As the sun rose, the sky turned from a deep red to a pink haze with no clouds. The river moved in gentle curves, flowing north through a land that barely noticed, having been arid too long to care much anymore. Having flown this route several times on his way north to Khartoum, Hanley now recognized the landmarks he established. They were close and Hanley began his descent, banking slightly while turning east.
“We’re just about there, so let’s get ready,” Hanley told the nun and the young African.
“Yes, Mr Martin,” Jumma said. Hanley could hear the exhilaration and perhaps some fear in Jumma’s voice. He was reading a book on hiking in Europe which he placed in his wornout backpack and then secured between his seat and the plane’s outer wall.
Turning to look at Jumma, Hanley was satisfied that all was ready and there was enough room for him and the children. How scared they must be right now, he thought; how scared, but how hopeful. He wished he was.
***
He was sitting up before he realized he was awake. Shaking his head, Assad tried to reconstruct his dream to explain what just happened, but couldn’t. A noise in his head sounded like the drone of a bug, a dragonfly maybe, but no, it wasn’t. In seconds, it registered that a plane was approaching in the distance. Another sound also came to him, voices from men talking nearby.
Shaky, Assad slipped off the desk and went to the door of the office to listen. The men were talking about finding somewhere to eat breakfast. He had to piss, but was afraid to step outside. Damn these men, he thought. Their conversation stopped suddenly and one man said, “Listen!” to the others. He said he believed the plane was landing. Assad knew this was unusual as flights to and from the airport happened in late morning at the earliest. Maybe it’s an emergency. He opened the door and stepped outside to see members of the Sudanese army nearby. They were smoking beside a UAZ-469, an old Russian military jeep. Its gray-green paint was faded and there were two small holes in the rear quarter panel that he could see. Someone shot the thing in the ass, Assad thought.
Turning, Assad went around the corner and began to urinate on the building and in the dust next to it. Once done, he looked around the corner at the soldiers while struggling to zip up his pants. The men were looking south toward the river. The sound of the plane was getting closer. Hoping to not draw attention to himself, Assad stayed behind the corner where he looked south for the plane. In the haze, just above the large gray warehouse near the east end of the airstrip, he saw a plane flying east, but with its left wing dipped, turning toward them. “Where are you going?” he asked the plane.
***
As he banked and began his turn, the new sun passed across the bottom of the plane’s windshield, like a bright ball rolling along a table’s edge, and then disappeared behind the nun’s head. Completing the arc, from the river to about two miles east of the airstrip, Hanley was now heading west at a bearing of 260°. At an altitude of sixteen hunderd feet, he began his final approach to the small airport, the unpaved runway looking more like a service road in an industrial park, which, in fact, it was. He added a bit of right rudder and lowered his flaps incrementally, cutting his airspeed to one hundred and twenty miles per hour for his final approach. The Beech was never an easy plane to land and his procedure was to be at near stall speed when he reached the runway. The sun was now above the horizon behind him and the area was well lit, with the white and pale gray buildings glowing slightly in the morning sunlight. Hanley brought the nose of the Beech up as the buildings beneath him blurred a bit and the ground rose quickly to meet the airplane. Just before the wheels touched the surface, the tail of the plane twitched, causing Sister Marie Claire’s head to shake, as if she disagreed with the whole affair. There was a bump and the Beech hopped once and then settled on the runway, the large warehouses on Hanley’s left coming up quickly. He was now applying the brakes as hard as he could, hoping to control the roll enough to stop just at the end of the last large warehouse and turn the plane to depart when the children were on board.
***
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 squ
atted 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. The other soldiers did not move. Now more soldiers climbed from the old UAZ and began shouting at the plane. Children entered the plane, helped by the adults and the African. The soldiers became more agitated, their voices rising as they watched. No one at the plane stopped. Why weren’t they listening? Why didn’t the soldiers go and stop them? Assad didn’t understand. Turning to the plane, Assad raised the rifle to his shoulder and fired at the people near the plane. At first, nothing happened, but then a woman and a child fell to the ground, then the African. A man picked up a small boy and flung him into the plane and then did the same with a small girl. A man appeared in the plane’s door. Assad began shooting again, this time at the plane itself. As he did, something hit his arm, then his neck and jaw. Then he was on his back, looking up at the morning sky. Time slowed down while a great pain enveloped him. He began swallowing liquid to keep from choking. It was warm, thick and bitter. A man appeared above him and, just before he died, Assad heard the deafening sound of large engines streaking by and saw the man above him turning as the plane passed.
***
Hanley was turned in his seat when sound of the gun firing began. Sister Marie Claire screamed, “No!” and Hanley was out of his seat. He saw the nun on her knees, pulling children in on top of her. A small boy came through the door as if thrown by someone and landed on the nun, then a small girl on top of those already heaped near the door. Hanley reached the opening in time to see three people getting into a yellow van. On the ground near the door lay three bodies, a woman and a child, their bodies twisted and blood-soaked. Near them lay Jumma, face down in the dust, the top rear portion of his head was missing, an ugly wound in its place. As Hanley stood there, sickened, he felt a punch to his right side, just below his ribcage. He spun around and grabbed the doorframe, his knees wobbled and he righted himself. Instinctively, he grabbed the cable and yanked as hard as he could, bringing the door up. Sister Marie Claire was up and helped pull the door closed, while Hanley secured the latch. Hanley reached down, put his hand on his side and felt the wetness. He wobbled again and told himself to move. Using his hands against the plane’s interior walls for balance, he moved toward the cockpit. Children were screaming and crying all around him. He became nauseated and his vision blurred as he climbed into the seat. A searing pain grew in his back and down his right leg. “God, please make my legs work,” he pleaded silently, “don’t let me be paralyzed.”
Despite his fear, his legs and feet moved automatically as he shook his head. The Beech was rolling now; too much movement in the rear. He had forgotten to lock the tail wheel. Twisting the knob, he froze the wheel and applied the power, sending the Beech hurtling down the runway. As the tail came up, Hanley pulled back on the yoke, the pain in his legs now almost enough to make him pass out. Bile rose in his throat and he spit up in his lap. He strained to clear his vision and searched his gauges for the information he needed. He saw the altimeter, now showing he was at five hundred feet. “We need more altitude,” he said aloud. At two thousand feet, he put the top of the plane’s instrument panel on the horizon, reduced the engines to cruising speed and trimmed the plane. Leaning forward, he rested his head on the yoke and closed his eyes. “Don’t pass out,” he told himself, “stay awake.”
30
The children were all crying, some sitting, and some standing while a few were lying on the floor of the plane. As it lurched forward, Sister Marie Claire began pushing the children down while telling them they must sit. She spoke to them in both Atuot and Dinka dialects, hoping she was being understood, asking them to be calm and sit on the floor. Shoving them against the outside wall, she moved between the children, giving them each a blanket and an old stuffed toy or a book. She was not crying, but she wanted to. Praying, she asked God to help her through this. “Hanley, are you all right?” she shouted to the American. She saw a round blood stain on his shirt just above his belt as he swayed among the children, trying to reach the cockpit. There was no response. “Please, God, help us,” she prayed.
When the plane left the ground, the children were all sitting down, most with their backs to the wall of the cargo hold. Two were curled up on the floor; she left them there. Aisha, the young niece of her friend, comforted the younger children, watching the nun as she moved among them. As the plane climbed from the Kosti airstrip, Sister Marie Claire moved to the door and looked at the American. Hanley was hunched over, his left hand gripping the yoke, while he fumbled with the large levers on top of the plane’s center console. His shirt was soaked in sweat and the bloodstain on his back was now the size of a bread plate.
“I need to look at your wound,” she said.
“You can after I get the plane stabilized,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.
“Can you fly?” she asked.
“Yes, but I’ve never flown after having been shot, so we’ll just have to see how it goes.” He was breathing hard, his words strained and thin to her ear. Her heart sank and tears covered her cheeks. She wiped them away quickly. “Are the children okay?” he asked.
“Yes. They are very frightened, but they are good.”
“Then sit down in that seat and help me or we may not make it very far,” he told her.
The nun watched Hanley try reading the fuel and oil pressure gauges. He said, “I’m looking for signs the plane had been hit by the gunfire, but I’m having trouble focusing.” He tried turning to look at the left engine, but he grimaced and stopped turning. “Look for smoke coming from the engines, will you?” he asked.
Sister Marie Claire looked at the right engine and saw nothing out of the ordinary. She climbed from her seat and peered out the left window, her hand braced against the top of the instrument panel, her body pressed against the American’s. He moaned from the pressure. “There is a small line of smoke, a wisp, coming from the engine, from the side I can’t see,” she told him.
After she moved back to the seat, she again saw Hanley leaning close to the instrument panel. She saw him close his eyes and open them, wait a second, then squint, trying again to see the gauges.
“I still can’t see them clearly,” he told her. She watched him struggle, tears welling in her eyes, seeing him blink rapidly, clearing his vision. “I can see it. Shit, we’re losing pressure,” he said from between gritted teeth.
“I think our heading is correct and our altitude was near two thousand feet, which is good enough,” Hanley said, “but I’m worried less about the plane’s stability and more about flying on one engine. I’ve never had to do that. The Beech can do it, but it changes everything and I’m not certain I could manage the changes. I don’t think I can last much longer and keep you and the children safe.”
“Here, let me look at you.” The nun pulled at Hanley’s shirt as he shifted to his right to give her more room to maneuver. She tugged until the shirttail came out of his pants. Just below his ribs was a small hole with blood seeping from it. Pushing his shoulder forward, she saw a slightly larger hole in the middle of
his back near his spine. Blood was also leaking from the exit wound, but faster, his lower back a smear of red. Turning, she went to the cargo hold where she retrieved some cotton, gauze and antiseptic cream. Back in the cockpit, she wiped the areas as best she could, smeared on antiseptic and stuffed cotton, covered in the cream, into the wounds. Hanley grunted hard when she did, but stayed awake. “That is all I can do for now,” she declared.
***
The pain was overtaking him and he had to concentrate. Hanley was scared, hopelessly scared, death-row inmate scared, he thought. He wanted to see Elizabeth again, to hold his granddaughter, to have a drink with Rocky.
“You’ve jumped off the fucking building,” he said to himself. The pain in his back was turning to numbness in his hips and legs. He could still move them, but for how long?
They’d been in the air for twenty minutes. He was running close to one-hundred-and ninety-five miles per hour airspeed, the limit for flying without excessive vibration. With the engine damage and the children, Hanley didn’t want to risk any additional speed. They were approximately seventy miles southwest of Kosti. That left roughly four-hundred-and-thirty-five miles to the airstrip near Mapuordit. He knew he wouldn’t make it. He would have to put the plane down somewhere. The trick would be in judging his own condition and he knew that was a big risk.
“Listen, this won’t work for much longer. We need to get to a place where I can land and you can get help. I want to fly for as long as I can, but I’m afraid I won’t be the best judge of how long that will be. You have to help me. We need to identify a place near a town or village where we can land. You’ll have to help me think of where, watch my condition and then help me land. Not asking a lot, is it?” Hanley wanted to smile, but couldn’t. He coughed and the pain made him twist and sit up straight, then coughed again. The nun caught him under his right arm to support him.
Sometimes the Darkness Page 24