The drive was a difficult one. Two months ago, rain rendered the roads almost impassable. The rains stopped and now the rutted roads were hardened. The ruts assumed control the truck’s direction, moving it from one side to the other. The priest gripped the wheel tightly, thinking that a run through the brush might be better than the road.
As the truck lurched forward, electric lines of pain shot across the old man’s lower back, the sprung coils beneath the seat’s heavy leather coverings offering little support. As he drove, he heard a heavy drone with thunderous undertones approaching from behind. The sound overpowered the sound of the truck’s engine through a bad muffler and the rattles of its body. Faint for a moment, it quickly grew. A small wave of fear came over the old priest, making him feel ashamed. It was the American, faster than he anticipated. Yes, it was the of sound of an approaching airplane.
The noise continued to grow, a rhythmic beating of the thin Africa air, rising in intensity until the plane passed over the truck at a very low altitude, perhaps five to eight hundred feet. Involuntarily ducking his head, Father Robineau craned his neck, twisting to look out the windshield. A dark form flashed overhead, the noise startling in its massiveness. It beat down on the Land Rover and rushed ahead, seeming to push down the grass and bush, while the plane continued its descent. Until that moment, the priest had not thought of the condition of the landing strip, but now worried that it might be a hazard for the pilot. Would an American flier, accustomed to paved airfields, be prepared for what he would find in the middle of the Sudanese scrub desert?
Twenty more minutes passed before he neared the landing strip. Already, he could see the plane, sitting next to the small, crumbling building, a shack, that served as a terminal. Inside was a single table, a bare light bulb, an old Clansman crank-powered two-way radio and a telephone that connected the building to the mission and the office of the local government official. As the priest’s truck cleared the last bit of brush to enter the clearing where the terminal stood, he could see the brightness of it, its shine a contrast to the dull brown surfaces of grass, brush and rock. Nearing the plane, Father Robineau stopped the truck, then got out, hoping nervousness wasn’t showing on his old, dusty face. There was a hole in the front of the shack where tin had once hung, open like an eye, awakened by the noise of the plane. The plane itself was not what the priest had expected. It was dust-covered but otherwise looked new, not the kind of plane normally found in southern Sudan, old planes with faded paint over dents, oil blackened metal near motors that belched smoke. The plane was certainly old, but if cleaned of the dust, would be almost immaculate. To see a plane in this part of the world that looked like this was rare. A man was sitting in the pilot’s seat, his head bent forward. He was obviously writing; or maybe praying, the priest thought. No, just writing.
After a moment, the pilot twisted around and then left the seat. The brush area of this part of Sudan had little noise outside the birds, crickets and frogs who sang to the evening wind. Now near the plane, Father Robineau could hear the pilot walking down its length. He heard the sound of the rear door opening. The door was lowered to rest a foot or so from the ground, held there by a strong cable. A middle-aged man peered from the doorway, saw the priest and smiled. He stepped from the plane and walked toward the priest. As he neared, he extended his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Hanley Martin. You must be Father Robineau.”
“Yes, yes, I am.” The priest was immediately aware that his accent probably sounded thick to the American. The priest hoped his English was good enough for the American to understand. They shook hands and briefly looked each other over.
“I must admit, when I passed over this airstrip, I thought about returning to the Port of Sudan. And believe me, that’s not a place I want to see again anytime soon.” Hanley’s smile seemed odd to the priest, like he was hearing a private joke, but one he did not enjoy.
The priest said, “I was afraid the shape of the runway might prove to be a problem for you. I’m pleased you are in a good condition after landing.”
“Oh, it was bumpy, but manageable. The gravel helped. I’m glad to see you made it out here. I didn’t want to sleep in the plane tonight. Let me get the plane secured and we can go.”
In front of the plane was a large stone buried in the ground with an iron ring secured to it with a hasp imbedded in the center of the visible surface. Twenty feet of chain was attached to the ring. The stone itself, or what was visible to Father Robineau, was an oval about six feet in length. The entire stone must be enormous, he thought as he watched the American drag the chain toward the front of the plane. The pilot must have seen the stone and taxied to it.
“How will you secure the plane?” the priest asked.
“I have a lock. It’s an S&G 833, made for outdoor conditions. It can stand up to about anything, would be hard for someone, anyone, actually, to pick or cut,” Hanley said. “Let me show you my plane.”
Following Hanley up the steps, the priest watched as the American retrieved his duffle, his keys and an old brown leather satchel. He also took the large padlock from a metal chest behind the bulkhead.
“I’ve had this briefcase forever,” Hanley
