Topped with jet fuel and wheels up… the pitstop took thirty-eight minutes if you count the knock-out punch. Sally’s jaw was fine, but her disposition was not. The Dakar (BDI) incident served notice that she was not properly shielding herself.
The next leg of the flight would cover 3990 miles. About eight hours in Ron Heimburg’s chartered jet. After that… a quick touchdown at Harare (HRE)… and then a short forty-five-minute blast that would take Team Eagle into Kariba (KAB). Sally had dealt poorly with Sage Golden by letting her guard down. Such would not be the case moving forward into the Kariba International Tiger Fishing Tournament.
At 45,000 feet the temperature outside the aircraft was the same as the mood inside… quite chilly. No one had yet spoken with Win Dixie, and she remained in the forward cockpit with both pilots.
“Sally, maybe we back off a notch on Win, hey,” suggested Hazel. “You might not have seen it, but I felt like she had your back in that kerfuffle with Golden.”
“From here on, I go with facts,” replied Sally. “And until HQ confirms her credits, I’m not backing off anything. You copy?”
Turned out, Win was not the only one getting a stiff dose of medicine, without a doctor in the house.
“Ouch! Celine. What the hell is that?” winced Rusty. An orangish sticky goo ran from where his eyebrows used to be… down into his eyeballs… burning the core of his retinas.
Stop squirming, sir. This is a salve my Great Aunt Tootie conjured using tree sap from a jack pine. I didn’t have the mix of rhubarb root to go with the sap—you wouldn’t transplant a patch to the island like I asked—which again I’m telling you would grow exceptionally well on the northwest side of the bath house—so I dug through the fish guts from today’s cleanings and sorted out thirteen walleye livers—each the size of a small plum. Which also explains why your eyes might be burning—I quite possibly or mistakenly—however you arrive at the summation—may have gotten some bile from a few gallbladders in the mix—now, is it easing the pain of the burn—or are you just blithering like a baby?
Rusty’s long, bushy brown eyebrows were gone. The fishing contest had blazed to a halt some thirty minutes ago… and was ultimately canceled.
Side by side competing against Celine for honors of Best Wednesday Night Walleye Fish Fryer, Rusty was going fillet for fillet with the chef from Quebec City until conditions went awry. YES, Rusty’s portion of the campfire was overheating his legs, and the occasional rocketing ember was piercing through the chest of his shirt. NO, with Elly Waylayer rooting for him from the site of the judge’s panel, he was not going to back away.
The first crack of lightning dispersed the crowd of camp guests from the fire pit area. They scampered toward the covered portion of the deck on the lodge and continued viewing. Then Minister Nev, counting aloud, the contest is tied at twenty-three fillets cooked per contestant, made the sign of the cross on his chest.
When the second bolt unleashed from the skies and lit up the woods across the harbor, Ellie suggested a postponement, but her suggestion fell on deaf ears. Mainly, Rusty’s.
“At least it’s not raining,” said Rusty… about three seconds before the first raindrop hit the frying pan. “No need to panic—we can finish.”
“I’m taking my fillets and heading for the lodge, Rustacean,” said Celine, as she pulled four more crispy fillets from the pan and added them to her existing stack. “Not that I’m conceding, but where I come from mixing rainwater and hot frying oil is like lining up a row of your cousins and licking their eyebrows.”
Rusty did not ask for an explanation for her analogy. He was occupied with a steady rain, with the needle pointing toward a downpour. Holding his mesh truckers cap with the FSFO logo over the pan did little to deter the explosion. Even Ellie bailed on him at this point in the game.
As the inferno made its way past the heights of the island treetops, Rusty’s eyebrows passed with it along the way. Two inches closer to the fire and he would have been Kojak.
Days later, locals on mainland near the town of Jackfish would say there was a volcanic eruption on one of the nearby islands of Lac des Bois. Others who witnessed the blazing ball claimed it was Northern Lights.
Back on the plane that was headed towards Harare there was a light that blinked three times on Sally’s burner phone. The message she had been waiting for read, “WD cleared for landing Eagle ONE. She is part of your flock. Copy? Over.”
Sally thought… and then responded to the text message, “HQ, copy. WD under my wing.”
Just then the door to the cockpit opened and Winifred Dixie entered the main cabin wearing a world-series poker face. She made her way toward Team Eagle and asked if anything was needed…
Hazel said she was good. Ron felt it was close to happy hour—somewhere—and asked for a highball. Jackie, with Sage still on his mind, quizzed Win about the prospects of dating the Sicilian fashion model.
Then Sally said, “Hey, Win… this team of misfits still needs to acquire a guide for the tournament. Any chance you’d join us?”
Without response Win walked toward Sally and took the nearest available seat. With folded arms she remained silent and stared into Sally’s eyes.
“Look,” said Sally, “I know I didn’t take your word at face value… but the way things have been going sideways—even before I left The States… I needed to know for sure that you were truly an Eagle. And now it’s been confirmed with HQ.”
“It has?” questioned Win. And then quickly, “Yes, I’m sure it has.”
Pausing for a second, Sally continued, “We need to get locked in for this fishing contest. Anglers from around the world are gunning to win. Can I count on you as our team’s guide?”
“I’m ready to pull the trigger,” responded Win. “As soon as we arrive.”
“Perfect,” replied Sally. “I’m willing to do whatever we have to, to take first place.”
“Anything? Including the possibility of facing the Nyami Nyami?”
“Absolutely, YES, anything,” guaranteed Sally.
Across the aisle… immediately to her left… Hazel stared at an inscription on the inside of Win’s ankle. It was printed just below a tattoo of the infamous river dragon.
–To Be Continued–
Rusty Flathers 