By Order of the President

by W. E. B Griffin

  Once everything had been stuck in place, the decalcomania had been sprayed with a very expensive clear, quick-drying paint. It was by no means permanent, but tests had shown it would stand up to fifty hours of high-speed flight at altitude, thirty-six hours in the sun at 120 degrees Fahrenheit, and forty-eight hours at -20 degrees Fahrenheit.

  It was not believed the paint was going to have to last anywhere near that long. Within thirty-six hours, at the most, it was hoped that Royal Air Maroc 905, now named Rabat, would be back in the hangar at Menara, where it would be sprayed with a solvent even more expensive than the paint. The solvent would in a matter of minutes chemically attack the paint and permit both the paint and the decalcomania to be removed in a very short time.

  The engines were started and Rabat taxied to the threshold of the runway, and—having been cleared to do so— turned onto the runway without stopping and lifted off.

  The Royal Air Force controller in the tower informed Casablanca Area Control that RAM 905 was off the ground at two-five past the hour, destination Jiddah, Saudi Arabia.

  At that precise moment, Major Carlos G. Castillo pushed his way through the circular door of the Warwick Hotel in Philadelphia and took the few steps down to Locust Street.

  [FOUR]

  The Warwick Hotel 1701 Locust Street Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 0725 9 June 2005

  Castillo looked up and down Locust Street, his eyes falling on a life-sized statue of a man with an umbrella erected almost directly across the street. Then he heard two beeps of a horn and when he looked for the sound saw Miller’s arm waving from the front seat of a dark blue Buick sedan parked fifty feet from the hotel entrance.

  He walked quickly toward it, and, as he approached, Miller opened the rear door from the inside.

  The driver was a small, wiry, light-skinned man with a precisely manicured mustache.

  “Good morning, General,” Castillo said, courteously.

  Major General H. Richard Miller, Sr., USA, Retired, turned on the seat and pointed a finger at Castillo.

  “The first time I saw you, Castillo—you were a plebe at the time—I knew you were going to be trouble.”

  “Sir, if the general is referring to Dick’s . . . return . . . from Africa. That situation has been taken care of, sir.”

  “ ‘Taken care of’? What the hell does that mean? Good God, a Miller relieved for cause!”

  “How, Charley?” Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., asked.

  “The president is sending you a letter of commendation, via the Defense Intelligence Agency CG,” Castillo said. “Secretary Hall called last night to tell me.”

  “What that will do,” General Miller said, not at all molli fied, “is cause Dick’s records to be flagged ‘political influence. ’ That’s almost as bad as the comment ‘relieved for cause.’ ”

  General Miller moved his icy glare from Castillo long enough to look for a break in the traffic, found one, and pulled away from the curb.

  Major Miller turned on the seat, and with a combination of facial expressions, shrugged shoulders, and other body language managed to convey to Castillo that he was sorry his father had attacked Castillo, but, on the other hand, that Charley knew the general and thus what to expect.

  Charley used a combination of gestures to signal that he understood the situation and that he didn’t mind.

  Castillo thought: Jesus Christ, thank God I didn’t go home with Dick last night! If I had, I would have had non-stop General Miller in an outrage. This will be over as soon as we get to Police Headquarters, and, no thank you, Dick, I will not go home with you later to at least say hi to your mother.

  Their route to Police Headquarters took them around City Hall and toward the Delaware River. Castillo thought he remembered that Constitution Hall and the Liberty Bell were somewhere in the area but he wasn’t sure.

  Jesus, here I am, trying to keep a bunch of lunatic terrorists from crashing an airplane into it and I don’t even know where it is!

  Police Headquarters turned out to be a curved building a couple of blocks off Market Street. The parking lot into which General Miller drove the Buick had a sign reading POLICE VEHICLES ONLY. General Miller pulled the car into a parking slot with a sign reading CHIEF INSPECTORS ONLY, turned off the ignition, and opened the door.

  Then he put his head back in the door and announced, “Let’s go, Castillo! We don’t want to keep the commissioner waiting, do we?”

  My God, he’s going with us!

  “Sir, are you going with us?”

  General Miller’s response was a shake of the head, indicating his disgust with a stupid question, followed by an impatient hand gesture meaning, “Let’s go, let’s go!”

  There is absolutely nothing I can do about this.

  What the hell is he up to?

  A policeman walked up to them.

  “Sir, you can’t park there, that’s reserved for chief inspectors. ”

  “I’m General Miller, here to see the commissioner,” the general replied. “He advised me to park there. I’m surprised you weren’t so notified. If there is a problem, I suggest you call him.”

  The policeman looked at General Miller carefully and then nodded and walked away.

  Inside the building, through a glass door, there were four waist-high columns through which police and civilian employees passed swiping identity cards. To the right of the columns was a desk for visitors manned by a uniformed of ficer.

  “General Miller and two others to see Commissioner Kellogg,” General Miller announced.

  “Sir, I was led to believe that the commissioner expects us at eight,” Castillo said. “It’s only seven-forty.”

  “Then your information is incorrect,” General Miller said.

  They were obviously expected, for the policeman immediately produced three visitor badges and pushed the button which released the barrier in the visitor turnstile.

  They boarded an elevator, which was, like the rest of the building, curved, and rode up.

  When the elevator door opened, a detective, or a plainclothes policeman, was waiting for them.

  “Good morning, General,” he said. “The commissioner expects you.”

  General Miller’s response was a curt nod of the head.

  They followed the police officer—Castillo couldn’t see any kind of a badge, but there was a Glock 9mm semiautomatic pistol in a skeleton holster on his belt—down the corridor, to another desk, manned by another plainclothes officer, where they signed the visitors’ register and were allowed to pass first through an outer office and then into what was apparently the commissioner’s office.

  A very large black man in a well-fitting dark blue suit rose from behind his desk and smiled.

  “Good morning, Richard,” he said, offering his hand and then offering it to Major Miller. “It’s good to see you, Dick. It’s been a while.”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “And this is?”

  “That, Commissioner,” General Miller said, “is Major Carlos G. Castillo, and I am here to tell you something about him.”

  “I was expecting the special assistant to the secretary of homeland security,” Commissioner Kellogg said. “But how do you do, Major?”

  “How do you do, sir?” Charley said.

  “Will what you have to tell me about Major Castillo wait until we have some coffee?” the commissioner asked as he waved them into chairs.

  “I’ll pass on the coffee, thank you,” General Miller said. “I realize your time is valuable and this won’t take long.”

  The commissioner sat in his chair and made a go-ahead signal with both hands.

  “I have known Major Castillo since he and Dick were plebes at West Point,” General Miller began. “They were then, and are now, like a container of gasoline and a match. One or the other lights the match and the other blows up.”

  “Really?” the commissioner said with a smile.

  “Furthermore, Major Castillo, rather than adhering to the West Point
code of Duty, Honor, and Country at all times, has frequently chosen to follow the Jesuit philosophy that the end justifies the means.”

  “There is a point, right, Richard, to this character assassination? ” the commissioner asked. He was smiling, but it was strained.

  “On one such occasion,” General Miller went on, “three very senior officers reluctantly concluded that the weather, the time of day, and enemy ground-to-air missile and automatic weapons capability absolutely precluded the dispatch of a medical evacuation—“dust off”—helicopter to attempt to rescue the crew of a shot-down helicopter in mountainous terrain in Afghanistan.

  “When they presented their recommendation to the general officer in overall command, they told him they had reached their conclusion despite their painful awareness that a no-fly decision would almost certainly result in the death of two of its crew members, who were seriously wounded, and the death or capture of the other personnel on the helicopter, a total of five officers and three enlisted men.

  “The bottom line, as they say, was that sending a rescue helicopter, which would almost certainly either be itself shot down or crash because of the weather conditions, could not be justified.

  “The commanding general, with a reluctance, I submit, that only another senior commander who has been forced to make such decisions can possibly understand, accepted the recommendation of his staff and gave the no-fly order.

  “Major Castillo, who was serving in what I shall euphemistically describe as a ‘liaison capacity’ to that headquarters, was privy to the final discussion of the situation and the commanding general’s decision.

  “On hearing that decision, he went to the flight line and, in direct disobedience to the general’s order, took over— stole—a Black Hawk helicopter and flying it alone—it has a two-pilot crew—went to the crash site and rescued everyone there.”

  “Jesus!” the commissioner said, looking at Castillo.

  “One of the two seriously wounded officers Major Castillo rescued was Dick,” General Miller said.

  “With all respect, sir,” Castillo blurted, “they were wrong. I knew I could do it. It wasn’t anywhere near as foolhardy as you make it sound.”

  “Major, you are a West Pointer,” General Miller said evenly, measuring each word. “You knew full well the meaning of the oath you took to obey the orders of the officers appointed over you. It did not mean obedience to only such orders as you happen to agree with; it meant cheerful and willing obedience to any and all orders.”

  Castillo said nothing.

  “On the other hand,” General Miller went on, trying but not quite keeping his voice from quavering, “it is equally clear to me that I am deeply indebted to you for saving my son’s life. Since I have not previously had the opportunity, permit me to thank you now. My wife and I, and Dick’s brother and sisters, are deeply in your debt, Major Castillo.”

  General Miller stood. “Thank you, Commissioner, for allowing me this opportunity in your office, in your presence, before an old friend.”

  “Sir,” Castillo said, softly, “Dick would have done the same thing for me.”

  “Yes, I daresay he would. That brings us back to what I said about you two being a gasoline can and a match.”

  He started for the door, then turned.

  “Mrs. Miller would be pleased if your schedule would permit you to take dinner with us,” he said and then went through the doorway.

  The commissioner shook his head.

  “Your dad does have a way of capturing your attention, doesn’t he?”

  “Sir, I had no idea he was going to come up here with us,” Miller said.

  “I suspected that,” the commissioner said. “May I ask you a question, Major Miller?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “What did he mean when he said ‘euphemistically describe as a “liaison capacity”’?”

  Castillo hesitated.

  “Sorry I asked,” the commissioner said.

  I can’t let him think that I’m not telling him everything, Castillo thought, then said slowly, “Sir, I was with a Delta Force detachment. We were looking for Usama bin Laden.”

  “You were commanding the Delta Force detachment, Charley,” Miller corrected him. “There’s a difference.”

  The commissioner shook his head in amazement, or disbelief, and then smiled.

  “Funny, you don’t look like Sylvester Stallone,” he said. “Okay, let’s get to it. What can the Philadelphia Police Department do for the Department of Homeland Security?”

  “Sir,” Castillo began, “on May twenty-third, a 727 aircraft belonging to Lease-Aire, Inc., of Philadelphia, was stolen from the airport in Luanda, Angola . . .”

  “Apparently, Secretary Hall thinks this incredible story is credible enough to send you here to warn me about this,” the commissioner said. “I presume the governor and the mayor have been notified?”

  “Sir, that’s not why I was sent here,” Castillo said. “What Dick and I are to do is find out what we can—if there is anything to find out—about a possible connection between somebody in Philadelphia and the people we think stole the airplane.”

  “You’re telling me the mayor and the governor have not been notified?” the commissioner asked, incredulously.

  “Sir, we don’t know that the airplane was stolen by terrorists, and, even if that is the case, that they intend to use it as a flying bomb here. What we’re doing is trying to find out what happened to it. Every agency of the federal government with any interest in this at all is trying very hard, using all their assets, to find out what happened to that airplane.”

  “But you think, don’t you, that it was stolen by terrorists of some sort, Somalians or somebody else?”

  “Yes, sir, but that’s my personal opinion. No more.”

  “And you think it’s possible, at least, that these people intend to fly the airplane into the Liberty Bell?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. But again, that’s just my personal opinion. I have nothing to go on except what Pevsner told me in Vienna. And we won’t know whether or not the airplane is, or was, in Chad for some time.”

  “Going off at a tangent, how are you going to find out one way or the other if it’s where this Russian said it is? Or was.”

  “I haven’t been told that, sir. I’m sure the satellites will really give that airport some close study. I don’t know what humint sources the CIA or anyone else . . .”

  “Humint, meaning ‘human intelligence’? CIA agents? That sort of thing?” the commissioner interrupted.

  “Yes, sir. And it’s possible—even likely, if we don’t have people in the area—that they’ll send in an Air Force Special Ops Pave Low helicopter. They’ll find out just as soon as they can. Maybe within an hour, maybe not for twenty-four hours. And until they do, all we have is speculation.”

  “I wonder if you understand my problem, Major Castillo.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you, sir.”

  “There are two people responsible for the safety of people in Philadelphia. One is the mayor, and the other one is me. Don’t misunderstand this. The mayor is probably the best one we’ve had since Frank Rizzo. But he doesn’t know how to direct traffic, much less handle the nuts-and-bolts problems that would result from a plane crash in downtown Philadelphia.”

  The commissioner saw the look on Castillo’s face.

  “You can see where I’m going, right?” he asked. “And none of this occurred to you before?”

  “No, sir,” Castillo confessed.

  “If there is even a slight chance that this incredible scenario is going to come to pass, then it would seem we should have whatever precautionary measures we can, right? Warn the citizens, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There are problems with that,” the commissioner said. “Starting with panic. And there is also the problem of crying wolf. If the mayor puts these measures into play and nothing happens, not only is he going to look like a fool but the next
time this happens people would not pay attention. Most people are already starting to think of the World Trade towers going down as something they saw in a movie starring Charlton Heston and Paul Newman.” He paused. “Still with me?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe I am.”

  “The mayor, as I say, is about as fine a leader as they come. Unfortunately, he is also a politician. I have absolute confidence in my deputy commissioners. I have virtually none in the mayor’s staff. I am very much afraid that if I pass this situation on to the mayor—and it is clearly my duty to do so—he will pass it on to certain members of his staff and they will either panic and let the story out or they will do so consciously, seeing the mayor on television defending the city from terrorist attack as a very good way to ensure his reelection.

  “If there is a flurry of activity against this potential attack and nothing happens, I think it might well cost him reelection and I would hate to see that happen.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Miller said, softly.

  “Your father just now alluded to making unpleasant choices when it is clearly your duty to do so,” the commissioner said. “I am about to do something like that. I am going to both fail to do what I know I am duty bound to do and I’m going to lie, and so are you.”

  “Sir?”

  “When you and Dick came in here, Major, you told me nothing of this crash of an aircraft into the Liberty Bell scenario. Your visit to my office was in the nature of a courtesy call. Secretary Hall wanted my assistance in your investigation of Lease-Aire, Incorporated. I of course told you I would be happy to cooperate.”

  “Yes, sir,” Castillo said.

  “You said a moment ago, Major, that you believe there will be information regarding the location of this missing airplane within twenty-four hours?”

  “Yes, sir. Perhaps a little less time than that.”