Right then, Bob Schmitt looked out his side window and spotted Davis. His eyes bulged wide.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
A lot might have gone through Davis’ mind if he’d had the time. Phones in cabinets. Less than honorable discharges. Dead Ukrainians. Walt Deemer. Some of that might have made Davis believe that Schmitt could be on his side. Some of it would shut the door on the idea. But there was no time to think. Not even a second. Davis had only one option — he had to trust the man.
With Schmitt staring at him, Davis stood straight, almost as if at attention. Very deliberately, he tapped a closed fist to the side of his head and gave signals in rapid succession: one finger up, two fingers up, two fingers sideways, five fingers up. He did it again, faster, hoping Schmitt could see in the early light. Or hoping he could guess what Davis wanted. 1–2–7–5. Their old squadron VHF frequency, 127.5 MHz. He thought he saw a quick wave in reply. The airplane passed, and Schmitt glanced over his shoulder as the airplane thundered away. Davis tapped two fingers to his wrist, where a watch would be, and added a one and a closed fist for a zero. Ten minutes.
Seconds later, Schmitt and the airplane were gone in a churning rumble, rising into the waking sky.
Davis needed a radio, needed it now. The hangar seemed the most likely place to find one.
Ever since Larry Green confirmed that something had indeed crashed into the Red Sea, Davis had asked himself one question. As improbable as it seemed, could Khoury’s people be trying to get Blackstar back in the air? The technicians in D.C. would have said no. They’d have said that the craft’s guidance signals came by way of encrypted satellite commands, and as such, no one in a backwater like Sudan could have a technical prayer of making it work. But when Davis had seen the modified cockpit at the bottom of the sea, he’d suspected they were very wrong. Now he knew it. And he understood why FBN Aviation had shipped in so much old-school hardware — telemetry interfaces, actuators, guidance modules. Somebody had taken out the original, high-tech parts, and replaced them with relics. Then they’d made it all work. But that left one unanswered question, the one Antonelli had nailed. Why?
Davis closed in on the hangar. There was no one in sight. The man he’d seen pulling the chocks had to be nearby. Davis stopped at the big entry doors and saw a void in the middle of the place where the two aircraft had been, tools and stands and work benches all around. He then looked up and froze at the sight — a huge American flag hanging from the rafters on the far wall. Davis stood dumbfounded, stunned by the incredible image. The Stars and Stripes fluttering softly in a hangar owned by a mad Sudanese cleric. He forced his feet to move, realizing there was no time to figure out what it meant. His universe was shrinking rapidly. He had to find a radio.
Davis sprinted to the side of the building where a door led to what looked like an administration area. He burst through, and once again came to a sliding stop. The man with the mechanic’s coveralls was in the middle of an office. Only the mechanic wasn’t working with a wrench. Instead, he had a camcorder held up to one eye and was panning across the room. When he sensed Davis’ presence, the camera came down. The man backed away cautiously, his eyes locked to Davis, and then bolted through a door on the opposite side of the room.
Davis heard him yell, “Hassan! Hassan!”
He stood still and tried to decipher yet another incredible scene. The office was torn apart. Chairs upside down, file cabinets tipped over with drawers agape. Loose papers carpeted the floor like some mini-haboob had rolled through the room. But the thing that really drew Davis’ attention was resting on the hardwood surface of the desk. Bob Schmitt’s Korean-made nameplate. And behind it, nailed to the wall, a photograph of the president of the United States. A Klaxon rang in his head, a five-alarm bell that blotted out the world. At that moment, everything made sense. Terrible, logical sense.
Davis heard more shouts from outside. Urgent Arabic. Closing in.
His universe was down to one word. Radio. He didn’t see one here, hadn’t seen one in the hangar. But Davis knew where to look. Knew where to find half a dozen. Turning back the way he’d come, he started running again.
His boots hammered over concrete, strides eating up ground. With three DC-3s to choose from, Davis headed for the nearest one.
As he ran, a terrible picture brewed in his head. The American flag, Schmitt’s nameplate, a ransacked office. And a man, probably the Jordanian mechanic, making a video record of it all. Taken together, it answered the “why” question. Blame. The Blackstar drone was going to strike, and when it did, the evidence would be insurmountable. Wreckage that was certifiably MADE IN USA. As an accident investigator, Davis knew how clear that would be. The rest was window dressing, visual sweetener for a media campaign. A hangar rented by a shady corporation that flew U.S. registered aircraft. Worst of all, plenty of unwitting, verifiable Americans on display — Boudreau, Johnson. Schmitt was the question mark. Davis hated the man, but he couldn’t believe he’d be party to this. More likely, he was being used at the moment for his flying skills, and later would be lined up as a third American scapegoat. Two pilots and a mechanic paraded for a sensational trial. Headlines as bold as they came. With such overwhelming evidence, could Washington deny it? Who would listen? Certainly no Arab nation.
The only question remaining was the target. In this part of the world there were a lot of options. Jerusalem? Mecca? Either devastating in its own way. Davis could think of only one way to get that answer. Ask Bob Schmitt. Schmitt could tell him because he was flying toward the target right now, even if he didn’t know it.
Davis reached the first DC-3 and pulled open the entry stairs. He climbed inside and rushed to the cockpit, tried to remember where the battery switch was. He found it, powered up the airplane, and tuned the primary radio to 127.5 MHz.
Davis picked up the hand microphone and switched on the overhead speaker. “Schmitthead! Are you there?”
“We are nearly eighteen miles behind,” Jibril admonished. “We should be closer.”
Khoury stood behind Jibril and watched the engineer manage his creation. “But you said we could control the craft at twenty miles,” he argued.
“By my calculations, that is the nominal performance. But we have never tested control beyond that range. There could be nulls in either the sending or receiving antennae. Here in safe airspace, we should err on the side of caution and stay close.”
Jibril’s jargon meant nothing to Khoury, but his caution carried weight. “Schmitt!” he barked.
Khoury saw the American fiddling with something on the central instrument column. Schmitt peered back from the flight deck.
“We must go faster!” Khoury ordered.
Schmitt looked at his instruments. “I’m dead on time,” he argued, “right where you told me to be on the route.”
Khoury glared. “Do it!”
The pilot shrugged and pushed on a pair of levers. The engine noise rose to a higher pitch. Khoury then heard a less agreeable sound — an argument from the flight deck. Schmitt was pointing to a gauge, and soon Achmed came back from the copilot’s seat, his perpetual scowl in place.
“What are you doing?” Khoury asked.
“The infidel says there is low oil pressure on one of the engines. He wants me to check for a leak.”
Achmed went to a window on the left side of the cabin and studied the engine.
Khoury studied Schmitt.