Chapter 15

Little Eden, Springbokvlakte.

The fire cracked softly, fat hissing where it dripped from the turning spit. The air carried that sweet perfume of slow-roasted lamb, woodsmoke, and dust — the kind that clung to your clothes and followed you home. Plates were balanced on laps, half-empty wine glasses catching the light, a few guitars tuned somewhere behind me.

Kensi had caught me mid-bite, my mouth full of potato salad, when she lobbed that curveball.
“So, Brother Dolf, aren’t there any good looking, lovable, adorable female South African pilots that you could have fallen for? Why an Arab?”

Her face was all seriousness, but her eyes — that mischievous pale green — told another story. Kensi had eyes that could talk. Deep green meant she was in full mischief mode. Pale green meant someone was about to get an earful. Dark emerald green meant she was teasing ... or maybe being sentimental. Tonight, I figured it was both.

“I haven’t met any,” I said once I’d swallowed. “Not one that could pull on my heart like Rose did.”

“Good answer,” she said, nodding as if she’d just marked a box on a checklist.

“But you have misgivings about our relationship?” I ventured.

“There is her deep in-bedded culture part, and she might be longing for her roots -where she grew up and went to school, some old friends left behind ... I was just afraid she’ll drop you back into that big, deep, black vortex you were drowning in not so long ago.”

“That was a few years ago...”

“Four, to be precise.”

“You keeping record?”

“Where my elder brother is concerned, yes.” She jabbed a fork toward me, a bit of salad clinging to it. “I love you, and I just want the best for you.”

I smiled. “Thanks, Kens’. I appreciate it. But what about you? Ain’t there someone special somewhere for you?”

“That is a discussion for another day...” she said, her eyes sliding away toward the firelight.

“Okay,” I said, changing tack. “Now tell me about a certain A320...”

She grinned, already knowing she had my full attention. “Oh, I’ve been considering it for a while now. Getting to the big city metros where I and my crew are booked brings about a lot of logistics. Cars and trucks to cart all the equipment — it takes time. Just driving from Josie to Cape Town takes two to three days...”

“But how do you land an A320 at Soekmekaar, Springbok or even Hopetown?”

“We fly to Upington, Kimberley or Bloemfontein and then rent transport. Cuts the journey by hours — sometimes days. And I won’t be using the plane for every performance. Only for long distance and international tours. Especially in Europe. I am also considering an invitation to go record in Nashville, Tennessee. The plane will come in handy then. No long queues at customs.” Chuckle.

“And that’s going to set you back a hundred million dollars — give or take — without customisation? And the plane won’t make it to Miami, what to say about reaching Nashville.”

She gave me that confident little smile that said she’d already run the numbers ten times. “I’ve got my eye on a good used one for twenty-five. Say around thirty after paint job and customisation. AND there are a few Boeing BBJs on the market for between 19 and 55 million US. I have an option on a B737-700 BBJ with CRM56-7B20 engines at 29 million US. You must see the cabin layout.”

“Yeah, it’s only 7700 nautical miles to Nashville so, at least three fuel stops along the way. That brings me to the maintenance and fuel cost?”

“The variable costs, including fuel, maintenance, and crew expenses, total approximately $1,961,662 annually, based on 450 flight hours per year. That breaks down to about $4,600 per hour when factoring in charter operations.”

“You’ve done your homework,” I said, lifting an eyebrow. “Now convert that to Rand and see where that leaves you.”

“Dolf, I can afford it. Besides, the ZAR is strengthening to the Dollar and when I don’t use it, I can charter it out at around $10,000 to $15,000 per hour, and recover some cost.”

“That makes you between $5,400 to $10,000 per hour profit. Hmm...” I gave her a long look. “You’re a businesswoman under that tasselled red hair of yours.”

“Thank you, I do run a business after all.” she said with mock formality, raising her wine glass in a toast. “Guess WHO taught me to be like this when he found out I have a voice!”

“I’m 737 certified. I can fly the Boeing for you...”

“So is Rose. She cut her flying teeth on B737-200, 400, 600, and 800s,” Kensi smirked. “She’s got 1500 hours on them! Here’s a picture of what I have in mind for the 737 BBJ,” and Kensi opened her handbag, took out a file and flipped it open.

“Wow! Soundbird, hey? I think I know of an outfit that may be interested in leasing the plane from you from time to time,” I said casually.

“It would be customised in VIP configuration for twelve to twenty persons, but who will be interested?”

“Angels Express Logistics — operating out of Wonderboom and a private strip out in Northwest Province.”

“Oh? Cargo? It won’t fit their needs”

“See that Asian-looking woman together with that blond-haired one there, over by the fire?” I nodded in their direction. “I’ll introduce you. The blond one is Lucy and the owner of an airfreight operation, and the Asian woman has shares in the same company business. They’re currently operating a LM-100J Hercules, a Boeing 747-800 freighter, and some other jets and turboprops, but are looking to expand into the high VIP transport market.”

“Wow! And you know them?”

“We crossed paths on the apron and in the café at Wonderboom. Waving acquaintances and good for aviation small talk ... Then there is also ExecuJet out in Cape Town that will operate and lease the aircraft for you. They operate a few fixed base operations with first class facilities.”

“And you go and fall for an Arab woman while there is all this talent around??”

“Those two AEL executives are happily married to those two guys sipping whisky under the lapa.”

“Yeah ... So are all the good ones taken ... Men too ... Not that there is anything wrong with Rose. She’s not only pretty, but a brain-box too. A rare find, Bro. A rare find.”

“I hear you offered Rose a flying job,” I said, giving her a side-eye. “You better hurry and get her a contract. Those two over by the fire also heard that Rose is an A350 pilot and are making noises of offering her a job too.”

Across the fire, I spotted Rose talking animatedly to the small group from Angels Express Logistics — hands moving as she described something, probably an air route or a cockpit story. The light from the flames caught her profile, soft and golden. My chest did that stupid tightening thing again.

Kensi noticed, of course. “There goes your girl,” she said with a grin, sipping from her wine glass.

“Watch it,” I said, but couldn’t hide my own smile.

“You’re a goner, Dolf.”

“Been gone for a while now.”

“Then go before someone else does,” she said, nodding toward Rose. “Pilots might fly high, but good ones get snatched up quick. Job and girlfriend wise...”

“Let me go rescue the light of my life,” I said, pushing myself up. “Just now someone might abduct her...”

“Go on, hero. Go save the day.”

As I walked away, I could hear her chuckling behind me. Andy walked up to Kensi and sat down in the chair I just vacated. The night was soft, the air still warm from the day’s sun. A few moths danced in and out of the firelight. Somewhere, a nightjar called from the thorn trees.

The braai, the talk, the laughter — it all blurred behind me as I made my way to the other side of the fire where Rose stood, her laughter carrying like a melody I’d never get tired of hearing.