by Ward Larsen
Green continued, “The CIA had a Blackstar go Magellan on them last winter, just wandered off and started exploring after the uplinks and data feed stopped. Eventually, they lost it.”
“Serves them right for not having a pilot on board.”
Green smiled.
Davis asked, “Could it have been shot down?”
“Doubtful. The operators would have seen something. A fighter in the area, radar activity from a surface-to-air missile site. And it was flying too high to be hit by small arms fire. Since Blackstar is a brand-new design, the odds are it was just a technical glitch.”
“But what does that have to do with us?” Davis asked. “We’ve never been in the UAV business. Those are exclusively military toys, including collecting the smithereens when one hits the dirt. If the CIA needs help investigating this crash, they should talk to the Air Force.”
“It’s not that simple. Blackstar was operating in the Horn of Africa, right on the border of Somalia and Ethiopia. After contact was lost, there was an intense search. Every imaging device we have scoured the area, but couldn’t find a thing. In the end, the CIA decided it must have gone ballistic, ended up in the Red Sea or maybe the Indian Ocean.”
“That sounds a little hopeful.”
“You and I see it that way. We investigate stuff like this. But the CIA is just getting their feet wet when it comes to aircraft. They decided to write the whole thing off—that is, until last week.”
“What? Did some fisherman pull up a piece of Blackstar in his net?”
“Worse. The CIA got an intel report that an advanced UAV of some kind was squirreled away in a hangar at the new airport outside Khartoum.”
“But you said it went down east of there, in Somalia.”
“Khartoum isn’t that far away from the crash box. Certainly plausible. And when you consider the number of places you could stash aircraft wreckage in that part of the world—well, you get the idea.”
“What was the source of this information?”
“Darlene Graham would only tell me that it was a reliable human source.”
“Reliable,” Davis repeated.
Green shrugged.
“So is this a government-owned hangar?” Davis asked.
“That’s the funny thing. It’s owned by a private party, an outfit called FBN Aviation.”
“What do they do?”
“On paper they fly cargo, but in reality it looks like your standard shell company. It was set up in the Bahamas by a law firm that does that kind of work exclusively—Franklin, Banks, and Noble.”
“FBN,” Davis said.
Green nodded. “The company directors are three lawyers who probably couldn’t tell a DC-3 from a salad shooter.”
“DC-3s? People still fly those?”
“Apparently this company does. They work about a half dozen airplanes around Africa and the Middle East.”
Davis had seen companies like it before. The corporate office in a place with loose regulatory oversight, the operations end set up in a dark corner of the world. From a distance, FBN Aviation would look a lot like UPS, a company designed to move air cargo. But up close it would look very different. There would be legitimate shipments, but mixed in you’d find arms and drugs and diamonds. You’d find record-keeping that looked like it was done in a mirror.
Green said, “The guy in charge is named Rafiq Khoury. He’s some kind of cleric. Other than that, we don’t know much about him.”
“A cleric needs a cargo airline?”
“I didn’t like the sound of that either.”
Davis heaved a sigh. “Okay. So Darlene Graham lost one of her toys. And it might be sitting in a hangar owned by some kind of arms merchant. That doesn’t explain why a cheapskate like you just bought me a cup of coffee. You said you had work for me, Larry, a crash. Are we talking about something besides this drone?”
“We are,” Green said. “A DC-3 went down two weeks ago off the coast of Sudan, in the Red Sea. The exact location is a little fuzzy, but the crash site is clearly inside their territorial waters. Sudan has jurisdiction.”
“Let me guess—FBN Aviation.”
Green nodded.
“Doesn’t Sudan have people who can run an investigation?”
“There’s a Sudanese Civil Aviation Authority, and on paper they have a guy in charge of flight safety. But he’s just somebody’s cousin, no formal training. Remember, we’re talking about a country where over seventy percent of the national budget goes to the military.”
“But if Sudan needed outside help, we’d be the last ones they’d ask. We were bombing them back in the nineties.”
“True, but Sudan is in a tight spot right now. As you know, air carriers aren’t allowed to fly international routes without ICAO’s seal of approval.”
Davis did know this. The International Civil Aviation Organization was the U.N. agency tasked to set worldwide standards for aviation. For developing countries, the bar wasn’t set particularly high, but they had to go through the motions. Otherwise, they risked losing their certification and could find themselves without air service.
Green continued, “Sudan is in the middle of an ICAO safety audit. It’s an inspection that comes around every five years or so. Teams go in and check out airline operations, air traffic control, safety programs.”
“And suddenly they have a hull loss right in the middle of their paperwork party.”
“Exactly. Sudan has to play this by the book, and the book says that when a nation doesn’t have the expertise for full-up crash investigation, it has to bring in help.”
“And the NTSB is their helper of record?”
“No, they actually use France. But the French are a little shorthanded right now, and they suggested we might be able to help.”
“How convenient,” Davis said.
“Yeah, I thought so too.”
“You think Director Graham had a hand in that?”
“Probably,” said Green.
Davis surmised, “She thinks the crash of this jalopy DC-3 will give her a ticket to look inside that hangar. Or should I say, gives me a ticket.”
Green nodded.
It was all starting to make sense. But Davis still wasn’t satisfied.
“Larry, you have a lot of investigators. How did I draw the short straw?”
Green paused for a hit on his water bottle. He said, “You’re the best guy for the job, Jammer. This is going to be a solo effort. No tech help from contractors or lab teams. Nobody in my office is as good on their own as you are. Sudan will make a show of going through the paces, but the truth is, they probably don’t give a damn why this DC-3 went down. They might even not want to know—it could be that one of their air traffic controllers was at fault, or maybe their maintenance oversight is lacking. For the Sudanese, nothing good can come from any findings. They’ll want an investigator who will come in, ask a few easy questions, then shrug their shoulders and go home.”
“And you think that’s what I’ll do?”
The general smiled. “It’s only important that the Sudanese think that’s what you’ll do. All we want is one look at that hangar.”
And there was the endgame, Davis thought. A game he didn’t like for one big reason. “So nobody really cares why this airplane went down.”
“I never thought I’d say it, but in this case the cause of the crash is not an overriding concern.”
“Unless you were the one who happened to be out flying that night.”
Green grimaced. “Yeah—I had that coming. Tell you what, Jammer. Figure out why this sixty-year-old airplane went down, and next time I’ll buy you a beer.”
Davis reached for his coffee, took a long sip. He was nearing the bottom of his cup, which meant it was time for a decision.
“Larry, I appreciate your confidence in me, but there are a dozen people in your section who could handle this.”
“Not like you would,” Green argued.
Davis straightened up in his cha
ir and stood. “Well, anyway, thanks for the offer. And the coffee.”
Davis started to walk away.
Green said, “Bob Schmitt.”
It hit Davis like an anvil.
CHAPTER THREE
Davis stopped in his tracks. Turned around and stared.
Green didn’t say a word. He pulled a handful of papers from his pocket. They were folded in a military manner, neat hard creases that made them the size of a long envelope. Davis took a cautious step back and slowly held out his hand.
“Last page,” Green said.
Davis began to unfold the pages, took his time and rifled through one by one. He was looking at a hastily thrown together briefing package, and definitely not the kind of thing the NTSB would assemble. It had to have come from Darlene Graham’s office. He saw satellite photos of the hangar and airfield. A request for technical assistance from ICAO. And on the last page, amid the corporate profile of FBN Aviation, one name highlighted in yellow. Davis hadn’t heard it in years. In truth, he’d never expected to hear it again. Bob Schmitt.
Davis settled back into the plush chair. “Was he one of the pilots in the crash?” he asked.
“No. There’s not that much justice in the world.”
Davis nodded, and the sorry Air Force career of Bob Schmitt came back like brown water over a failed levee.
The training process for military aviators is brutally efficient. Even so, a handful of misfits slip through, people who earn their wings yet have no place in the profession. Bob Schmitt was one of them. Technically, he was proficient enough. In truth, he’d been one of the best sticks in the squadron, always at the top of the bombing competitions, always a challenge in the air-to-air tangles. But what he lacked was far more critical. Integrity and trustworthiness. With Schmitt on your wing, you never knew what to expect. He regularly flew too low or too loose. Worst of all, he didn’t see any problem with that. Davis had endured his share of terse debriefings with Bob Schmitt. After two tumultuous years, Schmitt had been transferred to a unit in South Carolina. Soon after, there was a crash, a midair collision. Schmitt was involved but ejected safely. His flight lead, Walt Deemer, hadn’t been so lucky. Davis had known Deemer from the Academy. He was a good shit, which, in the parlance of the squadron, was the best you ever said about anybody.
Davis had seen his chance. He’d lobbied hard to be put on the investigation team and got his wish. The inquiry was short and quick, the evidence clear. Schmitt went to a Flying Evaluation Board and lost his wings. He was out of the Air Force a month later, lucky to have not ended up doing time in Leavenworth. That had been ten years ago; Davis hadn’t heard the name since. Not until today.
“So Schmitthead is flying in Sudan.”
“With a stain like he’s got on his record—you can only fly the darker corners of the world. But it gets worse. Schmitt’s not just a line pilot. He’s the boss, FBN’s chief pilot.”
“You gotta be yankin’ me. Bob Schmitt runs this circus?” Davis shook his head in disbelief.
“Jammer, when Walt went down …” Green hesitated, “I know you wanted to make sure Schmitt never flew again.”
“And he didn’t. At least not in the Air Force. That final report was rock solid. I nailed his ass to the wall, got everything I wanted except ten minutes in the alley behind the officer’s club.”
“So,” Green said, “here’s your ten minutes.”
Davis eyed his old boss for a long moment, then turned his attention to the scene outside. Rain was falling again from a hard gray sky, and the coffeeshop window was peppered with mirror-like silver dots. People on the sidewalk were moving briskly against the foul weather, the typical leisurely pace of a Sunday accelerated by the elements. It was a day that should have kindled thoughts of fireplaces and cups of hot chocolate. But Davis had another picture in mind—Walt Deemer sitting in the living room of his military base house. They’d all gotten together for a Super Bowl or some equally vital event. It was funny how you remembered people when they were gone. No matter how vivid their personality, how encompassing the relationship, it all ended up as one or two snapshot visions. The exception for Davis was his wife, but he knew why—he had Jen, a living vestige, full of Diane’s DNA-inspired mannerisms and features. But a buddy like Walt, he was forever a guy on a Barcalounger with a Budweiser, fist in the air as he cheered on his Packers. A good picture to remember.
Green read him perfectly. “Walt was my friend, too, Jammer. One of my guys, way back when.”
“So you want me to take a look at FBN Aviation—as a pretext to see what’s in the hangar.”
“Something like that. And if Bob Schmitt gets caught in your crossfire—”
Jammer Davis nodded, completing that thought on his own.
“So are you in?” Green asked.
Davis sank lower in his chair. He twirled what was left in his cup, the dregs thick and silty and brown. He found himself wondering if they drank coffee in Sudan. Davis tried to divine a way out of it, some practical impediment. He couldn’t think of one. Jen wouldn’t be home until the end of the semester. He didn’t have any other job right now. There wasn’t even rugby practice for the next three weeks. No way out. But what really stuck in his mind was Bob Schmitt. The man had landed on his feet, even if it was in an African backwater. And now people’s lives rested on his decisions. That was what clinched it.
“You know, Larry, you’re a real piece of work.”
“Coming from you, Jammer, I take that as a compliment.”
“So whose payroll will I be on? NTSB or CIA?”
“Does it matter?”
“The way I see it, one makes me a consultant, the other a mercenary.”
“I’ll let you pick your job title. Meet me in my office tomorrow morning. I’ll brief you on everything we’ve got. Then you can go to TMD and make your arrangements.”
Davis was about to ask, What the hell is TMD? when it hit him. “Traffic Management Desk?”
“Yep. That’s what they call the travel office now.”
“Jesus, Larry. I’m beginning to think like the government.”
Green chuckled. “Don’t take it too hard. I’ll see you in the morning.” The general got up and walked off briskly, like he always did, and soon disappeared into the heavy gloom outside.
Davis tipped his cup and drained it. It might be his last good cuppa for some time. Which seemed like a really good excuse to go back to the counter and order a refill.
Davis woke early the next morning and started his day by scalding a cup of “Colombia’s Best” in his three-cup maker. Soon after that he was standing over an open suitcase.
In the military they called it mobilization. The United States armed forces are a global fighting force, which means that any soldier can be ordered on a moment’s notice to deploy anywhere in the world. The orders might be for a week, or they might be for a year, so the military has a hard-and-fast process to make sure everyone is prepared. You stand in line in a warehouse to be issued the necessities of your new life. Mobilization is not a happy process to begin with because you know you’re heading far from home. Then you see what they’re handing out. Gas masks, ammunition, Arctic sleeping bags, nerve agent antidotes, immunizations against rare infectious diseases. The JAG is there to make sure your will is up to date. The chaplain is there just in case you needed to talk. Davis had been mobilized many times, and he’d always thought it seemed like some large-scale, institutionalized omen. Bad things to come. Now that he was a civilian, the process was different. Davis was standing in his bedroom throwing clean socks into an old Samsonite roller bag with a broken wheel. He could have been going on a cruise. Even so, he was shadowed by that same ill feeling.
As he stood next to his bed wondering what he’d forgotten to pack, Davis picked up the cordless phone and dialed Jen’s number for the third time this morning. He cradled the receiver between his ear and shoulder as he stuffed shaving gear into a pouch. On the fifth ring Jen’s message came.
&nbs
p; “Hey, it’s Jen. You know the deal.” A beep.
“It’s Dad. I’m heading to Africa for an investigation. Call me.”
He hung up and tossed the phone on the bed. That had been happening a lot lately, even before she’d gone off to Europe. He had two years left with his daughter, a tiny window that was shrinking every day. And then what the hell will I do? Davis grabbed a pair of work boots and threw them into the suitcase.
Probably what I’m doing right now.
Only after she’d gone had Davis realized how closely he was moored to his daughter. Jen had been away five weeks, and he was already starting to drift. He’d been lifting more iron at the gym, swimming a thousand laps in the pool, hitting harder in the rugby matches. But none of that was enough. When Larry Green had come calling yesterday, Davis hadn’t been looking for crash work. He hadn’t been looking for any kind of work. But here he was, throwing shirts in a suitcase, getting ready to fly off to one of the least developed countries in the world to look for a lost drone. Larry Green might say he was going because he had unfinished business with Bob Schmitt. But deep down, Davis knew the real reason he’d taken the job.
He’d realized it last year, in France, when an assassin had tried to gun him down. He needed the adrenaline rush, the thing that used to get satisfied when he flew an F-16 on the deck at six hundred miles an hour. Maybe Larry Green knew it. Maybe he had tried to make the job sound challenging, even impossible, just to lure Davis into it. A smart guy, the general.
Davis stood looking at the open suitcase, wondering if there was anything he’d forgottten. That, too, was something you learned in the military. No matter how well you prepared, there was always something missing, and you wouldn’t realize what it was until you stepped off an airplane and into some godforsaken hellhole halfway around the world. But then, that was part of the challenge.
