Davis had asked about FBN Aviation’s hangar once too often. Whatever the case, he was getting close to something. There was a time when that would have given Davis a sense of satisfaction. But right now he didn’t feel satisfied. He felt restless, uneasy.
He had almost crashed twice today in a fifty-year-old airplane, near misses with a forest buffalo and then an equatorial jungle. In the last twenty-four hours he’d been shot at twice, one more statistic he had no desire to extrapolate forward. He was riding a tailwind of good luck, one that could end as abruptly as the wind gust that had saved him and Boudreau a few hours ago. He knew what Larry Green would say if he knew all this. Chuck everything and go home, Jammer. You should be sitting at the kitchen table having a quiet chat with Jen.
But that wasn’t going to happen, and for the most discomforting of reasons. Davis was looking forward to that next shot across his bow. The next surge of adrenaline. It was like flying a jet through a canyon, approaching a turn at five hundred knots without knowing what was around the next bend. Another canyon? A fork in the path? A sheer wall of rock? You never knew unless you kept going.
His thoughts were derailed by what sounded like a thousand tiny hammers hitting the windshield. The din increased until it became a constant static, like they were flying through gravel.
“Hail,” Boudreau said in a calm voice. The voice any normal person would use if, say, a sun shower had started to sprinkle on their Buick. “Shouldn’t last long,” he said, fiddling with the radar. “We’ll be through it in a couple of minutes.”
“Best news I’ve heard all day.”
“I’ve got the power up,” Boudreau said. “We should reach Khartoum in about four hours. There’s a cot and a pillow in the rear cabin, near the galley. Why don’t you get some rest, then come back up to the wheelhouse in an hour and spell me.”
Davis thought it sounded like a good plan. He had no idea what might be waiting for them in Khartoum. Chances were, Rafiq Khoury wasn’t expecting to see this airplane again. Certainly not expecting to see him. So when they taxied up and parked, there might be raised eyebrows. Or, for all he knew, another gunman to finish what Achmed had started. Things were getting ugly fast, so Davis would have his guard up from here on out.
Ready for the next curve in the canyon.
Air Sahara 12 landed in Khartoum an hour before sunset. Davis got the landing, and while it wasn’t his smoothest, he didn’t do any damage. Boudreau taxied in, eschewing the painted yellow taxiway lines for a direct route to the parking apron. They worked together to put the airplane to bed, powering down radios and instruments, running a simple shutdown checklist for a simple airplane.
“I guess I’ve got a few logbook write-ups to make,” Boudreau said. “Bullet holes in the fuselage, hail damage on the radome, an access door ripped off. Johnson won’t be happy.”
“Mechanics rarely are,” Davis replied. “They figure pilots for gorillas whose only job is to go out and tear their airplanes apart.”
“What about Schmitt? Who’s gonna tell him about Achmed’s lousy marksmanship?”
“I think I should,” Davis said. “He and I have a few things to talk about anyway.”
“Okay. But if you need backup, let me know. Once I finish here, I’m heading to the bar. A day like this, a man’s gotta replace his electrolytes.”
“Right.”
Davis dropped the boarding stairs and was struck by the heat, another blistering day taking its time to fade into night. He smelled the desert again, sweet and musky, a replacement for the heavy, organic jungle air they’d imported from the equator. That was one of the things about flying — every time you opened the door you got a new smell, a new temperature, a new sky and horizon. It made you realize how diverse the world was. And how small.
He walked across the hot concrete to FBN Aviation. The front door rotated open, breaking its rubbery seal, and Davis stepped into the chill. Schmitt’s door was ajar, and when Davis turned the corner he found the chief pilot elbow deep in his filing cabinet. When he turned, Schmitt seemed surprised to see Davis, although not in the sense that he was looking at a ghost. So maybe he hadn’t known about Achmed’s ambush.
“Well, look who’s back!” Schmitt shoved the drawer closed and pulled a security bar into place, snapping on a combination padlock.
“Surprised?” Davis replied.
“Nothing about you ever surprises me.” Schmitt went to his desk and sat. “So how did it go? Did you get a good look at the operation?” The question came with a smile, almost like a stab at humor.
“Yeah, I got a real good look. But things didn’t go quite as planned. Your boy Achmed had a particularly bad day.”
“That idiot? He’s having a bad life. Just don’t tell me he botched a landing and bent another one of my airplanes.”
Davis looked hard, but still saw nothing. Schmitt was good at certain things. Acting wasn’t one of them. He was a guy who put every thought, no matter how ugly, right out there for you to see. And so, even though Schmitt had sent him on this flight, Davis was reasonably sure he knew nothing about Achmed’s assassination plot. Reasonably sure.
“We left him down in Congo,” Davis said.
Schmitt’s expression turned serious. He said nothing.
“We ended up in the middle of a major firefight. I’m not sure Achmed survived. He’s still down there, and your airplane is full of holes — new ones, I mean.”
“What about Boudreau? Is he okay?”
Davis didn’t have to feign the surprise that came over his face. He’d never known Bob Schmitt to care about another human being. Best guess — the chief pilot was afraid of losing his best captain.
“Boudreau’s fine.”
“And the delivery?”
“The delivery was made. You can tell that to your boss.”
Schmitt frowned. “What happened? Was it a rebel attack?”
“I don’t know,” Davis said. “I’m not sure I could tell the difference between the rebels and the good guys — if there are any good guys. The whole situation was pretty chaotic. We’d just finished the offload when people started shooting. Boudreau and I figured it was time to leave.”
“I want to see the airplane,” Schmitt said, bolting up. “You wait here.” He strode out of his office to the operations desk.
While he was busy, Davis took stock of the room. He noticed a computer situated on an L-shaped extension to Schmitt’s desk — as far as he could remember, the only computer he’d seen since arriving in Sudan. He noticed that the mouse was on the left side of the keyboard, and wondered, How can anybody do that? The guy really was weird. His attention went to Schmitt’s filing cabinet, and he noted that the locking bar on front didn’t look particularly solid. He then studied the stout hallway door, top to bottom. It looked solid. There was no keypad on the inside, but then Davis saw why — a motion detector above the inner doorframe. Keypad to get in when the door was locked, motion detector to get out. A common arrangement. He went to the entrance and paused right under the doorframe. Schmitt was still engaged at the front desk. Davis put his arms up on the top frame like he was leaning into it for support. There were certain advantages to being six foot four.
Schmitt finished at the desk and pointed to him. “Come with me. I want this story from both you and Boudreau.”
Davis stepped out into the hallway.
Schmitt reached by him and pulled the heavy office door closed. A red “locked” light on the keypad illuminated. “Let’s go,” he ordered.