The shooters pa-4

by W. E. B Griffin

  "Not a problem," Castillo said, as he pushed himself out of his seat. "General McNab would have found something to criticize anyway."

  When Castillo got to the door, he saw Max was sitting at the foot of the stair door, waiting for him. He went down the steps, faced General McNab, came to attention, and saluted crisply.

  McNab returned it with a casual wave in the direction of his forehead.

  "I was going to compliment you, Colonel," McNab said, "on your recruiting poster appearance. But curiosity overwhelms me. Where did that animal come from?"

  "Sir, I'm going from here to Rucker. I thought Class A's would be a good idea."

  "And the animal?"

  "That's Max, sir. I'm keeping him for a friend."

  Neidermeyer came down the stairs.

  "Jamie," General McNab said. "Didn't your mother ever tell you that you will be judged by the company you keep?"

  "Good afternoon, sir," Neidermeyer said. "Good to see you, sir."

  "It won't be afternoon for another twenty-four minutes," McNab said. "But I'm glad to see you, too. Gentlemen, this is Sergeant Neidermeyer, one of the better communicators from the stockade. The splendidly attired officer is Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, and all the terrible things you have heard about him are true."

  The colonel walked around McNab and offered Castillo his hand.

  "Tom Kingston, Castillo," he said. "And I have to tell you that on the way here, the general told Inman"-he nodded toward the young officer-"that he hopes whatever you have that made you the best aide he ever had is contagious, because maybe he'll get lucky and catch it."

  "Colonel Kingston," General McNab said, "who betrays my confidential remarks at the drop of a hat, was wondering what you're doing here, Charley. I couldn't tell him. Are you going to tell him? Or are you going to let him stumble around in the dark?"

  "This might not be the best place to get into that, sir."

  "Okay. Inman, take Sergeant Neidermeyer-and the airplane crew and that animal-somewhere nice for lunch. Eat slowly. When you're finished, bring them by my quarters. By then, Colonel Kingston, Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, and I will probably be through saying unkind things about enlisted men and junior officers."

  "Yes, sir," the aide said.

  McNab made a Follow me gesture and started marching across the tarmac.

  Mrs. Donna McNab kissed Castillo on the cheek before he was completely through the front door.

  "Oh, it's good to see you, Charley!"

  "For God's sake, don't encourage him," General McNab said. "I'm trying to get rid of him before he gets me in trouble again."

  "How long can you stay?" she asked, ignoring her husband.

  "Maybe an hour and a half," Castillo said.

  "The Naylors will be really disappointed. They won't be back until tomorrow afternoon."

  "Me, too. It would have been great to see them."

  She looked at McNab and said, "Everything's set up on the patio, darling. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt that this is important and will leave you alone."

  "Thank you. It is," McNab said, made another Follow me gesture, and led Colonel Kingston and Castillo through the house and out back to a walled patio.

  There was a gas grill, a side table on which sat a plate of T-bone steaks and another of tomatoes, and a small patio table that seated four and had place settings for three.

  "I will now be able to state that my former aide landed here for fuel, and I entertained him at lunch at my quarters," McNab said. "Purely a social occasion."

  Castillo nodded his understanding.

  "We are having steak and tomatoes," McNab went on, "because I am on a diet that allows me all the meat I want to eat and small portions of fresh vegetables. While I am cooking the steaks, you can bring Kingston up to speed. Or as much speed as you feel appropriate."

  "Yes, sir," Castillo said. "Colonel, I have to begin this with the statement that everything I tell you, or you intuit, is classified Top Secret Presidential."

  "Understood," Kingston said. "Maybe it would clear the air a little, Colonel, if I told you that the secretary of Defense has called General McNab and instructed him to give you whatever you ask for, and that you would tell us only what you felt was appropriate."

  Castillo nodded.

  He began, "A DEA agent named Timmons has been kidnapped in Paraguay. The President has promised the mayor of Chicago that he will get this guy back, and tasked me to do so…"

  "…and there is one more problem," Castillo said when he had finished explaining what he had planned and the problems he saw in doing it.

  General McNab, his mouth full of steak, gestured for him to go on.

  "The agency is apparently running an operation down there to catch these people in the act of bringing drugs into the States aboard cruise ships. They intend to seize the ship-ships, plural-under maritime law. A guy named Milton Weiss"-he paused to see if either McNab or Kingston knew of Weiss, and when both shook their heads, went on-"came to see me last night and as much as told me to butt out."

  McNab held up his hand as a signal to wait until he had finished chewing. That took at least ten seconds.

  McNab then said, "That sort of operation, I would think-correct me if I'm wrong, Tom-would be run by the DEA or the Coast Guard or, for that matter, the Navy. They've got an ONI operation in Key West to do just that sort of thing." He looked at Kingston, who nodded his agreement. "So what does Montvale have to say about this?"

  "Montvale doesn't know about it," Castillo said.

  "The agency is up to something like that and the director of National Intelligence doesn't know about it?" McNab said.

  "Maybe doesn't want to?" Kingston asked.

  "I don't think he knows," Castillo said. "He was there when the President gave me this job. He didn't think it was a good idea. Neither did Natalie Cohen. I think if he-and now that I think of it-he or Natalie knew about this agency operation, one or the other or both would have used it as an argument to get the President to change his mind."

  "Unless, of course, they know the President well enough to judge that he was not in a frame of mind to change his mind," McNab said.

  "I don't think he knows," Castillo said. "I don't think either of them do."

  "How did this Weiss character know what you're up to?" Kingston asked.

  Castillo told them about Delchamps, and then that Miller had eavesdropped on the session with Weiss, and that both were willing to go with him to the President.

  McNab thoughtfully chewed another piece of beef, then said: "My advice, Charley, would be to obey the last lawful order you received, which was to go get the DEA guy back."

  "I was hoping you'd say that, sir," Castillo said.

  "That was advice, Charley. I'm not in a position to give you orders."

  "Yes, sir, I understand. But thanks for the advice."

  "I hope it didn't change your mind about anything."

  "No, sir. It did not."

  "Good. Maybe you did learn something after all during all those years you were my canape passer."

  Castillo chuckled. As long as he had been McNab's aide-de-camp, he had never passed a canape to the general's guests. McNab regarded the primary function of an aide-de-camp to be sort of an intern, an opportunity for a junior officer to see how senior officers functioned and learn from it.

  He wondered if the young captain whom McNab had sent to feed Neidermeyer, Max, and the Gulfstream crew understood this.

  McNab had never said anything to me. I had to figure it out myself; that was part of the training.

  "Okay, Tom. What do you think?" McNab said.

  And that's something else I learned from Bruce J. McNab. I'd heard about it at the Point, but I learned it from him.

  A wise officer gets-even if he has to force the issue-the opinions and suggestions of his subordinates before he offers his own, and, more important, makes any decisions.

  That way, they say what they think, rather than what they think the boss wa
nts to hear.

  "Nothing, General, but how to get the Hueys down there black," Kingston said, thoughtfully. "That does not pose much of a real problem-except the usual ones, time and money. Castillo wants this done yesterday."

  "With respect, sir, it's not me who wants it done yesterday," Castillo said. "But black outweighs time."

  "How about money?" Kingston asked.

  "You tell me how much is wanted, and where, and Dick Miller will wire it within a matter of hours."

  "It would be impolitic of you, Tom," McNab said, "to ask where he's getting the money."

  "My concern is whether there's enough."

  "There's enough," Castillo said.

  "Charley has some experience with how much black costs," McNab said. "So how do we get the Hueys down there, and exactly where do we send them?"

  "Open for a wild hair?" Kingston asked.

  McNab nodded.

  "The Ronald Reagan," Kingston said.

  McNab pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  "Excuse me?" Castillo asked.

  "It's an aircraft carrier, Charley. Named after the Gipper," McNab said drily.

  Kingston added, "And it's sailing around the world, or at least down the east coast of South America, and around the horn, or whatever they call it, and then up the west coast to San Diego.

  "Onto her, Tom," McNab corrected him. "She's sailing around the world."

  Kingston nodded. "If we could get those Hueys onto her either before she leaves, or even after she leaves, they could just be flown off…"

  "Wouldn't that make waves?" Castillo asked, and then heard what he had just said and, shaking his head, muttered, "Jesus Christ!"

  "I don't think so," Kingston said, smiling at him. "We could say they're for the press or something. The Navy probably won't like the idea-"

  "The Navy will do what the secretary of Defense tells it to do," McNab said, flatly.

  "You have a place where they could be landed black?" Kingston asked.

  "I know just the place," Castillo said. "But the last time I was in Uruguay their head cop told me, 'Good-bye and please don't come back.'"

  "You want me to set this up with the Navy or not, Charley?" McNab asked.

  "Yes, sir, please. I'll find a place to fly them off to before they get there."

  "Just the Hueys? Or the Hueys and the shooters?"

  "Just the Hueys," Castillo said. "We've got a few days. It would be better to send them down as tourists, or soccer players, a couple at a time."

  "No problem with Spanish-speaking A-Teams, Tom?" McNab asked.

  "No."

  "Get on the horn to Bragg. I want four shooters on their way within twelve hours, different airlines, and six every twenty-four hours thereafter. You have a place for them to go, Charley?"

  "By the time they get there, I will."

  He wrote several telephone numbers on a sheet of paper and handed the paper to Kingston.

  "That's if something happens and Lorimer doesn't meet them at the airport."

  Kingston nodded his understanding.

  "We could send the weapons and the gear on the Hueys," Castillo said, thoughtfully. "If we can't get the Hueys into the country black, we won't need the weapons. And that'll eliminate having to send them under diplomatic cover, which would open a can of worms."

  Kingston grunted his approval.

  "Get the weapons and gear moving to Rucker right away," McNab ordered. "There's a buck general there, Crenshaw, I've dealt with before. I'll get on the horn to him and give him a heads-up, tell him to stash the weapons and gear until Charley knows what he wants to do with it."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'll also tell him to expect eight Huey pilots-and four crew chiefs-from the 160th at Campbell, same story. I'll get on the horn to Campbell myself as soon as I can."

  "Yes, sir," Kingston said.

  "Anything else for right now?"

  Kingston looked at Castillo.

  "The money?" Kingston said.

  "You've got a black account here, sir?"

  "In the base branch of the Wachovia Bank."

  "If you'll give me the number, sir, I'll get on the horn to Dick Miller, and the money will probably be in it by the close of their business day. How much will you need, sir?"

  "This isn't going to be cheap, Castillo. We've got-"

  "Will a million cover it for openers, sir?"

  "More than enough," Kingston said.

  "Wrong answer, Tom," McNab said. "Probably not, Colonel Castillo. But we can always come back to you for more, right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "That's it, then?" McNab asked.

  "I think that covers just about everything for now, sir," Kingston said.

  "Yes, sir. Thank you both."

  "Why don't we see if Miller is going to have any problems getting the money down here before I start loaning you money from my special funds?" McNab said.

  Castillo took his cellular phone from his pocket. Kingston handed him a slip of paper.

  Ninety seconds later, Castillo broke the connection.

  "Done, sir. Major Miller sends his compliments, sir."

  "Story going around is that he's being retired medically. True?"

  "Yes, sir. First of the month. He's going to work for me."

  McNab shook his head.

  "Goddamn shame," he said, and then heard what he had said. "I don't mean his working for you, Charley. I meant…his being involuntarily retired."

  "Yes, sir. It is."

  McNab shook his head and then smiled.

  "Okay. Those shrill girlish giggles you may have been hearing are those made by my wife when she is playing with a dog. I suspect everybody's here. Once again, my timing is perfect."

  He began to scrape the meat scraps from his plate onto another and then reached for Castillo's plate.

  "That animal of yours eats meat, right?"

  "Yes, sir. He does."

  When they went into house, Mrs. Bruce J. McNab was already feeding Max.

  "Charley, he's adorable," she said. "And he really loves chocolate, doesn't he? That's his fourth Hershey bar."

  VII

  [ONE]

  Cairns Army Airfield

  Fort Rucker, Alabama 1530 4 September 2005 Castillo stuck his head in the cockpit of the Gulfstream V and said, "Thanks, guys."

  "Any time, Colonel," the pilot, an Air Force major, said as he offered his hand.

  "You've got another general meeting you, Colonel," the copilot, a young captain, said, offering his hand and then pointing out the window.

  Castillo saw that the copilot was wearing an Air Force Academy ring.

  Another bright and bushy-tailed young man, he thought, not unkindly, who went through the academy dreaming of soaring through the wild blue yonder in a supersonic fighter jet…and wound up in the right seat of a Gulfstream.

  And who by now has realized he's lucky to be there.

  Most of his classmates are probably still wingless, flying a supply room desk.

  The Air Force had far more academy graduates wanting-and qualified for-flight training than the Air Force had a requirement for pilots. The bitter joke going around the Air Force was "If you really wanted to fly, you should have joined the Army. They have more aircraft than we do."

  Castillo looked to where the lieutenant pointed.

  Brigadier General Crenshaw, the deputy commander of Fort Rucker and the Army Aviation Center, was standing in the door of the Base Operations building with a young officer.

  Oh, shit!

  Last time I saw him, I said I was Secret Service.

  That was-what?-just three days ago…

  When Castillo turned back to the passenger compartment, he saw that the crew chief/steward had already unloaded their luggage, and Neidermeyer was going down the stair door steps cradling the radio suitcase in his arms. Max was standing in the aisle straining against his makeshift leash, which was firmly tied to a seat mount.

  Untying the wire leash proved difficult, as Max
's tugging on it had really tightened the knot. Castillo finally got it undone, and allowed Max to tow him down the stair-door steps. As he did, he saw that Crenshaw had walked across the tarmac to the airplane.

  He saluted as well as he could while allowing Max to make his way to the nose gear, where Max lifted his leg and broke wind. Several times. Loudly.

  "Did you have to teach him to do that, Colonel?" General Crenshaw asked. "Or did it come naturally to him?"

  Castillo could think of nothing to say but "Good afternoon, sir," so he said that.

  "Welcome back to Fort Rucker, Colonel," Crenshaw said. "I have been reliably informed that you did in fact learn how to fly in Texas, and that there was probably a good reason you told me you were in the Secret Service."

  Castillo's confusion showed on his face.

  General Crenshaw smiled and nodded toward Base Operations. Two familiar faces were now standing outside the building.

  One was Lieutenant General Harold F. Wilson, U.S. Army (Retired), wearing Bermuda shorts and a pink golf shirt. The other was Lieutenant Colonel Randolph Richardson, in ACUs. General Wilson waved happily. Colonel Richardson smiled.

  Or is he grimacing as he squints in the bright sunlight? Castillo thought.

  "When General McNab called to tell me you were coming, I was on the fifteenth hole with General Wilson. I was once his aide, so I knew about his relationship with your father."

  "I haven't seen General Wilson for several years," Castillo said. "He retired to Phoenix, I believe."

  "That's right," General Crenshaw said.

  "And I haven't seen Richardson for…I don't remember the last time I saw him."

  "Well, he's my very competent assistant G-3, which makes him just the man to get you whatever you came for. Would that be all right with you?"

  "Yes, sir. That would be fine. Thank you."

  "And this gentleman is?" Crenshaw asked.

  "My communicator, sir. Sergeant First Class Neidermeyer. He has to be close to me, so I was going to introduce him as Mister Neidermeyer and smuggle him in a BOQ with me. But I'm a little tired of bending the truth. So I guess it's the Daleville Inn."

  Crenshaw offered his hand to Neidermeyer.

  "Welcome to Fort Rucker, Mr. Neidermeyer," he said. "I hope you and Colonel Castillo find the Magnolia House comfortable."