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.