to dredge it up.”
Easy to say, Davis thought. Not so easy to do . “Tell me about the pilots. Who were they?”
“A couple of Ukrainian guys.”
“Ukrainian?”
“I hire captains from all over the world. The only requirement is lots of DC-3 pilot-in-command time. No choice, really.”
“Why is that?”
“Because the Sudanese government, as an informal condition of our operating certificate, has dictated that we hire local copilots.”
“Sudanese pilots?”
“Unfortunately. It’s basically an ab initio program. The government supplies candidates, usually some big shot’s brat kid. They fly a few hours in light airplanes, then get sent to us to build time as first officers.”
“Which means your captains are essentially flying solo.”
“Like I said, I have to get experienced guys. I just had another of these damned Sudanese kids show up last week, which brings me to three.”
“But the accident involved two expatriate pilots,” Davis said, “Ukrainians. Neither of them was paired with one of these local copilots?”
“That crew was an exception. Neither spoke very good English, so I kept them together. I figured they could at least talk to each other.”
Davis realized that Schmitt would likely regard this as a sound management decision. He asked, “You have any records on these guys?”
Schmitt got up and went to his filing cabinet.
As he began to dig, Davis said, “And while you’re at it, check for the rest. The usual stuff—flight plan, logbook records, weather.”
“This will probably surprise you,” Schmitt said sarcastically, “but I’ve already collected all that. Damnedest thing—I actually like one of those stupid Cossacks.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
While Schmitt was busy at his filing cabinet, Davis studied the room. From a practical standpoint, it was standard issue for a chief pilot. A big desk for sorting papers. A cheap carpet for tap dancing. Two chairs facing the boss’s desk that looked uncomfortable, no arms to grip when you were getting your butt chewed. But if the furniture was conventional, the décor was something else.
Davis was no expert when it came to interior design, but it didn’t take a professional to see that Schmitt’s office was a testosterone-fueled calamity. There was a deer’s head mounted on the wall over his desk—or, to be exact, something called a springbok. On the file cabinet was some kind of medium-sized creature, like a Tasmanian devil or something. It was presented standing on its hind legs, baring pointed teeth, and had stitch marks up the gut as if Dr. Frankenstein had done the taxidermy. A bandolier of 7.62-mm rounds was hanging from a hat rack. Altogether, it was like some kind of half-assed rod and gun club. What the room lacked was anything personal. There was the obligatory government-issue portrait of Sudan’s glorious leader, but no awards or plaques of commendation, no family pictures. Davis remembered that Schmitt had been single with no kids, and he doubted that had changed. The closest thing to a personal touch was a hand-carved wooden nameplate, the same trinket every Air Force pilot who’d ever been stationed in Korea had planted on his desk.
Schmitt sent a manila folder spinning across the desk and sat down.
“There,” he said, “that’s everything I’ve got. Take it if you want.”
Davis did. But instead of opening it, he said, “Tell me about your maintenance program.”
“I’ve got two mechanics, a Jordanian and an American.”
“Are they good?”
“They have their licenses.”
“Where do they work? Is there a hangar somewhere?”
“There’s a remote hangar, but we don’t use it.”
“I think I saw it,” Davis said. “Why would anybody build a hangar way out there in the scrub like that?”
“Around here? Probably because somebody’s brother had the asphalt contract. And if you’re thinking about taking a look, you can forget about it.”
“Why’s that?”
“The place is off-limits.
Easy to say, Davis thought. Not so easy to do . “Tell me about the pilots. Who were they?”
“A couple of Ukrainian guys.”
“Ukrainian?”
“I hire captains from all over the world. The only requirement is lots of DC-3 pilot-in-command time. No choice, really.”
“Why is that?”
“Because the Sudanese government, as an informal condition of our operating certificate, has dictated that we hire local copilots.”
“Sudanese pilots?”
“Unfortunately. It’s basically an ab initio program. The government supplies candidates, usually some big shot’s brat kid. They fly a few hours in light airplanes, then get sent to us to build time as first officers.”
“Which means your captains are essentially flying solo.”
“Like I said, I have to get experienced guys. I just had another of these damned Sudanese kids show up last week, which brings me to three.”
“But the accident involved two expatriate pilots,” Davis said, “Ukrainians. Neither of them was paired with one of these local copilots?”
“That crew was an exception. Neither spoke very good English, so I kept them together. I figured they could at least talk to each other.”
Davis realized that Schmitt would likely regard this as a sound management decision. He asked, “You have any records on these guys?”
Schmitt got up and went to his filing cabinet.
As he began to dig, Davis said, “And while you’re at it, check for the rest. The usual stuff—flight plan, logbook records, weather.”
“This will probably surprise you,” Schmitt said sarcastically, “but I’ve already collected all that. Damnedest thing—I actually like one of those stupid Cossacks.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
While Schmitt was busy at his filing cabinet, Davis studied the room. From a practical standpoint, it was standard issue for a chief pilot. A big desk for sorting papers. A cheap carpet for tap dancing. Two chairs facing the boss’s desk that looked uncomfortable, no arms to grip when you were getting your butt chewed. But if the furniture was conventional, the décor was something else.
Davis was no expert when it came to interior design, but it didn’t take a professional to see that Schmitt’s office was a testosterone-fueled calamity. There was a deer’s head mounted on the wall over his desk—or, to be exact, something called a springbok. On the file cabinet was some kind of medium-sized creature, like a Tasmanian devil or something. It was presented standing on its hind legs, baring pointed teeth, and had stitch marks up the gut as if Dr. Frankenstein had done the taxidermy. A bandolier of 7.62-mm rounds was hanging from a hat rack. Altogether, it was like some kind of half-assed rod and gun club. What the room lacked was anything personal. There was the obligatory government-issue portrait of Sudan’s glorious leader, but no awards or plaques of commendation, no family pictures. Davis remembered that Schmitt had been single with no kids, and he doubted that had changed. The closest thing to a personal touch was a hand-carved wooden nameplate, the same trinket every Air Force pilot who’d ever been stationed in Korea had planted on his desk.
Schmitt sent a manila folder spinning across the desk and sat down.
“There,” he said, “that’s everything I’ve got. Take it if you want.”
Davis did. But instead of opening it, he said, “Tell me about your maintenance program.”
“I’ve got two mechanics, a Jordanian and an American.”
“Are they good?”
“They have their licenses.”
“Where do they work? Is there a hangar somewhere?”
“There’s a remote hangar, but we don’t use it.”
“I think I saw it,” Davis said. “Why would anybody build a hangar way out there in the scrub like that?”
“Around here? Probably because somebody’s brother had the asphalt contract. And if you’re thinking about taking a look, you can forget about it.”
“Why’s that?”
“The place is off-limits.
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