“Well, we’d better do something,” he said.
Sister Marie Claire opened her eyes. “So, have you thought about what I asked you to do?” she asked.
“Yes, I have. I’ve thought about little else these past few days. I’ve been remembering my conversations with my uncle, those conversations that have haunted me for years. Confronting ghosts, you could say. And, I remembered something he said that I had forgotten. He said, ‘Sometimes letting it happen is the same as making it happen.’ He was right. You’re right. So, I will do it, fly you to Kosit if you agree to my conditions. First, you must tell me everything, all of it. Who’s involved, how long has this been going on, who planned the rescue, all of it. I need to be comfortable with the situation. If something bothers me, I mean, beyond the obvious, then we will resolve it to my satisfaction or we will not go. The second condition is simply this; for the four hours or so this mission takes, I will be in charge. If I see something I do not like in route or on approach, I will stop the mission. I have built several successful businesses from scratch. I’m a very capable person. I can and will evaluate the situation and make what I believe will be prudent decisions based upon that information. If you will agree to my demands, then I will fly you there.”
The nun looked at the American for a moment, then said, “I agree.”
“Okay,” Hanley said.
23
The plane had begun to show signs of neglect it had not experienced in the many years since Hanley restored it. Now, standing at the nose of the aircraft, Hanley saw signs of wear and use that caused him to grimace, as if he had a strong case of heartburn, which, he thought he might develop. The aluminum skin was dulled from the dust of Sudan and the lack of a good washing, reminding him yet again of the scarcity of water.
He came out in the first light of the day to inspect his airplane and to think, to be alone while he reviewed his thoughts, his fears about this rescue mission. As he stood before the old Beech, he saw some small dents and a burnish to the leading edge of each wing made by the ever-present sand and dust. Mechanically, the plane was sound, but would need some attention soon. December would make a year since the Beech’s last annual and it was already the end of September. Finding someone to do the inspection and tune the engines will most probably mean a flight to Nairobi, which may be where he will be anyway, he thought. Hanley committed to the rescue flight without, he knew, having thought everything through. What was left to decide was where he would go after the return flight, if they made it back at all.
Hanley believed he knew how a man must feel after having jumped from a bridge. He felt as if he was no longer in control of his future, could not turn back. Even when he knew it would be better not to go through with this, he knew he would. What would his uncle say? His uncle barely set foot outside of Indiana his whole life. If children needed to be rescued in Indianapolis, he would have done that, Hanley thought. I should get in my plane and fly home and ask Rocky for a drink and then take the dog for a walk. It’s early fall in Indiana and I’m here without a tree worth looking at. Why am I doing this anyway?
He knew what he was doing, at least what he was doing here. Even with his doubts, he knew this was it. Not right, or at least it wouldn’t necessarily turn out right but this was it, what he searched for, the way to justify his luck, to make a difference in a meaningful way. What bullshit, he thought, what an ego. But, it was what it was. He was here, where he thought it would happen and it was happening. Time to put it up. “You asked for it,” he said aloud.
Placing his hand on the nose of the Beech, Hanley closed his eyes and thought of how he would prepare for the flight to Kosit. He would need to think of everything that could go wrong. He would need help, perhaps a guardian angel, he thought. He feared an angel would not be enough, that whatever God there was forgot how much help Sudan needed. “Send more angels, for Christ’s sake!” he said aloud.
“I believe he already has.”
Hanley turned to see a man in his thirties, of medium height and reed-thin, with skin so pale, he appeared translucent, with jet black hair and dark eyes accentuating his complexion. “I’m sorry; I didn’t hear you approach. How did you get here?” Hanley asked.
“Yes, I’m sorry. Jumma drove me but we stopped some distance away so I could walk. I have a slight back problem and the ride was rough. I thought walking would help and it did. As we approached, I thought about not interrupting, especially as it appeared you and the airplane were trying to communicate, but I could not help it after your plea. Not many people try speaking to God through the nose of an airplane. How has that worked for you?” the young man asked.
“Not well, I’m afraid. I’m Hanley Martin. You must be Father Laslo?” Hanley offered his hand to the priest. The young man nodded.
Hanley smiled and said, “How are you? You weren’t expected until Friday.”
“Yes, I’ve been with the bishop for a few days. I flew into Rumbek from Khartoum and rode over with your men bringing back supplies,” the priest explained.
“Sorry about the plane, but lately, talking to it has become a habit,” Hanley said.
“Don’t apologize. I have
