She's still a looker, still looks like a younger version of her mother.
And why do I suspect she's less thrilled than her father and mother that Good Ole Charley's coming to dinner?
"It's nice to see you, too, Beth," Castillo said. "Beth, this is my communicator-and friend-Jamie Neidermeyer."
"Hello, Jamie," Beth said, offering her hand.
"Jamie's going to need a place to put a small dish antenna," General Wilson said.
"A what?"
"A DirecTV antenna," Wilson said. "Except it's not. It's the satellite antenna for the radio in his suitcase. What about the patio?"
Beth smiled uneasily.
A small, dressed-for-company girl, about six years old, pushed past Beth and called out, "Grandpa!"
Another girl, about eleven or twelve and who looked like her mother and grandmother, came through the door, followed finally by a boy Castillo guessed to be about twelve or thirteen.
"Charley," Beth said. "This is Randy, the Fourth, and Bethany-"
"The third?" Castillo asked.
"Girls don't usually do that," Beth said. "And Marjorie. This is Colonel Castillo. You know who he is?"
None of the three had a clue.
"This is Dona Alicia's grandson," Beth explained.
The boy showed a very faint glimmer of interest; the girls none at all.
"Grandpa Wilson flew with Colonel Castillo's father in Vietnam," Mrs. Bethany Wilson said.
"And Daddy and Colonel Castillo were friends, classmates, at West Point," Beth Richardson said.
This produced the same level of fascination and excitement as had the previous footnotes to history.
They're not being rude, Castillo thought. They just don't give a damn. And why should they?
Something did excite Marjorie, the smallest: "There's a dog in Grandpa's car!"
She ran toward it.
Oblivious to her mother's order-"Marjorie, come back here this instant!"-she pulled open the front passenger door.
Oh shit! Castillo thought.
The evening's festivities will begin with Beth's forty-pound daughter being mauled by my one-hundred-forty-pound dog.
He ran to the van.
By the time he got there, Max had leapt out of the van, licked Marjorie's face to the point of saturation, and was sitting down offering her his paw.
She put her arms around his neck.
"Marjorie, it would appear, has found a new friend," General Wilson observed. He had been on Castillo's heels and now was catching his breath.
"Is that yours?" Beth accused from behind her father. She didn't seem surprised when Castillo nodded.
"She really loves dogs," Beth said.
"So did you, honey," General Wilson said. "All your life."
"We've never had one," Beth said, and when she saw the look on Castillo's face, added, "You know how it is, moving around all the time in the Army."
Bad answer, Beth.
Your father always was able to keep one.
Truth is that Righteous probably doesn't like dogs.
They're always a nuisance and a potential source of trouble and might interfere with the furtherance of one's career.
Beth averted her eyes as General Crenshaw and Lieutenant Colonel Richardson came out of the house.
"Look at that, will you? Love at first sight!" General Crenshaw called. "Hey, Max!"
Oblivious to the weight of Marjorie clinging to his neck, Max walked to General Crenshaw and offered him his paw.
Now what, Righteous?
Your general thinks Max and your kid make a great pair.
Think fast!
"Beautiful animal," Richardson said. "You've got a nice one there."
"Yeah."
I guess I might as well face it that you are now mine, Max.
Well, what the hell. I told Abuela when she said I didn't even have a dog that I'd get one.
"Well," Richardson went on, "why don't we put the dog back in the car and then see about having a drink and something to eat?"
"I want to play with him!" Marjorie announced firmly.
"Randy," General Wilson said. "What about putting him on the patio and letting the kids play with him?"
"Good idea!" Richardson said with forced enthusiasm.
Dinner-the whole evening-went better than Castillo thought it would.
Beth was a good hostess.
Why am I surprised?
She learned the profession of Officer's Lady from her mother, who may as well have written the book.
And more than that, Beth was gracious.
She seated Jamie Neidermeyer next to her and across from General Crenshaw, and went out of her way to make him comfortable.
And the kids were remarkably well behaved, even the little one.
Castillo was seated between Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Crenshaw, who struck him as another first-class officer's lady.
Even Max behaved. He lay outside the sliding glass door to the patio, his head between his front paws, just watching and neither whining nor suggesting that he would really like something to eat.
General Wilson, a little happy but not drunk after two glasses of wine, regaled everybody with stories of Warrant Officer Junior Grade Jorge Castillo, who, Colonel Castillo decided, must have driven his commanding officer nuts.
One of the stories, which Castillo had not heard, was of a middle-of-the-night moonlight requisitioning flight in which a mess-hall-sized refrigerator and a generator to power it were, as General Wilson gaily related, "liberated from a QM dump and put to work for the 644th Helicopter Company."
He sipped his wine, then with a huge grin said: "For the better part of the next day, the old man was torn between socking it to Jorge and me for misappropriation of government property-or enjoying the cold beer. Cold beer won in the end."
Castillo glanced at Richardson, who clearly was not as amused with the story as was his son, whose face showed he thought the idea of stealing things with a helicopter sounded great.
Then Castillo's eyes met Beth's, and he wondered if she was thinking of what had happened in the Daleville Inn.
Hell yes, she is.
That would be natural.
But that was a very long time ago.
The last thing I'd do is try to resurrect anything.
A little after eight-thirty, just after Castillo had turned down a glass of brandy-"I have to fly in the morning"-there was a familiar faint beep and, a moment later, Neidermeyer reached into his lap and came up with the radio handset.
He looked at it, then stood up, said, "Excuse me. It's for you, sir," and leaned across the table to hand it to Castillo.
The legend read GEN MCNAB.
"Yes, sir?" Castillo said into the handset.
"I've got the truck driver on a landline. He's fueling at Benning. Who do I tell him to see when he gets to Rucker?"
"General Crenshaw has named Colonel Richardson as his action officer, sir. But Neidermeyer-and maybe me-will meet the truck at the gate."
"Driver and two shooters," McNab said. "Make sure they're taken care of."
"Yes, sir, of course."
Castillo was aware that everyone was looking at him.
"Crenshaw taking good care of you?" McNab went on.
"Couldn't ask for anything more, sir. As a matter of fact, I'm sitting across Colonel Richardson's dinner table from him. And General Wilson."
"I don't have the time to wander down memory lane. Give them my compliments," McNab said, and a faint change in the background noise told Castillo that McNab had broken the connection.
Castillo pushed the OFF button and handed the handset back to Neidermeyer.
"That was General McNab," Castillo said. "His compliments to you, gentlemen, and his apologies for having to take another call right now. The truck has just refueled at Fort Benning. What is that, an hour, hour and a half from here?"
Both Wilson and Crenshaw nodded.
"He was checking to make sure the truck driver and his crew-to
tal of three-are taken care of."
"I'll take care of that, General," Richardson said before Crenshaw could give the order.
And now, Castillo thought, I can get out of here.
"Beth, thank you for a delightful meal," he said. "But I'm afraid that Jamie and I are going to have to be the infamous guests who eat and run. We've got a lot on our plate tonight and a first-light flight tomorrow."
"I understand," she said. "We'll have to do it another time."
"I'd like that. I accept."
And with that exchange of polite lies, I really can get out of here.
"Charley, do you know how to find the airport in Ozark?" General Wilson asked.
"I'm sure I can find it, sir."
"I'll take you," Wilson offered.
"That's unnecessary, sir."
"I'll take you," Wilson insisted.
He's trying to be nice, sure. But there's more to it than that.
Hell, he wants to go. Why didn't I think of that?
"Sir, would you like to go along? What I have to do there won't take long-it just has to be done in person. We should be back here at, say, four or five."
"I don't want to intrude, Charley. But I really would like to see the damage along the Gulf Coast."
"Then you'll go. And there's room for one more in the airplane. Any takers? It would be something to see."
"Can I go?" Randolph Richardson IV asked.
"Of course not, son," Randolph Richardson III said quickly.
The look on Beth's face showed that she firmly supported that parental decision.
"Why not?" General Wilson said.
"This is none of my business, of course," General Crenshaw said. "But think it over, Richardson. It's one hell of an opportunity for the boy. For the rest of his life he'd remember that right after the hurricane, he flew over the area with his grandfather and saw everything."
"Well, viewed in that light," Randolph III said.
"I don't think so," Beth announced. "It would be dangerous."
"But General Crenshaw is right, honey," Randolph III said. "It would be something he would remember all his life. Are you sure of your landing field, Castillo? It's safe to use?"
Castillo nodded.
I don't want to take the kid.
I don't even want to take General Wilson.
I was just being a good guy. No good deed ever goes unpunished.
"Okay, then, it's settled," General Wilson said. "Randy and I will pick you up at oh dark hundred at the Magnolia House. That way you won't have to leave the Army van at the airport."
[FOUR]
Ozark Municipal Airport
Ozark, Alabama 0655 5 September 2005 J. G. Jenkins, the somewhat plump proprietor of the Greater Dale County Funeral Home and Crematorium, Inc., incongruously attired in a loud flowered Hawaiian shirt and powder blue shorts, did insist on taking a ride around the pattern with Castillo before turning over his Flying Hearse to him.
In the end, Castillo was glad he did.
As Castillo turned on final, Jenkins idly mentioned that he was sure Castillo was aware that the Rucker reservation-and Cairns Field-was restricted airspace.
"You're going to have to go to either Dothan or Troy before heading for the beach."
"Yes, I know. Thank you."
And another lie leaps quickly from my lips.
I'd forgotten that. And, if you hadn't reminded me, I would've taken off and flown the most direct route to the Gulf-right over both the base and the airfield.
I doubt they would've scrambled jets to shoot me down. But there damned sure would have been a lot of FAA forms to fill out.
"Explain in two hundred words or less why you have done something really stupid like this."
He set the single-engine, high-wing T206H down smoothly on its tricycle gear, then taxied to the hangar where General Wilson, Randy the Fourth, Neidermeyer, and Max were waiting.
Castillo was a little surprised that Jenkins hadn't at least asked questions about Max getting into his pristine airplane-it was painted a glossy black, like a hearse, and the tan leather interior spotless. He concluded in the end that Jenkins had decided in view of the three hundred fifty dollars an hour that he was charging for the use of his hearse-dry, as Castillo had to fuel it himself-it was necessary to accommodate the customer.
"Well, I guess you're my copilot, General," Castillo said after he'd shut down the engine and his passengers approached the aircraft.
"Charley, I'd be useless in the right seat. I haven't flown in years, and…"
General Wilson held up a Sony digital motion picture camera. Neidermeyer had an almost identical one hanging from the lanyard around his neck.
When Castillo looked at him, Wilson said, "I'd really like to get pictures of the damage, Colonel."
Castillo looked at the boy.
"Well, I guess you're my copilot, Randy."
"Yes, sir."
Castillo motioned to the double doors on the starboard side of the fuselage and said, "Then hop in and make your way forward to the right seat."
Wilson and Neidermeyer would take the middle-row bucket seats.
The bench seat in the rear was just wide enough for Max to lie down, if he wanted.
"What do I do about a seat belt for him?" Castillo wondered aloud.
"Try to fly smooth and not come to a sudden stop," General Wilson said.
Castillo sensed the boy's eyes on him as he trimmed out the airplane and set the autopilot on a more or less southwesterly course for Pensacola, Florida.
"Back in the dark ages when your grandfather and my father were flying, they had to do this just about by themselves," Castillo explained to Randy over the intercom, his voice coming through the David Clark headsets that everyone wore. "Now we just push buttons and computers do all the work."
He showed him the Global Positioning System, then pointed to the screen with its map in motion.
"Here we are, south of Fort Rucker. There's where we're going, Pass Christian, Mississippi. The computer tells me we have one hundred eighty-four miles to go, that we're at five thousand feet, and making about one hundred fifty miles an hour over the ground."
The boy soaked that all in, then asked, "Wasn't it more fun when you did it yourself?"
Without really thinking about it, Castillo disengaged the autopilot, said, "Find out for yourself," then, imitating the tone of a commercial airliner pilot, raised his voice: "Attention in the passenger compartment. The copilot is now flying."
The boy looked at him in disbelief.
"If you're going to drive, it might be a good idea to put your hands on the yoke," Castillo said. He pointed. "That's the yoke."
"The thing to remember, Randy, is to be smooth," General Wilson said, leaning over his grandson's shoulder. "Don't jerk the wheel. A very little goes a long way."
The boy put his hands on the yoke.
"Can you reach the pedals?" Castillo asked.
The boy tried, then nodded.
This probably isn't the smartest thing I've ever done, but what the hell.
General Crenshaw was right last night: The kid will never forget that he went flying with his grandfather to see what Hurricane Katrina did to the Gulf Coast.
And we have plenty of fuel.
"Keep your feet on the pedals," Castillo ordered. "But don't move them till I say. What you're going to do now is make it go up and down. When you've got that down pat, you're going to turn us dead south."
"Yes, sir," the boy said.
"Just ease the yoke forward, Randy," his grandfather said. "And try to keep the wings level."
The hurricane damage-a lot of it-became worse as they came closer to the coast. When they were over Pensacola Beach, Florida, the damage was so bad that Castillo decided they needed a closer look.
"I'll take it now, Randy. I want to get down for a better look, and I don't think you're quite ready to make low-level passes."
"Yes, sir," the boy said, reluctantly taking his hands off the yoke.
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The damage to Pensacola Beach was worse than anyone expected.
General Wilson and Jamie Neidermeyer got their video, then Castillo adjusted the flaps and throttle in preparation for the aircraft to climb.
"I'm going to give it back to you, Randy," Castillo said. "What you're going to do now is climb, slowly, to five thousand feet and steer two seven zero."
"Just ease back on the yoke," Grandpa Wilson said. "You're doing fine."
He is. What the hell, his father and grandfather are pilots.
What was it Don Fernando used to say? "Genes don't teach you how to do anything, but they damn sure determine whether or not you can learn."
How big were we when he taught Fernando and me to fly? About as big as this kid, I guess.
God, Fernando and I had flown all over Texas and Mexico by the time we were old enough to get a student's license.
Over Mobile, Alabama, Castillo ordered the boy to turn south and fly to the Gulf, and when they were over it, to turn right and start a gentle descent to fifteen hundred feet.
By the time they reached that altitude, they were over Pascagoula, Mississippi, where the damage was literally incredible. Along the beach, the storm had either destroyed or floated away everything within a quarter-or half-mile of the normal waterline.
"Take it down another five hundred feet, copilot, and then I'll take it."
"Yes, sir."
The damage got worse as they flew along the beach. They saw where two floating casinos had been moved five hundred yards from where they had been moored on the beach.
"Now, Randy, since I don't know where I am, or exactly where it is that I want to go, we will now let the computer take over."
"Yes, sir."
Ten minutes later they were over the landing strip of the Masterson Plantation.
There was clear evidence of hurricane damage-tall pines snapped and huge oaks, some of them obviously hundreds of years old, uprooted-but the airstrip and the house and its outbuildings seemed intact.
There were a number of cars and trucks parked around the house.
Castillo made two low passes over the runway to make sure it was clear. As he pulled out of the second pass to gain altitude to make his approach, he happened to glance at the boy's face. Randy clearly was excited, grinning from ear to ear.
Damned shame the general stopped flying. He could have done this, and the kid could remember that.
The shooters pa-4 Page 27
