Chapter 1

[Yulia]

As dawn breaks, I bank gently onto final approach. I line up the nose of my Widgeon with the stand of trees on the low headland. It is all so familiar now, second nature. Full flaps and pull slowly back on the throttles, float down to kiss the still blue waters of the lagoon. The faintest bump, and the keel cuts the surface. I feel the drag as my plane becomes a boat. I bring the throttles back to idle, and let the water absorb my momentum, until i am almost still. Then rudder and boost the port motor to turn in towards the beach. I run towards the patch of hard sand shaded by the outcrop, away from my hut. I check all the systems before shutting down. The Widgeon will be sheltered here, and can rest from her journey.

I shrug off my head-set and harness, sit for a moment, absorbing the peace. After the roar of the engines, no sound but the tick of cooling metal. No vibration. Stillness, and the satisfaction I have at the end of every flight.

A droplet of sweat runs down between my breasts. I stretch my fingers, my toes, to release the tension. I turn in my seat and clamber back out of the cockpit. It has been a smooth flight, and the boxes of supplies have not shifted from where I secured them. I open the door on the port side and jump down onto the sand.

This is my home-coming, so good to be back after a long tour in the middle east. I can still taste the Turkish coffee, the Syrian sand, the Russian explosives. I can hear the cries of mothers, see the tears of children, smell the blood of victims. I can recall the nights in rough bars and smooth arms, brandy and bold talk, the women from the UN and Medecin sans Frontieres. Love in a time of death, if you can call that love.

I walk around the Widgeon, stroking it like I would my horse after a hard ride across country. I love its awkward beauty, its power and purposefulness. There is nothing here that is not designed to do a job. When I am happy that she is secure, it is time to get on with the day.

I unload my supplies, good Italian coffee, a couple of mixed cases of French wines from Papa's cellars, a box of fruit and a box of salad vegetables. Oils, spices, herbs, condiments. Dried pasta, I will use to make a simple meal tonight. A large tin of special Swiss cocoa powder to make Sara's favourite drink. Bottled water. A couple of cylinders of gas for cooking.

Bit by bit, I move my supplies across the beach to my hut. It was good to fly through the night. The sun is not yet too hot for work and I have time to make things ready. I know from our radio communications that Sara is less than a day's sailing away. She is set fair to be here by late afternoon. Just the thought of her makes me tingle.