Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 213 M'aidez
0604Z, 80 nautical miles north of Enyeru airspace, altitude FL220.

Pilot Jean Moreau squinted and looked ahead at the flight path.

"500% sinking rate, prepare to deploy the first set of flaps."

"Roger that." The co-pilot was a serving lieutenant colonel in the Congolese Air Force. He didn't have much experience with transport aircraft and seemed rather reserved throughout the flight. "Fifles at fifteen degrees?"

"Follow the SOP, set it to 15, and keep the speed at 210."

Moro tapped the lower edge of the right side of the dashboard.

The added radar alarm receiver is always on.

No new signal.

That thing was the "Birch Tree" system, a standard feature in the Soviet Union during the 1980s, which relied primarily on auditory cues.

In other words, once you are locked in, you only have a few seconds to react.

"Current altitude 22,000 meters, clear weather, good approach conditions."

Morrow sighed, staring at the fuel reading on the lower left dashboard. "If they follow the rules today, we should be able to complete the handover on time."

At this moment, a dozen or so passengers on board are reviewing documents, preparing for the upcoming negotiations.

Most of them hold diplomatic passports or are from the United Nations or the African Union.

In addition, there were seven contractors responsible for security, and the entire process was unusually quiet.

"Tail cabin communication test," the technician's voice came through the headset.

“Received,” Moro replied. “Expected arrival in fourteen minutes.”

Below is the hilly area in the northwest of Ituri.

The forest was like a deep green carpet, the river meandered, and the land was damp and heavy.

Just then, the passenger in the front seat suddenly sat up straight.

"Wait a minute." He glanced at the radar screen. "Is there a faint reflection point at the nine o'clock position?"

Moro instinctively looked to his left and pressed the mute button.

“The echo was too weak to be a radar signal,” he said. “It could be ground interference.”

However, no sooner had he finished speaking than the warning lights above his head suddenly turned on.

"Beep, beep, beep, beep!"

"Beep, beep, beep, beep!"

The piercing high-frequency pulses rang out continuously, wave after wave.

The RWR pointer is firmly locked on the "three-point direction"—continuous irradiation.

Moro's heart began to pound uncontrollably, and he felt dizzy.

He felt himself trembling, and sweat made his palms stick to the control stick.

“We’re being targeted,” Moro forced himself to speak. “It might be the Igla series. Prepare to evade them!”

He pressed down with his left hand and pushed the accelerator to the floor with his right, his movements stiff and urgent.

"Infrared guidance? Or millimeter wave?" The co-pilot's voice became shrill with fear.

"--uncertain!"

Despite his fear, Moro jerked the rudder to the right. "Too slow! We're sitting ducks! Descend! Deploy flares!"

The next second, the technician's anxious shout came: "Aft IR proximity warning!"

Moro's hand trembled, almost slipping out of control, but he still managed to pull down the EMP-50 trigger with all his might.

Several high-temperature flares were ejected from the tail of the aircraft.

Trailing a bright flame, it traced an arc in the air.

The entire plane began to shake slightly.

"Missile approaching! To the left rear!" The co-pilot completely broke down and shouted in despair.

Moro clenched his teeth, his eyes wide open, and all his muscles tensed.

Immediately afterwards, he twisted the control lever, tilted it to the right at full angle, and then quickly pulled it back up.

"Hold it—Hold it—!"

boom--!
A muffled explosion came from the tail of the plane.

The red light on the dashboard is flashing, the hydraulic pressure is dropping rapidly, and the compression ratio is abnormal.

"Tail rudder malfunction, main fuel tank on the left is broken!" the technician yelled at the top of his lungs.

The fuselage shook violently, as if it were being grabbed and violently flung around.

Just when Moro thought he was about to collapse, he suddenly calmed down.

He pressed down hard on the control stick, forcefully adjusting the course to the southeast.

"If we can't control it, we'll have to prepare for a hard landing."

"We can't go back!" The passenger was almost fainting, his dark face turning deathly pale.

“I know, I know. I know,” Moro murmured, more like talking to himself.

The rear cabin was in chaos.

Shouts, curses, and prayers mingled together, some loud, some soft, some low, some high, some low. Moro took a deep breath and answered the radio.

"This is the captain."

He said with difficulty.

"We are under attack and are preparing for an emergency landing."

"All occupants, fasten your seatbelts, wear your protective gear, and hold on to the anchor points."

“Que Dieu nous aide.”

(May God bless us.)
Outside the window, the ground was getting closer and closer, and the treetops were magnified in my field of vision, becoming clearer and clearer.

Morrow looked at the green tips, one after another, as if they were vying to squeeze into the cockpit.

He was still trying his best to pull up the nose of the plane, but the co-pilot had gone mad, muttering in his hometown dialect, acting like a madman.

Moro tried to close his eyes, but he couldn't.

The impact came extremely fast, yet it also seemed very slow.

boom--!
He can't see anything anymore.

How many seconds?
How many minutes?
Moro was awakened by pain after an unknown amount of time.

His throat was filled with the taste of rust, and his left cheek was pressed against the edge of the broken seat.

He tried to move his right leg—but couldn't.

Move your arm again, and a jolt will send an electric shock-like pain exploding from your shoulder.

Moro was awake. He had survived.

The air smelled of burnt rubber.

The light outside the cabin was gray, like the evening before a downpour.

Moro tried to turn his head away.

There's movement on the left.

What is that?
From the woods, figures fully armed emerged.

Those weren't rescue workers. He immediately understood.

Moro tried to speak, but he couldn't catch his breath and coughed up a mouthful of blood.

“Save me,” he murmured in his sleep.

At that moment, someone came over.

He was dressed in camouflage, with a plate and magazine pouch on his chest, and an M4 hanging by his legs.

"Hey, that's fucking alive."

The man was a little surprised.

Just then, sunlight pierced through the clouds and streamed down from the sky, landing on his face.

It was an ordinary white face with a bluish stubble.

Moro's vision gradually blurred, double images appeared before his eyes, and the outlines trembled.

He wanted to say something more, but he couldn't open his mouth; his tongue felt like a rag.

"Stop messing with him."

There seemed to be someone speaking not far away, their tone leaving no room for argument.

A few seconds later, gunshots rang out.

Moro was gripped by a sudden, overwhelming fear.

Fortunately, the relief came quickly.

The white man crouched down, pulled out his pistol, and cocked it.

“Sorry, buddy,” he said.

Then, pull the trigger.

boom!
The man stopped struggling instantly.

Colin straightened up, put the pistol back in its holster, and walked towards Zhou Yi.

Over there, Roy and the Ukrainian were slashing back and forth across the corpse with their scimitars.

Colin glanced at it briefly before quickly looking away: "Damn, that's really perverted, they don't even spare the dead."

"You're still such a spineless coward."

Roy replied without looking up, his voice indifferent.

Colin was speechless for a moment, and just as he was about to retort, Zhou Yi said:

“‘Ma Yima’ [1] all like this set, and after cutting it, they line up to take pictures.”

"Go get the tree ash; we don't have much time. The MQ-9 will be here to scout in as little as thirty minutes."

"We need to leave some 'clues' for Africa Command before that."

Colin scratched his head, said nothing more, and turned to walk towards the pickup truck.

　[1] "Mai-Mai" is a general term for hundreds of local armed groups in the Democratic Republic of Congo.
　　
　
(End of this chapter)