At the moment, three men were bellied around the bar, two watching closely as the third drew on a cocktail napkin. When he finished, the artist held up his masterpiece and said, “And that, gentlemen, is how a surgeon performs a boob job.”
You could learn a lot by hanging out in the bar of a flying unit. You could learn who was a good stick and who wasn’t. You could learn about wives and girlfriends, who gambled, and who went to church. And here, apparently, you could learn about boob jobs.
One of the men noticed Davis and stared. Two other sets of eyes followed.
The pilot-cum-plastic surgeon said, “You must be the crash dummy!”
The accent was Deep South. Mississippi or Alabama. He was medium height, thick in the shoulders, and thicker still in the gut. Red hair curled over a chunky, freckled face that was blanketed in a twoday growth of orange stubble. His grin was easy, as wide as the Sahara.
“Yeah,” Davis said, “that’s me. I’m here to inspect your keg.”
“You came to the right place,” the man said. He ambled over and held out a hand. “Ed Boudreau, Deville, Louisiana. Damned glad to meet you!”
Boudreau, Davis thought, from Louisiana. He remembered the jokes, Boudreau and Thibodeaux. A Cajun with a name like that didn’t need a call sign. He shook Boudreau’s hand.
“Jammer Davis,” he said, “Washington Beltway.”
“Well, come on in, Jammer. We heard you was nosing around here somewheres.”
Boudreau went straight to a rack on the wall where a dozen steins hung on hooks. They all bore names or call signs, and an emblem that had to be FBN Aviation’s unofficial logo — an amateurish, hand-drawn DC-3 encased in some kind of coat of arms, and under that, spelled in block letters formed by bullets, FLY BY NIGHT. Boudreau picked out the mug labeled SCHMITT, a subtle indiscretion that told Davis a lot.
Taking the commander’s mug was a serious breach of etiquette. Either Schmitt never drank here, or these guys really hated him. Maybe both. Boudreau filled the mug from a handled tap that was mounted into the door of the refrigerator, then slid the stein across the bar.
“Thanks,” Davis said.
Boudreau said, “I’ll do the honors. This is my buddy from Warsaw, Henri Podulski.”
Podulski. Davis had seen the name on the scheduling board out front, and he’d expected a big, ugly lug. That was exactly what he got. The man was four inches shorter than Davis, but every bit as wide. His face was stony and impervious, pale blue eyes set above Slavic cheeks of polished marble. His massive head was shaved, and at the back were two big wrinkles where his skull and spine merged, like whoever had put him together had ended up a couple of vertebrae short. Davis would have pegged Podulski as former military, but not an airplane driver. More like a tank driver. Davis nodded and got a grunt in return.
“And this,” Boudreau said, “is Eduardo.”
That was it, just Eduardo. One name, like a Brazilian soccer player or something. It was probably on his pilot’s license that way. Eduardo at least shook hands. He was a snappy dresser, nice slacks and a coordinated button-down shirt. He had smooth olive skin and black hair flecked with gray, nicely trimmed. When he smiled Davis was nearly blinded. Eduardo didn’t look like a pilot either. More like the guy who’d file a pilot’s divorce papers.
“So you’ll be looking into this accident?” Boudreau asked.
“I guess somebody has to,” said Davis.
“They were good men,” Boudreau offered, “we all liked ’em. Have you found out anything yet?”
“About the accident? No, not much. I wanted to ask what you guys knew.” Davis said it lightly, but he was dead serious. Without the hard currency of forensic evidence, he was scraping for anything he could get. Every crash got pilots talking in the bar, a lot of brass-footrail experts with theories and rumors and whispers. Davis would listen to every one.
He said, “I understand that this airplane went up for a maintenance check flight. Apparently there had been some work done on the ailerons. I was wondering — is there a procedure for that? You know, like a checklist you go through, steps to make sure everything is right?”
Boudreau and Eduardo looked at the Pole, so Davis figured he must be the resident expert.
Podulski said, “Yes.”
After a long pause, Davis prodded, “Any chance I could see it?”
The big guy didn’t say anything. Not yes or no or even go to hell. He just took a long pull on his mug, got up, and disappeared down the hallway. The guy had the charisma of a cast-iron skillet.
Davis stared at the other two. His expression asked, Is he always like that?
Eduardo said, “Henri was close to the Ukrainians. He has lost two friends.”
Boudreau agreed, “Yeah, don’t mind him. Things have been a little tense around here since the crash. You understand.”
Davis took a pull on his beer and nodded. He understood all too well.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Podulski came back, sat down behind his mug, and sent a three-ring checklist sliding across the bar.
Davis picked it up. It was the size of a hardcover book, with heavy bond pages that were dog-eared and worn. He flipped to the index, then to a page at the back titled: Aileron and Balance Tab Rigging Certification Procedure. Davis read through it once. It was more straightforward than the convoluted title implied, just a few basic steps. Roll right, check the trim, roll left. Simple stuff.
He asked Podulski, “You ever do one of these checks?”
“Once or twice.”
“How long did it take?”
“Five minutes. Perhaps ten.”
“So why would these guys have been airborne for half an hour before they crashed? I mean, why would they even fly out over the Red Sea? Seems to me, you’d just take off, climb a few thousand feet over the home drome, do the checklist, and then land. Ten minutes, fifteen tops. When they crashed, those guys should have been right here pulling their second round.”
Davis waited. Got silence. Probably because they were all wondering the same thing. When an airplane crashes a lot of questions get asked, but nobody has a more vested interest in finding answers than the other pilots in that flying organization. The guys who had to keep flying the same equipment with the same procedures. With a twist of his wrist, Davis sent the checklist spinning back across the bar toward Podulski.
Boudreau put a hand to his stubbled chin, gave it a rub — Davis could actually hear the coarse grinding noise — and asked, “Is it true you and Schmitt have a history?”
“Yeah,” Davis said. “Is that a problem?”
Ed Boudreau from Deville, Louisiana, grinned. He went to the refrigerator, pulled out a tray of cold cuts, cheese, and sliced tomatoes, then a loaf of bread from under the bar.
“Help yourself, Jammer.”
Davis didn’t hesitate. He built a tall sandwich, a three-layer stack that barely fit into his mouth.
“There’s no love lost around here when it comes to Schmitt,” Boudreau said. “I was the last one to fly that airplane, had her up the day before the crash. There wasn’t anything wrong with those ailerons. And there was no write-up in the logbook about them.”
None of the others looked surprised at this revelation. So they had been talking.