattered under the canopy on the far side of the strip. When they got to the end, they turned and came back.

—Mike!

They weren't happy with what they discovered. The side-by-side racks they'd be sharing with the rest of the mercs weren't exactly what they hoped to find.

—What is it?

—We're moving our gear into your tent. Which one is it?

—What's the problem?

—We're not sharing bunks with those animals. We'll end up mincemeat the minute we fall asleep.

—You might have a point. Our tent is off to the side. Look for the one that has the shower in it.

—All the comforts, or what?

Mike's grin was bigger than he wanted.

—Well, it sure looks like it now.

### ~ 7 ~

Present Day

Horn of Africa

**GENE DIDN'T LIKE** Harry sticking his nose into his relationship with Sasha. He saw the useless GPS junk that Harry presented as an assault on his ability to look after them.

—Christa, I thought I told you to leave that thing at home. We won't be needing it.

—But Harry gave it to me. He said I could bring it on our trip for good luck.

—It's a cheap toy. It's not going to bring anyone good luck. It probably doesn't even work.

Gene tossed the Tracker onto the bed. When he wasn't looking Christa returned it to her backpack.

—Our driver is here. Let's get going. We have an airplane to catch.

—Is it really necessary to take us out into the middle of nowhere? Christa and I wanted to spend the day looking around. We're never going to have another opportunity like this.

—I want to show you how important this project is for CAN-AL. You can look around town next time. Now come on, we have to get to the airport.

Gene herded Sasha and her daughter out of the lobby and into the beat-up old _deux chevaux_. In twenty minutes they were aboard the Beach-18 charter and on their way to the desert strip a few miles from the oil company camp and well-site.

Sasha wasn't impressed. The Beech was an ancient piece of tin. Even Mike wouldn't be caught dead owning one. The operator was probably a local, hungry for oil money and running a scam of some sort to get CAN-AL to agree to hire it.

She looked across the aisle at her daughter. Christa was concentrating on the picture manual for the GPS Harry had presented to them. Given the age of the plane they were riding in, she hoped they wouldn't have to put it to use.

**The Beach landed** and bumped its way over the uneven desert sand strip. It slowly backtracked and taxied to the vehicles gathered at the side of the strip. Gene surveyed the unfamiliar trucks from his window. When the plane stopped, the trucks moved to block it in.

—Those aren't company people.

—Then who are they?

—I don't know. Stay here.

—Wait, Gene. Those look like AKs.

—What's an AK?

—Trust me, you don't want to find out if one is pointed in your direction. Christa, come over here with me. We're getting off now. You too, Gene.

—Let me handle this.

The girls stepped in front of Gene. Sasha pulled Christa down the steps as fast as she could. Gene reluctantly followed behind.

—Gene, half of those people look barely older than Christa.

The technicals opened up on the twin Beach, raking it from nose to tail with automatic fire. The pilot, the last to exit, was caught in the hail of gunfire as he stepped down the stairway. Tracer rounds passing through the wings ignited the fuel tanks. The Beach-18 turned into a smoking pile of melted aluminum.

—The three of you will come with us.

Sasha and Christa started towards the trucks. Gene hesitated.

—I'm with CAN-AL Oil. We're doing the drilling north of here. My people are supposed to be meeting me. Do you know anything about it?

—Get in the truck.

—But I'm with CAN-AL Oil. I have to get to our camp. I have meetings scheduled.

Exasperated with Gene and worried for her daughter's safety, Sasha was in no mood to put up with his whining. Gene was putting them in danger.

—Gene, do what they tell you. Do they look like they're not serious after what they just did to the plane?

—But I have meetings. They can't do this. We're supposed to fly back tonight.

—We're not going to be flying anywhere tonight. Keep it together and let's go. They've got the guns. That makes them the boss.

Sasha understood now that Gene was incapable of comprehending the situation the three of them were in. He couldn't fathom that they were in danger. His mindless ranting was annoying everyone–especially the kidnappers.

Unwilling to keep silent, Gene kept going on about getting to the camp for his meetings. Finally, an impatient kidnapper jabbed Gene in the gut with the butt of his AK. He gasped and finally shut up. Sasha helped him climb into a Jeep.

—Christa.

—Yes, mommy?

—Do you still have that thing Harry gave you?

—Yes. It's in my backpack.

—Do you remember how to work it?

—I think so. I studied the manual on the plane.

—I know. I saw you. I think now would be a good time to turn it on. Can you do that? You can pretend that it's a toy if anyone asks.

—All right, mommy.

—It is a toy. It'll never work. Damn it. I don't have time for this. Don't these people know who I am?

At a signal from a man in the back of the lead vehicle, the convoy got underway. The procession of vehicles moved slowly eastward, in the direction of the Indian Ocean. Sasha ignored Gene in the heat and the dust that trailed from the lead vehicles stretching out in front of them.

—Did you get it turned on, honey?

—Yes.

—Did you press the button and hold it down the way Harry showed you?

—Yes.

—Good girl. Give mommy a hug.

—Admit it, Harry's junk is useless and you know it. Your ex is still the loser he always was.

**When Somalia's national** airline went bankrupt, several of their DC-3s were acquired by interested parties. Those that weren't were mothballed. Thanks to Harry's globe-trotting habits and the contacts he made over the years, Mike pulled the jet in front of a deserted hangar and halted beside a Somali Air DC-3 parked on the tarmac. The former blue and white livery and the name were still painted on the side.

—Jesus, Harry, who did you call to get that thing to meet us here? More important, what's our payback going to be?

—I can't say. He had to fly it here, so at least we know it's airworthy. That should shorten our down time.

—You're ignoring the payback.

—Don't worry about it. It's all on me. When it comes I'll be answering the call on this one.

The mood inside the jet changed for the better immediately. Everyone knew the old plane was the missing key to the rescue. It was Barbara who stated the obvious.

—Come on, you guys. We've got work to do. We have twelve hours to turn this Dakota around.

Mike wasn't exactly jumping for joy about getting into the left seat of the old airplane given the reason for it. Even so, he was glad the DC-3 was something he was familiar with. That would make the task a little easier.

—I don't know how you did it, but this old Somali Air bucket of bolts is just the ticket we need. Do you have any idea how long it's been since I sat in one of these?

The look on Mike's face told Harry he was happy. Nothing would drag him away.

—I'd really like to help, but I'll leave rigging the Dakota up to you and Bill. I need to get Art over to his legionnaire comrades to collect the goods. Where did you put the cash?

—Barbara handles that. Barbara!

—Christ, stop yelling, you two. You'll end up getting us shipped off to a refugee camp.

—Harry needs cash.

—I know. I heard. Relax. I'm going with him.

Mike's old shotty hung off of her shoulder, under her jacket. It was just the way Mike used to wear it back in the old days. Harry knew those two were almost twins when it came to things like that. At least she was ready. There was nothing but hand tools for anyone else.

—That's my girl. Always taking care of me. Come on, Art. We have places to go and people to see.

Art didn't appear happy at the prospect of Barbara coming along for the ride to be a witness to his arms dealings. He was pretty sure the reason Barbara was a part of this operation was because she was Mike's wife. The ex-legionnaires would be far from impressed when he showed up with a woman. It might even scuttle the deal.

—Harry. Can I have a word?

—We don't have time, Art.

He pulled Harry away and started right in.

—What are we doing with that woman here? We don't need her. All we need is the cash. I wouldn't trust her with the men I have to deal with. What if she panics?

—Art, you'd better let her know yourself. Barbara. Come over here. Art has something he wants to tell you.

Harry worked his way behind Art. He pasted a huge grin on his face and waited. Barbara could tell something was up.

—Barbara, I don't want to be a spoil-sport, but do you really need to be tagging along with us? We're capable of handling it.

The grin on her face froze. She turned a steely-eyed look in Art's direction. Under more normal circumstances it would have melted steel. She had it toned down for Art.

—Tagging along? It's our money, not yours. If you have complaints, we'll settle them later. I don't have time for them now.

She flashed the twin barrels under her jacket and Art went silent. At that moment, Harry was glad to have her along. He knew her abilities, and he was damned glad of them.

—She's with me, Art. That's all you need to know.

—Then I guess that's the way it's going to be.

—Yes, it is. What about the AKs and mags to go with them? Plus the thousand rounds. Will your friends be able to hook us up?

—From the way they were talking, yes. They want to meet you.

Barbara led the way to the truck.

—Come on, you two. Enough talking. Let's see some action.

### ~ 8 ~

Present Day

Djibouti

**ART INTRODUCED HARRY** to his suppliers. He had the distinct feeling that he was being sized up for something. His mind wandered back to the woman who had helped Mike get across the border into Kenya years ago. Because of her, they were both alive.

At the time, he took Mike at face value when he told him Eloria had been killed in the attack. He didn't blame Mike for not going back to look for her in the heat of the pursuit and with lead flying. Now, he wasn't so sure.

Mike was convinced Eloria had been killed in the chase north to the Kenyan border. Neither of them had given a thought to going back for her because of that. Now, he wasn't sure that had been the right thing to do. Perhaps he should have done just that after getting out of the hospital.

Instead, he ended up taking Eloria's and Irit's Canadian passports to a foreign embassy rather than his own. When he presented them they disappeared behind a door. It was a long wait until someone came out. That was when he knew his hunch had been right. He ended up being asked to show some identification and then he was unceremoniously ejected from the embassy. The passports stayed behind.

He never told Mike.

Neither of them told their wives about that rescue exercise, either. How Mike ended up with Eloria's shotgun, now tucked under Barbara's jacket, was never discussed. They both thought it was a story better left untold. Until now.

When this was over he'd need to have a conversation with Mike about all of it.

**The overloaded two-ton** groaned to a stop in the dark beside the derelict DC-3. Bill helped unload the twin .50s. The scrap metal and acetylene waited on the ground. There was no time to waste. He fired up the generator and the lights. He arranged the steel and lit the cutter. The gun mount wouldn't be pretty, but in action it would be a killer.

—Art, do you see any problems with the .50s once we get them mounted?

—There'll be a couple. One, during the heat of the moment, we don't want to let the muzzles arc into the wing. Two, we want to keep them away from the elevator. Other than that, no.

—Is that a big deal?

—Not as long as we have rope or bungee cords to tie them off.

Harry still wasn't convinced Bill was capable of doing the job.

—We're sitting in the middle of night with nowhere to go for help. Does your guy know what he's doing?

—Oh, he knows all right.

—In that case, let's start the engines and see what we've got.

With a bit of nursing on the throttles, one engine followed by the other turned over without a hitch. After a couple of run-ups, Harry was satisfied.

—All the gages look normal.

—I agree. I'll fly in her.

—Barbara, how about taking the one-ton over to the FBO and get him to track down some empty fuel drums and an electric pump. We'll need tie-downs, too. Don't let him back here until we're done with the outfitting and ready to launch. I don't want him to see all this firepower. The Yanks are liable to shoot us down on sight. The French might give us enough time to get away when they wonder what the hell is going on.

—How about the Somalis?

—If they've got Sasha and Christa, they won't be long for this world.

**The gas welder** hissed and sparks flew in time with loud and frequent cursing. With Art's help, the design worked out on the flight to Djibouti began to take shape.

Harry opened boxes. It was like Christmas. The AKs looked to be brand new. The magazines would need loading and taping. The RPGs and their shells were all there. Ali would be happy when he got his hands on this freight.

—Come on Barbara, give me a hand. We have a lot of work to do. I'll show you how to load the mags. When we're done, I'll do the taping. I don't have time to show you how to do it.

—How about if I watch you do a couple and then I'll copy you.

—No, I don't think so. I'll be on the ground, down and dirty. I need to know those mags will work the way they should. Next time, okay?

He knew right away he shouldn't have said it.

—Next time? Next time? If that woman tries this shit again, I'll take the butt-end of an AK to her myself.

—You're supposed to remember how it works. Sasha gets herself in trouble, and you and I come looking for her.

—Yes, well, this time there's two of them.

—I don't need to be reminded. Thanks to that imbecile Gene, my ex and our daughter are wandering around the desert at the whim of a bunch of land-based pirates.

—I can't help it. I'll tar and feather that woman myself.

—Did you manage to get another look at the GPS locater when you ordered the fuel drums?

—They're still moving overland. It looks like they're headed to the coast, like you thought. It looks to be slow going for them. They haven't covered a lot of ground since the last time I checked.

—Probably pirates out of Eyl fed up with their chances on the ocean. They're looking for easier targets for ransom. I hope Gene is smart enough to keep his mouth shut about what a bigwig he is.

—I wouldn't think that's going to happen, but you didn't hear it from me. He likes to run off at the mouth about how important he thinks he is. Mike won't say anything, but he knows the guy can be a jerk.

—We have to get to them before they get to the coast. If they get to Eyl, they'll disappear in the town and we'll never see them again. I'm going to give Ali a call. Keep stuffing those mags.

—You're going to give me a lesson in how to handle an RPG. When the time comes, I want to know how to light something up, big time.

—No problem, girl. I'll hook you up.

Mike walked up in time to hear the tail-end of the conversation.

—Hook her up with what? What kind of a deal are you two cooking up now?

—Your wife wants to learn how to fire an RPG.

—I'm good with that. Just make sure she doesn't bring one home.

**Harry was getting** more anxious by the hour. The longer they spent on the ground, the more likely it was that someone would show up to ask questions about what was going on. That it was the middle of the night didn't help matters. That only made what they were doing more suspicious. The less time they spent in the shadow of the deserted hangar, the better.

His wife and daughter were wandering around in the desert with pirates bent on ransoming her boyfriend to the highest bidder. Christ on mighty, but what the hell was she doing out there? Gene had turned out to be a dumbass. He'd have to have a talk with her about that man the next chance he got.

—How's that mount coming along, Art?

—It's done. We're ready to install.

—All right. We need to get the drums loaded first.

—Barbara, what time did you arrange for fuel?

—0400 local time.

Harry checked his watch.

—How did you make out with the mags?

—They're ready to go. You'll have plenty of time to tape them on the flight.

One thing bothered Harry about the .50s. It was Art's description of how they could swing into the wing and the tail. If Bill became distracted or got carried away with the action on the ground, it would be disastrous.

—What did you come up with to protect our wings?

—Once we get straight and level, I'll cut some rope and tie them off on either side. It's primitive, but it won't be a problem.

—Sounds good. Now, who's missing? Where's Mike?

—Right here. I just got off the phone with Ali. He'll meet us at the strip with the technicals. If he has to, he'll take it and hold it for us until we get there. He'll bring fuel for us, too.

The one thing Harry and Mike had going for them was the location in the desert where Sasha and Christa had disappeared. Years earlier they had both worked in the area. It was then that they met Ali and developed an instant rapport with the clan head-man.

—In that case, forget about loading the fuel drums. We won't need them.

A vehicle with lights blazing proceeded towards the planes parked at the far end of the strip.

—What the hell is this? Guys, we've got company coming up.

—Douse the lights. We don't need anyone seeing what we're doing.

The car's headlights remained on while two doors slammed. The men lit cigarettes, and the double flash of light illuminated two pairs of gleaming white teeth smiling in the dark.

—I can't get to an AK.

Under her jacket Barbara pulled back the hammers on both barrels.

—Don't worry, I've got you covered.

—You would, wouldn't you?

—You're damned right I would. Who the hell is going to look after you two if I don't?

—I've heard that before.

—You know it. Now get rid of those bastards.

— _Salaam_. What can we do for you this early in the day?

— _Salaam alaikum_. Someone has requested that we collect payment for taking up parking space on his end of the airport.

—Who would that be? We don't pay _baksheesh_ unless we know where it's going.

—We have been sent by the people who are accompanying your friends in the desert.

Barbara raised the shotty hanging off of her shoulder.

—In that case, here's your baksheesh. Drop it off on your way to hell.

The men stepped back, not fast enough. Barbara pulled both triggers and two barrels exploded. Enough buckshot carried past the intruders to douse the headlights. The recoil forced her into a quarter-turn. She recovered instantly, breached and reloaded.

—Anyone else? No? All right, guys. It's past time to get your pale white asses in gear and get airborne before _les flics_ arrive.

The men milled around, not quite sure what they had witnessed. Art's eyes were as huge as saucers in the darkness. Barbara shouldered past all of them and climbed aboard the DC-3. She turned at the cargo door.

—Are you all going to stand around looking guilty? Someone clean up the tarmac and load those two in the trunk.

—Come on, boys. Let's do what the woman says.

—Art, gather up my shell casings.

—Yes, ma'am.

### ~ 9 ~

Tanzania

**THE LOW-AND-SLOW** , short-field capabilities of the Pilatus were prized by both pilots and operators. It had been engineered to give access to locations that would otherwise be inaccessible. Areas with rough ground, at high altitudes, and with extremely short landing runs surrounded by steep approach and departure paths, could all be accessed in the Porter outfitted with the powerful PT-6 engine.

But while those characteristics inherent in the design were a positive for the pilots flying the aircraft, there were some flaws in the equation. The slow-speed, low-altitude characteristics were a definite liability when it came to landing in a hot zone.

Harry lined up with the strip and set up his high-angle approach. The small plane disappeared beneath the canopy surrounding the strip and touched down. He stood on the brakes, pulled the control column full aft, and reverse-pitched to halt the landing run. The Pilatus stopped in a thick cloud of dust and sand kicked up by the powerful engine and its massive propeller.

In mere seconds after touchdown all hell broke loose. Harry didn't yet realize it, but he had put himself and his passengers in the middle of a hot zone. Gunfire raked the fuselage. The first mercs out the door beat a hasty retreat and climbed back in. In an attempt to hasten his getaway, Harry attempted a fast taxi to the far end of the strip. While making the turn, a shower of lead erupted in the cockpit. He managed to make it out the door before passing out.

Enveloped by a thick cloud of dust, the mercs exited into the unknown. First out set up a perimeter around the aircraft and retrieved Harry. Outgunned, the survivors retreated into the bush under a hail of gunfire. They were forced to low ground and ended up pinned down in the depression.

**Irit and Eloria** were in the ops tent when the radio call came in. Eloria ran to Mike's hooch. She shook him awake.

—Wake up! Come on, get up!

—What the hell are you doing? What time is it?

—It's late afternoon. Harry isn't back. We just heard a radio call for help. They're taking fire.

Still groggy, Mike dressed, turned his boots upside down and bumped them together before lacing up. He splashed water on his face and allowed Eloria to haul him in the direction of the ops tent.

The sound of gunfire echoed in the background of the panicked voice behind the radio calls. As information trickled in, the gravity of the situation became clear. The Pilatus, their lifeline to the outside world, had been shot up, likely beyond repair. There was no mention of Harry.

—See what else you can find out. I'm going to suit up.

Mike loaded his backpack with full mags for the AK and some water and ration bars. When he returned, Irit and Eloria were waiting.

—By the sound of that gunfire it's not far. Will you be coming with me?

—We checked the map. The bush strip is only a couple of kilometers away.

Irit pointed at the location on the map.

—So then, are you volunteering?

—We're ready to go. What's in your pack?

—Mags and food.

—Pick up some grenades. And smoke markers in case we need to pop one. Did you get a radio?

—No. I never thought of it.

—We have them.

—Are you sure you want to come with me on this gig?

—Why not? You and Harry treated us all right. Why wouldn't we want to get Harry back? Besides, we're getting paid for this. And we like the way your hooch is outfitted with a shower.

She didn't mention that they probably wouldn't be seeing the inside of the flight crew's hooch again.

Mike slipped the map and topo sheets into his pack.

—In that case, I feel a lot safer with you than some of the war dogs still sitting on their happy asses in camp.

**Mike took a** compass bearing and began to walk in the direction of the strip. The girls followed with a minim of conversation.

Progress wasn't difficult. The light ground cover and low scrub provided few obstacles to hinder their advance. As they closed the distance to the strip the sound of gunfire became sporadic. The two sides had to have settled into their positions with neither giving ground.

—Mike.

He stopped.

—Wait here. Stay down. Do not move until we return.

The women quietly advanced to flank two thickets fifty meters apart. Both disappeared into the brush. A flash of sunlight on steel gave up Eloria's position. Then nothing.

Minutes later he heard a chirp and Eloria motioned him to move towards her. In the thicket two bodies lay sprawled on the ground, one on top of the other.

—Do not look. You're not accustomed to seeing that.

The capabilities of these women suddenly became crystal clear to Mike. In the bar, wearing their camos, he and Harry thought they were just a couple of women mugging the part. Even when they pulled the Galils out, they still hadn't been completely convincing. The fact that they had showed up in camp wasn't unusual, either. They could have been a couple of camp followers hired for mess duty.

He was convinced now. They were stone cold killers when they needed to be. He was glad they volunteered to help him get to Harry.

—Follow me. Stop and drop when I say.

There was no doubt now. He'd do whatever she told him. Off to the left Irit crouched and leveled her Galil. Eloria did the same and motioned for him to drop beside her.

—Do you see that huge tree and the thicket under it?

He wiped the sweat from his forehead and nodded.

—We think the rest of them are in there. Can you put a grenade into it?

—Yes.

He pulled one out of his pack.

—When I give the signal, pull the pin and throw. Don't hesitate.

—I can do that.

—The sound of it dropping in the dirt should chase them out if they're paying attention. When they run, start picking them off. Irit and I will finish up what you and the grenade miss.

He had no doubt these two were more than capable of finishing up what he'd miss. Given that he'd never intentionally killed anyone, it was bound to be-

—Throw it now.

Jesus. She didn't even give a warning. He pulled, pitched too short and the grenade bounced into the thicket. Five men scrambled out and cursed their way into the clear. The grenade exploded. The women firing their Galils picked them off in rapid succession. He never got a chance to fire a round.

Eloria motioned again for him to follow. She finished off her targets with the shotgun. Irit's pistol echoed the shotgun's boom. These two were something else. This was going to be a hard act to follow.

—Come. Walk with me.

She whistled into the canopy. Someone whistled back.

—Over this way. Come.

He followed them as they walked the ridge surrounding the depression towards where they thought the men would be. The danger appeared to be over. With Eloria on point and Irit and Mike bringing up the rear, it was only minutes until they crossed paths with Harry and the crew of mercs.

—How is he doing?

—He's okay. He has a head wound, and his shoulder is shot up, but he'll be all right. We've all survived worse.

—How are we going to get out of this mess? The plane is finished. We're going to have to walk back the way we came.

—There's no way to get out of camp, even if we wanted to go back to it.

Mike pulled out the map sheet.

—Will this help? How about the rest of you guys? Any ideas?

The mercs moved away and began whispering. Following a couple of minutes of heated discussion, one left the grouped and approached Mike.

—We're going back to camp. You can stay here with the pilot and the women. We don't want anything to do with them.

Mike was livid. It was beyond him how these supposedly brave men refused to acknowledge they had been rescued by two women and a man who weren't a part of their profession.

—Would that be because you were just pulled out of the frying pan by a couple of women?

Mike's scornful look had no effect on the hardened mercs. Their only intent was to get back to camp.

—Incidentally, those women did more to save your incompetent asses than all of you put together. The rest of your esteemed crew is still sitting on their asses back in camp. They didn't even bother to go to the radio room.

No answer, but then he didn't expect one.

—Leave me with some spare mags and grenades. The women have everything they need. We won't be needing you. So long.

The sullen mercs headed off in the direction of camp. Mike splashed the still unconscious Harry with water. He groaned and opened his eyes.

—How many fingers do you see, pardner?

Harry strained to answer. He looked up, grinned at Mike and tried to focus.

—Do you want the truth, or would you like me to sugar-coat it?

—Give it to me straight. I can take it.

—By the look of it, I'd say not enough to get us out of this mess. I see you brought the women to cook and clean. Good deal.

He passed out before Irit and Eloria could get a word out. It was probably just as well.

—He'll pay for that when he's better.

—Somehow, I think he knows that. He's probably dreaming about it right now.

### ~ 10 ~

Present Day

Horn of Africa

**MIKE CHECKED THE** weight and balance numbers. Five hundred statute miles overland before arriving over the desert landing strip. Slightly more than 2,500 pounds of fuel. A little better than half a tank. Thanks to Ali's promise of fuel waiting at the remote desert strip, he'd take on the fuel necessary for the return trip to Djibouti.

There would be plenty of fuel remaining for a strafing run on arrival before he'd need more. He didn't want it to go that way, of course. He needed to get his passengers deplaned, as well as the arms offloaded. It would make the 3 a lot lighter and easier to maneuver.

He climbed into the left seat. Harry was waiting for him in the right. He tapped the gages and dialed in the altimeter. Outside, Art circled the flashlight. It was time to fire up number one.

—Old habits die hard, I see. You still do that on those jets?

Both Harry and Mike had learned to fly in the bush pilot environment of single-engine aircraft and unreliable indicators.

—Yeah. You're right. The guys make fun of me for it, but I do it anyway.

Mike taxied to the end of the paved strip and lined up the nose of the DC-3. He advanced the throttles and the 3 gently lifted off the runway with plenty to spare. He kept it low over the water until he was away from the city.

More comfortable away from the lights he left behind, he turned southeast and dialed in the twin-engine power settings that would give the old plane a climb of 1,000 feet per minute.

He knew he was a little rusty with his seat-of-the pants flying ability in the left seat of the old Dakota. He hadn't done any in years.

The plane reached cruising altitude. Mike reduced power to cruise and relaxed only a bit. Across the flight deck, Harry sensed that his old friend was concerned.

—How does it feel to sit in one of these again since getting fat and lazy in your jets back on the oil patch?

—I'd feel a lot better if I had a horizon. This bucket of bolts has no instrument panel.

—What are you complaining about? We've got a turn and bank. I see an artificial horizon. There's an NDB. You keep an eye on the engine instruments. I'll do the flying and watch the panel.

—You're right. Dial in the reverse NDB for the strip we're headed towards. It's been too long since I did any seat-of-the-pants flying.

—In that case, I have control. We'll get a horizon in a bit. You can take her when the sun starts to come up.

—I'm glad you're my co-jo on this fly-by-night charter, Harry.

—I wouldn't have it any other way, old friend. But don't be too hasty. We haven't discussed salary and benefits yet.

In the back, Bill located a flat spot on top of the wooden RPG boxes. He curled up and did what he did best, sleep and snore. The sound of the man's snores got the better of Barbara. She relocated, only to find herself trapped beside Art on the ammo cases.

He kept staring out the window, and she was glad of it. It meant he wouldn't be pestering her with questions she didn't want to answer anytime soon.

Finally it all caught up to Art. He began to wonder exactly what he had gotten himself into with these people. He had more than a few questions. He walked forward and nudged Mike. He pretended to be casual, but the look on his face was serious.

—Holy shit, you guys, where did you find these women?

—Is there something wrong with our women, Art?

—No, no. I'm just sayin'. There's one hanging a sawed-off shotgun from her shoulder who isn't afraid to use it, married to the guy who pays my salary.

—You're right. That's my wife. Don't forget it.

—There's another one wandering around out in the desert like she's related to Moses.

—Right again. And that's my ex-wife.

—When the people who ponied up the arms asked who the buyers were going to be, I was a bit reluctant to tell them. Then I thought about it and figured that since you're new to these parts, I'd give your names up.

—What did you find out, Art?

—When I told them who you were, they knocked thousands off the price.

—Think of the money you saved us. Because of that, maybe there'll be a little something extra in next week's pay envelope when we get home.

—I get the feeling there's something you're not telling me, but I'm afraid to ask. Who are you, and why haven't I ever heard of you before?

He held out the shotty's shell casings for Mike. Instead, Harry took them and handed them back.

—We like to keep a low profile. Maybe Mike will fill you in when he has time. In the meantime, be sure to give these to Barbara.

—Exactly. We're kind of busy using the seat of our pants to keep this bucket of bolts on the straight and level. I wouldn't want to say for sure, but right now might not be a good time to be asking. Go on back and talk to Barbara. She'll tell you all about it.

Art disappeared behind the crates.

—He bought it. Damn, but he's a brave man.

—It's going to get interesting back there.

—She'll set him straight. Did you see the look on Barbara's face when he told her he didn't want her coming along with the cash on the buy?

—I did, and I was ready to grab the shotgun because it looked like she was going to use it. I didn't want her shooting him right then. He was still useful.

—When she flashed that shotty to show him who was boss that shut him up in a hurry.

Art took up his seat beside Barbara and began peppering her with questions. Finally she had enough. She politely excused herself and headed for the cockpit.

—Which one of you shoved him in my direction?

Harry and Mike pointed at each other.

—I figured. But don't worry. He's one of us now. He asked if he could see the shotgun but first he wanted to know if it was loaded.

—Did you give it to him?

—No way. After I opened it to show him it really was loaded, I closed it up. I'm no virgin, remember?

—We remember!

—No woman could stay one for long hanging out with the two of you. Now what are you going to do about Sasha? Harry?

Christ. The woman hasn't changed in all these years. She was still the same old Barbara, asking questions he didn't want to answer. His ex was the same way.

—First on the list is sweeping her sweet ass up off the desert.

—That's not what I meant, and you know it.

—I know—and I don't know. She seems to be pretty settled on Gene. Christa seems to like him, too. Besides, Sasha picked him, so he must be quite the guy.

—Well, you're in the hot seat now. That must say something about your feelings.

—Christa is always going to be my daughter. Sasha and I get along well enough that we can share her without any problems. If one of them is in trouble, they're both in trouble.

—You need to do more than pay the bills, Harry. I'm telling you.

—Is there something I need to know?

—You need to know that you're back in the middle of a desert on the Horn of Africa. You're chasing after your ex-wife and daughter who are following another man around the continent. That same dumbass with half a brain is leading all of us on a magic carpet ride across sand dunes. If the son of a bitch that put those two into this mess had any cojones, he'd be—

Harry scanned the instrument panel. His eyes halted at the hydraulic oil pressure indicators. He held up a hand to silence Barbara.

—Tell Art to come up front, please. Right away. I have a question for him.

**Art scanned the** hydraulic control panel on the bulkhead. Harry tapped the hydraulic pressure gage. The system pressure had dropped, but so far seemed to be holding steady.

—If we lose pressure, we lose the landing gear.

—Has the needle moved since you first noticed it?

—No. Are we going to be able to keep this thing in the air for another half hour until sunrise? We'll need until then to look for a track to put her down on.

—How has the landing gear pressure been?

—Steady.

Art ran through a mental checklist for the old DC-3. It had been ages since he last worked on one.

—The hydraulic pumps are driven off of an accessory gear box on each engine. Use the selector to switch between them.

—I've been doing that. It looks like number one.

—It should hold until we get to the strip. When you weren't looking, I put on a drum each of hydraulic fluid and oil. We'll be good once you get her on the ground. If it's a leak I can't fix, I'll rig a setup with the drum and a hand pump to keep the tank filled while we're in the air.

—Thanks, Art. You're a good man

—Not as good as Mike's wife. I can't wait to meet the other one roaming the desert.

—Two, Art. There's two good women roaming the desert.

He raised an eyebrow and went aft to sit with the ever-sleeping Bill. By now he knew that he wasn't exactly Barbara's cup of tea.

—That's got him. Go easy, Harry. He's not made like the rest of us.

—Maybe not, but he deserves a bonus after what he and his buddies did for us by getting all that hardware.

—Don't worry. When we get everyone's asses out of this mess, I'll take care of both of them. I just hope Bill's mount doesn't come apart from the pounding it's going to take from those twin .50s. If it doesn't hold together long enough to see this through—

—You don't have a plan B, do you?

—No.

—Neither do I.

**The relentless noonday** sun beat down on the vehicle convoy. Waves of heat reflected off the light-colored sand. Everything in the open Jeep was hot to touch. Sand and dust covered everyone and everything. In their new environment, the captives were sunburned, thirsty, and extremely uncomfortable.

—We're getting hungry.

—It is almost noon. We will be stopping soon to put up some shade for you and your daughter.

—Thank you. The water isn't enough for my daughter.

Water didn't appear to be a problem for Gene. Even Christa had seen him taking more than his fair share. He had to be bribing the men—at least until the cash in his pocket ran out. She wondered how far he would get with the kidnappers when the money ran out.

—You will be fed when we get to camp.

—Where's camp?

—You will find out soon enough.

Gene, still on his self-important rant, proved harder to satisfy. The extra water he had access to let him think he had some pull with the kidnappers.

—Will there be a phone there? I need to call my company. They'll be worried that they haven't heard from me.

Just who was this man she had tied her wagon to? Even Christa could tell that Gene didn't care about either of them. She should have kept Harry when she had the chance. There were none like him anyway. Any doubt she had was long gone now.

—Honey, did you press the button again like I asked you to?

—Yes. But the little light didn't come on.

Batteries. Either it had been enough, or they were doomed to be imprisoned in some shit-hole on the Horn of Africa until a ransom demand was sent out. How long would that take? Then there would be endless negotiations. She began to think that the mess that Gene had put them in would never end.

She had to accept blame, too. She went off on this trip thinking it would cement her relationship with Gene and allow her to get to know him better. Well, she was certainly getting to know him better.

Ever since Harry, marriage was nothing she considered lightly. As it turned out, this trip was certainly letting her get to know Gene better than she wanted. So far, she didn't like what she saw, and even less what she was learning about him.

She doubted it would get any better.

She had no way of knowing if the distress messages were getting through. She began to worry even more about her daughter and the situation they both found themselves in. It was almost too much to hope that Harry and Mike would show up to save the day.

Even so, she did it anyway.

**Harry had a** difficult time wrapping his head around the fact that Sasha had gone on this trip with Gene. Not only that, but she had taken their daughter with her. Surely if she had spent any time thinking about where they were headed, she would have re-considered taking Christa.

It wasn't Sasha's first rodeo, especially after what had transpired on the Baja with all of them. She probably thought she'd spend a couple of nights in a foreign city somewhere, see the sights with Christa, and then meet Gene when he got back from the oil company site.

That was more than reasonable. He'd have been more than happy to go along with that. No doubt Gene didn't tell her he was planning on taking the two of them out to the well-site in the middle of the desert, five hundred miles from any semblance of civilization.

Hell, if she had asked him, he could have given her a better picture of the problems. But he also knew that wouldn't have stopped her. That's one of the things he loved about the woman. She did things her way on her terms. My way or the highway, he liked to tease her.

Well, now she was in the middle of the desert on a highway to hell.

Dammit, he should have tried to stop her. At the very least, he should have tried to talk her out of taking Christa. Sasha would have gone anyway, with or without his permission. But she could have left Christa with Barbara.

It occurred to him that she should have been able to leave their daughter with him, but he was in town for only a few days.

Now his daughter had become a part of Gene's folly. He was obviously trying to show off for them. Jesus, do men ever grow up as far as a woman is concerned?

He already knew the answer to that. He was guilty as hell.

**It proved to** be slow going once the kidnappers abandoned the main trail. They were moving the convoy east over trackless sand, gravel and rock outcrops. Sign of any roadway or even a trail disappeared hours ago. The slower pace was a welcome relief in the relentless heat.

Sasha was almost happy that they'd soon encounter cooler temperatures once they ran up against the Indian Ocean.

The convoy continued to labor overland across a vast expanse of unbroken sand. The Jeeps and half-tons weren't capable of making time in the loose and deepening material. It turned into wind-formed dunes. The trucks sunk up to their axles in the loose sand. It halted the convoy in its tracks.

At first, Sasha worried about what the kidnappers wanted with the three of them. As the ordeal went on, it became obvious that they were after Gene. She relaxed only a little and started to treat it as an adventure for her and Christa.

What else could she do? They were trapped. There'd be no getting out until Harry showed up. At least, that's what she had been telling herself. She really had no idea whether the Tracker signals got through or not.

—Get out. There will be no more travel for today. We are finished.

An annoyed Gene couldn't keep his mouth shut.

—Stuck? Do you dumb bastards know how to drive?

—Gene, if I were you, I'd shut up and do what they say.

—What makes you such an expert with these idiots? They don't even know how to drive a truck across a desert, for Christ's sake.

—You must listen to what your woman says.

—She's not my woman. She has to marry me before I'll ever listen to the likes of her.

This was certainly illuminating. Sasha started to think that Gene would be better off without her—and certainly without Christa. Too bad she had to get stranded in the middle of an African desert to figure that out.

Where were all the good men in the world that she had saddled herself with someone like Gene? She should have listened to Barbara when she chastised her for not getting back with Harry. In fact, she made up her mind to tell her just that the next time she saw her.

From what she could tell, it wasn't going to be any time soon.

She turned to ask Gene a question and instead saw one of the kidnappers knock him on the side of the head with the butt of an AK. Gene landed face-down in the sand. Finally he was quiet.

This time, she didn't make a move to help him.

Instead she used the opportunity to get a better look at the weapons the kidnappers were carrying. She had seen them before. They were definitely AKs.

She flashed back to her time on the Baja when Harry had taken her under his wing. He had trained her how to fire the AK-47s they had. She'd do just about anything to get her hands on one.

She had some thinking to do. She'd bide her time and try to come up with a plan. Then she saw them.

The bastards had bags of taped magazines in the back of the Jeep she was riding in.

### ~ 11 ~

Tanzania

**MIKE HALTED ON** the edge of a small clearing five hundred feet distant from the wrecked Pilatus. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He regarded his three companions. The women were doing fine. It was Harry that worried him.

—Gather round, ladies. You too, Harry, if you can stay with us.

Mike opened the map case he had taken from the ops tent. Half-a-dozen aerial photos slipped out and fell to the ground. He unfolded the map and smoothed the dirt before laying it on the ground beside the photos. He placed his compass on the map and pieced together the photos to match.

—Well now. This is too good to be true. We're in business.

He lined up the photos with the outdated map sheet. He checked the compass alignment and studied the black and white terrain.

—Does anyone have any input?

—You two are the pilots. What do you see that we can't?

—I'm not sure. Harry, take a look here.

Harry groaned and opened his eyes. The spot Mike pointed out on the photo showed up brighter than the others.

—Looks like a mine. What are you thinking?

—It's a mine, all right. Probably tanzanite. If we can get there, we can steal a truck and get the hell out of this mess. What do you say, Eloria? Irit?

—We're game. We won't be going back to the base camp. Now that we know how those little boys with their tiny penises feel about being rescued by women, we'd be dead meat in no time.

—That's the spirit. Does that mean you'll be making it a foursome?

—We were looking forward to the showers in your tent. Now that it is out of the question, we will need a conference first.

Their grins matched and then they broke out in laughter.

—Yes, we're coming with you.

Irit pulled a bandage roll out of her bag. She allowed Harry to remain with his back leaning against a small tree while she finished the first aid job the mercs started. His arm ended up cradled in a home-made sling.

—Harry.

She snapped her fingers and shook him.

—Harry! Are you able to walk on your own?

He groaned, still out of it.

—I think so. If not, you'll have to carry me, pard.

—Fat chance, old man. We'd be fresh meat in no time. You're going to have to suck it up.

The women began collecting their gear.

—Come on, you two. We can't stay here. In case you forgot, there's fresh feed for the hyenas just over there.

Irit gestured in the direction of the downed plane.

—You're right. I have to get back to the plane to pick up my pack and the AK. Who's coming?

—We'll all go. There's a survival kit on board. We can check our course to the mine from there. Judging by the distance, it's going to be a long stroll through the bush—at least two days.

Harry groaned again, but this time it wasn't from the pain.

—Two days? I'll never make it.

—Yes, you will. Give up and I'll have to kill you. You wouldn't want the hyenas tearing you apart while you're still alive.

—He's right, Harry.

—You two aren't going to be any help, are you?

Mike helped Harry gather up his backpack and the rations. Then he unstrapped the AK from the cabin.

—I don't know if you'll be able to carry this. Give it a try for a bit. If you can't, we'll dump it.

Harry was as ready as he could be with a mild concussion and a shoulder wound.

—Did you figure out a bearing?

—We're good. We won't move without you.

—That's comforting. Do I have to stay awake the whole time, or can I trust you to be with me when I wake up?

**The foursome made** good time, even with the wounded Harry slowing them down. The ground cover was light and the underbrush uneven yet easy enough to walk through. By mid-afternoon they were at a shallow stream flowing into a small pool.

—It's late enough. We'll hole up back of that stream until it's daylight in the swamp.

—What's for supper, girls?

—We don't cook. We fight.

—That's the truth, and that's all right—this time. Come on, Eloria. We're going for a swim. I need to clean up.

An eager Mike wasn't thinking about the possibilities for fresh game making its way to the waterhole.

—You can't swim in that. Something will eat you. If there's nothing to eat you in the water, wait until something comes for a drink.

—Don't be a spoilsport. One of us will stand guard for the other. I'll keep watch first, you clean up.

—No, you will go first. If there's nothing in that water that wants you, then we'll switch.

—That's good enough for me. The rest of you, don't wait up for us if you hear growls and screams.

—Yeah, I know. I heard the two of you back in town, remember?

The pair laughed and headed off in the direction of the pool.

—Harry, if you're feeling up to it, why don't you throw some wine and cheese together while we're getting cleaned up?

Already Irit had Harry on the ground and was attempting to make him comfortable. She moved off to gather wood for a fire.

—Would you like a formal white tablecloth, or would checkered be more to your liking?

**They broke camp** slowly, fatigued from standing watch for large animals on their way to the watering hole. It was a struggle to keep Harry moving forward. His shoulder wound slowed him down, as did the developing limp from the concussion.

—Is he going to make it?

—He will make it with your help. We will help you.

Noon saw them come out on a low hill overlooking the mining operation. Eloria searched in her bag and came up with small scope. She trained it on the open-pit tanzanite mine.

—There's a blockhouse with a couple of guards. The road in has a swing gate. No fence. No perimeter road or trail.

—It's not patrolled.

—What about vehicles?

—One-tons. A Rover. A small half-ton of some sort. It looks like they're all junk.

—What about that Rover? Does it look like it might be good? Every car lot has them. Once we hit civilization we'd be able to trade for some traveling money.

—Traveling money? That's a tanzanite mine. All the money we could want is sitting there for the taking.

—Maybe so, but we still have to get our hands on it.

Eloria kept up her search using the scope.

—The only guards are sitting in the blockhouse at the gate. That has to be where the goods are kept until they're shipped. Why don't we take possession and make the next delivery?

Harry sighed, disappointed that he'd be unable to participate in the action.

—Don't count on me. I'm out of it.

—No problem. I will move closer to the blockhouse to provide cover if it is necessary. Mike will drive the Rover. Eloria will cover for him if they take fire.

—There shouldn't be resistance until we get close to the blockhouse. Even then, they won't know who's coming up on them. We'll have the element of surprise.

—While we're there, how about if we look for something to eat?

—On top of everything else, now you're hungry?

—Enough daydreaming, you Canadians. Let us go.

Mike and Eloria walked nonchalantly down the hill. They made straight towards the coveted Rover. Mike yanked the wires from the steering column, flashed pairs until he found the correct sequence, and the Rover fired up like a dream come true.

They stopped for Harry waiting on the side of the road and drove down the rough trail towards the guardhouse. By the time they arrived, Irit had the blockhouse under control.

The charge she set on the strongbox exploded with a bang that was loud enough to wake the dead. They waited until the cloud of dust and debris and smoke cleared.

All told, they ended up with nothing more than a few shillings of worthless local currency for all the trouble.

—Shit! There is nothing. We have to get out of here now.

**Mike kept the** Rover moving north in the direction of the border with Kenya as fast as he could. It wasn't easy on the rough, potholed road as it bounced and jerked and rocked back and forth.

Up front, Eloria rode shotgun with the twin-barreled cut-off across her lap. Ideally, she used it only for close-in work. Now that they were on the run, she found it best to be prepared for any eventuality.

Every time the wheels drove through a rough patch, Harry groaned in the back. Beside him, Irit pushed back and steadied herself against Mike's seat-back. Dutifully, she scanned the road just traveled for any eventuality that would prevent them from making the border.

Mike looked at the odometer and did a quick calculation.

—We're almost home-free. Only a few kilometers to go.

At that exact moment, Irit yelled.

—Jeep! Coming up fast.

Mike jammed the pedal to the floor. The Rover rocked and rolled even more violently. A badly-aimed RPG round whooshed past and struck a tree. It exploded in the canopy and scattered broken glass and scattered branches over everyone.

—Irit! Where the hell did that come from?

Nothing. Mike tried stomping on the gas in an attempt to keep them as far ahead of their pursuers as he could. The Rover had nothing left to give. It was at top speed, bouncing over the uneven road with a fury.

—Can someone look at a map and see how far we are from the border?

In the back, Irit lay sprawled across the seat beside Harry. A thick, sharp branch protruded from her chest. Eloria bent over her friend, frantically trying to resuscitate her. Cursing, she gave up and dropped the seat-back. She had both Galils cradled in her lap. Grenades bounced on the floor.

—Those bastards aren't going to get away alive.

—Pop some smoke. That might keep them off us for a bit. It can't be that much farther to the border.

On a straight stretch, in the open and exposed, Mike caught sight of the white buildings that demarcated the border with Kenya on the grassy plain surrounding it.

—Mike, take this. It's loaded.

Eloria handed him her shotgun.

—This isn't going to be good. Pop more smoke for us.

Nothing. He turned to look in the back. Harry was slumped in his seat. Irit's body lay where Eloria left it. She popped smoke to cover their locations in the Rover. At the same time, the distinctive sound of her Galil penetrated the cloud. She was busy and trying her best to hold off the fast approaching attackers.

—Mike! Slow down. Slow down.

Against his better judgment, he did as he was told. He knew better than to question this women now engaged fiercely in deadly combat. Eloria fired and reloaded and fired until her Galil was empty. She grabbed Irit's weapon and emptied it at the approaching Jeep, trying her best to hold off the attackers.

The gunfire halted. Mike checked his mirror and saw a second Jeep speeding through the smoke. It headed straight towards them. Eloria wasn't in the back. She had disappeared.

The heavy gate at Namanga came up fast. Mike ducked and plowed through. Guards yelled and waved and then scrambled out of the way. The Rover careened past and didn't stop. Kenya had just hung out the welcome sign.

A half-hour past the gate, Mike braked to a sliding stop in the high grass. He pulled Irit's lifeless body from the back of the Jeep and left her on the side of the road with the empty weapons. He kept Eloria's shotgun. He felt for Harry's pulse. It was just as well he wasn't conscious.

Mike stood up in the Rover and looked around nervously, expecting vehicles from the border station to be on the way to apprehend them. There was no one. Nothing. He held his hands out in front of him. He wasn't able to still the trembling until he gripped the steering wheel.

He eased the Rover onto the paved highway and accelerated towards Nairobi as if nothing had happened.

### ~ 12 ~

Present Day

Horn of Africa

**HARRY COULDN'T IGNORE** Mike sitting in the DC-3's left seat any longer. The grin pasted on his face was too distracting.

—I can tell you're getting the hang of it again. I told you it wouldn't take long.

Mike gave him his _What the hell are we doing here_ look, even though he hadn't forgotten.

—You know, I have to admit to a certain amount of luck and good fortune to get where I am today with the business. Would you mind explaining to me how I ended up giving it all up for this?

—Because we're two of the dumbest sons-of-bitches in aviation?

—Possibly. But besides that.

—Your shit-eating grin pretty much says it all.

—You're stating the obvious.

—Look at it this way. You ended up taking Barbara on the vacation of a lifetime. When this is all over there's no way she'll be nagging you to take her anywhere for a long time.

The high-five celebratory slap came to an abrupt halt when the third hand inserted itself between theirs.

—Will you two stop trying to cheap me out of a vaycay? I deserve better than this. And Sasha certainly deserves more than what she's getting from that loser Gene.

—Oh miss, you'll have to return to your seat. Fraternizing with the flight crew is not permitted. It could distract them from their duties and endanger the well-being of the rest of the passengers and crew.

Barbara put her hands on her hips and looked at Harry, sitting smug in the right seat. He found himself suddenly busy studying gages and checking numbers.

—You owe me, buster. Furthermore, distract this.

Barbara raised her shirt and bared her breasts just as Harry and Mike turned towards her standing between the seats.

—Gosh, Mike. You are one lucky man. She looks exactly the same as she did on the Baja.

The two men high-fived once more, but he couldn't halt the nervous grin. Before anyone could say anything, he went back to checking the gages.

—You both owe me big time, and I don't mean for the look I just gave you, Harry.

Barbara was grinning now.

—I'm going back to sit with Art. The two of you owe me for that, too.

Familiar territory began to appear beneath the DC-3. The now dry _wadi_ , at one time in the distant past a proud river that scoured the valley between the distant cliff faces, ran roughly from the northwest to the southeast. It ended at Eyl, on the coast of the Indian Ocean.

Mike added power to climb to 10,000 feet. He put the ancient DC-3 workhorse in a shallow bank to renew their acquaintance with the old stomping ground.

—We're here. See if you can find our girls.

The men began looking out the cockpit's port window. They scoured the desert as the old service strip disappeared beneath the wing. What they were looking at hadn't changed in a hundred years, and it wouldn't change over the next hundred.

—Overland travel in that sand won't be easy.

—They shouldn't be far from their last position. A sighting would make the ground chase we have to do a lot easier.

—Here comes the strip again. Look. And there they are. Nine o'clock low. Our strip is west of them.

—I'd say they've made five or six miles past the strip at most.

—It looks like they're off the trail. That's probably what's slowing them down.

—There's no sense broadcasting our arrival. Throttle back and set up for well past the strip.

Mike did as instructed. Harry was the experienced desert aviator now. It would give him the chance to renew his abilities in the DC-3.

—You'll need to come in low and slow from a distance so as not to alert them.

It was then that Mike knew he'd be doing the approach and landing. There would no turning back. He was a long way from home and his office desk.

**Harry shared the** cockpit duties with Mike. He walked Mike through the approach and landing checklist for the ancient plane. Mike performed flawlessly, although a little slow. He was re-familiarizing himself as he went along.

—You're not as rusty as you think.

—Maybe not, Harry, but just the same I'm glad you're sitting beside me.

Harry continued calling the numbers as Mike lowered and set the flaps.

—Gear.

Mike selected gear down. Harry called _Gear green_ as the indicator lights illuminated. Mike continued flying the 3 low and slow on final across the wind-swept dunes. Harry's hands backed up his own as he pulled back the throttles and mushed onto the strip.

—Smooth as silk, Captain. You're hired. When can you start?

—I'll let you know when we touch down at JIB.

—I've got her, Mike.

Mike was fine with Harry taking over ground taxiing the heavy plane. If the plane bogged down in the sand they'd be trucking it to Djibouti, well over 500 road miles to the north. The airborne assault to distract the kidnappers would turn into a full-blown assault on the ground.

It was something they discussed, and didn't want to do, given the danger it would put the girls in.

—I'm going to position for a quick departure, just in case.

Harry advanced the throttles to maneuver the DC-3 into position with the nose pointing down the strip. Satisfied, he shut down in a cloud of dust and sand. A nervous Art waited between the seats.

Already the air in the plane was growing warmer.

—You'll have to figure out what's going on with the hydraulics in a hurry. The rest of us will offload the arms we won't be needing.

The cargo door opened and an even hotter blast of dry desert air drifted into the cabin.

—Ali is going to be happy with his delivery. He's nervous for his clan with all the nutjob fundamentalists running around this part of the country.

—We're giving him enough armament for a small army. I'm glad he's on our side.

Art got busy troubleshooting the hydraulic lines.

—What do you make of the pressure loss?

—I'm worried. If this airplane claps out, we're in trouble. Ali might have dug up two technicals for us, but there's no way he'll be able to deliver a DC-3.

Art headed for the back of the plane and jumped onto the ground. He pointed at a technical and motioned for the driver to pull up under the number one engine.

The driver hesitated. He turned to look at an old man standing on the edge of the strip. His robes fluttered in the wind blowing across the desert floor. He nodded. The technical moved beneath the engine.

Art waved his thanks before climbing onto the back of the truck. He moved past the .50 caliber and got onto the roof carrying a handful of tools. He began loosening the cowlings and eventually number one engine came into view.

Still in the back of the plane, Bill fussed over the heavy mount for the twin .50s. Satisfied, he called for Mike and Harry to help him remove the door and secure it. The three of them wrestled the mount into the doorway. Bill bolted it to the airframe.

—It's not as strong as I'd like it to be, but Art and I did the best we could on such short notice. She'll hold for what needs to be done. No guarantees after that.

Harry nodded.

—If you and Art say so, then I trust your work. We're not planning on starting a war. All we need is a few thousand rounds and we're good to go.

—As long as you know I'll need to test fire the rig in-flight to sight her in.

Bill continued with his fussing, greasing the friction points on the jerry-rigged gun mount. He swiveled the dual guns in all directions to check the firing arc. On the ground, nervous gunmen racked their weapons and pointed them in the direction of the DC-3. A word came from the old man and they stood down.

Satisfied with the way things were proceeding with the gun mount, Harry jumped to the ground. The man he and Mike had gotten to know so well in the past began walking towards the DC-3.

— _Jambo_ , Ali.

Harry returned Ali's grin and stuck out his hand. The old man took it and held on.

— _Jambo, b'wana Harry. Hibari?_

— _Mazuri_. And you?

—I too am well, old friend.

—You have aged well. It must be your young wives.

—It costs much to keep many young wives. I must have old wives to keep them in order.

—Mike will be here in a minute. He brought his wife to meet you.

—So I have heard. She did well by both of you in Djibouti.

Already the old man had heard of the shooting.

—News travels fast in this part of the world.

—If I did not have many informers, I would not still be here for you in your time of need.

—We are very grateful, Ali. Now come and have a look at what we brought you.

He helped the old man into the plane.

—If this were anyone but you, I would be wary of people bearing such gifts. But enough of business for now. You must tell me about the woman that has brought you this great distance one last time.

**Mike knew Art** would be worrying about getting everyone back to Djibouti safely aboard the plane. He joined him on the back of the technical and listened, waiting for a chance to get a word in with the talkative man.

—This antique is holding together better than I expected but for that pressure leak. If we can't get it repaired, it's going to limit our options.

—That's not good news. It will mean a running gun-battle on flat terrain with visibility for miles. That won't be good for the hostages. Or any of us.

Mike looked off to the east in the direction of the pirate convoy carrying Harry's wife and daughter to the coast. He couldn't see them, but he knew they were there just the same. He'd seen them from the air.

—Have you figured out what we need?

—I'm going to have to replace number one hydraulic pump. Seals are gone. I don't suppose this crate came with any spares. Get me a hydraulic pump and we can fly this tin can to hell.

Mike grinned at his engineer.

—Hell is good, it's where we're going. We'll need to get back too, Art. Harry's the one made the promises for this little gem of an airplane. I think he got all nostalgic for the airline he used to take on his R&Rs into Mog. I don't know if he bothered to pick up any spares for our brand-new charter business or not.

That wasn't the answer Art wanted to hear. He looked nervously in Harry's direction.

—Yes, I managed to line up a few spares. I told the seller I needed to keep expenses down on my new startup. I asked specifically for a hydraulic pump, and they threw one in, gratis.

—You don't know it yet, Art, but you're hanging out with two of the best can-do guys in this desert.

Art didn't take the time to go looking for the part. He went back to work disconnecting lines and removing the pump, trusting Harry's word that he had a spare he could bolt in.

Mike climbed down from the technical.

—He'll figure it out eventually. I think he's still stuck on Barbara and the shotty. Wait until he sees her with an RPG.

—Damn, Harry, I wish you wouldn't. Ever since she missed out on the AK action down on the Baja she's been after me to take her to a gun range.

—How long has it been since you took her to one?

—Never. And I don't want you encouraging her, either.

— _Si, mon Capitán_. Hey, Art. Did you check out that box in the cabin labeled spares?

—No. I figured that hand-written sign was a joke you two were playing on me.

—No joke. I'm pretty sure the pump you need will be in there somewhere.

**It was dark** by the time Art finished changing out the hydraulic pump. Mike started the engine while Harry monitored the hydraulic pressure gages behind his seat. Beneath the engine, Art used a flashlight to keep an eye on his work, looking for leaks.

Satisfied, Art signaled Mike to shut down. Cursing the entire time, he fumbled in the dark to get the engine cowlings mounted and buttoned up. The technical's weak headlights were little help. Barbara heard him and offered to hold the flashlight. Art waved the woman away.

He still wasn't sure what to think of the adventurous band of misfits he had tied his wagon to. Mike was a good man to work for. Payday came regular and there were no problems with airworthiness on his airplanes. Every bulletin was done, whether it was mandatory or not. These days there was something to be said for that.

When he agreed to come on board with this operation, he found himself drawn into something completely different. The eagerness with which they had all adapted to the new circumstances in the middle of the Horn of Africa surprised him. Mike's wife had been been even more of a shocker.

When she flashed the shotgun in Djibouti he had cause for concern for his own safety. That concern was erased when he saw how she handled herself at the end of the strip, in the dark of night. Pulling the trigger on the bandits looking for money convinced him he was in with the right crowd.

These people weren't behaving like fresh recruits who didn't know how to handle themselves. The kidnappers had no idea what was about to be unleashed.

Hell, he was going to have some stories to tell in the bar when this was over. They'd surpass his own of the time he spent in West Africa when he was a kid.

It was close to midnight before things quieted down enough to get some rest. With nowhere to go, the DC-3 became the hotel of choice, crowded with anxious adventurers desperate for sleep. Harry and Mike bunked in the cockpit. Haphazard arrangements allowed Art and Bill to hunker down on air mattresses provided by Barbara, who slept on her own.

Reassured by Ali and his well-equipped crew providing protection by surrounding the landing strip, there was no one on watch. No one bothered to slip a magazine into an AK. There was no need.

**Harry heard the** noise first through the open cockpit window. Revving engines screamed and technicals circled the plane. Dust drifted in through the window. At first he thought he was waking from a dream. The noise halted only long enough to allow the explosions of gunfire to take over.

He climbed out of his seat and shook mike awake before heading to the back of the plane.

—We're getting fat and dumb and lazy. We should have posted our own guard.

Lead pinged through the cargo area of the DC-3's cabin. Harry and Mike tripped over still-groggy bodies to get to the AKs. By the time they got the mags inserted, it was over. None of the three sound asleep in the back of the plane so much as blinked an eye.

Ali approached, surrounded by what was left of his promised escort. The two men jumped down to greet Ali and his team armed to the teeth with rocket launchers and AKs.

—Do not be alarmed, old friends. We discovered some enemies within our camp. We have taken care of them. They will not come back to bother us on this or any night.

—In that case, Ali, let's go to your campfire where we can drink tea and talk about old times.

—As you wish.

They settled in on the ground beside the old man. Ali poured tea into glasses containing rock sugar, cloves and cinnamon sticks. He raised his glass to Harry and Mike.

—We had some trouble in Djibouti while we were readying the plane for this trip. We had to take care of two men begging alms. Unfortunately, we had nothing to offer beyond substituting lead for gold.

—So I have been informed, as I told you. You wife is quite the woman. I would like to have one so dependable in my house.

Mike slapped Ali on the back.

—She's not for sale, no matter how many sheep and goats you offer.

The sly old man grinned.

—I have many camels, too.

### ~ 13 ~

Tanzania

**MIKE CHECKED THE** Rover's one good mirror. The dirty, cracked glass reflected empty road. So far, he was free and clear, thanks to Irit's sacrifice, and to Eloria, who volunteered without question to make certain he made the border with his wounded cargo. His debt was enormous.

Free of Tanzania and the pursuing mine guards, Mike's main worry was now Harry, out cold and motionless in the back seat. He was in and out of consciousness, the out coming more and more often and for longer periods. The concussion had to be worse than he thought. Harry needed a hospital, and that meant Nairobi. If he could depend on his memory, it was at least a couple of hours distant.

Money was a more immediate problem. The mine's blockhouse yielded nothing of value. He was broke, except for a few local shillings. He might as well have a sack filled with Greek drachmas for all that was worth on the continent.

Mike fished under the seat for the shotgun Eloria passed to him before she jumped out of the moving Rover. He and Harry owed her everything. She hadn't been able to hold off their attackers but she had to have put up one hell of a fight. How they managed to shut her down so fast was a mystery.

Paper taped to the short butt of the sawed-off caught his attention. He slowed and carefully sliced through the tape. Two passports presented themselves. Canadian passports. He checked his surroundings and stopped on the road for a better look.

He couldn't tell if the documents were real or a forgery. It told him Irit and Eloria could be sisters. He'd add a stop at a certain embassy in Nairobi to his list once he dropped harry off at a hospital.

It wasn't only Harry's wounds that concerned him. He wanted to know more about the two women that had literally plucked them both out of the frying pan and dropped them into the relative safety of another country. He and Harry owed Eloria and Irit everything.

There would be no payback with both women gone.

**That all receded** into the past when he began considering options. There weren't many. What he needed most was U.S. dollars. After he dropped Harry at a Nairobi hospital he'd have to make his way to the Flying club to hole up. Perhaps someone would be able to point him in the direction of some outfit with a need for pilots or maintenance people.

It was slow going into Nairobi. Mike was forced to stop and slap Harry into consciousness too often for his liking. Reaching the outskirts of the huge city, he managed to flag a taxi to lead him to a hospital. He stashed Harry with a couple of concerned nurses and headed for the Flying Club.

He concealed the stolen bullet-riddled Rover in a distant corner of the lot. He'd be good until someone walked by and noticed its condition. He made his way inside where he was recognized by a regular sitting at the bar.

—I heard you and Harry were working for a tanzanite outfit south of the border. What got you up this way?

Mike liked listening to the rumors and gossip, but he didn't much care for it when it was about him.

—Harry's plane got shot up at one of the strips we were servicing. I went in to get him out.

—He's not with you? What happened to him?

—He didn't make it out with much more than the clothes on his back. He wanted to pick up some gear so I dropped him off.

He hoped that would put an end to more pointed questions, but now he'd have to get out of here fast. No way did he want to explain why Harry wasn't going to be showing up any time soon.

—I'm looking for some work to the north, maybe in Libya. Does anyone have any leads? Helicopter or fixed-wing, it doesn't matter.

—I heard about some oil work up that way. The outfit is always looking for pilots. I don't know why. Maybe the camps aren't so good.

—Give me a name and I'll make some calls.

### ~ 14 ~

Present Day

Horn of Africa

**FOLLOWING THE FAILED** attack by traitors in Ali's trusted crew, the band of misfits left Ali's fire to spend what was left of the early morning huddled in the cramped confines of the ancient airplane. The attempt to shut them down kept everyone wide awake and on guard. Nervous chatter kept them from thinking about what would be coming up later in the day.

Harry and Mike both knew that if Ali had inadvertently brought enemies to the strip, there had to be more. Neither wanted to take the chance of anyone shutting down the rescue. Today had to be the day, come hell or high water—and there would be no chance of high water in this desert any time soon.

—Rise and shine, you lazy, hopeless bastards.

Much grumbling and not a lot of sympathy echoed down the cabin at the sound of Mike's eager call to arms.

—If the owners of this airline thought they knew anything about providing passenger comfort, they were sadly misinformed.

—What do you expect from one more fly-by-night outfit you're accustomed to working for?

—You didn't think we were so hopeless that you left us all in comfort back home. There's nothing I'd like more than to be at the Flying Club right now with a hand wrapped around a damp Tusker.

—You're right, Harry. I apologize for hurting your feelings.

—We've got a functioning DC-3. We've got fuel, oil and hydraulic fluid. We've got her outfitted with twin .50 caliber guns. We've got AKs. We've got RPGs. We have a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun. We're ready as we'll ever be and raring to go. Barbara, it's time you cooked breakfast for the crew.

—Breakfast? Cook? Screw you. We didn't even bring MREs. We'll toast this adventure when we're back in Djibouti if the jet hasn't been impounded by the time we get there.

Art took his chances and joined in the merriment.

—Don't listen to them, Barbara. They spent the night sleeping in comfortable seats in first class up front. You can cook for all of us when we have the next company barbecue back home.

—Don't push it, Art. I have a loaded shotgun tucked under my arm.

—That's the spirit, Art. We're ready to rock and roll. But first, it's time we had a meeting. Does anyone have a plan?

That was the last straw for Barbara. She threw her hands in the air and raised her voice. She'd be heard or else.

—For crying out loud, you two. Are we back in Mexico all over again?

—Relax, girl. By the look of it, we're not going to get breakfast anytime soon. We'll move on to other matters. I have a plan.

—Well suck me blue and call me ice woman. Harry has a plan. I can't wait to tell Sasha about this.

—The kidnappers can't be far past where we saw them yesterday. Barbara and I will head out in the technicals with Ali and his crew. By the time the rest of you get this bucket of bolts airborne, we should be within cheering range of the parade.

Mike interjected.

—You've got the easy part. I have to figure out how to fly that thing in a pattern that will give Bill a good elevation on the target without hitting the good guys.

Bill wanted to put Mike at ease about the operation of the twin .50s.

—In Nam we had DC-3s outfitted with mini-guns. We called them Spooky. We nick-named them Puff the Magic Dragon. Orbiting at 3,000 feet and 120 knots in a Spooky, those mini-guns could depopulate an area the size of a football field.

—What rate-of-fire will you get with the .50s?

—I don't want to burn out the barrels if I can help it. I'm set up for 300 a side. That should keep them cool enough to do the job.

—Mike, you should be able to fly that pattern all day in the Dakota—or at least until you've put five thousand rounds through the guns.

—No problem. I can hold it to that, but I'd like to do a test run first.

Mike had to be sure Bill wouldn't screw up with Sasha and Christa on the ground. If he made a mistake he'd never be able to face Harry again.

—After we take off give me a practice orbit at 3,000 feet. I'll get the .50s sighted in.

—As good as done.

Harry looked over the rag-tag volunteers his friend Mike had put together on such short notice. His eyes moved from the clapped-out DC-3 with the jury-rigged mount for the guns hanging off the side to Ali and his well-armed crew milling about the remains of their campfire. Mike's crew, nervous, exhausted and aware of everything that could go wrong with their rescue attempt, suddenly became quiet and reserved.

They all knew the airborne rescue attempt could turn to shit in a hurry. If that happened, Sasha and his daughter could end up being on the receiving end of what Harry hoped he'd be able to dish out from the ground .

If he got his way, those bastards were going to suffer through hell from both low and high.

**In the past,** Barbara had been a reluctant witness to Sasha's AK training routine on the Baja. Regretful that she hadn't participated, she knew this would be her last chance. While the RPGs were calling her name, she wasn't quite sure how to convince Harry she'd like to fire one.

—So that's it? The briefing is over?

—You know it. Just like old times—but wait, there's more. If you want to learn to fire the RPG, it's time.

Harry grinned at Barbara. He knew.

—Now you're talking, cowboy. This is a briefing. Let's do it.

Harry picked one from the stockpile.

—It comes with three parts—the rocket head or warhead, the booster, and the launcher.

He held each section up in turn.

—You screw the booster onto the warhead, like this.

Barbara watched, transfixed. She was going to get to fire one of those suckers. Nothing would stop her if she had anything to do with it.

—Once the two parts are married, the warhead gets inserted into the front end of the launch tube. How can we tell it's the front end this thing is going into?

She didn't hesitate.

—The pistol grip. Like a handgun.

—Exactly. You might get to fire it a couple of times, if at all. You're not going to have time to learn all the ins and outs. Just remember this: twist it on. Stuff it down the front. Shoulder. Line up the sight. Pull the trigger. Bonus points if you remember not to have your rear end pointed at anyone you love.

Harry moved off to the side. He didn't aim. Instead, he angled the RPG skyward to the east and pulled the trigger. The round went high and exploded, leaving behind a huge black cloud.

—If they're close, that ought to put the fear of Harry into them. Your turn, Barbara. I'll be your artillery man.

Harry handed the armed launcher to Barbara. She got down on one knee just as Harry had, aimed at a nearby rock pile. She pulled the trigger. The impact and explosion showered everyone with dirt. She yelled over her ringing ears.

—Holy shit, Harry. This could be fun.

—We'll take half a dozen rounds with us, just in case. I want you to pre-arm them, just like I showed you. If I need them, you won't have time to be screwing around. It'll be load, point, and fire.

—That's good enough for me.

—And don't forget where your ass is pointing.

She gave Harry a hug and squeezed his rear.

—That's double duty from me and Sasha.

—Christ, don't let Mike see you doing that. I'm going to have enough trouble with Sasha as it is.

—I did see that, you two. It's a good thing none of us has had breakfast or I'd be suspicious of your motives.

Art finished with pre-flighting the DC-3.

—She's fueled and ready, guys. Yesterday's flying lead didn't hit anything of consequence. Once you get airborne, don't forget Bill is going to want to test-fire the .50s and sight in.

—Chica, get your soccer-mom ass onto that truck.

—It's been a long time since anyone called me chica. And you'd better not be saying my ass is fat if you know what's good for you.

Harry boarded the DC-3 for a last word with Bill.

—My ex is in that convoy with our daughter. I don't want to put any pressure on you, but if you mess up, Barbara will turn you into one sorry-assed son-of-a-bitch the next time she sees you.

—Go easy, man. I know what I'm doing. I'll get the job done. I've never done it from a Spooky is all. I never got to crew on one. And I already talked to Barbara. She's good.

—I know you can do it. In case you didn't notice, we're all a little jumpy this morning. We haven't had our coffee fix.

Mike was already in the cockpit, going through the checklist.

—You're going to be without a co-pilot on this run. Can you handle her?

—Piece of cake. I kept fuel down to half tanks again. We're light and maneuverable. That should make it bearable for the old girl.

—I'm going to take Barbara with me. Is that all right?

—Just don't get in front of her while she has that shotgun out.

—I hear that. Thanks.

—Don't thank me yet. We're not going to be out of this sand-trap for a while.

—I'll see you back at the strip.

—You know it, partner.

### ~ 15 ~

Present Day

Horn of Africa

**BILL FASTENED THE** strap on the old door-gunner helmet rescued from his locker back at the hangar. He lit a cigarette, exhaled a cloud of smoke and started coughing as he made his way to the cockpit.

—I didn't know you smoked.

—Not for thirty years.

—Do you need a minute to tuck the lung back in?

—No, I'm good.

He listened to Mike's briefing.

—After wheels-up I'll move off to the west. When I get to three thousand above ground I'll look for a pile of rocks. When I find one, I'll go into a racetrack orbit. You do your sighting in. Let me know when you're finished.

—Roger that.

—From there I'll head towards the convoy. I'll be descending as low as I can get to do a single pass at full throttle. That will let Sasha know we're here and on the job. It should give us good eyes on the convoy.

Mike hesitated. He wanted to be certain Bill heard the next.

—You'll get your look-see out the cargo door. Be aware that as I go by, I'll be waggling the wings. That's going to tell her who's doing the driving. Don't fall out and don't ask how she'll know.

—When we're done with this operation, I'd like to know more about you guys. Do you think you can manage that?

—One thing at a time.

Mike went on.

—When we're on that low pass look for a woman with a little girl. Harry's ex has worked with us before. She'll know enough to get the two of them away from the action before we come back to do the dirty work.

—I'll be on the lookout for them real hard.

—You can plug into the intercom back there at the door.

—I know. I tested it in JIB. How's our fuel?

—A little less than half.

—Good. We're light.

—I don't want you taking any chances with that .50. If you hit them, they're mincemeat.

—I know that. The flyby will give me eyes and a chance to sort things out on the ground. Once you get us into orbit, I'll be good to go. With twenty-five hundred rounds a side, I won't leave anything behind if you can keep me overhead.

—Then let's get it done.

**A babble of** nervous voices swept through the pirate convoy. Necks craned skyward in an attempt to locate by sound what was bearing down on the ragtag collection of trucks sunk in the sand.

Whatever it was, it was getting close. Fast. It would be on them soon. Sasha didn't have time to figure out what she was going to do. She didn't need to. She already knew. She had worked it out when the vehicles had become trapped in the sand. The overhead distraction sealed the deal.

—Christa, do you see those black things with the shiny brass at one end in the back of our Jeep? Do you think you could put as many as you can in your backpack?

Sitting beside them, Gene overheard her.

—You stupid bitch. You'll get us killed.

—Shut up, you fool.

She turned back to her daughter and caught her sticking out her tongue at Gene. She smiled.

—Try not to let the men see you.

The increasing rumble of the DC-3's engines at full throttle put the kidnappers in a panic. They scrambled to locate the plane, staring high into the sky. It gave Christa the perfect cover to collect the magazines.

Sasha watched the DC-3 finally revealed itself as it topped a ridge at low altitude. The wings waggled in slow motion. It was Mike at the controls. She'd seen it before. They were here. She almost danced a jig.

An RPG, or what she thought was one, appeared. One of the kidnappers climbed on the back of a truck and searched the sky for the plane. It was too late. It flew off hugging the ground and disappeared behind another ridge.

Sasha knew that no matter what else happened, the man with the RPG would have to be her first. She had to use the confusion to get them away from the trucks.

—My daughter has to go to the bathroom. Is it all right if we go behind those rocks?

—Yes. Go. Go. Hurry.

—Come on, Christa. Come with mommy. Your father and Uncle Mike are here to take us home.

Christa looked up at her mother. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

—Daddy's here? And Uncle Mike? Why are you crying, mommy?

Sasha wiped away the tears.

—Yes dear. Harry and Mike are here. I think Uncle Mike's airplane is going to come back. We need to get out of the way.

If they could climb the hill and get behind it before the plane returned, they'd be safely out of the way.

—Gene. Are you coming with us? You don't want to be caught out in the open in the middle of whatever is about to happen.

The kidnappers remained fixated on the climbing DC-3 in the distance. They completely ignored Sasha and her daughter.

—Did you get the things I showed you, Christa?

—Yes, mommy. They're heavy.

—Good girl. Now let's go.

Sasha made a grab for Christa's hand and almost pulled her towards the rock pile. On the way around the Jeep she picked up an AK and slung it in front of her. Gene grew more agitated when he saw Sasha concealing the rifle.

—What the hell are you going to do with that? You don't have any bullets. You're going to get all of us killed, you stupid bitch.

—Yes, Gene, I'm going to be doing some killing.

—You think that's Harry come to rescue you on his white horse?

—You could make yourself useful and grab some of those mags. I think I can hold the kidnappers off from behind that pile of rocks.

—Nice. And what's your little airplane boy going to be doing while you're singing your swan song from up there?

—He'll be expecting me to help him any way I can. That's how we work.

—Screw you and that loser you left behind.

—It's time you picked a side and stuck with it before that plane gets back, Gene. I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of whatever hell Harry is about to bring down on all of you.

She went to walk up the hill and then halted.

—Don't you dare lift a finger to help these people or I'll shoot you dead where you stand.

**Mike worried about** an errant RPG round aimed their way. The weapon had a range of about a thousand meters. The shrapnel from the exploding warhead could do a lot of damage once it caught up to the slow-moving DC-3. He didn't like the thought of ending up in a pile of aluminum on the ground before the job was done.

He throttled back and took up an orbiting position at 3,500 feet. The extra five hundred would give him only a bit of an edge over the RPGs greater range. It wasn't much, but it might be enough.

—How are we doing, Bill?

Bill pressed the transmit button. Wind noise and static echoed over the ancient intercom.

—Bad news. I didn't get eyes on the women. I need a pass to get a look from the other side of that ridge.

—Shit. If they get an RPG round off we're going to be in trouble.

—You have to do it. I couldn't find them.

This wasn't good. Mike had counted on the first pass to do the job. From there he wanted to be overhead and in position for Bill to start walking the guns through the crowd. By now the kidnappers would be on full alert. The DC-3 lumbering along at low-level would be no match for a well-placed RPG round if it found its mark.

Mike pushed the nose down and lined up for his second pass. This time he flew towards the ridge. He wanted the cover the low hill would provide if someone tried to stuff an RPG up his ass.

—There they are. I've got them in sight. The woman and the little girl are moving towards the rise. They'll be clear of the action in a couple. Well I'll be damned.

—I'm single-pilot up here and kind of busy right now. What is it?

—I don't want to jump to conclusions, but it looks like that woman might have an AK. Maybe even two.

—You're permitted to make the jump, Bill. That woman would be Sasha. And believe me when I tell you she knows how to use that AK. Don't ever piss her off when she's got her hands on one of those things. If you land any rounds close to her, she's just liable to return fire to show you who the real boss is around these parts.

### ~ 16 ~

Present Day

Horn of Africa

**HARRY TAUGHT HER** well all those years ago when they had been forced to rescue Mike from his kidnappers. She remembered how he had stayed by her side as they retreated down the dock with the badly-wounded Mike. Then she made the mistake of staying behind to empty her last magazine into the cabin cruiser.

That move almost got her killed.

She stopped thinking about it and checked the AK with familiar hands. She rotated the safety full-down to semi-automatic and racked. A round ejected onto the sand. Good to go. She safetied for the last time.

She wanted to use the ridge for cover. She struggled over the rock-strewn ground as she made her way to the top. She stopped to wait for Christa several times, but she never hurried the girl. She allowed her to make her own way.

Once at the top, she directed Christa into a hollow depression behind her position. She made clear that she'd have to remain there until she called out for her. She placed rocks all around the edge, hoping they would keep her daughter out of sight and safe from whatever might happen. It would have to do. If she wasn't successful, neither of them would make it out.

Satisfied, she tried to stretch out prone on the uneven ground of the ridgetop. She hoped that would give a lower profile, but the jungle mag hanging off of the bottom of the AK forced her to keep high. It would reveal her position.

She moved back from the top of the ridge. She put her right knee down. Her old crouch position perfected on the dock in Santa Agueda would serve her well here, too. She recalled how Harry had showed her how to support the weight of the AK by placing her left elbow on her knee. It would allow her to concentrate on accuracy with the iron sights.

She placed Christa's stolen goods on the ground and arranged them by her right knee. She knew she'd more than likely fumble the first magazine when it came time to change out. This time there'd be no flinging the empty AK into any water. She'd hang on to this one for dear life—and the life of her daughter.

When she last checked, she didn't see Gene behind her as she climbed the hill. She hoped he had been smart enough to get out of her line of fire. It wouldn't go well for him if he decided to stay with the kidnappers. She didn't know what the airplane had in store for them, but if Mike was flying and Harry was on the ground, anything could go down.

It was strange how the memories of that day on the dock with Harry came flooding back from so many years ago. She silently thanked Harry one last time for getting her ass out of Mexico. She was truly sorry she had forced him to come for her again, but it was starting to look like that was his permanent job. And then she put it all out of her mind.

There was something more pressing she had to finish.

**Harry shouldered the** AK and a bag of magazines. He left Barbara with instructions to remain with the technical. He began to work his way towards the back side of a ridge. He hoped the elevation would give a clear view of the hollow that stretched out in front of him. He had to draw Sasha and Christa away from the action. If he couldn't do that, he'd have to get down and dirty over bare flat ground to get within range of the Land Rover and the technicals.

Damn but that woman would end up being the death of him yet.

It took him longer than he wanted to get across the rough ground. Mike and Bill had already made their low pass to get the lay of the land. He hoped they hadn't missed him on their recon. He didn't want to be mistaken for one of the bad guys. Once they found their mark, those twin .50s would make mincemeat out of anything that got in the way, and he didn't want to be anywhere close to the receiving end.

He continued his slow trek, finally making the back side of the ridge. He walked another 500 yards and began making his way to the top. It was slow going over the rocky ground. He tread carefully, not wanting to disturb rocks that might roll down the hill.

No way did he want to announce his arrival to anyone who might have panicked and made their way to the high ground to fire off an RPG in the plane's direction.

**Mike wrestled the** DC-3 into a tight orbit and held it steady overtop of the stalled vehicles. Bill announced eyes on Sasha and the girl. The trucks were in his sights. They presented a perfect target for the twin .50s. He didn't waste time. He fired two short bursts and watched for the sandy cloud to kick up. That gave him the range. He started in on the first technical.

Mike observed out the window as one of the technicals disintegrated. The plan was to disable the vehicles first. That would give Harry and Ali's men time to reach the kidnappers in the event the DC-3 clapped out or the twin .50s jammed.

Bill squeezed the triggers three more times. Shiny brass and dark death rained down from above. His first pass completed, there was nothing recognizable beyond piles of smoking scrap in the wake of the .50s.

Mike held the 3 steady in orbit over the scene below. As it came within range a second time, Bill's pass with the guns found their mark time and again as men scrambled to get out of the way.

With the vehicles halted, anyone planning on getting away would have to do it on foot. He concentrated his fire on what was left of the people. With no shelter from the lead pouring down, it would make it easy to dispatch them all straight to hell.

Mike brought the DC-3 in closer. The concentration required for the low-altitude flying didn't allow him time to keep aware of the situation on the ground. He was too busy keeping the plane in the air. He wasn't aware of the RPG and didn't know it was about to be pointed in his direction. At low altitude, the slow-moving DC-3 sat in perfect range.

Sasha watched it happen from behind the safety of the ridge. Her eyes widened and she felt her heart thump in her chest. Her breathing stopped as the kidnapper climbed on top of the truck. The RPG hung from his right hand. In the back of the truck bed, he raised it to shoulder height.

She had to stop him. Mike and the plane would be mincemeat if he got a round off. She rotated the AK's safety full down to its semi-automatic position and took careful aim from behind the rock pile. She lined up the iron sights on the RPG's owner and slowly squeezed off a single round.

Nothing. She missed. She silently let off a string of curses and took fresh aim. She held her breath and began squeezing the trigger. The man dropped the RPG and looked down at his feet.

_What the hell?_

She looked over the AK's sights, unsure of what to do. The man was falling. He curled up in the back of the truck, clutching his stomach. His body twitched.

It took her a minute to realize what was going on. There was someone else on the ridge with her. Or somewhere. She looked around, but there was no one. She returned her attention to the men still scattering on the ground.

From her position, she picked out another crouched behind the twisted metal of a truck. She rotated the safety up one notch. She'd give her kidnappers spray and pray for her grand finale.

And then, just before she pulled the trigger a second time, the man dropped onto the sand. He twitched and a second round forced him to lie still forever.

This time, she heard the sound of the gunshots before the rat-tat-tat assault from the DC-3 reached her ears. Whoever it was, he was somewhere on the very same ridge,. She looked again, but there was still nothing. The shooter was well concealed. Better than she was, for sure.

Sand and rocks kicked up in front of her. She was in someone's sights. She ducked and moved back. She'd have to change her position. But where? Where would she go now?

She looked around. The ridge ran away from her in both directions. There was no height advantage one way or the other. The line was exactly the same.

She hesitated and decided to stay put for now. She would not desert Christa.

**Overhead, Bill pounded** away with the .50s at the static targets on the ground, relentless in his pursuit of the survivors with the twin muzzles. He had eyes on Sasha. Now that he knew her position, he fired at will into the valley. There was no shortage of targets.

It was starting to look good. The trucks were destroyed. There'd be no getting away for anyone. He had plenty of help from Sasha. Each time one of them stood up to attempt an escape from the lead pouring out the cargo door, she kept him pinned down.

—It looks like that woman put down at least three. I don't know how many I took out. There might be a couple left. There's some crazy white guy standing out in the middle of it all running around in circles and waving his arms at us.

—Any sign of our technicals? They can't be far away.

—There was a dust cloud over in that direction when we did our recon, but I don't see it now.

—Can you see Harry making his way from the technicals onto any of the elevations?

—I've been too busy to notice.

—I'm going to descend for another run. Send the rest of them to hell.

**Sasha adjusted her** position on the ridge. It was unassailable. She had a clear view of the sloping ground in front of her. She concentrated on not letting her kidnappers escape.

She used the AK in single fire to put round after round in the direction of the men. She missed more often than not, but some found their mark and kept them guessing.

There was a break as the DC-3 moved off into the distance and the hell raining down from above halted. Rocks rolled down the hill behind her. It had to be Gene, finally coming to his senses to realize that he had to get out of the way.

Whatever or whoever it was, the lower ridge behind her kept out of sight. She put the sound into the back of her mind and concentrated on what was happening in front of her.

She heard the sound again and looked back. A head wrapped in an Arab burnoose stuck out above the crest of the hill. Shit! She wheeled around, leading with the AK. By now the man was on top of the low rise.

—Stop or I'll kill you where you stand.

The man stood in his tracks. He released his weapon and it dropped to the ground. He surrendered with arms out and empty hands.

—Damn you, woman. You've got a one-track mind once you set yourself to doing something.

—Harry!

—Your one and only.

—Pick up that damned thing and give me a hand. I'm almost out.

—Here, try one of mine.

He handed her a fresh mag.

—Christ, who taped this thing?

—That would have been me.

Sasha released her magazine and slammed home the fresh one.

—In that case, it'll do just fine.

—Where's Christa?

—She dug herself a little foxhole behind me. You almost tripped over her.

—Come on, woman. We need to send the rest of them to hell.

**There was nothing** left for Ali's backup crew by the time they arrived at the site of the massacre. Between the fire from hell and Harry's efforts from behind the ridge, there was nothing left to do but to collect the arms. Harry and Sasha moved towards the vehicles that were now smoking piles of scrap.

—How many men are left hiding from me?

—There's none left to worry about. Ali's crew finished them off. You did good. Again.

Sasha cast a glance in Gene's direction.

—Gene probably wet his pants but he'll be okay once he gets back to his penthouse. The sooner the better, as far as I'm concerned.

Sasha slung the AK in front of her. It was the same way she had carried it on the Baja.

—Woman, there you go again with another AK across your chest.

—It's not the same chest I had on the Baja. And we don't have a Jeep to celebrate.

—It might not be the same one, but it's still the best one.

Gene dug himself out from behind a pile of rocks. Sasha had been right. There was a huge and growing wet spot between his legs.

—You useless, stupid bastard. You could have gotten us all killed. How am I going to get out of here now? My company will be wondering where I am. I need to get to a phone.

Sasha stared coldly at the man.

—These are the only people looking out for anyone, you son of a bitch.

She cold-cocked him with the butt of her AK and he dropped to the sand.

—That ought to hold him for a while. Jesus but that man is annoying. Why did I have to come halfway around the world to find that out?

—Sasha! Where's Christa?

—Barbara! You're here too.

—You're damned right I'm here! Where's your daughter?

—Don't worry. She's where you like to be, eating dirt and dodging ricochets. She's behind the hill I was using. I made her dig a little foxhole and told her to stay in it until I called for her. Go get her.

—You about shot up everything in sight.

—I had a good teacher. I'm just a little rusty after all these years.

She knew now it was Harry who did the bulk of the cleaning up. She was only the window dressing for his full-on assault. She regarded the man. He never said a word to Barbara about his successful efforts from behind the ridge.

—Thank you for saving my ass again, Harry. Why didn't you tell her?

—You're welcome. And that's your story to tell. I just happened to be there.

Overhead, Mike did a gear-down low-and-slow before heading west to the strip. Overtop of the crew he waggled his wings for the last time.

—We'll meet up with Mike and the rest of the crew back at the strip. Right now Ali wants to meet you.

—Who's Ali again?

She had forgotten all about the man in the heat of battle.

—He's an old friend. He says he wants to meet the woman that can drag both Mike and me back into action. If I know him, he's going to want to make you his fourth wife.

An old man, still handsome in the fashion of a desert dweller, made his way towards Sasha.

—So this is the woman. I am honored. And this is your daughter? This woman gave you this gift? Why is she here in Africa and not back in your house taking care of you?

Sasha smiled at Ali. He had won her over. Even Christa had taken his hand.

—I'm starting to wonder that myself.

—Perhaps you would rather have a Somali man to take care of instead.

—How many?

—You will be number five, but you will be my favorite.

—All right, you two. You don't have enough camels to trade, Ali. Even if she wanted to go with you.

—You are right, my friend. Let us get back to the landing strip. Come, child. You will ride with me.

—Come on, Christa. We're going to go with this nice man who helped rescue us.

Sasha loaded the AK with a fresh mag and the three women got into the Jeep with the old man for the ride to the landing strip.

She kept the AK across her lap.

~ 17 ~

Kenya

**MIKE HUNG UP** the phone. He had a wire transfer and two one-way tickets to ride on a Hawker flying to Benghazi coming his way. Next stop, the hospital. Harry would be very happy.

Mike confronted the closed door to Harry's room. Before knocking, he put his ear against it and gave a quick listen. He couldn't make sense of the muffled voices. He walked in without knocking and cleared his throat three times. They barely noticed.

The raven-haired woman in the white uniform fussing over Harry was no slouch in the looks department. His throat-clearing earned him a cross look from Harry and a quick once-over from the nurse. He ignored them both. When he didn't leave the nurse turned away in a huff and marched out of the room.

—What's the diagnosis?

Harry grinned like a baboon that had just discovered a fresh pile of rocks.

—Up until you showed up, I'd say it was pretty good. Now, I'm not so certain.

—No, you jackass. What's the medical diagnosis?

—Oh, that. The doc says I can leave in a day. When I asked my nurse for a second opinion, she said I could stay at her place until I get my sea legs.

Mike flashed the tickets and the cash.

—That's nice, but neither of us is in the navy. I'll be in Benghazi, waiting for you to get tired of your personal nurse.

—Benghazi? When do we leave?

—When you're ready. I figure it'll take you a week, maybe a bit less, to make good your escape.

—She's not going to bring back any clean clothes until her shift starts tomorrow.

Mike emptied the rucksack on the bed.

—No worries. I have everything you need right here.

**There was no** way out of it for Mike. Harry's understanding of what happened was clouded by his concussion. He needed to tell him the truth about the pursuit from the mine to the border crossing into Kenya.

—The last thing I remember is watching Eloria revive Irit. I come up blank on anything after that.

—It's not even that good.

—I figured as much when they didn't show up with you.

—Eloria wasn't able to revive her. Irit died in the Rover. I'm sorry, Harry.

—And Eloria? Where is she? What happened?

The pained expression on Mike's face told the story all by itself.

—If you're not up to telling me about it—

Mike hesitated before continuing, a pained expression on his face.

—Eloria is the reason we're sitting here talking about it. We owe her everything. When she couldn't revive Irit, she collected both Galils. She put her back against the seat and started firing. During a break to reload she handed me her shotgun and told me to keep it until she got back. _Back from where_ , I asked. By the time I got the words out, she was already out of the Rover and on the ground.

—Jesus.

—In the mirror I watched her roll and then stand up in the middle of the road. She popped a couple of smokes and that was the end. My only course was straight ahead. Next thing I know a single Jeep is plowing through the smoke. By then I was crashing through the border.

—She got one of the Jeeps. How the hell did they get her so quick?

—If she was alive, neither of those Jeeps would have come through that smoke.

—You're right. Damn. Those two were something else, weren't they?

—Yes, they were. When they learned you were missing, they didn't hesitate. Between the two of them they had more _uhodori_ than all the mercs sitting on their asses in camp. Without them you'd still be sitting on that strip. By now your bones would have been stripped clean.

—Thanks to those two, we're alive and safe in Nairobi. We do owe them everything.

—There's something else, Harry.

—There always is.

—There were two passports taped to the shotgun. Canadian passports.

—Don't tell me—

—That's right. Forged or not, I have no idea. It turns out they were sisters.

—Sisters? Well, I can believe that. But Canadian? With those thick accents? I don't think so. What did you do with the passports?

—I still have them. I was going to the Canadian embassy tomorrow.

—I don't think so. Give them to me. We'll stop at the other embassy first and drop them off.

—Then let's get it done.

—You're right. We've got people to pay back for the advance and the Benghazi tickets. Christ, Mike. Libya?

—I got us two one-way tickets. You can stay here, broke and listening to the stories in the Flying Club bar that you've heard a hundred times if you want. Your personal nurse would be happy to have you. Or you could hole up in a dusty, wind-swept, isolated tent camp in the middle of a desert and get sand-blasted by a ghibli while you're earning your pay.

—I've been thinking about that. Can I bring my personal nurse?

—Not unless I get one, too. Look, we owe people for the tickets and the advance. Do you want time to say goodbye to her?

—No. You got us a pretty good offer. But we could turn it into something else.

—What do you have in mind?

—We could cash in those tickets and make a stop in Spain while we're on our way to Mexico. Have you ever been to Mexico?

—Well, now that you mention it—

### ~ 18 ~

Present Day

Horn of Africa

**THE DC-3 BEGAN** its low and slow approach to a landing at the desert strip under Mike's capable hands. It would be the final time. Mike taxied and turned the plane as Harry had down. If needed, the plane could be started and begin its takeoff from the exact same spot.

He hurried to climb on a wing to search for the convoy making its way back to the strip. It looked to be about a mile away. He jumped down and Art greeted him. He was disappointed he hadn't been able to participate in the air show, but he knew if anything went wrong with the plane, he'd be needed at the strip.

Art and Bill began work on pulling the .50s and the mount by the time Harry and the convoy arrived in a cloud of dust.

—It's about time. I was starting to worry when the gunfire stopped. I figured either Sasha was out of ammo or everyone was dead.

—It was a little of both. We're all fine. Ali offered to make Sasha wife number five. She might still be thinking of accepting.

—The guys are pulling the .50s. When they're finished, we're good to go.

—About that.

—Now what?

—I had to give my word to get my hands on that 3. Part of it was leaving the .50s in it when we were finished.

—Ali won't be happy that he's not getting his hands on those guns.

—Ali will just have to do without. I don't know what the plan is for the 3. I didn't ask. All I know is, they wanted it left as is when I finished with it.

—Then that's what we'll do. You're going to have to tell Ali.

—It's as good as done. I told him about it after the camp got shot up. He's good with it.

—In that case, let's get this flying circus airborne.

Gene remained incapable of comprehending what had just happened. Even Sasha hadn't been able to set him straight.

—How soon are we getting out of here?

—I already told you, Gene. If you don't stop your bitching I'm going to open up on you with this AK. Are you deaf, dumb, blind, and stupid too?

Art looked and Gene and shook his head at the man's stupidity.

—If I were you, Gene my boy, I'd listen to what she says. She means business.

Art and Bill rearranged the cabin to make room for the new passengers. The atmosphere on board the plane was charged. Getting out was high on everyone's agenda. Mike and Barbara approached Ali one last time.

—Ali, my wife has something for you.

—Yes? What is it?

Barbara took the shotgun off her shoulder and presented it.

—I have no more need of this.

—Thank you. I am honored by your gift. And thank you, my old friends, for bringing me your gifts. If the need should arise in these difficult times, I will put them to good use defending my village.

—You're welcome, Ali. Harry and I are grateful for your help. We could not have done this without you. We will always remember you.

Harry waved from the cockpit.

—All aboard. It feels like the wind is changing direction. It's time to launch before we get shut down by a sandstorm.

—So long, Ali. May you live long and have many wives.

**Mike taxied the** ancient DC-3 to the front of the deserted hangar in JIB. The modern jet he parked beside presented quite a contrast. It had remained untouched in their absence. Harry never told Mike he'd arranged for a crew to guard it until their return.

—There should be a flight crew waiting to fly this thing away. Leave it running and let them take it while we load the jet.

—Are you ever going to tell me about it?

—Some day, maybe.

—It's going to come back to bite us both in the ass, isn't it?

—It's not for you to worry about. I signed up all by myself.

—You say that now, but we both know you don't mean it.

—Don't forget to unload Gene and point him in the direction of the terminal building.

**Mike received clearance** to position the jet for takeoff. Everyone on board was anxious to begin the long flight home.

—Christa, Barbara and Harry want to talk to you.

She looked at her mother.

—Am I in trouble?

—I don't think so. Let's go and find out.

—Christa, honey, you did a good job when you turned on the locater.

Christa beamed, happy that she wasn't in trouble, and happy that she had helped to get everyone out of trouble.

—Mommy helped me with it.

—Yes, sweetheart, but you were the one in charge.

—Thank you, Daddy. Thank you, Barbara. I don't think Mommy likes Gene any more. I don't like him either.

—It's okay not to like someone. You just don't say mean things about him to other people.

Barbara rolled her eyes at Sasha.

—There's no way I'll be trying that on for size. I've been speaking my mind for too long. Which reminds me—if you ever try something like that again, you're going to have to deal with me. Is that understood?

—Yes, Barbara. It won't happen again. I can promise you that.

**It was lecture** time, and Harry already knew Sasha would win at it. She'd been winning with him for too many years. Even so, he had to try.

—Do I have to remind you what happened the last time you went on some half-baked shopping trip without me?

—Is this going to be a test? Yes, I remember. You rescued me.

—The two of you could have stayed in Djibouti and spent the day wandering around the shops and soaking up the atmosphere. It's not a bad place.

—We could have, but then we wouldn't have you here with us now, would we?

He looked at his ex. All he could do was shake his head. There was no winning with this woman—but that was what drew him to her in the first place.

—Do either of you have your players with you?

—We both do. Why.

—Dial it up.

—Dial what up?

—You know what.

Sasha handed Harry her music player and he plugged it into the sound system on board the jet. An old Crazy Town tune, _Butterfly_ , started the serenade.

—I know you better than you think.

Sasha blushed, but she wouldn't give up.

—Maybe you do and maybe you don't.

—Mike says he has a job for me. I'm going to take it. It would mean that you'd be seeing me around more often.

—Why don't you ask our daughter what she thinks about that? After everything that happened, you already know how I feel.

An exhausted Christa slept soundly beside her mother. She had spent most of the day explaining to anyone who would listen that she had been captured by pirates in the desert and rescued by her daddy's team of men.

When Barbara reminded her that she too had been part of the team, Christa updated her story. It became Barbara's team of men that had rescued her and her mother from the pirates.

Which was all right with her father. It was all right with her mother, too.

**Mike checked the** autopilot before relocating to the First Officer's position. The left seat was empty. He paged Harry to join him in the cockpit. Harry pulled up the armrest, settled into the empty seat and scanned the gages.

—How does it feel?

—You're trying to bribe me.

—Yes.

—Is that offer of a job still good?

—You know it, man.

—Good, because I've got some ideas.

—Hang on. You'll be starting as a co-pilot on a Twin Otter. If you don't get bumped, you'll make Captain in six months or so.

—You're getting even for San Diego, aren't you? Does that mean that you'll be throwing the women to the curb too?

—I was thinking a layover on the French Riviera would do those three women a world of good.

—You owe Barbara an explanation.

—I know. I'll tell her the story behind the shotgun before we head home.

—If you don't—

—Would you go back and check to see if those two women brought any weapons on board? French customs will take a dim view and I can't afford to forfeit this airplane.

###

**About**

Peter Duke has been an aviator and fire pilot, business owner, aircraft mechanic, and motorcycle rider. He has roamed the world from Africa to the Americas and places in between. His fictional short novels are based on some of the people he has encountered and the experiences he has had while traveling the world, both for work and for pleasure.

http://pxduke.com

author@pxduke.com

**More**

Twisted Sisters

Detective Jim Nash has a problem. He has a murder victim in an alley and a dead woman in his bed. His own homicide division wants to charge him with murder. To say he's got serious commitment problems would be an understatement. He's on the lookout for twins, but he doesn't want to date them. He wants to know who murdered them. A collection of three modern pulp short stories.

Dreams Die Fast

Frank is headed home after spending a long winter on the Baja. When his motorcycle breaks down, he's trapped in an old ghost town on the west side of the Salton Sea. A woman takes pity on Frank and invites him over for a home-cooked meal. Before he knows it, Frank is knee-deep in cartel drugs with a woman itching to pull the trigger on the gun she's pointing at his back.

Dreams Die Hard

Frank is back on the road with a reformed junkie on the run from a cartel hit squad riding bitch on the back of his motorcycle. When the duo end up working at a strip club, the seedy edge of the city finally catches up, forcing Frank to dig deep within to triumph over drugs, greed, arson and murder. Some adult content.

Dreams Never Die

Frank Ross has had his fill of the big city and its bright lights. On his way to the Colorado, he catches sight of a diner in a small high-desert town while he's passing through. His decision to stop in for pie and coffee is rewarded when the friendly waitress tells him about the job posting next door. He fills out an application for a part-time job in the old-school bike shop, and his life is forever changed when he accepts.

Fast Food Slow Waitress

A biker hits all the high spots (or the low spots, depending on your point of view). These short stories find him at a peeler bar off the 15 in Montana; encountering a hitch-hiker off the 10 in New Mexico; being sweet-talked by his landlady; romancing a truck-driving sweetheart in a sleeper at a California truck stop; flirting with a waitress in a restaurant in the high desert. This is an updated and revised version of First Time and other stories previously published.

Dead Reckoning

During a well-deserved R&R on mainland Mexico, Harry picks up something he doesn't own that forces him to flee across the Sea of Cortez to the Baja. While hiding out on an isolated beach, two mysterious gringas show up to complicate Harry's life by attempting to implicate him in their own scheme, resulting in a mad dash up the Baja to escape the consequences of their actions.

Long Way Home

When Harry's ex-wife, Sasha, and their daughter accompany her oil-company boyfriend on a working vacation to Africa, the trio goes missing. They get out a call for help that will lead Harry on an air and ground chase across the Horn of Africa to rescue his family before kidnappers can move them to their den on the Indian Ocean.

Out of the Past

Harry's comfortable family life is turned upside down when he gets a phone call from a former comrade he thought long dead. When the second call comes in an hour later, the caller asks for his help. He knows his life will never be the same until he can learn what happened to the woman who launched a rescue mission to save his life after his plane was destroyed during a firefight on a bush landing strip in East Africa.

Dead Man's Hand

One man's intricate ring becomes another's folly in this short strange tale of a dead man who was unable to rest in peace.

