Pilot September 2017

was the possibility of missile attack on

approach or departure. The previous year

an Ilyushin Il-76 had been struck shortly

after takeoff by a missile launched from a

small boat. A friend of ours had been on

board the aircraft at the time. The

Ilyushin, although badly damaged, landed

back safely. The following week a second

Il-76, which had brought engineers and

equipment to repair the first aircraft, was

hit by a missile. They were less fortunate.

This second Il-76 crashed killing all eleven

on board. Our friend had declined to

travel on the second flight, following a

premonition. A wrecked Il-76 was now in

a corner of the apron, a salient reminder of

the perils of Mogadishu.

We realised that the supposedly-safe

spiralling descent into Mogadishu actually

presented an easy target for the chaps with

O

ne of my worries about
operating into Mogadishu in
Somalia was that any one of
the airport workers might
suddenly explode or pull out a
weapon and attack us during our
turnarounds on the ground. It would be
easy to do and, since there had recently
been a gory and successful suicide attack
in the centre of the peacekeepers’ camp,
my concerns were realistic. Our preflight
inspections now involved carefully
checking the wheel-wells and the battery
compartments for bombs. At this time no
aircraft loitered at the airport; it wouldn’t
take long for mortars to be brought to bear.
I surreptitiously examined the aircraft
fueller, a weaselly, boss-eyed Somali, and
tried to peer inside his loose jacket,
checking for a suicide vest. “Captain, this

drum finished. You want more?” he asked.

Weasel stopped the rackety petrol-engine

water-pump that was the arrhythmic heart

of the dicey fuelling rig. I shook the drum

of Jet A-1 that was on the back of the

beaten-up pick-up truck to make sure it

was actually empty−it was normal to find

fuel remaining which would then be sold

in the market. “Yes please. Let’s add

another drum. And by the way,” I said,

gesturing at Madam who was preflighting

the PC-12, and whose flight suit epaulettes

carried four bars, versus my three, “She is

the Captain.” Weasel looked mortified; a

woman captain: how unnatural, how

ungodly! I straightened my back, looked

him in the eye and said, “But I am the

General.” Weasel looked most impressed.

Mogadishu was by turns concerning and

exhilarating. Sometimes both. One concern

Part five: We owned two Fujis now and were operating the Big Fella’s

Pilatus PC-12 into Somalia, but I still hadn’t got my licence

Words & Photos Tim Cooper

African Skies | Going solo

74 | Pilot September 2017 http://www.pilotweb.aero

Soldiers deploying at Magadishu
airport as an Il-18 transport arrives