loudspeakers. Everything was simplified, war-movie dialogue for the whooping and hollering masses. The crowd hit their loudest pitch when the South African pilot stumbled forth from the tree line and his orange marker smoke, waving to the arriving Guardian Angels, shouting, “Thank God you’re here.”
LB got to him first. He set the pilot on the grass to take a look at his pretend injuries. Jamie, Doc, Quincy, and Wally shielded LB inside a picket of raised rifles facing four directions. Wally got on the ground-to-air freq, again amplified to the thousands of onlookers, to call in the South African Air Force chopper for evac.
LB laid a hand across the pilot’s shoulder. To the clapping crowd, this surely looked reassuring.
“I got something for you here, buddy.”
LB dug into his ruck, past the ice packs. He handed the pilot a cold beer.
The pilot, a meaty Afrikaans named Marius, took off one of his boots. For no reason LB could guess, the man dumped a whole Castle Lager into it.
Marius held the boot out for LB to drink. Around the bistro table, Doc, Quincy, and Jamie leaned back in their chairs, away from the offered boot. At tables nearby on the restaurant patio, others paid attention. LB shook his head.
“Dude.”
Marius waggled the boot as if the thing itself insisted.
“Drink. It’s an honor.”
“It’s a shoe.”
“You’re in my country, man. This is for you.”
LB pivoted to ask a South African marine seated at his back.
“This a joke? Is he messing with me?”
“No, man. This is shit we do. Go ahead.”
LB reached for the boot. He sniffed for the smell of foot, but all he got was the sloshing fizz of beer. Doc, Jamie, and Quincy looked amazed as LB raised the laces and leather tongue to his face, one hand under the rubber heel. Marius seemed pleased, but his pleasure was more about getting his way than imparting a tribute.
LB guzzled the boot. The taste was just beer. The three PJs around him clapped; he’d done it for them, and they had no intention of doing the same. LB handed the wet shoe back to Marius, who wordlessly slipped it over his bare sock. The pilot made a fist bump with LB and a little exploding sound, then looked around for their waitress, impatient. Marius stood and nodded down over LB, bestowing some benediction; LB had passed a test of his. The big man left the table to fetch the third round from the bar. It wasn’t his turn to buy; he refused to take turns. He’d bought all the beers for LB, Doc, Quincy, and Jamie.
LB settled back in his plastic chair, unsure if he’d been initiated or duped. Either way, the patio at Eastwoods sparkled, the tony neighborhood of Pretoria shined. The South Africans on the sidewalks or drinking around LB were a handsome bunch, black and white. Lots of reflecting glass in the modern architecture, green spaces, clean streets, trendy shops, and fashion-conscious people strolling made the place look more like San Francisco than the old home of apartheid.
This trip was LB’s third African Aerospace Defense Expo (AADE) in seven years. Wally and Doc had been with him for each, but this was the first for Jamie and Quincy. The annual air show had become a sizeable event. All the big players wanted a piece of South Africa, the leading economy on the continent. China had a major presence at this year’s AADE, so did the Russians and French. The United States had brought six aircraft down from Camp Lemonnier in Djibouti—four C-130s and a pair of F-16s—plus a hundred aerospace contractors and the GA team. A dozen nations’ militaries held sway at Eastwoods this glistening afternoon, an array of flight suits, camos, berets, and ranks painted the patio. Wally was somewhere in this kaleidoscope, schmoozing.
With Marius gone for a minute, LB swirled a finger around the table to invoke the team’s attention.
“Did Wally tell you?”
Quincy flattened his big mitts on the metal table, rattling the dozen empty bottles.
“Yeah. And I think