by Ward Larsen
He saw nothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
At noon he took a break, spent thirty minutes in the boat drinking fresh water and massaging his aching arms. His hands were blistered, so the old man wrapped a fish-scented rag around the handle, securing it with string as only a seaman could.
Davis got back in the water.
Two hours later he spotted something, but it turned out to be an old sunken boat, thirty feet of metal and wood that had probably hit bottom back in World War Two. What remained of the hull was encrusted in sea life, a sarcophagus of soft coral and gorgonians that muted its shape. Even so, Davis had spotted the symmetrical outline. Spotted it by shape alone, just as he’d hoped.
Hours later—he had no idea how many—Davis needed another break. He gave the old man the cut signal and the little outboard went silent. As he swam to the boat, his arms were stiff and sore, but it at least felt good to use them in a new motion. Davis clung to the side of the boat like a huge limpet. There was no boarding ladder, but the old man had fashioned a rope with knots, and he hung it over the side. Davis waited to synchronize with the swells, then heaved himself up, happy to take the old man’s helping arm. He collapsed on the seat, and stripped the mask and snorkel from his head.
Davis sat with his elbow on his knees, exhausted and sore. The old man handed him a bottle of water. He imagined what the old guy must be thinking. Looking for airplanes in the ocean. The old salt would have been well within his rights to be laughing his ass off right now. But he wasn’t. His expression was dead serious, his eyes sharp behind a lifetime of cataracts. It was the same look that would be there when he needed a school of mackerel to feed his family. Briefly, Davis considered trading places with him. The fisherman was probably half Davis’ weight, and they’d get far better gas mileage. But that didn’t make sense. Davis knew what to look for, and the old man knew how to run the boat and the GPS, how to keep a tight search pattern. No, Davis was stuck, resigned to being dragged around for the rest of the day like a two hundred and forty pound baitfish.
He got back in the water reluctantly, going over the side like a man headed to some kind of aquatic chain gang. He vowed no more breaks. Davis didn’t know the time, but it had to be late afternoon. There were two hours of daylight left, maybe three. He decided he’d hang on as long as he could, until his arms and hands gave way, or until the sun set. When they began moving, he realized he was getting hungry. Below, he’d seen any number of nice hogfish and grouper, enough to make him consider the spear and sling he’d seen in the old man’s boat. They could stop long enough for Davis to hunt down a nice dinner. But there was a serious downside to that idea. Being dragged behind a boat in the open ocean, Davis decided the last thing he needed was blood in the water.
Churning through the waves, he began to have doubts. Had the Navy’s data been good? Was the search pattern tight enough to account for the visibility? Was the old man keeping a good track? It all weighed on him, even more than the salty ocean he was battering through.
An hour later Davis’ arms were like mush, his huge shoulders cramping. An hour after that—or was it two?—he could barely focus on the sandy bottom. His fingers began to slip. The sun was getting lower, and the bottom fifty feet below had begun to fade to green-gray obscurity. He gave it ten more minutes. His body was giving out. Then he gave it ten more. And that was when he saw it.
A DC-3 that looked like it was flying across the ocean floor.
There was no mistaking the shape. The still shadow of an almost fully intact DC-3 came out of the gloom like a ghost. Davis raised his arm and waved a frantic cut signal. He felt the line go slack, then looked up at the boat and gave the old man two thumbs-up. He was trying to think of a signal that would tell him to mark the spot with Mr. Gamun, but then he saw the skipper already fiddling with the device. The old guy really knew his stuff—a few waves or some current, lose the light, and their hard-won find could be lost in seconds.
Davis took a deep breath, piked his legs up, and free-dove down. For the first time today he could have used fins. Fifty feet was a long way to free-dive, beyond him for sure with bare feet. But even if he could only get halfway there, Davis wanted a closer look. The airplane was lying on its belly, the port wing fractured at midpoint but still attached, probably held in place by control cables and fuel lines. The starboard wing was missing entirely outboard of the engine mount. The fuselage was in good shape, only a few accordion-like wrinkles just forward of the tail and a misshapen cockpit that had clearly taken the brunt of the impact. All in all, a wreck in good shape, better than a lot Davis had seen. A wreck that had to be chock-full of clues as to what had happened.
He pulled himself down, kicking and stroking until his lungs strained. He got close enough to see what he really wanted—the tail number. It was there in big black lettering, no mistake. X85BG. They really had found it.
Davis turned upward, heaved an explosion of air at the surface like a whale after sounding. He floated for a few seconds and took in the wreckage, mentally mapping the layout. He used his internal compass to determine that the airplane was pointed east. Final orientation wasn’t necessarily a good indicator of heading at the time of a crash, but right now Davis would take any scrap of evidence he could get.
Bobbing in the Red Sea, he stared at the wreckage through the thick faceplate of his mask, wondering how he was going to get closer. He gave particular attention to the cockpit. Davis knew who hadn’t been flying that night—the two Ukrainians. According to Boudreau, no other company pilots were missing. So who the hell was down there? he wondered. A pair of FBN’s homegrown Sudanese pilots? It was just one more thing that didn’t make sense. He paddled back to the boat and clung to the side. The old man looked at him eagerly, expectantly, then put his arms out like wings and pantomimed a zooming airplane.
“Yeah,” Davis said with a nod. “Airplane.”
The old man smiled his broken toothed smile.
The weather gods were still smiling as the boat approached the village, the evening breeze driving tranquil, rolling swells of blue. The outline of the coast was fading, little more than disjointed groups of lights that resembled an arrangement of golden gems strung on some unseen necklace. The sun had faded, but for Davis its effects lingered like a thermal hangover—his back was sunburned, and his body encrusted in salt residue from evaporated seawater.
Nearing the beach, he spotted Antonelli. She was standing there in hospital scrubs and tennis shoes, waving like you would at an arriving cruise ship. Davis gave a truncated wave in return, his shoulder and arm muscles having locked up on the return to port. The old man motored straight onto the beach and two young boys came to put round logs under the wooden hull, a poor man’s roller system. Davis and the old man got out, and they all pulled the boat above the high-tide line. Antonelli gave a hand, as she was prone to do.
She said, “You look exhausted.”
“Rough day at the office.”
She held out a small canvas bag. Davis took it and found four water bottles inside.
“Thanks.”
He passed one to the old man who took it and smiled appreciatively. Davis twisted the cap off another, sucked down half the bottle in one draw. It was cool and fresh. He squirted some on his face and wiped away accretions of sweat and seaweed and Red Sea salt. He held out the bag and offered one to Antonelli.
“No” she said. “I never drink from any bottle that doesn’t have a cork.”
“Right.”
“Did you have any luck?” she asked.
“It took all day, but yeah—we found her.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“It’s a start.”
“What will you do next?”
Davis eyed the old man who was busy securing the engine. “I’ll need to hire him again tomorrow. And ask him if anybody around here has scuba gear.”
Antonelli did. The old man stared at Davis with his weathered grin, then started talking. He went back and forth
with Antonelli for a full minute before she gave Davis his answer.
“There is another fisherman who has some gear. He charges a lot when the others lose nets or traps in deep water.”
Davis jerked a thumb toward the old man. “I already gave him all my money.”
“I told him I would cover your debts with a loan, but only if the gear can be had at a reasonable price—all, of course, at very unreasonable rate of interest to you.”
“Thanks again.”
“Not at all,” she said. “And by the way—the medicine you retrieved for us has already saved one life today.”
“Glad to hear it. So are we still on for dinner?”
“Of course,” she said, coming closer.
Davis had always had a lousy sense of smell—not a bad way to go through life in his opinion—but right now it was working, registering a curiously inspiring mix of perfume and iodine.
Antonelli tugged on the ragged old T-shirt she’d found for him. Davis had put it back on for the ride to shore, but it was nearly shredded after a day at sea on a frame two sizes too large. She said, “The dress standards here are casual, however I will insist on something better.”
“Half an hour?” he asked.
“Done.”
She walked away, and Davis watched her go. The sway of her hips, the flow of her hair in the breeze. The old man caught him looking, and smiled like old guys did anywhere.
Davis grinned back and made two gestures. He pointed to his own eyes, and then a rounded movement with his hands toward the east. See you in the morning.
The old man nodded enthusiastically. Davis had the distinct feeling he was beginning to enjoy this little sideshow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
There are nine hundred thousand words in the English language. Jammer Davis couldn’t think of a single one.
She was standing by the same table on the same patio where they’d dined yesterday. Only the doctor was not the same. She was wearing a pair of blue shorts and a tiny white shirt knotted above the belly. Even with flat shoes, her long legs seemed to go on forever, lithe and brown. The shorts and shirt accentuated her curves and exposed a stomach that belonged on a late-night infomercial for blasting abs. If Davis was built for rugby, Antonelli was a pole vaulter, all long limbs and sinew and muscle. Her flawless skin was dark, though not so much a tan as the native bronze of her Mediterranean heritage. Davis had never seen the doctor in anything other than work clothes and hospital scrubs, so now he knew what he’d been missing. His only concern was that her new fashion statement would raise eyebrows in the village—they were still in a Muslim country. But then, Antonelli knew the local sensibilities better than he did.
“Hi,” she said for a second time.
He finally spit it out. “Hi.”
Davis pried his eyes away from Antonelli, and they landed on a bottle of Pinot Noir on the table. It was open, and situated nicely between a pair of mismatched glasses, probably the same two they’d used yesterday.
He said, “I see you were serious about only drinking from bottles with corks.”
Antonelli poured. “Wine is very serious.”
They took their regular seats and toasted a successful day, his in the ocean and hers in the clinic. The wine was quite good. As far as Davis could tell.
She said, “You must tell me about what you found in the sea.”
“I found what I was looking for. The wreckage is lying in about fifty feet of water. But I need a closer look.”
“What will that tell you?”
“A lot, I’m hoping. Chances are this wreck will never be brought to the surface. Sudan doesn’t have the resources for that kind of salvage. But I can learn a lot from a closer look. I’ll see if there was any cargo. I’ll check the position of switches and levers in the cockpit to verify the configuration when the airplane hit, things like landing gear and flight controls.”
“And that can give you a solution?”
“It’s a start. But there might be more to it.”
“Such as?”
“FBN Aviation is a shady operation. Aside from delivering supplies to people like you, they deliver a lot of things that are … well, less helpful to the world.”
“Weapons?” she suggested.
“I’m sure you’ve seen them. For my investigation that brings a lot of possible causes into play. This crash might not even have been an accident. At least not in the usual sense.”
Antonelli pulled her glass from her lips in mid-sip. “Are you saying FBN might have sabotaged the airplane?”
Davis shrugged to say it was a possibility.
“What about the pilots? I knew one man fairly well, the one who helped at our clinic.”
Davis studied her for a moment, wondering how far to go. He relented. “I probably should have leveled with you earlier about that. I told you that I found the crew, the two Ukranians.”
She looked perplexed. “Yes?”
“Actually, I found their bodies in the desert a few days ago. They had been executed.”
Antonelli gasped. “Executed?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“But who would do such a thing?”
“My guess is FBN Aviation. Imam Khoury has his own private army. And I suspect it goes higher than that. In a place like this, Khoury would never be able to operate without support from someone in the government.”
She said nothing for a long time. The same woman who had served them last night arrived with food and a smile.
When she was gone, Antonelli said, “The world can be a cruel place.”
“Yes it can,” he agreed. “But it can also be a good place.”
She raised her glass. “To the good.”
He tapped his against it. “To the good.”
The meal was fish, well seasoned, accompanied by couscous. It was even better than the previous evening. Or maybe Davis had only worked up a greater hunger by getting dragged through the Red Sea all day.
Midcourse through dinner, Antonelli offered up her phone for another call to Jen. Davis had also been contemplating a call to Larry Green. The general might have new information, although more likely he’d just order Davis home again. In the end, neither idea got off the ground for the most basic of reasons—her handset was low on power and wouldn’t hold a connection. Davis was disappointed, because he really wanted to talk to his daughter. He had fewer regrets about the call to D.C. After his dive tomorrow, he’d find a way to get back to Khartoum. Then he’d find a phone and check in. What difference could a day make? he reasoned.
Davis made Antonelli tell him about her day at the clinic, and that subject lifted the mood considerably. Or perhaps it was the wine. They pulled a second cork before finishing, and still had half a bottle left when the server took away their plates. Both agreed that a walk on the beach was in order. She grabbed the glasses. He grabbed the bottle.
On reaching the water, they turned left, and meandered toward the dim orange glow. The sun was finally gone, resting after another twelve-hour shift spent beating the earth into submission. Waves slapped gently onto shore, and above the tideline a warm offshore breeze rustled through a thin stand of palms. With the village behind them, they followed a strand of sand that curved out toward sea, then disappeared at a point miles in the distance. They strolled side by side, their steps irregular, arms swinging carelessly. It might have been the wine or it might have been the mood, but for the first time in days Davis found he wasn’t thinking about crashes or drones or thieving soldiers. It felt good.
Antonelli looked skyward, and said, “It’s such a clear evening. We should look for shooting stars.”
“You can’t. They only come when you’re not looking for them.”
She frowned in mock disappointment.
“But I’ll watch just the same.”
She said, “Tell me, Jammer, will you go back to Washington as soon as you have solved the mystery of this crash?”
“Yes.”
“Are you loo
king forward it?”
“Washington? Not really. But home—yes. When Jen gets back, I’ll be there for her. I promised her that a long time ago.”
“When your wife died?”
“Yes. And I meant it. What about you? Are you looking forward to going home?”
“Milan? No, not really.”
Davis didn’t reply.
“Does that sound strange?” she asked.
“I guess not.”
“Here I work hard, but the rest of my life is simple. In Milan it is somewhat the reverse.”
“I know what you mean. E-mails and meetings.”
“Divorce lawyers,” she said.
Davis stopped.
Antonelli began to laugh. “There is probably not a lawyer within a hundred miles of this place.”
“Probably not.”
She held out her empty glass and ordered him to fill it. He pulled out the cork and did as instructed. When her glass was half full, the bottle ran dry. Davis held up the empty, and said, “Too bad we don’t have something to write with. We could send a message.”
“And what would this message say?”
“I don’t know. I’m not much of a poet.”
“Most of us aren’t.” Antonelli took a long draw on her wine before looking contemplatively out to sea. She said, “You know, Jammer, I have three wonderful bathing suits back in Milan.”
“I’ll bet you do.”
“But none here.” She finished her wine, wound up, and threw the empty glass out to sea. “Sad, is it not?”
“Very,” he said. It truly was.
Antonelli took the empty bottle from his hand and launched herself running into the Red Sea, ending in a headlong dive. When she surfaced, she started wriggling, and seconds later threw her wet shirt at him. It hit Davis on the shoulder and stuck there. Her shorts came next, flying past his head and splattering into the sand.
