This time, there had been a reply. “Changa” reported that he had been “detained” by Tanganyikan authorities, but had been released, and would attempt to cross the lake “tonight.”
There had been no further messages, and none from Thomas or any of the others who were following the retreating Cubans and Simbas.
“Mr. Thomas called—voice message in the clear—sir, relayed from Outpost Mike—that’s all he can talk to,” Peters said. “He wants to know if you can come talk to him.”
“He wants me to come there?” Lunsford asked incredulously.
“Yes, sir,” Peters said. “He gave the coordinates.”
Jack Portet got out of his chair and bent over the map. Thomas was pointing to a road near the shore of Lake Tanganyika, about ten kilometers south of Kibamba.
“I know that road,” he said. “I can get in there—presuming he can light the runway with gasoline—in an L-19.”
Lunsford looked at him dubiously.
“I can even get in there in the Beaver,” Portet added. “It’s mostly clear in that area, nothing on either side of the road, no power lines, et cetera.”
“Doubting Thomas wouldn’t want me there unless he has a problem,” Lunsford thought aloud. “You really can get in there?”
Portet nodded.
“If you’re going in the Beaver,” Spec7 Peters said, “there’d probably be room for a radio. We could talk to the guys in Kigoma with it, without a relay.”
“A radio you’d have to operate, right?” Lunsford challenged. “You have some kind of a death wish, Peters?”
“Or, for that matter, sir,” Peters argued, “to Kamina, in case you wanted to call in T-28s or B-26s.”
Lunsford gave him a look of mystification.
“As well, of course, to Colonel Supo,” Peters said. “The radios Mr. Thomas has with him won’t do that.”
“If Portet can get in there in a Beaver, Aunt Jemima,” Lunsford asked, “presumably you could get in there in an L-19?”
“I was about to suggest, sir,” Captain Smythe said, “that Lieutenant Portet go in first in an L-19, possibly taking Peters—or maybe Peters’s radio—with him, and once we know we can make a landing, I bring you and whoever else in the Beaver.”
“I’ll go with Portet and the radio in the Beaver,” Lunsford said. “You bring Peters in an L-19.” He turned to Craig. “You hold the fort, Geoff.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long will it take to get there?” Lunsford asked of Jack Portet.
“Thirty-five, forty minutes,” Jack replied. “About an hour, counting time to get from here to the farm strip.”
“Message Mr. Thomas to prepare the strip and to shoot a flare,” Lunsford ordered. “ETA one hour, we’ll call him from the area.”
Major Lunsford looked out the copilot’s window and saw the Beaver’s wing strut and right wheel, and absolutely nothing else. He pushed himself up in the seat and got a better look out the windscreen, and saw absolutely nothing but the whirling propeller.
“I know exactly where I am,” Major Lunsford said to Lieutenant Portet. “This is Africa. Somewhere to the left is Lake Tanganyika. But I wonder about you. How the hell are you going to find this road?”
Portet smiled at him, then reached for the microphone on the control yoke.
“Hunter One, Teeny-weeny Airlines One,” he called.
“Go, Teeny-weeny,” Thomas voice came back immediately.
“Hold your mike open for sixty seconds, please,” Portet said.
“Acknowledged,” Thomas replied.
Jack touched Lunsford’s shoulder and pointed to the Radio Direction Finder indicator.
“He’s over there somewhere,” he said, and banked the Beaver to the left until the needle was where he wanted it.
“Hunter One, pop the flare when you hear me,” Portet called, and reached over his shoulder for the trim control, putting the Beaver into a shallow descent.
“Acknowledge,” Thomas replied.
“How are you going to keep from flying into the ground?” Lunsford asked, genuinely curious.
“I know the altitude of the lake from the charts,” Portet said. “I will just make sure I’m fifteen hundred feet above the lake.” He pointed to the altimeter.
Three minutes later, to their right, a bright yellow light appeared in the sky, and then slowly began to descend.
“I have your flare,” Jack said to the microphone as he turned the Beaver toward the flare. Then he turned to Lunsford. “The trick here is to tell him when to light the gasoline,” Jack said. “The sooner I see it the better, but I don’t want the lights to go out just when I turn on final.”