Fly by Night (5 page)

“Give it to me,” the general ordered.

The imam reached into his robe and produced a handheld GPS navigation device. He handed it to the general. The big Nubian pressed buttons to register the waypoint in memory. Then, wanting no chance for error, he said, “Write down these numbers.”

The imam produced a pen and paper, and scribbled the numbers recited by the general. Later, they would compare the coordinates to those on an aeronautical chart that displayed the airfield. The whole process was tedious, but a necessary step. Maps of this region were notoriously inaccurate, a nuisance born not of careless cartography but rather intent—such charts were, by definition, public domain, and the Arab countries of North Africa didn’t want to make things easy should the Israelis or Americans come calling again.

When they were done, the two men stood in silence for a time.

The general looked down and turned over a loose chunk of concrete with the toe of his gleaming boot. “Is this surface adequate?”

After a pause, Imam Khoury said, “For what we have in mind, it is perfect.”

The general stared at him. He was not a man given to humor, yet as Rafiq Khoury watched, the general’s brutish, rough-hewn visage seemed to crack as little used muscles regained memory. The man, apparently, could smile after all.

Five minutes later, they were back in the helicopter and skimming across the desert toward Khartoum.

Davis had been in Sudan for an hour, and he already had three enemies.

He reached the perimeter road and walked straight across, kept going until he hit the tarmac. There, he turned left and skirted the edge of the flight line. For all Sudan’s shortages, he could see that one thing was in abundant supply—concrete. The ramp and taxiways stretched for miles, a gray-white ocean of rock.

As he made his way, Davis studied the aircraft parked along the
flight line. The fleets were segregated by utility. A flock of military helicopters sat idle, rotors tied down and plastic plugs stuffed into the engine intakes to keep sand out. Davis had spent a lot of time in the Middle East, and so he knew all about sand. It got into everything—your pockets, your food, your ears. And your aircraft. Sand was the enemy of machinery, so this handful of Russian-made choppers probably didn’t get daily runs. More likely they were kept ready, clean and oiled, waiting for a crisis. Waiting until the government needed a show of either force or goodwill.

The next section of ramp held a cluster of aircraft with a wide mix of types and registrations. Russian, Chinese, Italian, United Nations. This was the humanitarian ramp, the place where boxes with red crosses and bulk food arrived, the frequency and size of the shipments correlating to the immediate state of the world’s conscience.

Finally, at the far end of the concrete ocean, Davis saw what he was looking for. Two DC-3s sat baking on the ramp, doors and windows left ajar to keep the heat from building inside, their aluminum skin undulating in the radiant mirage that rose from the tarmac. By Larry Green’s count, FBN Aviation had seven airplanes at its disposal after the recent mishap. Which meant five were likely in service right now, plowing through African sky to do the bidding of Rafiq Khoury. And beyond the DC-3s, connected by a long taxiway, Davis got his first look at his objective—the remote hangar run by FBN Aviation. It looked just like it had in the satellite photos, a massive block of corrugated metal surrounded by a low fence. He saw a squad of mismatched vehicles parked in front, including two small pickup trucks with guns mounted in their beds. And inside the hangar? A state-of-the-art CIA drone? Davis drew to a stop and wondered.

He’d always had reservations about the entire concept of unmanned aerial vehicles. Pilots were natural skeptics, but from any point of view, drones were part of a strange new world. They flew high and at night so that those being targeted had no way to see or hear them. No way to know what was coming.

For the most part, UAVs in the Middle East were operated by men and women sitting in bunkers in Nevada and California. Surveillance
data from their sensors got uplinked to satellites, then downlinked. The information was studied by people sitting in soft armchairs in air-conditioned rooms. Tactical decision trees were run and authorizations to engage sought from uniformed lawyers. Once everything was approved, another uplink and downlink in reverse made things happen. Bright, loud things. That was the reality of air combat today.

It had to be a bizarre way of life for the drone operators, David thought. You wake up in a cozy house in Las Vegas, drop the kids off at school, go to work and sit in front of a world-class gaming console for eight hours. On a given day, you might bore circles in the sky for your entire shift, like some kind of remote-controlled Zamboni driver. Or you might launch a salvo of Hellfire missiles and kill a truckload of people, relying on intelligence assessments that the targets were indeed enemy combatants. Either way, when the day was done you clocked out and picked up the kids from soccer practice. Grilled a few burgers for dinner.

It really was weird.

In Davis’ experience, there were moments in combat when you needed to see and feel and hear everything. Even smell it. Situations changed, and sometimes you had to react fast, almost instantaneously. That was his burn when it came to drones. No flexibility, too much time lag between seeing and acting. But there was an upside—drones carried little risk, which was why commanders liked them. You never had to worry about pilots getting shot down behind enemy lines. Never had to worry about risky search and rescue missions. All you could lose was the hardware.

Of course, even that carried risk, proven by the fact that Davis was here right now.

CHAPTER SIX

Whoever first called the earth’s outer layer its crust had probably lived right here. The brown desert was baked into layers that had cracked for lack of moisture, and a high midday sun was vulcanizing everything in sight.

Davis set his bag on the tarmac in front of FBN Aviation. Standing on the groomed concrete, a searing wind snapping at the cuffs of his pants, he filled his lungs with the dry, musky air. This was his target box, and so, just like flying a combat mission, the first order of business was to get his bearings. The FBN Aviation building looked relatively new, a given really, since the whole airport complex had been nothing but scrubland seven years ago. The main building was big, two stories of concrete and burnt brick. It reminded him of any number of military facilities he’d seen. Brown, gray, tan—shades so dull Michelangelo couldn’t have done anything positive with them. On the flat roof, two box-like swamp coolers were working hard. There was little in the way of architectural detail. Just square corners and a few token windows, institutional and cheap, a budgetary stepchild to the over-the-top passenger terminal a mile away. Behind the main office was a second building, three stories that reminded Davis of a college dormitory. And that was probably what it was. Finding homegrown pilots and mechanics in the Middle East was a challenge, so companies like FBN Aviation were usually operated by expatriates. And when foreign contractors were brought in, part of the bargain had to be housing. You gave the hired help a place to live, kept them fed, particularly important when the cultural differences between
the host nation and employees were so stark. A little distance to keep everyone out of trouble.

Davis walked toward the entrance and passed a row of parking spaces. Back home, the spot closest to the door would have been reserved for the handicapped. Here a sign said:
CHIEF PILOT
. It was occupied by a relatively late-model Mercedes. The building’s front door was glass, and opened automatically with a rubbery sticking noise as it rotated inward, like a refrigerator door opening—weather stripping still new enough to be doing its job. When Davis walked inside the temperature dropped forty degrees.

His first impression was that the place looked strangely familiar. There was an L-shaped counter, two young men seated behind it. They were clearly locals, clearly bored. Behind them, taking up an entire wall, was a dry erase board with lines corresponding to the days of the week. Flight numbers and routes and crews were all listed in colored marker, a half dozen of these strewn in a gutter at the base. The different colors were codes, maybe blue for a regularly scheduled flight, black for a special charter, red for a maintenance test flight. Also in the gutter was a collection of crumpled rags for making changes. There were always changes. Weather delays, broken airplanes, shipment foul-ups, sick pilots. The whole setup reminded Davis of the operations desk in a dozen squadrons he’d been assigned to.

The two men behind the counter straightened when they saw Davis. One stood and said something in Arabic. At least he thought it was Arabic.

Davis didn’t respond, and soon the second guy got up. He was tall enough to look Davis in the eye, probably weighed a hundred pounds less.

“Can I help you with something?”The question came in English, but the tone said he didn’t really want to help. It said,
Are you lost, or what?

“I’m here to see Bob Schmitt.”

“For what reason?”

Davis almost said,
I’m from the government and I’m here to help
, but
he decided that in a place like Sudan the government might not be a laughing matter. He said, “It’s official business.”

The men eyed one another before the taller one picked up a phone.

“Name?” he asked.

Davis thought about that. He wondered if Schmitt knew he was coming. Larry Green had sent word that an investigator was en route, but Davis knew he hadn’t given a name. Still, FBN Aviation had to have some connections to the government, and the government ran customs, which could check things like passenger manifests and passports. So Schmitt
might
know he was coming.

“The name’s Davis,” he said. It was common enough.

The tall man had a quick conversation on the phone in hushed English, then jabbed a thumb toward the hallway. “Second door on your right.”

Davis said, “Thanks,” and headed for the second door on the right.

There was a placard at the entrance:
CHIEF PILOT
. Just like the parking spot outside.

The door was open, and Davis turned the corner to find Bob Schmitt working at his desk. He had not seen the man in ten years, and he’d definitely changed. Schmitt had always been built like a bulldozer, squat and thick, but now he was overweight and his complexion had gone ruddy. He looked like he must have arteries as hard as copper pipes, a cholesterol count of a million. But some things were the same. His dark hair was still thick and coarse, like a black Brillo pad—if they made black Brillo pads. When Schmitt looked up and saw him, he shot to his feet like his chair had caught fire.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

From across the room Davis watched with inner satisfaction. The veins at Schmitt’s temples bulged, and his face went from red to purple, like some kind of arterial kaleidoscope. Right there, Davis’ first question was answered. Schmitt
hadn’t
known he was coming.

A number of smart-ass replies came to mind, but Davis just said,

“I’m here to investigate your crash.” He liked the sound of that.
Your
crash. One of the hits you had to take when you ran a flying unit. “The aviation authorities here in Sudan don’t have a lot of experience with investigations like this, so they had to call in help. It fell to the NTSB.”

Schmitt settled into the same angry look Davis had last seen, on the day when he’d been drummed out of the service. It was a look that said a lot—the man still hated him. For Davis, that alone made the trip to Sudan worthwhile. All thirty-nine hours.

Schmitt seemed to recover. If there was anything positive about the man, it was that he kept control. He was confident and couldn’t be intimidated. Davis knew because he’d tried. Schmitt strode around the desk and puffed out his thick chest.

He said, “And you’re with the NTSB now.”

“Small world, huh?”

“No, not that small. Whose ass did you kiss to get this assignment?”

One minute, maybe less, and the interchange was already going down like a MiG in flames.

“Just another investigation to me,” Davis said.

“Sure. And you want my complete cooperation.”

Davis shrugged. “If you were to make things difficult for me, I’d have to put that in my report.” Davis tried to say this in earnest, as if he was going to write a report.

Schmitt didn’t respond.

“For starters,” Davis said, “why don’t you tell me about this outfit. Who controls FBN Aviation?”

Schmitt made him wait a moment before answering. “His name’s Rafiq Khoury.”

“What’s he like?”

“He signs my paycheck.”

“Is he a hands-on kind of owner?”

“In what way?”

“You know, does he tell you what to put on the airplanes, where to take them? That kind of thing.”

“You know what kind of operation this is, Davis. Want to see load manifests and flight plans? I’ve got lots of them.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you do. And I’m sure Khoury is a real stand-up guy. Not the kind of boss who’d throw a chief pilot under ICAO’s bus if he needed a scapegoat.”

Schmitt scowled, his squat forehead plowed with furrows. “I’ve been under the bus before. Fact is, I’ve still got your tire tracks on my ass.”

Again, Davis smiled inwardly. Outside nothing changed. He said, “Look, let’s cut the crap. You lost an airplane, and I’m here to find out why. Agree to put our background aside, and I’ll call this crash like I see it.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Get in my way, and I’ll make this crash an anchor. I’ll tie it to your civilian license, and drop everything into the deep end of the ocean.”

“Just like last time.”

“Last time? I didn’t bust you out of the Air Force, Schmitthead,” Davis said, reverting to the old squadron nickname he hated, “you were always going to crash and burn. This time it might be different. Maybe you’re clean.”

Schmitt stood there thinking, calculating. Dealing with him was going to be tricky. When organizations got investigated, the people in charge were always cautious. But Davis and Schmitt had a past, and from it, a residue of mistrust that wasn’t going to wash away under a beer or two.