The immortal skytrain

Four sat by a table.

Firstly, there was Gabriel Eke, 28 years old. He was the son of a Kansas missionary that went to do The Lord's work and a Sudanese local. He was currently working for the United Nations, as a local guide and translator. Pearls of sweat ran down his forehead. There was an air conditioner somewhere in this building, just not close. And the two hired guns didn’t make him feeling any better.

There was “Scoop”. He introduced himself extremely briefly a distinct british accent, and had the standard military man dull eyes and beard. His gun seemed like something that would cost more than a small car, and he seemed like he would prove it before he told anyone. He seemed to be in his mid 30s.

There was a second hired gun as well, one “John”. He was a bit brighter, and had told Samuel he could hit a man at half a mile, while he was running. John somehow thought this would make Samuel calmer. It didn’t. John did, much like scoop seem to have seen his fair share of conflicts, maybe for the last 20 years.

In the corner, wearing a worn tank top for a 80s punk band, stuffy cargo pants and a far too big cap sat a woman in her mid-late 20s. She was Becki, and was a pilot even before she could walk, by just her bloodline alone. Her father once flew a Boeing 747 over six hundred miles with one stalled engine, and he was almost certain no one of the passengers noticed. His father had crashed two separate, West German F-104 Starfighters in his service, and his father before him had bombed Polish, French, British and  Soviet civilians during the war. And then the Poles some more.

Becki, however, did not have any of these incredible aircraft. Hers was, in fact, designed before the one her grand-grandfather took to war. And she was on the payroll for a big charity company, which wasn’t always the most exciting thing in the world. But judging by the two mercenaries, it might just get a little more exciting soon.

Becki had downed half a bottle of water, thrown the rest over to a grateful Samuel before going back to her phone and stared at that for fifteen minutes before a skinny man with a stack of papers stepped in.

SM: Hello there, good to see you’re all here. Just to make sure… Uhh… Scoop McLean?
SmL: Yeah
SM: Good good. Gabriel Eke? Is there supposed to more than “Eke”?
GE: No, just Eke. It means “Roof”’

The thin man looked a little confused.

SM: Okay… And you’re John then?
JS: I am
SM: And then Rebecka Voltermeier?’
RV: Just “Becki” is fine
SM: Right. But everyone is here, at least

Nods and hums were heard around the room

SM: You’re all here today because the last pilot failed three deliveries in a row. Something with trees? I don’t know much about planes, I’m not exactly sure why
RV: Planes don’t like trees
SM: Oh yeah… Anyway, Sudan is still kinda hostile, and he wanted armed guards to fly along, so you get the same offer

Becki looked surprised that was up to her.

RV: They don’t seem like bitch and moan types, so if there’s room they’re in for the first trip anyway

She expected a bit of a smile from either of them, but they remain stone faced. They didn’t like the “Sudan” part, since they were in Ethiopia.

The man seemed unphased and went on.

SM: Yeah. So we hire you… and pay you the premium, because we ask very specific things of you
RV: Flight, landing, unload, takeoff and return flight, and they don’t even have a runway? In Sudan? Yeah, you bet I’ll ask extra for that

That drew a few odd looks from the room

SM: Right

The skinny man started a projector, facing into a whiteboard. An image flashed up of screenshot taken from google earth, with a few dots on it.

SM: That’s Gambela marked in red, so we should be a few kilometers north. You will fly to this place here, “Catholic Mother of Mercy Hospital” south of the Nuba mountains. In Sudan

SmL: Hol’ up a second. We’re supposed to fly though South sudan too?
SM: I think that’s up to you, I can’t see my employer having opinions on how you get there. We just pay for the fuel

Becki narrowed her eyes into slits. This would indeed pose an issue she would have do discuss with the remaining crew later.

RV: Fine. What are we transporting?’
SM: Medicines, mostly. Sanitary equipment, vaccines and the such
RV: Oh. Medicines to a hospital…
SM: Exactly. They have been chronically low for some months now. It will be your gig if you can do it’

An hour later, the cargo had been wheeled out to the old airplane. It was quite bulky, but light, barely exceeding half of the plane’s 6000 lbs payload. That was the easy part. The difficult one was that of the route. Gembala was located on the North-East corner of Ethiopia. The hospital, located in Sudan was about 500 kilometers, bearing 315 from their base. However, that route would cross over the border to South Sudan, which has a significant portion of land sticking into Sudan, like a 250 Kilometer long outcropping.

South Sudan was a hellhole. Civil War, rebels, UN soldiers doing nothing, the whole jazz. And there were reports of helicopters having been shot down.

Sudan itself isn't much better. If they would plot the route along the south Sudanese border, like they would have to, the journey would almost double in length, to over 800 kilometers. And over 400 of them would be along a heavily militarised border, guarded by people who couldn't tell the difference between a helicopter and the building where it was built. These same people would fire at anything foolish enough to fly over.

It was technically possible to fly over the 3500 meter ceiling of the 9K38 Igla missiles. But since Rebecka’s old airplane was much, much slower than the jets the Igla was intended to swat out of the sky.

But every cloud has a silver lining. The Igla requires an operator, trained for at least an hour and moderately sober at the time of launch. John said so, at least.

RV: It's gonna take too much time
JS: What?
RV: it's going to take too long. I don't want to fly over this shit hole a second longer than necessary. Fifteen minutes to angles 12, eight hundred at two-fifty is three and a half hours before we touch down. Unload and get out, we're gonna fly the last three hours in daylight. We are going to get shot down
SmL: So we stay the day there. I saw you had a fifty and manpad in the plane.

Scoop was confident in his abilities in his abilities to defend the airplane when it was on the ground.

JS: We can't. They already bomb the shit out of that place’
SmL: Who's bombing a hospital?’
JS: Sudanese government. They fly an old Coke a few days a week and push barrel bombs down the cargo ramp. They usually don't hit within a hundred feet of the compound, but people still get fucked
SmL: Fucking hell…

RV: You're being too cautious
SmL: Eh?
RV: Short route is all hilly and forested areas. Reaction time, even if they see us will me almost nothing. We fly north low and after sundown’
SmL: You're serious?’
RV: Ever heard of six-seventeen squadron? Dambusters?

She was fairly sure Scoop had heard of the dambusters. Not many military men in Britain hadn’t.

SmL: That was eighty years ago
RV: My plane is eighty years old. It’s the option least likely to get us shot down. As the crow flies, it’s not even two hours, I might even get it down to an hour forty-five with the liberal use of horsepower. If we’re fast unloading everything, we could even take a similar route home, albeit 30 kilometers north or south
SmL: I don’t like this, one bit
RV: No, seriously. It’s pitch black outside by what, ten o’clock? If we’re wheels up at ten sharp, we can land a few minutes before midnight, and if we all are efficient with the unloading we can take off before one, and home before three, still pitch black. This works. As long as my bird keeps in the air. And if it doesn’t, we can just nick the two Kawasakis by the Motor pool. A jerry can on each, and we can probably drive back to base if it comes to that

They fell silent a while.

JS: Let’s be honest, that is the fastest way. In and out, quick and easy. In theory. And it’s five hundred to like, eight-nine hundred if we go at a safer distance north of the border. Half the time. And we can do everything at night

SmL: no way. Have you even seen the plane? It's a rust bucket! We try to push it and it'll the last thing we do
RV: oh come on, it's up to the job. Bad planes don't get old
SmL: Planes get bad as they get old

Rebecka looked at her watch.

RV: To hell with this. I’ll show you this thing.

She slung the old G3 over her shoulder and walked out from the office building to the hangar. She took help from the two hired guns to push the big sliding doors open. Inside, barely fitting inside sat the old war horse. A Douglas C-47.

JS: Didn’t Indiana Jones have one of these?
RV: Oh yeah, which is why he didn’t have his face melt. Look, I’m trying to inspire some confidence in the old bird.

She walked under the port wing, making sure not to walk close to the propeller. She waited for them to reach the cargo door and pointed on a black scorch mark below and forwards of the door.

RV: That mark is from the backblast of a 9K38 Igla surface to air missile, which is my first, and so far only air to air kill

There was a few looks of doubts from the men.

RV: Somali air force Su-25 Frogfoot, probably a trainer. It fired at me, a warning pass and one that missed. I put on auto pilot, ran twenty feet from the cockpit to the door, opened and got the missile away!

Scoop and John looked at each other and shook their heads.

SmL: I’ve about had it. I’m asking for a reassignment. I’m not getting into that

John shrugged too, seeing he didn’t want to be the only professional there

JS: C’mon Gabriel, we have better things to do
RV: Hey, don’t go, I promise, i really did-

There wasn’t much she could say. The word of a young woman didn’t weight heavy next to two mercenaries Gabriel left too. She stood still for a minute, watching east african sun slowly make its way down towards the horizon. She cursed, mumbled something about them not “getting it” and went to borrow one of the Kawasakis. Alone or not, these people need medicine.

The flight checks were mostly carried out, the last stuff was always going to have to be re-checked shortly before takeoff. So until then, as the cargo had been loaded up, she had nothing to do. And then, according to Murphy’s laws of combat, the obvious next move was to get some sleep. The plane pitched quite a bit nose up when it was parked on the ground, and the only real way to fix a bed in the plane was to attach a hammock to the ceiling beams in one and and the cargo door in the other. Rebecka moved a box out of the way and snuggled into the old hammock under a blanket bought in a Bulgarian village two years ago. It was heavy, itchy, but it smelled of hay, a reminder of simpler times.

??: I’m still with you
RV: Yeah, it’s not like you have a choice
??: Don’t be like that!
RV: Eugh, sorry Tiffy…

A head sporting two big silver eyes poked out through the door to the cockpit. Tiffy was a so called “Unscientific creature”. The whole term was a broad classification of things, creatures that science couldn’t really explain. Just like many endangered species, most didn’t survive the victorian era.

Ti: So we’re calling this off
RV: No… Looks, it’s ten thousand something doses of penicillin, god knows how much measles vaccine, IV, sanitary equipment, rations. These people are fucked. Even if er help them, I guess
Ti: Nonono Becki, that’s how we don’t think! We fly, they live. We stay, they die.
RV: I don’t know, Tiffy…
Ti: Don’t tell me you listened to them! You’ve flown this thing since what, sixteen?
RV: It’s older than Opa’s Junkers...

They both sat still and quiet, looking into the orange sun

Ti: Still salty about that thing?
RV: Yep
Ti: This girl can do lots of tasks too…
RV: Mädchen für alles, a maiden for all work. And this doesn’t dive bomb, drop torpedoes, mine, fighting…
Ti: You got an jet kill. Actually, That’s not even what this is about. Let me tell you about this instead. You know there was a bit of a row in the Douglas factory when I got there first?
RV: Hm?
Ti: Yeah. One of the planes that left on Februari…. ninth fell apart on takeoff. Two pilots dead.
RV: Oh
Ti: Defective welding apparently, so there was an incredible amount of shouting about proper welding and riveting, and german spies and the whole thing. Anyway, some people there felt targeted, and felt they would lose their job if they messed up even a single weld again. So that week after, until maybe the fifteenth, the welding on those planes were some of the best of any manufacturing plant in the whole war.
RV: Why are you telling me this?
Ti: Shhh. This plane rolled out the thirteenth. Sunday the thirteenth of February, 1944. God said you were supposed to rest on Sundays, but you didn't do that, so neither could we

Rebecka scoffed a little. Fiffy always said “you” instead of “The germans” to her.

RV: The devil doesn't sleep
Ti: Neither does God. You know this flew on D-day?
RV: This plane?
Ti: Yes! Paratroopers of the 82nd Airborne division dropped on France. The original engine had a hole on the cooling fins of number 4 cylinder from the AA fire. Luckily it just went through.
RV: You were with it during the whole thing?
Ti: Yeah. Adventurous youth, I suppose?
RV: Your kind age?

Tiffy made a pretty strange sound, which only sounded vaguely human.

Ti: Crossed the channel one hundred and three times before VE day. Fifty-two heading east, fifty-one west. We were actually in-flight when the announcement was aired
RV: You should have left us alone
Ti: Should have held the japs on a leash, then

They sat quiet another minute. Rebecka opened a beer, took a swig and handed the bottle over to Tiffy. Usually, alcohol consumption before a flight was a crime worth than people even dared speak about. But this was Africa after all. And no one would even know they flied.

RV: And the bridge?
Ti: Bridge?
RV: The Airbridge, to Berlin
Ti: Oh, the airlift? Yeah, we flew that too. A sortie per day.
RV: Opa told me stories. Silver planes coming in endless streams to Tempelhof. At most, two planes a minute came in. Civilians would run out to the planes, have them emptied in minutes so they could go back up again. Some pilots would throw candy out of the plane, for him and his friends to catch. They

She stifled a laugh.

RV: And that's how he met Oma.
Ti: They met there?
RV: That's right. Together since 11 and 13
Ti: They’re alive both?
RV: Yeah…

Tiffy emptied the bottle and threw it at one of the birds sitting by the door.

RV: Almost
Ti: Whatever. Know where it went after Berlin?
RV: Judging by the flags, Korea?

Becki referred to a big group of little flags painted underneath the port side window, one for each country visited. Just in front was the silhouette of an Su-25 Frogfoot with a red strike through it.

Ti: Yeah. It was changed to the C-47D, because some kind of Air force bureaucracy i don’t understand. it didn’t have the two speed superchargers from factory. Anyway, Korea. More flights, more cargo. More jungle people shooting at us. Oh shit, I don't think I've told you. Something shot out a connecting bar for the rudder. Come!

Tiffy jumped out of the airplane and ran back to the empennage.

Ti: Okay, see by the top connecting tab-bar thing? Where the rudder mounts to the stabilizer?
RV: Yes.
Ti: See, some kind of bigger projectile hit the rudder, but just scraped the stabilizer. You can still see the little dent, just under the slot, there. Anyway, the rudder was blown to pieces and we barely landed the thing. Afterwards, we couldn't find any spares, but we did find a “Nakajima L2D, or a Nakajima Navy Type 0 Transport”
RV: Uhh?
Ti: Japanese license produced DC-3
RV: You took the rudder of a Japanese airplane??
Ti: Hell yeah. Probably been shot down for… eight or nine years or something?
RV: Gott im Himmel…
Ti: I don't know what you're complaining about. It's worked since. Think of it this way instead, that’s probably the last part of the IJN still flying regularly
RV: Yeah, but do I want it on my plane?
Ti: Have you noticed it, even once?

Rebecka shrugged, She hadn’t noticed anything. And the rudder was probably fine

RV: Do we paint a rising sun on it now?
Ti: We might have to, yeah. It can hardly get any worse in the paint, can it?
RV: Eugh…

Rebecka looked over her old airplane. It had been a long, long time since it had gotten painted. It was mostly down to its primer and fragments of paint, while all leading surfaces were worn down to the bare polished aluminum, save for the black surfaces in front of the cockpit and on the inner engine nacelles, to avoid blinding the pilot with reflections from the sun

RV: It would be expensive to get it painted
Ti: Not necessarily. The invas-
RV: Yeah, the invasion stripes were painted with buckers and a roller, I know
Ti: Whatever, back to the plane. Korea, right? It was a three year war, we just flew the standard food, ammo and all that. We didn’t fly any paratroopers, come think of it. Well, guess the Air Force found better planes. That said, we could land in a lot of places where the bigger planes couldn’t land. So, among the one-nineteens, one-thirty ones and all manner of aluminum overcasts they flew there, the Gooney birds still proved useful.
RV: It wasn’t that old then…
Ti: Old, not outdated. Anyway, we flew through the war, no actual firefights or anything, as expected of a little transport plane.

Rebecka reached for another beer, cursed and went for a cola instead. It opened with a crack and a fizz.

RV: Join the Air force, see the world, huh? How did you even fly along? Wouldn’t these have killed you on sight or something?
Ti: Probably. Not like they knew I was there. You know I’m good at not being seen
RV: It’s like that huh? And yet you trust me.
Ti: You’re a safe bet. If we don’t count me, you don’t have a single friend on the entire continent.

It was meant as a joke, something Rebecka would reply with a snarky comment, or a “fuck off”. She didn’t. Her deep, blue eyes got even deeper and a bit empty.

Ti: Sorry, I didn’t mean it like-
RV: Oh whatever, you’re not exactly wrong. I just want my money and then get out of this shithole. I hate Ethiopia, I hate Sudan, both of them. I hate Somalia, in fact, I hate this whole fucking continent. And I want nothing more than get out of here. But right now, I earn a little well to leave.
Ti: Becki, I’m sorry, I just meant it as a-
RV: Have some spine and own what you say. Screw it, get back to Korea

Tiffy’s big eyes had regret in them, and her posture reeked of shame

Ti: Right, Korea… Uhh, the war ended in ‘53, and it didn’t change that much for the logistics. Still flew, deliver the food, yada yada. But then this other show started in ‘55, that you might have heard about.
RV: Yeah?
Ti: Vietnam?
RV: Shit, that started as early as ‘55?
Ti: Oh yeah, it did. We were sent there in late ‘58, as things heated up, same as last time, shorter routes, unprepared runways or real sneaky stuff. Gone was the old polished aluminum finish, and on with tan and green. Camo was the new black and… it was back to the same old. Until some whackass decided the airframe needed an inspection for flight hours or something, so we got sent back in mid ‘64, which was just the right time. See, a few years earlier some folks over there started doing something called “Project Tail chaser”. Uhh,  still with me?
RV: Yeah yeah, go on. I’m listening

Ti: Right, so this was the idea of instead just using a cargo plane to spew flares on gooks to shoot them easier at night, you can fit a minigun to a transport aircraft. Eglin air force base had some guys starting to take this serious, just about when we got there. This aircraft was in excellent condition, especially after a lie about the flight hours.So, in a complete reversal of what was supposed to happen, this was one of the 53 C-47s converted into AC-47s.
RV: What? This was a Spooky!?
Ti: And as far as I know, the only one that didn’t get drafted into another Air Force after the war and then scrapped

Rebecka takes a step back

RV: This had… Three miniguns?
Ti: Oh yeah. Check the screw holes by the port cockpit window, that housed the mounting bracket for the sight
RV: No fucking way
Ti: That’s another record for the plane! I can’t imagine any plane flying today that has more dead vietnamese to its name than this!
RV: Wooooow

Tiffy chose not to mention the fleet of B-52s that would probably have a higher score in this extremely narrow field.

Ti: So, we were moved to the 14th Special Operations wing, in the 4th Air Commando Squadron from the tail end of ‘64. Lots, and lots of ground support missions, with another C-47 flying around and throwing flares all over ground, or the poor fucks on the ground shooting their flares. So we flew ground support missions until february in 1969, where an… ehem, slight electrical fire that put an end to this old bird’s gunship career. the Miniguns and their equipment were removed, and it was once again designated as a C-47D, even if that wasn’t technically correct.
RV: That’s insane… But how did it end up in Bulgaria?

Tiffy furrowed her brow

Ti: Yeah.. storage pretty much when it came back from Vietnam. And when Air force maintenance stops, decay starts. Sure, it was dry air storage, Arizona and all that, but it was getting old. You had 747s and C-5s making this plane look like a joke. Three times the speed, and seventy times the payload. the military sure didn’t need ‘em anymore. And naturally they found out about the way, way too many flight hours. But it was cheap as dirt, and there is always some poor bastard running an airline trying to get out of the red.
RV: went to civilian hands?
Ti: Yeah. Some airline up in the frozen north. I hate the cold. Really badly. My memories of the time are… blurry at best. But we didn’t fly much, airframe was getting genuinely dangerous to fly.

Tiffy rubbed her temples and reached for another beer. Becki wanted her shares, but air travel required at least some level of sobriety. She had water instead

Ti: Yeah, but there is this company in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, Ever been there?
RV: I’m still German
Ti: Oh for fuck sake, it’s a figure of speech. Anyway, it’s called “Basler turbo conversions”
RV: Yeah?
Ti: They do DC-3 and C-47 conversions, started in the early 90s. It looks like a C-47, but it’s new inside and out. Basically a whole new, 0-hour airframe. New turboprop engines, new wingtips, new avionics, lengthened fuselage. It looks old, flies new.
RV: Why does it feel like this plane is any of that. Piston engines, 30s instrument and gauges, fuselage is the same.
Ti. Oh yeah, you’re quite right. this was one of the first airframes they did. Basler started the conversion and had only done the part with structural integrity, the airframe, when the airline naturally ran out of money, so Basler just slapped the parts they had together. Mostly parts that were laying around, passed expiry date. The plane was technically flyable, sure but it was genuinely dangerous. the damn thing had been flying for thirty years, and then parked for twenty. The engines were really, really bad and it barely took off. had to run the poor things at 9/10th throttle for hours to get to Canada. They were little more than molten lumps of metal when it finally hit the ground. I doubt they would have lasted another hour. That company, Airtech Canada helped us to new engines. They are… lemme see. Polish licensed production of an Soviet take on the nine cylinder Wright R-1820 engine. Kinda funny, same kind that the original DC-3s had.
RV: Who even did all this…

Tiffy finished her beer, and threw that bottle, too at the birds by the hangar door.

Ti: Don’t ask questions you don’t don’t want to know the answers to
RV: I do want to know
Ti: No you don’t. Was probably going down to south america to some drug hellhole. I couldn’t let that happen. ANYWAY, new engines, this time with a single, two-speed supercharger and mechanical fuel injection, even if I have never seen that referenced, in any writing, ever.
RV: So, it’s a parts-bin special.
Ti: Oh yeah, it’s an absolute mess. And that’s why it couldn’t get registered in Canada, or any part of the civilised world. Old pilot made the craziest flight i’ve ever seen. Remember, Iceland is an airbase, and Russians generally don’t give a fuck as long as they’re bribed, and you fly at night. Sadly, that pilot met his maker in a pub in Bulgaria. Suppose a drunken brawl among friends and easy women is a good way to go
RV: What, the old owner died? Who was that… fuck, what’s his name? Yovochevsky?
Ti: Owned the airfield. And the morgue. And half the city. it was a high risk thing, selling something that really was part of an estate. But hey, two unemployed teenagers, a couple of paint cans and and a few fake papers…
RV: Motherfucker
Ti: Gullible teenage girl with thirty thousand euros? Hell, I’d do that too

Irritated with the lack of alcohol intake, Rebecka lit a cigarette instead.

RV: Then again, what other place on earth wouldn’t give a shit about papers.
Ti: Exactly. TIA, Becki. TIA
RV: Yeah yeah, I watched Blood Diamond too. Where were we even going with this?
Ti: Still haven’t worked that out? This fucking thing conquered France, and then Germany before it fed the entire capital. Been to Korea, Vietnam, Laos, Burma, and then survived on scraps, spare parts, and then won over the FAA, something not even the damn airforce can do. Illegally through American, Canadian, Icelandic, Norwegian, Finnish, Russian, Belarusian, Ukrainian, Romanian and then Bulgarian airspace, and nobody gave it shit. So, we’re in Africa, eighty damn years later and you’re worried about a bush landing and a few stray niggers with AKs? Come on, Rebecka, don’t worry. They don’t call it “The immortal Skytrain” for nothing

Rebecka scoffed a little and tossed the cigarette butt on the floor. It was dark enough outside now

RV: This is what we do. I do the last of the checks, and you try and remember every country this thing has landed in, or just flown over

Tiffy smiled, and crawled to the navigators seat, all the way forwards and right. Just like last time, the engines were fine, the oil looked good and there was no water in the tanks. Rebecka sat in the pilots seat fifteen minutes later.

Ti: All good?
RV: All clear. Prop?

Tiffy looked over her shoulder, making sure that the number 2 propeller was unobstructed

Ti: Prop clear
RV: Prop clear!

In a cloud of fire and smoke, the big radials woke to life, filling the plane with the sound of thunder and conquest. Eleven tons of old metal taxied through the narrow dirt paths while it spat long dust clouds behind it. Eventually, it had found its way to the far end of the runway.

Rebecka made one last check of the instrument. Oil temp and pressure was good, hydraulics were good, control surfaces were good and responding well. There was just one thing left. She reached down with her left hand for the two throttle levers. The knobs had been replaced by little Ivory skulls sometime during its long career.

Ti: C’mon, it’s what it’s made for. Not a bomber, a plane of death. This is made for life. Food, medicine
RV: Yeah. You know, one day I’m going to sell this shit pile, and buy a Ju 88. And it’s going to hurt like hell. But that’s not today

Rebecka took a firm grip on the throttles and pushed them all the way forwards. The two big engines roared, vibrated and spat half meter long flames through the stubby exhausts. Eleven tons of aluminum flying in loose formation made a pylon turn and soon had the nose pointing north-west, heading into the deep african night.

One night out of many.