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Informationen zum Autor Patrick A. Davis is the national and New York Times bestselling author of six previous novels: The Commander, A Slow Walk to Hell, A Long Day for Dying, The Colonel, The General, and The Passenger. He is a graduate of the United States Air Force Academy and the Army Command and General Staff College, and a former Air Force major who flew during the Gulf War. He helped plan and direct U-2 surveillance operations for Operation Desert Storm and flew eleven combat sorties. He is a former pilot with a major airline. Klappentext New York Times bestselling author Patrick A. Davis spins a gripping tale of deadly intrigue in a time of national crisis that races to the explosive final act.A LONG DAY FOR DYINGWhen General Michael Garber, the newly appointed Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, is discovered dead in the private compartment of his airplane, Air Force investigator Martin Collins finds himself thrust into the most dangerous case of his career. What initially appears to be an accidental death turns out to be a near-perfect murder -- and three members of the Joint Chiefs are the prime suspects.As Martin weaves his way through a puzzling maze of blood and deceit, he finds himself in the firing line of Garber's enemies, including a half-mad rival general who collects the ears of the men he's killed, and the ruthless female secretary of defense, whose hatred for Garber knows no bounds. With his life and the honor of the military at stake, Martin has only twenty-four hours to uncover a legacy of secrets that no one wants brought to light -- secrets that the most powerful forces in Washington will kill to keep buried.... "Booklist" [Davis's] smooth storytelling allows him to keep crucial details secret until they sneak up on us and whack us over the head. Leseprobe Chapter One MORNING I heard the faint beating of the rotor blades long before I saw the approaching helicopter. It was a cool spring morning, a little after sunrise, and I'd just stepped out onto the porch of my rambling farmhouse in rural northern Virginia. I gazed toward the east, past the grass airstrip my crop-duster father had built thirty years earlier and the farm fields he no longer owned. Searching the horizon, I finally saw it. A speck, coming out of the glow of the sun. I checked my watch. Almost seven-twenty. Right on time, and I wondered what I was getting myself into. My regular job is chief of police for Warrentown, Virginia, a quiet town of four thousand, roughly seventy miles west of D.C. Occasionally I also moonlight as a consultant to the Office of Special Investigations, the air force's primary criminal investigative branch. I'd taken the job as a favor to then-OSI commander Brigadier General Gary Mercer, who'd lost a lot of his experienced personnel to the better-paying jobs in the civilian world. To stem the bleeding, Mercer hired on a few former investigators like myself -- I'd put in twenty years in the OSI, retiring as a light colonel -- to consult on the more "sensitive" cases. By sensitive, General Mercer meant things like espionage, major drug rings, murders -- anything that might garner the attention of the press or Congress or the four-star constellations at the Pentagon. Since the military isn't exactly a hotbed of crime, the consultant workload is pretty light, and I average maybe three cases a year. In the past, I've always looked forward to getting called out as a change of pace from the Andy-of-Mayberry routine. But not today. The reason the helicopter was flying out to pick me up stems from a conversation I'd had earlier with Colonel Charles Hinkle, the current OSI chief. I'd been in the shower when the phone rang. Mrs. Anuncio, my live-in housekeeper, had banged on the bathroom door until I finally yanked it open, a towel cinched around my waist, dripping water all over the place.
