Fly by Wire: A Novel by Ward Larsen Read Free Book Online
Authors: Ward Larsen
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
"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
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