CHAPTER TWELVE The Boys Are Back in Town Afghanistan, 2001 THE COLORS BEHIND MY EYEBALLS are clearing. Mickey and Doug, my Canadian fellow stowaway, are already out and walking round the plane, Mickey stopping and idly kicking the giant plane’s twenty wheels one after the other, with a roll-up on the go and a look of quiet satisfaction. I can’t stand up without wanting to puke. Doug is having his own difficulties. “Holy shit! Hey, Mickey! You’d better look at this, the tires on your landing gear are looking pretty thin.” “Let me see. You think those tires are thin? No. No. That’s not thin.” “What … come on, man, I can see metal! Are you gonna change them?” “No, no. Why should we change the tires? We will change them when they burst.” “You … oh, Jesus. And when do they burst?” “Hmm. Usually when we land.” It’s vintage Mickey. At least fourteen of the Il-76’s giant tires are in the advanced stages of dangerous baldness, melting away or shredded to ribbons, but the pennywise logic of the small business says they’ll make it just one more flight before they all blow out on touchdown.
