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 dozens that belonged in a black-and-white photograph.