Playing Solitaire
Copyright© 2026 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 1
... And keeping to herself she plays the game.
Without any love it always ends the same.
While life goes on around her everywhere,
She’s playing Solitaire...
FAWB – Wonderboom Airport. Early morning.
The day went to smithereens fast. Faster than I could even account for.
One minute I was enjoying my first proper mug of coffee, standing next to the old workbench where the coffee machine had faithfully served generations of police pilots, and the next minute my entire week had been turned upside down.
I had the daily duty roster in my hand, studying it with only half my attention. It was just another sheet of paper pinned to the bulletin board, but in our world that little piece of paper decided everything. Where you’d be. What you’d fly. Whether you’d spend the day behind a desk drowning in paperwork or end up chasing suspects halfway across the country. Sometimes it even decided whether you’d sleep in your own bed that night.
This morning it promised me a wonderfully boring day.
Outside on the apron, our little fleet was waking up with the airport.
The Cessna Citation Sovereign jet sat quietly in its parking bay next to the Pilatus PC-12, looking sleek and expensive, as if it belonged to someone with far fewer headaches than we usually had. Behind them stood three Pilatus PC-6 Turbo Porters, lined up like loyal workhorses patiently waiting for the next impossible task. Those aircraft had been hauling policemen, equipment and supplies into places where roads simply gave up for decades.
Off to one side, the two MD500E helicopters stood on their skids like a pair of predators. Even parked, they looked impatient, noses slightly lowered as though they couldn’t wait for somebody to give them permission to hunt.
The hangar itself felt almost empty.
Normally, whenever the South African Civil Aviation Authority inspectors came around to inspect the aircraft for airworthiness, every spare metre of concrete disappeared beneath Porters in various states of inspection., panels open, engineers crawling over them like ants. The Porters were the backbone of the SAPS fixed-wing fleet. Ugly to some people, beautiful to those of us who knew what they could do.
But not today. Today everything looked perfectly ordinary. Routine. Predictable.
Which usually meant somewhere in South Africa somebody was about to do something spectacularly stupid.
Outside, Wonderboom was already coming alive.
The flying schools had started their morning rush, and student pilots were enthusiastically converting aviation fuel into noise. Their little trainers buzzed endlessly around the circuit, each one sounding like an oversized lawnmower with ambitions.
I called them converters.
Because that’s exactly what they did.
Converted petrol into noise.
Every now and then one would rumble past the hangar doors, its student probably convinced he was executing the smoothest landing in aviation history while his instructor silently contemplated early retirement.
Mind you ... We all started that way. I certainly had.
I looked down at my duty roster again. Office duty. Paperwork. Logistics. A stack of reports that needed signatures. Inventory updates. Maintenance scheduling. The kind of administrative drudgery that makes you appreciate flying all the more.
“Okay,” I muttered into my coffee. “All quiet on the Western Front.”
I should have known better.
Peace in aviation is usually temporary. The silence shattered like a coffee mug hitting the hangar floor.
“Tim!”
Our Officer Commanding, Colonel Chris von Wielligh, stepped out of his office with the determined stride of a man carrying somebody else’s problem.
Unfortunately, it was about to become mine.
He walked straight towards me with the grin of someone who was enjoying himself far more than he should.
“You are wanted,” he announced dramatically. “Called for. Instructed to go. Summonsed.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Summonsed isn’t a word.”
“It is now.”
“What now?”
“Some twit flew a King Air into a mountain, and the SACAA has designated you as the lead incident investigator.”
He paused just long enough to let that sink in.
“So, pack your bags. You’re going to KZN.”
I stared at him.
“You’re joking...”
“Nope.”
He folded his arms.
“The email’s sitting on my laptop. Fresh from SACAA, and authorised by the Divisional Commissioner: Operational Response Services.”
I sighed. “Wonderful.”
“Pack warm,” Chris added casually. “You’re going into the mountains.”
“Oh, no...” The words escaped before I could stop them. “It snowed around there this week.”
Chris nodded. “So break out your mountain survival gear.”
I rubbed the back of my neck.
“Where exactly are we talking about? The Maluti or the Drakensberg?”
“Looks like Champagne Castle summit. Central Drakensberg. Your accommodation and that of the team will be at Dragon Peaks Resort.”
That got my attention.
Champagne Castle wasn’t exactly a Sunday afternoon hiking trail. That was serious mountain country. High altitude. Steep terrain. Cold weather. The sort of place where helicopters earned every cent they cost.
“Okay, Boss,” I said. “How do I get there?”
“You can fly if you want.” He shrugged. “But you’ll probably need transport once you’re there, so the bakkie is available. Your choice.”
I considered it for a moment. Flying would get me to KwaZulu-Natal in under two hours. Driving would take most of the day.
But flying came with its own complications. I’d have to arrange hangar space, organise fuel, work around airport transport, and then somehow get myself into the mountains. By the time I’d hired a vehicle, I’d probably lose most of the time I’d saved. The bakkie suddenly sounded a lot more practical.
“Driving takes longer,” I said. “Flying is quicker, but hangaring the aircraft creates its own logistical circus, and I’d still be stranded without transport on the ground.” I nodded. “I’ll take the bakkie.”
“Good.”
Chris turned back towards his office. “Go sort out your life and get moving. You’ll be on active duty, so subsistence and travel claims are authorised.”
He reached his office door before remembering one last thing. “Oh—and leave your car under the carport next to the hangar. It will be safe in the camp.”
He pointed towards the administration office. “Go see Annie. She’ll have your travel documentation ready.”
“Thanks, Boss.”
Chris disappeared into his office as quickly as he’d appeared.
I stood there for a few moments, coffee forgotten in my hand.
Then I leaned back against the scarred old workbench beside the coffee machine and stared out through the open hangar doors.
Five minutes ago I had been mentally preparing for a day of paperwork.
Now I was heading for a snow-covered mountain to investigate why someone had managed to fly a King Air into it.
Yeah ... The day had just become a whole lot more interesting, and it’s only Monday.
Annie was already expecting me. She was our senior Administration and HR wizard, and if there was one person in the squadron who could organise chaos into neat piles of paper, it was Annie. By the time I walked into her office, everything was already laid out on her desk in military precision.
“Morning, Tim,” she smiled.
“Well, I suppose this means I’m no longer enjoying my quiet day.”
She laughed. “Colonel’s orders. Everything’s ready.”
She handed me a thick brown folder first. “Your travel authorisation.”
Then came another envelope. “Your standing advance has already been processed. It’ll reflect in your bank account shortly.”
One less thing to worry about.
I signed the register, tucked the paperwork into my backpack and accepted another folder.
“This is the email Colonel Chris printed for you.”
Inside was the SACAA appointment letter officially designating me as Lead Investigator for the occurrence. Beneath that sat a growing collection of printed reports. The preliminary Search and Rescue report. Initial photographs taken from the helicopter during the first overflight. Weather observations. Coordinates of the wreck. Known timeline. Aircraft details.
And finally, a sealed envelope boldly stamped: FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
I slipped that one into the inside pocket of my backpack without opening it immediately. That file contained privileged information. The pilot’s identity. The names of every passenger on board. Personal details. Emergency contact information.
At that stage the next of kin still had to be officially notified and their identities confirmed. Until that process had been completed, the information remained confidential. The last thing any investigator wanted was for families to learn about the deaths of loved ones through social media or a news bulletin.
“Drive safely,” Annie said.
“I’ll try.”
“And don’t freeze to death.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Back at the hangar I climbed into the bakkie before opening the investigation file.
Old habit. Never drive with unanswered questions sitting beside you. The first few pages dealt with the aircraft. Beechcraft King Air 350i. Registration ZS-BEE. IFR flight plan. Departure: Wonderboom. Destination: Margate.
Nothing unusual there.
Then I looked at the flight plan itself. Departure was scheduled for 16:00. Estimated arrival at Margate: 18:00. Fair enough. Except...
According to the preliminary Search and Rescue report, the accident had probably occurred somewhere around 20:00.
I frowned. That immediately set off alarm bells. The wreck was located in the Central Drakensberg. Roughly halfway to Margate.
I looked back at the flight plan. Then at the estimated crash time. Then back again. Something wasn’t making sense.
If the aircraft had departed on time, why was it still only halfway to Margate two hours after it should have landed?
Weather delays? Holding? A diversion? Loss of communication? Or had the aircraft never actually followed its filed route?
Questions. Lots of them.
Answers ... Not yet.
I’d need the departure recordings from Air Traffic Control at Wonderboom. Every radio transmission. Every clearance. Then I’d need radar recordings. Preferably primary and secondary radar if they were available.
I’d also want the ADS-B data, if anyone had captured it. ADS-B (Automatic Dependent Surveillance–Broadcast) data provides real-time aircraft position, velocity, and identification information, enabling precise global flight tracking.
Until I could reconstruct the aircraft’s track minute by minute, every theory was simply speculation.
I closed the folder. There was no point trying to solve the accident from a chair in Pretoria. The mountain would tell its own story, and I knew how to listen.
I pointed the bakkie towards home. Packing didn’t take long. Mountain boots. Cold-weather clothing. My thick waterproof jacket. Sleeping bag for just in case. Camera equipment. GPS. Notebook. Laptop. Extra batteries. Torch.
The inevitable collection of charging cables that seemed to multiply every time I travelled.
Officially, I’d packed for a week. Realistically, I expected to spend perhaps two or three days on the mountain.
But mountains don’t care about schedules. If weather moved in—and according to the forecasts there was every chance it would—the investigation could easily stretch into a week.
By the time I finally rolled onto the N3 heading south, it was half-past ten.
The familiar highway disappeared towards the horizon.
At Harrismith I’d leave the motorway, turn onto the R74 and later the R600, climbing steadily towards the Central Drakensberg and Dragon Peaks Airfield.
Four hundred and sixty-three kilometres. Depending on traffic, fuel stops and roadworks, somewhere between five and six hours behind the wheel.
Long enough to think. Too long, sometimes. I plugged my music thumb drive into the infotainment system.
After scrolling past a few albums, I found one that suited the drive. Not too energetic. Not too slow. Just enough to keep the kilometres rolling underneath the tyres.
The first notes filled the cab as Wonderboom slowly disappeared in the rear-view mirror.
Allowing for one diesel stop and grabbing something edible along the way, I reckoned I’d arrive somewhere between four and five that afternoon.
Plenty of daylight left to check in, find the investigating team, and perhaps even get my first look at the mountain before sunset. If the weather played along. I had a feeling it wasn’t going to make life easy for any of us.
By quarter to four I finally turned off the R600 and rolled through the stone entrance of Dragon’s Peak Resort.
The drive had been long enough for the music playlist to loop twice, but the scenery over the last forty kilometres had more than made up for it. The road wound through the foothills, climbing steadily towards the escarpment. Every bend seemed to reveal another postcard view.
And then the mountains appeared. Not hills. Not cliffs. Mountains.
The Drakensberg has a way of making everything man-made seem insignificant. Even from kilometres away, the basalt walls towered over the countryside like the ramparts of some ancient fortress.
Champagne Castle dominated the skyline. Its upper slopes were hidden beneath fresh snow, the white contrasting sharply against the dark cliffs below. Wisps of cloud drifted lazily across the summit while the afternoon sun tried, without much success, to warm the frozen landscape.
The temperature gauge on the dashboard stubbornly hovered just above two degrees. That was the air temperature. The wind coming off the mountains was another matter entirely.
It swept down the valleys with an icy determination, rattling the mirrors of the bakkie and making the roadside trees sway. Even inside the cab I could hear it. I had a feeling it would cut straight through every layer of clothing I owned.
Dragon’s Peak Resort occupied what had once been a South African Air Force helicopter mountain flying training base. You could still see its military past everywhere you looked.
The old hangars stood solid and square against the mountains. The wide grass apron was far larger than any resort would ever need. The taxiways were still visible beneath patches of frost. It felt less like arriving at a holiday destination and more like driving onto an air force station that had simply decided to grow a hotel around itself.
Then I spotted the helicopter. An Oryx. She sat tied down on the grass apron outside the old hangars, nose pointed into the wind, rotor blades securely lashed against the weather. The camouflage paint blended almost perfectly with the winter landscape, while the low-visibility SAAF roundels and serial numbers made her look all business.
No bright colours. No polished paintwork. Just a machine built for getting soldiers into places where nobody else wanted to go.
I’ve always liked the Oryx. She’s not elegant. She’s not pretty. She’s simply honest.
Everything about her says, “Tell me where you want to go, and I’ll get you there.”
Looking at the snow-covered peaks behind her, I had no doubt she’d earned her keep over the last day. Unless, of course, everyone was waiting for me to arrive.
I parked for a moment and simply took it all in. The mountains. The helicopter. The biting wind. Somewhere up there, hidden beyond those white peaks, lay the wreckage of a King Air and the answers I had driven nearly five hundred kilometres to find. Tomorrow we’d start asking questions. Today I just needed somewhere warm.
I pulled up outside reception. Check-in was refreshingly uncomplicated. The receptionist looked up, smiled and reached underneath the counter before I’d even introduced myself.
“You must be Lieutenant Colonel Timothy Duncan from The SAPS Airwing in Pretoria.”
“Guilty.” I smiled.
“We’ve been expecting you.” She handed me a key card together with a small information packet.
“Your room is ready. Most of the investigation team has already arrived. You’ll probably find them either in the restaurant or in the conference room that’s been set aside for your team.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s so sad about that plane crash and those poor people. It’s all over the news...” She replied as I signed the register. I couldn’t help smiling.
“Yes, every time an aircraft dies, I die a little myself...” I replied.
I turned and left reception. “Thanks, Annie,” I muttered to myself. True to form, she’d organised everything before I’d even left Pretoria. No phone calls to make. No vouchers to chase. No accommodation arguments. Just arrive and get on with the job.
If every deployment worked that smoothly, life would be suspiciously easy.
I drove the bakkie around to my allocated parking bay and switched off the engine. The silence lasted about two seconds before the mountain wind reminded me exactly where I was.
I opened the driver’s door. The cold hit me like a slap. Not ordinary winter cold. Mountain cold.
The sort that immediately finds the gap between your collar and your neck and works its way down your spine. I pulled my jacket closed before grabbing my bag.
My room was comfortable without being luxurious. A decent bed. A small desk. A heater that was already working overtime. The curtains framed a spectacular view of the snow-covered escarpment.
