African Ice by Jeff Buick Page A

his head. “What’s a white guy doing here in the middle of Africa?”
    Billy Hackett laughed, and Travis couldn’t help smiling with him. It was almost contagious. The pilot was McNeil’s height, but quite slender. He was pushing fifty-five and still sported a full head of blond bushy hair. He was unshaven, and gray hairs interspersed the thick five o’clock shadow that covered his prominent jaw line. His teeth were white, but crooked in a few spots—something that might have been easily fixed with rudimentary orthodontics. His eyes were deep brown and devoid of the haunted look so many ex-military pilots wore. They sparkled with a life of their own, telling the observer that a fertile mind existed beyond them. McNeil found himself instantly liking the man.
    â€œWhat’s a white guy doing in the middle of Africa?” Hackett repeated. “I married that wonderful woman who sent you back here to find me. I met her in Kinshasa ten years ago and we were married two weeks later. We went back to the States, but she hated the weather. Montana is just too fucking cold when you’re used to this.” He waved his arms about as he spoke. “We tried California, but she couldn’t stand the pace. So here we are, living happily in the Congo.”
    â€œThird-world living,” Travis said. “Is your chopper in decent condition?”
    Hackett looked insulted. “Most certainly. You want to have a look?” McNeil nodded and Hackett motioned for the ex-SEAL to follow him. A narrow path led into the jungle immediately behind the house, blocking out the sun and cooling the surrounding air. It felt good. Forty yards into the rain forest, they suddenly broke out into a round clearing. Travis stared, his mouth open. A fully functional helipad, paved and night-lit, sat directly ahead. On the circular patch of asphalt sat a spotless Bell 427, the sleekest baby in Bell’s fleet. The sun reflected off the highly polished maroon finish covering the twin turbine engines, and all four rotors were buffed and properly tied down.
    â€œHoly shit,” he muttered under his breath. “Now that’s a helicopter.” He turned to Billy Hackett. “How the hell can you afford this thing?”
    â€œIt’s not that hard,” the pilot replied. “I’m the only rotary wing air service for a few hundred miles. I get all the medivac work from the government, tourist flights in and around the Ruwenzori, government VIPs, and lots of commercial work for mining companies out of Rwanda and the Congo. This place is a gold mine.” He motioned toward a small Quonset tucked back into the tangle of ferns and vines that bordered the well-kept landing area. McNeil followed Hackett to the shed and waited as he entered a code into the electronic lock. The door opened and he walked behind Hackett into the darkened room. A motion-sensor light activated a ceiling-mounted bulb and the structure was suddenly illuminated.
    McNeil stared around him. The building was a fully stocked repair shop, complete with additional rotors, a spare turbine, and all the necessary tools to maintain the million-dollar machine. He whistled softly at the sight.
    â€œOkay,” he said, turning to Hackett. “You’re hired. I’ll bring over the gear we need affixed to your machine later today. It shouldn’t be too hard to install; I think it’s manufactured for exactly this kind of thing.”
    â€œI’m sure we can make it work,” Hackett said, accepting
    Travis’s outstretched hand. They walked back to the front of the house, where Alain was sitting in the Land Rover, watching for activity. “See you later, then,” the pilot said as McNeil jumped into the vehicle and Porter pulled away.
    â€œDid we get a chopper?” Alain asked.
    â€œYeah, Alain, we got one,” McNeil said, smiling.
    Samantha finished overhauling her gear and wiped the back of her hand