Read Online Countdown: The Liberators-ARC by Tom Kratman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tom Kratman
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three quarters of the stack of bills he had decided were his due, stuffing the roll in his left trouser pocket and leaving the remainder for his boss. On second thought, no, if I leave five hundred he'll assume there's more. The inspector took another two hundred, folded that, and slid it into his right breast pocket. That way, when his boss shook him down for the rest he could produce that. His boss might even give him back a hundred.
"Everything seems well enough in order," the inspector said. "And your casevac flight to Cairo is standing by. Damned odd plane for a trip to Cairo, though."
"I'm told it's what was available," Labaan answered.
"Yes, well, not my problem. Enjoy your flight and"-again the inspector's eyes darted to Adam's body- "good health to you."
Unseen under his mask, Labaan frowned. Poor Africa, to have such servants.
The Kenya Airways Saab 340 already had its engines running. Not having a rear ramp, it was suboptimal for a medical flight. Nonetheless it had been available to Labaan's chief, Gutaale, at an acceptable price. What did the chief care, after all, about four men having to manhandle a stretcher up a narrow set of boarding steps?
The flight attendant was female, extravagantly so, and dressed in a striking red uniform, complete to scarf. Equal opportunity had not yet hit most African airlines and, given the typical quality of the service, it was generally felt to be a good idea to give the paying cargo something to think about besides the accident rate or the probability that someone in the maintenance crew had taken a bribe to accept inferior replacement parts.
Kenyan Airways was actually much better than the norm is this regard. Nonetheless, its reputation suffered for the sins of the rest, hence the perceived need for pretty staff. Like Labaan, his team, and Adam, the stewardess was the result of millennia of admixturing with the Arabs across the Red Sea, albeit to a lesser degree. Thus the light brown skin, softer than the African norm hair, and somewhat softer features.
If the woman thought it odd that an emergency medical flight had been contracted for nearly a month prior, she said nothing. Indeed, she was far too occupied in trying to back out right through the airplane's walls to think of much of anything. She didn't have a medical mask, and tried-quite futilely- to cover her mouth and nose with one hand. The other was busy scratching at the wall behind her.
Ignoring her, except for a quick and appreciative glance at her chest, Labaan led the others to the rear of the aircraft. "Get him out of the stretcher and into a seat," he ordered. "Don't clean him up yet."
D-149, N'Djamena, Chad
In fact, the inspector's observations about the aircraft chosen for a flight to Cairo were spot on. You just couldn't get there in a Saab 340, without at least three stops, one of which was guaranteed to be a rotten, problematic layover in either western Sudan or southeastern Libya. This would have mattered, too, had the plane actually been going to Cairo. It wasn't.
Labaan glanced out the window of the plane at the rows of military aircraft lining one side of the runway. French, he thought. The one European people which didn't give up its empire here. And, arguably, the controllers of the only "countries" in Africa that haven't decayed to complete ruin since decolonialization.
In his heart, Labaan knew that wasn't true. Were the "former" French colonies run a bit better than the norm? Yes, some of them, but there were a few decolonized African states that were doing well, for certain values of well. His own wasn't among them and that knowledge perhaps clouded his thinking on the subject. Conversely, the country they were in, quite despite-or perhaps because of-French tutelage, had the distinction of being rated as the most corrupt country in the world, some years, and never better than seventh from the bottom.
Of course "it's all the white's fault," Labaan thought. Isn't that what all the
"Everything seems well enough in order," the inspector said. "And your casevac flight to Cairo is standing by. Damned odd plane for a trip to Cairo, though."
"I'm told it's what was available," Labaan answered.
"Yes, well, not my problem. Enjoy your flight and"-again the inspector's eyes darted to Adam's body- "good health to you."
Unseen under his mask, Labaan frowned. Poor Africa, to have such servants.
The Kenya Airways Saab 340 already had its engines running. Not having a rear ramp, it was suboptimal for a medical flight. Nonetheless it had been available to Labaan's chief, Gutaale, at an acceptable price. What did the chief care, after all, about four men having to manhandle a stretcher up a narrow set of boarding steps?
The flight attendant was female, extravagantly so, and dressed in a striking red uniform, complete to scarf. Equal opportunity had not yet hit most African airlines and, given the typical quality of the service, it was generally felt to be a good idea to give the paying cargo something to think about besides the accident rate or the probability that someone in the maintenance crew had taken a bribe to accept inferior replacement parts.
Kenyan Airways was actually much better than the norm is this regard. Nonetheless, its reputation suffered for the sins of the rest, hence the perceived need for pretty staff. Like Labaan, his team, and Adam, the stewardess was the result of millennia of admixturing with the Arabs across the Red Sea, albeit to a lesser degree. Thus the light brown skin, softer than the African norm hair, and somewhat softer features.
If the woman thought it odd that an emergency medical flight had been contracted for nearly a month prior, she said nothing. Indeed, she was far too occupied in trying to back out right through the airplane's walls to think of much of anything. She didn't have a medical mask, and tried-quite futilely- to cover her mouth and nose with one hand. The other was busy scratching at the wall behind her.
Ignoring her, except for a quick and appreciative glance at her chest, Labaan led the others to the rear of the aircraft. "Get him out of the stretcher and into a seat," he ordered. "Don't clean him up yet."
D-149, N'Djamena, Chad
In fact, the inspector's observations about the aircraft chosen for a flight to Cairo were spot on. You just couldn't get there in a Saab 340, without at least three stops, one of which was guaranteed to be a rotten, problematic layover in either western Sudan or southeastern Libya. This would have mattered, too, had the plane actually been going to Cairo. It wasn't.
Labaan glanced out the window of the plane at the rows of military aircraft lining one side of the runway. French, he thought. The one European people which didn't give up its empire here. And, arguably, the controllers of the only "countries" in Africa that haven't decayed to complete ruin since decolonialization.
In his heart, Labaan knew that wasn't true. Were the "former" French colonies run a bit better than the norm? Yes, some of them, but there were a few decolonized African states that were doing well, for certain values of well. His own wasn't among them and that knowledge perhaps clouded his thinking on the subject. Conversely, the country they were in, quite despite-or perhaps because of-French tutelage, had the distinction of being rated as the most corrupt country in the world, some years, and never better than seventh from the bottom.
Of course "it's all the white's fault," Labaan thought. Isn't that what all the
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