African Ice by Jeff Buick

look at all like Sam Carlson.”
    She chuckled. “It’s short for Samantha. And thanks for stopping by.” She returned to checking her gear, and the man left.
    A few minutes later Samantha snapped the final case shut and stood up. She swayed slightly as her equilibrium threatened to leave her, but caught hold of a nearby palm plant. The heat was outrageous and her temples throbbed as she fought to regain her balance. Don’t stand up so quick, she reminded herself as everything came back to normal and she let go her grip on the palm. She walked back into the hotel, wondering how Travis and Alain were progressing with the helicopter.
    Billy Hackett was laid out on a hammock when Travis walked around the side of the thatched hut that served as Hackett’s house and his business address. A half-consumed sun-baked beer rested on his chest and an open package of cigarettes lay on the ground. Numerous butts and burned matches peppered the immediate area. Travis stood over the man for a moment, his shadow covering the pilot’s face. He knew exactly what he was looking at.
    Billy Hackett was ex-Nam—Travis had seen hundreds of these guys. Americans who had seen the dark side of humanity and lived to remember it. The war had been a travesty for all the troops, but the chopper pilots had been subjected to every conceivable act of violence on and above the battlefield. Bringing in the wounded, limbs torn from torsos, napalming suspected Cong infestations, knowing full well that innocent people lay below the propellant that scorched human skin and sucked the oxygen from the air. The machine guns that poked out the side of the Hueys rained death on anyone inside the target areas. From a hundred feet up, it took too much time to decipher between a child and a man with a gun. Every pilot had seen atrocities and had perpetrated them. They lived with the memories, none of them pleasant. They did what was necessary to survive—physically and emotionally. And that’s what made them the best damn pilots on earth.
    McNeil cleared his throat and watched the man’s eyes slowly open. He shifted slightly and his shadow moved off Hackett’s face. Hackett shut his eyes against the harsh glare of the sun and groaned. He sat up and rubbed his free hand across his face. He still clutched his beer with the other hand. He squinted at McNeil for a minute, then set the beer on the dusty ground and stood up.
    â€œYour wife sent me around. Told me you’d be back here,” Travis said.
    â€œYeah, she does that kind of thing,” Hackett said. “What do you want?”
    â€œI need to hire a helicopter and a pilot for some recon work. You available?”
    â€œWhen do you need me?”
    â€œI’ve got some specialized gear that needs to be loaded in the machine. Spherical imaging stuff of some sort. I’d like to get that done today and have you running a grid by tomorrow.”
    Hackett nodded again. “I charge eight hundred American dollars a day. Fifty percent payable in advance. How many days do you need me?”
    â€œI’m more interested in your weekly rate,” McNeil replied. “You’ll be covering an increasingly small area as we zero in on what we’re looking for. The more precise your search becomes, the more time you’ll be spending on the ground. But I still want you working exclusively for us. You have to be ready to fly when we need you. What’s the weekly rate for that?”
    Hackett rubbed his chin and pursed his lips. A minute later he responded, “Four thousand a week. You pay me in advance for the week, a week at a time. If you find what you’re looking for halfway through a week, I still keep the money.” He paused for a minute. “What
are
you looking for?”
    â€œDifferences in vegetation coloring for mining purposes,” McNeil said, studying the man. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?” Hackett shook