Rosa Rio
Copyright© 2025 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 7
Ricky took over the Tucano and went over her with a fine-tooth comb, as only he could. He crouched under her belly, ran his hands along the rivet lines, checked the skin panels for fatigue or hairline cracks, then stood back to study the prop and blades as though he were memorising every angle. He ran through everything — engine, prop, tyres, hydraulics, fuel system, electrics, avionics. Fluids checked, pressures tested. Nothing escaped his eyes.
When he finally closed his clipboard, he looked satisfied. “The bird’s in perfect shape,” he told us. “Only nine hundred hours on the logbooks, no abnormalities recorded. Most of her life was spent in Angola as a trainer. She was only relocated here to the DRC a month ago, and in that time she flew just six operational sorties. Practically brand new for our purposes.”
He let the silence settle before adding with a half-smile, “In fact, the guns are still fully loaded. Two M3P .50 calibre BMGs, built by FN Herstal in Belgium. Each with two-hundred-fifty rounds. Rate of fire — eleven hundred per minute. Capable of shredding aircraft or ground targets alike. Which means...” He looked directly at me and then at Nisreen. “Go easy with them. Short bursts, make them count.”
“I know,” I said, raising a hand as if taking an oath. “I’ll be careful, Ricky.”
Nisreen stood beside me, listening intently. She hadn’t said a word, but her eyes were drinking it all in. I couldn’t help noticing how striking she looked in her gear — G-suit snugged down properly, flight boots polished and laced, and that special Shayla she wore, one tailored to fit under a fighter pilot’s helmet. She looked like she belonged there.
We stepped outside, sunlight bouncing off the Tucano’s canopy that stood open, gleaming faintly in the heat haze. She was parked right in front of the hangar, nose pointed like a predator waiting to be let loose.
“Go stand next to the right wing root and look at me,” I said.
Nisreen frowned, puzzled. “Why?”
“So I can get a picture of this historic moment.” I kept a straight face, then cracked a smile.
“Oh.” She gave me a grin, shy but radiant, and moved into position.
“Tuck your helmet under your left arm.”
“Okay...” she said, sounding just a touch nervous as she shifted it into place.
“That’s it. Now smile...”
She tilted her head, gave me a lopsided grin, and I snapped the shot with my phone.
“Good. Now head around the wing, climb up, and put your helmet on your seat at the back. Then come back here.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you going to show me the walk-around?”
“Yes,” I said, letting my grin widen.
“I’ll be back,” she giggled, almost mischievous.
Truth was, the task wasn’t about the helmet at all. I wanted to see how she handled herself getting onto the wing, whether she needed help or moved with confidence. She didn’t disappoint — hands on the right grips, boots finding their step, and then a graceful hop up onto the wing like a leopard into a tree to hide its kill. She leaned over the cockpit sill, reached across, and set the helmet neatly on her seat. I caught the moment on camera — another picture to pass on to her later.
She returned to my side at the wingtip, brushing her gloves against her thighs as if to dust them off. Then we began the walk-around. I led, showing her the inspection points: pitot tube, leading edge, ailerons, flaps, gear struts, wheel wells. I explained what each meant, what to look for, what could go wrong. She listened intently, nodding, and then hit me with intelligent follow-up questions that showed she wasn’t just memorising — she was understanding.
The A350 bus driver, as I used to tease her, wasn’t the least bit arrogant. No diva, no superiority complex. She was a genuine student, soaking it all in. That pleased me more than I let on.
After we circled the aircraft, the checks complete, we mounted up. I showed her how to climb in properly: both feet on the seat first, then sliding down into the cockpit. She followed without hesitation, settling herself neatly in the back seat.
“What now?” she asked.
I pulled myself into the front, settling into my place. I turned just enough so she could hear the grin in my voice. “Now, Princess, we aviate. Let the fun begin.”
From the back came her reply — a nervous giggle that was part excitement, part disbelief. Music to my ears.
“Right Dolf, let’s make Tookie-tookie sing!”
We took off to the south-west, the Tucano leaping forward with that eager surge I remembered so well. Gear up, flaps clean, and the engine singing smoothly at climb power. I let her settle into the climb, trimming lightly until the stick pressure disappeared in my hand. We levelled at 8,500 feet MSL, sunlight pouring through the canopy and the horizon stretching wide.
Beneath us, Lake Kivu sprawled out like a sheet of dark glass, its surface broken here and there by ripples of wind. In the midday sun it didn’t sparkle—it simmered, dark and brooding, as if hiding secrets beneath.
I set the autopilot for Kavumu — FZMA — the airfield at Bukavu on the west shore. Careful to check the GPS course twice. Direct heading: 219 degrees magnetic. That kept us clear of Rwanda’s airspace. The border was just a sliver of line on the map, but a mistake there could bring a world of trouble. Not today.
We cruised at 200 knots indicated, hands light, the Tucano steady and sure beneath us. For ten minutes I let her run, just feeling her out, reacquainting myself with an old friend. She was exactly as I remembered—responsive, smooth, predictable. A warrior’s soul in a trainer’s skin.
As Kavumu came into view, I banked us gently over the city, sun glinting off tin roofs and the patchwork of narrow streets below. A moment later we were on the reciprocal, heading back north, the lake sliding beneath our wings again.
“Want to try?” I asked over the intercom.
Her reply nearly split my headset. “YES!”
I laughed, rubbing my ear. “Careful, you’ll blow my eardrums. But if you’re that keen, the controls are yours. Just remember—if anything goes sideways, I’ll take over.”
There was a pause, then her nervous giggle. “If I screw up, you better be ready. Just one thing — I can’t swim.”
“Neither can I,” I shot back, teasing. “So let’s not test the water.”
I reached up, tapped the autopilot release, and said in my best instructor’s tone: “Your plane, Madam.”
“My plane,” she confirmed crisply, and I felt the gentle shake of the stick as she signalled her control.
For twenty minutes she flew us. First straight and level, eyes locked on the horizon, then small turns left and right. I could feel her testing the resistance, how much pressure gave what result, easing in and out of the turns. Getting a sense of the Tucano’s rhythm, her power, her aerodynamics.
“Roll her,” I said suddenly.
“What?” The disbelief in her voice was clear. “I’ve never rolled an aircraft before.”
That one caught me off guard. “WHAT? How the hell did you end up as an A350 bus driver without ever rolling a plane?”
Her answer came soft, almost sheepish. “By playing with little puny aircraft and then just going bigger and bigger. I never had the opportunity to fly aerobatic birds.”
“Well then,” I grinned, “today you’re going to get that opportunity.”
I steadied my voice, giving her clear steps. “Alright. Keep her straight, nose just under the horizon.” I felt the nose dip a little too far. “No, that’s too much. Bring it up slightly. Yes, there—hold her right there.”
“Okay...”
“Now stick hard left. Go!”
No answer, but I felt it — the Tucano’s left wing dropping, the world sliding sideways, the horizon rolling past until sky became earth and we were inverted. For a brief heartbeat, Lake Kivu was above us and the sky below.
The wing kept rolling through. I let her ride it out, only watching. Just before we came back upright with about a 30-degree bank, I called, “Center the stick — now!”
She obeyed. The nose wobbled slightly, the wings hunted for a second, and then the bird levelled off as if shrugging and saying, That’s it? Less than twenty seconds. Not textbook precision, a bit sloppy — but for a first roll? Beautiful.
“Nose on the horizon,” I reminded her. She adjusted, steadying out.
I smiled to myself. “So, how was that?”
“Scary,” she admitted, breathless.
“Want to try again?”
“Let me get my intestines back in place first,” she said, exhaling hard.
I chuckled, enjoying her raw honesty.
We kept at it. Over the next half hour she grew bolder. Rolling left, rolling right, even daring a three-cycle roll. Each time a little tighter, a little smoother. I could feel her confidence building through the stick itself—the grip firmer, her inputs cleaner. The A350 bus driver was gone; what sat in the back seat now was a fighter pilot in the making.
The rest of the afternoon went by in a flash, though at the time it felt like we were wringing every last drop of energy from the daylight.
After a quick lunch — nothing fancy, just enough to keep us moving — and a top-up of “Tookie-Tookie’s” fuel tanks, we were back at it. This time, I handed the controls over and let her fly from the back seat.
I took her through the full flight regime of the Tucano. Slow flight, pushing the edges, hard and fast. Stalls and spins. High-speed turns, stall turns — the full Monty. Then came the circuits and landings.
I watched her carefully in the mirrors and gauges as she strung one take-off and landing after another — twenty in total. Some were rough, some surprisingly smooth, but each showed steady improvement, the kind of incremental growth every instructor hopes for. When she greased the twentieth landing, I called it: “Full stop. We’ll taxi her back to the hangar.”
By then, I could see the fatigue creeping into Nisreen. Her movements were just a touch slower, her head didn’t turn as sharply, and her eyes — normally bright, mischievous things — were drooping at half-mast.
“Go shower and take a nap,” I told her as we shut down the Tucano.
She sighed, almost in relief. “I don’t mind if I do. Will you come and revive me at supper time?”
I grinned. “Better yet, I’ll have the cook pack you something to take up. You can eat in your room and call it a night.”
“Ahhh ... thoughtful, but no,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll just take a power nap — an hour, hour and a half. That’ll do.”
I hesitated then, searching her face. “Was I too hard on you today?”
Her answer came without hesitation. “No. I enjoyed the afternoon. I just hope I wasn’t too much of a pain.”
“Nissie,” I said, leaning a little closer so she couldn’t miss it, “you were perfect. Your past flying experience showed up today, and you handled the Tucano better than most do on their first go. Honestly, you’re already ahead of the curve on this bird. You did well, and I’m proud of how you came through.”
Her eyes snapped up to mine at that, suddenly wide awake. For a moment, all the weariness vanished, replaced with something bright, almost fragile. “That’s the first time in three years someone’s said that to me,” she murmured. “Thank you.”
I felt something twist inside me at the quiet weight in her voice. I cleared my throat and forced a smile. “The pleasure’s mine. And you earned it. Now, off you go — rest up. I’ll knock when it’s time for supper.”
She nodded, still holding that faint, soft smile. “Thanks, Dolf. See you later.” She walked off toward her quarters, helmet dangling from her right hand, flight bag pulling at her left.
I watched her go, the afternoon sunlight catching her G-suit at just the right angle to highlight her small figure, and I shook my head. What a ball of fire she is, I thought.
“Nice circuits!” Ricky spoke from beside me. “Some a little sloppy, but solid in the end. The sloppy ones you can blame on those gusts that came across the runway in the beginning,” he chuckled.
I turned to him. “Nisreen did all those. Since before take-off after lunch, I haven’t touched the controls.”
“Wow!” He blinked. “Then that girl is good.”
“She’s getting there.”
“She’s a natural.”
“Ricky, is there a practice range around that’s relatively safe?”
“The old abandoned airfield west side is open. Why?”
“I fire the guns, but Nisreen needs to fire and target the rockets. She has to practice, in case push comes to shove.”
Ricky laughed. “I’ve got a surprise for you — four pods of nineteen launcher tubes each and some 70-millimetre Hydra 70s to go with them.”
“What?” I froze, taken aback. “Where the hell did you get that?”
“Some people in the DRC owed me a wee small little favour...”
“Damn! Ricky, can we waste some on a practice run or two?”
“I’ve got plenty. And if you run out,” he narrowed his eyes, grinning. “I can get more. And besides, these aren’t just stock rounds. They’re Hydra 70 APKWS II Laser Guided kits equipped. It interfaces with the underbelly laser designator pod.”
“Holy shit!” I breathed. It was all I could think to say.
“What time tomorrow?”
“About 10:00. Why?”
“I’ll have the ‘Browns’ tow out some wrecks for you out there. Targets, you know? Something to shoot at...” Ricky turned back to his desk. “Want some coffee?”
“No ... no, not now. But I’ll buy a round or three tonight.”
The next morning greeted us with a sheet of high overcast that promised to burn away by midday. I looked up, squinting at the ceiling above, and compared my gut with the official met report. The two didn’t exactly strike up a conversation. The met report said: “Disperse by 11:50 to 12:20.” My gut said: “Expect rain between 13:00 and 15:00.”
Still, it was only 07:30, and the weather could go either sideways or straight ahead. That’s weather for you—part science, part witchcraft. The rest of the “Dolf Weather Analysis” came up good: light winds, moderate temperature, high humidity. Perfect flying weather—as long as my gut didn’t decide to be right again.
Inside the hangar, the Tucano sat like a predator waiting for breakfast. She looked mean with five pods strapped under her belly and wings. Four nineteen-tube Hydra 70-millimetre pods — two per wing — and a sleek, grey-painted pod on the centreline. The glass “eye” at the front of that pod stared at me like it was judging my life choices.
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