Davis was not customarily a reflective person, not prone to guilt or hollow regrets. Yet at that moment he felt himself spiraling into an emotional vortex, a death spin that seemed unrecoverable. He was rescued by Captain Mike’s voice on the cabin speaker.
“Landing in ten minutes, Jammer.”
Customs was indeed a gentleman’s affair. The Gulfstream parked in front of a fixed-base operator, or FBO, where two uniformed officials greeted Davis and the crew, and went through the motions of an inspection. Davis presented his passport and expedited visa, and within ten minutes he was walking toward the FBO’s executive lounge.
Waiting for him there on a red carpet runner was Colonel Alfonso Marquez.
He was a small man, perhaps five foot six and slightly built. There was a tightly trimmed mustache under a regal nose. He had olive skin and coal-black eyes. Give the man a metal helmet and a horse, Davis imagined, and he’d make the perfect conquistador. They introduced themselves, and the name “Jammer” seemed to throw Marquez off his stride. The colonel said it twice to be sure he had the pronunciation right, the first consonant something between a Y and a J.
The moment their handshake broke, Davis said, “Have you found anything yet?”
“No,” said Marquez. “I have a car outside. Let’s get underway, and I will tell you what we know on the way to headquarters.”
The car was a Ford sedan, a standard-issue Colombian Air Force item with green lettering and official service emblem on the door. The emblem was drawn like a coat of arms, the main element being a burgundy bird that Davis thought looked like a turkey vulture. He supposed the artist had intended something more noble, a bird of prey as opposed to a carrion eater.
He took the front passenger seat while Marquez drove, which in itself told Davis something. A full colonel in a place like Colombia would typically warrant a driver. It could be that Marquez liked doing things himself. Or possibly he saw a driver as a waste of manpower. Those reasons Davis liked. On the other hand, the colonel could be a professional outlier, a senior officer stripped of his perks. In a small air force the specter of career politics had to loom large, so a billet in air accident investigations might be just the place for an O-6 who’d reached the top rung of his promotion ladder.
Marquez began an in-briefing in confident, albeit accented, English. “You may not be familiar with how we run investigations here in Colombia, so I should explain my authority. Most accidents fall under the watch of our Special Administrative Unit of Civil Aeronautics. In unusual circumstances, however, the air force can be asked to take over an inquiry.”
“And this investigation is unusual?” Davis asked.
Marquez shrugged. “I can tell you I was surprised when the order came for me to take control… especially since there is no confirmation yet that we even have a crash.”
Davis wasn’t sure if the military’s involvement was a good or a bad thing, but it did carry one implication: interest in the incident had reached a high level in Colombia. He envisioned government ministers and generals, all pushing and pulling. Favors given and markers called in. In the end, Davis knew there was one primary determiner of any investigation’s success: the investigator-in-charge. For better or worse, the man sitting next to him was the most important person in his and Jen’s world. “What can you tell me about the flight in question?” he asked, trying not to let his concern bleed through.
“The aircraft is a small regional jet, an ARJ-35, registration number HK-55H. On board were twenty-one passengers and three crewmembers — two pilots and a flight attendant. The flight departed from the passenger terminal on the other side of this airfield at 20:21 last night. It was a regularly scheduled flight bound for Cali. The proposed flight time was one hour, but after twenty minutes, on the far side of the Cordillera Oriental, what you would call the Eastern Andes, the aircraft began to lose altitude. Repeated attempts by the air traffic controllers to contact the flight went unanswered, and at 21:06 both the primary and secondary radar returns were lost.”
“Simultaneously?” Davis asked. The primary return was a simple echo measuring range and bearing, while the secondary return was an electronic handshake, working through the aircraft’s transponder, that included data such as altitude and call sign. The two returns could be decoupled, however, as proved in a number of incidents, including Malaysia Air Flight 470, if the transponder became inoperative or was disabled.
Marquez said, “Yes, early information suggests that the signals were lost at the same moment.”
“Was a search initiated right away?”
“Of course. Our air force has begun an extensive campaign to locate the wreckage.”
“Wreckage? Doesn’t that assume the worst case?”
Marquez briefly locked eyes with Davis. “You have a daughter named Jennifer Davis?”
Davis turned his gaze to the window. “So they told you about that.”
“You must admit it is irregular… taking part in an inquiry in which a close relative was on board.” When Davis didn’t respond, Marquez rubbed his chin with his free hand, resulting in a sandpaper noise that implied it had been a long day. “I must ask you, Mr. Davis — do you think you can pursue this investigation with a clear mind?”
“Honestly… no. But I can pursue it in a way that will get answers. Isn’t that what we both want?”
Davis sensed the colonel eyeing him critically, in the way he might regard a corporal whose uniform was out of regulation. “Very well,” said Marquez. “I will take you at your word.”
The sun was a bronze semicircle on the hazy horizon when Marquez steered into the parking lot of what looked like an abandoned corporate flight department. In front was a simple two-story office block, square edged and colorless, and behind that lay a parking apron for small jets, the whole affair connected to the more vibrant tracts of El Dorado International Airport by an arterial system of service roads and taxiways. The parking lot was sprinkled with vehicles that looked familiar, six or seven sedans, each the same shade of green and with the same maroon vulture — probably half the staff cars of the Colombian Air Force.
Marquez parked next to the building’s entrance, and said, “Welcome to our headquarters. As you can see, we have already given it a name.”
Davis saw a makeshift sign stenciled over the entrance: El Centro. No translation necessary. Inside would be people who’d been up since dawn, stirring and breathing life into a place that had been dead the day before. The colonel led Davis inside, and what he saw there supported his theory that the building’s previous tenant had been an air taxi operator or corporate flight department gone to insolvency. A scuffed operations desk was backed by empty wall mounts where monitors had been, and next to these were a pair of empty whiteboards that would once have held schedules and notices. All of it was being resurrected by Marquez’ crew. Davis saw a hastily arranged communications center, wires and transceivers and handsets, all nested haphazardly. Tiny green lights and a distinct electrical odor suggested most of it was working, and a young enlisted woman was busy making connections. Banks of bright fluorescent tubes hummed and fluttered, overpowering the workspace in a cascade of white.
Marquez led him to a large topographical map of Colombia that was tacked to a wall. He drew two fingers along a red-tape line. “This is the proposed route filed for TAC-Air Flight 223.”
The line struck fifty miles west out of Bogotá, carrying over the rugged foothills of Sumapaz National Forest. Then, not quite halfway to Cali, the red line went to dashes and a green search box was drawn.