***
Two vans sat in the shadow of a small warehouse that was empty. The man behind the wheel of the white van knew this building was not being used, his father’s friend assured him of this. Behind him, his wife and five of the children were sitting on the floor, the women singing softly to the children who were quiet, thanks be to God, the man thought. Behind his van was a second truck, with two women and six children in it. There were to have been twelve children but one had been moved and he did not know to where. He regretted that, but at least these would be going back to their families. Taking children from their enslavement was what he did to make things better in a world that had gone mad. He was afraid, but glad to be doing something. He hated this war. It brought shame to his country and to him. People were not to be slaves, especially children. Suddenly, his stomach began to rumble, loud enough that his wife stopped singing and listened. His stomach rolled again and then he heard something else, in the distance; a droning, an engine; the plane. It must be! As quietly as he could, the man pulled on the door handle, pushed on the door and slid out, next to the building. Inching toward the corner, he looked east and into the rising sun. Blocking the light with his left hand, he managed to see a small object as it disappeared into the sun, its sound now unmistakable. It was the American and the French nun, it must be. He felt tightness in his chest. He turned and walked quickly to the second van. As the window on the driver’s side came down, he said to the young woman behind the wheel, “They are coming. We must do this right. Remember, stay behind me, park directly behind the plane, the children will run along the side and into the door. If a child hesitates, I will deal with it, you keep the others moving.” The woman’s eyes showed a bit of panic and she blinked constantly. She nodded and watched as the man returned to his van. She is terrified, he thought as he walked away.
As he climbed in the truck, the man said to his wife, “This is it.”
29
Hanley unlocked the tail wheel and, using his throttle and pedals, turned the plane around at the end of the dirt runway, near the corner of a long one-story warehouse now to the right of the plane. He reduced the throttle, to idle the engines and set the brakes. “Let’s go,” he said.
Jumma was already up and at the rear door. Having released her seatbelts, Sister Marie Claire clambered out of the second seat and into the cargo hold. Hanley waited at the controls. The cargo door release lever snapped under Jumma’s weight, the door went down quickly and Jumma jumped to the ground. The nun said, “Jumma, don’t,” to keep him for leaving the plane, but it was too late. As Jumma turned, two vans came out from behind a building toward him. “Keep your eyes open!” Hanley shouted to the nun. She stood in the plane’s doorway, looking for anything moving near the plane. Just as Hanley noticed movement near a building along the runway, Sister Marie Claire called to the American, “Hanley, there are soldiers here!”
Hanley saw them as they emerged from behind a building halfway down the airstrip. He did not notice them while landing. “I see them. They’ve stopped. Don’t stop, no matter what happens,” he yelled back to her.
With his head turned to the approaching vans, Jumma did not see the soldiers. Hanley watched the soldiers for any sign of aggression. He calculated how long it would take to get airborne, should they begin moving toward the plane.
Twisting in his seat, Hanley shouted, “Let’s move, Sister. Let’s get this done!”
***
Assad saw the plane flash by the opening between the buildings and watched the soldiers climb into the vehicle, turn and drive off toward the runway. Turning, he tripped, one foot over the other, landed on his hands and sprang to his feet. Running through the office door, he scooped the rifle from the floor and ran back outside. Following the soldiers seemed too risky, so he turned and ran to the back of the building and along the rear of the warehouse. When he reached the end, he turned right, ran the length of the building, crossed the space between it and the next warehouse and squatted at the corner. Peering around the sheet metal capping, he saw the plane sitting approximately two hundred meters to his left, its propellers still spinning. Its nose was pointed to him, the plane at an angle so he could see its tail. From where he squatted, he saw a native African, young, in a white shirt, standing near the end of the plane, the rear door of the plane was open and a woman was standing in the doorway. A man was sitting in the plane, where a pilot would sit. He must be the one that flies the plane, Assad thought. Where were the soldiers? Turning, he saw the soldiers sitting in their vehicle, near the end of the building next to him. They had stopped almost immediately after turning on the runway. They just watched the plane. Why don’t they do something, Assad wondered. As he watched the soldiers, the sound of the vans turned his head back around. He watched as people began climbing from the van and moved toward the plane. They were mostly children, with some adults leading them.
A voice shouted to his right. A soldier was now out of the vehicle and shouting to the people to stop.
