Davis watched for a full ten minutes. What he saw told him nothing about what was in FBN Aviation’s hangar. But it told him a lot about Rafiq Khoury. This was no exhumation. They were digging deeper.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Davis woke early the next morning, dressed, and headed for the bar. He found pastries in the refrigerator, took one, and put two U.S. dollars in the honor box. At the front desk he checked the big scheduling board and saw that his flight was set for a 5:15 a.m. departure. Call sign: Air Sahara 12. He didn’t see Boudreau, or anyone who looked like a copilot, so Davis headed to the flight line.
The air outside was motionless and cooler than he expected — still teasing — with the sun lost over the horizon. Building and percolating. The flight line was well illuminated, a yellow sodium glare that would carry for another hour, until it was overpowered by nature’s heat lamp. Even at this hour the ramp held its familiar scent, the acrid tang of vaporized kerosene hanging on the breeze, cut by the musty aroma of desert sage.
Davis spotted activity at one particular airplane and headed that way. In his Air Force days it would never have been so easy. He’d have found red lines painted on the concrete and armed security keeping a sharp eye — bored two-stripers who lived for the day when some dumbass company-grade officer would screw up and cross without authorization. Here there were no red stripes. The tarmac was barren, save for rows of weeds sprouting at the shoulders and lining up in the expansion cracks.
He spotted Boudreau at the far side of the airplane, pointing a finger and shining a flashlight beam on an engine. Achmed the snacko stood next to him, looking disinterested. They both wore a uniform of sorts, khaki trousers and short-sleeved white shirts with epaulets. Four stripes on Boudreau’s shoulders, three for Achmed. Take away the uniforms, though, and they couldn’t have looked more different, the Louisianan stout and freckled in cowboy boots, the first officer rail-thin and swarthy, wearing tennis shoes. As Davis closed in, the kid saw him coming and broke away toward the loading stairs.
“Morning,” Davis yelled over the clatter of a taxiing turboprop.
“Hey, Jammer! Glad you could make it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. But I’m not sure if your first officer feels the same way.”
Boudreau shook his head. “I can’t figure that kid. I was just trying to show him how the flaps change the shape of the wing to give more lift. He didn’t even try to understand. I tell you, that boy’s hopeless. I’ve told him so, but he keeps coming back for more.”
“Schmitt won’t fire him?”
“We’ve all asked. He just says we’re required to have a Sudanese presence in flight ops. Some part of Khoury’s big dream. I’ve given up that fight.”
Davis looked over the airplane. “I won’t get many more chances to ride in one of these.”
“Yeah, she’s a dinosaur all right. This particular airplane has been flying the friendlies since the Roosevelt administration.”
“Franklin or Teddy?”
Boudreau chuckled, then banged hard on a panel. “They don’t make ’em like this anymore.”
Davis had to admit, it sounded solid. But up close the airplane showed its scars. The sun-baked paint, probably once white, was faded and dirty. There were spots where the outer coat had flaked away, and underneath an old green and black camouflage pattern was revealed, like a scar from some sordid, soldier-of-fortune past.
Davis said, “So where are we headed today?”
“Jungle strip, Congo River basin.”
“That sounds a little sporty.”
“Been to plenty like it.” Boudreau bent down by one of the main wheels, took a pen from his pocket and poked it into the air valve. There was a loud hiss of high pressure air. After a few seconds, he stood back up and gave the tire a swift kick, nodded like he was satisfied.
“What was that for?” Davis asked.
“You’ll see.” Boudreau headed to the boarding stairs. “Come on, Jammer, step into my office.”
Davis followed him up the stairs. It was a short climb. Three days ago he’d ridden a massive A-380 across the Atlantic. He felt like he was going from the Queen Mary to the African Queen. Inside, the DC-3 was all business, sheet metal and stringers and rivets, all seventy years old and counting. There was a chain of floodlights in the ceiling that eked out just enough light to see the rest. A dirty floor blotted with stains from old liquid spills. Battery acid, oil, grapefruit juice — no way to tell. Sawdust and gum wrappers were scattered along the side walls like leaves in a street gutter. Loose pebbles were lodged in the floor joints.
Today’s load seemed light, the cargo bay only half full of crates and boxes. The fact that there was volume remaining meant one of two things. Either the receiver was taking a small shipment, or the crates he was looking at were very heavy. Davis noticed that the tie-down straps looked heavy duty, so he guessed the latter. Some of the boxes were stenciled with the U.N. logo and labels that looked fresh and amateurish. SPARE PARTS. CANNED FOOD. MEDICINE. Yeah, he thought, right. His doubts were confirmed when he recognized the smell. Gun oil. These boxes were indeed heavy, full of things made from nickel and lead and titanium, the part of the periodic table of elements that didn’t give way. The part that penetrated softer, carbon-based things.
Davis moved toward the cockpit and found Boudreau in the left seat, the traditional captain’s station. Achmed was beside him on the right, slapping switches like they’d done him wrong.
“Easy, son,” Boudreau admonished. “You don’t treat your girlfriend like that, do you?”
The young man scowled. “Nasira is not my girlfriend. That is not a respectful term.”
“Then what the heck do I call her?”
Achmed didn’t reply, and Davis saw a glint of mischief in Boudreau’s eyes.
The skipper said, “Tell you what, since you’re in training to be a pilot someday, we’ll just call her your future ex-wife.” Boudreau gave his signature cackle.
Achmed ignored him.
This could be a long day, Davis thought.
He settled into the jumpseat, a folding bench behind the main crew positions that was used for observers — third pilots who might ride along to give checkrides or government inspectors. Which, Davis figured, was what he was right now. An inspector. So he inspected Achmed, watched his hands bounce inefficiently over the switch panels, watched him fumble through radio frequencies and confuse the air traffic controller who issued their flight clearance.
Boudreau was the other end of the spectrum. He moved in methodical flows, well-honed patterns that belied his good-old-boy aura. Presently, he was building his nest. Even the most experienced pilot didn’t just sit down and fly. There were charts, flight plans, sun visors, headsets, pens, lucky ball caps, gum, sunglasses. No engine turned until everything was in the right spot, ready to go, like a ballplayer getting ready for a big game.
Boudreau tapped the fuel gauge. “Rule number one about flying into the bush, Jammer — always bring enough dead dinosaurs to get back out. This is Africa, so we’re not talking about a simple flight between two well-maintained airfields. We’re on an expedition. Kinda makes you feel like an Old World explorer, don’t it? Just pull up anchor and head toward the edge of the map — you know, where they always draw those dragons.”