By Order of the President

by W. E. B Griffin

  Miller walked around the bell. Castillo looked down the plaza toward Market Street.

  “What are you thinking?” Betty asked.

  “It’s a beautiful day.”

  “It is, but that’s not what you’re thinking,” she said.

  “No,” he admitted. “I was thinking that on the tenth of September there were probably fewer than fifty people who considered suicidal lunatics crashing airliners into the World Trade Center was even a remote possibility.”

  “And you think an attack here is likely, right?”

  “I wish I didn’t,” he said. “And I feel a little guilty doing nothing about it but playing tourist.”

  “Until Chief Inspector Kramer runs those names past everybody, including the undercover people, what else can you do?”

  He shrugged. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself.”

  Miller came walking quickly back to them.

  “Think of something?” Castillo asked.

  “My mother,” Miller said. “I promised to call her when I knew if we could come to supper. I’ve got to tell her one way or the other. She really wants to see you, Charley.”

  Castillo looked at Betty.

  “Do your radios work as far as Bala Cynwyd?”

  “Sure,” she replied, “and then we have this cellular phone gadget.”

  “Dick, call your mommy and tell her the cops are bringing you home again,” Castillo said.

  Betty chuckled and smiled at Castillo.

  “Can we?” Miller asked. “What about Kramer?”

  “He calls, we go,” Castillo said. “We’re not doing anything useful here.”

  “She really wants to see you, Charley,” Miller repeated.

  Castillo gestured in the direction of Market Street and they started to walk toward the car.

  Castillo looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to four.

  1550 here is 2150 in Abéché. Which means it’s dark. I don’t know what the CIA had to do to get satellites over Abéché but they probably couldn’t do it before nightfall, which means they’re having to use infrared and other exotic technology, which obviously hasn’t worked. Secretary Hall would have called to tell me what the CIA reported, one way or the other. Which means we don’t know if that goddamned airplane is—or was—there. And won’t know until daylight, when the satellites can work their photo magic. Which doesn’t always work.

  Jesus, getting a call from Hall means my phone has to be working.

  When was the last time I checked the battery?

  He took his cellular out and looked at it.

  There was still some battery charge left but not much.

  He saw Betty’s eyes on him.

  “I’m going to have to charge this soon,” he said.

  “I’ve got a plug-it-in-the-lighter charger in my purse,” Betty said, inspecting the fitting on Castillo’s phone. “It’ll probably fit your phone.”

  When they reached Market Street and the unmarked car, Castillo got in the passenger seat beside Betty. She fished in her purse and came out with a phone charger and handed it to him.

  XII

  SPRING 1991

  [ONE]

  Office of the Deputy Commander U.S. Army Special Warfare Center Fort Bragg, North Carolina 0930 6 June 1991

  Second Lieutenant C. G. Castillo, who was the aide-de-camp to Brigadier General Bruce J. McNab, the deputy commander, USASWC, answered the phone in the prescribed manner:

  “Office of the deputy commander, Lieutenant Castillo speaking, sir.”

  “What’s his name?” the caller inquired.

  “What’s whose name?” Castillo responded, so surprised by the question, and the manner in which it was asked, that he almost forgot to append: “Sir?”

  “The deputy commander’s name?” the caller said.

  “Brigadier General McNab is the deputy commander, sir.”

  “Senator Frankenheimer would like to speak to General McNab. Can you get him on the phone or is he, too, ‘not available at the moment’?”

  “May I ask what this is about, sir?”

  “No, you may not. If he’s there, Lieutenant, get him on the phone.”

  “One moment, please, sir,” Castillo said.

  He went quickly from his desk to General McNab’s of fice door, rapped his knuckles on the jamb, and waited for General McNab to acknowledge his presence, which he did thirty seconds later by glancing up at Castillo from the sea of paper on his desk with a look of exasperation.

  “They just nuked Washington, right?” General McNab inquired, not kindly.

  General McNab, who disliked being interrupted when he was thinking, had on going into his office instructed Lieutenant Castillo that only if one thing happened was he to be disturbed.

  “Sir, I think you should take this one.”

  General McNab considered this for at least two seconds and then pointed to one of several telephones on his desk. This was an order to Castillo to pick it up so that he would be party to the conversation. When Castillo had done so, McNab picked up another telephone.

  “General McNab,” he announced.

  “You are, I understand, the deputy commander of the Special Warfare Center?”

  “I am.”

  “I am led to believe the commander is not available at the moment?”

  “If you were told that, it’s probably the truth as we know it.”

  “Hold one, please, for Senator Frankenheimer,” the caller said.

  Senator George J. Frankenheimer (Republican-Nevada) was chairman of the Senate Armed Forces Committee.

  General McNab and Lieutenant Castillo heard their caller—faintly, as if he had his hand over the telephone microphone —say, “All I could get was the deputy commander, Senator.”

  Another voice faintly said, “Shit,” and then a moment later, more audibly, said: “Good morning, General. This is Senator Frankenheimer. I’m afraid I didn’t get your name.”

  “McNab, Senator.”

  “How are you this morning, General?”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “General McNab, are you familiar with the AFC Corporation? ”

  “I know the name, Senator.”

  “They are, as they like to say, the cutting edge of data transfer technology.”

  McNab didn’t reply.

  “AFC stands for ‘Aloysius Francis Casey,’ ” Senator Frankenheimer announced. “The founder, who also serves as chairman of its board of directors.”

  Again, McNab said nothing.

  “Can you hear me all right, General?”

  “I hear you fine, Senator.”

  “AFC has facilities all over the country—primarily in Massachusetts, where they are close to MIT, and in Silicon Valley in California—and they have chosen to establish their primary research and development laboratory in Las Vegas, where Mr. Casey maintains his primary residence. He’s a constituent of mine, in other words, and has been very generous in contributing to my election funds and to those of the Republican party.”

  McNab said nothing.

  “Mr. Casey wants to come to the Special Warfare Center, General McNab, and asked me to sort of smooth his path, which I am, of course, delighted to do.”

  “What does he want to do here?” McNab asked.

  “He didn’t share that with me, General.”

  “When would he like to come?” McNab asked.

  "He will arrive at Pope Air Force Base about eleven o’clock.”

  “In a military aircraft?”

  “In his own airplane.”

  “Senator, are you aware that Pope is closed to civilian aircraft? ”

  “Mr. Casey is apparently aware of this, as another thing he asked me to do—and I was happy to do—was ask the secretary of the Air Force to make an exception for him. He will land, as I said, at Pope around eleven. May I suggest, General, that it would be in all our interests if Mr. Casey was made to feel he was welcome?”

  “I take your point, Senator,” McNab said.


  “Roll out and brush off the red carpet, so to speak.”

  “Right.”

  “Good talking to you, General,” Senator Frankenheimer said and hung up.

  General McNab took the telephone from his ear, held it in his hand, glared at it, and said, “Sonofabitch!”

  Then he looked at Lieutenant Castillo.

  “Charley, this Irish sonofabitch with political connections is yours. I don’t know whether he’s just curious, or wants to sell us something, but I’ll bet it’s sell us something. ”

  “Sir, what am I supposed to do with him?”

  “I’ll buy the bastard lunch, but that’s all. Set that up at the club for one o’clock. Get him into the VIP quarters, in case he wants to spend the night. But keep him, as much as humanly possible, as far from me as you can. Take him on a walking tour of Smoke Bomb Hill. Take him to the museum. Take him for a chopper ride over scenic Fort Bragg. Anything. Just keep the sonofabitch away from me. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Two vehicles were in attendance to the deputy commander of the Special Warfare Center outside the headquarters building. One was a glistening olive drab Chevrolet staff car, the other a Bell HU-1F helicopter, the paint of which was designed to be nonreflective.

  The regular driver of the staff car, Sergeant Tom Fenny, was conversing with that day’s copilot of the Huey, a chief warrant officer whose name—Kilian, Robert—Castillo remembered only at the last second as he walked up to them.

  Sergeant Fenny saluted as Castillo approached. Chief Warrant Officer Kilian, who was ten years older than Castillo, did not, which neither surprised nor offended Castillo.

  “We’ve got to go pick up a VIP at Pope,” Castillo announced.

  “You want me to bring the car over there?” Fenny asked.

  Until that moment, Castillo had intended to meet Mr. Aloysius Francis Casey with the staff car.

  I don’t think the general’s going to want the Huey.

  If he does, with me at Pope, Kilian can’t—or, at least, shouldn’t—fly it alone.

  I’ve got to occupy Mr. Aloysius Francis Casey until lunch; that’s almost two hours.

  The general said, “Take him for a chopper ride.”

  Maybe he won’t like that suggestion.

  Should I ask the general if I should use the chopper?

  “Goddammit, Castillo. Tattoo NEVER LET ANYTHING GET IN THE WAY OF YOUR MISSION! on your forehead!

  “I already told you once, don’t disturb me unless you get a flash they just nuked Washington!”

  “Yeah, Tommy, bring the car over there,” Lieutenant Castillo ordered and then looked at Kilian. “Are the rubber bands all wound up, Mr. Kilian?”

  “Is this VIP a civilian?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You need written authority, Lieutenant, to haul civilians. ”

  “There is an exception to every rule.”

  Parking on the tarmac directly in front of the base operations building at Pope Air Force Base is reserved for colonels and up and Pope ground control was unhappy when Castillo requested permission to park the Huey there.

  “You have a Code Six aboard, right?”

  “I will be picking up a VIP.”

  “Pope Ground clears Army Six-Two-Two to the Base Operations VIP area.”

  At two minutes past eleven, a Learjet taxied into a space beside the Huey.

  As Castillo got out of the Huey to walk toward the Lear, an Air Force colonel and an Air Force lieutenant colonel— the latter wearing the brassard of the Air Officer of the Day—came out of the base operations building obviously headed for the Lear.

  Both gave Lieutenant Castillo a “What the hell do you want?” look as he saluted.

  The door of the Learjet unfolded and a very small, pale-faced man in a baggy black suit got out.

  The Air Force colonel put on a smile and put out his hand.

  “Mr. Casey? Welcome to Pope Air Force Base.”

  Casey nodded and took the hand.

  “We don’t know why you’re visiting us but we’re honored to have you here.”

  “I’m here to see Special Forces,” Casey interrupted. He pointed at Castillo. “Is that you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Castillo said. “I’m General McNab’s aide. The general is sorry that he couldn’t be here . . .”

  “Is McNab a little Scot?” Casey interrupted again.

  “About this high?” He held his hand up, estimating. “Mean little bastard?”

  “General McNab is about that tall, sir,” Castillo said.

  “When do I get to see him? He was supposed to be told I’m coming.”

  “Sir, the general hopes you’ll have lunch with him . . .”

  Casey checked his watch. “It’s a couple of minutes after eleven. When’s lunch?”

  “At thirteen hundred, sir. One. At the officers’ club.”

  “That’s two hours. What does he think I’m supposed to do in the meantime?”

  “Sir, the general thought you might like a tour . . .”

  “In that?” Casey asked, pointing at the Huey.

  “Yes, sir. Are you familiar with the Huey, sir?”

  “I’ve got a couple of them,” Casey said and started walking toward the helicopter.

  Castillo made a “wind it up” gesture to Kilian, saluted the Air Force officers, and trotted after Mr. Aloysius Francis Casey.

  By the time he got to it, Casey was inside, fastening his seat belt.

  Castillo took a headset from a hook and extended it to the wiry Irishman.

  “If you’d like to put this on, sir, I could give you a briefing as we fly.”

  “Like a tour bus guide, right? ‘And on our left ...’ You’re going to fly?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How much time do you have in one of these?”

  “A little over six hundred hours, sir.”

  “You’re a second lieutenant,” Casey said. It was an accusation.

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  Casey examined him intently for a moment, shrugged, and took the headset and examined it with visible disdain.

  “Okay,” Casey said, “Smoke Bomb Hill first and then Mackall. Okay?”

  “Whatever you’d like, sir.”

  Casey put the headset on.

  “Okay, let’s go. Maybe Fayetteville, too. The train station, the bus station, and the airport.”

  At five minutes to one, after an aerial tour of Fort Bragg, Camp Mackall, and the Fayetteville rail and bus stations and the airport, Castillo set the Huey down on the helipad by the main officers’ club.

  Casey was already out of the helicopter by the time Castillo could make it to the fuselage door.

  “I guess we cheated death again, right?” Casey inquired.

  “Yes, sir, I guess we did.”

  “Where’s Colon . . . General McNab?”

  “I’m sure he’s waiting for you inside, sir.”

  Casey marched toward the main door of the Officers’ Open Mess, with Castillo trotting after him. Once inside the lobby, Casey turned and looked at Castillo with an “Okay, where now?” expression on his face.

  “I believe the general will be in the main dining room, sir,” Castillo said, pointing.

  Brigadier General Bruce J. McNab rose when he saw the wiry Irishman in the baggy suit headed toward his table, with Castillo on his heels.

  “Mr. Casey?” he said, offering his hand. “My name is McNab.”

  “I know who you are, General,” Casey said.

  “May I offer you a cocktail, sir?”

  “You drinking?”

  “It’s duty hours, Mr. Casey. I generally . . .”

  “I’ll have a Schlitz, please,” Casey said. “There was everything on the airplane but beer.”

  McNab signaled to a waitress and ordered a bottle of Schlitz and then changed his mind.

  “Make that three,” he said. “I think a beer is a very good idea.”

  “I’ll wait for you outside, sir,”
Castillo said.

  “You stay,” Casey ordered.

  McNab looked at him but said nothing.

  “Lieutenant Castillo—what is that, Italian?”

  “Tex-Mex, sir.”

  “You don’t look Tex-Mex,” Casey said. “Lieutenant Castillo just gave me an aerial tour of the main post, Mackall, and Fayetteville,” Casey said.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “Auld lang syne,” Casey said. “Can I ask you a question about him?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Where’d he get that CIB he’s wearing?”

  “In Iraq.”

  “I’ve been on patrols longer than that war,” Casey said. “You think he deserves it?”

  “I gave it to him, Mr. Casey,” McNab said, bristling a little. “He earned it.”

  “He’s a pilot, right?”

  “And he earned the CIB on the ground, Mr. Casey,” McNab said, measuring his words to control what he feared was his building temper.

  “I thought, on the chopper just now,” Casey began, then hesitated, and then went on, “I remembered a guy, an aviator, a Signal Corps captain named Walker. He was trying to exfiltrate us up in Laos . . .”

  “Do I understand that you were in SOG, or something like that, in Vietnam?”

  “I was a Green Beanie in Vietnam, General,” Casey said. “Let me finish my story. Anyway, his Huey took some automatic weapons fire from Charley on his way in and he bent the bird pretty badly getting it on the ground. He wasn’t hurt, but the chopper wasn’t going to be able to fly out of there.

  “The exec—the old man had taken a couple of hits and was in pretty bad shape—ran up to this Walker character and said, ‘Not to worry, we’re Green Beanies and we’ll get you out of here. We can probably make it back in a week or ten days.’

  “Walker looked at our exec—he was a lieutenant; looked a lot like this one—and decided while he might be a nice guy and would try real hard, he was no John Wayne.

  “ ‘Lieutenant,’ he says, ‘let me tell you something about the structure of the U.S. Army. The Signal Corps is both a technical service and a combat arm. As the senior combat arm officer present, I hereby assume command.’

  “Then he looked around at the rest of us. ‘Anyone got any problems with that?’

  “He was a great big, mean-looking sonofabitch with scars on his face he didn’t get shaving. There was a couple of grenades in his pockets, he had a .45 shoved into his waist, and he was carrying a shotgun—a Remington Model 1100 with the stock cut off at the pistol grip. Nobody had any problems.