Flight to Heaven (21 page)

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Authors: Dale Black

Tags: #Afterlife, #Biography & Autobiography, #Nonfiction, #Personal Memoir, #Retail

BOOK: Flight to Heaven
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Frozen in disbelief, Steve can barely think, barely speak, barely move.
“Wait! I have contact. Ground contact!” Steve shouts while pointing. “There’s a road, a parking lot—straight ahead. Speed one-twenty-nine, V-Ref plus two.”
I tear my eyes from the instruments again to see us flying just above the blurring desert. Ahead and barely visible is a paved surface that is as dark as the back side of the moon. There are no familiar lines, numbers, or stripes on the pavement, but there it is, a solid surface, the lights of our jet now shining all over it. Not water, not sand—a solid surface.
Steve winces again and screams, “Abort! Vehicles on the runway. Abort!”
My eyes dart from side to side along the makeshift runway and find it lined with a dozen military vehicles.
“We’re landing, Steve.”
I don’t have the time to look at everything going on outside, but in my split-second view I see military jeeps loaded with soldiers in full battle gear, half-tracks, and other military vehicles. They are scrambling all over the place.
They better get out of the way,
I silently demand as I prepare to bring the jet gently onto the solid surface. Still concerned about fuel, I try to assure myself.
Just another few seconds, and we’ll be OK
.
I feel the wheels greet the long-awaited surface, transferring the full weight of the jet from the wings to the landing gear. In that instant my fear throttles down with the engines. My index finger flips a small toggle switch, and spoilers rise above the wings. Panels deploy, adding drag and killing much of the remaining lift. With the palm of my hand resting on top of both thrust levers, I smoothly and quickly pull upwards and aft on the reverse thrust levers, and two jet engines scream again into high rpm. The aircraft’s frame vibrates and shudders from nose to tail as engine thrust is directed forward, helping slow the jet. A sudden applause erupts behind me, coming from the passengers in the cabin, no doubt expressing their relief and joy at the answer to their prayers.
I try to maintain smoothness in controlling the aircraft, but my concerns for a smooth deceleration dissolve in an instant as Steve points, shouting: “Stop! They’ve blocked the runway. Emergency stop!”
Abruptly yanking the reverse thrust levers even farther back while slamming on the wheel brakes with my toes, I hear everything loose in the cabin crashing against the closed cockpit door. The Learjet skids to a halt, stopping cold, just a few feet from two combat readied military vehicles, each brimming with soldiers.
Almost in shock, my trembling hand reaches for and sets the parking brake. Instinctively, I study the fuel gauges, curious to know how little fuel remains. An involuntary chill shudders through my body. With adrenaline racing, Steve’s eyes and mine lock for a second, then we look away, shaking our heads, neither of us saying a word.
We made it. Thank God, we made it.
 
I take a deep breath and expel it loudly. As I sit motionless in the cockpit, I am amazed as dozens of tall black fully armed soldiers in battle fatigues scurry into position and surround our aircraft, all wielding rifles that are pointing directly at me. Steve stares in disbelief. In the center and on top of each vehicle is a single-barreled 50-caliber machine gun, each manned by two towering soldiers, again, pointing directly into the cockpit.
My mind is racing for options as I bring the throttles to cut-off, starving the engines of what little fuel remains. Both engines spool down, and finally . . . it’s over.
This flight is now at an end.
But as I peer down the barrels of manned rifles and machine guns . . .
I realize another adventure has just begun.
21
 
ADVENTURES OF FAITH
 
Powerful lights from every direction
light up our jet, almost turning the night into day. It feels as if we are on a Hollywood movie set with the lights blaring, the cameras running, and everyone cued for action.
We are on the ground, half a world away from home. But on precious pavement. And no one has been injured—yet. The thought crosses my mind of the tragic irony—to narrowly escape disaster by landing on unlighted pavement in central Africa, only to be machine-gunned to death by soldiers who misunderstand our purpose.
“Take over the aircraft operations, OK? Keep passengers inside and calm. Release the parking brake when the
After Landing Checklist
is done, and caution on battery power.”
Steve sits shivering with fear. “What are
you
going to do?”
“Talk. And follow instructions.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks. I’ll be back.”
My heart is racing as I open the top half of the passengers’ cabin door and shield my eyes from the intense lights; I notice that the rifles follow me. The twenty-five to thirty soldiers I can see are wielding weapons pointing directly at my heart and head. The soldiers are backlit, and it’s hard to see their faces, but it’s clear that each vehicle is equipped with enough firepower to start a small war.
As usual I have no planned speech. I simply pray silently as I have done thousands of times before.
God, Your Word says You’ll give me the words to speak when needed . . . so give me those words now . . . please.
I open the lower half of the door and exit the aircraft alone. Dressed in full uniform, I slowly raise my hands, indicating I am unarmed and submissive; I speak so calmly that even I am surprised.
“Please, don’t shoot. We are here to help. We bring the love of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, to the African continent.”
I have never said anything like that before, and the words just tumble from my lips. I wonder if they’ve heard me . . . understood me.
What language do they speak here?
I ask myself.
Suddenly, a spotlight from one of the military vehicles turns in my direction, jarring and blinding me. Then, in the most official and distinguished use of the English language I have heard since my last visit to London, comes a commanding voice.
“Why did you land at this airport? No one is permitted to land here. This airport is closed.”
With my hands still high in the air, I respond, “Sir, I am so sorry to ask this question, believe me, and I’m embarrassed at the same time. But where are we? Is this Lusaka?”
There is a pause. Some of the soldiers look at each other, then look back at me.
His voice booms. “Yes, Lusaka International Airport. The capital of Zambia. This airport is closed to all civilian aircraft. The runway is being repaved. It has been closed for many months.”
“Sir,” I reply, deferring to his authority, “will you allow me to reach into my left jacket pocket and pull out a simple piece of paper that we believe gave us permission to land here? Sir, I am unarmed and would never try to hurt anyone. We have flown many miles, all the way from America to visit your wonderful country. Maybe we can offer some assistance.”
Although no permission is officially granted, I slowly move my right hand into my uniform jacket. The soldiers’ rifles follow my every move with eager fingers on the triggers.
“When we left the United States, we were given written permission to land here in Lusaka.”
With the flight plan in my hand, I carefully open it, revealing its contents to my captors.
“Walk forward with your hands above your head.”
As I do, I become increasingly amazed with each step. I see a sight I will never forget. Approaching the soldiers, I become aware of how small a person I truly am. The soldiers tower over me as if they are part of an NBA team. No one in the group appears less than six and a half feet tall. A couple of them have to be over seven feet.
I focus on the leader of the group, smile at him, and slowly extend my hand. I am relieved as an ever-so-slight smile creeps across his face. Some of the guns are lowered. From somewhere in the crowd a few soldiers chuckle. A couple of dozen soldiers then huddle together and begin to converse. To my relief, the group seems to have relaxed. Then an unexpected announcement from the leader.
“You must all go to jail,” we are told. “Now.”
“Sir, in all due respect, I am the one responsible for landing here. They”—I point to the passengers in the aircraft—“are not to blame in any way.”
“Get everyone off the airplane. Leave your things. You will walk to jail.”
“Walk to jail?”
The passengers deplane, and we are ushered on foot down the airport taxiway.
I wonder what awaits us. I assume we will never see the personal belongings we are leaving behind. But I don’t care. I am glad to be safe on the ground. Beyond that, I don’t know what to expect.
Eventually our walk brings us to the edge of the airport, where a guard tower stands sentry on the perimeter of a barbed-wire fence with searchlights glaring down at us. A few dozen soldiers surround the building, all wearing green woolen uniforms and matching caps with red bands, toting rifles and tugging at taut leashes that hold German shepherds barking and bearing angry teeth. It reminds me of a scene from a World War II movie. Except there are no stunt doubles!
As the soldiers check our passports and luggage, I ask one of them, “Why are there no lights in your city? In fact, the whole country seems to have no lights at night. Why?”
“Our country has security problems. The whole country is blacked out at night.”
Nearer to the terminal I see old, rusting vehicles around the buildings that seem to be throwbacks to an earlier, bygone era.
We are told we can’t do anything but stay in jail until the general comes the next day to determine our fate. In the meantime, some of the passengers settle into chairs for the night. Others find other places to sit and rest.
The “jail” is actually a guarded terminal building that has been secured and used as a holding area. Many of the soldiers have living quarters in a portion of this same building. We are allowed to mingle and talk to the troops within the confines of the building.
Before long, several of us get acquainted with some of the soldiers. We talk about music, sports, language, where they were born, things like that. Then we meet several of the wives who live on the compound with their soldier husbands. I am six feet tall, and not one woman is shorter than I am. It’s surprising. And remarkably, it’s fun. Everyone speaks such proper English that at times I’m a little embarrassed at how undignified we Americans sound.
It’s amazing. Ever since Joel Green, I haven’t had to worry about what to say to people when it comes to spiritual things. I’ve learned to just smile, listen to God, and answer the questions I am asked.
The whole world is thirsty for unconditional love. Only God can provide that. My job, I’ve come to learn, is not to provide the water but simply to point the way to the well—the well of Living Water that God offers each of us through a relationship with His Son, Jesus Christ.
My encounter with the soldiers is no different from the one I had with Joel Green in the hospital bed next to me. The conversations start with a simple introduction. After that all I do is answer questions, pointing the way to the well.
One of the passengers and I walk over to one of the soldiers who is standing alone, guarding the building. “Hello,” we say with a smile. “What is your name?”
“Mwelwa.”
We shake hands. “My name is Dale. I’m glad to meet you. So, Mwelwa, where were you born?”
“Ndola is where I was born.”
“Where is that?”
“A little north of here.”
We continue talking, genuinely interested in this man’s life. We ask about his family, his interests, and gradually get acquainted with him.
“Mwelwa,” I say. “What’s the most important thing in your life?”
He seems surprised by my question, and before he answers, I ask him another question: “Do you know Jesus? I mean, He is the most important thing to me, Mwelwa, but do you know Him? Do you know Jesus Christ as your personal Savior?”
“Well, no, I don’t think so.”
“Mwelwa, if you died tonight—you do know that someday you will die; I will die. Everyone will, right?” He nodded. “So, Mwelwa, if you were to die tonight, do you know for sure that you would spend eternity with God in heaven?”
“No.”
“Would you like to know that?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Mwelwa, the Bible says that there is only one way. . . .”
For the next several hours we have one conversation like that after another, soldier after soldier, wife after wife, on into the wee hours of the morning. By dawn almost all the soldiers and their wives have come to Jesus, praying for forgiveness and receiving the free gift of eternal life. Just as with the woman at the well, it all starts with a simple conversation. One thing leads to another, and all things lead to the well where Jesus is waiting with a cup of Living Water.

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