ALL IN: Race for the White House (15 page)

“I’m calling now.”
 

I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door, “Bud, I’ll call you from the plane.”

“Okay, Jack.”

The office was suddenly so quiet you could hear a pin drop. I focused my eyes straight ahead. I hadn’t noticed - our elevator door was Nickel colored with a thick black T across the front top to bottom. I headed straight for it without looking back; I pushed the button several times as if that would bring the car faster.
 

The office was a 15-minute ride from Reagan depending on traffic. I figured I’d go to the hangar, wait on the plane and call the doctor. I didn’t want to wait even five more minutes in the office. Everything seemed like a distraction now. On the way to the airport, I tried to clear the clutter from my mind…

My thoughts turned to my amazing mother, a caring soul who
always
wanted to help. She had a special sensitivity toward others. I learned true compassion through her eyes. Now Mom, she didn’t mind spoiling us a little. Even finding the time and patience to explain things my dad would consider required only a yes or no. I was fortunate to grow up witnessing her gentle kindness first hand. Her encouragement has taken me a long way in life.

When I was young, my mother was inspired to volunteer our family to go on a missionary trip to Africa. Our church organized a group to help build a school at an orphanage.
 

Every night at the supper table, we talked about the trip and what we planned to do once we got there. What I remember most are the children’s smiles on the film shown every Sunday. It felt good to be one of the families preparing for the trip. People patted my dad on the back, shook my hand and told us we were doing something wonderful.
 

My dad was a tough-minded businessman who had owned a canning factory. He made a fortune selling rations to the military then sold the business. When I was young, my dad bought a large ranch, where he took up horse racing.
 

I marked each day off the calendar as we counted down for our trip.
 

We were too excited to sleep and awoke early the day of our mission. After a quick breakfast, we jumped into the car preloaded with our luggage and headed for the airport. We spent most of the day flying. My parents were tossing and turning trying to fall asleep, but I was exhilarated staring out at a sea of clouds.
 

When our Delta Yellow Bird arrived in Johannesburg, my parents were exhausted. Looking out I saw an old beat up bus that pulled up beside us. I felt pressure as the cabin door opened and heard movement below my feet. Our baggage was offloaded from the cargo bins and workers were setting it alongside a stairway rolled up to the cabin door.
 

Dad motioned to my brother and me to start moving our gear next to the bus. He was hollering out instructions nobody could hear over all the noise. Three men from our church stood idly by having a smoke while two wiry local guys quickly climbed onto the top of the bus. A double row of rusty steel bars served as a roof rack. Dad and some guy from the orphanage started handing trunks and suitcases up to them.
 

My brother and I ran happily back and forth lugging bags making a pile of them, some so heavy I had to drag them across the tarmac. The ground was so hot I could feel the heat through the soles of my sneakers. Mom walked beside Roger and me slathering sunscreen on our white faces and necks, I’d never felt sun so bright it could sting my skin. Bags strapped down and tied together, we boarded the rickety green bus. It, like everything else in Africa, seemed to be a rotten throw away from America limping along on its second life. The few kids sat three to a seat while the adults sat wherever they could. Some of the men made the best of it by standing up holding onto our seats. The dark green vinyl was ripped and frayed beyond repair -- chunks of cushion torn away, completely missing in sections.
 

The road was hard from drought making the ride bumpy along the pothole dotted route. The men who had been smoking and my dad were doing their best to balance. I could see dry dirt and gravel through light filled holes in the floor and a long dust cloud trailing us through the cracked back window. The airport had the last pavement we would see for a while.
 

Dad told someone the area was much worse than he’d expected. He said it looked war-torn as we passed through the villages. I could taste dust from two jeeps kicking it up as they escorted us on the one and a half hour journey through the countryside.
 

We were hot and uncomfortable. It was the thirstiest I had ever been in my life. My mouth felt dry and gritty; I tried to roll my tongue over my teeth and swallow hard to clear my throat. I expected to see lions and elephants since I heard they lived there too. We saw plenty of people, but no animals. Everyone was disgusted and upset by what we saw. Tin roofed shacks passing for homes and dozens of thin children running after the bus as we passed. My brother and I plugged our noses from the strange stench cast over the villages.
 

It was the day my dad, holding my face tight to his chest, tried to shield my eyes from the most horrible sight. A cruel soldier, killing a helpless child, with the butt end of a rifle. I managed to peek through a space between his arms left open because he didn’t want to squeeze me too tight.
 

As Dad was about to jump out of the bus the young driver held him back by the shoulders. ‘You don’t want to go doing that man.’ He warned everyone to remain on the bus or risk being thrown into prison or worse. I remember him mumbling, ‘you ain’t gonna change Africa my friends.’ Then he spoke up, ‘the child was going to die anyway or he wouldn’t have approached these men.’
 

Dad told Mom if he’d brought his rifle he would have shot them all. Desperate with fear, she pleaded with him to be quiet. Later, I overheard him speaking low to one of the organizers that he would enjoy killing people who stole food from orphans. He said the U.S. should invade this hell hole and set things right; he might have gotten his wish had there been any oil there.
 

Once we got to the orphanage, things weren’t so bad. When the headmaster came out to greet us, Dad launched into a tirade about what we had seen and told her we needed to call the embassy or take some kind of action. She placed her hand into his and took him aside. The rest of us strained to hear what she could possibly say to calm a man who had witnessed great inhumanity. Her voice was quiet, almost faint as she stared up into my father’s eyes, shaking her head back and forth. Holding both his hands, she gently brought him into her world and calmed him down. He looked almost relaxed when she walked him back to the rest of the group.
 

Her name was Becca, she was a small lady with long brown hair and weathered skin. Her late forties eyes looked tired, but when she looked at me, I saw something different. Her gentle soul had a sparkle and I felt an immediate love for her, the kind I felt for my mother. She embraced each one of us with a soft long hug and blessed us for coming. After everyone was introduced, she showed us around the small three building compound. As we walked over the dry packed earth, Becca told us her story. She had come from the United States with a middle-aged couple from her church to help for one month. When they arrived, they found the orphanage in trouble and the children were running out of food and supplies. Becca was asked to stay long enough for the husband and wife to go back to the United States and arrange for emergency aid. She never heard from the couple again, but other missionaries came. Becca fell in love with the children and ended up devoting her young life to them. She never married and the orphans became her family.

Becca gave us the best they had and we got plenty of rice, beans, and plantains to eat. There was water to drink, but nothing cold. The kids usually got at least breakfast and lunch even though we were told there was never any meat. Each child had a small space beside a triple bunk for a few clothes. There were a couple of toys and some coloring books and crayons, but not much else. The children kept everything well organized and took great pride in their things, nothing like our rooms back home with full toy boxes jam-packed with last year’s presents.
 

The military confiscated part of the food shipments headed for the orphanage and any meat sent. The missionaries did their best to fund raise in Europe and the United States to make sure basic needs were met. The people outside the orphanage were starving; at least the children living inside had something. The soldiers we saw were all fat, happy, and content to leave Becca and the orphans to themselves. They allowed the visits from outsiders as long as they first picked through anything the missionaries brought with them.
 

Our church volunteered to build a twenty by forty-foot structure of cinder block to serve as a school for about thirty children. The local strong-arm government kept a strict limit on the number of children allowed to live at the orphanage and threatened prison and hard labor for anyone who broke the law.
 

The day we arrived, the organizers warned us we probably wouldn’t get everything accomplished that we planned. African pace and progress was slow and difficult for Westerners to understand. They cautioned us not to get discouraged and to keep in mind the main reason we were there - to let the kids know and the soldiers see - people cared. As much as we would like to finish the work, the probability was other missionaries would someday finish what we started.
 

My father was the type of guy who liked to jump right in and get everybody going; he wanted to roll up his sleeves and get the job done. I think he mainly wanted to burn off some steam by getting busy. We might have completed the school if he’d had his way. The problem was, half way through the project some of our supplies were confiscated. It was heart wrenching. We heard from the driver that the truck carrying framing wood, cement, and food was stopped at a checkpoint a few miles from the orphanage. The military helped themselves to the contents we needed to even think of finishing the school. My dad was so disgusted he tried to reorganize our efforts toward planting a vegetable garden. The organizers told us that water was too scarce; we’d be wasting our time. Water was available for drinking only. I’ll never forget my father getting more frustrated by the day as he settled on patching roofs before the rainy season.
 

Outside the gates, kids would come around begging for food. I noticed one little boy who was lying on the ground against the gate day after day. Even among the poor children, he was left alone. I wanted to be his friend and while he spoke only a few words of English - together we decided his name was Rico.
 

The boy was about ten like me, but only half my weight due to starvation. His dry skin was shriveled from the sun and looked like burnt powder. Rico was so thin I could count all his ribs. I was afraid he was going to die, so every morning I stuffed some of my breakfast into my pockets and went by the gate to feed him. The rusted black iron gates were locked with heavy chains so I had to pass food through to him. One afternoon I snuck into the kitchen and took a small clear bowl of something resembling cream of wheat. I hid it under my shirt and made my way out to where he was lying and placed it in his frail hands. He scooped the bland porridge up with his little fingers and ate it like the finest meal fit for a king. Many memories stayed with us about our trip. I remember getting off the bus trembling from fright, my parents were angry, feeling misled about the danger. The adults were discussing the horror we witnessed. My older brother, Roger, bending down and hugging me. Laying his head on my small shoulder, something he’d never done before.
 

Saying, “Don’t worry, Jackie, it’ll be okay… you’ll see. We’ll be back home before you know it.” It was years later, after
Roger returned from war
he told me what that awful smell had been.
 

I don’t remember the drive over because the next thing I know I’m pulling into the area reserved for private aircraft.
 

The area for corporate and personal jets is separated from the public areas and the staff gets to know you pretty well there. I flashed my ID at the security guard and drove right to the door of hangar number 82. The large overhead door was already open so I pulled in and parked. TenStar leased the large blue Quonset hut shaped hangar area. The building was about 75 feet wide by 120 feet long. Large enough to hold three corporate jets.
 

I’d been in this hangar only twice before, once when Joe Brenner brought me up for a get acquainted flight. I met the pilots, the flight and ground crews. It was fun when Captain Ben, a retired Navy Pilot, let me take the controls.
 

The second time was shortly after the first when I’d surprised Sarah with a flight to Boston. The Gulf Stream 450 is an awesome plane, able to fly Mach .80 and cruise over 4000 nautical miles without refueling. Jets of this type usually hold up to 19 passengers, ours was configured more luxuriously for 12. This plane had been for Joe’s personal use prior to it being loaned to us and it had every conceivable creature comfort. What this jet lost in seats it gained in a galley kitchen and long couch that folded into a queen size bed. There were coordinating tables and six oval curtain covered windows on each side of the fuselage.
 

The crew had gotten Sandy’s call and was preparing the Gulf Stream, the only jet in the hangar when I arrived. One of the guys greeted me and motioned towards the stairs, “Pilots on his way, Sir should be here in fifteen minutes to a half.”
 

“Thanks,” I said ascending the stairway. Entering the plane, I felt lucky it was warm inside - my jacket was no match for the cold and howling wind of a Washington January. Deciding on a seat, I moved to the lone couch up in front, pushed aside a couple accent pillows and sat down.