Fly by Wire

Chapter FIVE

In Davis' experience there were two kinds of flight surgeons. There was the one you visited twice a year that checked your eyes, took your blood pressure, and thumped your back. They got you in and out of the office quick, a rubber stamp. Then there was the kind you tracked down if you had a real medical issue. The kind of doctor you wanted on your side if you were fighting the feds to get your flight medical back.

As he sat in the waiting room, Davis studied the wall and decided that Dr. James Black was the latter type. There were two large, ornate diplomas — Dartmouth and Georgetown — and a bunch of smaller certificates for smaller achievements. FAA Aviation Medical Examiner, chairman of a professional association. The guy even had a law degree to boot. M. D., J. D. Now there was a scary concept, Davis thought. All the same, a good guy to have in your corner if you were up against the system. Dr. Black was probably on retainer for the World Express pilot's union, paid a healthy sum to wrestle a few tricky cases each year.

Office hours had ended for the day, but the doctor was still in and had agreed to an interview. Davis only waited five minutes, his personal record at any doctors office. A receptionist led past a single exam room — not the usual row of holding pens — to a small, nicely appointed suite. Dr. Black was behind his desk and stood when Davis came in. He was middle-aged, medium height, medium build. He wore designer glasses and a lab coat with his name embroidered in black script. Black in black. The coat was pressed and clean. No blood, no wrinkles, no tongue depressor in the breast pocket. He didn't even bother with a physician's most basic accessory — a stethoscope hanging around his neck.

"Hello, I'm Jim Black."

Davis took a firm, professional handshake.

"Jammer Davis, NTSB."

The doctor cocked his head slightly. The "Jammer" part often threw people off.

"Thanks for seeing me on short notice."

"No problem. I was going to be in my office dictating for another hour. So you've come about Earl Moore?"

"Yes."

"Terrible, what happened. I suppose you know my reason for taking him as a patient?"

The doctor didn't mess around. Which was all right with Jammer Davis. "I know he took time off for alcohol rehab. You helped him get his medical back."

The doctor nodded. "Tell me, Mr. Davis, is this a formal interview?"

"I'm not a very formal guy, but yeah, I guess it has to be."

The flight surgeon shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his lab coat, and his expression took on an air of increased gravity. It was probably the same face that came when he was giving a patient bad news.

Davis tried to lighten the mood. "Look, Doc — I just need to get a few things straight before I go sticking my nose under charred lumps of metal. A brand-new airplane fell out of the sky, and it's important for us to find out why. Earl Moore had a recent medical history that's got to be looked at."

Black said, "You know about the alcohol. What about the divorce?"

"Yes. I just spent some time with his wife this afternoon."

"I've never met her."

"She's charming. Tell me, Doctor, when Moore had his ticket pulled last year — how did that come about?"

"It was pretty straightforward, as those things go. Moore's wife called his chief pilot, said he was drinking far too much. The chief pilot confronted Moore, who pretty much confessed."

"Confessed."

"Just said he'd been drinking heavily, volunteered for the rehab program"

"So an ex-Navy guy puts himself in drydock."

"Yes. It's a good program. For a first timer, very straightforward. Counseling, recurrent monitoring. Over ninety percent are back flying within a few months. And the recurrence rate is quite low"

Davis said, "I got the impression that Moore and his wife weren't getting along. Was there ever any suggestion of other problems — say, physical abuse, anything like that?"

"No. Nothing I know of."

"Were there other medical issues? Waivers for any conditions?"

"I think he had to wear glasses for far vision," Black said.

"Okay. So when did you see Moore last?"

"He dropped in last week."

"Dropped in? You mean he didn't have an appointment?"

"That's right."

Davis paused. A bright red flag fluttered in his cranium. Standard flight physicals were every six months — and always scheduled far in advance. "Was he having some kind of problem?"

"Well," the doctor hedged, "I'm not sure. He wanted to know what would happen to a pilot who got a DUI."

The red flag snapped stiff. "What did you tell him?"

"I said it would have to be reported to the FAA right away. And if he had gotten a DUI, given his background, his ticket would be pulled within twenty-four hours."

"So did he admit to it?"

"I asked. He said no."

There was a pause before Davis said, "And that was the end of it?"

"Yes."

"Forgive me, Doc, but it seems a little strange. A guy coming in unscheduled and asking something like that. Didn't you try to check it out? Maybe make a phone call or two?"

Blacks tone was combative. "No. My patient told me he was clean. I'm not a detective."

Not much of a doctor either, Davis thought.

Black added, "And I can assure you that I was under no regulatory obligation to go digging."

Davis had no idea what the legalities were. The doctor probably did. Davis figured the Texas Bar Association would have been proud. Hippocrates pretty disappointed. "All right," he said. "I'll check with the Houston Police and Harris County Sheriff's Department."

"I think you should," the doctor agreed.

Perfect answer. Davis moved on. "Was he on any kind of medication that you know of — either prescription or over-the-counter?"

"Not to my knowledge."

The lawyer half was taking over, and Davis felt another interview ebbing. He was up against Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, except the monster was an expert in torts and civil procedure. Davis covered a few more formalities, then arranged to get copies of the patient records on Earl Moore. He thanked Black for his help, and headed to the elevator. For the second time today, he was an unhappy man.

He hoped to hell the toxicology run-up on the body of Earl Moore came out negative. He hoped to hell they could find enough of Earl Moore to do a toxicology run-up. But even if the skipper had been under the influence, it didn't explain much in Davis' mind. A drunk pilot might make mistakes, but it wasn't the kind of thing that would bring down a brand-new jet from six miles up.

Waiting for the elevator, Davis checked his cell phone. He saw a text message from Jen. omg Daddy! Bobby Taylor just asked me to sophomore dance a week from Friday! aunt L says I have to ask you. Please! Please! Please! Kisses, J.

The elevator opened. He snapped his phone shut and stepped in. There was another guy already there — thin, long hair, nurse's scrubs. Davis barely noticed. A vision of Bobby Taylor came to mind, his spindly little arms and legs. Davis needed to get home before next Friday. He wanted to shake Bobby Taylor's hand. Shake it with a real firm grip. A grip that would—

Ding!

The elevator reached another floor. He didn't know which one. The door opened and the other guy began backing out, eyeing him like he was a psycho. Davis had no idea why.

Five hours after arriving in Houston, Davis was on a Continental Boeing 777 headed for Paris. He heard a mechanical thump as the parking brake was released and felt the big machine begin its backward motion. He checked his watch. Thirty-eight seconds late. Davis had always had a sense for time. He could wake up in the middle of the night and guess right to within ten minutes. Always. But that wasn't good enough. Twenty years in the military taught a man the value of punctuality — bombs thirty seconds late were not bombs well spent. You could hurt a good guy. Not hurt a bad guy. Time was important in lots of things.

Nine minutes later, the big airplane accelerated down the runway. When it reached a speed that would have left an Indy car in the dust, the ground fell away. Davis yawned. He was sitting in first class, already sipping an orange juice. The NTSB would never have sprung for the upgrade, but during the boarding process he had recognized the captain as one of his old instructors from flight school. They chatted about their reckless youth, and before he knew it the skipper had bumped him up.

Once the big jet was at cruising altitude, the ship's resonance settled to a businesslike hum. It was an oddly serene coalescence — air vents hissing, massive engines droning, and a five hundred knot slipstream outside. Davis found it comforting, even relaxing.

A flight attendant came down the aisle carrying a stack of pillows — he knew if you called them "stewardesses" they'd look at you as if you were a dinosaur. Her dress, hair, and smile were all taut and professional. She handed over a pillow as gracefully as anyone could, and said, "Are you sure I can't get you a drink, sir?"

"No," he replied, swirling his juice cup, "this is fine."

"So you and the captain are old friends?"

He smiled. "We flew together a long time ago."

"You're not one of those pilots who hates flying in back, are you?"

"Doesn't bother me a bit."

"The first officer I'm dating doesn't like it. I guess it's a control thing," she said.

On hearing those words, Davis fumbled his thoughts. "Yeah, I guess," he managed.

The young woman smiled her pert company smile, went back to her deliveries.

A control thing. The words pinged between his ears. It was the last thing Diane had ever said to him, the ending volley of a silly spat they'd had, delivered as she was heading out the door. It was funny how memories worked. The good ones — and there were a lot when it came to Diane — were there if you went looking for them. But the bad came looking for you. They popped up in your dreams, whispered in your ear, drifted on a familiar scent. All it took was the slightest odd association. And there wasn't a damn thing you could do.

Davis pushed it all away, tried to settle in for the ten-hour crossing. He was familiar with riding in coach on long flights — you got to know the people around you. But here in first class it seemed different. There was more space. With a quick look around, Davis decided that might not be such a bad thing. An older woman across the aisle, dripping with diamonds and accessories, sat sipping champagne from a fluted glass. He had watched her slam down two before they'd even left the ground. One more, he figured, add in the cabin altitude, and she'd be out for the count.

In front of her, a middle-aged guy with slicked black hair kicked off his boat shoes and propped his bare feet on the table he'd be eating from in a few hours. Ahead of him was an angry-faced kid dressed like a rapper. He had a gold chain around his neck that would have anchored a trawler, and hanging from that was a gold bucket that reminded Davis of the things priests swung around to disperse incense. And he was already standing, even though the fasten seat belt sign was on. He was an idiot.

Davis didn't like it up here. Didn't like being pampered. Jen would have loved it, though. He wished this assignment had come in the summer when he could have brought her. Davis felt for the cell phone in his pocket. They'd made him shut it off before getting airborne, which bothered him. He knew the thing would be useless while they crossed the pond, but it was his umbilical, his only link to Jen. Since Diane's death, his life had revolved completely around his daughter, a wobbling existence driven by the inertia of school dances, meet-your-teacher nights and swim meets. Not that he minded — it was a good whirlwind. And so blasting off to Europe seemed wrong. It was too damned far away.

The cabin lights went dim. Davis figured the flight attendants were trying to lull everyone to sleep. He looked out the window and saw a moonlit night sky. Soft white reflections played on a scalloped cloud deck below, a subtle image of the moon echoing upward from a smooth lake. It was a pretty night, the same kind of night Captain Earl Moore and First Officer Melinda Hendricks had certainly seen a thousand times.

Davis settled into his seat, pressed the recline button until he was almost lying flat. It was comfortable, and if a career in the military had taught him anything it was that you slept when you could.

As he began to drift off, he thought about what Dr. Black had told him. Did Earl Moore really have a run-in with the police last week? Maybe he'd gotten in trouble. Maybe he'd been pulled over after downing a couple of beers, didn't get a DUI, and went to Dr. Black to scare himself straight. It was a convenient theory — and probably not much more. Right now, there were a lot of possibilities.

Then Davis remembered the photo of the crash site he'd seen in Sparky s office. The debris had been strewn over a very large area, at least a mile. Which didn't fit. The airplane had fallen over six miles in two minutes. On a trajectory like that, it should have gone straight in and made a hole like a meteor crater. He'd seen it before. Deep impact, the densest parts burying themselves in fifty feet of earth. But that hadn't happened to World Express 801. It had been really moving, but the impact was low angle.

Once again, a lot of possibilities.