Fly by Night

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Podulski came back, sat down behind his mug, and sent a three-ring checklist sliding across the bar.

Davis picked it up. It was the size of a hardcover book, with heavy bond pages that were dog-eared and worn. He flipped to the index, then to a page at the back titled: Aileron and Balance Tab Rigging Certification Procedure. Davis read through it once. It was more straightforward than the convoluted title implied, just a few basic steps. Roll right, check the trim, roll left. Simple stuff.

He asked Podulski, “You ever do one of these checks?”

“Once or twice.”

“How long did it take?”

“Five minutes. Perhaps ten.”

“So why would these guys have been airborne for half an hour before they crashed? I mean, why would they even fly out over the Red Sea? Seems to me, you’d just take off, climb a few thousand feet over the home drome, do the checklist, and then land. Ten minutes, fifteen tops. When they crashed, those guys should have been right here pulling their second round.”

Davis waited. Got silence. Probably because they were all wondering the same thing. When an airplane crashes a lot of questions get asked, but nobody has a more vested interest in finding answers than the other pilots in that flying organization. The guys who had to keep flying the same equipment with the same procedures. With a twist of his wrist, Davis sent the checklist spinning back across the bar toward Podulski.

Boudreau put a hand to his stubbled chin, gave it a rub — Davis could actually hear the coarse grinding noise — and asked, “Is it true you and Schmitt have a history?”

“Yeah,” Davis said. “Is that a problem?”

Ed Boudreau from Deville, Louisiana, grinned. He went to the refrigerator, pulled out a tray of cold cuts, cheese, and sliced tomatoes, then a loaf of bread from under the bar.

“Help yourself, Jammer.”

Davis didn’t hesitate. He built a tall sandwich, a three-layer stack that barely fit into his mouth.

“There’s no love lost around here when it comes to Schmitt,” Boudreau said. “I was the last one to fly that airplane, had her up the day before the crash. There wasn’t anything wrong with those ailerons. And there was no write-up in the logbook about them.”

None of the others looked surprised at this revelation. So they had been talking.

“That would mean the write-up is bogus,” Davis surmised in a serious tone. The tone he would have used if he didn’t already know this. “So maybe somebody put that gripe in the logbook to make it look like the airplane had been in for maintenance.”

“That’s what we think,” Eduardo said.

“But why?” Davis asked.

Podulski, his voice a stony rumble of consonants, said, “Maybe as reason for this airplane to go up on quick flight.”

“It gives a nice tidy cause for you to hang your investigation on, don’t it?” Boudreau added.

Eduardo put in his two cents. “It is almost like someone expected this airplane to crash.”

“Sabotage?” Davis said. “I don’t know, guys. Where’s the motive? Those old airframes can’t be worth anything. I’ll bet they’re not even insured. Not to mention the fact that you lose two good pilots. I don’t see any upside to that theory.”

No answers. Three quiet pilots. Davis had come in not sure how to play this crowd. So far, they’d been willing to help. Even more encouraging, they seemed to be smelling a lot of the same foul odors he was. Davis decided to press further.

“Any of you guys been out to FBN Aviation’s hangar?”

“Nobody goes there,” Eduardo said. “It is strictly off-limits.”

“I delivered an airplane there once,” Boudreau said, “about three months ago. They sent me Stateside to pick one up from long-term storage in Mojave. Hopped it back here and left it at the hangar.”

“Did you put it inside?” Davis asked.

“No. Just left it on the ramp out front. I ain’t never seen them doors open, not even once. But that airplane was gone the next morning, like it had just been swallowed right up.”

“Do you remember the tail number?”

“It was an oddball, X something. Got the full number in my pilot logbook.”

“X-ray Eight Five Bravo Golf?” Davis asked.

“Yeah, I think that was it. Haven’t seen her since.”

“I saw it on the ramp yesterday,” Davis said.

After a silence, Boudreau remarked, “So it’s back in service.”

“Apparently.”

“Doesn’t an X prefix mean experimental?” Boudreau asked. “That airplane was weird, had all kinds of strange avionics. Flew funny too. Mushy and slow.”

Davis figured the “new” X85BG didn’t fly that way. He wondered if these guys would notice, if any of them would figure out that the tail numbers had been switched. He decided they would. In such a small company, each airplane was unique, with its own scars and quirks. More than ever, Davis wondered what had happened to the real X85BG. It all made his head spin.

He finished his sandwich and put together a second, two tiers this time. Davis hadn’t realized how hungry he was. He was knifing mustard out of a jar when the silence was broken by an authoritative voice.

“Room, ten-hut!”

In an instinct bred from four years at a military academy, not to mention a career of service, Davis’ spine stiffened. But he didn’t stand to attention.

Bob Schmitt laughed as he came into the room.

Schmitt headed for the bar. “If it isn’t the great Jammer Davis. You figure everything out yet, cowboy?”

Davis took a bite of his sandwich, and said with a half-full mouth, “Not yet. But I will.”

Schmitt went to the rack and looked for his mug, but didn’t find it. Because it was in Davis’ hand. Schmitt pulled another off the rack, one bearing the name Stan. Drinking from a dead pilot’s mug. From the corner of his eye, Davis saw Podulski snarl and flex, like a rottweiler who’d just spotted the UPS guy nearing the front door. Thinking the Pole might go after Schmitt, Davis started a little internal debate about whether to let it happen. It was an interesting conundrum, with lots of pluses and minuses. In the end it wasn’t an issue. Podulski grabbed his mug and headed for the door. Eduardo followed.

Davis looked at Schmitt and said, “You really have a way with your men.”

“Go to hell.”

Boudreau got up to leave.

Schmitt pointed a finger at him. “Hold on, Boudreau!”

The Cajun paused.

“Have you seen your assignment for tomorrow?”

“Not yet. Where am I going?”

“Down range. Central Congo.”

“Not another one of them danged jungle airstrips,” Boudreau grumbled.

“You’ll find it.”

“Finding it ain’t the trouble.”

Davis waited to hear what was the trouble, but that never came, because when Schmitt pulled the tap the keg only ponied up half a beer before it started spewing foam. He looked like he might pop an aneurysm.

“Dammit!” he said. “This thing’s dry again. Who the hell is snacko?”

“I think it’s Achmed,” Boudreau replied.

“Well get his ass in here.”

Boudreau disappeared down the hall.

Pilots in a small organization always had additional duties. The bottom rung on the ladder was snacko. You kept the bar stocked, emptied an honor box full of quarters and dollar bills, went to the store and bought beer nuts and Twinkies. And most importantly, you kept the keg up to speed. Never fail on that, because if you screwed up, you didn’t get fired. You kept the job longer.

“Who’s Achmed?” Davis asked.

“One of our local copilots, a miserable kid. When he gets his hands on an airplane it’s like a kite in a tornado.”

“So what are you hauling down to the Congo?”

Schmitt laughed, and said, “Hell if I know, I never see the contracts. We get tasked to haul God knows what to God knows where. Load, fly, and don’t ask questions.” Schmitt took a sip of his beer, got an upper lip covered in foam. He wiped it on a sleeve.

“That doesn’t bother you?” Davis asked. “What you might be delivering?”

“Screw you, Jammer. It’s all legal in my book.”

“Guns and ammo? All aboveboard?”

“It can be.”

After a long pause, Davis said, “What goes on out at FBN’s hangar?”

Schmitt looked at him suspiciously. “That’s the second time you’ve asked about that.”

“And that’s the second time you haven’t answered.”

“If I was you, I’d let it go. Khoury’s people keep that place under lockdown. Nobody goes near.”

“Except one of your mechanics.”

Schmitt said nothing, and Davis sensed a dead end. He said, “I watched a squad of soldiers hijack one of your shipments yesterday afternoon.”

“Not the first time. They hit us every month or two.”

“Are they really soldiers?”

“More or less. It’s the airport security contingent, maybe seven or eight guys. They have a little building half a mile up the main road to Khartoum. I guess they get bored, so they heist the occasional shipment.”

“Bored?”

“This airport’s new, and there’s twenty miles of nothing between here and the city. Not much call for police work in the middle of the desert.”

Davis recalled his run-in with a band of thieves not ten minutes after he’d arrived in-country. “So nobody complains?” he asked.

“About losing supplies? It’s the cost of doing business around here. I think the word they use is ‘tax.’”

“Right.”

“But they only take aid stuff, never anything of ours.”

“So Khoury gets special treatment?” Davis asked.

“Not exactly. The two just keep out of each other’s way — like a professional courtesy, I guess.”

“Honor amongst thieves?”

“Khoury has connections with the military. That’s what it’s all about in a place like this. Those soldiers wouldn’t do anything to tick off the sheik.”

There was a thump at the door, and Davis saw a keg on a handcart. Then came the delivery man, a kid, medium height and rail-thin. He was dressed in a pair of baggy blue trousers and a madras shirt. Or maybe it wasn’t madras. Davis had never been sure what the heck that was.

Schmitt said, “It’s about time, Achmed. I’m getting thirsty.”

The kid said nothing. He looked put out, angry — then again, what nineteen-year-old boy didn’t? Davis’ mug was empty, but he wasn’t going to stay for another. He hung the chief pilot’s mug back on the rack without washing it, and was halfway to the door when Schmitt called out.

“Hey, Davis.”

He turned.

“Boudreau’s going down range tomorrow. You should go along — you said you wanted to see how we fly around here.”

Davis thought about it. Schmitt was right, in a way. It would be good to see the operation up close. But he doubted that was the real reason for the invitation. After a long hesitation, he said, “Sure, sounds like fun.”

Bob Schmitt smiled.