by Barbara Best
“Not to worry,” Masegi flashes a rigid smile. “The controls are light, yeah? Relax, she will practically fly herself.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Sophie scoffs, her shoulders lifted almost to her ears. Her frozen stare is glued on the horizon. Every muscle is tense with concentration.
“Okay, relax,” Sophie breathes deeply and blinks her stinging eyes. She forces herself to loosen her grip, having seen Segi use the tips of his fingers to steer. After a minute or two, Sophie settles back in her seat and actually begins to enjoy the scenic view again. There is a rewarding sense of control. “There,” she says, satisfied.
“Keep ’er steady, copilot. You are doing fine.” Masegi strains to reach his large black duffel bag in the back.
Sophie recognizes the metallic clatter immediately. “A gun? You brought guns?”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“Now you’re really scaring me.”
“Just keep your eyes ahead. This is no game, little one.”
Masegi looks down the crosshairs of a self-loading Ruger 10/22 carbine. Although the rifle is considered low-caliber, meaning it is less deadly than those his brother carries, it has two great advantages. It is both lightweight and compact. He can easily conceal it by removing two screws to separate the barrel and the trigger mechanism from the stock. The stock itself folds in two and is simple to transport, suiting his needs. He also loads his black, Russian-made side arm. Turning it, he measures the weight and enjoys the grip. It fits nicely in his hand.
“Do you have a license for that stuff?”
“Of course. And a competency certificate too,” Masegi grins. “I know how to use them.”
“God, let’s hope you don’t have to.”
A short time later, Masegi guides the yellow Piper in a slow approach. He scouts out a short and very narrow strip cleared of trees. From the air it appears no larger than a band-aid and is dotted with elephant droppings and low-flying birds.
It is an unreported and undocumented fueling station at the heart of the United States surveillance operations in Africa. Two unarmed turboprop aircraft are chocked on the brim of a dense jungle that borders one side of an unpaved runway. They are equipped with hi-tech sensors that can record full-motion video, track infrared heat patterns, and vacuum up radio and cell phone signals.
The station is so secluded only the best African bush pilots know about it and have the right skills to land there. Fortunately, two others like it are on their route crossing the continent. Masegi can effectively extend their flight range by hundreds of miles. It is also a place Salva would want no part of.
Masegi goes in low enough to brush the tips of the trees and banks sharply to the left, scanning the clearing and checking wind direction. “Look for animals on the runway.” Any obstruction can be hazardous.
He reviews a checklist of landing procedures in his head. This includes having the yoke well back and allowing the nose wheel to fall gently after initial contact with the ground. Not doing so can cause a wheelbarrow effect, an easy mistake unseasoned pilots fall victim to in vintage Pipers. He makes one more pass and once satisfied, sets up his air speed and descent rate for landing.
“Hold on. This might be tricky.”
Chapter 19
UNEXPECTED EXCITEMENT
“Stay put!” Masegi barks. He throws his headset into Sophie’s lap, unfastens his harness, and exits the plane.
“Hey man,” putting his hands up in the air, “United States Embassy.” Masegi juts his head toward credentials pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
Sophie turns in her seat and sees an armed soldier in U.S. Army fatigues. Another comes from out of nowhere and waves her to get out.
“I couldn’t call in. Radio’s down,” Masegi explains.
Typical pilot procedure would have been to give his standard position report — who they are, where they are coming from, and where they are going. Masegi had not used the correct frequency, thinking it may be traced.
“Wow! A 1961 Piper.” Puckering his lips, the compact soldier with a rock-hard build whistles his appreciation.
Masegi nods and slowly lowers his arms.
“Awesome. I like the yellow,” the guy continues. “My stepdad had a ’62, only it was red and white. Gave me a love of flying. Cut my teeth on that baby. Sure did.” He scans the airplane from nose to tail and relaxes, shifting his AK47 to one arm. When he finally takes Masegi’s identification, his face shows instant recognition.
“Welcome, sir.” He bobs his head at the woman, “Ma’am.”
“We’ll be in and out. Need to refuel, s’all,” Masegi says. “Who heads this operation?”
“Sergeant Ripley at the moment, sir.”
“I’d like to speak to him. Specialist?” Masegi knows the insignia on the soldier’s uniform.
“Yes sir. Specialist Buchannon. This way, sir.”
Sophie follows the men into the cool shade of the jungle. One other, who is jangling a large ring of keys and chewing gum with his mouth open, joins them. The temperature drops several degrees as they follow a sandy path that leads a few feet to a small hut.
Deciding she can’t wait a minute longer, Sophie inquires, “Is there a restroom?”
“There’s no running water here, ma’am. I’m afraid you’ll have to rough it,” says the freckle-faced soldier who looks like he just graduated from high school. His remark makes his buddy with the keys snort and cough with mirth.
Sophie frowns, “Not a problem.” Her time with Ben as a Civil War reenactor had toughened her up to such things. From chamber pots to porta-potties, you do what you have to do.
“Private Frye, accompany the lady to the latrine,” Specialist Buchannon orders.
“Yes sir.”
“Do you have toilet paper, Private Frye?” Sophie asks patiently.
“Oh, yes ma’am,” chirps the private. His ears are bright red from the unexpected excitement in his day. “Hang on, ma’am. I’ll get it.”
When Sophie makes the short hike back from her restroom escapade, Private Frye tells her she must wait outside. He takes up a position nearby and turns his back to light a cigarette. Drawing deeply, he blows a distinct smoke ring and leans against a knotty hardwood tree with high branches that sprout green finger-like leaves. The trunk is bare in spots where the bark has been rubbed off. Probably by some large animal. Segi is inside talking to Sergeant Ripley.
The hut is well camouflaged by tangled vines that have rooted in mud-packed walls. It is not much bigger than an outdoor shed with hardly room for people, much less furniture and equipment. Sophie’s eyes follow wires that run along the roofline up to a substantial satellite dish concealed in a canopy of woodsy growth. She imagines this isolated U.S. ground station must be eavesdropping on something critical.
Small flies whiz round her, drawn to perspiration and a hint of leftover deodorant. Sophie wants to swing her Bushmans Kloof hat at the annoying pests, but then, they might get in her hair. So, she whacks and flicks them off, not really sure what bites and what doesn’t.
For peace of mind, she creeps closer to the open doorway. Facing outward, Sophie can hear the muffled sound of male voices inside. She checks the ground around her feet for crawling insects and jumps foolishly when a leaf on a long curling stalk tickles her neck.
Soon, Segi appears. “Sergeant Ripley,” he smiles, and pumps the hand of a man who is about his height.
“Any time,” Sergeant Ripley says, and looks up through the trees at a small patch of cloudless blue. His posture has an exaggerated curve to it.
Sophie decides Ripley’s swayback is probably from watching the skies too long. She wonders how these men stand duty in this lonesome, primitive place. A small fuel truck, similar to what she had seen at the other airstrip, is just grinding its way back to the cover of the jungle.
“Private, see them out,” Ripley orders.
“We can go.” Masegi nudges Sophie on the small of her back and darts ahead.
“In and out.” Masegi trots over to the Piper’s passenger door. “Climb in.”
Sophie nods at Private Frye, “Thanks.”
“Safe flight, Mr. Sesay. Ma’am.” The private throws his hand to the bill of his patrol cap and gives a smart salute. Then he turns on his heels to head back.
Masegi jogs around the front, giving the Piper’s pointy nose a quick pat for good luck, and climbs in too. When they are settled inside the aircraft cabin, he heaves a huge sigh and blows it out his mouth. “We have a way to go yet.”
“At this rate and flying in this contraption?” Sophie chuckles.
Masegi reaches to help with Sophie’s harness.
“I can do it. I’m a fast learner.”
“And, so you are, copilot,” Masegi grins. He motions, “Catch that latch for me.” Doing the same on his door, he immediately starts an abbreviated preflight checklist.
Glancing at Sophie, “Keep an eye out for warthogs. Ripley said they saw three or four of them grazing on the south end of the strip earlier this morning.” He cranes his neck, twisting his head from shoulder-to-shoulder to assess both wings again, and flexes his hands a couple of times, cracking his knuckles. “We are going to need every inch of this runway.”
“Bloody wonderful,” Sophie pulls on her headset like a pro, adjusting the mic. “Do you even know these men?”
“Berko knows them. They recognized my last name. Pilots form a tight bond out in the bush. It doesn’t hurt that he’s done them a few favors.”
“How much has your brother flown?” Sophie refrains from asking Segi about his own flight hours as a pilot, afraid of the answer she might get.
“I asked him that once, myself.”
“What’d he say?”
“Who’s counting? My bru can be a horse’s behind sometimes.”
The engine sputters to life.
“A real smart ass, huh? I kinda gathered that,” Sophie says, amused. “So, where are we headed?”
“Johannesburg, and from there to Lusaka. Someone will be waiting for us in Nairobi. If all goes as planned, I believe we can make our destination by nightfall.”
Masegi’s nostrils flare with anticipation, “This won’t be my greatest takeoff. I hope you don’t mind.”
The small Piper taxis, picks up obstacle clearance speed and transitions to a steep climb.
“Mind? Who, me-eeeh?” Sophie throws one sweaty palm to her chest and hangs on for dear life. She hiccups another dramatic response to the effects of soaring up at a sharp angle and seeing nothing more than the blurry whirl of the propeller and blue sky. Pressed uncomfortably back in her seat, she gasps, “Yeah, I just love flying by the seat of my pants in a roller coaster without tracks.”
“Now, who’s the smart ass,” Masegi laughs.
Chapter 20
A STITCH IN TIME
A stickler for detail, Anna Hopkins carefully inspects Jane’s needlework, turning it over to check the flip side. She makes a couple of suggestions and hands it back.
“A stitch in time saves nine,” Anna says, smiling kindly.
As one might expect, Anna’s assessment quickly sends her new daughter-in-law into an elaborate display of huffing and puffing over stitches she must painstakingly correct.
“You asked for my opinion,” she reminds. As she knits her brow, Jane raises her head and good humor bubbles to the surface. They both giggle at Jane’s antics. There is a comfortable connection between mother and daughter-in-law. After all, they were friends first.
Anna choice of words, a stitch in time, is no coincidence. The metaphor, built on the practice of sewing, lends itself to a more serious topic. Sewing is not only associated with hard work, but prudence and virtue, as well. The latter two traits are currently called into question. Anna is compelled to address a matter that is troubling her.
The cozy ambiance of her sitting room in the Old Homestead on a rainy day seems the perfect setting to express her reservations about the couple’s plan to strike out for Virginia. In preparation, she told her servant Tessie they must not be disturbed under any circumstances. She rarely has Jane all to herself.
The newlyweds are inseparable. Jane and Matthew spend most days taking exercise to build her son’s strength. They have explored every inch of Sea Oaks on horseback and taken an interest in a rose garden on the grounds. Jane has become particularly fond of Sea Oaks’ green roses. She claims they are highly unusual and asks if anyone has thought of “bottling their scent” for the pleasure of others. Jane is positive the floral variety would be a worthy candidate for any perfumery and profitable business venture. Although Anna is entertained by Jane’s ambitious imaginings, she reasons recklessness rarely meets with a good end.
Virginia. The thought puts every fiber of her being in an uproar. Their bold idea has been a source of angst for Anna from the moment Matthew brought it to her attention. To think of Jane gallivanting off to some wretched place, risking life and limb, is outrageous, unwarranted, and certainly unwelcome in an environment where men rule.
Soldiers are bound by duty to lay down their lives for their beliefs and for God and country. No more than a name scrawled in a ledger binds them to unthinkable hardships. Anna’s husband already made the ultimate sacrifice, leaving her widowed and grief-stricken. Not long after, she nearly lost her only son in a brush with death that has surely taken years off her life.
No one can escape the political schism that shapes their landscape and loss that accompanies it. During the endless days of brutal conflict and bloodshed, women are required to exhibit fortitude and commit to the difficult task of maintaining home and family, depleted of resource and virtually on their own. They must endure the heavy burden of knowing when they see their men off to war they may never return.
Death and abysmal misfortune is all around them. Newspapers follow the Confederacy’s military progress and report daily on wartime atrocities. Widely displayed photographs of battlegrounds in their darkest hour are enough to make a body swoon. A cherished husband, a mother’s precious son, a child’s adored uncle, poor souls who suffered last breath and departure from this world are laid bare for all to see. Fleeting impressions of their final thoughts and emotions, the most intimate images are frozen forever in time. These horrors further strengthen Anna’s resolve. Entrenchment in a military camp on the front line of a battlefield is no place for a woman. It is no place for Jane.
Anna blames her daughter-in-law’s impetuous nature for the conundrum. For a young woman to turn her interest to matters of men and set off alongside her husband as an equal is shocking. It is just as shocking that Matthew would willingly encourage Jane’s imprudent notions.
But then, her son is hopelessly spellbound. Smitten from the minute Jane Peterson turned his heart to love. Why, in his eyes, she can walk on water! Anna darts a look at Jane whose head is bent over her sewing again. A fine crease between her reddish-brown eyebrows indicates a good amount of concentration.
Although she did her best to fit in, Jane is a perpetual round peg for a square hole. She stands apart from others as much as her exquisite red hair and green eyes never fail to draw attention everywhere she goes. To be honest and for reasons Anna cannot explain, Jane has very little in common with the gentle, abiding, God-fearing women of their day. More importantly, Anna feels strongly her daughter-in-law’s priorities are not properly aligned with her new status as wife to her son and mother of her future grandchildren.
Jane continues to foolishly defy intentions of their well-balanced society, touting women’s rights, and preaching liberties that go beyond the pale. Instead of softening her erudition, her devotion to intellectual pursuits has blossomed to the point where she chances being labeled a bluestocking. Women who go against the grain of collective decorum are frowned upon. Everyone knows women and men revolve in separate spheres, each set to their own tasks. Yes, the war binds them al
l to duty further still, but Anna feels Jane’s latest exploit could be a terrible mistake.
As Anna enjoys the clarity her needle and thread always gives her, she keeps their conversation on-topic. “But, my dear, have you considered the, um, distraction it might cause?” she pauses, pointedly peering over the top of her spectacles before lowering her gaze to the next careful loop in her design.
Jane studies her mother-in-law for a moment. After the Hopkins’ celebrated journey from Savannah to Sea Oaks under the protection of Captain McIntosh, she can see physical changes in her friend.
Out of necessity, Anna wears magnification glasses. It is no wonder with all the hours of tedious work she devotes to her embroidery and other elaborate stitchery. Anna says she prefers her spectacles over the clumsy act of extending one’s arms far out to bring things into focus or worse yet, perpetual squinting. After her husband’s tragic death on some dismal battlefield, evidence of gray sprouts near her temples. Wisps of silver, shimmering in the warm glow of an oil lamp by her chair, frame her face and delicate features.
“Finally!” Jane breathes relief when the last stitch comes easily undone. Her needlework is back on track. She calmly stops to re-thread her sharp tipped foe that inevitably pricks her fingers and makes them sore for days.
“Now Anna, I know you mean well.” Jane considers, “Hmm, distraction, I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“Yes, dear, a real distraction. Not only for Matthew, but an attractive young woman such as yourself. Why,” Anna’s cheeks blush with her insinuation and its unsavory consequence, but she continues, “You would be a spectacle among the men, an object of tasteless jokes. Lord knows what they will think.” A sudden flash of brilliant light from the window and vibrating rumble of thunder punctuate her meaning.
“I don’t care what anyone thinks,” Jane replies airily, and mitigates her tone. “I’m sorry, it is just that I am totally committed to Matt. I can’t leave his side. Not now. You must understand.”
