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And so every time during the fourteen months that Miller took his R&R and saw the once-proud old bird sitting across the field, he had grown more convinced that it would never fly again. He was, therefore, more than a little surprised when—peering over the rim of a second martini just as good as the first—he saw LA-9021 moving.
He thought, in quick order, as he carefully set the martini glass on the table, first, that he had been mistaken, and, next, that if it was moving, it was being towed by a tug to where repair—or cannibalization—could begin.
When he looked again, he saw the airplane was indeed moving and under its own power.
How the hell did they start it up? You can’t let an airplane sit on a runway for fourteen months and then just get in it and push the ENGINE START buttons.
Obviously, somebody’s been working on it.
But when?
When was the last time I was here? Last Wednesday?
Well, that’s a week; that’s enough time.
The 727 turned off the taxiway and moved toward the threshold of the runway.
There was a Congo Air Ilyushin transport on final. Miller knew there were two daily flights between Brazzaville, Congo, and Luanda.
Miller had two unkind thoughts.
Prescription for aerial disaster: an ex-Russian Air Force fighter jockey, flying a worn-out Ilyushin maintained by Congo Air.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Please remain seated on the floor and try to restrain all chickens, goats, and other livestock until the aircraft has come to a complete stop at the airway. And thank you for flying Congo Air. We hope that the next time you have to go from nowhere to nowhere, you’ll fly with us again.”
And then he had another thought when he saw that the 727 was on the threshold, lined up with the runway:
Hey, Charley, the way you’re supposed to do that is wait until the guy on final goes over you and then you move to the threshold. Otherwise, if he lands a little short he lands on you.
The Ilyushin passed no more than fifty feet over the tail of the 727 and then touched down.
Before the Ilyushin reached the first turnoff from the runway, the 727 began its takeoff roll.
Hey, Charley, what are you going to do if he doesn’t get out of your way? What do we have here, two ex-Russian fighter jockeys?
The rear stabilizer of the Ilyushin had not completely cleared the runway when the 727, approaching takeoff velocity, flashed past it and then lifted off.
Well, I’m glad you’re back in the air, old girl.
I wonder what kind of a nitwit was flying the 727?
Miller picked up his martini, raised it to the now nearly out of sight 727, and then turned his attention to the menu.
Thirty minutes later, after a very nicely broiled filet of what the menu called sea trout and two cups of really first-class Kenyan coffee, he paid the bill with an American Express card, collected the bags containing the newspapers, magazines, paperbacks, and the goodies he’d bought in the duty-free shop, and started walking across the terminal to get his car.
What I should do is go home, get on the ski machine to get the gin out of my system, and then spend a half hour at least on the knee.
But being an honest man, he knew that what he was probably going to do was go home, hang up the nice clothes, and take a little nap.
On impulse, however, passing a pay telephone, he stepped into the booth, fed it coins, and punched in a number that was not available to the general public.
“Torre,” someone said after answering on the first ring.
Having the unlisted number of the control tower, and, if he was lucky, the right guy to answer its phone, was what the monthly dispersal of the crisp hundred-dollar bill bought.
“Antonio, por favor. É seu irmão,” Miller said.
A moment later, Antonio took the phone to speak to “his brother,” and, obviously excited, said, “I can’t talk right now. Something has come up.”
