Free Terminal Justice by Alton L. Gansky Page B

barn was an old six-seat Cessna. That was all Roger could tell about the plane. Oil streaks stained the area around the engine cowling, and rust was visible on the wings and the body. Roger frowned.
    “It will fly,” Arteh said, noticing the look of consternation on Roger’s face.
    “You speak English,” Roger said, a little embarrassed at his display of dissatisfaction.
    “Yes,” was all the pilot said.
    “It looks like your bird here has been around the block a few times,” Roger commented as he slowly inspected the craft. Not receiving a response, he looked at Arteh, whose face displayed a puzzled look. Roger realized that his colloquialisms confused the two Somalis. “Your plane, you’ve flown it a lot.”
    “Yes, many years,” Arteh said, nodding. “It is a good plane. It will fly you to Bohotleh Wein.”
    Roger wasn’t so sure, but it made no sense to offend his host and his only source of transportation. “I’m sure it will,” he lied. “When do we leave?”
    “We must wait until the moon is high,” Arteh answered. “We will arrive at dawn. Landing in the dark is not good.”
    Roger chuckled nervously and looked at the ancient aircraft. “I don’t imagine that it is.”

    It took just under five hours for the Cessna to cross the central desert region and approach the mountainous lands of the north. Wanting to make the best possible time to maintain the cover of darkness, Arteh crossed the Ogaden region of Ethiopia—a dangerous course. Roger felt fortunate that their trip went unchallenged by gunfire, something he attributed to Arteh’s insistence that they fly under cover of darkness.
    Now darkness was giving way to the rising August sun as it steadily scaled the sky over the Indian Ocean and cast long shadows from the mountains. Bohotleh Wein lay one thousand feet below them. Arteh circled the small and impoverished town looking for a place to land. Aden pointed out the pilot’s window and said something in Somali. Arteh grunted and banked the plane in the direction indicated by Aden, all the while descending with stomach-churning speed.
    “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Arteh,” Roger said as he leaned back in his seat in a futile gesture to reduce the precipitous descent angle chosen by the bush pilot. “Who taught you to fly?”
    “I taught myself,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Why?”
    Roger looked at the rapidly approaching ground. “No reason, just curious.” He swallowed hard.
    At about two hundred feet, Arteh pulled back on the yoke and eased the creaking Cessna into an easy glide path. He had found what Aden had been pointing at: a small cluster of unpainted wood buildings about two miles from the heart of Bohotleh Wein that had a flat piece of ground that looked suitable for landing.
    “That looks pretty smooth,” Roger said, eager to be back on the ground.
    “Maybe,” replied Arteh.
    “Maybe?”
    “If there’re no holes, soft spots, rocks, or animals in the way, we’ll be fine.”
    “And if there is a hole, soft spot, rock, or animal, then what?” Roger asked. Arteh just shrugged and continued his descent.
    The plane touched down and bounced back into the air. Seconds later it touched down again, this time rebounding only a few feet. The next time the wheels made contact they rolled freely along the hard earth surface. Arteh quickly stepped on the brake pedals, slowing the craft to a suitable taxiing speed. Turning the plane around, he taxied back to the buildings and switched off the engine, which coughed harshly and ejected thick oily smoke.
    Roger took a deep breath and looked at the intrepid pilot. For the first time since meeting the enigmatic man he saw Arteh smile as he said, “Thanks for flying Air Somalia.”

6
    “AH, THE DEDICATED WORKER.” DAVID LOOKED UP from the briefing he was reading and saw Kristen standing in the doorway to his office. “Hard at work, and you’ve only been here a week.”
    “It’s an old trick really,”