Pain welled in his chest and he felt paralyzed, as if controlled movement was beyond reach. His daughter… a crash victim. Finally, Davis reacted in the only way that seemed to make sense. He pushed away from the wingtip and hurried up the dock, talking as he went. “I’m booking the first flight, Larry! When does the bank of South American departures leave Dulles? Evening? If I can catch the first—”
“Hold on, hold on! Just stop right there, Jammer!”
With all the self-control he could muster, Davis paused.
Green held out his hands, palms forward, and walked toward him cautiously. The way one would approach a drunk with a barstool poised over his head. “I knew you’d take it this way. I knew there would be no stopping you.”
“And?”
Green let out a long breath. “This may be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done… putting a family member on an investigation. I can’t think of any rule against it, but probably because it’s such an obviously bad idea nobody ever thought it was worth putting on the books. At the very least this is an ethical lapse on my part.”
“You’re sending me.”
“I already got it approved. You’re on the investigation.”
“Larry, I will never forget this.”
“Well, hell — I had to send somebody. Turns out there were five Americans on that jet, so I’m obliged to send an observer. I’ve already got you a ride — there’s a Gulfstream III out at Andrews, a State Department flight making a scheduled run to Bogotá. They leave in two hours. Do you still have your go-bag packed?”
“Always.” The bag was an NTSB requirement. One week’s worth of clothing to cover any climatic extreme, toothbrush, razor, and a few basic tools of the trade including a flashlight, camera, and handheld GPS.
“I know your passport is current, and we’re working to expedite the visa.”
Davis was already striding up the dock, trying to translate his anguish into momentum. “Send me the four-hour update and anything new you get. And babysit this airplane for me. The seaport office is over there, they’ll tell you how to put it to bed.” He pointed to a rustic shack that looked more likely to hold a cord of firewood than a flight operations department.
“I’ll take care of it.” Then Green barked, “But hold on, Jammer!”
The general’s tone brought Davis to a halt on the wavering dock. Green closed in with a raised finger and stopped at arm’s length.
“Whatever happens, Jammer, you promise me one thing.”
“I’m listening.”
“I am going way out on a limb sending you downrange in an official capacity. I’m doing it because I knew that’s how you’d want it. That being the case, you will investigate… no matter what you find. If this gets too personal, if you can’t finish the job, then you owe it to me to step aside. I’ll send someone else to take over.”
Davis squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right, it doesn’t get any more personal than this. That’s why I’ll get to the bottom of it, Larry. I swear to you I will.”
The general’s granite stare softened. “All right, then. Good luck.”
Two minutes later Davis was steering his car toward the main road. The lane curved through trees, thick-trunked birch and cedar that were full and green at the height of summer, and the lake was intermittently in view on his right, a postcard-picture view. He saw none of it.
Davis drew to a stop where the gravel ended and waited for a car to pass. When it did, his foot seemed stuck on the brake pedal. His fists squeezed the steering wheel like twin vises, the faux leather handgrip grinding under the pressure. Davis leaned forward until his forehead was flat on the steering wheel. He shut his eyes and pushed everything away. Pushed until only Green’s words plowed through his head.
You know the odds.
And there was the problem. He knew only too well.
Worse yet, he knew what came afterward. His wife had died in an automobile accident four years ago, a bolt from the blue that had left Jen without a mother. That had left him without a soulmate. Together they’d buried her on a steel-gray morning, the wind sweeping brown grass in undulating sheets. A fittingly foul day to mark the low point of their tailspin, a bottom from which he and Jen had eventually climbed out and recovered. Recovered. Could it ever be called that? Not completely. The worst was behind them, the ghosting about the house, preparing tasteless meals, neighbors whispering behind cupped hands at holiday parties. He and Jen had gotten through, leaning on one another as never before. In those dark days, they had grown closer than he’d ever thought possible.
Now it was happening all over again. If he lost Jen, where would he turn? For so long it had been the two of them, and even with Jen in college they talked every day. One of them made the three-hour drive every other week. His daughter was precious, absolutely everything to him. You know the odds.
Davis lifted his phone from the midseat compartment and scrolled to her last message. His thumb hovered over the playback button for a long moment before tapping the screen.
From two thousand miles away, her voice was effervescent, like sunlight on a new morning. “Hi, Daddy! I made it to Colombia. One more flight and I’ll be there. I’ve already met a girl who’s going to be on the same project. By tomorrow she and I will be shoveling dirt — too bad you’re not here to help! Love you, I’ll call soon. And don’t overfeed Captain Jack — bettas don’t need much!”
Then silence.
Davis couldn’t say how long he sat staring into space, but when he refocused the first thing he saw was the green LED clock on the car’s dashboard.
It was noon on Sunday.
The worst day of his life.
TWO
Five hours and twelve minutes. That was the air time between Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland, and El Dorado International Airport in Bogotá, Colombia.
They were somewhere over the Caribbean, and through the tiny oval window Davis saw azure-blue water and an island below. He was pacing the cabin aisle, his head bumping on the ceiling, a six-foot-two clearance that was two inches shy of his personal requirement. Like a zoo animal in a cage that was too small, his hips bounced between stitched-leather seats and his boots tripped over joints in the finely carpeted floor.
He had the jet all to himself. Aside from two pilots up front, there was only one other person on board, a demoralized flight attendant who’d listened to his story and tried to be sympathetic, but who knew this was one passenger whose flight she would never make more pleasant. She’d done all she could, coming round time and again with liquor minis, a bottle of wine, and prepackaged pita wraps. She gave up somewhere near the Florida Keys.
Davis wanted only one thing — to get his feet on the ground and do something. There had been one last message from Larry Green before leaving Andrews, a chime on his phone that caused his heart to miss a beat. Maybe two or three. He’d inhaled deeply before opening the message, acutely aware of how many times he’d been on the other end, acting as the sender of catastrophic news to be relayed softly to the next of kin. It turned out to be a false alarm.
Still no news. Good luck, Jammer.
Since then, three hours and twelve minutes of agonizing isolation, hanging seven miles above the earth in mind-numbing limbo.
For the twentieth time Davis reached the aft lavatory, and when he performed his about-face, the flight attendant, a pert and well-meaning girl whose name was Stacy, and who was not much older than Jen, stood in the aisle right in front of him.