“Airplanes break,” Davis said. “Especially airplanes that are seventy years old.”
“I tried to track down what’s wrong with them. I talked to the local contract mechanics in each place, and they don’t know anything about it. I’ve worked with the guy in Rwanda before. He says our airplane is just parked. Nobody even called to ask him to look at it. He snuck aboard and looked at the logbook for me. That airplane is clean, no write-ups at all.”
Johnson pulled a paper from his pocket and handed it over. “And check this. It’s the schedule for the next two weeks. They always give it to me ahead of time to plan out the required service checks. After Sunday, there’s not a single flight scheduled.”
Davis looked it over. Today was Friday. After the weekend, no flights. Not a single one.
“Did you look into this?” Davis asked.
“Yeah, I went to Schmitt. He said he’d been given some cock-and-bull story about next week’s flights getting moved around for a big job. He said the schedule wouldn’t come out until the last minute.”
“Has that ever happened before?”
“Never. And Schmitt told me something else. He said Podulski and Eduardo have been deported.”
Boudreau jumped in. “Deported?”
“Some kind of problem with their work visas,” said Johnson.
Davis studied the two FBN employees. “Okay,” he said, “so what do you guys think is happening? Is FBN Aviation in financial trouble? Is management going to pull the plug?”
“I’ve seen it happen before,” said a grim Boudreau.
Johnson kept silent, and Davis tried to read him. Ever since arriving in Sudan he had wondered who Darlene Graham’s “reliable human source” could be. He figured it was likely an American, and there were only three here — Johnson, Boudreau, and Schmitt. The mechanic standing in front of him didn’t strike Davis as the secret agent type. He was blue collar all the way, a guy who’d spent a long career in a tumultuous industry. A guy who was worried right now that another job, another line of paychecks, was about to come to an end. Davis would put Boudreau in the same equation, a long-suffering vagabond in a very unsteady line of work. Aside from that, Davis was pretty sure that if Boudreau was the source he would already have come out and told him as much. There was, however, one big problem with all that division — it left Bob Schmitt as the very odd remainder.
Johnson said to Davis, “If management has decided to wrap up the company, it might have to do with this crash you’re investigating.”
It almost sounded like an accusation. “Possible, I guess,” Davis said. He then put some directness in his voice. “Tell me something, Johnson. Were you the one who repainted the tail number on N2012L?”
The mechanic hesitated and looked at Boudreau, then shook his head vigorously. “No. I noticed that, but I had nothing to do with changing it. If Schmitt or Khoury wanted something sketchy like that done, they’d have asked Muhammed.”
Davis said, “Okay, I’ll buy that. But what do you think is behind it?”
Johnson shook his head. “I’ve thought about it long and hard, but it makes no sense. Maybe it has to do with this shutdown.”
Davis remembered what Schmitt had said on their first meeting in his office. If the Sudanese government steps in and shuts down FBN Aviation, it’ll be up and flying again inside a week. Same airplanes, same pilots, new name. Fly By Night Aviation was a company with no board of directors, no stockholders. But the company had backing somewhere.
Davis said, “So they might be resetting all the tail numbers and paperwork, shuffling the company like a big deck of cards. Khoury puts it all in some magical filing cabinet to make FBN Aviation disappear, and in a week or a month the airline comes out fresh and shiny under a new name.”
“It makes sense,” Boudreau agreed.
“You’ve got some clout, Jammer,” Johnson suggested. “Can you ask around? Find out what’s happening?”
Davis shrugged. “I don’t know. If Khoury really is shutting FBN down, I’d probably be the last one he’d tell.”
Johnson looked crestfallen.
Davis put a hand on his shoulder. “Look, if I hear anything I’ll let you know.”
The mechanic turned to leave, but then paused. “Oh, and Jammer. There’s one other thing you should know.”
“What’s that?”
“That doctor, the one whose shipment was ripped off the other day.”
“What about her?”
“It happened again.”
Davis’ eyes locked on Johnson. He fell completely still, like ice had been injected into his veins.
Johnson said, “There was a shipment to replace the last one, arrived from Naples this afternoon. The same bunch came and took it. Only this time it got a little rough.”
The ice hit his spine. The same bunch. Not soldiers or police. More like thugs with a precinct. Davis kept a low, even voice. “Rough? What happened?”
“I didn’t see exactly. The soldiers were driving away when I got there. But the doctor and that kid who helps her — they were pretty beat up.”
“How bad?”
Johnson told him.
Davis said, “You got a key to the pickup?”
Johnson nodded.
“Give it to me!”
Khoury walked into Jibril’s work area to find the engineer busy, as he always was. When Jibril looked up and saw him, he seemed to tense.
“Good evening, sheik,” Jibril said.
“Good evening, Fadi. I don’t wish to take you from your work, but time grows short for our lesson.”
“Lesson?” Jibril asked haltingly. “Oh, yes. Of course.”
Without another word, without even issuing his usual status report, the engineer turned away and led toward the old DC-3.
Khoury definitely sensed something awry. He fell in behind Jibril and followed him to the aircraft, climbing up the short set of steps and ducking inside. Jibril took the lone chair at the workstation he had designed, a desk-like setup with one main screen that was surrounded by electrical equipment. A tangle of wires sprouted underneath, as if some creature had made a nest using loops of electrical conduit, power packs, and surge suppressors.
Jibril began to work the keyboard silently.
Khoury could take no more. “What is it, my son?”
The young man said nothing for a moment, and Khoury sensed him gnashing through a decision. He hoped it was not technical in nature, as there was no time for further setbacks. Khoury moved to one side until he drew Jibril’s gaze, locking eyes with the engineer to demand the truth.
“I am concerned about the final targeting sequence,” Jibril said.
“What about it?”
“Should we not preprogram the final coordinates?”
Khoury heaved an inner sigh of relief. He had long expected this to come up. “You have already loaded the initial course to the holding pattern. That will be our staging point.”
“But why can we not program the entire route?”
“Because,” Khoury explained, “we do not know it. Our target will be moving. We can anticipate a general location, but precise coordinates will not be available until the final minutes. Which is why you must teach me how to enter the final numbers.”
“But I will be there to do it,” Jibril countered.
“Of course, but as an engineer you understand the importance of backing things up. Have you ever written one of your computer programs without making a copy?”
“No, of course not.”
“There you are. Allah’s will is never done absent challenges, Fadi. We must seize every chance to bring Him glory.”
The engineer thought about this, and seemed to relent. He began his lecture. Jibril demonstrated how to alternate between screens and how to monitor the performance and signal strength. He then showed Khoury how to send the terminal pairing of navigation coordinates. Jibril gave up his seat and made Khoury run through the entire targeting sequence once, then again.