Two-Eight.”
“We’ll look for the ILS to Two-Eight,” the pilot acknowledged.
A few moments later, the controller called, “Reach Eight-Four Yankee, fly heading two-four-zero and intercept the localizer. You’re cleared for the ILS to Two-Eight.”
No answer.
“Reach Eight-Four Yankee, fly heading two-four-zero for the localizer.”
Static.
“Reach Eight-Four Yankee, Rota Approach. Radar contact lost. Squawk ident, please.”
Nothing.
“Reach Eight-Four Yankee, do you read?”
Parson looked across the console at Colman, who stared back. The copilot looked shaken. Dunne leaned back in the engineer’s seat, clicked a ballpoint pen, slapped a clipboard down on his table. The sky outside seemed to burn, the richest blue Parson had ever seen.
A call on interphone interrupted the silence in Parson’s headset: “Pilot, MCD.”
“Ma’am?” he said.
“I heard that radio traffic. Let’s just keep this quiet.”
“That’s a good idea,” Parson said. Then he added, “All right, crew, you heard the lieutenant colonel. If you were on headset for what just happened, don’t spread it around. There’s nothing anybody can do about it now, anyway.”
MAHSOUD WAS SLEEPING AGAIN . Gold took the blanket that covered his good leg and pulled it up farther, across his chest.
She pondered that news report about how the Taliban said it had infiltrated the police. Such a bitter disappointment to hear the attackers might have had help from the inside, but Gold knew she shouldn’t be surprised. Her literacy classes were part of a larger program to professionalize the National Police. However, she sometimes wondered if the culture of corruption and incompetence was just too pervasive. How much good could a recruit like Mahsoud do if no one else cared? And even if you made some progress, as she thought she had, it was so easy for the enemy to destroy it. The work of years set back by the flip of a switch.
Out the window, sunset smoldered on the horizon. Gold felt the plane turn, and she hoped that meant they were getting close to Rota. Maybe Parson would get some instructions from EOD and this thing would be over. The wings leveled for a while, banked, leveled. The sunset drifted by again. So we’re flying in circles, Gold surmised. Dear God, will this never end?
Mahsoud stirred, opened his eyes. “Hello, Sergeant Major,” he said in English.
“Hello, Mahsoud.”
“You look troubled, teacher.”
“I will be all right.”
“Has your friend, this pilot—” Mahsoud switched to Pashto. “Has your pilot friend let you tour the aircraft?”
“He has.”
“I wish I could see it. I have never flown before.”
What an awful shame he can’t go upstairs, Gold thought. He’d be so fascinated. Mahsoud seemed to be interested in everything.
That gave her an idea. She went to the baggage pallet, found her backpack, took out her digital camera. If she couldn’t bring Mahsoud to the cockpit, she could bring the cockpit to him. A weak gesture, but maybe it would give both of them something to think about, something to put into their minds to dilute the dread. Parson had already said it was all right to take pictures. There was probably not much classified equipment in an airplane this old.
Up on the flight deck, the crew seemed intent on their tasks, but their motions conveyed little urgency. Without hearing the conversations on headset, Gold considered, one might think this all looked routine. Parson was talking on the radio, looking back at Dunne’s panel. Dunne scanned gauges, read from a manual the size of the Boston phone book. Colman sipped water from a bottle.
Gold didn’t want to interrupt them, so she just raised her camera and took a photo. When the shutter clicked, Dunne looked at her as if she had lost her mind, but he did not object. He was probably wondering why anyone would take photos at a time like this, Gold thought.
The aircraft was over land now. On the ground below, Gold saw a
“We’ll look for the ILS to Two-Eight,” the pilot acknowledged.
A few moments later, the controller called, “Reach Eight-Four Yankee, fly heading two-four-zero and intercept the localizer. You’re cleared for the ILS to Two-Eight.”
No answer.
“Reach Eight-Four Yankee, fly heading two-four-zero for the localizer.”
Static.
“Reach Eight-Four Yankee, Rota Approach. Radar contact lost. Squawk ident, please.”
Nothing.
“Reach Eight-Four Yankee, do you read?”
Parson looked across the console at Colman, who stared back. The copilot looked shaken. Dunne leaned back in the engineer’s seat, clicked a ballpoint pen, slapped a clipboard down on his table. The sky outside seemed to burn, the richest blue Parson had ever seen.
A call on interphone interrupted the silence in Parson’s headset: “Pilot, MCD.”
“Ma’am?” he said.
“I heard that radio traffic. Let’s just keep this quiet.”
“That’s a good idea,” Parson said. Then he added, “All right, crew, you heard the lieutenant colonel. If you were on headset for what just happened, don’t spread it around. There’s nothing anybody can do about it now, anyway.”
MAHSOUD WAS SLEEPING AGAIN . Gold took the blanket that covered his good leg and pulled it up farther, across his chest.
She pondered that news report about how the Taliban said it had infiltrated the police. Such a bitter disappointment to hear the attackers might have had help from the inside, but Gold knew she shouldn’t be surprised. Her literacy classes were part of a larger program to professionalize the National Police. However, she sometimes wondered if the culture of corruption and incompetence was just too pervasive. How much good could a recruit like Mahsoud do if no one else cared? And even if you made some progress, as she thought she had, it was so easy for the enemy to destroy it. The work of years set back by the flip of a switch.
Out the window, sunset smoldered on the horizon. Gold felt the plane turn, and she hoped that meant they were getting close to Rota. Maybe Parson would get some instructions from EOD and this thing would be over. The wings leveled for a while, banked, leveled. The sunset drifted by again. So we’re flying in circles, Gold surmised. Dear God, will this never end?
Mahsoud stirred, opened his eyes. “Hello, Sergeant Major,” he said in English.
“Hello, Mahsoud.”
“You look troubled, teacher.”
“I will be all right.”
“Has your friend, this pilot—” Mahsoud switched to Pashto. “Has your pilot friend let you tour the aircraft?”
“He has.”
“I wish I could see it. I have never flown before.”
What an awful shame he can’t go upstairs, Gold thought. He’d be so fascinated. Mahsoud seemed to be interested in everything.
That gave her an idea. She went to the baggage pallet, found her backpack, took out her digital camera. If she couldn’t bring Mahsoud to the cockpit, she could bring the cockpit to him. A weak gesture, but maybe it would give both of them something to think about, something to put into their minds to dilute the dread. Parson had already said it was all right to take pictures. There was probably not much classified equipment in an airplane this old.
Up on the flight deck, the crew seemed intent on their tasks, but their motions conveyed little urgency. Without hearing the conversations on headset, Gold considered, one might think this all looked routine. Parson was talking on the radio, looking back at Dunne’s panel. Dunne scanned gauges, read from a manual the size of the Boston phone book. Colman sipped water from a bottle.
Gold didn’t want to interrupt them, so she just raised her camera and took a photo. When the shutter clicked, Dunne looked at her as if she had lost her mind, but he did not object. He was probably wondering why anyone would take photos at a time like this, Gold thought.
The aircraft was over land now. On the ground below, Gold saw a
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