by Ward Larsen
“That’s your professional opinion?” asked Evers, his tone laced in sarcasm.
“It is,” said an undeterred Strand.
“Where are we supposed to get that kind of money on short notice?”
“That’s not for me to say, Mr. Evers. One source comes to mind, but there are obvious complications, the likes of which you would understand better than I. The deadline for compliance is noon this Friday.”
“And if we fail to meet it?”
“You saw the message. If the transfer is not completed on schedule, they promise to—how was it worded? Make the truth known to all?”
“How would they make good on such a threat?”
The CEO cocked his head and pursed his lips, as he once might have done to consider which surface battle group to apply to an enemy’s exposed flank. “I would use DNA, send samples simultaneously to a number of media outlets. That would guarantee a race to publication, with limited time for you to plan a preemptive public relations strike. The facts would run their course, and put you immediately on the defensive.”
Evers closed his eyes, imagining that awful scenario. “What kind of samples?” he asked with clear discomfort. “They won’t harm her, will they?”
“Is this a question from you … or your employer?”
“Me.”
The admiral steepled his hands thoughtfully. “I doubt very much they would harm her. There’s no benefit … and safe to say, in time, the possible downside could be significant.”
“Do you see any chance of settling this by more direct means?”
Strand chuckled briefly, but held his bearing. “As in an armed intervention? Delta Force or SEAL Team Six? I don’t see anyone authorizing that. And if you’re thinking of a private venture—it would take a month to plan, and something in the neighborhood of the same seven million.”
Evers wilted in his seat. “We’re paying you a hell of a lot of money, and this is the best advice you can give?”
“We both face limitations, Mr. Evers, you know that. We have one asset presently in theater, the man the NTSB sent. It initially seemed like a good idea, to have someone in country and watching this investigation, but he hasn’t gotten anywhere. The man might be capable in his field, but there can’t be any thought about him getting the girl back. That would be way out of his league. For what it’s worth, we were able to track down the old beggar who delivered the message to Stuyvesant in the soup kitchen. He’s no one, a cul-de-sac. I’m sure there are at least three cutouts. These people are not beginners—they know what they’re doing.”
Evers fumed. “All right, I’ll look into the funds. Assuming I can arrange it, what happens next?”
“If the message is accurate, the rest is simple. We send a man to Colombia to complete the transaction.”
“Who?”
“I have someone in mind.”
Evers stared, unsatisfied.
“His name is Kehoe, if you must know. He’s my best man.”
“All right, I’ll be in touch. Please tell Mr. Kehoe to pack his bags.”
The admiral smiled as the two shook hands. “Chief Petty Officer Kehoe has had a bag packed for twenty years. He uses it often.”
* * *
Reinvigorated by his video session, Davis decided the next thing to attack was the whereabouts of Captain Reyna. He got up and found Marquez still in his office.
“Do we have a TAC-Air flight procedures manual?” Davis asked, his shoulders filling the door’s frame. The room was utilitarian, one desk in the middle, a pair of wooden chairs, and a beaten couch against the wall. A file cabinet anchored one corner, and the walls displayed nothing more than puncture wounds from old nails.
Marquez looked up from his paperwork, none too happy. His uniform was wrinkled and he needed a shave. It was never a good sign in a unit when full colonels started letting themselves go. “Yes, somewhere.” He scanned his office, and finally pointed to a binder on the couch. It was in pile that included an ARJ-35 maintenance manual and a copy of Colombia’s aviation regulations.
Davis took the binder and began leafing through.
“What are you looking for?” asked Marquez.
“A little guidance.”
Marquez frowned and went back to his work.
Davis guessed what he wanted would be in a chapter labeled Regulaciones Piloto. Pilot Regulations. He scanned over twenty pages of rules and company policies, all written in Spanish, before finding what he wanted.
He interrupted Marquez again. “Would you translate one part, right here—” Davis pointed to the section.
Marquez heaved a great sigh, and put on a pair of reading glasses. “All pilots will report to the aircraft at least one hour prior to the scheduled takeoff time. If conditions—”
“Great,” Davis interrupted. “That’s all I needed.”
He tossed the manual back on the couch and returned to the computer where the boarding area video remained cued. Previously he’d viewed the recording as far back as fifty minutes before departure, reasoning that few passengers would arrive before that. But he was no longer looking for passengers. He took the video back one hour and ten minutes, and then let it run in real time. Twelve minutes forward—two minutes late by TAC-Air standards—Captain Blas Reyna and First Officer Hugo Moreno arrived at the gate.
Both pilots were pulling wheeled suitcases with their brain bags—thick leather cases packed with charts and manuals—hooked on back. The man in the captain’s uniform matched the photo of the real Reyna. Using Moreno as a measuring stick, Davis decided the height was also dead on—six foot one. Definitely their missing captain. Not an impostor, and not another pilot who’d traded into the trip. Reyna had been right there at the gate, ready to fly.
“Yes, that is Reyna,” said a voice from behind. Curiosity had gotten the better of Marquez.
Without turning, Davis said, “This puts him at the airplane one hour before departure. From that point, I can’t see any way the flight pushes back from the gate without him. And we know it departed right on time.”
“Which tells us what? That he is a ghost?”
Davis nodded, because Marquez had a point. “Maybe so. If Reyna began the flight, how could he not have been there at the end?” He could think of only one plausible answer. And one way to prove it.
He checked the time, and said, “I’m going back out to the crash site.”
“We are to meet Echevarria soon.”
“Give the major my regrets.”
He had one foot out the door when he glanced over his shoulder and saw Marquez making a phone call.
EIGHTEEN
Davis jumped off the Huey as soon as it touched down and moved with nearly the urgency he’d had the first night. His short hair matted in waves and his shirtsleeves snapped under the chopper’s pulsing downwash, and he set out toward the wreckage field at quick-time.
A thunderstorm had just ended, and by the time he reached the wreckage his cargo pants were sodden from the knees down. Davis was here to inspect the wings, and he began on the starboard side. That assembly was partially detached, rooted to the fuselage by a damaged main spar. Having come to rest upright, the underside of the wing lay flush to the ground, which didn’t suit Davis’ needs. He moved to the port wing, which had separated completely and come to rest near a fallen log. The underside was barely visible in a five-inch gap. Davis needed more than that.
He asked a crew working nearby if a hydraulic jack was available. Yes, he was told, but no one seemed to know where it was. This was the sort of complication often encountered during recovery efforts. Tools were handed from one team to another and invariably got left on a departing truck or lost in high grass. For twenty minutes Davis searched and got nowhere. Frustrated, he spotted a ten-foot section of four-by-four, stout construction-grade lumber, and decided it might do the job.
Aircraft structures are surprisingly light, and wings in particular are a marvel of lightweight engineering. The wings of most airliners are ter
med “wet,” meaning that fuel carriage is integral to their design. When those tanks are empty, the baseline structure weighs only a fraction of the maximum load. Davis reckoned that the wing of this RJ—thirty-odd feet of aluminum and composites, maybe a mile of wires, two tires, and a dozen hydraulic actuators—would weigh in the neighborhood of a thousand pounds. Fortunately, since the wing was resting on the ground, he only needed to lever one edge upward a few feet, far enough to gain access to the underside. Yet even that would require help.
Davis hadn’t had a chance to make good on his promise of a case of rum, so he ruled out asking the army. He recruited two men in Air Force field uniforms, part of Marquez’ contingent, who were loading a truck with luggage extracted from the crumpled cargo hold.
“Can you guys give me a hand? I need to lift something.” The bigger of the two, the one Davis needed, looked at him blankly, clearly not speaking a word of English. Fortunately, the second, a reedy kid in dire need of some dental work, said, “Sure, señor, we help you.”
The ground was soft, the footing slick, and it took ten minutes for them to find the right rock to serve as a fulcrum, and to get their angles right. Davis and the big corporal leaned in with their combined weight, and watched the four-by-four bend under the strain. The wing began to rise, and as it did, the smaller man shoved a toolbox underneath in stages, raising the wing an inch on one heave, and another on the next. Twenty minutes later, with everyone sweating bullets, the leading edge of the port wing was wedged two feet off the ground. The toolbox was backed up by a cinder block taken from the truck, and Davis decided the job was done.
He thanked the two, memorizing their rank and the names embroidered above their shirt pockets. Davis would mention their help later to Marquez, although he wasn’t sure if it would get them an atta-boy or a reprimand. Looking happy to be done, the soldiers walked off to finish their assigned detail, pulling the last pieces of luggage from the wreckage and hauling them off to the clearing where their truck was parked.
Once they were gone, Davis looked around and realized he was alone. It was just as well. What he wanted to check was straightforward, but all the same, he’d be happy to do it without anyone from Marquez’ crew or Echevarria’s police contingent asking questions. He laid down on his back in front of the wing, and like a mechanic sliding under a jacked-up Buick, he pushed with bent legs until the upper half of his body disappeared under the wing. It was dark in the crawl space, and Davis felt cool mud on his back and moist grass against his neck, and smelled the earthen tang of freshly turned soil.
Three feet back he found the inboard landing gear door. A two-foot square piece of aluminum, it had been partially torn from its hinges and was hanging at a forty-five degree angle. A second landing gear door, the outboard, remained flush with the underside of the wing. Davis got a good grip and muscled that panel open, then curled a hand down to retrieve his flashlight from a pocket. Seconds later he had what he’d come for—a good look at the wheels.
The main landing gear on the ARJ-35 was a standard arrangement—one titanium beam supporting a twin-wheel assembly. The tires were similar in size to those of a midsize SUV, the main difference being a significantly higher speed rating. Davis could see the wheels clearly, as well as the brake and anti-skid hardware, and it all looked exactly as it should have. But there was something that shouldn’t have been there.
It was woven into the valves and actuators. It was hanging from support struts and hydraulic lines like tinsel on a Christmas tree. Countless strands of long grass. There was also mud caked symmetrically around the tires and gear assembly. That symmetry was highly significant—it meant the dirt had not been acquired in the crash sequence, because when the airplane hit, the landing gear had been retracted, the wheels not turning. He shone the light up into the landing gear well, and on the metal ceiling Davis saw telltale splash patterns of mud and shredded grass. Two perfect longitudinal arcs on primer-green steel.
All exactly as he’d hoped.
Davis crabbed farther under the wing, until only his shins and feet were in daylight. He reached into his pocket to retrieve his phone, fumbled to select camera mode, and made sure the flash was active. He took ten pictures, and was maneuvering for a last shot when he sensed someone outside.
“What you are doing?” a raspy voice inquired.
Davis twisted his head far enough to see a black boot with a crescent-shaped scar on the heel. “I’m investigating,” he shouted.
The boot spun a full circle.
Davis went back to his camera, and was angling it to take a picture when he thought about it. Why turn a circle at a crash site? He looked again. The boot was gone. Then Davis heard a thump on the wing over his head.
“Hey! Get the hell off—”
The wing rocked, and Davis barely had time to get his elbows to his side and his palms facing upward when everything over him shifted. The two makeshift supports toppled and the wing came crashing down.
NINETEEN
Davis locked his forearms at right angles to stop the wing’s freefall. The weight was crushing and drove his elbows into the dirt, but his arms held, a wheel hovering inches over his nose. His legs scrambled for purchase as he tried to extract himself, but he was pinned under the wing, immobilized like a weightlifter under twice what he could bench press.
“Hey!” he yelled. “Help!” Davis was trying to think of the Spanish word when the wing began to spring up and down. He envisioned the scarred boot and its partner dancing over his head, stomping and heaving.
The wing wavered like a demolished building choosing which way to fall. His arms felt ready to snap. How much had he guessed? A thousand pounds, add the weight of a man—he had to be supporting half that combined weight. Worst of all was the movement, everything swaying erratically.
Davis felt a surge from deep within. It wasn’t a reaction to thirty seconds of desperate exertion, but rather three days of anger and frustration. A rage like nothing he’d ever felt rose within his chest. His arms began to move, slowly at first and then gaining momentum. The wing began to rise, but the boots only stomped harder, slamming down again and again. His arms began to quiver, and for a terrible moment Davis sensed a pause before his arms were locked vertically. He sucked in a quick breath, then heaved the last inches until his arms straightened fully. At that moment everything shifted. The burden suddenly became less, and he heard heavy footsteps running through brush. Receding.
Now what the hell do I do? Arms extended, the wing was frozen two feet over his face.
“Help!” he called again.
His arms began shaking uncontrollably, and Davis knew he only had seconds. He considered trying to roll free, but any movement would cause the death trap over him to collapse. If he lost his grip, even wavered for an instant, he’d be crushed like an egg under a hammer. His left arm began to buckle, and he shifted his shoulders to buy a few more seconds.
And then, salvation.
Someone outside was straddling his feet. Then a grunt, and the weight over him was suddenly halved. Davis kept his dead arms braced, but as the burden eased, he was able to shimmy until his hips were clear. He caught a glimpse of a man with a shoulder under the four-by-four. With a final heave, Davis pushed free and rolled away. His legs flew sideways, tripping the man above him, and the wing slammed down, grazing his scalp on its way to the earth.
Davis sucked in huge breaths, one after the other. Sprawled on the fern-clad forest floor next to him was Pascal Delacorte.
The Frenchman said, “Only a prop forward would find himself in such a situation difficile.” He was referring to the rugby position in which the most vital requirements were size, strength, and a particularly thick skull.
“Actually, yeah, that’s where I usually line up.”
“What were you doing under there?”
Davis almost said, investigating. He found himself staring at Delacorte’s boots. They were brown. He spun a finger in a wide circle, and said, “Did you see anybody else a
round here in the last few minutes? Anybody leaving in a hurry?”
Delacorte shrugged. “No, I was getting a drink at the tent when I heard your call for help.”
Davis nodded. “Thanks for coming.”
The two men locked hands, and levered one another up as they would have on a rugby pitch. The wing had settled flush to the ground, and Davis stared at it for a long moment. “My phone is still under there—I was taking pictures.”
“You should ask for help next time. You were in a very dangerous position.”
“I sort of have a knack for that.” Davis flexed his arms, and the feeling began to return. “Did you say there’s water over at the tent?”
“It is even cold.”
On reaching the canvas shade, Davis tried to cool down. He pulled a plastic water bottle from a cooler, cracked the seal, and began gulping. He worked his aching arms in circles. There was an abrasion on his scalp, and he ran a hand over it to find only a trace of blood. He looked around the tent and studied every face, looking for eyes that avoided his own. He listened to voices, searching for one that had minutes ago asked him what he was doing.
Investigating.
That had been his mission on arriving three days ago, a process that was in equal parts familiar and convenient. Solve the crash, find the daughter.
But it hadn’t worked that way. Not at all.
Three days into the investigation he was no closer to finding Jen. He had only learned where she wasn’t. He’d learned that someone in the States was using him, and probably also Larry Green. Playing them like tokens on a board game. To what end he had no idea, but it was apparently important enough that someone had tried to kill him.
Davis took a long, cool drink from his water bottle, and at that moment underwent a tectonic shift in mindset. His assignment in Colombia was no longer about an aircraft accident. Maybe it never had been. It was time for a new approach to finding his daughter.
