“God dammit, Jammer!” The cop rolled up to a sitting position and put an exploratory finger in his mouth. It came out bloody. “That’s the same tooth I had fixed last month. My wife’s gonna be pissed.”
“You cops have good insurance,” Davis said. “And besides, your wife is a dentist. That’s money in your pocket, Tom.”
The cop spit out a mouthful of blood, then smiled big enough for Davis to see not one, but two misaligned teeth.
The referee blew the final whistle and muted cheers came from the sidelines. The teams began to mingle like two colonies of insects, one red with black stripes, the other royal blue on white. There wasn’t much in the way of either celebration or agony. Just tired handshakes with hands on hips, a few predictions on how things would or wouldn’t be different next year. Everyone gravitated to the sidelines where energy drinks in plastic bottles were snapped open. Damp towels stained with mud, sweat, and blood got draped over shoulders.
The captain of the opposing team came over. He was limping and holding a hand to his back in a way that would put dollar signs in a chiropractor’s eyes. He handed Davis a beer, and said, “I guess the first round’s on us, Jammer.”
“Thanks, Mike.” Davis took the bottle and tipped it back for a long draw. When the bottle came down, he froze.
It was a strange thing, trouble. Strange how you knew it was coming. Davis had always wondered if there really was a sixth sense, some aura or electrical impulse that shot out bolts of bad vibes. Or maybe it was based on smell, a hormonal aerosol that rode on the wind. But then, he’d never been good at biology or chemistry. All Jammer Davis knew was that his old boss, Larry Green, was standing on the far side of the field staring at him.
And he wasn’t here to watch bad rugby.
Green met him halfway, his brisk runner’s stride countering Davis’ limping gate — his ankle still hurt like hell. They merged at the far sideline.
“Hello, Jammer.”
“Larry.”
“You look like a kid who just came in off the playground,” Green said. “Well, times four, maybe.”
Green looked like he always did. He wore dark pants and a sober gray sweater under an unbuttoned raincoat. Green was small and compact, with a lean, angular face. The haircut was strict regulation, high and tight, unlike Davis’ own ragged mess. He’d been needing a trim for weeks, which somehow made him oddly uncomfortable in front of his old commander. Davis had worked for Green twice, first in the Air Force, and later with the National Transportation Safety Board. Their transition to civilian life had been concurrent, Green retiring from a two-star pentagon billet to take a high-level job at the NTSB. He was the kind of guy who always rose to the top. The cream. Davis had retired as a major with a résumé that was a lot shakier. More curdled.
“Did you catch the match?” Davis asked.
“A little at the end. You looked pretty good out there. Not that I would know. Rugby was never my sport — don’t have the size.”
“You’d be surprised. Some of those little guys can hit hard.”
“Thanks, but I’ll stick to my marathons.” He pointed to Davis’ ankle, and said, “That’s going to be sore tomorrow. You know, Jammer, there are certain sports you can play forever. Golf, tennis, swimming. Rugby’s not one of them.”
“I’ll give it up one day.”
“Yeah. I’ve got a friend who says that all the time. He’s an alcoholic.”
Davis said nothing.
“So how is Jen?” Green asked. “Is that semester in Norway working out?”
Davis’ eyes narrowed. He hadn’t seen Larry in months, and couldn’t remember if he’d mentioned the exchange program. “I talked to her yesterday. She’s doing great. When she comes back in two months I’m sure she’ll be all European. You know, converting prices to euros, putting bars through her handwritten zeds.”
Green said, “I’m surprised you let her go, Jammer. You’ve always been a little heavy-handed with Jen. Especially since Diane died.”
Davis’ wife had been killed in a car crash, the kind of tragedy that strikes out of the blue. The kind of tragedy that only strikes other people. A friend of a friend, a distant relative. When it happened to Jammer Davis and his daughter it was like a hurricane, and ever since he’d made it his job to act as Jen’s foundation, to hold things together. It didn’t help that she was at that maddening age when kids start to separate anyway, start loosening their genetic tethers.
“She was getting restless,” Davis said. “That’s how teenagers are supposed to be, or so everyone tells me. I thought it was time to give her a little freedom.”
“Norway is a long way from home.”
“I know. But she’s with Nordo and his family.”
Davis saw instant understanding in Green’s expression. Nordo was Sven Nordstrom, a Norwegian F-16 pilot who’d done an exchange tour with the squadron back when Larry was in charge. Nordo was a great guy with a terrific family, and he was the only reason Davis had let his teenage daughter fly off to Scandinavia for three months.
“So what’s this all about, Larry?”
“That’s what I like about you, Jammer. You think like I run — no wasted effort.”
They began strolling the sideline.
“I’ve got a job for you,” Green said.
“The kind where I fly an airplane or the kind where I pick up the pieces?”
“A crash.”
“Where?”
“Sudan.”
“Sudan? Africa?” Davis shook his head. “Don’t airplanes ever crash in Tahiti?”
“Not lately. But if it happens, I’ll take care of that one myself.”
Davis still had his beer. He took a long pull.
“You know, that’s not a good way to hydrate,” Green admonished.
“Want one?”
“Honestly, it looks pretty darn good. But how about I buy you a cup of coffee instead?”
“That’s not a good way to hydrate either.”
Green waited impassively.
“You’re serious.”
No reply.
Davis sighed. “All right, coffee it is.”
CHAPTER TWO
They found a coffeehouse two blocks south. It was a toney place, the very air inside seemingly brewed in rich aromas taken from exotic mountains — Sumatra or Colombia or Java — and flown halfway around the world. There was furniture the color of well-steeped tea on dark wood floors. The coffee was four bucks for a venti, which was Italian for big. Even at that price they had to stand in line, so Davis figured it had to be good stuff. He watched the lady in front of them pay eight bucks for what looked like a milkshake. When it was their turn he ordered a large coffee, plain and black. Green got a bottle of water along with the tab.
Davis was still wearing cleats with his warm-up gear, so when he followed Green across the room to a table his steps clacked over the hardwood floor. The shoes made him an inch taller than he already was, and the bulky clothing made him wider. He was limping on a sore ankle, and his wet hair was matted with sweat and grass, and probably traces of blood. In what had to be some sort of statement on contemporary society, nobody gave him a second look.
Green led to a pair of wide chairs in one corner that were covered in a supple, leathery material. Dark and smooth. Just like the coffee. Davis settled in and took a long sip from his cup. It really was good.
Green began his pitch. “What do you know about unmanned aerial vehicles, Jammer?”