He recognized from the tone of voice and the quick, mechanical pacing, like a sentry’s at a memorial tomb—one two three four turn about one two three four turn about—that Douglas was in the throes of what he called a “cool idea.” Cool ideas were not like ordinary ideas—he didn’t have them, he experienced them, as an epileptic experiences seizures.
“So we’ll do the same thing, only we’ll call it Nuba Day!” he said, coming to a halt to face his audience of two, though he seemed to be talking mostly to himself.
Fitzhugh asked what the purpose of this event would be. To make the relief agencies aware of the Nubans’ plight and convince them to send assistance—via Knight Air, Douglas answered, as if the purpose were so obvious it didn’t need explaining. Pacing the room, he outlined a plan in staccato bursts, and Fitzhugh realized he was making it up as he went along.
A representative from each NGO would be flown to the mountains, to—where? To St. Andrew’s mission, that would be the perfect setting . . . Michael Goraende would assemble tribal officials to describe what their people were going through and their needs . . . The agencies would hear it first hand . . . We’ll need translators and sound equipment, and a generator for that, maybe solar panels if we can’t get a generator . . . And Manfred! We’ll bring the German in to talk about his hospital and the problems he’s got, keeping it in operation . . . Okay, it shouldn’t be all work . . . The Nubans would do a traditional dance for entertainment, and wrestling matches . . . Michael could set that up, too, that would be a sight to see . . . And maybe we could stretch it into two days, have those agency people spend a night in a Nuban village and see for themselves what things are like up there . . . Media! Christ, if we could round up a couple of reporters . . . Hey, I know—that woman who works for those slave redemption people, Quinette? They deal with the media all the time, maybe she would help us get some coverage. The Arabs are taking captives in the Nuba, same as they are in the south, that should get her group interested . . . Okay, I’ll work with Michael and Manfred, setting things up at that end—Fitz, you’ll be in charge at this end, lining up the NGOs, and tell ’em we’ll fly ’em up there free of charge . . .
Douglas’s enthusiasm was infectious, as always; yet Fitzhugh foresaw any number of problems, with communications, with timing and coordination and security. And if the scheme didn’t work, providing nothing more than some amusement and an all-expenses-paid adventure for the aid workers, much time, effort, and money would have been wasted. He aired none of these thoughts. He knew from previous experience that it would do no good, when Douglas was gripped by a cool idea, to present the difficulties standing in the way of its realization and suggest they deal with them ahead of time. Something in his nature—the font of his confidence, his optimism, his immunity to self-doubt—prevented him from seeing obstacles to his plans until they confronted him directly. His misgivings aside, Fitzhugh thought the scheme could be made to work.
“I’ll get on it as soon as I can,” he said, then returned to the flight schedules. Finished with that task, he took a legal pad and ballpoint and began to list the things that would need doing to turn Douglas’s cool idea into a reality. This was expected of him, the right-hand man. He expected it of himself.
THE PLANE SHUDDERED in wing-wagging leaps and sudden dips, and Quinette’s delicate stomach felt each one. A week of Cipro and Imodium had tamed the dysentery but hadn’t conquered it. As miserable as it had made her—it felt as if ground glass were in her belly—she’d welcomed the infection; it was part of her initiation into the sorority Lily Hanrahan and Anne Derby belonged to—the Honorable Order of Old Africa Hands, they called it. You couldn’t be considered for membership until you’d survived at least one bout of amoebic and another of malaria. She’d dodged malaria so far but figured she’d catch it eventually and in a way looked forward to it. She envied Lily and Anne their sufferings. They’d passed a test.