Philip Caputo - Acts of Faith

Douglas

Hes in the pod. The pod is his window unto the world, and the world he sees below is white, with shades of gray and black and blue-gray mixed in. The boom points at it, a long steel finger, fins at a forty-five-degree angle so he can read, on the left fin, the word ARIZ, and on the right, the letters ANG. Not thirty feet below, a dark F- floats like a manta ray. He could see the color of the pilots eyes if the pilot raised his visor. The fighter plane rises slightly, fuel port open, seeking the boom, as the boom seeks it, the boom wavering in the frigid air, twenty thousand feet above snow, ice, rock. Lying on his stomach, Douglas maneuvers the boom to and fro with the joystick, and then the nozzle finds what its looking for, just behind the F- s cockpit bubble, and locks in place. Two planes are one now, traveling together at four hundred knots, over the craggy roof of Kurdistan.

Engaged, Douglas says into his headset mike. Yes, engaged. Married. Its impossible not to think of sexual imagery, not to imagine the KC- tanker as a gigantic male dragonfly, penetrating its smaller mate, pumping her full.

The F- fighter-jock gives a two-fingered salute: two men, twenty-five feet apart, looking at each other through Plexiglas. Appreciate it if you guys could top me off, the voice drawls. Need about ten grand.

Sorry, Douglas says. Seven is all I can give you. Got four other customers. He gestures at the other fighters, lined up in echelon off the tankers left wing.

Behind him pumps whirr, though he cant hear them through his earphones. This is a silent place, the pod is. Numbers flash on the digital dial, and when they reach seven thousand pounds, he disengages the boom, and the fighter-jock gives another salute and peels off, twin tailfins and swept wings bristling with missiles slicing through the thin blue skies. Douglas goes with him in his heart. Hes where I should be, he thinks as the next F- lines up.

Finally the last one is refueled, slides away, and banks southward.

Thats it, Bob, he radios the tankers pilot. Things are informal in the Arizona Air National Guarda crew sergeant can call a captain by his first name.

Okay, Doug. The Diamondheads are done for the day. Diamondheads is the nickname of their outfit, the st Air Refueling Wing. Saddam Hussein is contained once again! And its back to another fun-filled night in magical Incirlik. Cmon up.

He crawls out of the pod and into the belly of the aircraft, past the rest of the crewradar operators, mission specialistsand into the cockpit, where Bob Mendoza is commencing his turn back to Turkey. Lou Engleman, the copilot, is talking to flight operations in Incirlik.

War is hell, Bob remarks, turning halfway around in his seat, his captains bars two black stripes on his desert tan flight suit. Three days and a wake-up and home to Phoenix. By the time I get to Phoenix, shell be waiting, he sings. Shell be horny too, I hope. Are we empty, Doug?

Not a drop left, he replies, his glance falling covetously on the yoke in Bobs hands, on the throttles and the instrument array. Altitude thirty thousand. Airspeed four hundred eighty knots. Engine parameters normal. In a little while hell be able to fly this airborne gas station, if the National Guard will let him, which it wont. Hes well into commercial flight school back home and will soon have his multiengine rating.

I got the scores from the tower, Engleman says. Cardinals lost again. Twenty to seven.

They shoulda stayed in St. Louis, Bob declares, shaking his head.

Triple A! A voice screams into their headset. Repeat! Triple A airburst! A second voice: You got em? It was the fighter squadron theyd just refueled.No! Whoa! SAM launch now. SAM missile launch! Second voice: Got em. Off to the right, right!

Holy shit, the real deal, Bob says. Doug, get on back, tell me if you see anything. This honey is a big flying target, a big ole X for Saddams boys.

Douglas bounds out of the cockpit, too excited to be scared, and on through the crowded interior, nearly bowling over a lieutenant, and swings himself back into the pod, his window to the world. Another SAM! one of the voices shouts. More triple A! And he sees, miles to the south, a black cloud of flak appear in the clear heavens, and another, and a third, blooming like an evil flower. A bright ball streaks upward, trailing vapor that fades. Two more, and the bug-size specks of the F- s peel off to dive. Their missiles flash.

Hows it look, Doug? Bob asks him.

He doesnt answer right away. Hes captivated. Its all somehow beautiful. The clear sky, the white mountains, the flashes and dark billows appearing and vanishing.

Some flak, maybe three SAMs that I saw, he answers, trying to sound laconic and calm. Didnt hit anything.

Firing blind. Wont turn their radar on, or theyd get nailed before they pulled the triggers.

The radio goes silent. The skies are empty once again. Its over.

Okay, folks, Bob announces to the crew. A little antiaircraft, maybe five SAMs, all out of range. Were all right.

Douglas remains in the pod, face pressed to the glass, heart banging against the floor. He wants to see it all again. He doesnt want it to be over.

With thanks to my wife, Leslie, for her advice and patience through a project that took more than four years; to Asya Muchnik for her superb translation work, and to Patrick Butler, Dale Roark, and Heather Stewart, for their stories and insights.

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A . KNOPF

Copyright 2005 Philip Caputo

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Distributed by Random House, Inc., New York.
www.aaknopf.com
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Caputo, Philip.
Acts of faith / by Philip Caputo.
p. cm.
eISBN 1-4000-4491-X
1. Human rights workersFiction. 2. AmericansSudanFiction. 3. ConspiraciesFiction. 4. ViolenceFiction. 5. SudanFiction. I. Title.
PS 3553. A 625 A 626 2005
813.54dc22 2004048982

v1.0

All things have I seen in the days of my vanity: there is a just man that perisheth in his righteousness, and there is a wicked man that prolongeth his life in his wickedness. Be not righteous over much... Why shouldest thou destroy thyself?... For God shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether it be good, or whether it be evil.

Ecclesiastes

It seemed to him that every conviction, as soon as it became effective, turned into that form of dementia the gods send upon those they wish to destroy.

Joseph Conrad, Nostromo

Whoever tries to turn angel turns beast.

Pascal

PERMISSIONS ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material.

BUG Music: Excerpts from Pride And Joy and Love Struck Baby written by Stevie Ray Vaughan. Copyright 1985 by Ray Vaughan Music (ASCAP)/administered by BUG. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of BUG Music.

Universal Music Publishing Group: Excerpt from Texas Flood by Larry Davis and Joseph Scott. Copyright 1958, 1986 by Universal-Duchess Music Corporation/BMI. International copyright secured. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of Universal Music Publishing Group.

Douglas

It is the day after his fifteenth birthday, and he is in his room with a pencil and spiral notebook, writing down six goals he is to achieve in the coming year. This exercise has been ordered by his father to sharpen his mental discipline and give him a sense of direction. He did poorly in his freshman year at the public high school he attended here in Tucson; next month he will be packed off to a rigorous boarding school a continent awayMilton Academy, his fathers alma mater. Dad had to pull strings to get him in, but he is being admitted on condition that he repeat ninth grade, an experience Douglas is not looking forward to.