By Godfrey Wray

THE early morning mist hanging low over the murky Demerara River provided a welcome cover, yet its denseness made rapid progress a nightmare.The specially-equipped two-seater Cessna 206 aircraft darted between puffs of swirling white clouds, the pilot concentrating on his dashboard where a powerful forward-looking infra-red camera sought to enhance visibility.
Two persons were in the cockpit: An ageless aviator everyone called ‘Sky’, and the tanned stranger who spoke little after giving directions to the proposed destination.

ANY MINUTE NOW
The cargo was six styrofoam bales, their contents of no particular interest to the flier.
“Any minute now you should see a light blinking,” said the passenger, his voice strained as if the statement had been a laboured effort. He spoke with a Caribbean-flavoured Middle Eastern accent, and was dressed in a skin-tight black plastic suit with a tightly drawn hood. His feet were bare, and strapped to his back was a dark, water-resistant knapsack.
“There it is,” he hissed triumphantly, allowing a wisp of a smile to relax the tension that had tightened his face and body throughout the long flight.
Hassan slipped between the only two seats, moving directly to the rear of the plane. There he tugged at a ring on the floor. It yielded. Suddenly, a circular door flapped back with a dull thud, and a staggering blast of cold air rushed in.
Despite the chill of the early morning, the fervor of his mission kept him warm. Using both hands, he manhandled the six bundles closer to the specially-modified drop door. And with one heave, he shoved each through the opening, then quickly secured it again.

It had all taken a mere two minutes.
He felt good. This was the beginning of a new mission that, once set in motion, could affect the balance of the worldwide Islamic struggle for which Allah had chosen him to be a leading player.
He climbed back over the passenger seat, handed the pilot a bulky envelope and said conversationally, “Fly straight ahead for another mile, turn around and climb to an altitude of 900 feet. I will tell you when we will part company.”

RATHER UNUSUAL
The flier’s wrinkled brow developed more furrows as his thoughts moved sluggishly to assort themselves. This was unusual. On the three previous runs, his passenger would quickly get rid of his cargo and then urge him to get as far and as fast away as possible. However, today, the modus operandi was decidedly different. The enigmatic man was staying with his obviously valuable shipment.
But what did he care? The mission, like the others, had gone without a hitch, and he had been more than adequately compensated. He glanced at the thick parcel between his legs and knew without counting that the usual bonus had been added.
He asked himself: ‘When are you going to quit?’
It was the same query that popped into his mind every time he successfully completed a clandestine flight. And he knew that, once again, he would comfort himself with the same answer: ‘Just one more time.’
The sturdy little plane coasted quietly around its horizontal axis, then the pilot gently lowered the nose, keeping his eyes on the altimeter.
Switching on the wipers, he cut a clear swathe through the fog on the windscreen. He saw the murky river as it came into view beneath the cloud, and pulled back on the throttle to line up on the waterway as if it were a natural runway.
With the power almost at idle, he gave the signal. His passenger peered closely at the Global Positioning System (GPS) strapped to his parachute, then, when he was satisfied, pushed open the door on his side and disappeared without a goodbye.
The navigator was mildly surprised by the lack of farewell courtesy, but he shrugged and pressed a button, which made the door swing back on small hydraulic hinges. He hauled back hard on the joy-stick, and the plane responded by lifting its nose skywards. Glancing at the fuel gauge he could not repress a satisfied smile. The needle indicated that he might not have to utilise the on-board fuel tanks, specially fitted to facilitate long-range flights.

COVERT LANDING
Meanwhile, Hassan floated slowly downward, his descent controlled by another sensitive piece of electronic equipment on a strap of the chute. He had hoped to land on the bank of the river opposite the point where he had dropped the bundles, because he wanted to observe the retrieving operation without being seen.
But now he was drifting too far inland, increasing the possibility of someone seeing him and the parachute coming down. This was the risky part. He had to make a decision quickly.
Without hesitation, he pushed a red button on the radio-controlled device, and right away, his rate of descent accelerated.
In the early morning gloom, he knew he had to be precise in his calculations, or else he could plummet to his death. Looking down to gauge the distance, he counted ten seconds before releasing the button. A minute later, his tucked-in legs hit a soft surface that told him he was not far off his mark.
Two men in a boat had already hauled in four of the bundles, and were paddling after the other two.

SO FAR SO GOOD
Hassan said a quiet thanks to Allah for delivering him safely to carry out another vital phase of his international mission. The only fear he ever harboured was about getting caught before he could unleash deserved vengeance on the avowed enemy of his people: Orchestrating a catastrophe that would make September 11, 2001 look like child’s play.
He was not afraid of death. In fact, he embraced the concept. However for death to be pleasing to Allah, it had to be enshrined in glory. One had to complete a great mission, and, in the process, celebrate it with one’s own death.
Death was a friend, not an enemy. That’s what had been drummed into his head by a fanatical Guyanese father and teachers during the entire four years he had undergone special training in the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS) militia.
What was suicide to Westerners was an act of devotion to the real believer. Whatever was perceived to be the will of God obscured everything. One just had to have utter conviction in the martyr’s righteousness.
He had seen the face and evidence of death many times. Only once had he been disturbed. And it was that particular scene which had helped him to identify the true enemy of the Arab world.
He had seen the jungle-cloaked Jonestown once, but immediately recognised its potential. What lay before him was a goldmine rather than the grisly aftermath of colossal slaughter.
He was going to use the solitude and lack of attention to full advantage to set up the world’s most exclusive terrorist training camp.
It was perfect. He wanted a place where the American satellites, forever circling above, would have no particular interest.
And he was now looking at it. Jonestown was going to be in the news some time soon.