Fly by Night

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

If the operations desk was the nerve center of a flying organization, the bar was its heart — or, in a good unit, its cirrhotic liver. No flying organization could operate without one. It might be situated in a squadron building, outside a main gate, or down the block from corporate headquarters. But there was always a preferred establishment.

At FBN Aviation, it was at the back of the building, as far away from the business end of the operation as possible. Far from the front door where morality police from the Muslim-dominated government might walk in unannounced. Davis heard the bar before he saw it, raucous chatter and bad music. Over the entryway was a sign stenciled in big, colorful block letters: GUNS-R-US. Inside, Davis found a place like a hundred others he’d been in.

The centerpiece was a heavy wooden bar with a scuffed brass foot rail, long enough for ten people to lean on. Different types of flying units had different emphases when it came to décor. A fighter unit would have had an inert missile hanging from the ceiling, maybe an ejection seat all bent to hell that somebody had used, then donated to the squadron as a keepsake. But a trash-hauler outfit was different. Traveling the world was their style, so the bar here had a kind of ram-shackle-voyager theme. There were neon beer signs from Japan and Belgium. Native artisan work from Africa and Asia. Pictures were nailed to the wall, poor quality amateur photographs stuffed crookedly into cheap frames. In one, two pilots were sitting on a mountain of ammunition crates, both holding rocket-propelled grenade launchers in mock firing position. Everything in the room had a story, and Davis decided that even if Bob Schmitt was an idiot, he’d at least gotten the bar right.

At the moment, three men were bellied around the bar, two watching closely as the third drew on a cocktail napkin. When he finished, the artist held up his masterpiece and said, “And that, gentlemen, is how a surgeon performs a boob job.”

You could learn a lot by hanging out in the bar of a flying unit. You could learn who was a good stick and who wasn’t. You could learn about wives and girlfriends, who gambled, and who went to church. And here, apparently, you could learn about boob jobs.

One of the men noticed Davis and stared. Two other sets of eyes followed.

The pilot-cum-plastic surgeon said, “You must be the crash dummy!”

The accent was Deep South. Mississippi or Alabama. He was medium height, thick in the shoulders, and thicker still in the gut. Red hair curled over a chunky, freckled face that was blanketed in a twoday growth of orange stubble. His grin was easy, as wide as the Sahara.

“Yeah,” Davis said, “that’s me. I’m here to inspect your keg.”

“You came to the right place,” the man said. He ambled over and held out a hand. “Ed Boudreau, Deville, Louisiana. Damned glad to meet you!”

Boudreau, Davis thought, from Louisiana. He remembered the jokes, Boudreau and Thibodeaux. A Cajun with a name like that didn’t need a call sign. He shook Boudreau’s hand.

“Jammer Davis,” he said, “Washington Beltway.”

“Well, come on in, Jammer. We heard you was nosing around here somewheres.”

Boudreau went straight to a rack on the wall where a dozen steins hung on hooks. They all bore names or call signs, and an emblem that had to be FBN Aviation’s unofficial logo — an amateurish, hand-drawn DC-3 encased in some kind of coat of arms, and under that, spelled in block letters formed by bullets, FLY BY NIGHT. Boudreau picked out the mug labeled SCHMITT, a subtle indiscretion that told Davis a lot.

Taking the commander’s mug was a serious breach of etiquette. Either Schmitt never drank here, or these guys really hated him. Maybe both. Boudreau filled the mug from a handled tap that was mounted into the door of the refrigerator, then slid the stein across the bar.

“Thanks,” Davis said.

Boudreau said, “I’ll do the honors. This is my buddy from Warsaw, Henri Podulski.”

Podulski. Davis had seen the name on the scheduling board out front, and he’d expected a big, ugly lug. That was exactly what he got. The man was four inches shorter than Davis, but every bit as wide. His face was stony and impervious, pale blue eyes set above Slavic cheeks of polished marble. His massive head was shaved, and at the back were two big wrinkles where his skull and spine merged, like whoever had put him together had ended up a couple of vertebrae short. Davis would have pegged Podulski as former military, but not an airplane driver. More like a tank driver. Davis nodded and got a grunt in return.

“And this,” Boudreau said, “is Eduardo.”

That was it, just Eduardo. One name, like a Brazilian soccer player or something. It was probably on his pilot’s license that way. Eduardo at least shook hands. He was a snappy dresser, nice slacks and a coordinated button-down shirt. He had smooth olive skin and black hair flecked with gray, nicely trimmed. When he smiled Davis was nearly blinded. Eduardo didn’t look like a pilot either. More like the guy who’d file a pilot’s divorce papers.

“So you’ll be looking into this accident?” Boudreau asked.

“I guess somebody has to,” said Davis.

“They were good men,” Boudreau offered, “we all liked ’em. Have you found out anything yet?”

“About the accident? No, not much. I wanted to ask what you guys knew.” Davis said it lightly, but he was dead serious. Without the hard currency of forensic evidence, he was scraping for anything he could get. Every crash got pilots talking in the bar, a lot of brass-footrail experts with theories and rumors and whispers. Davis would listen to every one.

He said, “I understand that this airplane went up for a maintenance check flight. Apparently there had been some work done on the ailerons. I was wondering — is there a procedure for that? You know, like a checklist you go through, steps to make sure everything is right?”

Boudreau and Eduardo looked at the Pole, so Davis figured he must be the resident expert.

Podulski said, “Yes.”

After a long pause, Davis prodded, “Any chance I could see it?”

The big guy didn’t say anything. Not yes or no or even go to hell. He just took a long pull on his mug, got up, and disappeared down the hallway. The guy had the charisma of a cast-iron skillet.

Davis stared at the other two. His expression asked, Is he always like that?

Eduardo said, “Henri was close to the Ukrainians. He has lost two friends.”

Boudreau agreed, “Yeah, don’t mind him. Things have been a little tense around here since the crash. You understand.”

Davis took a pull on his beer and nodded. He understood all too well.