Chapter 10

I was just after three in the morning when my cell phone rang. The blinking light on the display illuminating the room. I sat up, resting on my elbow, and retrieved the phone from the nightstand next to the bed. Joe.

“Morning Joe, what’s up,” I said groggily into the phone. Sleep still hovering in my head.

“I need you. I need you and Tracy, both.” Joe spoke without greeting. I knew something was up. Something was wrong somewhere. Call it intuition. Not only women have it, men, too.

“What’s going on Joe?” I questioned.

“We’ve arrested some creeps out in Table Bay with a boatload of girls. Destined for Oman. I need Tracy to ID them. See if they are the same girls she was held captive with.” Joe elaborated.

“Holy Crow, Joe. It’s three in the morning. Can’t it have waited till after breakfast?”

“I need to move fast. Before the locals stuff up the case. You know how difficult it is to prosecute these cases ... By the way ... Someone called Alex, attacked your farm last night. Laura was shot.” Joe said. I was awake now. Really Awake, as if I was burned with a white-hot poker. Seeing in my mind’s eye the beautiful ice blue eyes, the long honey blond hair, skipping up and down as she rode a horse in the lunging ring with Tracy. The sad smile on the lovely face.

“He was looking for Tracy.” Joe continued.

“Laura...” I croaked. I closed my eyes. Not daring to let my mind wander.

“ ... is fine. A 9-millimetre bullet tunnel through the side. Nothing serious. In and out without too much damage. She had a nasty fall, so a cracked rib and a golf ball size bang on the right temple. Concussion, a major league headache, and a twisted ankle. She’ll be discharged from the hospital as soon as the Doc is satisfied nothing else is wrong and no infection is lurking in the wound. Tomorrow maybe.” Joe said.

“We’re on our way ... See you this morning.” I said getting out of bed. Tracy is still dreaming.

“I’ll need a ride to Cape Town. Our jet is carting the Minister to KZN.” Joe said. (KZN = KwaZulu Natal.)

“I’ll find you a ride. Talk later.” I said and disconnected. Tracy was stirring. She turned onto her back, stretching her arms above her head, hiking that nightshirt up to the top of her thighs. Revealing some really beautiful slim legs.

“It’s dark, what time be it?” Tracy asked in that Irish accent.

“Three-ten,” I said. “Go back to sleep kitten.”

“Was that Mister Joe on the phone?” Tracy asked.

“Yes,” I said. I remembered I told Tracy that as friends we do not keep secrets from one another. I made up my mind.

“Tracy ... I need to tell you something. The people looking for you have attacked the farm. Laura got shot, she’s okay. A little hurt, but okay.” I said. Tracy was instantly awake and sat up in bed. Her eyes are bright, shining, and big.

“They shot Laura?” she asked as if not believing what I just told her. She got out of bed and stood up. “I’ll fix coffee, you tell me all Mister Joe said.” With that Tracy went to the little desk slash table slash dressing thingamajig where the kettle and coffee makings were.

As Tracy, barefoot in only her nightie, started the makings of coffee, I relayed all Joe told me. Waiting on the kettle to boil, Tracy, standing with her arms folded over her midriff, one tiny foot on top of the other, looked wide-eyed at me. When I finished, she flicked her head, flinging that ginger red hair in a swirl over her shoulders. I died.

“So, we ditch the air show and we go home? Let me get me bags packed.” Tracy said. I was pondering the “we” and “go home” in the same sentence. At least she considers the farm as home.

“Let’s have coffee first. It’s twenty-past three in the morning and I’m not firing on all my pistons yet.” I said.

“Ooh! We can do something about that ... Poppa-Don ... Mo grá...” Tracy said, letting her voice trail off, looking at me with her head slightly tilted and a soft glow in her green eyes. I just looked at her. What does “Mo grá” mean? I must Google it.

Tracy and I stumbled back to bed and dosed off more than sleep until six. Tracy held me as if never to let go. Her right leg draped over my left leg. Her head on my shoulder. Once I heard her mumble something about “ ... poor Laura...” before she settled deeper into slumber with a sigh.

At seven, I called my friend in the retail business. Asked him about the availability of the PC-24. He was leaving for the States, therefore no need for the plane for at least a month. I am free to use it, else it will only be sitting in the hanger.

With that out of the way, I had to break the news to the air show organisers that due to “technical issues”, I will not participate in the show. Sad faces all around, but hey, we’ll be back next month for the follow-up show.

Eight-fifteen, breakfast done and dusted, one dove grey and sky-blue Buccaneer roared down the runway, home forty minutes away. Tracy decked out in her green G-suit, white helmet, and olive drab flight boots. The smile a mile wide and the green eyes sparkling.

Tracy, as Navigation Officer slash Weapons Officer, now became Communications Officer with: “Meet us at Wonderboom at nine”, call to Joe, and: “Don Lambert asked if you could be so kind as to have Yankee Tango Bravo fuelled and ready on the apron for departure to Cape Town?” call to the FBO at Wonderboom. Tracy handled the calls with poise and diplomacy beyond her age. I think I found a PA! Pay to be negotiated.

Landing at Wonderboom was a sort of an event. I have never taken the Bucc in or out of Wonderboom. Only two others were still flying down in Cape Town with Thunder City, but after the untimely death of the Company owner, their flying days were to be over. Only three other pilots are still qualified to fly the Bucc. One being me.

A radio call to FAWB on 118.35 MHz relaying my intention to land full stop at Wonderboom. A, “Say again type?” from the Control Tower on the final approach. “Type is Hawker Siddeley Buccaneer,” I confirmed. “Runway 29 full stop landing approved. The Airport’s yours” Reply from the control Tower.

We swept from the sky at one hundred and fifty knots. The big barn door air brakes out at 30%, full flaps. Undercarriage down and locked. She touched and stuck, no bounce. Nose wheel coming down gently and touching. With the air brakes out to full, flaps up, we decelerated to ten knots.

We taxied to the FBO with the canopy open, past the main terminal, and stopped on the apron in front of the hangar. The sleekly PC-24 next door, looked good in the morning light, sunlight reflecting off her white fuselage.

Next event, as Tracy got out of the back seat. Standing up on the seat, then taking off the oxygen mask and helmet, shaking out that ginger red tresses into something of a resemblance of neatness. A few gasps were to be heard.

She climbed down using the footholds in the side of the aircraft, but still had to reach. I caught her from the last step, taking her by the waist and swinging her to her feet on to the apron. Tracy was mobbed. The FBO guys and girls were quite stunned as to her being such a pretty, youthful, tiny co-pilot. Why does everybody think, because there’s two seats, the back one is for a co-pilot. Oh well, not everybody knows the difference.

We pushed the Buccaneer into the hanger with a small tractor. Big smiles and expressions of delight to have this rare bird for a short stay in their hanger. By the time we had the bird secured, Joe arrived in the company of three females. Obviously, cops.

Tracy had to do a bathroom run and I encouraged the other to do so too. Two hours to Cape Town. I, too, had to go.

“THIS is style!” One female cop remarked as we boarded. “Definitely not our jet.” I have seen the Police’s Cessna Sovereign, maybe she was exaggerating. Not the luxury of the PC-24, but close.

“Yeah, but this is cosy. YOU know how to organise, Boss.” One other cop remarked. Joe just smiled.

I gave a safety briefing to them. Showed all the little things to do and not to do. Tracy in the meantime slid into the co-pilot seat, checking the parking brake, and flipping on the battery switches, beacon light, and navigation lights. Joe eyed her.

“Pretty confident,” Joe remarked.

“Shown her once,” I said. The female cops gave Tracy the eye.

“Ain’t she like... , one of those?” A tall, short hair, brunette Cop asked.

“Girl out of time,” I said. “Sharp as a knife, bright as sunshine. As clever as the support wooden beam of the gallows.”

“BUT ... she’s only fourteen, how can she fly this thing.” Another one said.

“She’s not flying. She assists.” I said over my shoulder. “One of these days she will maybe start lessons on the Cessna, but she needs to be sixteen! In the meantime, ... experience is experience.” I closed and locked the air stair cum aircraft door and slid into the pilot seat. Thirteen minutes later we were climbing through eight thousand three hundred feet for twenty-eight thousand feet. Flight level 280. A scrambling run for Cape Town.

After we levelled off at flight level 280, Tracy went back into the cabin. She made coffee for everyone. Eliciting a: “The first Stewardess I’ve seen dressed in a g-suit! Are we on the Space Shuttle going to the ISS?” from one of the passengers (PAX). All laughed, Tracy blushed.

Joe joined me in the cockpit. Tracy stuck up a conversation with the three lady cops. Sitting down with them, arranging the cabin seats in a sort of “lounge” configuration. The PC-24’s seats can swivel to face each other. I believe she was being subtly interviewed but said nothing. Tracy remained with the lady cops. A lot of giggling and laughing was heard. Joe and I spoke about everything under the sun, except about the case.

For the landing in Cape Town, Tracy re-joined me in the cockpit, while Joe went back to the cabin. The cabin was reconfigured for the landing, with the seats in the upright position and all PAX strapped in.

In the Cape, we all were rushed to Cape Town Central (CTC) in a sixteen-seat minibus. The drive being a short stint along the N2 highway and Settlers Way, along the foot of Table Mountain into Roeland street and then Buitenkant street to Cape Town Central.

Arriving at CTC, we were taken to a conference room. Nine young ladies sitting around the conference table, looking desolate. Tracy stepped into the room, still dressed in her flying togs. Faces turned our way. Gasps escaping some mouths. The reunion was epic.

“Tracy!” rang out around the table in unison. Tracy stepped midway into the room and opened her arms. Chairs went flying. A group hug ensued. A few tears were wetting some faces.

“We thought they killed you!” and “They never brought you back, we thought you were done for!” was some of the comments flying around. Tracy smiled.

“Nope! I was sold ... To this fine guy that’s going to adopt me ... or ... or something.” Tracy said.

“Leave them for the time being. Let them catch up. Let’s find coffee.” Joe said. We, except Tracy, left the room in search of mediocre coffee.

Lunch was in the form of pizza and sodas, supplied by me of course. “Much better than the crap they’ve been giving us!” was a common comment as the pizza was devoured by hungry, underfed mouths! I had a momentary flashback to a certain hamburger being devoured somewhere sometime. It felt long, long ago. So much has happened since then.

I desperately wanted to get back to the farm. I had to get back to the farm. Not so much to see what damage was caused, but to really satisfy myself that Laura was all right. It’s going to be a long recovery for her.

It was approaching four-thirty when we finally got to be transported back to the airport. We, being Tracy, Joe, and me. The three lady cops will stay behind to help in the investigation of the case and to see to the safety of the nine traumatised girls. A very secluded place was found for them to stay at. Three of the nine girls were from out of the country, so special arrangements were to be made for their safe being, while here in sunny South Africa.

Tracy was showing signs of tiring, so I told her to relax in the cabin and maybe catch forty winks or so. She has had a very busy day and getting woken up at three in the morning was not so well too. Me myself, felt the day growing on me. Three flights in two different aircraft, both of which I was piloting. I also started to smell me. I longed for a shower.

Joe, Tracy, and I parted ways at Wonderboom. Joe took his car and left for home. He too was tired. Tracy and I still had to take the Bucc back to home-base. Our only transport back to North West Province. Okay, only nine minutes flight time, but hey, it’s demanding to fly when you’re tired.

Eventually! Home. It was approaching nine-thirty in the evening. Tracy disappeared up the stairs to her room. Me to mine and a LONG hot shower. I suppose Tracy will be doing the same.

As I got to the top of the stairs, I saw Tracy looking at the hole in the passage wall. Her finger tracing the jagged edges of the big pockmark hole. A tear slowly running down the freckled face.

“She ... she could ... have ... DIED!” Tracy said looking over her shoulder, stifling a sob. I took her by her shoulders and pulled her backwards into me. Holding her tight against me.

“She will be okay ‘Tray,” I said. “She’s alive.”

“We must go see her,” Tracy said. Tears streaming freely down her freckled cheeks in soundless sobs.

“We’ll go tomorrow. We’ll take her flowers. All girls like flowers.” I said, trying to pacify Tracy.

“AND chocolates. She likes chocolates!”

“We will go in the morning. Take her flowers and chocolates. Now! Get to shower and bed. It’s been a long day for you.” I said, kissing the top of her ginger redhead.

“Can ... can I ... snuggle tonight?” Big shiny green eyes pleading to me.