Introductions
Who: Ben and Magda
Where: Somewhere over Europe
When: Day
What: Introductions

Magda lit another cigarette. They weren't serving drinks on this flight, a critical oversight in her view, so she would have to make due with her rapidly diminishing pack of Chesterfields. The aircraft hit another pocket of turbulence, and the turboprop engines let out a sputtering hack, as if they had a cold.

Ben was sitting near a half-ajar door, holding an oversized tape recorder and speaking into it. When he was finished, he shut it off and placed it back into his backpack. And then, holding onto a rail on the side of his seat to keep balance, he moved through the plane and found a seat next to Magda. He removed a cigarette and placed it in his mouth when one of the soldiers on the plane shouted over the rattling of the plane, "No smoking here. Fuselage issues."

Ben smiled a half-cocked grin and put the cigarette back into his front pocket. "No smoking," he commented to Magda, trying to make conversation. "Painful for a trip this long. Where'd they pick you up? I've been flying from Spain for hours now."

She took a long drag on her cigarette, tapped her ashes into an empty paper cup that balanced on her armrest, but made no move to stamp out the cigarette. "France. Who's idea was it to make planes out of scrap wood? This thing’s a soapbox derby with wings."

"An enterprising industrialist, no doubt. We've got all that wood, we should put it to use." Ben looked longingly at Magda's cigarette. He lowered his voice and said, "I heard a rumor about another one of these Caravans just split open over the Ocean and dumped its cargo out. An unfortunate way to go." He tapped his fingers against the armrest nervously. The armrest, as if in response, rattled along with the rest of the plane.

"I've got a theory about that." Magda offered her new friend the lit cigarette.

Ben took a clandestine tug at the cigarette and secretly blew the smoke out the corner of his mouth - on the opposite side of the plane, away from the soldier's view. He passed it back. "Thanks," he said. "Let's hear it."

"Someone out there wants us dead, so they stuck us on this deathtrap to make it look like an accident." She pointed off to the soldier. "That guy, the kill-joy, he told one too many people to quit smoking." The hand she used to point turned into a mime-gun. "Pow."

Ben chuckled. "Morbid, but I wouldn't discount it. Either that, or they just aren't willing to foot the bill for a real plane." He squinted his eyes in mock fury at the soldier, but his smile gave away his real feelings - he was more amused than angry. "Before we start talking mutiny, figure I better introduce myself." He offered Magda his hand. "Name's Rapp. You can call me Ben."

Her hand gripped his and gave it a firm, well-practiced shake. "Horowitz, Magda."

"Magda. You're German?" Rapp asked.

"No, I'm American." She took another drag from the cigarette and looked out the window.

"No frets. I wouldn't hold it against you either way. I'm not military, and all blood bleeds red as far as I'm concerned," Rapp said. "Jaw breaks the same way against any fist, but I'm being crude in front of a lady, so you'll have to forgive me. I saw you asking a soldier about alcohol earlier. I've got a little bourbon left if you want to finish it with me."

"Please. I don't mind being stuck in a deathtrap derby box, but it's cruel to make us do it sober." She offered the cigarette to him again. "Being a lady is overrated."

Rapp pinned the cigarette against the corner of his mouth and used his free hands to dig out his bourbon. He unscrewed the cap and poured a shot into it. He passed it over to Magda and then, finally, took a pinch on the cigarette and inhaled deeply. "I'd suggest a toast but I don't bloody well know what I'd be toasting to," he said after exhaling. He snorted and some smoke drifted out of his nostrils.

She mulled it over a moment, and then held the shot aloft. "To flying: Being able to throw yourself at the ground and miss."

"I'd drink to that. Or to the warfront, digging the Grand Old USA out of the depression one bullet after another. And giving us all wonderful work abroad. Quite a life - I met the great Hemingway a few months ago in a bar in Seville." He took the cap back, trading it for the cigarette, filled it again and took a drink. Only a shallow amount of liqueur remained in the bottom of the bottle. "Figure I should ask you, Miss Horowitz, what do you do?" Ben asked.

"Mrs. Horowitz, and I'm with the Army. Serving my country, like a good American." Magda tapped a few more ashes into her makeshift ashtray. "I could ask the same question of you. You're on a military transport, but unless I'm much mistaken, you don't look like the soldier type."

"My apologies, Mrs. Horowitz. And your eyes don't deceive you. Before joining this outfit I was a card carrying member of our Press. No more, though. Now my soul belongs to Uncle Sam. Even though my liver belongs to Wild Turkey." He closed up the bottle and replaced the little alcohol left back into his backpack. "Which may explain my nosy questions. Afraid it's a bad habit I need to break."

"I don't mind. There's no crime in asking questions. I rather think this war might not have gotten this far if only more people had asked more questions sooner."

"Ah, but then I'd still be in the Bronx, and that sort of thing wouldn't be good for anyone. Least for me," Ben said. He cupped his hands behind his head and leaned back in the airplane seat. "So this sort of secrecy protocol normal in the military? This is my first jaunt."

"That would depend on which part of the military you're dealing with.”

"What part are we dealing with?"

"The scary part." Magda stamped out her cigarette.