KOSSEO AIR BASE, N’DJAMENA
Terry Keegan had seen worse maintained helicopters, but not recently.
Standing on the ramp with Eddie Marsh and their contract mechanic, Keegan waited for the Air Force advisor to conclude his arcane business with the Chadian officer. Keegan knew that at one point the commander of the Force Aerienne Tchadienne held the exalted rank of lieutenant.
At length the advisor shook hands with the African officer and walked toward Keegan and Marsh. “Come on, we’re going over there,” the major said, pointing beyond the security perimeter.
“What’s the deal, sir? Aren’t we using these birds?”
Major Allen “Jigger” Lowe kept a straight face. “What’s the matter, Mr. Keegan? Do you like flying old, leaky helos or something?”
“Well, it’s just that…”
Lowe stopped so abruptly that his charges went two steps beyond him. He motioned over his shoulder. “You see that Chadian officer back there? Well, he told me that he wouldn’t fly very high in one of the Alouettes you just saw.”
Eddie Marsh ventured an opinion. “Sort of like the hang glider’s motto?”
Lowe grinned in appreciation. “You got it. ‘Don’t fly any higher than you’re willing to fall.’ Which is why we’re going the long way ’round to check out the other helos.”
Keegan gave a tight-lipped grin. “I see, said the blind man. We’re gonna borrow some of the French birds.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny.” Lowe began walking again. “But it’s all been arranged back-channel; I just had to settle with our, ah, colleague over there.”
Keegan regarded the blue-suiter with growing admiration. The former Navy man suspected that his Air Force host had just greased somebody’s sweaty palm.
Moments later, Keegan and Marsh were looking at newer, obviously better maintained Alouette IIIs. No visible leaks; no pitted Plexiglas; not much chipped paint. A couple of them even had Chad’s red-yellow-blue cockade over the red-white-blue emblem of France.
Keegan consulted with his mechanic, a burly, monosyllabic individual between thirty-five and fifty years of age, who spoke fluent French and aviation English with a Canadian accent. The Americans knew him as Charles Haegelin; heaven knew what his passport said, let alone his birth certificate. Keegan only knew him slightly; they had partnered with SSI once before.
Lowe opened the door of the nearest Alouette and withdrew a canvas satchel. “Mr. Haegelin, here’s the airframe and engine logs. I believe this is the low-time bird of the bunch. I’ll stick around while you gentlemen decide which ones you want to use, but you’ll have to sign for them before you leave.”
While Haegelin and Marsh checked fuel and fluids on the first helo, Marsh and Lowe examined another. Far enough from inquiring ears, Marsh leaned close. “Jigger, how’d you swing the loan of some of the French birds?”
The advisor was deadpan. “I don’t understand the question.”
Keegan thought he detected a wink, but perhaps it was an ordinary blink. “Okay, I won’t ask embarrassing questions.”
“Works for me,” Lowe said. “Now, how much Alouette time do you have?”
“Oh, maybe two hundred hours.”
“Current?”
“Yeah, I flew a few days before we left home.”
Lowe nodded. “Good ’nuf for government work!”