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 chair 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.”