Fly by Night by Ward Larsen Read Free Book Online

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 betweenthe 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 , buthe 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