The coverage of the murder-and today's events-by American television seemed to be based more on Jack's fame as the basketball player who had been paid sixty million dollars for getting himself run over by a beer truck than on his status as a diplomat. They had even sought out and placed the driver of the truck on the screen, asking his opinion of the murder of the man obviously destined for basketball greatness before the unfortunate accident.
And of course his fellow players, both from Notre Dame and the Boston Celtics, had been asked for their opinions of what had happened to Jack the Stack and what effect it would have on basketball and the nation generally. Jean-Paul had always been amused and a little disgusted that a basketball team whose name proclaimed Celtic heritage had been willing to pay an obscene amount of money to an obvious descendant of the Tutsi tribes of Rwanda and Burundi for his skill in being able to put an inflated leather sphere through a hoop.
From the comments of some of Jack's former play-mates, Jean-Paul was forced to conclude that many of them had no idea where Argentina was or what Jack the Stack was doing there at the time of his demise. One of them, who had apparently heard that Jack was "chief of mission," extrapolated this to conclude that Jack was a missionary bringing Christianity to the savage pagans of Argentina and expressed his happiness that Jack had found Jesus before going to meet his maker.
Jean-Paul had also been surprised by the long lines of Argentines who had filed into the Catedral Metropolitana to pass by Jack's casket. He wondered if it was idle curiosity, or had something to do with the funeral of Pope John Paul-also splendidly covered on television- or had been arranged by the Argentine government. He suspected it was a combination of all three factors.
He had hoped to see more of Betsy and the children-they were, after all, his sister and niece and nephews, and God alone knew when, or if, he would see them again. He didn't see them at all at the cathedral. There had been a shot from a helicopter of a convoy of vehicles racing on the autopista toward the Ezeiza airport that was described as the one carrying the Masterson family, but that might have been journalistic license, and anyway, nothing could be seen of the inside of the three large sport utility trucks in the convoy.
There was a very quick glimpse of them at the airfield, obviously taken with a camera kept some distance from the huge U.S. Air Force transport onto which they were rushed, surrounded by perhaps a dozen, probably more, heavily armed U.S. soldiers.
That whole scene offended, but did not surprise, Jean-Paul Bertrand. It was another manifestation of American arrogance. The thing to do diplomatically- using the term correctly-would be for the U.S. government to have sent a civilian airliner to transport Jack's body and his family home, not a menacing military transport painted in camouflage colors that more than likely had landed in Iraq or Afghanistan-or some other place where the United States was flexing its military muscles in flagrant disregard of the wishes of the United Nations-within the past week. And if it was necessary to "provide security"-which in itself was insulting to Argentina-to do it with some discretion. Guards in civilian clothing, with their weapons concealed, would have been appropriate. Soldiers armed with machine guns were not.
Jean-Paul corrected himself. Those aren't soldiers. They're something else: Air Force special operators wearing those funny hats with one side pinned up, like the Australians. They're-what do they call them?-Air Commandos.
That distinction is almost certainly lost on the Argentines.
What they see is heavily armed norteamericanos and a North American warplane sitting on their soil as if they own it.
Will the Americans ever learn?
Probably, almost certainly not.
I have seen this sort of thing countless times before.
The only difference is this time I have no reason to be shamed and embarrassed by the arrogance of my fellow Americans, for I am now Jean-Paul Bertrand, Lebanese citizen, currently resident in Uruguay.
Nothing much happened on the television screen for the next couple of minutes-replays of the activity at the cathedral, the convoy on the way to the airport, and the far too brief glimpse of his sister and niece and nephews being herded onto the Air Force transport-and Jean-Paulhad just stood up, intending to go into his toilet, when another convoy racing down the autopista came onto the screen.
This convoy, the announcer solemnly intoned, carried the last remains of J. Winslow Masterson, now the posthumous recipient of Argentina's Grand Cross of the Great Liberator.
Jean-Paul Bertrand sat back down and watched as the convoy approached the airfield and was waved through a heavily guarded gate and onto the tarmac before the terminal where the enormous transport waited for it.
The soldiers-he corrected himself again-the machine gun-armed Air Commandos were out again protecting the airplane as if they expected Iraqi terrorists to attempt to seize it at any moment.
Now more soldiers appeared. These were really soldiers, wearing their dress uniforms. Some of them lined up at the rear ramp of the airplane, and half a dozen of them went to the rear of one of the sport utility trucks, opened the door, and started to remove a flag-draped casket.
When they had it out, they hoisted it onto their shoulders and started, at a stiff and incredibly slow pace, to carry it up the ramp and into the airplane.
The Air Commandos gave the hand salute.
Some other people got out of the trucks. Jean-Paul had no idea who they were. They went into the airplane. A minute or so later, four people, two men and two women, came back out. They were followed by eight or ten other people, some of them-including two Marines-in uniform. They all headed for the Yukons and got into them. The remaining soldiers and the Air Commandos went quickly up the ramp and into the airplane.
The four people who had come out of it watched as the ramp of the airplane began to close, and then got in two of the trucks.
The huge transport began to move.
Jean-Paul Bertrand watched his television until it showed the airplane racing down the runway and lifting off.
And then he went to the toilet. [THREE] Aeropuerto Internacional Ministro Pistarini de Ezeiza Buenos Aires, Argentina 1110 25 July 2005 Colonel Jacob D. Torine, USAF, who was wearing a flight suit, had been standing on the tarmac beside the open ramp of the Globemaster III when the first convoy had arrived.
He had saluted when Mrs. Masterson and her children, surrounded by the protection detail, approached the ramp.
"My name is Torine, Mrs. Masterson. I'm your pilot. If you'll follow me, please?"
She smiled at him but said nothing.
He led them down the cavernous cargo area of the aircraft, past the strapped-down, flag-covered casket of Sergeant Roger Markham, USMC. A Marine sergeant standing at the head of the casket softly called "Atenhut," and he and a second Marine, who was standing at the foot of the casket, saluted.
Torine led the Mastersons up a shallow flight of stairs to an area immediately behind the flight deck. Here there was seating for the backup flight crew: two rows of airline seats, eight in all, which often doubled, with the armrests removed, as beds.
Torine installed the Mastersons in the front row, where the kids would be able to see the cockpit, pointed out the toilet, and offered them coffee or a Coke. There were no takers.
"I'll be with you in a moment," Torine said. "Just as soon as everybody's aboard."
Mrs. Masterson nodded, made a thin smile, but again said nothing.
Torine went back to the ramp, where the loadmaster, a gray-haired Air Force chief master sergeant, was waiting for him.
"How we doing?" Torine asked.
"There was an unexpected bonus," the chief master sergeant said. "The caterers' lunch and dinner came with wine."
"Which you, of course, declined with thanks, knowing that consumption of intoxicants aboard USAF aircraft is strictly forbidden."
The chief master sergeant chuckled. "Nice food," he said. "Chicken and pasta for lunch, filet mignon and broiled salmon for dinner. And very cheap."
"And the headset?"
The chief master sergeant held up a wireless headset.
"Thank you," Torine said.
The chief master sergeant gestured toward the terminal. A second convoy of Yukons and security vehicles was approaching the Globemaster.
C. G. Castillo got out of an embassy BMW and walked to the ramp. A Marine corporal went to the trunk of the BMW and took luggage from it, then followed Castillo to the ramp.
"Put that inside, Corporal, and then find yourself a seat," Castillo ordered, and then turned to Torine. "Good morning, sir."
"How is she, Charley?"
"Her jaw is wired shut," Castillo said. "But she was awake and reasonably comfortable when I left her."
Torine shook his head sympathetically, and then said, "I spoke with Colonel Newley a few minutes ago. He assured me that the Gulfstream has been placed in the ambulance configuration and is ready to go wheels-up on thirty minutes' notice."
"Thank you."
"Chief Master Sergeant Dotterman, this is Major Castillo."
Sergeant Dotterman saluted. "The colonel's told me a good deal about you, sir."
He held out the wireless headset.
"Intercom is up," he said, indicating a switch. "Down is whatever radio the pilot is using."
Castillo examined the headset and then put it on.
"Voice-activated," Sergeant Dotterman said.
Castillo blew into the small microphone and then nodded, signifying both that he understood and that the device was working.
The flag-draped casket of J. Winslow Masterson, on the shoulders of the honor guard of the Old Guard, was now very slowly approaching the ramp.
"I better go up front, Charley," Torine said. "Dotterman will let me know when everybody's onboard."
"Yes, sir," Castillo and Dotterman said, almost in chorus.
The honor guard pallbearers slow-marched up the ramp and into the airplane with the casket.
Dotterman followed them inside to supervise its placement and tie-down. Castillo turned to watch and saw that Dotterman was placing it aft of Sergeant Markham's casket, and decided that meant they were going to unload Masterson first.
"How's Special Agent Schneider?" Ambassador Silvio asked, startling Castillo.
When he turned to look at him, he saw that Mrs. Silvio, Alex Darby, and another woman, probably Mrs. Darby, were also standing at the bottom of the ramp.
"She was awake when I left the hospital. Her jaw is wired shut."
The ambassador introduced Mrs. Darby, then said, "My wife and Mrs. Darby, if you think it's a good idea, will go to the hospital from here to let her know she's not alone."
"I think that's a wonderful idea. Thank you," Castillo said, and then had a sudden thought. "Where's Santini?"
Darby pointed.
Tony Santini, an M-16 rifle cradled in his arms like a hunter, was standing on the cab of an enormous yellow fire engine.
When he saw Castillo looking, Santini waved.
"Alex," Castillo said, returning the wave, "tell him thanks and that I'll be in touch, please."
"We'll tell the Mastersons goodbye and then let you get out of here," Ambassador Silvio said.
Castillo nodded.
As soon as they had moved into the fuselage, the Old Guard lieutenant walked-more accurately, marched- down the ramp to Castillo, came to attention, and saluted.
"Good morning, Lieutenant," Castillo said. "That was well done. At the cathedral and here."
"Thank you, sir," the lieutenant replied and then handed Castillo a handful of ribbon and a gold medal.
"Mr. Masterson's Grand Cross of the Great Liberator, sir. I took the liberty of removing it from the colors."
"Good thinking, Lieutenant. Thank you. No presentation box, I gather?"
"None that I saw, sir."
Castillo looked around to make sure no one was watching, then put the medal in his trousers pocket.
"I'll see that Mrs. Masterson gets this. Thank you."
"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said, saluted again, did a crisp about-face movement, and marched back up the ramp.
Castillo watched as he went. The difference between me and that natty young officer-when I was out of Hudson High as long as he's been out-was that I had already fallen under the mentorship-General Naylor called it "the corrupting influence"-of General Bruce J. McNab, and had already acquired at least some of his contempt for the spit-and-polish Army and a devout belief in the Scotty McNab Definition of an Officer's Duty: Get the job done and take care of your men, and if the rules get in the way, screw the rules.
Ambassador Silvio, Alex Darby, and their wives came back through the fuselage.
Darby wordlessly offered his hand, and then, after the wives had done the same, started to help the high-heeled women down the ramp. Ambassador Silvio put out his hand.
"I expect we'll be seeing more of one another?" he asked.
"Yes, sir, I'm sure we will," Castillo said, and then remembered something. "I won't be needing this anymore, sir. Thank you."
He took the 9mm Beretta from the small of his back, cleared its action, and handed it to the ambassador, who matter-of-factly stuck it in his waistband.
"Muchas gracias, mi amigo," Silvio said. "And I don't mean only for the pistol."
Then he touched Castillo's shoulder and walked quickly down the ramp. The moment he had cleared it, the Air Commandos who had been on perimeter guard came trotting up to it. The moment the last of them had cleared the door, there was the whine of an electric motor and the ramp started to retract.
Castillo saw Chief Master Sergeant Dotterman with his hand on the ramp control, and then a moment later heard his voice on the headset.
"All aboard and closing the door, Colonel."
"Roger that," Torine's voice came over the headset. "Starting Number Three."
Five seconds after that, Dotterman reported. "All closed, Colonel."
"Roger that. Starting Number Two."
Castillo looked at Dotterman.
Dotterman, smiling, was bowing him into the fuselage in an "After you, Gaston!" gesture.
Castillo smiled back.
What I should do now is give Mrs. Masterson her husband's medal.
Fuck it. I don't want to see her right now.
Castillo sat down in the nearest aluminum pipe-framed nylon seat, next to one of the Air Commandos, and fastened the seat harness. Then he moved the switch on the headseat to the RADIO position.
"Ezeiza, U.S. Air Force Zero-Three-Eight-One," Torine's voice called. "Ready to taxi."
Ten seconds later, the Globemaster III began to move. They were still climbing to cruise altitude when Castillo unfastened his harness and made his way through the fuselage and up the stairs to the airliner seats. He stopped, took the Grand Cross of the Great Liberator from his pocket, folded the silk ribbon as best he could, and then walked to Mrs. Elizabeth Masterson.
"Mrs. Masterson," he said, extending it to her. "The officer in charge of the honor guard unpinned this from the colors and asked me to give it to you."
She took it from him, looked at it for a long moment, softly said, "Thank you," then put the medal in her purse.
When she looked up again, Castillo had moved to the head of the stairs.
"Mr. Castillo!" she called.
He stopped. When she realized that he was not going to come to her, she unfastened her seat belt and walked to him.
"I wanted to thank you for everything you've done," she said. "And to tell you how sorry I am about Miss Schneider and the sergeant."
Castillo didn't reply. He looked past her for a long moment, told himself to keep his thoughts private. But when he looked back at Mrs. Masterson, the scene of the shot-up embassy BMW fresh in his mind, he said, "His name was Sergeant Roger Markham, Mrs. Masterson. He was twenty years old. And in my judgment, that very nice young man would still be alive and Special Agent Schneider would not be in a hospital bed with three bullet wounds-and her jaw wired shut-if you had b
een truthful about the people who abducted you."
"How dare you talk to me in that manner?"
"My orders are to protect you and your children, Mrs. Masterson. I have done that to the best of my ability- and will continue to do so-until I am relieved of the responsibility. But there is nothing in my orders requiring me to politely pretend I think you were telling the truth to the officers investigating your abduction and your husband's murder when you and I both know you were lying."
He met her eyes for a moment, then nodded, and went down the stairs to the cargo section of the fuselage. Twenty minutes later, Chief Master Sergeant Dotterman walked up to Castillo, who was sitting on the floor of the fuselage-a good deal of experience in riding Globemasters had taught him the floor was far more comfortable than the aluminum pipe-supported nylon seats-and mimed that Castillo should put the headset back on.
When he had done so, Dotterman leaned over him and flipped the switch on the headset to INTERCOM.
"Castillo, you on?" Torine's voice asked.
"Yes, sir."
"You want to come up here, please?"
"Yes, sir."
Well, I put Jake Torine on the spot, didn't I?
In addition to flying the airplane and his other worries, he's had to contend with a furious female who didn't like being called a liar and wasted no time whatever to complain to the most senior officer she could find.
And he didn't need that. Torine is one of the good guys.
But am I sorry I told her what I thought?
Not one goddamn little bit!
Castillo pulled himself to his feet and went through the fuselage again and up to the cockpit. There was no way he could avoid seeing Mrs. Masterson, but if she saw him, she gave no sign.
He walked between the pilot's and copilot's seats, and when Colonel Torine didn't seem to be aware of his presence, leaned down and touched his shoulder.
The Hostage pa-2 Page 33
