had ten left, enough to last another three days with strict rationing. The prospect of being stuck here without the solace of tobacco wasn’t one he relished. Besides the heat, the ticks, and wretched food, the boredom was beyond anything he’d experienced before. This afternoon, after the training exercise, he’d walked to the radio room, contacted Fitz, and asked if there was any change in the fuel situation. There wasn’t.
As he left, he pilfered a few sheets of paper from the radio operator. Now, in the intervals between budgeted puffs on his cigarette, he composed by flashlight a letter to Mary. He missed her more than he thought possible; missed her smell, her sarcasm, the tuft of fine atavistic down at the base of her spine that he liked to tickle and that embarrassed her. Nights weren’t the worst time; his ache for her was sharpest at dawn—the waking up without her beside him. He was reminded of something an old Air America jockey had told him years ago in a bar in Vientiane: “If you feel like hell when the sun goes down, you’re all right—it’s when you hate to see it come up that you know you’re in trouble.”
At the moment he was thinking selfish thoughts that her father get his dying over with and speed her back to Wesley Dare’s arms and bed. There wasn’t much chance she’d receive the letter before she returned to Africa, even if he mailed it the moment he set foot again in Loki; his only purpose, aside from the mental communion the writing offered, was to keep himself occupied so he wouldn’t go insane.
“Heavenly Father, cure me of this sickness that I’ll be able to film the operation.” Handy was praying aloud. The only thing worse than having a Jesus freak for a roommate was having a sick Jesus freak for a roommate. “You know, Lord, that this footage will bring in the dollars to help your children fight the enemies of your son, Jesus Christ, Amen.”
Dare left off his letter and relit the butt. Two things occurred to him: One, the Muslims in Khartoum were petitioning the same God to aid their fight against the followers of Jesus Christ, so did God ever get confused about which side he was on? Two, people like Handy had an exaggerated sense of their importance, thinking that a Supreme Being with a universe to manage would take time off to play doctor to a guy with the runs.
Handy suddenly popped up and scurried to the latrine—a pit enclosed by a grass fence. It appeared that the Divine Physician had other patients to attend to.
“Doug, do you know how to use a video camera?” Handy asked when he returned.
Doug said he did.
“If I’m not good to go—this is a lot to ask, the risks and all—could you take my place?”
At that Dare glanced at his partner and wasn’t surprised to see the look of zest on his face.
Handy got his camera, a big Sony, then flopped onto the air mattress as if he’d just finished a long run.
“This is a professional’s model,” he said, then showed Douglas how to work it, paying special attention to the zoom. He would be shooting at a distance, and it was critical to use the zoom properly. Then something about light metering, the battery pack, and so on.
When the tutorial was finished, Dare took Doug aside. “What in the fuck do you think you’re doin’?”
He had a logical explanation—he always had logical explanations for every illogical thing he did. The Friends of the Frontline were a client; therefore he would be doing nothing more than a favor for a client. Also, if Handy’s film was successful, the increased contributions it raked in would ultimately translate into more business for Knight Air.
“Aren’t you mixed up in this shit a little too much already that y’all have to risk your ass to help make a propaganda movie?”
“You’re as mixed up in it as I am, and in some ways a little more.”
“In some other ways, a little less. I mean to get unmixed up when the time comes. This isn’t my war, and not yours either.”
“Yeah, it is,” Doug said with an affectless expression and a spooky tranquillity. “There are times when it’s plain inhuman not to take sides.”
“Me, I’m on Wes Dare’s side. Take some advice from an older man. Tell that Bible-thumpin’ propagandist y’all have changed your mind. You might get hurt, and old Wes doesn’t want to