Chapter 1

The widespread crowns of the bushveld camel-thorn trees stood unmoving in the autumn sun of late June. The last of the summer rains had fallen a week or two ago with one last massive thunderstorm unleashed on the tan coloured soil across valleys and rises, rolling hills and low mountain ranges. Here and there across the open lash green grass savannah, small pools of brownish water could still be seen lying still, attracting a wide variety of wildlife that quenched their thirst at the waters’ edge.

Herds of cattle, antelope, and other wild creatures of the land graze about, enjoying the still-green grass, succulent tree leaves, and other forage. On farms and small holdings, farmers were harvesting the grass and cultivated feed for the animals. This is to see them through the dry and cold winter months ahead.

It was a good season for rain; the effects of global warming being not only felt, but seen around the veldt, and manifested in the amount of rain splashed across the earth, and the animals were getting the benefit of the late greenery. Antelope herds grew in numbers in this good season as pregnant females gave birth and added their newborns to the herds.

For the predators, the big cats of Africa, hyenas, and wild dogs roaming free around this land of the North West Province, it was a good hunting season as well. This was evidenced by their obvious full bellies and shining pelts. All seemed to be well in paradise. No one cared about the coming lean winter months.

For the farmers the harvest was good and there were smiles on many faces across the villages, towns and even the few cities. Political events and mass strike actions were put aside and not to be thought of. Nothing could stem the glorious feelings of a great harvest; even the dealers and traders in motor vehicles were smiling, wrapping their hands together as bright new 4 × 4 bakkies rolled out the display room doors and new farming equipment found good homes.

Eighteen-wheeler trucks carted the produce to markets and ports. In the harbours of Cape Town, Port Elizabeth, and Durban, cargo container ships waited to transport the precious cargo to the ports and cities of the world. Times were good. Too good...

But this was only an illusion; only one of the few countries in Africa that reaped the benefits of the season. Way out to the north, covering the edge of the Horn of Africa, there was a country where poverty and hunger ruled. War was upon the land, and war never changes; only the weapons get bigger, nastier, and bloodier.

It wasn’t so long ago that this was just another one of those dirty little wars that barely rated a sidebar in the world newspapers, never even casually mentioned on the TV news bulletins, not even in the crawlers under the screens.

There was an arms embargo in place. Yes, an arms embargo meant that no weapons could be sold to or supplied to the warring factions, and everyone back home in their ivory towers would just chuck the newspaper aside, cluck their tongues, and plan their next tax-deductible donation.

Where those donations go, they did not care about, as long as they reaped the benefit of that tax deduction. In fact, some of those donations ended up in the coffers of the organisations that support al-Shabaab, fuelling international terrorism and the war in Somalia.

War. War is as old as time. From the time when man set foot on this green earth, conflict has arisen between tribes; conflicts to be settled in the most violent way. And war never changes; it is always the same. There are the victors, and there are those who made the victory possible. And then there are the losers, those to be dominated, humiliated, and oppressed. All for what? An ideology, a religion, or for gaining power?

War means that there will always be some sort of struggle, and that struggle will always have a conclusion. That struggle will then be succeeded by another struggle, and that struggle by another struggle, with all of the struggles going on in a cesspit of meaninglessness. War does not determine who has the right religion, or the right ideology, or the biggest war horses, it only determines who is left over to enjoy the spoils; to rape the women, to strip the land of its resources, and to leave the people of the land with poverty, hunger and starvation as their future.

Millions of victims have already died, and millions more will follow. There’s no mercy. My God, they have no rights!

Islam is the main religion in Somalia and practised by 99% of the population. Most Somalis are Sunni and of the Shafi’i school of Islamic jurisprudence. Although the Somalis practice the Sharia Islamic Law, this is done in a somewhat relaxed way. There’s much to be said about the Sharia Islamic Law; certain interpretations were a little more relaxed and others a little stricter. Sometimes stricter rules were invented and imposed. And this was the cause of the conflict in Somalia.

That was the reason al-Shabaab started the armed conflict against the Somali government: to defeat the government, take over power and establish a strict version of a Sharia Islamic law based government. While the government strove towards a democratic government, in the basics of the Sharia Islamic Law that the Holy Quran learns about. Al-Shabaab on the other hand wanted to dominate in a dictatorship type of government and impose “invented” stricter Sharia Islamic law with outrageous penalties.

Resistance against this ideology of strict Sharia Islamic law rule is vested in the fact that women’s rights are grossly violated by this “invented” strict Sharia Islamic law. Women may not drive cars, may not further their education, may not work in jobs, and may not have property or bank accounts.

Women may not leave their houses unless with permission of their husbands, and then covered from head to toe in a loose fitting “abaya,” covering the body; even their wrists and ankles. A headscarf must be worn to fit tightly around the face and cover all their hair. Women are not allowed to reveal their beauty to anyone other than their husbands and members of their family.

This ideology is condemned by the free world as being against the United Nations articles about the rights of all peoples. The United States of America, seeing al-Shabaab as an extension of al-Qaeda, included the faction in their ‘blacklist’ of organisations that pose a threat to the USA home security and its citizens.

The war raging in Somalia was a bloody civil war; so cruel and devastating. It was not against other nations, or from other nations against the Somalis. No, it was from the al-Qaeda splinter group, inside the borders of Somalia.

Al-Shabaab, or translated as; “The Youth,” also extends their cowardly attacks outside of Somalia to Kenya, Mozambique, Tanzania, Ethiopia and Rwanda. El-Shabab was in control of Mogadishu, the capital of Somalia until they were pushed out by the African Union forces in 2011.

Still, al-Shabaab still controls some villages and towns around Mogadishu, and regularly attacks military, civilians and government officials in the capital and around the country.

War never changes ... The Romans waged war to gather slaves and wealth. Spain waged war to build an empire from its lust after gold and territory. Hitler shaped a battered Germany into an economic superpower, and into building a pure Aryan race. It subverted the nations around itself to extend its sphere of influence with an imperialistic greed for more land and wealth.

War is like winter ... and winter is coming to East Africa, and upon the land of Somalia.

There were no clouds visible in the pale blue sky. The hills and small mountain ranges lay sweltering beneath the burning sun. Soon winter will be upon the land and reprieve from the heat will come as a relief to all.

The further north I flew, the more the landscape below changed in colour, texture and composition. The lush green of the Western Cape gave way to the tan and yellow of the Small Karoo, and the Greater Karoo, then to the mosaic patchwork of farmlands in different colours of crops, squares, oblong fields, and circular centre pivot irrigated fields.

Next came the flowing grasslands of the Orange Free State, spotted here and there with grazing herds of either cattle or antelope. It was a bit hard to tell from twenty-eight thousand feet, if it was antelope or cattle, maybe even horses. But of course, horses were only two, three or about six at the most, together, so no horses.

The larger herds were cattle. Medium-sized herds could be antelope, but it was hard to spot the sheep with their cream-white colour against the backdrop of the tan grass fields. It was only when the slope of the land coincided with the slant of the sun and shadows dotted the land, that you might be able to distinguish the little cream coloured dot next to the shadow as that of being a sheep.

I scanned the instruments again, as I have done numerous times during the hour and a half flight from Overberg Air Force Base on the south coast of South Africa. I was flying from Overberg to a privately owned airstrip just west of Pretoria. Well, it was in the North West Province, near the town of Brits, while Pretoria is in the Gauteng Province. Okay, I do believe that the runway extends into the Gauteng province, as it overruns the provincial border by five hundred metres.

Refuelling occurred at twenty-eight thousand feet at a speed of 900 kilometres an hour. I was a little rusty hooking up with the refuelling probe, but did make perfect contact on my third try; that to snorts and giggles from my travel companion, Leah Schultz, the blond German girl flying the sister ship of this Mirage 2000C. One never forgets the “how” to do it, just it’s been a long time since I’ve done it, and then the last time it was in a Cheetah D.

“Hey, Smudge, don’t damage it; I need a fill-up too. You want me to talk you through it?” Leah had giggled on the radio.

“Nope, Ski-bunny, let me get this done by myself. We’re going to do it a couple of times shortly.” I snapped back, eliciting more giggles from the blond girl in loose formation to the back and side of me.

The Mirage 2000 C just ate up the distance, and the inflight refuelling, care of an unmarked and anonymous Boeing 707 tanker aircraft, was three hundred and fifty kilometres back along our wake. In some countries that used this type of aircraft, it was known as a KC-135. South Africa had two, simply known as “tanker,” or “grey whales,” but nonetheless, a Boeing 707-328C. I was wondering if this one escaped the scrapping bulldozers to fly and have us drink again from its tanks.

There’s not much difference in the Cheetah and the Mirage. In fact, the Cheetah was Denel’s redesign of the Mirage III. But now I was flying the Mirage 2000 C, more responsive on the stick, and much more power. An inch of movement on the throttle did not give the same result as with the Mirage III. Nope, this was a horse of another colour. Or a bird of another feather.

The afternoon sun laid heavy on my shoulder, but the steady cool air stream in the cockpit helped to alleviate the burning sensation. Soon the tarmac of the landing strip would be in sight. This will be my very first landing on that unfamiliar runway, but we were expected, and a reception committee will be anxiously awaiting our arrival. For a bush strip, this runway was tarred, had an Instrument Landing System, and even PAPI lights.

Those PAPI lights, or Precision Approach Path Indicator lights, four of them, were arrayed on the left side next to the runway to give us a visual aid about the glide path of the aircraft; very useful! I would see four red lights if I was too low, four white lights if I was too high, but two red and two white tell me I’m on the glide path, usually three degrees nose down.

Before we go on, let me introduce myself. I am Ronald Peter Van Jaarsveldt, but you can call me Ronny. Sometimes people will refer to me as “Van,” or even “Veldtie,” but who cares? Just call me Ronny. My call-sign is, “Smudge,” but that is a story for another day...

At my last birthday, I was thirty-five years young and still feeling eighteen till I die. I sport dark-brown eyes, brown hair cut short, and I pull the scale at ninety kilograms; trim and lean with not an ounce of fat.

I started my flying career in the South African Air Force, flying Pilatus Astra PC-7s, Mirage III EZ aircraft, and graduated to the Cheetah D fighter jet. Between the stints with the fighter squadrons, I also flew and qualified on the Alouette III, Augusta 109, and Denel Oryx helicopters.

Later, after the ‘force’ days of my life were over, I got contracted by the South African Police Service to fly Eurocopter BO-105, AS-350 B3 Squirrel, and the Kawasaki MB-117 series of helicopters. And this brought me to be flying this magnificent Mirage 2000.

One of my taskings was to drop a squad of SAPS Taskforce members on a ship out at Dassen Island near Cape Town. Also in the air that night was a beautiful AS332J Super Puma that was privately owned and tasked to extract a hostage from the ship.

That helicopter was flown by WOMEN! Two of the sweetest women pilot voices I ever heard on the air-band radio. But besides that, a day or two after the mission I ran into them at Cape Town International Airport. I found out that they work for a great private security firm with access to some really smart and wonderful toys. I hinted, and got a job offer from them.

So here I am, flying one of their wonderful toys. How lucky can a man get! Just an unfortunate shame that all those pilot girls are married or attached. Such beautiful girls.

“Foxtrot Alpha Juliet Golf, Ski-bunny and Smudge landing runway zero niner.” Leah transmitted, and the response came about straight away in an Irish-sounding young female voice.

“Formation landing, Ski-bunny?”

“Nah, I don’t want the rookie up my ass! He can go in first. I’ll fly-by and do a circuit.”

“I heard ye!” I transmitted.

“Quiet in the peanut gallery!” The Irish voice reprimanded. “Smudge, you’re clear to land runway zero niner. Wind slight at two knots, slam bang on the nose at two seven zero.”

“Rodger, copy runway and wind,” I confirmed. It reminded me of the musical “Cats” by Andrew Lloyd Webber. “Speak only when you are spoken too!”

The radio crackled again: “Ski-bunny, cleared for a fly-by, and make it good!” An unprofessional giggle followed from the Irish sounding voice.

“Copy, fly-by approved, and I’ll give you a four pointer.”

I did not see it, as I was touching down, but was told afterwards that Leah took the aircraft left of the runway at 200 feet and performed a four-point hesitation role to the excitement of the reception committee.

Well, the time has arrived for me to configure this “Vlamgat,” for landing. She’s a handful and not happy to slow down. Playing with the airbrakes and throttle, I got her down to 190 knots indicated air speed. Lining up with the 5000-foot tar runway, I dropped the undercarriage and held a nose high attitude. The gear indicator showed three greens. Through the windshield those bright PAPI lights indicated I was on the correct glide path.

The undercarriage was down and locked, and with all this induced drag she dropped like a stone towards the runway threshold. Steady as she goes, the main wheels touched and with a barely noticeable bounce, she stuck, and the nose wheel came down with a slight screech as the rubber made contact with the tar, trailing a momentary blue smoke off the tyres as they sped up from zero to a hundred and eighty knots in less than a second.

The airbrakes were deployed, or as some would say; the spoilers were out. Throttle back to idle ‘cause this craft doesn’t have reverse thrust, and out goes the drag-chute. She slowed down on the runway and ran along the centreline; a textbook landing. I was not only proud, but sure that my new employers, watching the landing, would be happy as well.