Passenger 19

EIGHTEEN

Davis jumped off the Huey as soon as it touched down and moved with nearly the urgency he’d had the first night. His short hair matted in waves and his shirtsleeves snapped under the chopper’s pulsing downwash, and he set out toward the wreckage field at quick-time.

A thunderstorm had just ended, and by the time he reached the wreckage his cargo pants were sodden from the knees down. Davis was here to inspect the wings, and he began on the starboard side. That assembly was partially detached, rooted to the fuselage by a damaged main spar. Having come to rest upright, the underside of the wing lay flush to the ground, which didn’t suit Davis’ needs. He moved to the port wing, which had separated completely and come to rest near a fallen log. The underside was barely visible in a five-inch gap. Davis needed more than that.

He asked a crew working nearby if a hydraulic jack was available. Yes, he was told, but no one seemed to know where it was. This was the sort of complication often encountered during recovery efforts. Tools were handed from one team to another and invariably got left on a departing truck or lost in high grass. For twenty minutes Davis searched and got nowhere. Frustrated, he spotted a ten-foot section of four-by-four, stout construction-grade lumber, and decided it might do the job.

Aircraft structures are surprisingly light, and wings in particular are a marvel of lightweight engineering. The wings of most airliners are termed “wet,” meaning that fuel carriage is integral to their design. When those tanks are empty, the baseline structure weighs only a fraction of the maximum load. Davis reckoned that the wing of this RJ — thirty-odd feet of aluminum and composites, maybe a mile of wires, two tires, and a dozen hydraulic actuators — would weigh in the neighborhood of a thousand pounds. Fortunately, since the wing was resting on the ground, he only needed to lever one edge upward a few feet, far enough to gain access to the underside. Yet even that would require help.

Davis hadn’t had a chance to make good on his promise of a case of rum, so he ruled out asking the army. He recruited two men in Air Force field uniforms, part of Marquez’ contingent, who were loading a truck with luggage extracted from the crumpled cargo hold.

“Can you guys give me a hand? I need to lift something.” The bigger of the two, the one Davis needed, looked at him blankly, clearly not speaking a word of English. Fortunately, the second, a reedy kid in dire need of some dental work, said, “Sure, señor, we help you.”

The ground was soft, the footing slick, and it took ten minutes for them to find the right rock to serve as a fulcrum, and to get their angles right. Davis and the big corporal leaned in with their combined weight, and watched the four-by-four bend under the strain. The wing began to rise, and as it did, the smaller man shoved a toolbox underneath in stages, raising the wing an inch on one heave, and another on the next. Twenty minutes later, with everyone sweating bullets, the leading edge of the port wing was wedged two feet off the ground. The toolbox was backed up by a cinder block taken from the truck, and Davis decided the job was done.

He thanked the two, memorizing their rank and the names embroidered above their shirt pockets. Davis would mention their help later to Marquez, although he wasn’t sure if it would get them an atta-boy or a reprimand. Looking happy to be done, the soldiers walked off to finish their assigned detail, pulling the last pieces of luggage from the wreckage and hauling them off to the clearing where their truck was parked.

Once they were gone, Davis looked around and realized he was alone. It was just as well. What he wanted to check was straightforward, but all the same, he’d be happy to do it without anyone from Marquez’ crew or Echevarria’s police contingent asking questions. He laid down on his back in front of the wing, and like a mechanic sliding under a jacked-up Buick, he pushed with bent legs until the upper half of his body disappeared under the wing. It was dark in the crawl space, and Davis felt cool mud on his back and moist grass against his neck, and smelled the earthen tang of freshly turned soil.

Three feet back he found the inboard landing gear door. A two-foot square piece of aluminum, it had been partially torn from its hinges and was hanging at a forty-five degree angle. A second landing gear door, the outboard, remained flush with the underside of the wing. Davis got a good grip and muscled that panel open, then curled a hand down to retrieve his flashlight from a pocket. Seconds later he had what he’d come for — a good look at the wheels.

The main landing gear on the ARJ-35 was a standard arrangement — one titanium beam supporting a twin-wheel assembly. The tires were similar in size to those of a midsize SUV, the main difference being a significantly higher speed rating. Davis could see the wheels clearly, as well as the brake and anti-skid hardware, and it all looked exactly as it should have. But there was something that shouldn’t have been there.

It was woven into the valves and actuators. It was hanging from support struts and hydraulic lines like tinsel on a Christmas tree. Countless strands of long grass. There was also mud caked symmetrically around the tires and gear assembly. That symmetry was highly significant — it meant the dirt had not been acquired in the crash sequence, because when the airplane hit, the landing gear had been retracted, the wheels not turning. He shone the light up into the landing gear well, and on the metal ceiling Davis saw telltale splash patterns of mud and shredded grass. Two perfect longitudinal arcs on primer-green steel.

All exactly as he’d hoped.

Davis crabbed farther under the wing, until only his shins and feet were in daylight. He reached into his pocket to retrieve his phone, fumbled to select camera mode, and made sure the flash was active. He took ten pictures, and was maneuvering for a last shot when he sensed someone outside.

“What you are doing?” a raspy voice inquired.

Davis twisted his head far enough to see a black boot with a crescent-shaped scar on the heel. “I’m investigating,” he shouted.

The boot spun a full circle.

Davis went back to his camera, and was angling it to take a picture when he thought about it. Why turn a circle at a crash site? He looked again. The boot was gone. Then Davis heard a thump on the wing over his head.

“Hey! Get the hell off—”

The wing rocked, and Davis barely had time to get his elbows to his side and his palms facing upward when everything over him shifted. The two makeshift supports toppled and the wing came crashing down.