The Hostage

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  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 been 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.

  Torine turned and looked up at him, smiling.

  “Dotterman told me you were on the floor back there,” Torine said. “If you want to lay down, Charley, and God knows you have every reason to be tired, just pull the armrests out from one of the seats. I’ve even got a blanket and pillow I’ll loan you.”

  He’s neither pissed nor embarrassed, which he would be if the Widow Masterson had complained to him about me.

  Well, maybe she’s waiting to tell the President what a cold-hearted bastard I am.

  And I really don’t care if she does.

  “Thanks, but I’m not sleepy, sir.”

  “Well, then, maybe you’d like to sit in the right seat for a while and see how real pilots aerial navigate over the Amazon jungle?”

  “Is that where we are, over the Amazon jungle?”

  “I don’t know where we are,” Torine said. He nodded at the copilot. “I’m relying on him, and my painful experience with him has been that he often gets lost in a closet. How about getting out of there, Bill, and we’ll see if this Army aviator can find out where we are?”

  The copilot smiled and unfastened his harness.

  When Castillo had taken his seat and strapped himself in, the copilot leaned over him and pointed out a screen on which their location was shown. A well-detailed electronicmap showed that they were about two hundred miles from Buenos Aires, a few miles north of Rosario. The screen also showed their altitude, airspeed, course, and the distance and time to alternate airfields. Castillo was familiar with the equipment. There was a civilian version of it in the Lear Bombardier. Guided by data from three—or more—satellites fed through a computer, the location and ground speed provided on the screen was accurate within six feet and three miles per hour.

  I wonder if Tom got Fernando permission to land at Keesler?

  “That gadget takes all the fun out of flying,” Colonel Torine said. “It was much more fun when you could stick your head out into the slipstream and see if the highway was still under you.”

  [FOUR]

  Keesler Air Force Base Biloxi, Mississippi 2035 25 July 2005

  As Castillo sat in the jump seat while Torine lined the Globemaster up with the Keesler runway and then smoothly sat the huge airplane down, he could see, bathed in the light of maybe a dozen pole-mounted banks of high-intensity floodlights, the Boeing 747—the Air Force called it the VC-25A, which when the President of the United States was aboard became Air Force One—parked at the end of the taxiway paralleling the runway. It was being protected not only by sentries but also by a half dozen Humvees with .50 caliber machine guns.

  “Three-Zero-One on the ground at three five past the hour,” Torine said into his microphone. “Close me out, please. And taxi instructions, please.”

  “Air Force Three-Zero-One, this is Keesler Ground Control. Halt in place at the termination of your landing roll. Be advised that you will be met by a follow-me vehicle. Be advised that you will be met by a vehicle which will take Major C. Castillo from the aircraft to his ground destination. Acknowledge.”

  “Keesler,” Torine responded, “Three-Zero-One understands halt in place at termination of landing roll. Further understand follow-me vehicle will be there. Further understand Major Castillo will be taken by a second vehicle to his ground destination.”

  “That is correct, Three-Zero-One.”

  The copilot touched Torine’s shoulder and then pointed out the window. An Air Force blue pickup truck with a FOLLOW ME sign mounted on the bed and a GMC Yukon were sitting side by side on a taxiway access ramp.

  “Dotterman, you heard that?” Torine asked.

  “I’m by the side door, Colonel.”

  Torine turned to Castillo.

  “Why do I think your ground destination is that 747?”

  “Keesler,” the copilot said into his microphone. “Three-Zero-One is halted on the runway.”

  “We have you in sight, Three-Zero-One,” gro
und control replied.

  “Colonel,” Dotterman announced, “here comes a Suburban and a Follow-Me. The Suburban sees me. He’s coming up this side of the fuselage.”

  “That’s probably a Yukon, Dotterman,” Torine said.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “I don’t know,” Torine confessed.

  “People getting out of the whatever-the-hell-it-is,” Chief Master Sergeant Dotterman reported.

  When Colonel Torine started to unfasten his harness with the obvious intention of leaving his seat, Castillo got off the jump seat, folded it out of the way, and stood in the cockpit door. He felt Mrs. Masterson’s eyes on him. He met them for a moment, and then looked away.

  Thirty seconds later a tall, slim, Marine lieutenant colonel in dress blues, to which splendor had been added the golden aiguillettes worn by aides to the commander in chief, appeared at the head of the stairs.

  He glanced at Castillo then headed straight for Mrs. Masterson.

  “Mrs. Masterson, I’m Lieutenant Colonel McElroy, an aide to the President. What’s going to happen next is the aircraft will taxi to a hangar. Ambassador and Mrs. Lorimer will come onboard at that time . . .”

  “I’m Special Agent Willkie of the Secret Service,” a stocky man announced in Castillo’s ear. “Are you Mr. Castillo?”

  Castillo was annoyed at the interruption. Mrs. Masterson had locked eyes with him again, and had been paying far more attention to him than to the President’s aide.

  And she wasn’t angry. It wasn’t a “Now you’re going to get yours, you sonofabitch” look.

  It was an “I need your help” look. Or a “We have to talk” look.

  Or both.

  What’s going on?

  And now this sonofabitch is in the way!

  Castillo stopped himself at the last split second from pushing the Secret Service agent out of the way.

  “I’m Castillo.”

  “Will you come with me, please, sir? The President would like a word with you.”

  Castillo nodded.

  Special Agent Willkie started down the stairs. As Castillo turned to follow him he looked at Mrs. Masterson again. Their eyes locked again.

  She looks distressed, almost frightened.

  She doesn’t want me to leave.

  Mrs. Masterson stood up and pushed Lieutenant Colonel McElroy to one side and called, “Mr. Castillo!”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “May I have a moment alone with you, please?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Of course.”

  She brushed past McElroy and walked up to the cockpit opening. She got so close that Castillo backed up, which pushed him right up against Torine.

  “What can I do for you, ma’am?” Castillo asked. “Is something wrong?”

  She looked up at him. He saw tears forming.

  “I was afraid to say anything in Buenos Aires, Mr. Castillo,” she said. “My priority was keeping my children safe.”

  He nodded.

  Elizabeth Masterson took a deep breath.

  “But now we’re out of Argentina. We’re here.” She paused, and then went on, slowly and carefully, as if she had rehearsed what she was going to say: “The people who abducted me wanted me to tell them where my brother is. They said that unless I told them, they would kill my children, one at a time. And they said they would kill my children and my parents if I said anything about it. And then they killed Jac—” Her voice caught. She swallowed and went on, “Then they killed my husband to show me they mean what they say.”

  “And you don’t know where your brother is, do you?” Castillo asked, gently.

  She shook her head.

  Castillo put his hands on her arms.

  “Listen to me, Mrs. Masterson. You have my word that no one is going to hurt your children. Or your parents. Or you . . .”

  “I just didn’t know what to do. That’s why I didn’t—”

  “Mr. Castillo, the President is waiting!” Secret Service Special Agent Willkie impatiently announced.

  “He’s just going to have to wait,” Castillo snapped, and then looked down at Mrs. Masterson again.

  She was shaking her head and smiling through her tears.

  He looked at her quizzically.

  “I knew I was going to have to tell somebody,” she said. “And I guess I was right in choosing you.”

  “I don’t under—”

  “How many people do you think there are who, on being told the President of the United States is waiting for them, would say, ‘He’s just going to have to wait’?”

  “That just may be an indication that I act impulsively,” Castillo said.

  “No, Mr. Castillo. What it is is that you’re what Alex Darby told me you are.”

  He looked at her quizzically again.

  She explained: “One really tough sonofabitch, and just the guy you need in your corner when you’re really in trouble.”

  “Well, if you believe that, ma’am, please believe I’m in your corner.”

  “Mr. Castillo, for God’s sake, the President is waiting!” Special Agent Willkie called.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Castillo said.

  She reached up and kissed his cheek, said, “Thank you,” and went back to her seat.

  Castillo looked at Colonel Torine.

  “You heard all that, right?”

  Torine, his face stern, nodded.

  “Would you come with me, please? I may need a witness.”

  “Sure,” Torine said, turned his head and raised his voice. “Bill, I’m leaving the aircraft. It’s now yours.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When Special Agent Willkie saw Colonel Torine follow Castillo down the stairs, he looked at him in surprise, and then announced, “The President said nothing about wanting to see anyone but you, Mr. Castillo.”

  “Well, then I guess he’ll be surprised when he sees Colonel Torine, won’t he?”

  As soon as they were standing on the runway beside the Globemaster, Special Agent Willkie spoke to his lapel microphone.

  “Mr. Castillo insists on bringing the pilot with him.”

  “Not ‘the pilot,’ my friend,” Torine said, not very pleasantly. “Colonel Jake Torine, U.S. Air Force.”

  “He says his name is Torine,” Special Agent Willkie said to his lapel microphone.

  Thirty seconds later, Special Agent Willkie said, “If you’ll get in the Yukon, please, gentlemen, I will escort you to the President.”

  They had been in the backseat of the Yukon about thirty seconds when Torine touched Castillo’s shoulder and pointed out the window.

  Castillo looked and saw soldiers armed with Car 16 rifles forming a perimeter guard around the Globemaster.

  “I didn’t know they trusted Air Force guys with loaded guns,” Castillo said.

  Torine smirked. “Those aren’t Air Force guys, wiseass. They’re soldiers, almost certainly Special Forces and probably Delta Force. And at least one of them is Gray Fox. That is Sergeant Orson, isn’t it?”

  Castillo looked. One of the soldiers was a tall, blond sergeant first class named Orson. The last time Castillo had seen the Gray Fox communicator/sniper was in Costa Rica, where Orson had very professionally taken out two of the terrorists who had stolen the 727.

  “I’ll be damned, that’s Orson all right.”

  What the hell is going on?

  The Yukon stopped in front of the wide flight of stairs that had been rolled up to the huge Boeing, and Castillo and Torine got out. There was a knot of people guarding access to the stairs, including two females who were obviously Secret Service agents.

  One of them spoke to her lapel microphone, and then turned to Castillo and Torine.

  “You may board, gentlemen,” she said. “The President is expecting you.”

  XII

  [ONE]

  Aboard Air Force One Keesler Air Force Base Biloxi, Mississippi 2050 25 July 2005

  Although he’d seen the presidential aircraft be
fore, and had been closer to both of them than most people ever get, Castillo had never actually been inside one of them.

  The first thing he noticed when he stepped through the door was that the interior was unlike any other that he’d ever seen on any Boeing 747 or, for that matter, on any airliner. Instead of row after row of seats, he found himself looking at the seal of the President of the United States mounted on a cream-colored wall running as far as he could see—fifty feet or so—along the left side of the aircraft, down to where there was a bend in the corridor that the wall formed.

  The second thing he noticed was a Secret Service agent standing in the short section of corridor to his left. Castillo had heard that the presidential apartment was in the nose of the aircraft, under the flight deck, and had just decided the Secret Service agent was guarding the President when a second Secret Service agent spoke to him. This one he knew.

  “Down the corridor to the door,” Joel Isaacson said, pointing. And then he added: “Good to see you, Charley.”

  Castillo shook Isaacson’s hand as he walked past him, but didn’t speak.

  The door Isaacson made reference to was in the bend of the corridor. As Castillo got close to it, a Secret Service agent appeared and pushed the door inward.

  Castillo stepped through it and found himself in a decent-sized conference room. There was a large table, with eight leather-upholstered armchairs around it. They all had seat belts.

  Seated at the table were the secretary of state, Dr. Natalie Cohen; the secretary of Homeland Security, the Honorable Matthew Hall; the director of national intelligence,Ambassador Charles Montvale; and General Allan Naylor, commander in chief of CentCom. The President of the United States was sprawled on a leather sectional couch against the interior wall, talking on the telephone.

  When he saw Castillo, he smiled and signaled for him to come in and to take one of the unoccupied armchairs at the table. Then, when he saw Colonel Torine, he signaled for him to come in and to take another of the armchairs.

  Castillo got a smile from the secretary of state and the secretary of Homeland Security. General Naylor nodded at him, and the director of national intelligence looked at him in what Castillo thought was both curiosity and disapproval.