38 | John W. Warner IV the fire went out slowly. Control cables damaged, she had much reduced input on her yoke; the transport weaved back and forth on its own. Now what? Oil pressure warning lights on the port engine came on, a few stray rounds had found their quarry. Oil streaks plastered the left wing. This is a bloody daymare! The Malian came rushing in head down, stepping over the dead pilot that Bea had removed from her seat. The man was six-foot-four, strong, black as coffee, a sergeant- ch^” named Gwafa, and spoke a heady mix of French and English with a perfumed eastern African accent. Hes gone, madamel Eye-tie bastard! Many are dead. I clipped him with the Bren. The rough desert terrain filled her view. Were losing altitude! Port motors losing pressure. Mon Dieu, merde. Gwafa wiped blood and brain bits off the throttle quadrant, translating English labels in his mind. We must try to re-start the starboard engine. It can run with many cylinders gone. Bea struggled with the yoke, hands full, left rudder trim full, eyes wide, the vibration immense. Her teeth chattered. Youre a m-m-mechanic? Yes. Mostly les camions, but Im damn good. Flew a Mureaux-113 once or twice. Larmee trains us well, no questions asked. I used to steal motorcars and aeroplanes as a profession. A voleur, thief. Well done. Bea spied the port engine oil pressure gauge, it wasnt pretty. Follow my instructions. On the overhead panel he reset the generators, set the fuel and pumps, opened cowl flaps to half, mixture lever to half of maximum, flipped the primer switch two times, and hit the red starter button. The prop twirled as the starter motor strained. Come onwife, viteY Burn out the booster coilsdo it! Were drifting, rudders shot up. Bea compensated for the reduced power, but she was way off course to the south, blown there by the sudden storm, her altitude 7300 feet and descending fast. Way points and familiar topography were long gone, but a large salt pan was off to port, probably Siwa. Disputed territory, she thought. Under the horses hooves of destruction we are. Errghhh! Come on you ruddy rudder, do your damn job! Gwafa eased off the mixture and hit the starter again. Prop twirling, the starboard radial engine repeatedly backfired loudly then came alive at seven then finally