Following Hanley’s instructions, the nun keyed the microphone on the right-side yoke and said, “Father Laslo, this is Sister Marie Claire. We are in an emergency and need help. Did you hear me? Over.”
There was a brief pause and then he answered, “Yes, I understand. We received a call at the mission just some moments ago from the diocese in Rumbek. The authorities called the bishop, claiming that a plane like the one being used at our mission had landed at Kosti and departed with several children. That was you, was it not, Sister? Are the children safe?”
“Yes, Father, they are. Soldiers fired on us and Jumma was killed along with others…”
“What? Jumma! What?”
“…Monsieur Martin has been shot also. That is why we are calling. We must land soon, near Shambe. Can you meet us there, on the road between Shambe and Yirol? Over.”
“We, uh, yes, uh, most certainly, I will, uh, get the doctors and some supplies and we will leave immediately.”
“Father, please listen carefully so you can tell the doctors about Mr Martin. Have you a pencil and paper? Over.”
“Yes.”
“Monsieur Hanley has a bullet wound that passed through his right side below his liver and exited his back just left of his spine. It has done damage to him internally. He is weakening quickly and his legs and feet are losing feeling. I believe he is hemorrhaging internally and has nerve damage. We must land soon. Do you understand? Over.”
“My dear God. Yes, I have it. I will gather everyone and leave immediately. I will pray for you and for the lives and souls still in your care and for those who were once in your care.”
The microphone clicked off, leaving only an irritating static in her ears. She looked at Hanley who sat straight in his seat, gripping the yoke to keep himself upright. His face was drawn, his lips stretched tight over his teeth, a bubble of spit growing from the corner of his mouth. “They are on their way,” she told him.
“Yes, I heard him. Let’s start making preparations. Make certain the children are seated with their backs to the walls and that they stay that way. Have the young woman help you and make her understand how important…” Hanley gasped and went rigid and pain struck him in the lower back and hips. The bubble on his lip turned to pink foam and he groaned with his teeth clenched as if he was trying to lift a piano by himself. After a moment, he blew out breath like a woman in labor would as the pain subsided. “Sorry,” he managed to say. “It’s important that the children be seated against the wall when the plane touches down. Have them link their arms and grab their clothes. That may help keep them in place. Then come back here so we can go over the landing procedure. You will have to help land this thing if we are to have any chance at all.”
Aisha nodded in understanding as the nun explained the procedure Hanley outlined. When she was finished, Sister Marie Claire hugged the girl and kissed her forehead. “You will see your family again soon. This is my promise and God’s will,” she said to the girl. Aisha’s eyes were wide with a single crooked tear line rolling over her dark cheek. She smiled and turned to the children.
Hanley, his eyes reading the instrument panel as best he could, trying to interpret the information he would need to safely hand the plane, said, “You will need to be my legs and feet, I’m afraid. Put your feet on the pedals. Now, as I turn the yoke, you will press the pedal in the direction I’m turning. If I turn left, you press the left pedal very slowly without a great deal of pressure. I will say, ‘harder’ or ‘not so hard’, depending upon what I feel is needed. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“After we touch down, you will need to apply the brakes to help stop the plane. You do this by applying good pressure to the top of the pedal. I mean good pressure. Are we okay with this?”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t want anyone to–”
“Stop it! We need to focus on this or you will never be sorry again, about anything. I can’t imagine how foolish this all will have been if we fail to give these children back to their families. Can you help me fly this airplane?”
“Oui.”
“Okay. Okay then. Let’s check our distance to Shambe.” Hanley’s breathing was labored, like a severe asthmatic might sound. Both corners of his mouth showed pink foam. His face was drawn and angular, every muscle bunched, a sign of the pain he was experiencing. He was still focused, trying to keep himself and the plane under control.
The nun looked at the map and began calculating the distance. Trying to concentrate, she looked at the distances she marked, applying the airspeed calculations she and Hanley had devised. “I believe we are about twenty minutes from Shambe.”
“We have been flying for almost one hour and fifty minutes. That leaves us about seventy miles until we are there,” she said.
“Good. We’re only at three thousand feet and so getting to the ground won’t take long. I will start down slowly, so that when we are there, we will be low enough to search for a spot to land. Can you get me some water? I need some water badly. My mouth is so dry, it hurts to talk.”
“Yes, Hanley, I will get you some water,” she said.
32
Watching his cattle, the man sat beneath his favorite tree, an old tree, the best shade tree on this side of the village. The morning was quiet, the cattle grazing on what little grass was left, especially after so dry a season. His cattle were thinner this year than most. He
