The aeroplane shook and shuddered its way through the air, twin engines spewing smoke. Donald's jaw was sore from clenching, but if he stopped he was sure that his teeth would be shaken right out of his head. His seat folded down from the wall, which meant that his back had to follow the curve of the hull.
At the time, he had only been concerned with getting down to South America as quickly as possible, but now there was a tinge of regret. Donald could have lived with a delay of only an hour if it had meant that he were able to get on a standard commercial flight. More often than not though, people took the steamers down to Brazil, which meant that the passenger flights there would cost a huge sum of money.
The call had come from Donald's brother not five hours before. Richard spun a wild story about Brazillian Communists and an overthrow of the military dictatorship there, claiming that he was being held hostage by them, that he needed Donald to come save him. Ever the big brother, Donald had told his secretary he would be out of the office for a week or two, kissed his wife goodbye, and hopped on the first plane going in his general direction.
When they stopped in Cuba for a refueling, Donald got out to stretch his legs for a bit. He felt sick, and ready to abandon his brother to whatever fate laid in store down in Brazil. The trip had been begun though, and Donald was carrying a suitcase with five thousand dollars American, so it seemed a poor time to give up the quest. He used some of his pocket money - not daring to open the suitcase around here - to buy a lunch off of a plane mechanic. He overpaid, but Cuba was Communist these days, and that seemed to mean that everything cost more.
Twenty minutes later, the plane was in the sky again, and Donald was throwing up the last remnants of the burrito he had bought. Afterwards, he regreted that he hadn't throw up in his hat. The vomit was spread across the cold metal floor of the aeroplane, and Donald had to live with the sick acrid stink of it until the next touch-down, which was in Venezula. His pilot, Fillipe, cursed at him in rapid Spanish and made him clean it up. Donald was careful to keep the suitcase out of view.
At first, when he had been trying to find a plane in the Florida airport, Donald had thought Fillipe to be a godsend. Not only was he going straight to Brazil, but he spoke the language, which meant that Donald would have a guide - or at least someone that would be able to help him find a guide. Now though, with more time to think on it, Donald was getting worried. The plane was loaded with anonymous looking crates, but there was still considerable room for more cargo. To Donald, who had been an engineer before going into business, this said that whatever was in the crates was either very valuable or very heavy - especially if they were being flown direct to Brazil.
The landing in Rio de Janeiro was rough, in part because the plane was running out of fuel. Donald was taken aback by how many rifles were pointed at him when he exited the plane; his brother had said that things were bad here, but had given no indication that the military power would be so ready to draw their weapons on foreigners. Fillipe got out of the pilot's seat and quickly started talking to the men in Spanish, seemingly unconcerned with that they had guns pointed on him. After about two minutes of this, they lowered their weapons, and a dialog followed that Donald wouldn't have been able to keep up even if he had studied Spanish. There was some pointing to him, which was worrisome.
"He wants to know what's in the briefcase," said Fillipe finally. His face betrayed no sympathy.
Donald stalled for a moment. "It's just letters. Clothing."
One of the men raised his rifle and pointed it squarely at Donald's chest. He handed over the briefcase, and watched with despair as they opened it. There were smiles and laughing all around. From that point on he was ignored - Fillipe was the only one who could understand him anyway. The men got busy unloading the plane; it was now clear that the crates were filled with weapons.
Donald wandered off of the dirt runway, towards the tall buildings in the distance, hoping to find his brother - and somehow get both of them out of Brazil.
No comments:
Post a Comment