“Good thinking,” he said.
“Right now, I don’t like you very much—how dare you talk to me the way you did?—but I love you.”
He had a wildly tangential thought. “Where’s Max?”
She pointed.
Max was lying with his head between his paws on the stateroom’s small desk, nearly covering it, and looking at them.
“How long’s he been there?” Charley asked.
“He was sleeping under the bunk. But you were making so much noise, I guess you woke him up.”
[ONE]
The USS Bataan (LHD 5)
North Latitude 12.73, West Longitude 66.18
The Caribbean Sea
0355 13 February 2007
“I have a confession to make, sir,” Castillo said as a man wearing a soft leather helmet and goggles and holding illuminated wands crossed on his chest approached the UH-60 with Policía Federal Preventiva markings. The Black Hawk helicopter was sitting, with rotors turning, at the extreme aft portion of the Bataan’s flight deck.
“This is not the place, my son. But make sure you see me before you take communion,” Colonel Kingsolving said, playing along.
“I think you better follow me through, sir,” Castillo went on, his tone serious.
“Something wrong, Charley?” Kingsolving asked, now with concern in his voice.
“I think you better follow me through, sir,” Castillo repeated. “Or take it.”
“Too late to take it,” Kingsolving said. “There’s the ‘go’ signal. If you don’t want to abort, I’ll follow you through.”
“Here we go,” Castillo said.
He lifted off, hovered for a moment, and then reduced forward speed from twenty knots to ten. The deck moved out from under the aircraft at a speed of ten knots, and a moment later, he was looking at the stern of the Bataan.
The UH-60 dipped its nose toward the sea, picked up speed, and then began a steep climbing turn to the right into the dark sky.
“You all right? You want me to take it, Charley?”
“I’ve got it. I’m all right now,” Castillo said.
Out his window he could see one of the 160th’s Black Hawks being quickly pushed to the aft of the flight deck.
“Interesting departure,” Kingsolving said. “Where’d you learn how to do that, at Pensacola?”
“What I was going to confess, sir, was that I don’t have very much experience in night-launching a UH-60 from a carrier.”
“Oh, shit!” Kingsolving said, after considering that for a moment. “Please don’t tell me that was your first.”
“Yes, sir. I won’t tell you that.”
“I had a look at your flight records, Charley, while they were trying to make up their minds whether to give you The Medal or court-martial you the last time you manifested suicidal behavior involving a UH-60. You remember that? When you went after Dick Miller?”
“If I thought that going after Dick was suicidal, I wouldn’t have done it.”
“You were the only aviator in Afghanistan who didn’t. I was astonished to see that as long as you’ve been flying, you’ve never dinged a bird—getting shot down not counting. Never. Not any kind of a bird. Do you have an explanation for that?”
“Clean living and a pure heart?”
“You don’t think what you did just now was suicidal?”
“Straight answer?”
“Please.”
“No, I didn’t. You following me through on the controls took care of the safety factor, and now I know how to launch at night in a UH-60 from a carrier. You never know when that might come in handy.”
Kingsolving didn’t reply.
“Kidnapper One and Two, Keystone Kop,” Castillo said to his microphone. “I’m going to circle the ship at two thousand feet. Join up on me five hundred feet behind.”
[TWO]
La Orchila Island
Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela
0502 13 February 2007
It was just getting light as the three UH-60s approached the island.
Castillo estimated he would be on the ground in three minutes, give or take.
One of the 160th’s Black Hawks following him would laser-target the commo building and report when it had done so, but would not fire until Castillo gave the order.
The other would hover over the airfield to the left of the hangar. It would be prepared to clear the tarmac in front of the hangar with its GAU-19 .50 caliber Gatling guns if the Spetsnaz guarding them offered significant resistance.
Castillo had spent a good thirty minutes trying to impress on its pilots that a disaster beyond comprehension would occur if the fire from their weapons struck—which would virtually atomize—the blue barrels they had come to seize. He thought he had succeeded—the chief warrant officers flying the gunship were both veteran special operators, not excitable young men, and both wore the wings of Master Army Aviators.
“I wonder what General Buckner—or his father—would think of this?” Colonel Kingsolving said.
“Of what?” Castillo asked.
“Our assault on the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela. ‘Bolivarian’ makes reference of course to General Simón Bolívar, the great Liberator.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“General Simon Bolivar Buckner, Senior, West Point Class of ’44—Class of 1844—was a Confederate general. He was forced to surrender Fort Donelson, Kentucky, to his classmate, General Ulysses Grant. Buckner gave Grant his parole, and was later exchanged. I thought about that when you told me about General Naylor giving you his parole.”
“Thanks for sharing that with me, Colonel.”
“His son,” Kingsolving went on, “General Simon Bolivar Buckner, Junior, Hudson High Class of ’08, was the most senior officer killed in combat in the Pacific during World War Two. He was commanding the Tenth Army on Okinawa when struck by Japanese artillery.”
Over their headsets suddenly came: “Keystone Kop, Kidnapper One. I have my laser on the target, acknowledge.”
“Kidnapper One, Keystone Kop acknowledges you have target acquisition,” Castillo answered.
“They are both, I believe, buried at West Point,” Kingsolving went on.
“Well, maybe they’ll bury us there.”
“Keystone Kop, Kidnapper Two has a visual on armed and moving possible belligerents.”
“Kidnapper Two, Keystone Kop acknowledges you have visual on possible belligerents. Hold fire until I clear. Acknowledge.”
“Kidnapper Two acknowledges hold fire.”
Kingsolving said, “I’d rather thought you’d prefer interment beside your father in the National Cemetery in San Antonio.”
“If those Spetsnaz waving those Kalashnikovs at us start shooting them, we’re both probably going to be buried right here,” Castillo said, and then, remembering what Sweaty had said the night before, added: “After we’re displayed on a table, like Hugo Chávez’s hero, Che Guevara.”
He waited another two seconds, then said, “Kidnapper One, engage, engage.”
He then switched to the intercom to alert Berezovsky and his four ex-Spetsnaz waiting in the back of the UH-60 with Mexican federal police markings.
“Dmitri, we’ll be on the ground in three seconds. Ve con Dios.”
He heard what he had said, and thought: I’ll be goddamned—I meant that!
Go with God, Dmitri!
Jesus H. Christ! Are Sweaty and her brother turning me into a believer?
He saw the exhaust flare from the first Hellfire missile race through the air, and then from another, and then from a third.
There’s not going to be much left of that communications building.
Castillo then touched down, and immediately unfastened his seat/shoulder harness.
“Try not to get shot moving over here to the pilot seat,” he said, and then he was out the Black Hawk’s door.
He reached back in and grabbed his Uzi, then went quickly around the nose of the helico
pter, passing Kingsolving as he did.
Castillo found that there was a sort of a standoff on the tarmac.
Dmitri Berezovsky—with his four ex-Spetsnaz standing behind him, more or less holding their weapons at port arms—was facing a half-dozen men wearing the striped shirts of the Spetsnaz armed with a variety of weapons.
“I asked, who’s in charge?” Berezovsky said more than a little arrogantly.
And then there was a female voice.
“Lower that (expletive deleted) muzzle, you (expletive deleted) moron!” former SVR Podpolkovnik Svetlana Alekseeva shouted. “What the (expletive deleted) is wrong with you, raising a weapon to Polkovnik Berezovsky? Are you as (expletive deleted) stupid as you look?”
The muzzle was lowered.
One of the Spetsnaz stepped forward, saluted, and said, “Major Koussevitzky, sir.”
“Stefan,” Berezovsky said. “I didn’t recognize you.”
“Good to see you again, Polkovnik. May I ask what . . .”
“We are here to arrest General Sirinov,” Berezovsky said. “Where is he?”
“In the hangar, sir.”
“I regret that the circumstances require that I take your arms,” Berezovsky said. “Lower them to the ground.”
“You are here to arrest the general, Polkovnik?” Koussevitzky asked softly.
“I regret that is necessary, but I’m sure you know why.”
Koussevitzky considered that a full twenty seconds before he unstrapped his pistol belt and let it fall to the ground, then put his Kalashnikov automatic rifle on the tarmac.
“You heard Polkovnik Berezovsky,” he said to his men. “Lower your weapons to the ground.”
Berezovsky waited until the order had been complied with, and then spoke to one of the ex-Spetsnaz standing behind him.
“Have those weapons put aboard the helicopter,” he ordered, and then turned to Koussevitzky.
“Take me to the general, Stefan,” Berezovsky ordered. Then he pointed to Sweaty, to one of his ex-Spetsnaz, and to Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo, USA (Retired), and said, “You, come with me.”
Castillo said, “Yes, sir” in Russian, hoping he didn’t sound like a Saint Petersburg poet of indeterminate sexual orientation.
The Tu-934A was inside the canvas-walled and -roofed temporary hangar. So were four very small travel trailers being used as makeshift barracks. As they walked toward the trailers, General Sirinov came out of one of them. He was dressed but he needed a shave.
I guess we woke the sonofabitch up.
“General, consider yourself under arrest,” Berezovsky announced.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Berezovsky,” Sirinov said.
He seemed to be unfazed by what was happening.
“Please turn around and put your hands behind you,” Berezovsky said as he took a plastic handcuff from a pocket.
“I will not.”
Sweaty, holding Max on his leash beside her, walked up to him. While doing so, she took her Colt .32 ACP model 1908 from her pocket.
“And the beautiful Svetlana,” Sirinov said. “Wherever did you get that absurd uniform? And that dog?”
“Turn around, Yakov, and put your hands behind you,” Sweaty ordered.
“Or what? You’ll shoot me with your toy pistol?”
Sweaty aimed her toy pistol quickly, and shot General Sirinov in the right foot.
He looked at his bleeding foot, then screamed with the pain and fell to the ground, looking up at her in enraged disbelief.
“Roll onto your stomach, Yakov, or I’ll put the next round into your other foot,” Sweaty said.
Max growled.
General Sirinov rolled onto his stomach.
Berezovsky knelt beside him and applied the plastic handcuffs.
Sirinov was moaning in pain.
“If you don’t give me any more trouble, when we’re on the plane I’ll give you some morphine,” Sweaty said.
“Where are the pilots of the airplane?” Berezovsky asked Koussevitzky.
Koussevitzky pointed to one of the trailers.
“Get them out here,” Berezovsky ordered. Then he pointed at Castillo, and ordered, “Get our pilot in here.”
Castillo said, “Yes, sir” in Russian, and hoped his conscious attempt to sound like a basso profundo had been at least partially successful.
He went onto the tarmac, saw Jake Torine, and waved him over. He saw that Sirinov’s Spetsnaz were now all sitting on the tarmac. They had plastic handcuffs around both their wrists and their ankles.
They don’t look worried.
They look terrified.
And so did the Tu-934A pilots when they walked up to Berezovsky.
Castillo went to them, and ordered, “Show the colonel and me around the airplane. If you do anything suspicious, Podpolkovnik Alekseeva will shoot you in the foot.”
“You’re going to fly the Tu-934A?” one of them blurted.
“That’s the idea,” Castillo said. “Start by opening the ramp door.”
When the ramp came down, Castillo could see there were three blue barrels firmly strapped to the floor, plus a tracked forklift inside.
“Up the ramp,” he ordered.
When they were in the cockpit, Castillo asked, “Where are the rest of the blue rubber barrels?”
He believed the pilots when they assured him, with almighty God as their witness, that there were no more blue rubber barrels anywhere.
It was a very brief cockpit tour, just long enough for the Tu-934A pilots to show Torine and Castillo the engine start procedures and to tell them the best rotation speed during takeoff.
General Sirinov, still moaning with pain, was carried aboard and attached with plastic handcuffs to the strapping holding the blue plastic barrels in place.
Torine stayed in the cockpit while Castillo led the pilots and Sweaty off the airplane. He saw that Berezovsky and Koussevitzky were in a far corner of the hangar. He and Sweaty walked to them.
“I have offered to take Stefan with us,” Berezovsky said. “Understandably, he is concerned with what Putin would do to the family of a traitor. There are six unmarried Spetsnaz who should come with us. Stefan suggests we make it appear they are coming involuntarily.”
“Major,” Castillo asked, “what makes you think Putin won’t—”
“It would help if Podpolkovnik Alekseeva found it necessary to shoot me,” Koussevitzky said.
“Well, I suppose ...” Castillo said.
There was the pop of her toy pistol and Koussevitzky fell to the ground, bleeding from a wound to his right upper leg.
“We’ll try to get you and your family out, Stefan,” Sweaty said. “Really try.”
“May God protect you and yours, Svetlana,” Koussevitzky said.
“And yours,” Sweaty said.
Berezovsky knelt beside him and put him in plastic handcuffs.
“How do we get the hangar doors open?” Castillo asked.
“You have to push,” Koussevitzky furnished. “They’re like curtains.”
“What happens if we start engines in here?”
“You’d burn the hangar down.”
“Good idea. Get everybody out of here,” Berezovsky ordered. “And then get the Spetsnaz we’re taking with us firmly tied up and ready to get on the UH-60.”
“Get aboard, Sweaty,” Castillo ordered.
“I’ll get aboard when you do,” she replied.
There was no time to argue with her.
Castillo went outside the hangar, and made hand signals toward the sky to order the Night Stalker Black Hawk code-named Kidnapper Two to land.
“Push the hangar doors open,” Podpolkovnik Alekseeva ordered in a Russian command voice that would have passed muster at Fort Bragg. “And then help Polkovnik Berezovsky clear the hangar.”
As soon as the doors had been pushed aside, Castillo heard the whine of a Tu-934A engine being started. And he saw Kidnapper Two, cargo doors slid open, coming down the run
way almost on the ground. It touched down.
Two of Berezovsky’s ex-Spetsnaz carried Major Koussevitzky out of the hangar and lowered him to the ground twenty meters from it. Then they ran back into the hangar as he heard the whine of the second Tu-934A engine being started.
The ex-Spetsnaz came back out of the hangar, leading the Tu-934A’s pilots, their hands in plastic handcuffs. They deposited them next to Major Koussevitzky. One of them then ran back into the hangar. The other ran across the tarmac to where a half-dozen Spetsnaz in handcuffs were sitting.
Roscoe J. Danton appeared, furiously capturing everything for posterity—after of course it was published in The Washington Times-Post—on his camera.
Two of the ex-Spetsnaz pulled one of the handcuffed Spetsnaz to his feet and loaded him--not very gently: “threw him aboard” would be a more accurate description—onto the Policía Federal Preventiva UH-60, and then threw two more of the Spetsnaz aboard.
Roscoe J. Danton captured this, too, with his camera.
One of the ex-Spetsnaz looked at Castillo and Svetlana.
“He wants to know if he should load the others aboard,” Sweaty said.
Castillo pointed across the tarmac and ordered: “Put those three on the helo coming in, and then get on yourself.”
Castillo then ran twenty yards—with Max bounding happily after him—so that Colonel Kingsolving could see him clearly from the cockpit of the Policía Federal Preventiva UH-60. Then he made hand signals telling Kingsolving to take off.
The helicopter immediately broke ground, lowered its nose, and moved away, gaining speed.
Kidnapper Two stopped, still not touching the ground, where an ex-Spetsnaz stood waiting with the remaining Spetsnaz men bound with plastic handcuffs. Roscoe J. Danton’s camera was at the ready to capture what happened next: As soon as the first of the handcuffed Spetsnaz had been assisted aboard, a black-suited special operator jumped out of the Black Hawk and helped the Spetsnaz throw the other two aboard.
The ex-Spetsnaz looked again at Castillo for guidance.
“Get aboard,” Castillo shouted, and then signaled to the pilot to take off.
As it did, Roscoe J. Danton made a photographic record.
The Outlaws: a Presidential Agent novel Page 50
