“Three Congolese paratroops,” Felter said. “Colonel Supo— he’s the Congolese officer running things—insists on that.”
“If there’s nobody there, why are they there?”
“They’re going to use Stanleyville as sort of their air base,” Felter said. “Supo has his headquarters in Costermansville, but the airfield for Costermansville is across the border in Rwanda, and keeping black airplanes there overnight, or for repair, would be awkward. They can land on a broad street—”
“Avenue Bernard,” Captain Portet furnished. “In the daytime, and there are dirt strips out of town where they can stay overnight, but no place to maintain them.”
“—once they get the planes up and flying,” Felter went on. “Father Lunsford said they’re—he and Jack and Doubting Thomas—probably going to move to Costermansville.”
“I think that’s probably because the Hotel du Lac in Costermansville is back in business,” Portet said. “And Jack always liked staying there.”
Felter chuckled.
“So, back to my first question, what are you doing here?”
“Having the airplane reloaded,” Portet said. “We couldn’t carry everything in one haul.”
“You’re going back over there?”
“We’re not,” Portet said. “The plane is. None of the pilots that came with Intercontinental had ever been to Africa before, so I thought I should make the first trip a training flight. They’re going to send a plane for Sandy, and you and I are on the 9:05 Southern flight out of here for Miami, via Atlanta, in the morning. Is there someplace I can rest my weary head?”
“Last question first,” Marjorie said. “There’s always room for you here, and I may even throw in breakfast, but I don’t know about going to Miami with you.”
“Hanni’s orders,” he said. “And thus have to be obeyed. We can talk about it over dinner.”
“And if I can use your phone, honey,” Felter said, “I will call my bride and tell her I’m back.”
“Help yourself, Uncle Sandy,” Marjorie said.
Damn it, I don’t want to go to Miami.
Damn Jack. I’m worried sick, and he’s having broiled fish in a roof garden, swilling beer, and running around in white shorts and knee-length socks.
Damn, I miss him!
At dinner in the main officers’ club at Fort Bragg, and to which General and Mrs. Hanrahan and Captain and Mrs. Oliver were also invited—primarily, Marjorie decided, so that they could be brought up to date on conditions in the Congo, and be told what would be required of them—Mrs. Marjorie Portet had one additional drink of scotch whiskey, and two glasses of wine with the entrée, and a Grand Marnier with her coffee.
She also learned:
That Mrs. General Hanrahan had spoken only that afternoon with Mrs. General Bellmon, who really wanted Marjorie to come home to wait for Jack.
That the Intercontinental Air 707 would, if things went well, and there was no reason they shouldn’t, lift off from Pope the next afternoon at 1700. The crew was already out there, getting the aircraft ready.
That there was a really good program at Fort Bragg, personally run by Mrs. General-Commanding-the-XVIII-Airborne-Corps to keep the wives of young officers away on TDY busy and entertained.
That the Hotel du Lac in Costermansville, Republic of the Congo, was really nice, and that Jack would almost certainly be staying in the top-floor suite, which Air Simba kept permanently to house its crews.
That Mrs. Liza Wood Oliver was really looking forward to having Marjorie help her select furniture and drapes for the 2,700-square -foot three-bedroom Dutch Colonial that she and Captain Oliver had purchased at a price that was a real steal.
That it wasn’t at all true that Central Africa was a steaming jungle. Costermansville, which was on the amazingly clear waters of Lake Albert—the Hotel du Lac’s cocktail bar balcony was over the lake and you could see the fish in the water while you had your drinks—was a delightful place, 5,800 feet above sea level, and the climate always reminded Captain Portet of San Francisco: nice days and cool nights.
That, since the Intercontinental Air Cargo 707 wouldn’t be carrying nearly as much weight as it had on the first flight, and given a decent jet stream, it was entirely possible that after taking on fuel in Casablanca, Morocco, it would be able to make Stanleyville with enough fuel remaining for the relatively short hop from there to Kamina, where it would refuel for the return flight to Miami.
That that would be a good thing, because there were all sorts of zealous Congolese bureaucrats who