by Ward Larsen
Davis cracked open his side window, and when they were directly over the Cessna he dropped the key with the streamer outside. It was nearly a hit, landing a few feet behind the Caravan. They all watched the pilot—whose name, Delacorte had learned, was Segundo, and who was a damned good poker player—run to recover the key. Before they lost sight of the airstrip, Segundo had the propeller spinning and the airplane moving. In Delacorte’s words, “A man who definitely knows when to fold.”
There were six people crammed in the Comanche’s tiny cabin, and for a time no one spoke. Davis looked at McBain, who was seated next to him, and exchanged a nod. He then turned toward the others who were shoehorned in back. The girls were the farthest away, sitting cross-legged on a grease-stained plot of carpet. They looked exhausted and happy. Like kids at noon on Christmas day.
He locked eyes with Jen for a moment and sensed her relief. Then he saw her mouth something.
Davis went back to flying with a weary grin. He made the first turn toward home, and thought, I love you too, baby.
FORTY-NINE
The G-III landed at 3:02 a.m. that Saturday morning, and taxied directly toward a massive hangar on the southwest side of Andrews Air Force Base—the very place Davis had begun his odyssey less than a week earlier.
Vincent Kehoe was the first one off, and stepping down to the tarmac behind him was Kristin Stewart. On the long flight Davis had learned a good deal about Kehoe. He was an Army Ranger and ten-year Delta Force veteran. No surprises there. But Davis was more impressed by what he’d seen. Kehoe had been ready to put himself in harm’s way in order to save Jen and Kristin, no hesitation whatsoever. In truth, almost with relish.
Davis watched Kehoe escort his charge into the big hangar, which was encircled by a phalanx of Secret Service agents. Nearby was a motorcade of limos that stretched around the corner, at least three that he could see. There were no flags flapping from fenders, however, and no police motorcycle escort waiting to lead a parade. This was low-profile, high-value security. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who was inside the hangar. Someone with access to the most sensitive corner of Andrews. Someone with a very good reason to be here.
Martin Stuyvesant was finally going to meet his daughter.
Davis stepped down the stairs, Jen following, and two men walked up to greet them. One wore a nice suit, had a tight haircut and a wire in his ear. He might as well have had Secret Service stamped on his forehead. It was the second man who addressed Davis, a rotund, wonky type with droopy eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.
He held out a fleshy hand, and said, “Mr. Davis, my name is Bill Evers. I’m—”
“I know who you are,” Davis cut in. He kept his hands at his side.
Clearly put off, the vice president’s chief of staff said, “Mr. Kehoe wasn’t supposed to share that kind of information.”
“Mr. Kehoe is a good man—something in painfully short supply around here.”
With Evers at a loss, Davis turned to the Secret Service man and said, “Sorry about Agent Mulligan. The girl really liked him.”
The agent seemed surprised to be brought into the conversation, but his expression turned solemn and he nodded appreciatively. “Yeah, Tom was one of the good ones.”
Evers began to recover. “I realize it’s very late, and that you’ve traveled a great distance, but we want to debrief both of you. A lot has happened in the last few days, and everyone must understand what’s at stake.”
Davis cocked his head ever so slightly. Everyone must understand what’s at stake. At that moment, he saw where things were going. Candidate Stuyvesant was not surrendering. He was doubling down.
A dark sedan pulled up on some unseen cue, and Evers guided them toward the backseat. Jen was already inside when Davis heard a distant yell. He looked over his shoulder and saw Kristin Stewart bolting from a gap in the hangar door. She was in tears, and from fifty yards away he heard her scream, “I don’t ever want to see you again, you bastard! Just leave Mom and me alone!”
Davis watched her run to one of the limousines. A middle-aged woman emerged from the car, her arms open wide. The two embraced, burying their faces in one another’s shoulders. He was sure he knew the woman’s name—Sorensen had told him two days ago. Jean Stewart.
Mom.
Davis could hear them sobbing from where he stood.
Evers tried to urge him into the limo, putting a hand on his lower back. Davis didn’t move. Jen’s sadness was evident as she watched Kristin and her mother console one another. He remembered the somber expression that came over the Secret Service man when he’d given his condolences about Mulligan.
Evers gave another shove, but he might as well have been trying to move an oak.
Davis turned slowly and looked at Evers. He gave a half smile, and said, “Look, I know how things will go down here, and I’m okay with it. Really, I’m on board.”
“Tell me about it,” said an interested Evers.
Davis did, and when he was done Evers nodded thoughtfully. “I’m glad you can put the good of your country above all else, Mr. Davis.”
“Very much so,” said Davis. “But I do have just one request …”
* * *
Martin Stuyvesant stood in the middle of the hangar. Designed to hold a Boeing-747, the place was nearly empty, yet the man walking toward him seemed to fill it up. He studied Jammer Davis under bright fluorescent light as he plodded across the floor between two Secret Service agents. The man was exactly as he’d imagined. Big and brutish, not a trace of sophistication. He might be a savant when it came to deciphering air crashes, Stuyvesant thought, but he clearly had no idea how to carry himself with style. He moved stiffly and his clothes were ill fitting. He hadn’t even bothered to shave or comb his hair for a meeting with the vice president of the United States—the G-III had all the necessary toiletries, so there was really no excuse.
The good news was that Davis was on board with the plan—at least that’s what he’d told Evers. He would maintain a strict silence regarding everything that had happened in Colombia. All he wanted in return was one face-to-face meeting with the soon-to-be president. Stuyvesant was accustomed to such requests—he practically expected them. Davis would ask a favor, most likely a promotion to a more senior position at NTSB. That would be easy enough, and mutually beneficial. Of course, he would probably want a mantel photograph as well, all handshakes and smiles, but Evers had already explained that wasn’t going to happen. Security was the best excuse. With the crisis finally over, it was all down to damage control, something Evers excelled at.
Smooth as ever, Stuyvesant began walking as Davis neared. That was always the best way to meet physically imposing men, although Stuyvesant was more accustomed to scions of industry and Hollywood moguls. He thrust out his hand and beamed his best campaign smile. “So glad to finally meet you, Mr. D—”
So heavy was the right hook that met his jaw, it was the last time in his life Martin Stuyvesant correctly enunciated the letter D.
FIFTY
At least it wasn’t another jail cell, Davis mused. Not really.
The meeting room adjacent to the hangar was a solid place, but there were no bars on the windows or steel doors. The carpet was plush, and a comfortable lounge area offered an array of supple chairs. Instead of a bent steel tray pushed through a slot, Davis was looking at a catered spread with a good selection of meat, cheese, and crackers. There was a veggie tray too, with a nice avocado-based dip, and sweet rolls on a platter shaped like Air Force One. The bottles of water had come all the way from Fiji, and there was an assortment of soft drinks, all the standard products of the Coca-Cola company. No, not a holding cell at all. This was the place Stuyvesant had waited out their arrival. Now it was Davis’ turn to wait.
Comfort aside, he was anything but free. They’d removed the cuffs from his wrists, but around the large room he counted eight Secret Service agents, all with unwavering eyes. They’d started with a contingent of four, until
whispers began to circulate about a china shop in Bogotá, and the number magically doubled. He didn’t much care. Jen was on her way home, delivered safe and sound. He had done what he’d set out to do, from beginning to end.
He was standing behind a seemingly bottomless coffee pot when the only door to the room opened, and the lead Secret Service man he’d met earlier came through. He was followed by Larry Green.
Green stared at him with exasperation, like a football coach eyeing a player whose foolish penalty had lost the big game. It was the third time in a week Davis had been in someone’s custody, and he was sure Green had the tally marks to prove it.
Davis held out his palms in a what’s a guy to do? gesture.
After a brief discussion with his escort, Green walked over while the Secret Service man stayed at the door. That brought the count to nine agents. Davis sank into one of the wide lounge chairs. Green took the opposing seat.
“You’ll never learn, will you, Jammer?”
“How is he?”
“Stuyvesant’s in surgery—the best maxillofacial surgeon in town is trying to reconstruct his lower mandible.”
“I missed the upper?”
Green eyed him severely.
“Are you here to bail me out?” Davis asked.
“Actually, I don’t have to. For reasons I cannot imagine, they’ve decided not to file charges. Any idea why?”
“Maybe … but it’s a long story. And I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
Green gave him a tormented look.
“I’ll tell you about it later … that is, if you can keep a secret. And if you buy me a beer.”
A sigh from Green, then, “I checked on Jen—she made it home.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll bet she sleeps for a week,” said Green.
“I might join her. By the way, thanks for setting me up with those DEA guys. They were good, a first-rate crew. None of them will get in trouble, will they? You know, with what happened to the drone and all?”
“That’s something else I wanted to bring up. Why is it that every time I send you to investigate an accident, you end up crashing another airplane?”
Davis only shrugged. “McBain and Jorgensen?” he asked again.
“They’ll be fine. It was you who turned that drone into a weapon. General Jammer T. Davis? God help us.”
“What? You don’t think I’m flag-grade material?”
Green ignored the question. “Your co-conspirators were operating under some kind of emergency authority. It’s not exactly a get-out-of-jail-free card, but the seniors at DEA seem pretty happy with the way things turned out. Rumor I heard was that nine paramilitaries were killed in the crash, including the guy who ran the whole operation—Echevarria, I think, was the name. Apparently he was a busy guy, a major on the Bogotá police force who operated a paramilitary squad on the side. He’s been sabotaging government operations for years to support his trafficking and extortion sideline. I also heard something about a former TAC-Air pilot who got caught trying to leave the country on a false passport.”
“Reyna?” Davis asked.
“Yeah, that’s him. What they nearly got away with down there was madness. But somehow …” Green paused for emphasis and leaned closer, “somehow this is all getting swept under a carpet.”
Davis said nothing.
Green looked pointedly around the room at a sea of somber faces. “Then there’s the fact that you and I are sitting right now in the hangar they use to stow Air Force One. Surrounded by Secret Service agents. What the hell did you get into, Jammer?”
Davis flexed his right fist, squeezing the fingers open and shut. Two knuckles were sore. “You put me on this inquiry, Larry. But, like I said, buy me a beer later and I’ll explain everything.”
Green heaved a long sigh. “Anyway, I’m supposed to tell you that somebody is going to stop by your house tomorrow and take statements from both you and Jen. Otherwise, for reasons I can’t imagine, you’re free to go. I’ll give you a ride home.”
Both men got up and headed for the door. None of the special agents flinched. They were two steps from leaving when the head of Stuyvesant’s security detail stepped in their path and held up a palm.
They paused, and the agent stared at Davis. His face was stone as he said, “I’m not sure how you got away with what you did in that hangar. And I really don’t like that it happened on my watch. It makes for a hell of a lot of paperwork.” Then a barely perceptible smile edged one corner of his mouth, and he leaned close to whisper, “That was a nice shot, though. A few of us around here have been wanting to do that for a long time.”
Davis grinned back. “My pleasure.”
FIFTY-ONE
It was the second Sunday of November, the most spectacular day in an unusually mild autumn. The air was crisp, the lake like glass, and Davis regarded the end of the dock with the pride of a new father written on his face.
“That’s what you brought me to see?” said Jen. “You got a new toy?”
“It’s not a toy, baby. You’re looking at my new line of work.”
“A seaplane? What are you going to do with it? Run drugs to South America or something?”
Davis watched close, saw the smile, and decided it was good that she could joke about her ordeal. Jen had spent four days as a hostage in a remote corner of the globe, yet she’d come out unscathed. At least in the physical sense. He’d been watching closely for the other kind. He had insisted she take the semester off school, and she’d countered by agreeing to move home only if she could sign up for online courses. Another positive sign—moving forward. The deal was struck and it kept Jen busy. It also kept her under his paternal eye. There were moments when he could see her contemplating what had happened, reflecting on the dark days. But only a few.
Because it had been, at least in part, a common experience, he tried to keep things light. They compared notes on the finer points of Colombian jails; like father, like daughter. When more difficult days intruded, Davis went for distraction. They took in a movie or went out to fly. In the intervening months Jen had twice met with Kristin Stewart, who seemed a decent kid, if a bit wayward in the boyfriend department. Indeed, Davis took heart that his own daughter had learned a lesson in the avoidance of greed-smitten, faux-revolutionary young men.
The bottom line—both girls seemed to be recovering. Healing and moving on.
A brisk gust of wind swirled leaves along the shore, and as he guided Jen down the dock he briefed her on the airplane. “It’s a Lake 250 Renegade.”
“Renegade? How fitting is that?”
He maintained a father’s enduring patience. “I’ve got a buddy down in Florida who runs a charter business, fishing trips and sightseeing. He can’t keep up with the demand.”
“What about the NTSB?” she asked. “Are you still going to do investigations?”
“Larry has my number. I was always more of a consultant, anyway. Wait until you see how smooth she flies. There are six seats, although the two in back are a little cramped. Three customers and all the fishing gear they can pack, I’m thinking.”
At the end of the dock Davis began his preflight, checking the fuel level and flight controls. As he went about his chores, Jen said, “Did I mention that I voted last week?”
She’d been showing a temperate interest in politics lately, an affliction that caused Davis to revisit her mental state.
“Did you? That’s great! Your first presidential vote.”
“I’m not a Republican, but I had to vote for Paulson.”
“Well, yeah—I can definitely understand that. Have you talked to Kristin? Who did she vote for?”
“Are you kidding? She and her mom have been volunteering at the Paulson campaign for a month.”
Davis stopped working a docking line long enough to smile at his daughter. “Now that’s just perfect.”
“The whole election seemed so weird,” Jen continued, “the way Stuyvesant fell down that flight of stairs
and shattered his jaw at such a critical time in the race.”
“What are the chances?” he replied, untangling a knot. His moment of madness in the hangar had been completely covered up—he hadn’t even told Jen. He didn’t like keeping things from his daughter, but in this case he made an exception.
She said, “The guy is scum, no doubt about it … but I almost felt sorry for him. The way he had to back out of the debate and so many campaign appearances. That one interview he tried to give was comical, mumbling through a jaw that was wired shut—you couldn’t make out a word he said.”
“Heck of a way to campaign.” He was holding the Lake close with a hand on the wing.
“What about you, Dad?” she asked. “Did you vote?”
Jammer Davis took his daughter’s hand as she stepped into the seaplane. He said, “Well, it wasn’t last week … I sort of voted early this year.”
Jen looked at him suspiciously, a hauntingly familiar expression. Then he made the connection—it was same look that had so often visited her mother’s face.
“Come on,” he said, “let’s go fly.”
Davis pushed off the dock at noon that Sunday. His daughter was at his side. It was one of the best days of his life.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to all those who helped bring this story to life. The brilliant staff at Oceanview Publishing, Lee Randall, David Ivester, and Emily Baar. To Bob and Pat Gussin for their support over the years.
