by Ward Larsen
The guy reached down and turned the key, and the machine went from a rattling diesel idle to silence. He took the cigar out of his mouth. It wasn’t lit. He looked at Davis again, up and down.
“And who the hell are you?” he asked.
“Me? I’m an inspector.” Davis left it at that, glancing at the big crate hanging two feet over the lip of the cargo door. The loading crew had stopped shoving and were looking back and forth between Davis and the driver.
“What the hell kind of inspector?” the man asked.
“You know—safety.”
The guy crossed his thick forearms, chomped back down on his half-cut stogie. He was wondering why an American dressed for a round of golf was wandering around his cargo ramp. He probably had Davis pegged as being with the United Nations, or maybe an oil company. That would make sense.
“So are we?” the driver asked.
“Are you what?”
“Safe.”
Davis said, “Well, you’re cigar isn’t actually lit, so that fuel truck over there won’t explode. And you probably won’t get lung cancer in twenty years. So, yeah, I’d say you’re safe.”
“Good. Then you won’t bother us anymore.”
Davis looked at him, then looked at the crate. The driver was sweating. Possibly because he was nervous. More likely because it was a hundred and eight degrees in the shade.
Davis lunged forward.
The driver stiffened, put up an arm to defend himself, but Davis went nowhere near him. Instead, he grabbed the crowbar he’d spotted under the seat. Two long strides later, he had it jammed into the crate and was prying off the lid.
“Hey!” the driver protested. “What the hell?”
But protest was all he did. He stayed where he was, because Davis was a lot bigger and had a crowbar in his hand. The loading crew pulled back as well, disappearing into the airplane’s cargo bay. Whatever was happening, they wanted no part of it. Nails in the crate lid gave way, creaking like an old door hinge. Davis pulled the lid open.
He called over his shoulder, “Have you seen this?”
“Listen, buddy, I don’t know what’s in ’em,” the driver stammered. “I just move ’em around.”
Davis reached in and pulled out a sample. He said, “No, I mean—have you seen this?” He held up a packaged DVD. Titanic. It was one of a hundred different titles in the crate. “What about this one?” he asked, holding up Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back. “Everybody’s seen this one.”
The driver looked at him like he was crazy. Then he looked at the crowbar and nodded.
“Did you like it?” Davis asked.
Another nod.
“Me too. Only—there was one thing that drove me crazy.” Davis paused.
The driver didn’t ask.
“Those damned Imperial Storm Troopers. How could anybody shoot that bad? I mean, as many rounds as they fired? Blind luck says they hit somebody, right? Or maybe a ricochet. Do laser weapons ricochet?” Davis turned around and smiled.
So did the driver. Sort of.
Davis put the movies, which were undoubtedly counterfeit, back into the crate. He pulled down the lid and, using the crowbar as a hammer, battered a half dozen nails back into place. When he was done, he tossed the crowbar to the driver. This clearly surprised him, but he made the catch. Davis then squatted low and, using his shoulders, pulled the crate through the cargo door, lifted it clear, and heaved it onto the prongs of the forklift. The big machine rocked forward under the weight, then settled.
Davis smiled again.
So did the driver, this time probably meaning it.
“What’s your name?” Davis asked.
“Johnson.”
“You work for FBN, Johnson?”
“Two year contract as an A and P.”
A and P stood for Airframe and Powerplant, shorthand for his professional certificate. “You’re an airplane mechanic?” Davis asked.
“That’s right.”
Davis checked his fingernails. They were dirty, which was good. It was his personal policy to never trust any mechanic who didn’t have grease under his fingernails.
He said, “So how come you’re driving a forklift? Don’t they have loadmasters to do that?”
“It’s a small company, so I do whatever. Get the job done, you know?”
“Yeah, I do know. That’s a good attitude. You like your work?”
“Banging on sheet metal and hauling crates in a hundred and ten degree heat—what’s not to love?”
“Right. So tell me, Johnson, how many mechanics does FBN have here?”
“I do most of the work, as far as taking care of the airplanes. There’s another guy, Muhammed, but I only see him for big things I can’t handle on my own. He spends most of his time on another job.”
“What job is that?”
“He doesn’t say much about it. Something out there.” Johnson pointed toward the remote hangar.
Davis nodded. “What’s his background?”
Johnson paused, like he was deciding how much to give. “He used to work at a big operation over in Riyadh. I think it was depot-level maintenance.”
This got Davis’ attention. Depot maintenance was heavy-duty stuff. Big airplanes taken out of service for months at a time to get stripped down and refurbished. New fittings and engines, corrosion addressed. If there was a spa for airplanes, depot checks were “the works.”
“So your buddy, Muhammed,” Davis suggested, “he must know how to take an airplane apart.”
“Sure,” Johnson said, “I’d guess he’d be pretty good at it.” He then shot Davis a jaundiced look. “But you still haven’t answered my question—who the hell are you?”
“Jammer’s the name. I’m a pilot.”
“You a replacement? For the ones that went down last month?”
“No, I’m not here to take anybody’s place. I’m a crash investigator. I was brought in to find out what happened to that airplane.”
The beefy mechanic climbed down off the forklift, put the crowbar back under his seat. “Well, I hope you figure it out. Those two pilots, they were good guys. Not assholes like most pilots.”
Davis grinned. “So maybe you can help me out. What’s the rumor on the ramp?”
Johnson’s suspicion got the better of him. “I don’t hear nothin’.”
“They tell me it was a maintenance test flight, some kind of aileron rerig. Did you do the work?”
“No.”
“So it must have been Muhammed.”
Johnson thought about that, his thick brow creasing. “I don’t know anything about it. That airplane came from—” he stopped cold. Davis followed his eyes and saw him staring at a spot near the airplane’s cargo door.
“Came from where?” Davis prodded.
“Never mind,” Johnson said. He hopped back onto his loader and started writing on a clipboard.
“From the remote hangar? Is that where they kept it?”
No response. Davis decided he’d pressed far enough. “All right. Thanks anyway.”
Johnson nodded distractedly. The loading crew filed out of the DC-3, and gave Davis a wide berth. Johnson had a few quick words before sending them away. He cranked the forklift and it belched to life in a black cloud of diesel exhaust.
“Hey, Johnson,” Davis said, loud enough to be heard over the rattling engine.
The driver looked up.
Davis jammed his thumb toward the open cargo door. “You mind if I have a look inside?”
Johnson gave him a suit-yourself shrug. “You’re an investigator, right?”
Davis nodded.
“So investigate.”
Davis climbed through the cargo door and made his way up front. He took the captain’s seat and immediately felt right at home. Certain elements of the flight deck looked no different from an airplane that would come out of a factory today. There was a flap lever and landing gear handle, a set of rudder pedals. Yet for every part that cued familiar, Davis saw doz
ens that belonged in a black-and-white photograph.
The instruments were mechanical round dials, not the vibrant color displays that dominated contemporary aircraft. This particular collection of gauges had most likely been installed in a factory during World War Two, with a select few getting replaced and upgraded over the last seventy years. The end result was like some kind of aeronautical totem, a story of where the airplane had been and what kind of work it had performed. This cluttered presentation made Davis’ search of the front panel a bit harder, but he knew the thing he was looking for had to be there.
Every airplane is required to have a registration number, the aviation equivalent of an automobile VIN number. Assigned by the International Civil Aviation Organization, a registration number is issued to every airplane that leaves a factory, and follows that airframe to its grave.
There are certain conventions involved, and one of the most vital involves the first character. Usually a letter in the Roman alphabet, it signifies the country of registry of the owner. N represents the United States, so the accident airplane, N2012L, had been originally registered there. Also by regulation, this identifier has to be displayed on the fuselage, near the tail, and thus is often referred to as a “tail number.”
Davis, however, had sensed something wrong with the registration of this particular airplane. Outside, he’d seen Johnson staring at the aft fuselage, and there was only one thing there—X85BG in bold block lettering. So Davis decided to cross-check. He knew you could find the tail number of an airplane in any number of places. It would be printed on documents on the cockpit door, and sure enough, Davis confirmed that X85BG was printed on the registration certificate, neat and clean. But anybody could take a registration certificate from one airplane and switch it to another. There was, however, another spot that was easily overlooked, one that was more permanent. A tail number had to be placarded on the cockpit forward instrument panel. Davis found it in front of the captain’s control yoke, below the artificial horizon. It wasn’t any kind of embossed placard, but instead just scribbled on the framework with an indelible marker. The letters and numbers had faded over the years, but there was no mistaking what he saw. And what he saw was a problem.
He went back outside. Johnson was gone, but Davis saw the forklift parked near a small building with a roll-up metal door. Probably a mechanic’s workshop, he guessed, a place to keep tools and cases of engine oil. He walked toward the tail section of the airplane, and stared again at the letters and numbers on the aft fuselage. It wasn’t obvious—you’d have to know to look in the first place—but it was definitely there. X85BG in heavy block letters. New paint—bold, black, and undeniable. But underneath he could just make out a thin coat of white, and under that a ghostly image of the old characters. Numbers and letters the same as the ones he’d seen scribbled in Sharpie on the forward instrument panel. N2012L. The registration number of a DC-3 that was supposed to be at the bottom of the Red Sea.
Somebody was playing musical airplanes.
CHAPTER TEN
Davis needed help, needed shade. At the nearby mechanic’s workshop he tried for both.
He walked through the roll-up door, but didn’t see Johnson. A big floor fan was pushing hot air from one side of the place to the other, distributing the misery. Davis pulled out the phone Larry Green had given him. It was a satellite gadget that looked pretty much like any phone, maybe a little bigger, a little heavier. He was sure Green had gotten it from someone in Darlene Graham’s orbit, probably the CIA. He’d been told to use it like any phone. Call, text. Davis figured the U.S. government had phones like it spread all over the Middle East. Military attaches, intelligence types, informants. Probably handed them out like candy, preloaded with contact numbers for anonymous tips and reward information.
When the phone powered up, it showed decent signal strength. He’d been told the thing was secure, and while Davis might have doubted that in certain corners of the world, here the promise likely held. Sudan’s capability for signal intercepts and decryption, if there was any at all, had to be primitive. Davis figured the government in Khartoum was worried about the same things governments here had been worrying about for a thousand years. Food, water, rival warlords. The basics.
Davis checked for messages from Washington, but didn’t see any. He did the math and figured it was midmorning in D.C., so Larry Green ought to be at work. He pecked out his message, which was a lot of typing because he had a lot of requests. That being the case, he didn’t expect a reply anytime soon. Looking at the handset, his thoughts turned to Jen. She had probably returned his call from three days ago, but he’d been traveling constantly and his regular phone didn’t work here. They hadn’t talked in almost a week now, and Davis realized that their linkups had become increasingly less frequent since she’d gone to Norway. Jen was distancing herself, probably without even realizing it. Soon she’d be gone for good to college.
Davis typed Jen’s number into his CIA sat-phone as a new contact. That gave him two. It was late afternoon in Norway, so he hit the call button, and once again got her message after five rings.
“Hey, it’s Jen. You know the deal.”
“It’s Dad, I’ve got a new number.” He gave it and said, “You know the deal. Call me.” Frustrated, he ended the connection and shoved the phone in his pocket.
Davis looked over the workshop and saw just what he’d expected—screwdrivers hanging on a pegboard, racks of spare tires, a pile of spent oil cans. The wrench turners might work outside, but they had to have shelter for their tools and spare parts. Davis poked the toe of his boot into a completely bald airplane tire. It had good pressure, so he pegged it for a worn item that had been recently removed. Then again, it could be a dubious spare. Kept in stock to replace something worse.
Davis noted another portrait of Sudan’s glorious leader, this one tacked to a support column. It looked a lot like the one he’d seen in Schmitt’s office. Same pose, same artist, this particular article faded from the heat. The president was depicted in military garb, his jacket breast covered in medals and ribbons like some kind of war hero. His eyes were cast downward slightly. Watching. Which was probably the point.
Davis heard a sudden rush of mechanized noise, and he caught a glimpse of a military truck and a jeep speeding by the open workshop entrance. They were moving fast, like they had somewhere to go. Davis edged outside, looked to his right, and saw the little convoy pull to a hard stop in front of the second parked DC-3, the one where the young man and woman were preparing to drive away in their truck. The jeep blocked the truck’s forward path, and the troop carrier blocked the rear. A squad of soldiers with rifles held across their chests spilled out and fanned into a circle.
Davis stepped out of the workshop but kept in its shadow.
The last guy to dismount was the jeep’s passenger. He was thicker than the others, wore green fatigues with patches and brass bars and colorful insignia. He didn’t need any of that. The way he moved, full of an airy swagger, was enough. Colonel, captain, whatever. This was the guy in charge. The officer put himself squarely in front of the delivery truck. The man and woman in the cab didn’t move, so they all just stared at one another through a dust-encrusted windshield. Nothing happened for a time, not until the officer gave a hand signal. On that command, half the soldiers shouldered their weapons and began shifting the load of supplies from the delivery truck to their own carrier.
The officer stood watching like a patient headmaster, waiting to beat down any dissent. It was the woman who finally ended the stalemate. She bounded down from the driver’s side of the cab, circled around back and began yelling at the enlisted men. Davis was fifty yards away, but he could hear enough to know she was speaking Arabic. The words meant nothing to him, but her tone was clear. Accusative, demanding. When she yanked one box out of a soldier’s hands and threw it back on her truck, the men froze with stunned looks on their faces.
A line had been crossed.
Davis was impressed
. It was a stupid move. Exactly the kind of move he might make. The soldiers were clearly not used to getting yelled at by a woman. Having stopped the flow, she stood defiantly with her hands on her hips. Davis couldn’t help but notice that they were nice hips. Her work clothes were drab and loose, but cinched in the right places, certain seams challenged when she moved. Her hair was black and full and long. The woman began barking orders, gesturing for the supplies already unloaded to be put back. The soldiers didn’t move.
Their commander did.
So did Davis.
Davis had only gone two steps when he felt a hand on his arm, pulling him back. It was Johnson.
“Easy, buddy,” the burly mechanic said. “They might not act like it, but those are soldiers. They show up once or twice a week and take whatever they want, call it a tax.”
“The government is raiding aid shipments?”
“Not exactly. The government looks the other way. They can’t pay the soldiers much, so nobody cares if they take a little on the side.”
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know her name, but I’ve seen her before. She’s an Italian doctor, I think. Works for one of the NGO’s.”
NGO. Non-governmental organization. Davis had heard the term before, but never seen one up close. He liked the sound of it. Anything nongovernmental had to be good. It was probably an organization that worked, one that wasn’t bound by organizational charts and performance evaluations. Just a handful of committed individuals getting a job done. Which was what the lady on the ramp was trying to do right now.
The officer stopped a few paces in front of her. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the woman unloaded. Both barrels. She began screaming, Arabic again, but if Davis wasn’t mistaken with a few Roman expletives thrown in. He wondered what the officer could be thinking. Of all the reactions he might have expected from a female Italian doctor, a military-style ass chewing probably wasn’t one of them. The woman’s partner in the truck was staying out of it. Smart kid. Johnson’s arm came down, and Davis held steady as he tried to calculate outcomes. There was a chance the soldiers would simply settle for what they had and leave. If so, the woman might stand down and watch as a few of her supplies were driven away. If that was how things progressed, Davis would stay put.
