FIVE
Larry Green arrived for work the next morning and went through the motions of his daily routine. Tall coffee in hand, he nodded to familiar faces in the lobby of L’Enfant Plaza, and took the stairs to his fifth-floor suite. In the anteroom of his office he said hello to Rebecca, his able assistant of five years.
“Good morning, sir.”
“How was your weekend?”
“Great! Charlie and I got engaged!” She wagged an ice-laden finger at him.
“Really?” Green walked around the desk and gave her a heartfelt embrace. “I’m so happy for you! Charlie’s a lucky man — let me know if you need any time off to plan the big day.”
Rebecca gushed for a full two minutes about her fiancé’s prospects — he was a junior attorney at the Department of Justice — and Green listened with all the enthusiasm he could muster. Only when he reached his office, behind a gently closed door, did his expression fall to reflect the grim mood he’d been battling all morning. He immediately checked his e-mail, but saw nothing new that would help Jammer. To the contrary, he found a message from his boss, Janet Cirrillo, Managing Director of the NTSB.
Larry, please keep me up to date on Cali crash of TAC-Air Flight 223. 2x a day minimum and any breaking developments. Sorry — heat from above. Bogotá embassy has issued Davis sat-phone: 011-57-9439220676.
Green took a long sip of coffee. For Cirrillo, heat from above had only two sources: the Office of the Chairman of the NTSB or the White House itself. On its face, neither seemed likely, and Green decided something else was at play. It wasn’t unusual to get interest in crashes from outside the official food chain. It could come from a senator from the Midwest whose hometown built the hydraulic pumps used on the downed aircraft, or perhaps a manufacturer’s lobbyist whose client had a big sale pending to China, and who didn’t want bad press at a critical moment in negotiations. For Green it was a delicate dance — theories and evidence from investigations were privileged information. He supposed that in a day or two the source of the pressure would become clear, telegraphed when Cirrillo began asking more specific questions. He would respond as he always did, metering a few generic details, while gently reminding his boss that the integrity of the process was paramount.
He was disappointed to find no reports from Davis, but then the man had only arrived last night. He hoped the imagery he’d sent had been useful in locating the crash. Jammer had never been the best communicator, and given Jen’s involvement, Green expected the information flow to be even more stunted than usual. With nothing new to report, he happily said so in a polite reply to Cirrillo and launched it into cyberspace.
He was tempted to dial the sat-phone, but then realized it was an hour earlier in Bogotá. Even so, he’d lay money on Jammer being awake. Given the circumstances, he doubted the man would sleep a minute until Jen was found — for better or worse.
Green decided a text best suited the situation: Call with an update when possible. Hope all is going well.
He paused, then hit send.
If misery on Earth kept an address, Jammer Davis had arrived.
His head throbbed, every heartbeat a systolic hammer, and his joints seemed rusted in place. Wretched as that all was, none of it touched the ache in his chest, a dull pressure without source that seemed acutely physical. A manifestation of lost hope.
The idea of movement was overwhelming, so with considerable effort Davis opened one eye. What he saw was confusing at first — the world, such as it was, appeared to be presented sideways. His brain processed the view, summed it with the rough texture grating against his right cheek, and he decided he was lying face down on a concrete floor. Not the most dazzling deduction of his career, but useful in that moment.
Davis took his time, an arm inching one way, a leg twisting another. It took a full two minutes to reach a sitting position, and from there he put a hand to the back of his head and felt a massive knot, along with the oozing warmth of coagulated blood. Everything came back slowly, frame by frame, like a PowerPoint horror show. Larry Green giving him the bad news on the seaplane dock. A five-hour flight from Andrews that seemed to take five days. Dashing over moonlit forest in a helicopter and jumping out before the skids hit the ground. Running for all he was worth toward the charred wreckage. It seemed like a nightmare, every wretched snapshot. Except for the final image that was stamped indelibly in his brain — the inside of the shattered jet. A sight so vivid and intense it could only be true.
Davis had seen the aftermath of crashes before. He’d seen blood and debris and unrecognizable human parts. He’d smelled the stench of rotting flesh days after impact, riding on air further desecrated by the vapor of melted plastic and spent kerosene. But never had he experienced it all on such a personal level. There was nothing explicitly damning in that picture in his head — he hadn’t seen the birthmark on Jen’s ankle, hadn’t recognized a bracelet or a shirt he’d given her as a birthday present. Yet none of that was necessary. Not when the greater picture was so utterly overwhelming.
The crash of TAC-Air Flight 223 had been a typical impact — which was to say, a devastating event. A twenty-one passenger regional jet had struck the earth and been cast in a thousand directions. The results were predictable, and there could be no survivors.
He massaged the back of his head and tried to stand, but failed miserably. So, with his backside on cold concrete, he studied his surroundings. Four cinder block walls predominated. There was a barred window behind him, and a sturdy iron door in front with a slot at the bottom. Simple enough. He’d found his way to a prison cell, probably with good reason.
Davis was still on the floor, thinking about getting up but not really caring, when a familiar voice sounded from behind the heavy door. The lock rattled and Colonel Marquez stepped in. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, scrutinizing Davis as if he were looking at a dog who’d bitten a neighbor. The guard gave him a look that asked if he should stay. Davis was sure the story of his crazed assault at the crash site had made the rounds, so perhaps he was considered dangerous. A threat to himself and others — even if he couldn’t stand up.
Marquez dismissed the man.
“Sorry if I don’t get up,” Davis said.
“How are you feeling?”
“A bottle of ibuprofen would go a long way toward advancing relations between our two nations.”
Marquez may have smiled, but he had the kind of face that made it hard to tell. “What you did last night did nothing to advance relations.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“An apology might be in order?” Marquez suggested.
Davis rubbed the front of his head, which throbbed less than the back. “Do you have children, Colonel?”
Marquez hesitated. “Yes, twins. They are eighteen years old, a boy and a girl.”
Davis let that hang in the cell’s thick, fetid air.
“All right,” Marquez said, “I can only imagine what you are going through. But you must remember — we all have responsibilities, Mr. Davis. We all have our duty.”
Again silence ruled, then Marquez came closer. He bent down on one knee until they were eye to eye.
“I received news this morning that perplexes me.” The colonel cast this in a quiet voice, as if not wanting the guard outside to hear. “I have been coordinating things from headquarters while my team establishes a base at the crash site. They moved in quickly and have been working all night. This morning I received a report, and…” the colonel hesitated mightily, actually glancing over his shoulder before finishing, “and we seem to have an unusual situation.”