LITMIR.BIZ

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handed a uniformed official a form. A conversation in Swahili followed before the clerk stamped their paperwork and gestured for them to proceed.

      They followed Ben into the bright sunlight, passing a number of planes of varying models, sizes and vintages before Ben stopped near a single-engine, high-winged Cessna. The plane was pale beige with a dark green stripe, and it appeared to be well-maintained. He unlocked the plane and heaved Leslie’s bags into the cargo hold. She was thankful she hadn’t packed anything breakable, and as she witnessed his disregard of her belongings, her irritation reached a new high.

      In silence, Ben opened the passenger door and adjusted the seat forward. He stepped back and motioned for Leslie to climb into the rear seat. “Be sure to watch your step.” His tone was short, and his gesture hinted at annoyance.

      Leslie moved forward to comply, but Mama Joe took her arm. “No. No. Here, let me ride in the back. The view is much better from the front!”

      Leslie looked at the narrow opening leading to the rear seat and recognized that it would be difficult to maneuver into. She started to protest, but Mama Joe waved her away. “I may be old, but I’m agile!” Ben assisted the elderly nurse as she stepped up and crawled deftly into the rear of the plane. He readjusted the front passenger seat and then stood back to allow Leslie room to board.

      She shifted her large canvas bag to her left shoulder and placed her right foot on the small metal step welded to the landing-gear strut as Mama Joe had done. She was determined to appear as coordinated and capable as the woman who was almost forty years her senior, and she grasped the door to pull herself up into the plane. But her bag slipped off her shoulder and the strap snagged on a small hook that held the seat belt. She let go of the door’s frame to free the strap, but became unbalanced. Groping frantically for something to hold on to, she found nothing but air.

      A well-placed hand to her bottom caught Leslie. Ben held her weight easily with one hand as he loosened the strap of her bag with the other. Then he pushed her into the seat. He watched as she cleared the door before closing it firmly. Without comment, he turned and walked toward the back of the plane.

      Leslie felt her face turn scarlet. She couldn’t believe that for the second time in less than an hour, Ben’s quick response had kept her from falling flat on her rear. She clenched her teeth as she settled into her seat. In humiliation she realized that she could still feel the pressure of his hand.

      She took deep, calming breaths and studied her surroundings. The plane was compact. The front bucket seats were separated by only a few inches, and a dizzying array of dials, gauges, knobs, indicators, switches and buttons comprised the instrument panel.

      “Have you ever flown in a small plane before?” Mama Joe asked, leaning forward.

      Leslie turned awkwardly in the confined space to face the older woman and shook her head. “No, this is my first time.” She wondered again if she should mention Ben’s drinking.

      Her nervousness must have been evident, because Mama Joe patted her arm. “There’s no need to worry. Ben’s an excellent pilot. He was in the air force, you know. Besides,” she added cheerfully, “it’s much safer than driving.”

      Leslie wanted to answer that it wasn’t the flight she feared—it was the pilot’s level of sobriety. She managed to keep her concerns to herself and merely nodded in reply.

      Leslie watched Ben walk around the plane, examining the fuselage as he commenced his preflight inspection. At least he didn’t seem drunk. “Do you need to fly often in your practice, Mama Joe?”

      “Oh, every now and then. If a call is nearby and the distance can be traveled in a few hours, I’ll have Titus take me—he’s my driver. But for an emergency, or if it’ll be more than three hours by car, I’ll fly if I can.” She took a breath. “It seems like it goes in clusters. Sometimes I’ll stay near Namanga for weeks without being called away, and at other times I’ll fly to distant villages or to Nairobi several times in one week. There’s really no way to predict it.”

      “Does Ben always take you when you fly?” Leslie tried to keep her tone casual.

      “About half the time. He’s freelance, and for the most part he ferries supplies and equipment all over East Africa. Sometimes he flies tourists from one game park to another.” She leaned forward and added conspiratorially, “I don’t think he likes flying tourists, but it pays well.”

      “So, how much does he charge you?” Against her will, Leslie found herself watching him inspect the propeller. His shirt stretched across his wide chest as he reached up to run his hands along the length of the blade.

      Mama Joe smiled. “Oh, he doesn’t charge us. If we need him, and if he’s around, he’ll take us wherever we want to go for free.” She looked at Leslie and added, “But if he’s off somewhere, we call one of the guys from MASS—that’s Mission Aviation Support Services.”

      “Are they nearby?”

      “Andy Singleton works out of Mutomo, about seventy miles northwest of us. Ed Jones is in Tsavo, about fifty miles southeast. The problem is it takes at least an hour for them to get to Namanga. Ben is local. Also, if we use Andy or Ed, they won’t be available for others. Besides, we have to pay a small fee for their services—just enough to cover fuel and maintenance, but it adds up.” She frowned slightly. “Now that I think about it, I’m not really sure how Ben manages to work for free.”

      The conversation halted as the object of their discussion opened the pilot’s door and climbed in. All three were silent as Ben finished his preparations; Leslie watched as he flipped several switches and turned some knobs. He pulled a pair of headphones from under his seat and put them on. The propeller began to revolve, and within seconds the cabin was filled with a loud roar. Ben pushed a button on the flight control, and Leslie heard him speak to someone in the tower through the microphone attached to the headphones.

      “Roger that, Ground,” he said. “Clear for taxiway Delta. Stop short of runway one-eight.”

      Ben taxied the plane toward the end of the runway, and they waited in silence as another plane took off. It was a little unnerving to be sitting in such a small aircraft among the much-larger cargo and passenger jets. Over her shoulder, she saw that Mama Joe was reading a book and didn’t seem the least bit nervous. She shifted and glanced at Ben. He was wearing dark glasses and appeared to be idly watching the other planes on the runway.

      Suddenly he spoke, startling her. “Roger, Tower. Centurion, November-Four-Two-Alpha-Romeo cleared for takeoff.” With that, he pushed in the throttle and released the brakes. Within seconds, they were in the air. Even before they had reached the end of the enormous runway below, he turned the control and the plane banked gently to the right. It straightened briefly and then turned toward the left, all the while in a gradual climb.

      The view from Leslie’s window was spectacular. She was awed by the striking beauty of the land and the brilliant colors. The greens of the grass and foliage seemed deeper, and the cloudless sky more brilliantly blue, than any she had ever seen.

      They had been airborne about fifteen minutes when Ben lightly touched her arm.

      “Look just below us,” Ben said loudly. He banked the plane sharply to the left and pointed down. Her eyes followed where he indicated, and she saw a large herd of zebras. As she watched the animals move gracefully through the high grass, Leslie forgot her concerns.

      Ben circled and descended to bring the herd into view again. As he maneuvered the plane, Leslie had to shift her gaze from looking out of the left window back to the right, and, as she did, her eyes met his. She smiled with sincere appreciation and said “Thank you,” pitching her voice so that he would hear.

      Something in Leslie’s expression made Ben’s heart accelerate. She’d looked at him with childlike amazement, and her lovely eyes, which had held an unmistakably desolate look and then irritation, were shining. The discomfort he’d felt in the bar returned. Unconsciously, he rubbed his hand against his leg. He forced his attention back to the instrument panel, adjusting the directional gyros to guide the

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