"In the Air Force we refer to them as call signs. You know, like Goose or Maverick."
"I saw the movie. Do you give one to everyone you meet?"
"Just the people whose names are a mouthful. Smith or Jones I could handle, but you can't expect me to call you Anna V. Sorensen for — well, for however long this investigation takes."
"You could just call me Anna."
He cocked his head, gave her a quizzical look. "But then again, V-8 isn't very original. I've heard it before. We'll come up with something else."
" We will, Mr. Davis?"
He smiled. "Just call me Jammer."
"And where did that name — sorry, call sign come from?"
"My first fighter assignment. When you get into dogfights there's an unwritten rule that you say as little as possible on the radio — another pilot might have something important to say, like, 'Break right dummy, you're about to get gunned!' As a new guy, I found the air-to-air tangles pretty intense. I tended to babble on the radios. Pretty soon the guys were giving me a hard time, told me I was jamming' the frequency."
"Jammer." Sorensen nodded like she got it. "I think Dr. Bastien might call you something else. You two didn't exactly get off on the right foot."
"He'll come around. Has to — I'm on the investigation team, the token foreigner."
Her eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. "And you're a pilot?"
"I am an operations human factors liaison."
"Uh-huh. Pilot."
He asked, "So what's your specialty?"
"I'm here representing a contractor."
Davis glanced at her ID again. "Honeywell. Avionics?"
"Yes."
Davis figured she might keep going, spout off some fancy qualifications. Nothing came. "Any other Yanks here?" he asked.
"I met a guy from Rockwell and somebody from the FAA." She nodded across the room. "But these people are from all over the world."
"The C-500 is a global machine, so we'll get a global investigation. In the old days, a company just built an airplane and stamped their name on it. Now it's different. Avionics suites, landing gear assemblies, wings, entire fuselage sections. Designed and built all over the world. Computers coordinate the measurements and specs, then everything is shipped to one factory and snapped together like a big model airplane."
"Maybe they didn't use enough glue on this one."
He raised an eyebrow.
Sorensen smiled awkwardly. Her pale blue eyes then flicked over the room. "So given what you've seen so far, Jammer, what's your opinion?"
"I found the Burgundy a little brusque for this time of day, and the foie gras was definitely underdone."
One corner of her mouth curled up. "You don't have any ideas about what brought this airplane down?"
"I always have ideas. But there's a lot I haven't—"
"There you are!" a strident voice interrupted.
Davis looked up to see Bastien on final approach. He had a glass of red in one hand and gestured freely with the other. "I see you have found a fellow American. And a beautiful one at that."
Davis was quick with, "I'll look even better after a good shower."
Sorensen put her knuckles to her mouth, stifling a snicker.
Bastien forced a half smile. "You must come to the press briefing, Monsieur Davis."
"Press briefing?"
"It is next on the agenda, our second. There is a great deal of interest in this tragedy."
"There always is," Davis said. "What we need is a good scandal to drive it off the front page."
"PrecisSmentr Bastien said enthusiastically. "If only our president would have another of his affairs of the heart!"
Bastien was downright jovial. Davis wondered if it was the wine.
The NTSB would have frowned on alcohol in the middle of a workday, but you couldn't keep the French from their wine. As a kid, back when the cockpit doors of airliners were simply left ajar on long flights, he remembered watching Air France pilots take wine with their in-flight meals. He wondered if they still did.
"But until something drives our work onto page two," Bastien looked over his shoulder and whispered theatrically, "we shall have to throw them something tasty."
The investigator-in-charge loped away.
Davis looked at Sorensen. "I wonder what he meant by that."
She shrugged and said, "I don't know. Should we go find out?"
"I think we'd better."
Chapter NINE
President Truett Townsend walked quickly through the West Wing corridor, his usual morning entourage in tight formation — three Secret Service agents, Chief of Staff Martin Spector, and two aides. Townsend was a tall man, and his long strides forced the others to nearly trot to keep up.
The presidents energy level was already high, having been raised by his morning workout. He alternated each day — an hour of weight training or forty-five minutes on the treadmill. It kept him trim, but that wasn't why he did it. Townsend had come to find that his daily session in the White House gym was the only time when he could think without interruption, no one trying to slip him a memo or whisper in his ear. He'd made far more good decisions on the squat machine than in his regular bipartisan congressional meetings.
As he approached the West Wing conference room, Townsend slowed. A phalanx of Marines and Secret Service surrounded the entrance. Discreetly embedded in the frame of the entryway was a collection of security sensors. Townsend passed through and a distinct beep sounded. Without hesitation, he went back out to the hall, raised his arms, and one of the Secret Service men scanned the president of the United States with a hand wand as if he was a commoner at the airport. The offending contraband turned out to be a stainless steel cork-puller he'd inadvertently stuffed in his jacket pocket the night before.
"Sorry, guys. My bad."
"Not at all, Mr. President. You're clear."
It was a drill that none of Townsend's predecessors, nor their staff members, would ever have tolerated. But it had been one of this president's first directives. If he went through security, everybody did. The move brought some grumbling from his staff, but it had gained Townsend immediate standing with his security detail. As he'd put it to them, "If you guys can put your lives on the line for me, the least I can do is make your job easy."
Followed by Martin Spector, Townsend entered the conference room where the participants of the Daily Intelligence Briefing, or DIB, had already assembled. The director of national intelligence, heads of the FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff were all present. The vice president was abroad, fostering goodwill in the Far East.
As Townsend entered, JCS Chairman General Robert Banks came to rigid attention. The rest all stood and clasped their hands in front, the parallel civilian posture. This was another of Townsend's decrees. He didn't get any personal thrill from it, but there were always military officers at these meetings, and if they were going to show respect for the office of commander-in-chief, then so could everyone else.
The president took his seat at the head of a large conference table, his shoulders framed by a sagging American flag on one side and the presidential standard on the other. Townsend broke into a smile as he looked expectantly at the crowd. His face was not classically handsome, but more often described as having "character." His nose was a bit too large, close-cut hair mocked a receding hairline, and deep vertical furrows framed his mouth. There was an air of the West about Truett Townsend, a no-nonsense pioneer quality that had served him well during his campaign. He had proven wrong the adage that only candidates from big electoral states could reach the top. Amid a faltering economy and the federal budget nightmare, the electorate was in another of its "change" moods, and no one on the ticket was as far removed from D. C.'s chronic ills as the two-term senator from the frigid, bison-roamed wilds of Wyoming.