Chapter 10: Over the Sands

He searched beyond the hard plastic of the windows and noticed that the plane, although miles away from their destination, had started to descend at a slow, helpless angle, cutting through spongy clouds and gliding towards the desert sands below them. He worked hard to get to this place in time, he told himself, as one of the engines failed to restart. He looked to his colleagues seated across the aisle and wondered if anything could be done at this late stage. His colleagues were, after all, the leaders of a new energy exploration company that had soon become the darling of Wall Street after the price of crude shot up, and they were quick to make important decisions, manage the money, and please their corporate backers even as the jet plummeted at an even steeper angle towards the earth below. His bosses seemed stripped of whatever command they had over a situation that was now both new and uncontrollable. They shot back pale and startled expressions – a nervous twitching of the lips and flat-lines for smiles – yet they remained gracefully composed within their steely corporate shells. Trickles of nervous sweat moved down the temples of his immediate superior who clutched his arm rests with white, bloodless knuckles while muttering prayers for his dear life. They were as bewildered as he was by this new wrinkle in their plans.

“It’s time to get into your crash positions, gentlemen,” explained the captain over the intercom.

William Buford, the only black member of the board, disregarded what such a contortion would do to his suit and immediately tucked his head between his knees. He couldn’t say if he were to live or die that afternoon, but he knew that he should hide even the slightest tick of emotion as he preferred holding his cards very close to his vest, and just like in the boardroom, his colleagues, both of them middle-aged white men, tried to do the same.

The plane rattled and shook, and although Buford couldn’t see what was happening outside, he could certainly feel his back ache and his heart buckle as the plane gathered speed and dove through the air at a breakneck speed. A loud alarm sounded in the cabin - an annoying introduction to their scrape with death. It wasn’t long before Buford thought of the family he had raised and the beautiful life he had built for himself. For all of this to happen now seemed like the cruelest of cosmic jokes. He had worked both brain and body to the bone setting up one of the most technologically-advanced oil exploration organizations ever to canvas the Arabian seas, and his bank account showed it. Money, however, didn’t matter much to him at this point. He had always done the right thing and always minded his manners, ever since his business-minded father sent him to an elite prep school as a post-graduate on scholarship, and he chalked up his oncoming death to one of those absurd ironies that usually comes before the greatest of tragedies. He didn’t know if he should laugh, cry, or shout. He always thought he’d have another chance to let his hair grow out, and even though such intimations shouldn’t have mattered, it was one of the few things that did. His family, of course, he thought of first, but nothing could be done. He remained as poised as the quarterback he once was in college. He waited in a shallow pocket as brawn-stricken visions of Death closed in on him. He tried to accept his fate unflinchingly as all of his corporate heroes had done at vague points in their lives.

Sputtering and then grinding down to its last spin, the remaining engine squelched whatever whimpers, yelps, and calls for mercy these executives traded. When the engine sighed for the last time, Buford’s heart crept up his throat, and as the ground rose to meet them, the plane soon nosedived and slammed face-forward into a massive sand dune in the Arabian desert.

The mid-section of the plane immediately broke off from both the cock-pit and the tail end where the engines were. The twin engines exploded upon impact. Buford’s head banged hard against the seat in front of him as his body tumbled across the sand like a pebble tossed within the belly of an incoming wave. The cabin landed several hundred feet from the glowing burn of the wreckage, the wings snapping off the sides of the hull like chopsticks rended apart. The jolt was severe enough to knock him out, and when he woke up an hour or two later, he thought himself, not dead, but stuck in limbo between the unbearable emptiness of the spiritual world and the heaven his church congregation back home had always preached about.

Buford, however, wasn’t dead. A splash of cold water pried his eyes loose, and before him stood both the CEO of the company and the other fellow board-member, their suits tattered, and their limbs, as seen through the tears in the fabric, smeared with patches of dried blood. Their cuts and sores and bruises and bumps were in plain view against the glare of the deadening desert sun, their hair in disarray and tousled by the wind. They looked like they had just walked through a war zone and had stumbled out on the other side as crazy and confused as zombies from a mass grave. At the very least, his two colleagues confirmed that he still lived. He became a privileged yet unfortunate survivor of a horrible plane wreck that had placed them somewhere between the coastal city of Jeddah and the blighted war-zone of Baghdad.

“The pilots were both killed,” said the CEO, Perkins his name.

“They died instantly,” said the fellow board-member, whom he called Richards.

Richards slowly felt for Buford’s seatbelt. It had locked itself into place and wouldn’t let go of him. Perkins had a pocket knife and cut Buford’s belt off at the sides of the seat. As Buford lifted himself out, sharp pains stabbed at his chest and his knees. He had difficulty breathing.

“Your ribs are broken,” said Richards. “Be careful.”

The plane’s hull opened into the desert like the mouth of a snared fish, and he wasn’t surprised that his body was covered in layers of sand. He brushed off his suit, the back of it split down the middle, and he limped into the desert with Perkins and Richards helping him along. He could barely walk at first as his knees were banged up pretty badly, but after he reached the point where the cabin floor met the sand, he was able to limp on his own. They all saw this as a good sign.

“Ahhh, he’s alright,” said Perkins, watching him limp. “Just a little roughed up, that’s all.”

After eliminating the possibility that any one of them was seriously injured, they milled around the wreckage for a while and collected what they could, anticipating the moment when the sun would disappear. Thick black smoke billowing from the engines puffed into the sky like balls of shaved wool off a black-sheep’s back, and since the tail end of the plane was where most of the food had been stored, Richards found only a few lunch trays that were saved from the explosion. They were still edible. He also found a few cans of soda and bottles of spring water, but the rest had been destroyed.

While Buford watched them from the sand, Richards and Perkins soon went searching through the cockpit. They returned with a couple of maps, a few signal flares, a first aid kit, and an automatic handgun. They had squeezed between the corpses of the pilots to find that the radio wasn’t working along with everything else – no wipers, no lights, no navigation equipment – nothing. Although there was at least some relief in finding the first aid kit, the three of them couldn’t deny, after putting everything into a small pile, that they were stranded in the middle of nowhere with the sun sinking quickly and the wind starting to kick up the sands on the desert floor.

“Well, this is all we have, gentlemen,” announced Perkins abruptly.

It was clear to both Buford and Richards that Perkins, as their CEO, was still in charge, and this suited them fine, just so long as he could lead them safely to the next town. Buford’s knees had pained him so badly that he unfurled his body on the sand, unable to move for a while. The other two took it as their cue to take a load-off with him. They then rummaged through the cabin of the plane and added pillows and blankets and the contents of their carry-on luggage to the pile of supplies. They were fortunate enough to find a lighter and a crushed pack of smokes.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” said Perkins.

“Only on occasion,” said Richards.

“We lose billions a year in productivity that way.”

“Actually, chief,” said Richards, “we’re damned lucky we found a lighter. How else would we keep warm tonight? We’re definitely in the shitter until we find our way out. We have to sleep in the plane. I don’t see any tents or anything around here.”

“The plane probably’s the best shelter there is right now,” said Buford. “Who knows when the hell they’ll find us.”

“Find us?” said Perkins. “No one’s gonna find us out here. We have to find them. Look around,” as he searched the flat horizon. “There’s got to be a town around here somewhere. We can’t just sit around and wait for something to fall from the sky and save us, Buford. We have to take the fight to them. We have to get to the next town.”

“Agreed,” said Richards.

They unfolded the map recovered from the cockpit. They judged where they were by approximating their time up in the air and the position of the sun, which had now turned blood red and slowly dipped below the earth. Each of them studied the map carefully, as it was brand-new and up-to-date. They agreed that the plane went down somewhere inside Iraq, but where exactly they weren’t sure.

“I’d say we’re about fifty miles from Najaf,” said Perkins. “We just head east, away from the sun, and we should hit something.”

“I’d say it’s more like a hundred miles from Najaf,” countered Richards. “It’ll take at least a day or two to get there. You see this sand?” as he dug his foot into the ground. “Walking on this stuff will slow us down. What would normally take us a day will take us twice as long. It won’t be easy, especially with these supplies.”

“Nothing of value’s ever easy,” said Perkins. “This is survival out here, and to survive we have to confront what may kill us. I say we gather this gear here and set out tonight.”

“I don’t think that’s a wise idea,” said Buford. “The desert at night is dangerous. We have these flares, so we might as well light them and see if anyone comes. My legs are killing me, and I think I have a concussion.”

“Well, you’ve got to suck it up!” barked Perkins.

“I just don’t see why we should risk it at this point,” said Buford. “We have shelter and supplies. Everything’s here. We just have to wait.”

“And when we run out of this stuff?”

“Then we can move, but not until we give search and rescue a chance.”

“But that’s the problem,” roared Perkins. “We won’t have any of these supplies if we sit on our asses and consume them. We’ve each got to carry a pack and hope we can get to Najaf before the food runs out. We light the signal flares at the end of the journey, not before it begins. If a search and rescue team never shows, we’ll starve. What do you think, Richards?”

“I think we should stay here for the night and give some time for Buford here to recover. We should set out tomorrow at daybreak.”

“That sounds fine with me. How about you, Buford?”

“Agreed. Let’s get a good night’s sleep in the body of this thing. It’ll give me some time to recover. We’ll set out at first light.”

They used whatever sunlight remained to stuff all of the supplies into their carry-on bags. They even tried the radio again, but it was as dead as the weight of their eyelids. As night descended, a cold chill tunneled through the open ends of the aircraft cabin. It was so cold at one point that they all awoke from their restless slumbers simultaneously and agreed to light a fire with whatever kindling they could find. Richards even poured the files in his briefcase over the fire. It was that cold.

Although the fire did keep them warm for a short time, it soon died out after they had dug a trench around it. They tried to build the fire again by pulling out the seat cushions and dumping them on the frail glow, but that too didn’t prevent it from going out. Instead, the early death of the fire gave way to bright clusters of stars that hung above them. These were fat and bloated stars, too many to count. The ones that shot across the darkness were as discernable as Buford’s dreams of being rescued. It seemed as though his circumstance was taken from the script of a farfetched fairytale or was at least a reminder of the summer camp his father had once sent him to on the lake. The analgesic from the first aid kit relieved his pains for now but also made him drowsy, which again pulled him back into slumber.

He awoke several hours later on the floor of the cabin, covered once again in the sands that seemed so ubiquitous. The pink sun in the east streaked its crimson-colored brilliance across the sky like rosy fingers gripping the skull of a child. Small animals stirred and moved about as the temperature steadily rose. Once-cooler breezes blended with heat to form hot gusts of air that burned his lips.

Perkins and Richards had woken up before him. They sat around the ashes of the fire and planned the perilous journey into what they believed to be the village of Najaf. They expected to find the usual landscape of bug-like vehicles choked with desert dust and sitting stationary along the mangled highways that headed towards Baghdad, their sharp horns prodding the many dark-skinned Arabs on the roadsides who walked patiently towards the bazaars. In fact, Jeddah, many said, was much more opulent than any of the cities in Iraq, and the three of them were confident that they could get to Najaf in a couple of days, assuming the sands weren’t too deep.

Buford joined Perkins and Richards as they studied the map. His two superiors pondered over it while sharing a tray of cold meatloaf. After Buford ate, they rechecked all of the supplies in the carry-on bags. Richards listed these items in a small notepad.

It wasn’t long before they reached the automatic handgun they had retrieved from the cockpit. It was at the bottom of one of the bags. They had packed it there the night before. They gathered around the gun and thought things over for a moment. In the nervous silence they knew that it was something they shouldn’t leave behind. They traded looks – Perkins eyeballing Richards, Buford eyeballing Perkins, Richards eyeballing Buford – until Perkins finally broke them from the spell of what they all seemed to be thinking about.

“I’m the boss,” said Perkins, reaching for the weapon. “I’ll carry the damned thing if you guys are too scared to.”

“Now wait a second,” said Buford. “I think we should think this thing through.”

“There’s nothing to think about,” said Perkins. “I’m running this show. I’m the one who should carry it.”

“With all due respect, sir, this isn’t the boardroom. We’re not back at company headquarters. A gun becomes a powerful thing if something goes wrong out there. I don’t think only one of us should handle the responsibility alone.”

“What are you trying to say, Buford? That I’m not fit to carry the gun? Is that what you’re saying? Because if that’s what you’re saying, you should know that I shot milk bottles off of fences long before your Mamma was changing your diapers.”

“I’m not saying that at all, sir.”

“He’s not saying that,” chimed in Richards.

“What I am saying is that a hundred things could go wrong.”

“Like what?”

“Well – just things could go wrong, that’s all. The gun is the only force we have out here.”

“So how do you suggest we go about it then,” asked Perkins, glaring at him.

“Well, I think we should shoot it out - odds and evens, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, for Chrissakes! What are you? A child?”

“He has a point, chief,” said Richards. “We should at least let the element of chance into our decision-making. Will that be enough for you, Buford?”

“It sounds good to me,” he said. “Or maybe we can all take turns carrying the thing.”

“I always knew you were a communist, Buford, but I’ll go along with that if it’d shut you up.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Now, people, let’s not get too emotional about this,” said Richards. “We need to save our energies. Perkins should hold the gun first. He is, after all, running things around here.”

“Fine,” said Buford, picking up the weapon and handing it to Perkins.

“Now can we stop acting like children and get moving?” said Perkins, as he tucked the weapon under his belt. “It’s good to know someone’s still in charge around here, especially the guy who owns fifty percent of our stock.”

“Hey, man,” said Buford nervously, “I didn’t mean any disrespect by my –”

“Let’s move out,” said Perkins. “We’ve wasted too much time already.”

It occurred to them just a few yards into the journey that the bags they carried weren’t exactly making things any easier. The sand was a foot deep, and their legs became weights that couldn’t function without the same lightness and spring of step that accompanied their many walks to places like the office bar back home. The bar prided itself on serving twelve o’clock martinis that went down like silk. They weren’t back home, though. They were deep in the desert with mountains of sand all around them. It made the sheer simplicity of walking as uncomfortable as their first dealings with the Arab oil executives they often courted. Although Buford was third in line back home, he happened to be the tallest and the best built of his two colleagues now that he was in the desert. He even volunteered to carry the heaviest two of the four bags. Perkins and Richards struggled with the other two, carrying just one a piece. Buford heard their huffing and puffing up ahead, the sun’s rays on top of them like slave drivers beating their scarred backs, and it wasn’t long before Perkins dropped his load about a quarter mile ahead and exclaimed,

“Well, damnit all to hell! We have to rethink this.”

“I agree,” said Richards, collapsing on his bag and struggling to catch his breath.

In a strange way, however, Buford was emboldened by their show of weakness. He calmly put down his bags, unzipped one of them, and pulled out a bottle of spring water.

“Hey, pass that over here,” demanded Perkins. “This isn’t a one-man show.”

He found the two quite amusing just then. They were children when it came to marshalling their own strength.

“At this rate we’ll never make it to Najaf,” said Buford, a grin curving on his face.

“No shit, Shirley,” said Perkins. “We need a little help, that’s all.”

“I’ll second that,” said Richards, watching Perkins gulp down the warm water.

“This is just plain inefficient,” said Perkins, spilling some into the sand.

“What do we do, chief?”

“Well, we can’t carry all of our loads. I’ve got a gun at my side, and the trigger doesn’t exactly have a safety. What we have to do is do away with some of this stuff and consolidate, if you will. These bags are just too damned heavy to be lugging around all over this wasteland. And I don’t find the humor in it, Buford, so you can wipe that shit-eating smile off your face. Not everyone’s built like a friggin’ linebacker.”

Buford’s knees and ribs still pained him. He sat on the sand with them and understood too that their inability to carry their fair share of the load would only mean more work for him.

“After all, I’ve got to carry this gun,” said Perkins, “and I’d hate to have it go off while lugging these supplies around. Otherwise, I’d be carrying ten-times the weight Buford’s carrying.”

“And I’m navigating,” said Richards. “No one else can read these maps like I can.”

“So what you guys are saying, if I’m interpreting things correctly here, is that you two carry nothing at all, while I bring up the rear with all these bags? Why don’t you just give me the map and the gun, and you two go off in any damned direction you want to?”

“This isn’t the time to be smart,” said Perkins, “and besides, it’s impossible for you to be smart. By dint of your upbringing and family line, you just happen to be built like a horse.”

“And this is while my knees are throbbing and my head is still spinning from the plane crash, right?”

“Listen, Buford, no one’s begging you for help,” said Richards. “You either do your fair share, or we’ll all starve.”

“And you’ll be out on your ass as far as a job goes,” said Perkins. “You can be sure of that.”

Considering that Buford did most of the grunt work setting up the company anyway, he wasn’t about to let all of his hard work go to waste just because he thought carrying all of the luggage himself was unfair. He remembered the many hours he spent alone at company headquarters pouring over endless files, crunching notebooks of numbers, and having to deal with a barrage of younger corporate lackeys who thought he didn’t know his ass from his elbow, and this was not to mention the self-righteous Arab suits who had a knack of putting him in his place – based on their hierarchy of skin color, of course. He must have spent a year or two doing the board’s bidding, and to risk all of that due to his reluctance to cooperate and get-along, well, that seemed a bit counter-productive. He had a hunch that they would eventually make it out of the desert, and he wanted to keep his options open should they manage to reach Najaf safely. He went along with their plan, seeing that he was indeed the strongest of them. Let them have their toys and their weapons, he thought, because once they escaped the cruelty of the desert, he’d buy himself a steak dinner at Peter Lugar’s and a new Mercedes-Benz to take back home to his wife. He would once again become the man Perkins and Richards counted on, but only if he cooperated and complied now. And besides, carrying the bags would only make him tougher and stronger physically. Call it the first day of training camp all over again, if you will.

And even though he knew he would be giving in and sacrificing more than Perkins and Richards ever could, the satisfaction of knowing that they couldn’t have survived without him was now etching itself into his ego. If Perkins and Richards were the dashboard of the operation, then Buford was the engine behind them. He was the first to end their ten minute break by declaring that he was finally in agreement with their plans for his inevitable tenure with the company. He grabbed three bags by his fists and set across the desert like an unknown soldier taking initiative.

“Now he thinks he’s fucking Superman,” said Perkins to Richards, who followed him from behind.

Carrying hardly anything at all, the two of them easily caught up with Buford, and within fifteen minutes or so, they easily outpaced him along the makeshift desert trail they traveled. With three heavy bags brushing up against his calves, Buford brought up the rear once more. Rivulets of sweat cascaded down his forehead and stung his eyes. The unrelenting sun poisoned him with heavy fatigue, and his attitude soon turned lousy. His labors eventually forced the idea that these two colleagues of his had positioned themselves to be his sole superiors while treating him unfairly. Yet he knew he had a job to do, and on more than one occasion he felt like ditching the bags if only to enjoy the freedom of wandering the desert as aimlessly as they did. Visions of cold, sinewy waters washing over mossy stones came into distant focus. And for a time he clung to these visions as he dragged the bags across the sands, the blaring sunshine slowly losing power.