last flight out

i am eating supper as rudi comes down the staircase.

“paddy! how the hell was your vacation?”

we shake hands, as men do. he is a stout lad of 23, full of confident friendliness, and has a thick shock of black hair. one of the Beech 1900 copilots, he has been flying with air serv for a few months now. they are based in kinshasa, on the other side of the country, but frequently stay the night or weekend in goma while on trips.

“good, man, saw a ton of animals. tanzania was great. how was your trip home?”

it’s been awhile since i’ve seen him, as we both recently returned from overlapping vacations. rudi is always smirking, something witty and irreverent waiting for the perfect time to come out of his mouth. he releases it into the wild, with that amusing south african accent:

“great man, great. didn’t want to leave. what’s new? how’s flying in congo? you know, we need pilots back home. thinking about going to cape town? i know some girls that would love to give an american flyer his south african validation,” he says, smiling.

earlier this morning, i had returned from a cargo flight: from bukavu to shabunda, back to bukavu, and then home to goma. the weather had been brutal, thunderstorms building in squalls and encircling all the places i wanted to be. bukavu is a tricky place to get into during good weather, as a ridgeline of jagged, steep jungle mountains lines the western side of lake kivu. tallest of all is the 10,840 ft. peak kahuzi, only 9 miles northwest of the airport, which sits 5,200 feet lower.

when you are in the clouds, the arrival is unsettling. knowing that fangs of rock are hidden in the grayness below. you have to maintain altitude, and on this day i even climbed briefly from 11,500 to over 13,000. i respected the peak of kahuzi.

in congo, there is no enroute air traffic control. there is not a single airport in this country (which is a quarter of the size of the US) that has radar. a few airports have towers (which, with their unending incompetence, greatly reduces safety), but airborne aircraft separate themselves via a common radio frequency. each pilot self-announces their position.

we stay in touch with our company bases via HF radios, which in theory are able to transmit and receive for long distances; unaffected by terrain as normal VHF frequencies are. pilots are supposed to transmit their GPS position every 30 minutes to base, so the office can monitor our progress throughout the day’s flying. the reality, though, is our HF radios hardly ever work. generally one or both sides are unable to hear anything.

it is kind of like the childhood fable about the boy who cried wolf. when you can’t get ahold of romeo fox base, or if they don’t hear from you for awhile, they don’t get worried. it happens all the time. they just automatically assume the normal interference, and patiently wait until you are in a better location.


******


the next day i ride out to the airport with rudi, and his captain, ronny. i haven’t met ronny before, and introduce myself. after preflighting our birds, rudi and i stand around; shooting the shit, waiting for our passengers to arrive. late, like always.

those pilots. always talking about flying and women. and sometimes south africa.

rudi tells me about his lady back home; breaking out pictures, beaming with pride.

“she’s hot,” i offer.

“yeah, i like blondies.”

“i like the black-haired ones.”

“i like black-haired, brunettes, redheads and blondes,” he laughs.

i can’t argue with that. something about him seems different this day. i finally notice a fourth stripe on his shoulder.

“shit, man, i didn’t know you made captain! congratulations!!!”

“thanks man. just a couple weeks ago, back home. i'm flying with ronny to get some hours before they let me go with the other copilots.”

“hell of an accomplishment. we need to celebrate. i’ll buy you a beer.”

“sounds good. i’ll be back tomorrow night. we’ll go to chalet or coco’s or somewhere and catch up.”

each of us departs goma; me over lake kivu to the south, rudy steering northwest for the refueling stop of kisangani on his long, cross-congo flight.

see you later buddy, i say over the tower frequency. bye, paddy.

the next day i have off. mushrooming cumulus build over the mountains to the east. lines of thunderstorms roll in over the lake, and i hide out under the porch into late afternoon. reading. writing. petting the cat. watching the lightning; the pulsating purple igniting the sky, the dark grey water falling on the lake.

goma sits on the north edge of lake kivu, bukavu on the south shore; you can’t see one from the other through the rainy haziness. it’s like looking toward another world, one that you know exists, but offers no physical evidence of itself.....

bukavu looks like it’s getting slammed. it’s definitely the start of the rainy season again. i sit and watch the show; killing time before i rendezvous with rudi for some refreshing adult beverages. mentally, i scroll through goma’s 5 or 6 restaurant/bar choices, lazily thinking about where we should go for a celebratory beer. i glance at my watch. 6:12. should be here anytime now.

amy, our base manager, walks out onto the deck for better reception on her cell phone. she talks in a clear, sober tone. my thoughts are interrupted as i hear pieces of her side of the conversation.

“hi pierre......good, how are you?.......overdue aircraft.......air serv one zero.....last contact with bukavu tower at 1402 zulu......
departed kisangani at 1256Z.......heavy rain........ETA 1421 zulu.......”

i peek at my watch again. that was nearly 2 hours ago.

but the HF never works, and amy is calm. our interest is aroused, but no one is concerned. not yet. they are late though, and we run through the overdue aircraft procedures: calling nearby airports to see if they have diverted, the most likely scenario.

other pilots are speculating. probably a call sign mix up, airserv zero one and airserv one zero. probably diverted to bujumbura or kigali, no cell service there, fuckin’ vodacom.

probable, i think. with the electrical storm over the lake i’ve been watching, i wouldn’t have even tried to land in bukavu in the last couple of hours. maybe they went to kigali, bujumbura, or kindu.....between shitty cell service and shitty HFs, they most likely had to land somewhere else and have been unable to update us.

darkness falls. hours pass. kigali tower calls back, then bujumbura, then kindu. all have verified that an aircraft with south african registration ZS-OLD is not on their ramps.

a sickening feeling starts to spread outward from my bowels. mentally i calculate their fuel reserves, silently marking that fast-approaching hour of reckoning. NGOs start to call, wondering where their workers, our passengers, are. more hours pass and hope diminishes. the clock marches mercilessly toward that hour pregnant with meaning.

i stare out on the lake: the blurring of rain and dusk forms water and sky into a big, indecipherable black hole. only when a buzzing, searingly-white-hot zap of lightning rockets through the air am i able to differentiate between the inky black waters and bruised gray-purple sky.

the UN and goma tower have been trying to to call rudi and ronny. i monitor the frequency with a scanner.

“alpha sierra one zero, UN oscar eight three zero, over.”

the murky mountains hide their secrets. whitecaps crash against the shore in our backyard: the south wind is picking up. foamy white lines rush at us relentlessly, shining, almost glowing; materializing from the other side of the dark waters.

“alpha sierra one zero, goma.”

“alpha sierra one zero, goma.”

the only reply is static.

the wind and water are worthless. the silence is deafening.

i walk inside to the dinner table. two place settings are quietly unoccupied on either side of my seat. untouched food on chipped plastic dinnerware. i feel that nauseating feeling in my bowels again; i have completely lost my appetite.

turning around and walking out, back to the porch, out of the rain where i sit in that safe, well-worn chair; hoping, praying, relunctantly admitting to the simple fact that i can do nothing. except wait. cursing my razorwire-topped compound walls and shitty radios and no roads. dammit rudi. call someone.

the call doesn't come. the calculated moment of truth arrives. they have exhausted their fuel supply: they must be on the ground somewhere, hopefully safely landed.

the unsettling feeling of waiting hasn’t landed at all.

the pilots convene in the rec room to begin the planning for what no one wants to admit is happening: search and rescue. we cannot fly at night in congo, for there are no runway lights; and we couldn’t see anything in these dark and harshly-jungled peaks anyways. also there is a major thunderhead in the bowl between us and the airplane’s intended destination. we are unable to search until morning, and only then if the weather clears.

maps are pulled out. lines are drawn. aircraft status is checked. numerous phone calls are made. we want to be airborne at first light; around 6am. luke, our chief pilot, assigns the two of us to fly N715BT. dave and greg will fly N970AS. amy will remain behind, coordinating communications. josh, our new pilot who just arrived yesterday, will fly in the back as a passenger and extra set of eyes along with a few mechanics and office personnel.

we try to sleep, but all i can think of is my poor friend and his training captain stuck out there somewhere in the jungle. and 15 passengers.

the next morning the weather has cleared, and the plan has changed. amy tells me that i’m to take N8HZ, the other caravan, to entebbe and pick up the head mechanic and come back. a round trip of 4 hours in the opposite direction of the last reported position of air serv one zero.

like hell i am, i think, but don’t say. “this is an emergency, our friends could be out there lying injured on a mountainside. have the mechanic find another flight here.”

“well, that’s what jim plaxton wants, and he’s the new CEO.”

i don’t give a fuck who he is or what he wants, i’m looking for my friend. “i think we need to use all aircraft available to locate them as fast as possible, not run a taxi service.”

“well, we need you to go to entebbe and pick up leo.”

we reach the airport and everyone preflights. N8HZ, normally based in kalemie, has been undergoing light maintenance in goma. it does not have any fuel in the tanks. i wait impatiently for the truck. the sun is now well on it’s way up the sky. josh and i see the other pilots standing around in a circle, quietly talking. i walk over.

is this a tea party or a search and rescue? “what are you guys waiting for?”

“the tower isn’t open yet, and we need to coordinate with the UN first in bukavu.”

your friends could be out there dying, and you are waiting on a fucking taxi clearance. i’m glad it’s not my ass out there on the mountain, waiting for you guys to get your shit together. instead, i bite my tongue, and quietly assert: “i thought this was a search and rescue mission, not a senate subcommittee hearing.”

i turn and walk away before i lose it, which probably wouldn’t help the situation.

my comment seems to spur the cattle into movement. in a couple minutes, turbines are spooling, and they depart goma into the clear southern air.

it takes nearly an hour for fuel. when it comes, i know where i’m going. fuck entebbe. i’m going to look for my friend.

i get fuel and perform the fastest start and taxi of my life. as i lift off, speeding southward, i hear a UN helicopter on the frequency confirm with bukavu tower that they have spotted a debris field.

a hard lump forms in my throat. reluctantly, i turn toward entebbe. i turn away from my friend.

they found you. i hope you are alive. i can’t do anything further to help you.

in entebbe, other pilots have already heard the news and come over to say they are deeply sorry. i collect my passenger and fly home.

returning, we survey the ridge. mt. kahuzi is on the direct course between kisangani and bukavu. just 9 miles away from the airport. from safety.

we spot them.

from the air, the fate of my friend is numbingly apparent. there is no way anyone could have survived this crash. i want to resist acknowledgment of this cold observation. as if, by not recognizing this moment for what it is, i can maybe delay his death; or bargain with god for people to still be alive:

rewind these events. let them take off 20 minutes before or after, when rain would not be so heavy for their arrival. have them come from a different place, not having to cross this ridge. let the airplane break down in kisangani. let the RVA prevent them from taking off, bitching about some airport fee they need to pay.

the impact site is less than 20 feet below the saddle. 20 more feet. a height barely taller than the airplane itself. they would have cleared the ridge. they would have made it.

you almost made it, guys.

i circle the wreckage. mostly just tiny pieces. smoking, scorched, steep hillside. a chunk of the fuselage with windows. jackets and clothing strewn all over in the trees.

we land in bukavu and sit for hours in disbelief. it starts to rain. i am alone in my plane, doors propped open. i can’t summon the motivation or effort to get up and close them.

the sound of splattering on the plexiglass windshield. human beings are made mostly of water. that’s all i am, really; some water flying around the sky. not too much different than a cloud.

the wet air smells heavy, like hot pavement. beads of water slowly slither down the smooth door rails, pausing on an obstacle. they grow heavier, swelling with meaning.

gravity beckons.

the quiet drip-drop of coalescence.

i try to imagine the last few seconds in my mind. i know they were approaching bukavu in heavy rain and poor visibility. why were they so low? when in the clouds, we maintain at least 12,000 feet until we know we are over the lake and it’s safe to descend. a preceding aircraft reported hearing them say that they were at 11,000 feet 20 miles out. much too low. why the rush?

the questions start, and don’t let up:

did rudi even know what he had done, in that final millisecond of crushing realization and dread? or worse, did they maybe break out and see the mountain a few seconds before, approaching fast at 200 knots; rudi pulling up hard in vain for that last ditch effort to climb??

or was their world to the end just the swirling grey outside and a humming and backlit instrument panel inside?

what the hell was the training captain doing this whole time?

rudi had flown that route many times, how could he descend below a safe altitude before the airport? how could he not be thinking of those mountains lurking like a minefield in the mists?

the radar had to be on, sweeping back and forth, painting both precipitation and terrain. how did you not see red on your radar, rudi? was there no hint of their proximity to a ridge until they heard the airplane's urgent, automated voice yelling: “terrain! terrain! pull up! pull up!?”

you fucker, i thought i was going to buy you a beer tonight?!?!


******


the next day, a UN helicopter lands close to the site and confirms what we already know. the crash is a beechcraft 1900. registration ZS-OLD. it is airserv one zero. 17 are dead.


******


i sit on the boat dock, peering out over the lake. it is calm, a perfectly still surface. the afternoon thunderstorms have moved on; always upward, over the mountains. they leave behind a bruised azure space: a squished-grape purple swollen with tired, bleary gray. the water is no better.

a muddled and unsure horizon. lake and sky have merged into one. a disorientating, misty, slate-colored blanket all around you. which way is up?

standing on the edge to peer down into the yawning abyss. something silent becons me closer. i am overcome with desire to step off this boat dock, into my mirror image in the lake. just water into water. what’s it like to breathe on the other side?

i can’t.

nursing a double whiskey. one for me, and one for my friend. i miss you already, brother.

a solitary bird glides effortlessly over its own reflection; a whisper of immortality through a sky on fire. soaring into the clearing late afternoon skies.

captain rudi’s last flight out.


i lean back, spinning already from the whiskey. in gaelic: the water of life.

a tiny sliver of moon is hanging overhead. remember when you were young, and adults were always telling you that it was god’s fingernail?

if his finger is way up there, then this world is obviously out of his hands.

maybe it rested secure in them at one time, but he released it. flung it underhanded; rolling through the cosmos like a bowling ball down the lane. toward what?

maybe just to see what happens.

maybe he’s throwing this blue planet from one hand to the other, whistling; like a kid with a baseball walking down the street.

maybe i’m just full of shit and don’t have a clue.

i’m not sure what i think about any of this. the whiskey argues against too strong a conclusion either way.