Girl on a Plane by Miriam Moss Page B

arguing now, and, farther back, the twins’ heads bob up and down, up and down, like they’re part of a manic puppet show.
    I stand in the doorway, watching the others move a little way off from the guards waiting at the bottom. Now it’s my turn to go down. I wish I were wearing shorts, not my miniskirt. Hoping desperately that no one is looking up, I start climbing down the rough wooden ladder propped against the plane. I try to hold my skirt down as well as the rope slanting alongside, but the rope wobbles so violently, I have to let go and hold on to the ladder with both hands. God, this is so embarrassing. Which is worse—​Sweaty seeing my underwear or David? It’s a long way down. The sun’s heat burns the back of my legs.
    Strong arms help me down the last bit. I feel the metal bed of the Jeep under my feet and turn around. The young guy whose ammo belt I got caught on looks solemnly down at me, his eyes a startling green. I blush and thank him.
Shukran.
He immediately springs down onto the sand and holds out both hands to help me again.
    I withdraw my hands as quickly as I can, covered with confusion. He smiles, and his face lights up, quite transformed.
    I’m relieved to feel the hard, compacted sand under my feet, but the light here is blinding and the desert wind hot and relentless. I screw up my eyes and peer far off, at the wavering heat sheen distorting the horizon.
    I turn and squint up at the great, smooth white body of the plane, shining high overhead, see the thick stripe down the side and the great, tapered, swept-back wings reaching out well down the body. I look up at the navy nose cone, with its slanting rectangular windows, at the windshield wipers lying still and quiet on the glass, and feel the enormous, majestic plane looking softly down at me.
    A huge Palestinian flag has been draped alongside the open door. Its red triangle with black, white, and green stripes ripples in the hot wind. Above it, painted in black, are the letters
P.F.L.P.
—​the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine.
    The sun beats down on my head. Instinctively I step back into the shade under the plane where the others are sheltering.
    â€œOch yes, she’s a great flier,” Jim’s telling David and Tim, “especially in hot and humid countries. She’s perfectly made for high-speed landings and takeoffs.” He looks up at the plane’s underbelly. “Her body shrinks and expands in the heat and cold, you know.”
    â€œWhat? A lot?” Tim asks.
    â€œAye—​well, enough.” Jim grins. “Looks like it’s our turn.” The captain is about to be led away to talk to the reporters. Jim catches up with him. Two guerrillas take them over to the crowd of reporters ranged behind a makeshift cordon of rope. Cameras click continuously as they approach. Some reporters have their notepads out; others are filming. Someone calls out a question.
    â€œYes,” the captain says, somehow managing to look dignified in his crumpled shirt. “We were ordered to shut the engines down, which means no water, toilets, or air-conditioning. The passengers are very uncomfortable. The heat during the day, as you can imagine, is pretty awful, and at night it’s extremely cold. During the day we open the escape hatches when we can, to let more air in. We’ve had no proper food since we landed, despite the Red Cross meals that are apparently waiting for us in Beirut. And, although we have a little water at the moment, it’s having to be severely rationed.”
    â€œDo you know what’s going on back in London?” a man holding a clipboard shouts.
    â€œWe know we face the possibility of being blown up if the British government doesn’t release Leila Khaled by midday on Saturday.”
    It’s Jim’s turn to answer questions. He steps forward, the back of his shirt dark with sweat.
    â€œCan you tell us what it was like