Air Mogadishu

by Gabriel Timar

The story is set in the heroic age of aviation in the 1930s over the hot, arid desert of the Horn of Africa. Passing through Mogadishu, local thugs kidnap Laura, a young Englishwoman. She escapes and stumbles on Ray, an aging war hero, the owner-operator of an ailing airline. The magic of flying and the sensuality of controlling an aircraft captivates Laura. Would her burning desire to fly and the love for two men consume her?

ISBN 1-59431-624-4 Fiction / Adventure

Cover Art Gabriel Timar

Also available in RTF and HTML formats



Air Mogadishu by Gabriel Timar

Chapter 1

Hot, humid air hung over the harbor of Mogadishu. Even the seagulls did not bother to fly in the hundred-degree heat. The white coral buildings reflected the blinding African sun. The few white shirted individuals chewing khatt , sitting in the shadow melted into the background. In the midday heat, the colonial civil servants wearing the dark suits and ties by executive order did not dare venturing onto the steaming streets of the city.

In the early nineteen thirties Somalia, an Italian colony acquired the Mediterranean look, although in the heart of the city the market remained vibrant and distinctly African.

The S.S. Oleandris tied up for two days, and the passengers landed to do some sightseeing and shopping. The twenty-one year old Laura Blake-Stanton enjoyed the scenery very much. As she grew up in India, the heat did not bother her. She felt at home on the steaming sidewalks in the midst of the exploding kaleidoscope of color. In addition to Arabs, Asians and Chinese most East African tribes were represented at the market.

Laura’s stepfather was sitting at a quaint sidewalk café, while she waded into the melee of the Somali businessmen.

On the middle of the square, the temporary shelves of the sidewalk vendors displayed items manufactured in the distant corners of the world. Opium, herbs, gold, Persian rugs, Burmese aphrodisiacs, Chinese ivory carvings, Russian icons, Dutch electric razors, and fake Schaffhausen watches competed for the scarce shelf space.

Laura suspected most of the merchandise smuggled or stolen, but this was par for the course in the colonial market places. After much haggling, she bought a red, silk headscarf, a hijab, usually worn by the willowy Somali women, allegedly the most beautiful, most desirable females of the Dark Continent.

From the middle of the square, she fought her way to the sidewalk where the better stores stood embedded in stone or coral buildings, and stepped into a silversmith’s shop. First, the smiling owner started speaking Italian, but since Laura did not seem to understand, he switched to English: “What can I sell you today, Missy?”

“I heard about a silver broche called the Mogadishu star. Have you any in stock?”

“I have many. What size do you desire?”

“Well, I don’t really know. Let me see them.”

From the shelf, the man took a large tray full of beautiful broaches shaped like an ornate, eight-pointed star.

“All sterling silver,” the man said. “I give you good price.”

Laura looked at the jewelry, touching and picking them up. Finally, she took one, about two inches in diameter.

“How much?” she asked.

“For you, Missy, but only for you, I let it go for an English pound.”

Laura put it down as if the broche burned her fingers.

“I didn’t know this piece of junk was made of gold,” Laura said. “I want a silver Mogadishu star.”

“This is silver,” said the man. “Special price, sixteen shillings, not a penny less. . .”

Laura learned to bargain in India.

“I give you five,” she retorted.

“I am a poor man, Missy. Silver is very expensive these days. I cannot possibly sell it for less than twelve shillings.”