Free War Lord by David Rollins Page B

soooo sorry.’
    This apology seemed to confirm Alabama’s worst fears and her hand went to cover her eyes as her face crumpled.
    ‘Agent Cooper,’ Morrow said, offering a quick handshake as he ushered Alabama into the meeting room. Morrow was Texan, longhorn cows in his drawl. ‘Good of y’all both to come on over.’
    He guided Alabama into one of the expensive-looking aluminum and black mesh chairs arrayed around a table, the top of which had been made to look like the skin of an airplane – white, powder-coated and riveted aluminum – the winged NAB logo in the center. I took the chair beside her and put the ice chest and bag on the floor. Morrow sat opposite, hands clasped together in front of him.
    ‘So, what’s the latest from the authorities?’ I asked.
    ‘Nothing new, I’m afraid,’ Morrow said. ‘Randy departed Henderson International slightly ahead of schedule, after taking the required break. He was vectored into the airway, cleared to twenty thousand feet. Local air traffic control handed him on to the flight information region for southwest vectors, and he flew on his way. He made all the scheduled stops on his flight plan, as well as all mandatory radio calls, and no problems were reported. Everything was normal until he failed to make the appropriate radio calls approaching Darwin. I received notice that he was missing late yesterday.’ Morrow glanced at Alabama. ‘Ah’m sorry, honey,’ he said again.
    ‘He make any calls in that sector?’ I asked.
    ‘No. The standard ones departing Henderson Field in the Solomons, but nothing after that.’
    ‘No Mayday call?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘He didn’t phone me from Hawaii or anywhere,’ said Alabama, blowing her nose with a tissue, her face red, her eyes redder. ‘He always phones me.’
    ‘There’s a search underway,’ said Morrow.
    I didn’t ask where they were searching. Haystacks didn’t get much bigger than the Pacific. Ask Amelia Earhart.
    ‘Randy was a great guy and a hell of a pilot,’ Morrow continued, issuing the last rites.
    ‘What kind of plane was he flying?’ I asked.
    ‘A Hawker Beechcraft Super King Air 350.’ He opened up a folder, took out a color photo and passed it to me. ‘That’s the actual aircraft. Eighteen months old. Practically new. The type has an unbeatable reputation for reliability.’
    A reputation Randy had just dented. I glanced at the photo. The King Air was a large, sleek-looking twin turboprop with a T-tail. Windows down its side indicated that it could take maybe a dozen passengers. ‘What’s the range of a plane like this?’ I asked.
    ‘That’s a 350ER – ER for extended range. Two thousand two hundred nautical miles, plus reserve. He also carried an internal bladder in case of headwinds. The leg from LAX to Hawaii was right on the aircraft’s range.’
    ‘So fuel was going to be tight.’
    ‘Randy’s problem wasn’t going to be fuel, it was boredom. The King Air’s no jet. He was in the air a lotta hours.’
    I had nowhere to go, but then I wasn’t an experienced aircraft accident investigator. The flight had originated on US soil, which meant the NTSB would be putting this one under its microscope.
    Morrow made a huffing sound, an ironic smile on his lips. ‘What’s up?’ I asked him.
    ‘I was going to send someone else. Randy wanted the job, practically begged me for it. Said he’d never been to Australia before.’
    Alabama bit a knuckle.
    ‘How many hops did he have to make?’ I asked.
    ‘Quite a few. He was going to do it over an eight- to ten-day period, depending on the weather. Flying conditions were good, by the way.’
    ‘Did he have a co-pilot?’
    ‘No, flew solo.’
    ‘Long solo flight.’
    ‘Randy had the option of taking a co-pilot, but he chose to go it alone. As I said, boredom was going to be an issue.’
    ‘Any idea what might have happened?’
    Morrow shook his head. ‘None whatsoever.’
    Alabama had recovered a little composure. I stopped asking