The plane’s pilot and copilot performed a hasty walk-around inspection of the plane, and then boarded it. The flight attendant raised the steps and closed the hatch, and the pilot started the engine. The control tower had been hit by something big and explosive in one of the battles, and whatever had taken its place was not evident to Alan. The pilot was visible in the cockpit in radio communication with someone, somewhere, and then he moved the plane forward, heading for the end of the runway.
Some of the volunteers watched the plane turn at the end of the runway, and then roar along the tarmac at a slight angle to avoid the worst of the shell craters and burn marks on the pavement, and then rise into the air. Alan listened for sounds of small-arms fire, but heard none, and saw no streaks of light moving toward the plane. In a minute it was high enough so it became just a set of blinking lights fading into the distance.
The air became quiet at that moment. The arrival or takeoff of a plane was a rare occurrence. The militiamen seemed to relax now that the plane was gone, but it didn’t seem to Alan that they were entirely secure or at ease. He noticed that there were also at least a half dozen of them on the roof of the ruined terminal with binoculars and night-vision scopes. He could see they were protected by debris camouflaging a wall of sandbags, and he thought he saw the barrels of heavy machine guns.
A dozen members of the militia on the ground performed a customs check as the volunteers watched. They inspected a few of the cardboard cartons that held bags of rice, beans, and wheat flour, canned vegetables, and halal meat. They moved to the wooden crates of machinery and pried a few open. As he had expected, they paid most attention to the crates that held heavy equipment. Well-drilling rigs, irrigation pumps, water purification machines, and hand tools piqued their interest most because they were made of steel and dismantled for shipment, so the crates looked, felt, and sounded as though they contained weapons.
The medical equipment was light and tended to be electronics sheathed in plastic consoles. There was lab equipment to analyze blood, urine, and dissolved blood gases. There were an X-ray machine, an ultrasound machine, and a PET scanner. There were sterilizers, EKG machines, infusion pumps, anesthetic machines, and monitors to track patients’ vital signs. The militiamen opened a few of the boxes, but shut them almost immediately and moved on to the next ones.
Alan noticed that there seemed to be some kind of commotion beginning near the far side of the main pile of boxes. He recognized Dr. Zidane immediately, and Dr. Leclerc, and they seemed to be unhappy with the man Alan had decided must be the head of the militia contingent. He moved closer and listened.
In a few seconds Dr. Zidane noticed him. She said in English, “He wants to take food and supplies. Can you believe it?”
Alan said, “How much?”
She said, “Who knows? We can’t spare any of it.”
Alan stepped closer and bowed to the leader. “I am Alan Spencer,” he said in Arabic. “Are you the commander of the militia?”
“Abdul Hamid, colonel of the Misrata Militia. I’ve been speaking with this woman, and she doesn’t seem to understand anything she wasn’t taught in an American school.”
Alan said, “American? Dr. Zidane is Canadian, like the rest of us.”
“That difference means nothing here.”
Alan could see that one thing hadn’t changed much in the past thirty years. This was not a part of the world where men—at least men like this militia—were accustomed to arguing with women. Alan said, “Maybe I can help clear up the misunderstanding.”
“You were able to land a plane here because we fought for this airport in two great battles. We’re here to protect you because the plane brought food and other supplies that the people need. We’re not going to sell it or throw it away. The people around here are our relatives. We know how to get it to them.”
Alan smiled, he hoped, convincingly. “Oh,” he said. “Thank you for explaining. Please give me a moment.” He stepped to the two doctors. “I think he feels insulted.”
“He’s insulted because I’m a woman,” said Dr. Zidane. “For that and because I won’t let him steal food and supplies. We didn’t bring this here to support a war.”
Alan said, “He wants to distribute some to the people around here, who are his relatives or members of his faction. How much of the food can we spare?”
“None.”
“Would his tribe and its allies get some of the supplies if he didn’t ask?”
“Of course. We don’t choose sides or tribes. We give aid to whomever we can reach who needs it.”
“Maybe we could trust him to deliver the supplies that are going to his people anyway.”
She scowled. “I don’t trust him. Why do you?”
“Several reasons. He can’t steal the supplies from his men’s relatives, and he knows it. He’s not a king. Nobody who is surrounded by men carrying machine guns is a king. He’ll just be doing some of our work for us.”
Leclerc looked at her. “This sounds logical to me.”
She threw up her hands in a gesture of frustration. “All right. Do it.”