Rosa Rio
Copyright© 2025 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 3
Andy looked at us with that hard, set jaw of his — the kind he only used when things were about to get truly ugly — and dropped the next bomb.
“The hospital in Bunia is overwhelmed. They are out of blood plasma and surgical kits. The main road from Beni has been cut off. You are their only lifeline. Get this stuff there. Now.”
That single now cut through the air like a whip crack.
“Moving!” I barked before my brain even caught up. To Nisreen: “Get your kit. Meet you at the plane.”
She didn’t argue — she knew. That kind of tone only comes out when lives are measured in minutes. She vanished in a blur of silk and boots.
I shoved past Andy, my shoulder clipping his as I sprinted for my quarters. Flight bag — grabbed. Door — locked without thinking. My heartbeat thumped in my ears as I ran, lungs burning. By the time I hit the hangar, sweat was already slicking my shirt, and my hands were trembling from the adrenaline dump.
Ricky had Yeti halfway out onto the apron, muscles taut, sweat running in the sodium light. I checked my watch — 20:12. Not a second to waste.
“She’s fuelled and pre-flighted,” Ricky said in that clipped, no-nonsense tone. “You can check, but she’s good to go.”
“Thanks, Ricky. Next brew’s on me.”
“You’re welcome. I used to do this all the time. Pre-flighting ain’t a problem. I know it by heart.”
The loaders came in hot — boxes thumping, straps tightening, cargo nets pulled hard until the straps sang. I double-checked: nothing would shift, not even if I rolled her inverted. Center of gravity was spot-on. Full tanks and we were still eight hundred pounds under max. Beautiful.
Nisreen reappeared, kit slung, face pale but resolute. She vaulted into the right seat like she was born to it. I strapped in left, breathing hard, flicking switches in a blur of muscle memory. Starter engaged — the turbine whined, then roared to life. Gauges green across the board. GPS up, flight plan recalled: Goma (FZNA) to Bunia (FZKA). Two hundred and five miles of unforgiving airspace.
I released the brakes. “Here we go.”
Nisreen nodded sharply, strapping down tighter.
Runway 017 rushed up. I didn’t stop — I had no time for theatrics. Throttle forward, balls to the wall. Yeti surged, a beast off the leash. At fifty-five knots she leapt skyward like she hated the ground. No flaps, just Yeti breaking her bond with the earth.
We climbed, threading the Albertine Rift, dark jagged mountains reaching for us. No autopilot in the Porter — I was hand-flying her all the way. One hour thirty-one minutes, the GPS promised. It already felt like forever.
The cockpit settled into rhythm. Engine droned. Instruments glowed. Outside, the Rwenzoris — the Mountains of the Moon — brooded under the stars. They were once thought to be the source of the Nile River.
Nisreen’s reflection shimmered in the panel light. I asked quietly, “You wanted to talk to me?”
“Later,” she said. Her voice softer than I’d ever heard. And when she smiled — the Ice Princess smiled — my damn heart nearly skipped.
But business intruded soon enough. Lake Edward gleamed below. The altimeter wound past 13,000.
“You’re high,” she noted.
“Yes. M23 country. Rockets, artillery, maybe MANPADS. Up here, we’re harder to touch.”
“And if they do have SAMs?”
“Then we pray they can’t see us. Notice the lights?”
She glanced out — blackness. No nav lights, no strobes, no landing lights.
“We’re ghosts tonight,” I told her.
She studied me. “The runway at Bunia runs east-west.”
“True. But we’re landing south to north.”
She frowned. “There is no runway south to north.”
I grinned. “Watch and learn.”
By the time we were three miles out, we were still at 13,420 feet. Nisreen stiffened.
“You’re insane — we should’ve started down ages ago.”
“Good. Strap in. Close your eyes.”
“What?!”
I pulled the throttles to idle. “Flaps full.”
Her hands hesitated on the lever.
“NOW, Nisreen!”
She yanked them down. The Porter’s flaps bit the air.
Then I shoved the stick forward. The nose dropped — no, plunged. The ground rushed up, black and merciless in the near vertical dive. I eased the throttle back past idle into BETA. There was a deep, guttural thrum as the propeller blades flattened, twisting to a near-zero pitch. The prop stopped being a propeller and became one enormous, spinning air brake, killing our forward momentum and turning the vertical dive into an induced drag controlled plunge from 13000 feet.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nisreen’s head whip from the terrifying view in the windscreen to the instrument panel. Her dark eyes widened, not just with a passenger’s fear, but with a pilot’s professional terror. I knew what she was seeing. The Vertical Speed Indicator’s needle didn’t just drop, it slammed against its lower peg — minus 4,000 feet per minute — screaming a lie of an unrecoverable dive. She didn’t know the old gauge always threw a fit before it told the truth.
“NOOOO!” she screamed.
The VSI moved back and pegged at -2,900 feet per minute. We were essentially falling, but falling with perfect control. The airspeed held steady at 65 knots, as if we were hanging on invisible strings. Outside, the world tilted vertical, the horizon gone, replaced by a rushing tapestry of dark earth.
“12,000 — 11,000 — 10,000 —” I called out.
Nisreen’s eyes were wide, knuckles white on her harness. The runway, which should have been a distant speck, stretched like a silver scar across the earth, rushing up, filling the windscreen from left to right as we descended at an angle steeper than a ski jump, and from the wrong direction of both the runway thresholds!
“8,000 — 7,000 — 6,000 —5,000 —”
At the last instant I kicked a little left rudder. Yeti spun left and snapping the runway into perfect alignment. Stick back, nose up, throttles eased forward out of BETA. The speed bled away, the stall horn squealed — then — WHUMP.
We slammed onto Bunia’s patched runway, a perfect three-point landing, reverse thrust howling. Brakes bit. From touchdown to dead stop — thirty meters flat.
The silence afterwards was deafening.
Nisreen’s voice was a hiss. “What the fu...” She stopped, blushing crimson. “Holy shit. I need clean and dry under ... never mind.”
I chuckled, the adrenaline still hammering my veins. “Tactical landing in a Pilatus PC-6 Turbo Porter. Welcome to the BETA landing. Next time, you do it.”
She didn’t answer. She was still trying to remember how to breathe.
I taxied Yeti up to the terminal, every light on Yeti blazing.
We rolled to a stop at the terminal building and I killed the turbine, the sudden silence hitting me like a physical thing. After the howl of reverse thrust and the clatter of the dive, the quiet was deafening — only the ticking of cooling metal and the faint whine of the gyros winding down.
The courier staff was already there, as if they’d been waiting all night with one ear tuned to the sound of Yeti’s prop. They moved fast, practised, sliding the big right-hand cargo door open and hauling the boxes out into the chill Bunia night. No wasted motion, no hesitation — like ants stripping a carcass, the supplies vanished onto carts in seconds.
A man in a high-vis reflector jacket stepped forward, clipboard in hand. His face was lit by the sodium flood-lamps, tired eyes but steady. He signed my manifest with a quick flourish and handed it back without a word. Then — just like that — the convoy was gone, swallowed into the darkness with their precious load of plasma and surgical kits. Lives saved, or at least postponed. Our part was done.
While all this happened, Nisreen stood a little off to the side. The hem of her long casual pants tugged and snapped in the gusts spilling down off the hills. Her Shayla — light scarf, thin and flowing — flicked around her shoulders like restless wings. I noticed the way she held herself — straight, calm, but distant. Left out.
The exchange had been in fast Swahili, all sharp consonants and hand gestures. She didn’t understand a word of it, I realised. English and Arabic were her weapons; here, they might as well have been stones.
I wanted to cut the tension. “Have you ever tried African coffee?” I asked, turning toward her.
Her brows lifted slightly. “I know it is an Arabic blend. Why?”
I grinned. “Because before we climb back in and knock out an hour and a half of night flying, we should probably get something to drink. And maybe find the facilities before we strap in again.”
She tilted her head, then gave a small laugh that sounded almost ... human. “I could do with some caffeine to keep me awake. It’s late in the night.”
Something in her tone had shifted since Goma. Softer. More open. I didn’t push — it wasn’t the time. But I hadn’t forgotten her words: we need to talk.
I checked my watch. Past ten. Midnight ETA back in Goma. I whistled low through my teeth. “You’re right. Let’s grab a breather before we head out again.”
She gave me a smile — an honest, warm smile this time. And damn me if it didn’t make the fatigue drain out of me like a punctured fuel tank.
“Come,” I said, gesturing toward the terminal. “My treat.”
We walked side by side across the apron. A baggage cart sat abandoned near the fence line, and a wiry Congolese guy rose from where he’d been squatting, dragging on a cigarette that smelled like burning tires. His grin flashed white in the shadows.
“Nice landing!” he called in English, his accent thick but clear.
“That landing was something to see.”
I gave him a shrug. “We try to stay out of trouble. Just a tactical landing in a capable aircraft.”
He barked a laugh. “Adventure for me, for sure! You need fuel?”
“Not tonight. We’re still three-quarters full.”
“Then I go. More flights inbound.” He flicked his cigarette, sparks bouncing on the tarmac, and wandered off whistling.
We carried on. The sliding glass door of the terminal whooshed open, spilling bright white light onto the cracked tiles outside. I stepped aside, made a small bow with one hand. “After you.”
Nisreen’s baggy pants brushed against me as she passed, the faintest whisper of fabric against my khaki safari outfit. I caught the clean scent of her perfume, a stark contrast to jet exhaust and damp asphalt.
And for the first time since Andy dropped that bomb back in Goma, I felt the mission weight begin to lift.
We found some strong black coffee at the kiosk — thick, bitter stuff that smelled more like diesel than anything grown in the ground — and sat down at one of seven tables lined up under the tin awning. The blue-and-white chequered vinyl tablecloths had probably been bought twenty years ago, faded from the sun, corners curling up. The chairs were those cheap white plastic garden ones, scratched and stained, but they did the job. No fuss, no frills, nothing fancy. Typical Africa — functional, a little rough around the edges, but dependable when it counts.
From where we sat, we had a clear view of the apron. Three SANDF Oryx helicopters thundered in, kicking up dust and debris as they set down hard on the concrete. The blades beat the air so fiercely that the table rattled under our cups. Doors opened, and out came the soldiers — forty-eight of them out of the three helicopters, kitted out to the teeth, their body armour catching the late night light, rifles ready.
Minutes later, the sound of more rotors filled the sky. Four UH-60 Black Hawks, UN-marked, came sliding in neat as a drill display. They disgorged their passengers too — peacekeepers, from every corner of the world it seemed. You could spot the mix of flags on their shoulders, the different languages shouted across the apron. The reaction force to the attack on the hospital.
I sipped my coffee and watched in silence, wondering if any of them would actually catch the M23 insurgents. My gut told me no. Rebels here knew the bush too well. But I let the thought go.
I turned to Nisreen. “You wanted to talk to me? Is this a good time?”
She set her cup down, her hands trembling slightly, though her voice was steady. “I need to apologise to you for being a bitch.”
I blinked. That wasn’t what I’d expected. “No need to apologise. You don’t know me, and I respect your culture and your individuality.”
But she shook her head, insistent. “No, I lost my temper about you giving food and medication to the M23 rebels when they demanded a ‘tax.’ I didn’t understand what was happening. I’m still learning.”
I nodded slowly. “Is this your first time in Africa — first time in the DRC?”
“Yes.”
“Then just follow my lead. If you don’t understand something, ask. I’ll explain.”
Her shoulders eased a fraction. “Thank you, Dolf. I can still call you Dolf?”
“You can. We’re bound to spend a lot of time together. I’ll gladly help you along. Just remember — I’ve been where you are now. Ricky, Andy, and I will have your back. All you need is an open mind and a willingness to ask.”
She gave a small smile. “Again, thank you. And please ... I am sorry if I offended you.”
I leaned back in my chair, shaking my head. “No need. Besides, I had you all wrong too. I thought you were a spoiled brat. A corporate ice princess sent here for a PR stunt. For that, I owe you an apology.”
Her eyes widened. “You thought that of me?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
She burst out laughing, a genuine sound, full of surprise. When she calmed, her voice softened. “You don’t know how close you came. My father wants to put my picture on the cover of the corporate annual report under the caption: Delivering Aid to Africa. As part of my punishment.”
That hit me sideways. “Why punish you? For what?”
Her face hardened. “For defying him. For refusing to marry the man he chose for me.”
“Dammit.”
“It’s supposed to be our culture,” she went on, bitter now. “But marrying him means giving up flying. It means becoming a stay-at-home cookie, pumping out heirs to the empire. A breeding machine. Arm candy to a weak wimpy man.” She nearly spat out the last words.
“Nisreen ... I’m sorry,” I said, quietly.
Her gaze dropped to her cooling coffee. “My father told me: either go to Africa and learn what hardship and suffering are ... or stop being his daughter.”
I let the weight of her words hang. “So, you’re here. And after it’s over?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. “Maybe ... maybe I’ll stay in Africa. Stop being Jassim Al-Kuwari’s daughter.”
“Can you?”
“I’ll try. At least here, I can fly.”
Her eyes lit briefly when she said it, and I caught a glimpse of the real Nisreen. “You love flying?”
“It’s what I live for,” she said, her voice suddenly fierce. Then she jabbed a finger at me. “And speaking of it — NEVER try that landing stunt you pulled ever again!”
I chuckled, finishing my coffee. “The BETA landing from 13000 feet? Why not? If you want to survive Africa, you’d better learn that manoeuvre, and stay out of incoming missiles, small arms fire and whatever they can throw at you.”
She narrowed her eyes, then asked cautiously, “Will you teach me?”
“Starting tomorrow,” I promised.
“You will?” Her dark eyes searched my face, testing.
“I can’t certify you. I’m not a flight instructor on the Porter. But I can teach you to know that machine inside and out. I’ll train you until you can pull every ounce of performance from her. Then, when we find an instructor, you’ll get your type rating signed off. Easy.”
Her lips curved into a shy smile. “You’d do that for me?”