The 13 th tribe

[52]

The helicopter Owen called “his” was an Egyptian Air Force Mi-8MB Bissektrisa — his for the evening, he’d told Jagger, at a cost of 50,000 LE-roughly $9,000-and “the calling in of long-forgotten favors.”

“The Egyptian military owed you favors?”

“Only some of the top brass.”

Jagger suspected that Owen’s chitchat-while carrying Tyler on the makeshift stretcher to the helicopter, waiting for Gheronda’s meager medical kit, even checking Tyler’s vitals and the compress’s effectiveness-was intended to distract Beth and him from dwelling too long on how all of this might end. Little good it did: the possibility of Tyler’s not pulling through was a black pool of stinking, noxious muck at the bottom of a pit with sloping, crumbling walls. No matter how hard Jagger tried to climb away from it, he always tumbled back in.

Between the far back seats and the pilot chairs was an open area that accommodated the stretcher with room to spare. Tyler lay on his side with Jagger’s folded shirt under his head. Jagger felt naked in a black tee, his prosthetic arm fully exposed. But of course he would spend the rest of his life wandering through cities truly naked if in some truth-or-dare version of the universe it meant saving his son or even merely granting him some measure of comfort and peace.

While they carried Tyler to the helicopter, Beth had rushed back to their apartment for her purse. Now she and Jagger crouched near Tyler’s head. Jagger kept a grip on Tyler’s shoulder, partly to comfort him, partly to hold him still as the helicopter banked and maneuvered through gusts of wind. Beth stroked his face and hair, whispering words of comfort or prayers-although she would argue they were one and the same, Jagger had never been so sure as now that they weren’t. But he wouldn’t begrudge her-or Tyler-access to the one they thought was a loving God. His disagreement was between himself and God.

Owen spun out of the copilot’s chair and knelt beside Tyler. He slapped a palm on Jagger’s back. “The pilot’s called ahead. He’s cleared to land on the hospital’s roof, and they’re prepping an OR. Sharm International, very modern with all the latest technologies and world-renowned doctors. He’ll get the best care.”

The hospital’s credentials didn’t surprise Jagger; Sharm el-Sheikh was a ritzy playground for the rich and famous. What did surprise him was Owen’s timely appearance and their ability to transport Tyler so quickly… “quick” only in relative terms: traveling the single road from St. Catherine’s west to Dahab, then south to Sharm el-Sheikh would have taken a bumpy, excruciating three hours, not counting the innumerable checkpoints. He might have said both Owen and the transport were miracles, blessings, but wasn’t the God who doled out such blessings the very one who had caused their need for them?

Deep inside, he feared that his anger would cause God to withdraw the blessings part of the equation: the helicopter would malfunction; the hospital would be missing an essential supply or piece of equipment or physician; or worse, Tyler wouldn’t hold on long enough to receive the care he needed. That would be consistent with the God Jagger knew: to offer hope, only to snatch it away.

He let loose with a mental scream. This was the kind of thinking that would tick off the Guy Upstairs. If he couldn’t thank him for Owen and his helicopter, then it was best not to think of him at all.

Just take each thing as it comes. It’s a world of defeats and victories, of counterbalances. Things happen, they just happen.

Then Owen started praying. This gun-toting doctor with a penchant for grungy clothing and lax grooming, who racked up favors with Middle Eastern nations and had “seen worse” than Tyler’s gunshot wound, laid his hand on Tyler’s head and chest and prayed. He spoke softly, just above a whisper, but the sincerity and passion some televangelists tried to achieve through fervor and volume he evinced with a surety of words and a tone Jagger could not recall hearing before. More than anything, it spoke of relationship, a connectedness borne of time spent together, of battles won and battles lost, of pleasure and pain, grief and joy, and everything in between.

Jagger was awed by the seeming effortlessness of Owen’s faith. He had slipped into prayer without preamble or apology, without the rolling-up-the-sleeves attitude of so many believers as they approached their time with God. He had flashed the penlight into Tyler’s eyes, smiled, and said, “You’re doing great. You’re a brave young man,” then started praying, as simply as checking a pulse.

A part of Jagger wanted to give Owen a solid shove, scream at him, Don’t you know you’re wasting your time! But a more powerful part said, Yes! Do it! After all, he’d accept help for his son from anyone, anything. He tried to push away the thought that from Owen’s mouth came the words Jagger should have been saying, a heart-aching plea for Tyler’s life. He closed his eyes, clamped his teeth together.

Is that what you want from me? Are you crushing me so low that I have nowhere else to turn? Ain’t going to happen. I know how cruel you are. I know your games.

He felt a tap on his back and jumped. He turned to see the pilot holding up five fingers. Jagger patted Owen. “Five minutes!”

Owen nodded and continued to pray.