The Last Flight of Kilo Mike

His head throbbed from a monster headache. He didn’t remember much of the night before except for the hotel bar out on the pier. He knew he was there and he had consumed more than his share of God knows what.

He turned away from the doorway and walked toward the nightstand when his bare foot caught a frayed piece of carpet. He stumbled, almost hitting his head on the chest of drawers. He threw out his hands and arms to break his fall and jammed his thumb against the corner of the nightstand.

"Damn!" he hollered as he hit the floor and rolled over and held his thumb with his other hand. He needed to get to the plane and breathe some pure oxygen. Only oxygen and time would make his headache go away and now his thumb was pounding more morning pain.

As he sat on the floor, he noticed his sunglasses lying under the bed. He grabbed them and put them on. He looked back at the rays of morning coming through his open doorway. They brought back memories of the way the sun came into the small Nebraska church window on Sunday mornings. But, this wasn’t heaven and he was no choirboy.

He noticed a green and white feather lying next to the bed.

"What the hell is this?" he mumbled as he picked up the feather and looked at it. He tossed the feather into the trash.

He stood up, dropped his boxer shorts and headed for the shower. In a few minutes, a stream of hot water ran on his short black hair, down his forehead and over his aviator sunglasses. He worked the toothbrush hanging out of the corner of his mouth, scraping away the memory and taste of another night of nothingness.

Their destination was Monrovia, Liberia and they planned to map the Liberian jungle for the Liberia Department of Forestry.

"Morning," he said as he walked up to the table in the hotel café twenty minutes later. His captain was reading a paper. It was a British paper almost a week old but they would soon crave any type of news. A plate of rinds made it clear the captain had fruit for breakfast. "How was it?" the copilot asked.

"It was good," the captain said as he looked over the newspaper and his half glasses. "Weather looks good. Should be an easy day."

"I wish I could throw up," the copilot told his boss.

"Little hung over?"

"Yes," he said as he sat down and turned over his coffee cup. "That damn Moose kept handing me German beer. I hate beer. They didn't have any Jack Daniels®. This place must have different standards than the good hotels."

The captain laughed as he picked up his coffee cup and took a drink. "Different standards," he mocked. "If you think this is bad, wait until you see out next stop."

"It's worse than this?"

"You think this is bad?" the captain asked. He motioned with his hand for Donnie to look around at the white tablecloths, the crystal glassware, and the silver. The African staff stood straight and tall in their starched white uniforms waiting for any motion which would indicate a guest needed service.

He looked around at what the captain was trying to show him. His head still ached. He pointed at the coffee cup when he made eye contact with one of the servers. Instantly, the server moved into action, gracefully picking up the coffeepot. He came to the table, stood straight, turned over the cup and filled it.

"Do you speak French?" Donnie asked his boss. "Order me some breakfast."

"What do you want?" he asked as the server stood at attention next to the table.

"Oh, same as you."

"He’ll have the fruit plate and pastries also," the captain told the server.

"Thank you, sir," the waiter said in perfect English.

The captain laughed as the stunned junior officer looked at the African. He watched the man step back from the table in military fashion and move briskly away.

"Real slum, huh," the captain said.

"I didn’t know they spoke English. I thought Senegal was a French colony."

"It was but this is an international hotel. Most of the staff probably speaks English as well as their native African dialect and perhaps some German and some Italian. I think this is a great place. Just look at the sea this morning," the captain said as he put down his paper. "This is beautiful."

Donnie looked out at the ocean. A light sea breeze blew in toward them. He sniffed the salt air. It was still early so the morning sky was blue. The puffy cumulus clouds had not started to form but they would shortly. Clouds were the enemy of this crew. They flew a camera-equipped Learjet® and when the clouds formed, their pictures were worthless. They took their pictures from forty thousand feet above the ground and anything that blurred the ground ruined the pictures. If they succeeded in Liberia, their pictures would find hidden stands of valuable ebony.

The captain picked up his old British newspaper and started to scan it once more. Donnie watched the sea roll in and the gentle breeze blow the edges of the white tablecloths. He took his silver Cross® pen out of the pen slot on his white pilot shirt and started to run it through his fingers like a baton twirler in front of a high school band. He was skilled at rolling this pen. He cherished it because of the engraved inscription of days gone by. The inscription read Homecoming King, a reminder that he was once the center of attention.