Davis walked toward the entrance and passed a row of parking spaces. Back home, the spot closest to the door would have been reserved for the handicapped. Here a sign said: CHIEF PILOT. It was occupied by a relatively late-model Mercedes. The building’s front door was glass, and opened automatically with a rubbery sticking noise as it rotated inward, like a refrigerator door opening — weather stripping still new enough to be doing its job. When Davis walked inside the temperature dropped forty degrees.
His first impression was that the place looked strangely familiar. There was an L-shaped counter, two young men seated behind it. They were clearly locals, clearly bored. Behind them, taking up an entire wall, was a dry erase board with lines corresponding to the days of the week. Flight numbers and routes and crews were all listed in colored marker, a half dozen of these strewn in a gutter at the base. The different colors were codes, maybe blue for a regularly scheduled flight, black for a special charter, red for a maintenance test flight. Also in the gutter was a collection of crumpled rags for making changes. There were always changes. Weather delays, broken airplanes, shipment foul-ups, sick pilots. The whole setup reminded Davis of the operations desk in a dozen squadrons he’d been assigned to.
The two men behind the counter straightened when they saw Davis. One stood and said something in Arabic. At least he thought it was Arabic.
Davis didn’t respond, and soon the second guy got up. He was tall enough to look Davis in the eye, probably weighed a hundred pounds less.
“Can I help you with something?”The question came in English, but the tone said he didn’t really want to help. It said, Are you lost, or what?
“I’m here to see Bob Schmitt.”
“For what reason?”
Davis almost said, I’m from the government and I’m here to help, but he decided that in a place like Sudan the government might not be a laughing matter. He said, “It’s official business.”
The men eyed one another before the taller one picked up a phone.
“Name?” he asked.
Davis thought about that. He wondered if Schmitt knew he was coming. Larry Green had sent word that an investigator was en route, but Davis knew he hadn’t given a name. Still, FBN Aviation had to have some connections to the government, and the government ran customs, which could check things like passenger manifests and passports. So Schmitt might know he was coming.
“The name’s Davis,” he said. It was common enough.
The tall man had a quick conversation on the phone in hushed English, then jabbed a thumb toward the hallway. “Second door on your right.”
Davis said, “Thanks,” and headed for the second door on the right.
There was a placard at the entrance: CHIEF PILOT. Just like the parking spot outside.
The door was open, and Davis turned the corner to find Bob Schmitt working at his desk. He had not seen the man in ten years, and he’d definitely changed. Schmitt had always been built like a bulldozer, squat and thick, but now he was overweight and his complexion had gone ruddy. He looked like he must have arteries as hard as copper pipes, a cholesterol count of a million. But some things were the same. His dark hair was still thick and coarse, like a black Brillo pad — if they made black Brillo pads. When Schmitt looked up and saw him, he shot to his feet like his chair had caught fire.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
From across the room Davis watched with inner satisfaction. The veins at Schmitt’s temples bulged, and his face went from red to purple, like some kind of arterial kaleidoscope. Right there, Davis’ first question was answered. Schmitt hadn’t known he was coming.
A number of smart-ass replies came to mind, but Davis just said,
“I’m here to investigate your crash.” He liked the sound of that. Your crash. One of the hits you had to take when you ran a flying unit. “The aviation authorities here in Sudan don’t have a lot of experience with investigations like this, so they had to call in help. It fell to the NTSB.”
Schmitt settled into the same angry look Davis had last seen, on the day when he’d been drummed out of the service. It was a look that said a lot — the man still hated him. For Davis, that alone made the trip to Sudan worthwhile. All thirty-nine hours.
Schmitt seemed to recover. If there was anything positive about the man, it was that he kept control. He was confident and couldn’t be intimidated. Davis knew because he’d tried. Schmitt strode around the desk and puffed out his thick chest.
He said, “And you’re with the NTSB now.”
“Small world, huh?”
“No, not that small. Whose ass did you kiss to get this assignment?”
One minute, maybe less, and the interchange was already going down like a MiG in flames.
“Just another investigation to me,” Davis said.
“Sure. And you want my complete cooperation.”
Davis shrugged. “If you were to make things difficult for me, I’d have to put that in my report.” Davis tried to say this in earnest, as if he was going to write a report.
Schmitt didn’t respond.
“For starters,” Davis said, “why don’t you tell me about this outfit. Who controls FBN Aviation?”
Schmitt made him wait a moment before answering. “His name’s Rafiq Khoury.”
“What’s he like?”
“He signs my paycheck.”
“Is he a hands-on kind of owner?”
“In what way?”
“You know, does he tell you what to put on the airplanes, where to take them? That kind of thing.”
“You know what kind of operation this is, Davis. Want to see load manifests and flight plans? I’ve got lots of them.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you do. And I’m sure Khoury is a real stand-up guy. Not the kind of boss who’d throw a chief pilot under ICAO’s bus if he needed a scapegoat.”
Schmitt scowled, his squat forehead plowed with furrows. “I’ve been under the bus before. Fact is, I’ve still got your tire tracks on my ass.”
Again, Davis smiled inwardly. Outside nothing changed. He said, “Look, let’s cut the crap. You lost an airplane, and I’m here to find out why. Agree to put our background aside, and I’ll call this crash like I see it.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Get in my way, and I’ll make this crash an anchor. I’ll tie it to your civilian license, and drop everything into the deep end of the ocean.”
“Just like last time.”
“Last time? I didn’t bust you out of the Air Force, Schmitthead,” Davis said, reverting to the old squadron nickname he hated, “you were always going to crash and burn. This time it might be different. Maybe you’re clean.”
Schmitt stood there thinking, calculating. Dealing with him was going to be tricky. When organizations got investigated, the people in charge were always cautious. But Davis and Schmitt had a past, and from it, a residue of mistrust that wasn’t going to wash away under a beer or two.