Passenger 19

TWO

Five hours and twelve minutes. That was the air time between Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland, and El Dorado International Airport in Bogotá, Colombia.

They were somewhere over the Caribbean, and through the tiny oval window Davis saw azure-blue water and an island below. He was pacing the cabin aisle, his head bumping on the ceiling, a six-foot-two clearance that was two inches shy of his personal requirement. Like a zoo animal in a cage that was too small, his hips bounced between stitched-leather seats and his boots tripped over joints in the finely carpeted floor.

He had the jet all to himself. Aside from two pilots up front, there was only one other person on board, a demoralized flight attendant who’d listened to his story and tried to be sympathetic, but who knew this was one passenger whose flight she would never make more pleasant. She’d done all she could, coming round time and again with liquor minis, a bottle of wine, and prepackaged pita wraps. She gave up somewhere near the Florida Keys.

Davis wanted only one thing — to get his feet on the ground and do something. There had been one last message from Larry Green before leaving Andrews, a chime on his phone that caused his heart to miss a beat. Maybe two or three. He’d inhaled deeply before opening the message, acutely aware of how many times he’d been on the other end, acting as the sender of catastrophic news to be relayed softly to the next of kin. It turned out to be a false alarm.

Still no news. Good luck, Jammer.

Since then, three hours and twelve minutes of agonizing isolation, hanging seven miles above the earth in mind-numbing limbo.

For the twentieth time Davis reached the aft lavatory, and when he performed his about-face, the flight attendant, a pert and well-meaning girl whose name was Stacy, and who was not much older than Jen, stood in the aisle right in front of him.

“I wish I could do something to help. You daughter sounds lovely.” Her mouth crinkled at the sides as if trying to smile and frown at the same time. She was doe eyed and sympathetic, and wore something between a uniform and a dinner dress that was cinched in her favor at the waist. Not a blond hair was out of place, and her perfect teeth were an advertisement for whatever whitening agent she used.

Davis sank into the aft executive lounge chair, one of eight scattered in groups around the cabin. “She’s everything to me,” he said.

Stacy took the adjacent chair, an opposing basin of plump, cool leather, and between them was a rich wood table.

“Does her mother know yet?” she asked.

Davis hadn’t gotten that far, and the question put him in a square corner — no way out. He explained about his wife, and Stacy’s hand went to his arm sympathetically. Not the product of customer service training, but a gesture from the heart.

“You poor man. I’d be happy to—”

The goodhearted Stacy was cut short by a two-tone chime. She scurried to a panel near the front of the cabin and picked up a phone handset. She listened for a full minute, by which time Davis was standing next to her.

“What is it?” he asked as she hung up.

“The pilots want to talk to you.”

It was entirely new for Davis: living in a state of dread. When Diane died it had been straightforward, a dour state trooper at his door with one crushing sentence. There’s been an accident, sir. This was altogether different, a metered process of torture. Every ringing phone and doorbell sufficient cause for a coronary.

“Up front?” he asked.

Stacy the Good nodded.

Davis knew it was against the rules for passengers to enter the cockpit during flight. He also knew that some captains still allowed common sense to rule. He had introduced himself to the pilots on the ground, and established that he and the skipper, a former C-130 driver, had more than a few friends in common from active duty days. The cockpit door unlocked and Davis pulled it open.

The flight deck was much brighter than the cabin, and he squinted as his eyes adjusted.

“Come on in,” said the captain, whose name was Mike. “Take a seat.” He pointed to a fold-down jumpseat behind the two crew positions.

Davis pulled and pushed the thing into place, and then wedged his wide shoulders between the port and starboard bulkheads.

“Have you heard anything new?” Davis asked.

“No,” said Mike. “But we just sent that message you requested. We figured you’d want to be here if a reply came through.”

“Yeah, I would. Thanks.”

“Sorry about your daughter, Jammer,” said Ed, the copilot. “That’s gotta be the worst news a guy can get.”

“Like you can’t imagine. What’s our ETA?”

“Two hours to landing in Bogotá. We’ll go straight to Customs. We already called ahead to explain your situation — told them you were a special emissary of the United States Office of Foreign Aid. You know, like you might be delivering a big check or something.”

Davis grinned for the first time in eight hours. “Thanks,” he said, “that should get me through the gauntlet.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. His back and shoulders felt knotted, like a shirt that had been twisted into a rope and left to dry in the sun. “So what are you carrying down below?” he asked.

“Below?” Mike queried.

“Well, yeah. You’re clearly not moving passengers, so I figured you must have a belly full of diplomatic freight or mail. I was told this is a regularly scheduled State Department run.”

The two pilots swapped a look. “State Department? Nah, those guys have their own air force, although we do run occasional contracts for them. This is a private jet, and today’s load manifest is basically you.”

Davis was surprised. “Maybe the return leg back to D.C. is a full boat.”

Mike shrugged. “Could be, but you know how corporate flight departments work. They don’t tell us anything. We just answer the phone, try to show up on time and sober.”

A communications alert sounded, and on the navigation scratchpad a single word flashed to life: MESSAGE.

The pendulum of Davis’ situation went on a hard downswing. He watched Ed call up the message, and they all read it at the same time: FROM LG AT NTSB. NO NEW DEVELOPMENTS. CONTACT IN BOGOTA COLONEL ALFONSO MARQUEZ.

Davis blew out a sigh, then combed his fingers through his short brown hair.

“They still haven’t found any wreckage,” Ed offered. “That’s good. Maybe the jet lost an engine and diverted to some grass strip in the middle of nowhere.”

A depressing silence followed. Captain Mike typed.89 into the Mach window of the flight computer. “That’s as fast as we can go without peeling the paint off. Why don’t you go back in the cabin and get some sleep.”

“I will,” Davis said, knowing perfectly well he would not.