by Ward Larsen
Davis spotted activity at one particular airplane and headed that way. In his Air Force days it would never have been so easy. He’d have found red lines painted on the concrete and armed security keeping a sharp eye—bored two-stripers who lived for the day when some dumbass company-grade officer would screw up and cross without authorization. Here there were no red stripes. The tarmac was barren, save for rows of weeds sprouting at the shoulders and lining up in the expansion cracks.
He spotted Boudreau at the far side of the airplane, pointing a finger and shining a flashlight beam on an engine. Achmed the snacko stood next to him, looking disinterested. They both wore a uniform of sorts, khaki trousers and short-sleeved white shirts with epaulets. Four stripes on Boudreau’s shoulders, three for Achmed. Take away the uniforms, though, and they couldn’t have looked more different, the Louisianan stout and freckled in cowboy boots, the first officer rail-thin and swarthy, wearing tennis shoes. As Davis closed in, the kid saw him coming and broke away toward the loading stairs.
“Morning,” Davis yelled over the clatter of a taxiing turboprop.
“Hey, Jammer! Glad you could make it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. But I’m not sure if your first officer feels the same way.”
Boudreau shook his head. “I can’t figure that kid. I was just trying to show him how the flaps change the shape of the wing to give more lift. He didn’t even try to understand. I tell you, that boy’s hopeless. I’ve told him so, but he keeps coming back for more.”
“Schmitt won’t fire him?”
“We’ve all asked. He just says we’re required to have a Sudanese presence in flight ops. Some part of Khoury’s big dream. I’ve given up that fight.”
Davis looked over the airplane. “I won’t get many more chances to ride in one of these.”
“Yeah, she’s a dinosaur all right. This particular airplane has been flying the friendlies since the Roosevelt administration.”
“Franklin or Teddy?”
Boudreau chuckled, then banged hard on a panel. “They don’t make ’em like this anymore.”
Davis had to admit, it sounded solid. But up close the airplane showed its scars. The sun-baked paint, probably once white, was faded and dirty. There were spots where the outer coat had flaked away, and underneath an old green and black camouflage pattern was revealed, like a scar from some sordid, soldier-of-fortune past.
Davis said, “So where are we headed today?”
“Jungle strip, Congo River basin.”
“That sounds a little sporty.”
“Been to plenty like it.” Boudreau bent down by one of the main wheels, took a pen from his pocket and poked it into the air valve. There was a loud hiss of high pressure air. After a few seconds, he stood back up and gave the tire a swift kick, nodded like he was satisfied.
“What was that for?” Davis asked.
“You’ll see.” Boudreau headed to the boarding stairs. “Come on, Jammer, step into my office.”
Davis followed him up the stairs. It was a short climb. Three days ago he’d ridden a massive A-380 across the Atlantic. He felt like he was going from the Queen Mary to the African Queen. Inside, the DC-3 was all business, sheet metal and stringers and rivets, all seventy years old and counting. There was a chain of floodlights in the ceiling that eked out just enough light to see the rest. A dirty floor blotted with stains from old liquid spills. Battery acid, oil, grapefruit juice—no way to tell. Sawdust and gum wrappers were scattered along the side walls like leaves in a street gutter. Loose pebbles were lodged in the floor joints.
Today’s load seemed light, the cargo bay only half full of crates and boxes. The fact that there was volume remaining meant one of two things. Either the receiver was taking a small shipment, or the crates he was looking at were very heavy. Davis noticed that the tie-down straps looked heavy duty, so he guessed the latter. Some of the boxes were stenciled with the U.N. logo and labels that looked fresh and amateurish. SPARE PARTS. CANNED FOOD. MEDICINE. Yeah, he thought, right. His doubts were confirmed when he recognized the smell. Gun oil. These boxes were indeed heavy, full of things made from nickel and lead and titanium, the part of the periodic table of elements that didn’t give way. The part that penetrated softer, carbon-based things.
Davis moved toward the cockpit and found Boudreau in the left seat, the traditional captain’s station. Achmed was beside him on the right, slapping switches like they’d done him wrong.
“Easy, son,” Boudreau admonished. “You don’t treat your girlfriend like that, do you?”
The young man scowled. “Nasira is not my girlfriend. That is not a respectful term.”
“Then what the heck do I call her?”
Achmed didn’t reply, and Davis saw a glint of mischief in Boudreau’s eyes.
The skipper said, “Tell you what, since you’re in training to be a pilot someday, we’ll just call her your future ex-wife.” Boudreau gave his signature cackle.
Achmed ignored him.
This could be a long day, Davis thought.
He settled into the jumpseat, a folding bench behind the main crew positions that was used for observers—third pilots who might ride along to give checkrides or government inspectors. Which, Davis figured, was what he was right now. An inspector. So he inspected Achmed, watched his hands bounce inefficiently over the switch panels, watched him fumble through radio frequencies and confuse the air traffic controller who issued their flight clearance.
Boudreau was the other end of the spectrum. He moved in methodical flows, well-honed patterns that belied his good-old-boy aura. Presently, he was building his nest. Even the most experienced pilot didn’t just sit down and fly. There were charts, flight plans, sun visors, headsets, pens, lucky ball caps, gum, sunglasses. No engine turned until everything was in the right spot, ready to go, like a ballplayer getting ready for a big game.
Boudreau tapped the fuel gauge. “Rule number one about flying into the bush, Jammer—always bring enough dead dinosaurs to get back out. This is Africa, so we’re not talking about a simple flight between two well-maintained airfields. We’re on an expedition. Kinda makes you feel like an Old World explorer, don’t it? Just pull up anchor and head toward the edge of the map—you know, where they always draw those dragons.”
“Dragons.” Davis sat back and grinned. Boudreau was trying to wind him up. All the same, he knew there was an element of truth in it. Fly on a commercial airliner in the West, and your chances of dying in a crash were about one in a hundred million. In this airplane, on this continent—not nearly as many zeroes in the denominator.
The two pilots cranked the engines, checked that everything was in order. Boudreau taxied to the runway and they were cleared for takeoff. The skipper goosed the throttles full forward, and if the machine had been shaking before, it rattled like a jackhammer now. The racket from the engines cancelled every other sound, and Davis felt the familiar push in the back of his seat. The grip of aerodynamic lift took hold, and the main wheels levitated. Everything fell more quiet, more smooth, and, like with all airplanes, just a little more tenuous. Even experienced pilots felt it. There was a tactile certainty to rolling down a runway with rubber on concrete, but once you broke ground everything became just a bit less convincing. Safe, certainly. A sense of freedom, no doubt. But a dash of risk sprinkled in as the vertical dimension was introduced.
The early morning air was smooth, and Boudreau looked right at home, one easy hand on the controls and the other holding a Styrofoam cup full of coffee. Davis’ ears popped as the unpressurized airplane climbed. Their initial heading was north, and he could see Khartoum ahead under a hazy blanket of sodium light. The city was split by the dark serpentine shadow of two rivers merging into one, the confluence of the Blue and White Niles.
Once they had some altitude, Boudreau banked the airplane to the right. A minute later they were headed due south for the equator.
Khoury stepped into his office before sunrise, leaving Hassan sta
tioned outside at his usual post. He did not typically rise so early, but today he was keeping the general’s schedule. He went into the hangar and found Jibril asleep on his cot. Khoury left him alone, knowing there were limits to how hard he could drive the man. Back in his office, he sat at his desk and waited.
When the call came, he let the first and second warbles run before picking up on the third. Obedient but not kowtowed. “Yes?” Khoury said, as if he might be expecting any number of important calls.
“Give me the report.” No salutation, just a command. The baritone from the Ministry of Defense in Khartoum was much in the habit of issuing orders.
“The engineer has nearly completed his tasks,” Khoury announced.
“Nearly?” General Ali barked. “The deadline is upon us.”
“Everything will be ready,” Khoury assured. He then tried to sound casual as he added, “And the crash investigator has arrived.”
“How unfortunate,” Ali grumbled. “Apparently my request to the Minister of Aviation to arrange a delay has fallen on deaf ears. Another post, I think, that will soon have a vacancy.”
Khoury weighed a humorous reply, but decided the most clever reaction was silence.
“Tell me about this investigator,” the general prodded.
“His name is Davis. He is American.” Knowing this would not sit well, he added quickly, “We were expecting a Frenchman, of course, but perhaps we can make the best of the situation.”
“As with the other Americans?”
“Exactly,” Khoury said. “He was sent here by their government, and the timing could not be more perfect.”
“Yes, I see your point.”
Khoury was happy that the general seemed to be taking the news well. He said, “But for now, I will keep the man busy.”
“Yes, that would be best, dear sheik.” Ali went back to issuing orders, “The helicopter will arrive Saturday morning for our final tour. Nine o’clock.”
“I will be waiting.”
“And bring Hassan this time,” the general said with a lighter tone. “I don’t think he has ever seen the pyramids.”
“Of course,” Khoury replied dryly.
There was a deep chuckle from the north before the line went dead.
Khoury set the phone in its cradle, leaned back in his chair, and put his heels up on the hardwood desk. He pulled the kaffiyeh from his head, allowing his shoulder-length black locks to fall free over the collar of his tunic. He considered going out to the hanger again to appraise things, but without Jibril to explain technical matters, Khoury would understand little. It bothered him at times, the degree to which he relied on the engineer, but so far the man had been wholly reliable.
The dawn call to prayer sounded from the speakers in the hangar, spreading with its usual ill fidelity, as if emanating from a soup can. The wailing chant echoed inside the voluminous building, and spilled out across the surrounding desert. Khoury did not move. He imagined his men outside making their way dutifully to the prayer room. Perhaps Hassan would even make an appearance. Khoury, in a custom that would be foreign to most imams, did not join regularly in prayer with his flock. It had been one of his first issuances on arriving here. His office served a dual purpose, one side arranged for work—a desk, a chair, one moderately ornate cabinet—while the other half was committed to worship, a humble space for the imam to conduct the protocols of his faith. None of his followers doubted their imam’s reasoning—that his dialogue with Allah was so intense, so personal, that it could only be undertaken in a private arena.
Rafiq Khoury took a deep breath and pulled a key from his pocket, used it to unlock the door of the small cabinet that was an arm’s length from his desk. He pulled out a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey, then inspected three tumblers to judge which was the cleanest. He made his choice, poured three fingers, and leaned back as he took the first sip, making a mental note to keep the ice bucket current. It was so much better over ice. Khoury lit a cigarette and took a long, deep draw, holding the flavor in his lungs before exhaling with the satisfaction of one who truly needed the fix. Soon, lyrical chanting from the nearby prayer room washed in like a distant whisper. Idly, Khoury closed his eyes and swirled the wondrous elixir in his mouth. He felt the familiar burn as the whiskey went down, and when he opened his eyes again Khoury studied the bottle on his desk. He had never been to America, but perhaps someday he would go. If it should ever come to pass, his first stop would be this wondrous place called Kentucky.
Khoury took another long draw on his cigarette, poured a second bracer. He eased back in his chair and closed his eyes. Only a year ago his circumstances had been tenuous. No, his very existence had been tenuous. Yet here he was, not only alive, but on the verge of greatness and riches. There were times when he was still stunned by the speed of his advance. By necessity, Khoury had eschewed the traditional path to clerical recognition. To spend years in holy scholarship was an entirely impractical pursuit, though if anyone asked—and they rarely did—Khoury claimed to have run that course. The only ones who could challenge this assertion were other clerics, and he made a marked point of not finding their company. His thoughts drifted, and he wondered what his mother would think of it all. Another of her American metaphors came to mind. A meteoric rise.
It fit his situation, Khoury supposed. Still, he had always thought the phrase odd, as meteors did not rise. At least not any he had ever seen. They went the other way, ending, to be sure, quite deep in the earth. Not wanting to dwell on that thought, Khoury tipped back his glass, and again felt the delicious burn.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The sky was as empty as sky could be.
They were cruising at twelve thousand feet, two nautical miles of smooth night air below. The eastern horizon was beginning to glow, but the night had yet to relinquish its grip. The ground below looked like a black hole. The few lights Davis could discern did nothing to define the earth. On the contrary, they created confusion, blurring the separation of up and down by mimicking stars on a matte black sky.
As the airplane droned southward, Davis recognized another amplifier of their isolation. The radios were silent. Most flying was performed under a constant barrage of chatter between air traffic controllers and pilots. But here, the overhead speaker on the cockpit ceiling was ominously silent.
“It’s awfully quiet out here,” Davis remarked.
Boudreau said, “It’s like that sometimes, but you’ll get used to it. Right Achmed?”
The ill-tempered Sudanese kid said nothing.
Boudreau shrugged. “Don’t make no never mind nohow.”
Davis made a brief stab at calculating the negatives in that sentence. He considered writing it down, maybe making Jen diagram it for extra credit in English class. That is, if he ever heard from her again.
“My cup is empty,” Boudreau declared. He looked at Davis. “As third-in-command, Jammer, you are hereby designated coffee boy. You ever been checked out on an airplane with a coffeepot?”
“Nope.”
“Well, it’s easy enough. Just toss in a fresh bag and hit the brew button.”
“Okay, but I’ve got to warn you—my daughter gave me a new coffee machine for Christmas. What came out looked more like it came from La Brea than Starbucks.”
Boudreau chuckled. “Well, give it a try anyway, cream and sugar for me. There’s a fire extinguisher on the aft bulkhead if you need it.”
Davis went to the back and did his best to get things going. While the machine was gurgling, Achmed came back and gave him a gruff look as he edged by toward the lavatory. The kid was surly beyond his years.
When he reached for the lavatory door handle, Davis said, “Hey, Achmed.”
The young man paused.
Davis nodded toward the pile of crates in the cargo hold. “I was wondering—how much weight does one of these birds carry? You know, the maximum usable load?”
The kid shrugged immediately, not even considering a reply. “I do not know such thin
gs. It is not my job.” He reached for the handle again.
“You can flush here,” Davis said helpfully.
Achmed looked dumbstruck.
“You know, the toilet. If you flush that thing over a city it can be pretty messy for the people below.” Davis pointed down. “But out here over the jungle, a little yellow rain—who’s going to know?”
The young Sudanese man looked completely befuddled, like he was picturing some kind of valve in the bottom of the airplane that would open up like a bomb bay door and drop sewage from the sky. The kid didn’t have a clue. But there was more in his expression. He seemed edgy, nervous. Davis remembered once getting a briefing on airport security measures. He learned about behavior profiling, and how people who were up to no good tended to highlight themselves. They perspired, fidgeted, didn’t make eye contact. That’s what Davis was seeing right now. Too many things about this kid didn’t add up. He didn’t know the basic things any pilot would know. And his base personality was all wrong. Most of the pilots Davis had ever known were like Boudreau, crack full of good humor. Achmed had the bonhomie of an out-of-work funeral director.
He disappeared into the lavatory, and Davis shrugged it all off.
He found the coffee cups and started looking for sugar. As he was rifling through a drawer in the galley, he heard Achmed in the lavatory. He was talking in Arabic, words that meant nothing to Davis. The kid might have been cursing him, or maybe issuing a pox on all pilots. But then he recognized a chanting, almost mechanical meter, and Davis understood.
Achmed was praying.
Davis went back up front with two cups of coffee, and handed one to the skipper. Over Boudreau’s shoulder, sunrise was breaking in the east, reds and oranges fusing over a stark landscape, the brilliant rays reaching upward to play on a stratus cloud deck.
Davis said reflectively, “You know, there are times when I hope my daughter will take up flying so she can see sights like this.”
