Rosa Rio
Copyright© 2025 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 5
Through the side window of the Otter I saw the M23 Officer in conversation with his men. I did not have any doubts as to what the little conference was about. I wanted to get out of this hell hole where the constant flies were attacking in squadrons. The afternoon was hot and humid. The absence of wind here between the trees meant that the Otter would use some distance to get off and I hoped that It would do so before we hit the flock of goats at the far end of the “runway.”
Also, once cleared of the tree canopy, the wind was sure to interfere.
The twin P&W PT6A-27’s were spinning the props, their disks flicking the sunbeams between the trees in dappled patten.
“Set Altitude 5900 and heading 118 magnetic. We would leave the autopilot disconnected while we took off.”
“Roger,” She replied and turned the knobs on the autopilot. “Altitude 5900 and heading 118 set.
“Check.” I replied,
I glanced back at the group of men at the hut, and they were starting to disperse, running to parked Land Cruisers under the trees. Oh well, looks like they were off somewhere.
I turned my attention back at the cockpit.
“Flaps 30,” I said and Nisreen mover the flap leaver to 30%.
“Ready?” I asked.
“Ready!” she confirmed and I kept the brakes in while moving the throttles and the condition lever to full power. The engines spooled up to 100% and I released the brakes. The Otter surged forward, running down the narrow strip between the trees, while I prayed that there were no potholes on that section.
“Forty knots,” Nisreen announced. “Sixty knots ... Seventy knots...”
The end of the cleared strip and the goats grew larger in the windscreen.
“Vr!” Nisreen announced, meaning we reached rotation speed. I pulled back on the control yoke and seconds later the Otter unstuck from the unpaved makeshift runway. The rattle and vibration of the charge down the runway was suddenly silent as we clawed for hight.
“Positive rate of climb,” Nisreen reported.
I scanned outside and found the tree tops were falling away and we were clear.
“Flaps up.”
“Roger, flaps cycling to zero state,” she reported, but I felt it in the handling of the Otter as the slipstream sound faded and the Otter started to gain more forward velocity.
“Flaps up,” Nisreen reported, being the competent co-pilot. Going by the book.
“Engage autopilot,” I said, and Nisreen complied. The Otter started its bank towards 118 degrees magnetic, still climbing at 600 feet per minute to 5900 feet. I let go of the yoke.
As the Otter started to settle at 5900 feet MSL I sat back in the seat.
“Now that was fun,” I chuckled.
“She’s tuned great. Thanks to Ricky.”
“Dear old Ricky, he has a passion for these birds. Just a shame can’t fly them.”
“Yeah...” Nisreen replied and looked out the side window.
“Nissie?”
“Yeah, Dolfie?”
“Set altitude to 12500 and ... take us home.”
“What?” She blurted and looked at me. “You trust me to fly us home?”
“You’re certified on the Otter, why not get the hours logged, Partner?”
“Thanks, Dolf. That means a lot to me. AND ... you called me, Partner.”
“That’s what we are. We’re partners in this mess of a jungle. We need to have each other’s back. That’s how we roll ... and survive.”
Nisreen reached over and for the second time that day she placed a cool hand on my hand. Electric shocks ran through my body.
“Thanks, Dolf. We are really partners...”
It got quiet in the cockpit after our initial chatter, the kind of silence that isn’t awkward but heavy with thoughts. Each of us chewing on what had just passed back in the village. Nisreen had her eyes glued to the panel, keeping old “George”—our autopilot—from wandering off on one of his drunken adventures. She checked engine temps, torque, fuel flow, and the myriad dials and needles that make pilots look like sorcerers to outsiders. Truth is, it’s less sorcery and more boredom management. Cross-country flying has a way of lulling you into a dangerous complacency.
“There’s some clouds up ahead,” Nisreen broke the silence, her voice calm, professional.
“I see them,” I replied. A solid wall of grey loomed on the horizon, straight across our flight path. “Slap bang in the middle of where we need to go. We can’t go lower—ridge is in the way. We’ll have to punch through.”
“Going higher isn’t an option either,” she said. “We’ll be too high to land in Goma.”
“Then we go IFR,” I said. “I’ll work the radios, you just keep her steady.”
“Okay,” she said, a touch of hesitation creeping in, though she kept her hands hovered near the yoke. The autopilot was flying.
Just then a gust smacked us from the front-left quarter. A hard 22-knot easterly cross, the kind that rocks you off-balance before you’ve even thought of correcting. The Otter rolled, the autopilot groaning but correcting, wings rocking side to side like a drunk boxer.
“Let the autopilot ride it out,” I advised.
“My idea too,” Nisreen shot back. “I’m not fighting that mess until I absolutely have to.”
“Good call, Nissie.”
I switched over to Goma Tower’s Terminal Advisory Service. Static hissed for a second, then the clipped local accent rattled through: thunderstorm activity building east, ceiling 8000 feet MSL, moderate conditions at field elevation, Runway 17 in use. I rattled off the details for Nisreen.
“You’ll have a crosswind from the east on 17,” I said. “No ILS, so it’s GPS and visual. Goma VOR on one-one-six decimal five. Runway heading one-seven-four.”
“Got it!” She nodded, eyes sharp.
And then we hit it.
The world outside disappeared as the first ragged fingers of cloud curled around the windscreen. One moment we had horizon, mountains, valleys—the next, nothing but shifting shades of grey. Wisps of mist raced past, then thick white swallowed us whole.
The cockpit dimmed, the sound of rain starting to pepper the skin of the Otter. The sensation was immediate and unnerving: no more visual references, just instruments. The altimeter ticking, the artificial horizon steadying us. Without them, your inner ear plays dirty tricks—telling you you’re turning when you’re straight, climbing when you’re actually falling. Many a good pilot has followed his gut in weather like this and augured straight into the earth.
I shot a look at Nisreen. She kept her chin high, eyes scanning the panel in neat cycles — attitude, heading, altitude, back to attitude. She was doing it by the book, and I felt a stab of pride.
Still, the turbulence was playing games with us. The Otter heaved and shuddered, rain hammering against the nose, the prop arcs biting into sheets of mist. Every so often a bump would slam us sideways, and George would dutifully over correct, wings see-sawing. I reached up, steadying a loose map that had rattled free of the clip.
As we cleared the ridge, I knew Lake Kivu stretched somewhere below, unseen in the soup. It was a strange sensation — knowing an entire landscape existed right beneath us but being cut off from it by a few thousand feet of vapour.
“Going to eight thousand,” I said, twisting the altimeter knob. The nose dropped obediently, Nisreen guiding her into descent until we levelled. The clouds thinned just enough for hints of the world below — patches of green, the faint glint of water, then gone again. Like glimpses of another reality through frosted glass.
I keyed the mic. “Goma, this is Niner November Alpha Bravo X-ray, seventeen nautical miles west at eight thousand. Intention full stop landing Runway One-Seven.”
“Alpha Bravo X-ray,” the tower replied, “radar contact sixteen west at seven-niner-niner-four feet MSL. Descend and maintain six-five-hundred. Turn left heading zero-niner-three.”
I twisted the heading knob. “Alpha Bravo X-ray, turning zero-niner-three, descending six-five-hundred.”
The reply came back, “Read back Correct. Stand by for vectors to Runway One-Seven. Be advised eight-knot crosswind from the east.”
“Alpha Bravo X-ray, roger on crosswind.”
Then I heard her voice, quieter, almost reluctant. “Dolf?”
“Yes, Nissie?”
“Will you ... take over for the landing? The airport’s unfamiliar, and I don’t like this weather.”
I glanced sideways. She wasn’t scared — she was honest. That’s rarer than bravado in cockpits. I smiled faintly. “You’re doing fine. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll drive.”
And silently, I added a prayer. Not because I thought I was better than Nisreen—truth is, I wasn’t sure I was — but because her honesty about her limits reminded me that this place eats arrogance for breakfast.
“Thank you, Dolf,” she said softly.
“Pleasure, Milady,” I quipped, trying to keep it light as I wrapped my hands around the yoke.
“Alpha Bravo X-ray,” came the call, “turn right heading one-seven-four, commence descent to Runway One-Seven. Report runway in sight.”
“Turning one-seven-four. Descending. Alpha Bravo X-ray,” I read back.
I clicked off the autopilot and immediately felt the Otter come alive in my hands, rolling with the turbulence, demanding small corrections. Through seven thousand feet ... then, as if someone had thrown open a curtain, the clouds tore apart and Goma appeared beneath us.
The sudden rush of depth perception was almost dizzying. Streets, rooftops, alleys radiating from the airport, the black volcanic soil stark against the haze. And there, dead ahead, the dark strip of Runway 17.
Nisreen radioed: “Goma Tower, Alpha Bravo X-ray, runway in sight.”
“Alpha Bravo X-ray, cleared to land Runway One-Seven.”
“Cleared to land, Alpha Bravo X-ray,” Nisreen echoed.
The crosswind bit at us on final, tugging from the east. I crabbed in — nose cocked right, wing dipped left into the wind. The runway rushed at us sideways, like trying to thread a needle in a moving car.
“Flaps thirty. Power idle,” I called.
“Thirty set,” Nisreen confirmed. “Power at idle.”
The AI voice chimed its countdown: “One hundred ... fifty ... forty...”
At ten feet I kicked the rudder, straightening the nose, levelling the wings.
SCREECH!
The Otter kissed the tarmac — main gear first, then the nose-wheel with a softer rubber screech.
“Flaps up, reverse thrust!”
Nisreen flipped the levers and the props flattened, roaring into reverse. The nose dipped, brakes biting, until our furious charge dissolved into a crawl. We rolled, gentle, docile now, towards the first taxiway.
“Royal Nepal Airlines Alpha Bravo X-ray, welcome home. Contact Ground one-one-eight point five. Good day, Sir, Madam.”
I exhaled. Smiled. The ATC knew the history of this Otter and acknowledged it.
Beside me, Nisreen slumped against the seat, then laughed nervously. “We’re home. Now ... shower. And the strongest coffee this side of the Congo.”
“Amen, Sister,” I teased.
As we hangared the Otter, the last echoes of the engine still rumbling in my ears. The corrugated metal walls were rattling under the fury of the storm outside. Rain hammered down in sheets, roaring against the roof like artillery fire, thunder rolling in dark waves across the sky. The fluorescent lights above flickered, buzzing nervously, as if they too sensed trouble closing in.
I was still wiping my hands on a rag when Andy burst through the hangar doors. He was half-drenched, hair plastered to his forehead, his boots slapping the wet concrete. The way he moved — fast, jerky, his eyes wide — set every alarm in me ringing.
“Nisreen! Dolf!” His voice cracked over the thunder. “We’ve got a situation!”
My stomach sank. A storm outside, and one walking right toward us.
“What now?” I snapped, more harshly than I meant to, but his face told me this was no routine hiccup.
“A SAAF Oryx inbound, from Beni with casualties on board, was fired on — and the bird sounds like it’s been chewed by a god-damn chainsaw.” His chest heaved, breathless, words spilling over themselves. “The pilot’s injured. The only medic on-board took one in the chest.”
The rain pounded harder, a deafening backdrop. I swore under my breath. “M23?”
“They were about twenty-five clicks out when they were attacked,” Andy shot back. “Now, flying on willpower and prayers.”
I slammed my palm against the Otter’s fuselage, the metallic thud echoing through the hangar. “For Christ’s sake! Second time this month! Why weren’t they escorted? Where is the bloody Rooivalk armed escort helicopters?
Andy’s face hardened. “Because the Rooivalk helicopters are grounded. Orders came down — they’re withdrawn back to South Africa. Blame Washington. The Americans threatened to pull out the aid to the DRC if the SAAF didn’t withdraw their attack birds.”
Lightning tore across the sky, flashing white through the hangar windows, throwing our shadows long against the dripping walls.
I clenched my teeth. “So men bleed out here and children die because politicians in suits play power chess games.”
Andy leaned closer, eyes glinting with something sharp — maybe madness, maybe genius. “Not if we play our cards right. Get me a gallon of paint. Yeti and Schoolbus are going under the brush. You and Miss Al-Kuwari just went operational as armed escort to the SAAF birds.”
I barked a laugh, bitter and disbelieving. “With a Porter and an Otter? You’re insane. We can’t match the Oryx for speed.”
“Nope.” His grin was almost feral. “Ever heard of the EMB A29 Super Tucano?”
My pulse jumped. “I’m type-rated, yes. But where in hell are you getting one?”
“On loan,” Andy said, lowering his voice like the hangar walls might be listening. “From a certain shady outfit down under. Angola markings for now — but we’ll scrub those clean.”
“Angola?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Andy, now with his breath back, chuckled. “The Angola National Air Force was contracted to defend Kinshasa against attack by whoever wanted. But they are, shall we say, understaffed at this moment.”
“But a EMB 312? I thought they have only Russian MIGs?”
“No,” Andy replied while Nisreen and Ricky stood listening. “ANAF 8th Training Squadron has L39ZA. PC-9, PC-7 and a few EMB 312s available. Three is in Kinshasa at this stage and one will be ferried over tomorrow.”
“A Porter, an Otter, and a damn Tucano. Andy. you’ve put together a strange little air force here.”
I swung toward Ricky, who was frozen by the toolbox, mouth hanging open like a schoolboy caught out after curfew. “You know the EMB 312?”
“Yes,” he stuttered, blinking like he’d been slapped awake. “Strange Air Force, maybe. But smart. Look here...” He pats the Otter. “PT6A.” He pats the Porter. “PT6A.” Then he smiled and his eyes twinkled. “The Tucano. PT6A Turboprop!”
“You’re kidding me. Ricky, you’re telling me Andy found three different airframes with the same heart.”
“Ja.” He looked at Andy. “Boss you might be a bit of a madman, but you’re a smart madman. It means I can keep all these beautiful, broken children flying with one set of toys. It’s a logistical miracle.”
I looked at Ricky and remarked: “Congratulations, you just became the mechanic for all three.”
Nisreen stepped forward, arms crossed, eyes flashing fire beneath the storm’s pale light. “Hold it. Are we going full combat?”
I met her gaze head-on. The storm roared around us, rain hammering, wind howling through the hangar seams. “No, we just escort the SAAF Oryx sorties, and if push comes to shove – we nail the bastards that try to hurt our people. So, you’ve got a choice: either you go as co-pilot ... or you go as co-pilot.”
Her mouth twisted. “That’s not a choice!”
“No,” I said, my voice hard as the rain on the tin roof. “Out here, nothing is. This is the bush, Nisreen. A war zone. Democratic rights don’t mean a damn thing when the only law is survival of the fittest.”
Lightning split the sky again, and for a moment her face was lit like a portrait — defiance and fear locked in equal measure.
“Don’t worry, Nissie. Dolf’s got your back,” I reassured her.
The rain let up for a bit and was just a drizzle. A drizzle in the DRC is like a downpour on the Springbokvlakte.
In Goma, afternoon rain does not arrive quietly—it builds like a performance. The air grows heavy first, warm and humid, carrying the faint scent of damp volcanic soil. Clouds gather quickly over the jagged silhouette of Mount Nyiragongo, rolling in thick, dark masses that seem to crouch lower with every minute. Like when Nisreen and I landed. By the time we taxied to the hangar – the sky opened up.
With little warning, the sky opens. Sheets of water cascade down, drumming against the corrugated metal roofs with a rhythm that drowns out all conversation. Streets turn to shallow rivers, reflecting flashes of lightning that illuminate the city in silver. The rain carries the earthy tang of dust being washed away, mingling with the sharp freshness rising from Lake Kivu nearby.
Children laugh and run barefoot through the rivulets, their voices echoing against the roar, while adults take cover under verandas and umbrellas, resigned yet soothed by the downpour. The world feels both chaotic and calm—an orchestra of water, thunder, and wind, bringing momentary pause to the daily pulse of the city.
And then, just as suddenly as it came, the rain begins to ease, leaving behind a luminous stillness: streets glistening, mountains wrapped in mist, and the air cool, rinsed, and alive.
Like the drizzle tapping on the hangar now.
“I need to get out of these clothes and take a shower,” Nisreen whispered, grabbing her flight bag.
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