smiles. “Someone’s making that sound.”
“Likely,” Mull says, and the sadness remains in his blue Superman eyes.
Ahead, through the glass, the second brown van with a second trailer is parking near the plane. Philip watches as the driver’s-side door opens and the driver steps down to the tarmac. He walks to the back of the van.
Back to the photo. The Namib. He reads the notes:
Sand seas. White gravel plains. Mountains. A perpetual layer of mist where the Benguela Current and the Hadley Cell meet.
“A lot of fog,” Philip says.
Mull agrees.
“Good thing your mission is to listen.”
They’ve reached the plane. The driver parks the van. Through the glass, Philip sees a second soldier emerging from the open side door of the second van. Mull points.
“There’s Lovejoy now.”
A dark silhouette with patches of wiry blond hair partially protecting a balding head emerges through the open sliding door. Slumped shoulders. Heavy feet. He looks something like a musician himself, Philip thinks. An old and tired bluesman.
“Is he gonna be okay out there?” Larry says. “Could be a lot of walking.”
Mull watches Lovejoy, too. It’s hard not to. Philip recognizes that there’s something immediately magnetic about the man. The physical makings of an army rogue, a legend. Perhaps it’s the fact that he looks nothing like a legend at all.
“He’ll be fine,” Mull says.
The Danes and Secretary Mull exit the van. The drivers of both vehicles and the pilots of the small plane assist in transferring the gear from the trailers. It’s a long process. And despite the warm air, Lovejoy rests on a brown suitcase, crouched upon it, a scarf wrapped over his shoulders.
“Jesus,” Ross says, thumbing toward Lovejoy. “We’re going to have vultures circling us out there.”
“He looks like a vulture himself,” Larry says.
A third van appears, speeding. The Danes watch its arrival silently. As the last of the gear is loaded onto the plane, the third van parks and two soldiers emerge from the sliding side door.
One, small and squat, with glasses and short black curly hair, struts with confidence toward the others. The second, tall, thin, smiling, his brown hair blown back by the wind, pulls a camera from a case slung over his shoulder.
He snaps a photo of the Danes on the tarmac.
“A rock and roll band,” the photographer says, “about to deploy.” He extends his hand. Philip shakes it. “I’m Private Stein. Jonathan Stein. And I’m excited as hell to meet you guys. Mind if I get a close-up?”
The Danes are used to photo requests. It’s common in Detroit.
“Could be our next album cover,” Ross says.
“Oh, hey,” Stein says. “Don’t even joke about that. I would be thrilled.”
“Photos are bad luck,” Private Greer says, wiping his glasses clean.
“Oh yeah?” Stein says, smiling, bringing the camera to his eye. “Says who?”
The Danes look into the lens.
“Some cultures believe that when you take a photo, you’re saying this period, this phase, is over with,” Greer explains. “So if you enjoy your life as it is, mourn. Because now it will be as it was.”
Stein snaps the group photo.
Lovejoy rises from the suitcase.
“Gentlemen,” Mull says, clasping his hands together. “All aboard.”
Ellen watches from the doorway. She’s carrying a tray of food: vegetables, bread, tomato soup, water; lunch. She’d planned on entering with a joke, something spirited to liven Philip’s day, but when she sees him, she pauses.
It’s the classical music, she thinks. The phonograph in the main office, just down the hall from Unit 1. The music is soothing, of course, but Philip, who is healing from so many broken bones, doesn’t need soothing.
He needs a push.
Ellen steps from the door just as Philip’s eyes seem to be straining to see who is in the hall. She carries the lunch tray to the office, enters, and places it upon the closest desk.
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