The Hunters

by W. E. B Griffin

  Or even when only three or four of them were occupied by what he privately thought of as “the light brass.”

  He defined the heavy brass as general or flag officers whose personal flags carried three or more stars. It also included a few heavy civilians. The liaison officer between the Office of the Director of National Intelligence and CentCom was one of these. He was a member of what was known as the Executive Civil Service and held the grade therein of GS-18, which carried with it the assimilated grade within the military establishment of lieutenant general. The State Department, Central Intelligence Agency, and Federal Bureau of Investigation liaison officers each carried the Executive Civil Service grade of GS-16, which carried with it the assimilated grade of major general.

  The light brass was brigadier generals, rear admirals (lower half), and GS-15 civilians and below.

  The primary reason Command Sergeant Major Suggins almost never took a seat at the conference table was not, as most of the light and heavy brass believed, because he was an enlisted man and would be out of place in their exalted senior company.

  The primary reason was that General Allan Naylor, the CentCom commander in chief, had decided that Command Sergeant Major Suggins had more important things to do than sit at the table for long periods with his mouth shut.

  This was not to say General Naylor did not want Command Sergeant Major Suggins to know what transpired at the frequent conferences; quite the contrary. It was General Naylor’s habit after most conferences—there were at least four every day, including the twice-daily intelligence briefings—to motion Suggins into his office and solicit both his opinions of what had been discussed and his recommendations as to how an action decided upon could best be implemented.

  That Command Sergeant Major Suggins was not physically present in the conference room did not mean he hadn’t heard what was being discussed. The room was equipped with a wide array of electronic devices, including a battery of microphones placed around it so that even the sound of a dropped pencil would be detected.

  Sometimes the conferences were recorded. At all times, what the microphones heard was relayed to a single-earphone headset Suggins put on the moment the door to the conference room closed, the red light above the door began to flash, and the CONFERENCE IN PROGRESS DO NOT ENTER sign lit up.

  It was commonly believed by those seeing Suggins wearing his headset that he was taking the opportunity, while a conference was in progress, to listen to the Dixieland recordings of Bob French’s Original Tuxedo Jazz Band, to which he was known to be quite addicted. Suggins did nothing to correct this erroneous belief.

  About the most important thing Suggins did while not sitting at the conference table with his mouth shut was field General Naylor’s telephone calls. There were usually many, and almost all of them from people really important—or who believed they were really important—and who all believed they had the right to speak with General Naylor immediately.

  Some of them Suggins deftly diverted with white lies: The general was jogging or indisposed, or speaking with the president or the secretary of Homeland Security or the secretary of defense, and he would have the general return the call the moment he was free.

  There were some callers, of course, that Suggins did not try to divert. These included, for example, the president of the United States; the secretaries of defense, state, and Homeland Security; the director of National Intelligence; and Mr. Elaine Naylor.

  When one of these luminaries called, Suggins would turn to a laptop computer on the credenza behind his desk and quickly type, for example, if the caller were the secretary of Homeland Security, the Honorable Matthew Hall:

  * * *

  HALL?

  * * *

  The message would instantly appear on the screen of what was nearly universally—and not very fondly—known as the general’s IBB, meaning “Infernal Black Box.”

  The IBB was in fact a laptop computer identical to Suggins’s. General Naylor always had it on the conference in front of him, situated so that the screen would be visible to no one else.

  The system was effective. Whoever had the floor in the conference room would not have to stop in midsentence as Naylor’s telephone rang or Command Sergeant Major Suggins came through the door.

  Naylor could read the message and quickly type his reply:

  * * *

  CAN I CALL IN FIVE MINS?

  * * *

  Or:

  * * *

  PUT HIM THROUGH

  * * *

  Or:

  * * *

  CAN YOU TAKE A MESSAGE?

  * * *

  Etcetera.

  The regularly scheduled afternoon intelligence briefing had been in session for about five minutes when one of the telephones on Command Sergeant Major Suggins’s desk rang.

  “Office of the Sink. Suggins.”

  C in c was often pronounced “sink.” And “Command Sergeant Major Suggins speaking, sir” wasted time.

  “Jack Iverson, Wes,” the caller announced. “I’ve got an interesting in flight advisory for your boss.”

  Chief Master Sergeant Jack Iverson, USAF, was the senior noncommissioned officer of what was informally known as “the Air Force side of MacDill.” MacDill was an Air Force base. The United States Central Command was a “tenant” of MacDill Air Force Base.

  “Shoot,” Suggins replied as he spun in his chair to the laptop on the credenza. His fingers flew on the keys as Iverson relayed the in flight advisory message:

  * * *

  FOR CINC CENTCOM

  CHARLEY URGENTLY REPEAT URGENTLY REQUESTS CINC CENTCOM PERSONALLY REPEAT PERSONALLY MEET LEAR FIVE-OH-SEVEN-FIVE ON ARRIVAL MACDILL. ETA 1255. TORINE COL USAF.

  * * *

  “Got it, Jack. Hang on a minute.”

  “You’re not going to tell me what the hell it’s all about, Wes?”

  “If I knew, I would. I don’t,” Suggins replied.

  He pushed the key that would cause the message to appear on the screen of General Naylor’s IBB.

  The reply came in a second:

  * * *

  ????????????????????????????

  * * *

  The translation of that was, “What the hell?”

  A moment later, there was another reply:

  * * *

  OK

  * * *

  “Jack, reply that the CINC will do,” Suggins said. “And the CINC authorizes the landing of the civilian airplane, if that’s necessary. And for Christ’s sake, keep this quiet.”

  “Why do I think you’re not telling me everything you know?”

  “Because I’m not,” Suggins said. “Thanks, Jack.”

  Then Suggins picked up the telephone and ordered that the CINC’s car be at the front door in five minutes.

  [FIVE]

  As the sleek white Bombardier/Learjet 45XR taxied up to the tarmac in front of Base Operations, General Allan Naylor could see the pilot. He knew him well. He was Major Carlos G. Castillo, U.S. Army. Naylor could also see who was sitting in the copilot’s seat. He knew him well, too. He was Colonel Jacob Torine, USAF.

  That figures, General Naylor thought. A full goddamned Air Force colonel is flying copilot, and Charley—a lousy major—is in the pilot’s seat.

  Naylor saw Castillo rise from the pilot’s seat and leave the cockpit. A moment later, the fuselage door began to unfold and in a moment Castillo appeared in the opening. He was in civilian clothing.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Castillo called, politely. “Would you come aboard, please, sir? Alone?”

  Now he’s giving orders to a four-star general? Goddamn it!

  “Wait here, please, Jack,” Naylor said to the lieutenant colonel, his aide-de-camp, standing beside him, and then walked to the Lear and climbed up the stairs.

  “Thank you, sir,” Castillo said as Naylor entered the cabin.

  “This had better be important, Charley.”

  “I thought it was, sir.”

  Naylor looke
d around the cabin. There were four men in it. One, Fernando M. Lopez, he knew well. The Lear belonged to one of the companies his family controlled.

  The other three he did not know. One was an Asiatic, another a light-skinned African American, and the third looked like a high school kid.

  “Who are these gentlemen, Charley?” Naylor asked.

  “Special Agent Yung of the FBI, sir,” Castillo answered, “Special Agent Britton of the Secret Service and Corporal Lester Bradley. Bradley’s a Marine.”

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Colonel Torine said from behind him.

  “Hello, Jake,” Naylor said and shook his hand.

  None of them look smug, as if they’ve just pulled off something clever. They all look uncomfortable. As if whatever crazy operation they launched went the wrong way?

  “I’m waiting, Charley,” Naylor said.

  Castillo pointed to the aisle at the rear of the cabin.

  There was something there wrapped in what looked like sheets. And then Naylor knew what It was.

  “Another body?” he asked, icily.

  “Sir, those are the remains of Sergeant First Class Seymour Kranz,” Castillo said. “He was KIA last night.”

  “What?”

  “Garroted, sir,” Castillo said.

  “Garroted?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Castillo took the blue steel garrote from his pocket and extended it to Naylor.

  “By who? Where?” Naylor blurted and then hurriedly added, as he pointed to Yung and Bradley: “Are these gentlemen privy to what happened? Or anything else?”

  “They are aware of the Presidential Finding, sir. And they participated in the operation in which Kranz lost his life.”

  “And what was the operation?”

  “We located Mr. Lorimer, sir. We staged an operation to repatriate him. We were in the middle of it when we were bushwhacked.”

  “By who?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Mr. Lorimer was killed during the attack as well as Sergeant Kranz.”

  “And the bushwhackers?”

  “They were killed, sir.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “In Uruguay, sir.”

  “Uruguay?” Naylor asked, incredulously, and then verbalized what he was thinking. “The last thing I heard, you were in Europe. Hungary.”

  “We were, sir. But we tracked down Lorimer in Uruguay.”

  “And are the Uruguayan authorities already looking for you? Or will that come a little later?”

  “So far as that aspect of the operation is concerned, sir, we came out clean.”

  “You came out with two bodies? And you call that clean?”

  “We left Mr. Lorimer’s body in Uruguay, sir,” Castillo said. “What I meant to say is that I don’t think we left anything behind that could tie the operation to us.”

  “And why did you come here? Why did you bring the sergeant’s body here?”

  “It was either here or Fort Bragg, sir—Washington was obviously out of the question—and we didn’t have enough fuel to make Pope Air Force Base. And you were here, sir.”

  Naylor looked at him and thought, Good ol’ Uncle Allan will fix things, right?

  “Sir,” Castillo added, “you are personally aware of my orders from the President. General McNab is not.”

  What’s he doing, reading my mind?

  And, dammit, he’s right. Bringing the sergeant’s body here was the right thing to do.

  “When do you plan to go to Washington?”

  “Just as soon as possible, sir. I’d be grateful if you would call Secretary Hall and tell him we’re en route.”

  General Naylor looked for a long moment into Major Castillo’s eyes. Then he walked to the door.

  “Colonel,” he called, “will you come in here, please?”

  His aide-de-camp came quickly into the airplane.

  “Colonel, you are advised that, from this moment, what you may see or hear is classified Top Secret Presidential.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Under that black plastic is the body of a sergeant…”

  “Sergeant First Class Seymour Kranz,” Castillo interrupted.

  “…who was killed,” Naylor went on, “during the execution of a covert and clandestine operation authorized by a Presidential Finding. The officer in charge of this covert and clandestine operation has brought the sergeant’s remains here for us to deal with. I confess I have no idea how to proceed with that.”

  “Sir, what is the sergeant’s parent unit?” the lieutenant colonel asked Castillo.

  Just in time, General Naylor stopped himself from saying the lieutenant colonel did not have to call Major Castillo “sir.”

  “Kranz was Gray Fox, out of Delta Force,” Castillo answered.

  “Sir, what about calling General McNab at Bragg? I suspect he has experience with a situation like this.”

  Oh, I bet Scotty McNab has! I’ll bet this sort of thing is almost routine for good ol’ Scotty!

  “The first thing to do is cordon off this area,” General Naylor said. “Then get an ambulance over here. Have the sergeant’s remains taken to the hospital. Get a flag…No, have the ambulance crew bring a flag with them. Cover the remains with the national colors before they are moved. Arrange for the sergeant’s remains to have a suitable escort from this moment. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is that satisfactory to you, Major Castillo?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you very much.”

  “Is there anything else you require?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I will attempt to get General McNab on a secure line,” Naylor said.

  He walked to the door, then turned.

  “If this needs to be said, I am sure that all of you did your duty as you understood it. And I don’t think I have to tell you how pleased I am that there was only the one casualty.”

  He was out the door before anyone could reply.

  II

  [ONE]

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW

  Washington, D.C.

  1825 1 August 2005

  The President of the United States was behind his desk. Across the room, Ambassador Charles W. Montvale, the director of National Intelligence, was sitting next to Secretary of State Natalie Cohen on one of two facing couches. Secretary of Homeland Security Matthew Hall was on the other couch.

  Major C. G. Castillo, who was in civilian clothing, was nonetheless standing before the President’s desk at a position close to a tease.

  Or, Secretary Hall thought, like a kid standing in front of the headmaster’s desk, waiting for the ax to fall.

  For the past ten minutes, Castillo had been delivering his report of what had happened since he had last seen the President—aboard Air Force One in Biloxi, Mississippi—when the President had issued the Presidential Finding that had sent him first to Europe and ultimately to Estancia Shangri-La.

  “And so we landed at MacDill, Mr. President,” Castillo concluded, “where we turned over Sergeant Kranz’s remains to Central Command, and then we came here. I took everyone involved to my apartment and told them nothing was to be said to anyone about anything until I had made my report, and that they were to remain there until I got back to them.”

  “Colonel Torine, too?” the President of the United States asked. “And your cousin, too? How did they respond to your placing them in what amounts to house arrest?”

  “Colonel Torine knows how things are done, sir. I didn’t order him…And Fernando, my cousin, understands the situation, sir.”

  “And that’s about it, Castillo?” the President asked.

  “Except for one thing, sir.”

  “Which is?”

  “Howard Kennedy was at Jorge Newbery when I landed there from the estancia. Mr. Yung saw him.”

  “The FBI agent?”

  “Who was there?” Ambassador Montvale asked.

&nbs
p; “Howard Kennedy…” Castillo began.

  “Who, it is alleged, is in the employ of Aleksandr Pevsner,” the President said, drily.

  “The Russian mobster?” Montvale asked, incredulously.

  Both Castillo and the President nodded.

  “I’m missing something here,” Montvale said.

  The President made a fill him in gesture with his hand to Castillo.

  Secretaries Cohen and Hall, who knew the story, exchanged glances and quick smiles. Montvale wasn’t going to like this.

  “Sir, we have sort of reached an accommodation with Mr. Pevsner,” Castillo began.

  “‘We’?” Montvale interrupted. “Who’s ‘we’? You and who else? ‘Accommodation’? What kind of ‘accommodation’?”

  “‘We’ is Major Castillo and your President, Charles. Let Charley finish, please,” the President said.

  “He was very helpful in locating the stolen 727, Mr. Ambassador,” Castillo said.

  An American-owned Boeing 727 had disappeared from Luanda, Angola, on 23 May 2005, and when what the President described as “our enormous and enormously expensive intelligence community” was unable to determine who had stolen it, or why, or where It was, the president had come close to losing his temper.

  He had dispatched Castillo, who was then an executive assistant to the secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, to Angola, his orders being simply to find out what the CIA and the FBI and the DIA and the State Department—and all the other members of the intelligence community—had come to know about the stolen airplane, and when they had come to know it, and to report back personally to him.

  Castillo had instead gone far beyond the scope of his orders. He not only learned who had stolen the aircraft—an obscure group of Somalian terrorists—and what they planned to do with it—crash it into the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia—but he also had located the 727 in Costa Rica, where it was about to take off for Philadelphia. Castillo had—with the aid of a Delta Force team from Fort Bragg—stolen the aircraft back from the terrorists and, with Colonel Jake Torine in the pilot’s seat, delivered it to MacDill Air Force Base.