Chapter 1

It was a short hop from Wonderboom Airport to Rustenburg Airport. Straightforward, really. Take off from FAWB runway 11, fly runway heading of 109 degrees towards NDB Whisky Romeo (Non-Directional radio Beacon), climb and maintain six thousand five hundred feet above mean sea level. Overhead Whisky Romeo, hang a right turn to west, 286 degrees magnetic. Then fly along the Magaliesberg Mountain range towards Rustenburg Airport, fifty-two nautical miles away. Piece of cake. Done it before, got the t-shirt, seen the movie, and wrote the manual.

Only this time, I was not alone. We were a three-ship, in echelon to the right formation. And I was number two in the formation, the filling in the sandwich.

At six foot two, I do fit sort of snugly into the cockpit of the L-39 Albatros. Not really snugly, but after I dropped my frame into the pilot seat, I was in reach of everything in the cockpit without stretching. Everything was at hand, and I did not need to adjust the seat too much. Maybe a bit backward, but not an issue for me.

The name is Alex Kirsten Meyer, Alex to my friends and close colleagues, thirty-four years young and with dark brown hair, brown eyes. My call sign was “Spotter,” due to the fact that for some time I flew spotting missions for the fire bombers around the Karoo and Northern Cape. But today my call sign was “Red 2.”

Until recently I flew cargo missions for a small air freight company out in Gauteng Province and did some casual charter flights for tourists. That was until a few months ago. One skilled pilot from the Red Dragons resigned and uprooted himself to go and live in Hawaii. His spot on the team was now vacant, and the boss man extended an invitation to me to join the team, flying Aero Vodochody L-39 Albatros aircraft. I accepted! Joined the team and spent a month or two to get proficient in their team way of aerobatic flying and acclimatized in the team’s way of doing things. What followed was a few months of intense practice with the rest of the team.

The engine roared to life, a comforting hum that reverberated through my bones as we taxied to and lined up on the runway. The early morning sun cast long shadows across the tarmac, glinting off the wingtips of our planes. The cockpit was filled with the familiar smell of jet exhaust, oil, and the faint scent of worn leather. That familiar rush of adrenaline coursed through me: the anticipation of the flight ahead as my fingers wrapped around the control stick, its surface cool and textured beneath my gloves.

The chatter on the radio was minimal, professional. Even through the subtle hiss and crackle of the communication, each word was sharp and precise.

“Ready for takeoff,” came the call from our lead, Leon Little, his voice steady and authoritative.

“Red 2,” I responded, acknowledging the lead’s call and adjusting my grip on the control stick. The runway stretched out before us, a ribbon of tar promising adventure. The slight vibration through the control stick was obvious as the aircraft responded to my touch, a living machine begging to take to the skies.

“Red 3,” my wingman to the right, Brian Selby, responded, indicating he had heard the lead’s instruction and was ready for takeoff as well.

“Takeoff power, brakes off ... GO!” The lead instructed, and we opened throttles to the pre-arranged settings and released the brakes. The engines’ roar intensified, a thunderous symphony that drowned out all other sounds. The force of acceleration pressed me back into my seat, the harness tight around my chest as we surged forward. Three aircraft rolled along the runway as one, the wheels clattering over the seams in the pavement.

Then came lift off! We ascended smoothly, the ground dropping away as the city below shrank into a patchwork quilt of fields and buildings towards the semi-rural landscape east of FAWB. The cool morning air rushed in through the ventilation system, carrying with it the scents of the high altitude, crisp and slightly metallic. We climbed away at a moderate five hundred feet a minute to a cruise altitude of six thousand five hundred feet, and the landscape spread out in a breathtaking panorama, the Magaliesberg Mountain range a rugged spine in the distance.

The engine settled into a steady drone, a background hum that was both powerful and reassuring. I could feel the aircraft’s subtle responses to each adjustment I made on the control stick, the feedback through my fingertips a testament to the machine’s precision. The sunlight poured through the canopy, casting a warm glow over the instrument panel, each dial and gauge clear and steady.

Keeping station required absolute focus. My eyes darted from my instruments to the lead plane, maintaining our tight formation. Lead’s movements were my movements, a delicate dance in the sky. The challenge was to stay precisely in position, neither too close nor too far, every adjustment subtle but necessary.

Overhead Whisky Romeo, I glanced to the right, preparing for the turn westward. Moments later the radio call came over the airwaves: “Turning right ... GO!” And as one, the formation rolled into a thirty-degree bank and turned to the right. We were already higher than the Magaliesberg Mountains to our south and slowly the mountain range visually rolled towards our left as we turned in tight formation.

As the heading of two eighty-six degrees magnetic scrolled onto the compass rose, the lead transmitted: “Rolling wings level ... GO.” And we all rolled wings level. The city of Rustenburg shimmered in the distance, somewhere ahead. Over the crests of the Magaliesberg Mountain Range, I caught a glimpse of the green water of Hartebeespoort Dam on the other side of the mountain, just starting to peek out of the haze. The city of Pretoria slowly slid away to the east on our south beam. Nowadays, they call it the City of Tshwane. But that is the Metro, the city itself will forever be Pretoria.

As the suburb of Dorandia came up, we reached TOC (Top Of Climb) and our three-ship formation stabilized at six thousand five hundred feet. In accordance with aviation law, we curbed our speed at two hundred and forty-five KIAS (Knots Indicated Air Speed), five KIAS below the air speed restriction under ten thousand feet.

The mountains drew closer, their jagged peaks a stark contrast against the azure sky. The beauty of the scene was not lost on me, even as my mind remained locked on the task at hand. Forty-three nautical miles to go.

This was flying at its purest, a blend of skill and instinct, a test of precision. The camaraderie among the pilots was palpable, each of us trusting the others implicitly. We were a unit, a team. At that moment, I felt a deep sense of connection to the sky and to the people I shared it with.

Piece of cake, I thought, a grin spreading across my face. Time to concentrate on keeping station.

The Aero Vodochody L-39 Albatros, a high-performance jet trainer, was meticulously designed and produced by Aero Vodochody in the Czech Republic. Not only is it capable of providing basic and advanced pilot training, but it has also proven itself in combat, fulfilling light-attack roles. Interestingly, despite its widespread use, the aircraft never received a NATO reporting name.

The development of the L-39 Albatros began in the 1960s, aimed at succeeding the Aero L-29 Delfín, which was one of the early jet-powered primary training aircraft. The L-39 achieved a significant milestone with its maiden flight on November 4, 1968, becoming the first trainer aircraft globally to incorporate a turbofan engine. Production began in earnest in 1971, and by the following year, it was officially adopted by most Warsaw Pact countries as their primary training aircraft of choice. Subsequently, thousands of L-39s were produced to meet the needs of various military clients in Eastern Europe.

The versatility and capability of the L-39 led, after the fall of the Iron Curtain, to its export to numerous countries worldwide, serving both as a trainer and in light-attack capacities. From the 1990s onward, the aircraft also gained popularity among civilian operators. By the end of the 20^th century, more than 2,800 L-39s had been utilized by over 30 air forces, highlighting its extensive global footprint and enduring legacy.

But sadly, the L-39 was replaced with the L-159, a more modern and advanced aircraft. I said sadly, well, I should have used the word, “fortunately”, as the L-39s became available for private use, and used by the likes of us, the Red Dragons, for flying displays at air shows.

Flying west from Wonderboom Airport towards Rustenburg at 6,500 feet in an Aero L-39 Albatros at 245 KIAS, the view from the cockpit is a sweeping panorama of diverse South African landscapes.

To the south of the three-ship, the Magaliesberg mountain range stretches out, its ancient quartzite ridges forming a striking contrast against the surrounding terrain. These mountains run east to west and are marked by their jagged peaks and deep valleys that create a dramatic backdrop. The slopes are covered with a mix of grassland and bushveld, interspersed with patches of acacia trees and rocky outcrops. The rich hues of green and brown are interlaced with shadow patterns cast by the sun, highlighting the undulating terrain.

Directly beneath the jet, the land transitioned from urban sprawl near Pretoria to more open countryside, displaying the geometric patterns of farmland, with fields of varying sizes and shapes. The fields displayed a patchwork of colours depending on the crops, ranging from the deep green of maize to the golden hues of harvested fields. Scattered farmhouses and small settlements dotted the landscape, connected by a network of roads and dirt tracks that meander through the countryside.

Further to the west, as the formation approach Rustenburg, the terrain will become slightly more rugged, with the Pilanesberg mountains visible in the distance, and expose remnants of an ancient volcanic crater that rises prominently from the surrounding plains, creating a distinct natural landmark. The Pilanesberg is characterized by its circular formation and the concentric ridges that reveal its volcanic origins.

The sky above was vast and open, with visibility stretching far to the horizon, often under the bright blue canopy typical of South Africa. Depending on the time of day, the lighting can dramatically alter the scenery. Morning flights might reveal a landscape bathed in the soft, golden light of sunrise, while afternoon flights showcase the vibrant, sunlit colours of the terrain.

On this day, the view from the cockpit of the L-39 Albatros at this altitude and speed offered a captivating mix of natural beauty and human activity, with the contrasting elements of rugged mountains, expansive farmland, and the occasional urban area creating a dynamic and visually engaging flight experience.

The City of Rustenburg, in the Northwest Province, lay on the north side of the Magaliesberg mountain range, about an hour and thirty minutes’ drive along the N4 highway, one hundred thirteen kilometres north of Pretoria in Gauteng Province. South of the Pilansberg Nature Reserve and the world-famous Sun City, Lost City, Hotel and casino complex.

Rustenburg is also the home to two of the largest platinum mines in the world and also the world’s largest platinum refinery: Precious Metal Refiners, which processes around seventy percent of the world’s platinum.

Although I have flown that route before, this time I had to keep my focus on keeping station in the formation and had no time to appreciate the beauty of the landscape beneath the jet.

The short hop from Wonderboom to Rustenburg neared its end. The call came over the radio:

“Red 3, break right ... go!” It was not needed for Red Three to answer, but I saw the L-39 break right at a forty degrees bank angle and slide away to my back.

“Red 2, break right ... go!” And I flipped the L-39 over to the right in a 40-degree bank. Going around one hundred and eighty degrees, I rolled the aircraft wings level and tucked behind Red Three 900 meters in front of me.

There was a radio transmission between Red One, our lead, and the Rustenburg Tower.

“Foxtrot Alpha Romeo Golf, Three Ship Red Dragons with you.”

“Red Dragons state your intention, please.”

“High speed fly past runway 34 at two hundred five oh feet AGL. One on one.”

“Rustenberg tower. Welcome, Red Dragons three ship. We are expecting you. ADVISE: Hold at Point Bravo for five. Traffic is a two ship Buccaneer and Impala mix at four minutes behind you.”

“Dragon One, read traffic is Buccaneer and Impala mix two-ship. Dragon three-ship hold at Point Bravo.”

“Dragon One, read-back correct. You will be one, two, and three behind two-ship mix.”

“Dragon One, clear! Going Holding Point Bravo.”

Then on the inter aircraft intercom: “Red 2, Red 3, you heard the man. Form up over Bravo ... make speed one six zero ... GO!”

I saw Red Three turn towards Point Bravo and followed. Two minutes later we were at Point Bravo.

“Red 2, on me, Red 3 on Red 2, line astern ... GO!” And we slotted into line astern formation like ducks in a row. Speed 160 KIAS fifty meters apart, and a few feet lower than the aircraft in front, to avoid the turbulence of that aircraft.

Red One led us around point Bravo and towards the east of FARG. I picked up the two-ship formation coming in to runway 34, wheels and flaps down for landing.

“Red 1, Eagle 1”

“Eagle 1 go!”

“As our wheels stick, overshoot centre, left and right.”

“Red 1, your wish is our command.” Lead replied and then: “Red 2 left, Red 3 right, Arrow Formation ... GO!”

“Rustenburg Tower Red One. Permission to exceed flight speed limit under ten thousand.”

“Red One, permission granted, but stay below four fifty.”

“Red flight will pass at four hundred knots indicated.”

We formed up as the two-ship descended towards the runway. As they cleared the threshold Red One transmitted:

“Rolling right ... GO!”

We rolled as one, lining up on the runway, rolling wings level, one hundred and fifty feet AGL.

“Red Flight make speed four hundred ... GO!”

Eagle Flight contacted the tarmac, blue wisps of smoke from their wheels trailed a few seconds and then disappeared. Their nose wheels came down and Red One transmitted:

“RED FLIGHT, Smoke on ... GO!” Lead’s voice came through the headset, and I hit the button for the smoke trail.

Red Flight in arrow formation passed the centre of the field trailing white-grey smoke, then Leon in the lead transmitted in his steady and calm voice:

“Red Flight, vertical break ... GO!”

We pulled up into a vertical climbing formation, and Leon, our lead, transmitted, “Red Flight, bomb burst ... GO!” And I broke at a forty-five degree bank angle to the left. Brian in Red three broke forty-five degrees of bank to the right as Leon in Red one went vertical up and over.

“Red Flight, smoke off ... GO!” Came Leon’s calm voice over the airwaves and I disengaged the smoke system. The result was a trail of smoke in the still air that looked like a flower.

Rustenburg Airport Tower.

Up in the tower, the two air traffic controllers looked with field glasses out towards the runway as Eagle flight landed. As the Buccaneer and the Impala’s nose wheels contacted the tarmac, the Red Dragon Flight streaked overhead trailing grey-white smoke. At the end of the runway, the Red Dragon flight pulled up vertical into the air, climbing away at 21 metres per second. (4100 feet a minute) At eight hundred feet AGL, Red Dragon 2 and 3 broke away right and left while Red One rolled over inverted and then rolled wings level, not completing the loop, just half a loop.

“Tower, Eagle 1. You can trust The Dragons to perform at the drop of a hat.” Eagle One transmitted.

“Eagle Flight. You are correct. Now expedite your turn off the runway due to Noise Abatement.”

“What noise abatement?”

“That noise you are going to make when the Red Dragons, landing behind you, hit you!”

(Unprofessional laughter over the air band radio.)

“Red Flight of three, cleared to land runway 34. Winds calm at three knots.” The tower transmitted.

“Red Flight, cleared to land 34, winds calm” Leon in Red One acknowledged.

“Red Flight, read back correct.”

Rustenburg Airport, near the hangars on the west side.

Later that afternoon on the western side of the airport, a solitary man stood silently, his eyes fixed on the sky as two jet aerobatic display teams made their approach. The roar of engines grew louder, reverberating through the air. Clutched in his hand was a handheld air band radio, crackling with the pilots’ transmissions. He adjusted the frequency, ensuring he could catch every word.

The arrival of the Red Dragon team ignited a spark of interest within him. Yes, they were renowned, gracing every air show across the country. This was their fifteenth performance, and anticipation buzzed in the air. The team was impressive, undeniably so. Their routines showcased impeccable training, unyielding discipline, and lightning-fast reactions, hallmarks of any elite aerobatic pilot. Their fitness and stamina were legendary, pushing the limits of human endurance.

Their ground support was equally formidable, composed of the crème de la crème of technicians and engineers. Every nut and bolt, every inch of the aircraft was meticulously checked and rechecked by the best in the business. The Red Dragons’ reputation was spotless, their skill unquestioned.

Yet, a seed of doubt lingered in the man’s mind. “Are they truly the best?” he pondered. “Is their mastery as flawless as it seems?” The answer remained elusive, hidden in the depths of the unknown. Only time would reveal the truth.

With a resigned shrug, he stepped back into the shadowy confines of the hangar. Darkness enveloped him, a stark contrast to the bright, open sky outside. His footsteps echoed on the concrete floor as he moved with purpose. A sense of foreboding hung in the air, thick and palpable.

“There comes a time when guns and gates can no longer hold one back, and something drastic must be done, ” he mused silently. “And someone needs to be taught a lesson.”

He strode towards a T-6 Harvard aircraft, its polished metal gleaming even in the dim light. Reaching out, he let his fingers glide over the cool surface of the wing, a connection to a time when the skies were his domain. His touch lingered, an unspoken promise of what was to come.

“Yes, ” he murmured, a determined glint in his eyes. “Someone must be taught a lesson ... Just a shame he won’t be around after the lesson. But others will see and know not to cross the BROTHERHOOD. They will come to know who they are dealing with, If Sloan Thornton requests a delivery, they must comply ... If that guy did not comply this time ... Well, sorry to hear about his misfortune... ”

The hangar seemed to hold its breath; the silence heavy with anticipation. Outside, the Red Dragons team performed their practised manoeuvres, oblivious to the storm brewing below. The man’s resolve hardened, and he turned away from the T-6 Harvard, his mind set on a course of action that would shatter the tranquillity of the air show.

In the distance, the roar of jet engines filled the air, a reminder of the spectacle unfolding above. But here, in the shadows, a different kind of performance was being prepared—a dramatic, suspenseful act that would change everything.