The shooters pa-4

by W. E. B Griffin

  "Don't look so worried. I didn't spend all my diplomatic career on the cocktail-party circuit."

  "I'm sure you didn't, Mr. Ambassador."

  "You ever hear of Stanleyville, in the ex-Belgian Congo?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "When the Belgians finally jumped their paratroops on it-out of USAF airplanes-to stop the cannibalism on the town square, we did things differently back then. We paid less attention to the sensitive nationalist feelings of the natives than to Americans in trouble. There I was on the airfield with two sergeants from the Army Security Agency who'd been running a radio station for me in the bush. We were waving American flags with one hand and.45s in the other."

  Castillo shook his head in disbelief.

  "I don't lie, Colonel," Lorimer said. "At my age, I don't have to."

  "I wasn't doubting your word, Mr. Ambassador."

  "I hope not. Until just now I was starting to like you."

  "It was not, sir, what I expected to hear from an ambassador."

  "There are ambassadors and ambassadors, Colonel. For example, my daughter tells me we have a very good one in Buenos Aires."

  "Yes, sir, we do."

  "Are we through here? Can we go deal with her now? She's going to have a fit when she hears you have failed in your noble mission to save the old man from himself."

  "Sir, about getting to Shangri-La from the airport. I think I can arrange for several Spanish-speaking Americans to meet you and take you there. Maybe they could stay around and help you get organized."

  "These Good Samaritans just happen to be in Montevideo, right?"

  Castillo laughed.

  "No, sir. They'd actually be shooters from Fort Bragg…"

  "That's a very politically incorrect term, 'shooters,'" the ambassador said. "I like it."

  "They would have a satellite radio with them. That would be useful. And they would provide you and Mrs. Lorimer with a little security."

  "I would be delighted to have your friends stay with us as long as necessary and be very grateful for their assistance."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Ambassador Lorimer stood up, picked up his now empty cognac snifter, returned to the bottles on the credenza, and poured a half inch of Remy Martin into it. He raised the glass to Castillo.

  "Since you're on the wagon, Colonel: Mud in your eye."

  "I suspect there will be another time, sir."

  "I hope so."

  Lorimer looked at him intently for a moment, so intently that Castillo asked, "Sir, is there something else?"

  "I always look into a man's eyes when I'm negotiating with him," Lorimer said. "I did so just now. And while I was doing that, I had the odd feeling I'd recently seen eyes very much like yours before."

  "Had you, sir?"

  "Yes. I just remembered where. On that nice boy you brought with you. The general's grandson. He has eyes just like yours."

  I've seen eyes very much like yours, too.

  On Aleksandr Pevsner.

  "I didn't notice," Castillo said.

  The ambassador drained the snifter, then waved Castillo ahead of him out of the library.

  J. Winslow Masterson III and Randolph Richardson IV were kicking a soccer ball on the lawn for Max. The adults and the younger Masterson children were sitting in white wicker rockers on the porch.

  Just as Castillo was about to warn them that Max was likely to take a bite from the ball, Max did. There was a whistling hiss, which caused Max to drop the ball, push it tentatively with his paw, and then take it into his mouth and give it a good bite.

  "Awesome!" Masterson III cried. "Did you see that?"

  "I owe you a soccer ball," Castillo said.

  "Don't be silly, Charley," Betsy Masterson said, then turned to her father. "How'd your little chat go?"

  "Splendidly," the ambassador said. "Colonel Castillo and I are agreed there's absolutely no reason your mother and I can't go to Uruguay."

  "Dad, that's absurd," Betsy Masterson said. "Worse than absurd. Insane."

  "That's not exactly what I said, Mr. Ambassador," Charley protested.

  "Be that as it may," Ambassador Lorimer said, "for the next several months, Betsy, your mother and I will be using Jean-Paul's home in Uruguay in lieu of our own, which is now, as you may have heard, the dikes having been overwhelmed, under twenty feet of water and Mississippi River mud."

  Betsy Masterson looked at him in exasperation, as if gathering her thoughts.

  "I am reliably informed," Lorimer went on reasonably, "that the house is quite comfortable, that there is a staff to take care of your mother and myself more than adequately-if not quite at the level of Winslow and Dianne's hospitality, for which we will be forever grateful-"

  "You know what happened there, Dad!" she interrupted.

  "-and your mother and I both speak, as a result of our service in Madrid, quite passable Spanish."

  Betsy Masterson looked at Castillo. "Charley, you didn't encourage him to go down there, did you?

  "No, ma'am. More the opposite."

  "Can't you stop him?"

  "I don't see how," Castillo said.

  "I'll call the secretary of State myself!"

  "Secretary Cohen has already taken her best shot, sweetheart. She sent Colonel Castillo to dissuade me. He failed."

  "You're in no condition to fly all the way down there, Dad," Betsy argued. "You're in no condition to go through the security hassle at an airport, much less get on an airplane and fly that far."

  "I have survived going through the security hassles at a number of Third World airports," he said. "The one in Addis Ababa comes to mind as the worst."

  Despite herself, she smiled.

  General Wilson stood up.

  "I think I'll take a little walk," he said.

  "Please keep your seat, General," Winslow Masterson said. "This is not a family argument. Philippe doesn't have family arguments. He politely listens to whatever anyone wishes to say, then does what he had planned to do in the first place."

  "My wife does much the same thing," General Wilson said.

  "Thanks for the support, Father Masterson," Betsy said, then turned to her father.

  "I'm not talking about down there, Dad, and you know it. I'm talking about here. New Orleans is closed. You'd have to go to Miami. And how are you going to get to Miami?"

  "We'll manage. May I suggest we change the subject?"

  "Mrs. Masterson…" Castillo began.

  "I've asked you to call me Betsy, Charley," she snapped.

  "Sorry. Betsy, since the ambassador is determined to go down there, what I can do is arrange to fly your parents down there in a Gulfstream. I could arrange to have them picked up in New Orleans, and if customs and immigration's not functioning there, stop at Tampa or Miami on the way down."

  "I don't know whether to say 'that would be fine, thank you very much' or 'for God's sake, don't enable him!'"

  "You could do that, Charley?" Winslow Masterson said.

  Castillo nodded.

  "And I'll arrange to have some friends keep an eye on your parents."

  "The same kind of friends who've been keeping an eye on Betsy and the kids here?" Winslow Masterson asked.

  Castillo nodded.

  "Darling Betsy," Masterson said. "I agree with you. If I had my way, Philippe and your mother would stay here with us until they can have their house repaired-"

  "Winslow, it's under water," Lorimer said. "Everything in it has been destroyed. And you know what they say when someone goes to the hereafter-'I want to remember him as he was, not lying in the coffin.' I want to remember the house as it was. I'm not foolish enough to try to resurrect it."

  "-as I was saying, darling Betsy, until they can have their house repaired and a new one can be built for them. Here or in New Orleans-"

  "That would be the prudent thing to do," Betsy said. "The intelligent thing. The only thing."

  "But he's determined to go to Uruguay, and nothing you or I or anyone else has to sa
y will deter him. Just be grateful that Charley can arrange to carry him there in comfort, and that Charley's friends will be available to provide security."

  "Can I offer you a taste of Winslow's whiskey, General?" the ambassador asked. "I'm not a drinking man, myself, but a little belt in the morning is medically indicated for someone my age. Our age."

  "I've heard that," General Wilson said. He looked at Castillo. "I think one would be in order, Mr. Ambassador, thank you."

  Max trotted up on the porch with the now deflated soccer ball in his mouth and dropped it at Castillo's feet.

  [FIVE]

  Ozark Municipal Airport

  Ozark, Alabama 1710 5 September 2005 When they walked up to General Wilson's Buick, they found an envelope jammed under the windshield wiper.

  General Wilson opened it.

  "From Beth," he said. "'Please call Randy as soon as you land. Charley's friends from Fort Campbell are waiting for him at the Magnolia House.'"

  "That was quick," Castillo said.

  "So, knowing neither Randy's number nor that of the Magnolia House, what I think I'll do is call Beth, ask her to call Randy, and tell her to tell him we're back, and that we're going to be at the Magnolia House just as soon as we can drop off our copilot at their quarters and get there."

  "Thank you," Castillo said.

  Mrs. Randolph Richardson III came out of her kitchen door as the Buick drove up the driveway.

  "How was the flight?" she asked.

  "Colonel Castillo let me fly most of the way over there," Randolph Richardson IV announced, "and just about all the way back. And Max flattened a soccer ball in his mouth."

  "How nice of him," she said with some effort.

  "And Randy did very well," General Wilson said. "I'll be back right after I drop Charley and Jamie off."

  Mrs. Richardson smiled.

  "Take care, Randy," Castillo said, and touched the boy's shoulder. "Maybe we can do it again sometime."

  "Oh, yeah! Thanks very, very much, Colonel."

  The look in her eyes makes it pretty clear she thinks that's about as likely to happen as is our being canonized for a lifetime of sexual fidelity.

  "My pleasure, Randy."

  "I won't go in, Charley," General Wilson said, as they drove up to the Magnolia House. "But let's try to get together again while you're here."

  "I'll try, sir."

  "And thank you for the ride. Randy will never forget it, and neither will I."

  "I'm glad it worked out."

  "Your dad would have been very proud of you, Charley," Wilson said, as he offered his hand.

  "Thank you," Castillo said.

  I never thought of that before.

  What would my father think of me if he were around to have a look?

  There were nine men in flight suits sitting at the dining room table of the Magnolia House with Lieutenant Colonel Randolph Richardson III when Castillo and Neidermeyer walked in.

  "I would have called 'attention,' Colonel," a barrel-chested, nearly bald man greeted him, "but I knew you would really rather have me kiss your Hudson High ring."

  "My God, look what the cat drug in, all the way from Norwich," Castillo said happily.

  He put his briefcase on the table, went to him, and wrapped him in a bear hug.

  "How the hell are you, Dave?"

  Max sat down and looked up at them curiously.

  "Where did you get the dog, Charley?"

  "Long story," Castillo said. "But he won't tear your leg off if you're polite."

  Dave squatted and accepted Max's paw.

  Castillo became aware that except for Richardson the other men at the table had stood up.

  "And I know who these guys are," Castillo said. "The misfits, scalawags, and ne'er-do-wells the colonel decided he could get rid of when they laid the personnel requirement on him."

  "You got it, Charley," a tall, lanky man said, laughing. "Good to see you."

  "Where we going, Charley?" another asked.

  Castillo didn't reply directly.

  Instead, he said, "Has Colonel Richardson gotten you all a place to stay? Chow?"

  "They've all been given transient quarters," Richardson said. "We were discussing somewhere to eat when you came in. And there are two vans for their use while they're here."

  "I can't stay, Charley," the barrel-chested bald man said. He held up a can of 7UP as proof suggesting that he was about to fly and had not been able to help himself to anything alcoholic.

  "The boss," he went on, "is out of town and I'm minding the store. And as the commanding officer, when General McNab said 'ASAP,' I made the command decision that the best way to do that was fire up a Black Hawk and fly these clowns down here. And I knew, of course-being an old buddy who is at least a year senior to you-you would be delighted to tell me what the hell this is all about."

  "Nice try, Dave," Castillo said. "But if you're not staying, I can't tell you."

  "Nothing?"

  "Not one goddamn word, Colonel."

  "He just shifted into his official mode, Jerry," Dave said. "So there'll be no arguing with him. We might as well go home."

  "Yes, sir," one of the pilots said.

  "You understand, Charley, that it's breaking my heart that you don't trust me?"

  "Don't let the doorknob hit you in the ass, Dave."

  Dave put out his hand.

  "Great to see you, Charley," he said, warmly. "You've got four more pilots and two crew chiefs coming. You want them flown down?"

  "The sooner they can be here, the better."

  "My master has spoken," Dave said. "Not you. McNab. They'll be here for lunch tomorrow. How long are you going to need them?"

  "You are tenacious, aren't you?"

  "That's why I got promoted eighteen months before you did."

  Another of the pilots said, "I thought that had something to do with Charley being out of uniform while flying a borrowed Black Hawk."

  The others laughed.

  "Come to think of it…," Dave said, which produced more laughter. And then he went on, "And really coming to think about it, he was really much better-looking wearing a beard and Afghan robes, wasn't he? In these civvies, he looks like a used-car salesman."

  Castillo gave him the finger.

  "Richardson, can we mooch a ride from you out to Cairns?" Dave asked.

  "Of course," Richardson said. "Castillo, will I be needed here any more tonight?"

  Castillo shook his head. "Why don't you meet us at Hanchey at, say, 0730?"

  "I'll be there," Richardson said, then looked at Dave. "Anytime you're ready, Colonel."

  "Charley," Dave said, "you take care of my scalawags and ne'er-do-wells, or I'll have your ass."

  Castillo nodded.

  As Richardson opened the door to leave, Neidermeyer came through it.

  "Hey, Jamie, long time no see!" Dave said, offering his hand.

  "Good to see you, sir. You going to be in on this?"

  "No, goddamn it, I'm not. McNab said, 'Not only no, but hell no!'"

  "Remember to send the colonel a postcard, Neidermeyer," Castillo said.

  "Yes, sir, I'll do that."

  He waited until the door was closed, then went around shaking the hands of the people he knew and was introduced to the others.

  "Presumably you have put the antenna back up on the roof?" Castillo said.

  "Yes, sir. We should be up."

  "Get on it, please, Jamie. Tell Miller and General McNab that we're back and that we have four pilots and two crew chiefs here, and are promised the others by noon tomorrow. And check to see what's going on."

  "Yes, sir."

  Castillo went to the table, took his laptop from his briefcase, and booted it up.

  As the computer hard drive made whirring sounds, he looked up at the others.

  "You know the drill," he said. "This is where I tell you the operation is Top Secret and anyone who lets anything out goes to Leavenworth. The only difference this time is that the se
curity classification is Top Secret Presidential. Anyone with a loose lip gets two years as a Phase I Instructor Pilot and then goes to Leavenworth."

  "A Presidential Finding, Charley?" one of them asked.

  Castillo nodded.

  "Let me give a quick taste, and then we'll go get something to eat."

  From the laptop speakers came the familiar sound of a bugle sounding Charge!-Castillo had replaced the annoying out-of-the-box Microsoft tune-announcing that the computer was booted up and ready.

  Castillo opened the Google World program and shifted the image of the earth so that it showed the lower half of South America.

  "Where in hell are we going?" one of them asked.

  "Patience is a virtue, Mr. Reston," Castillo said.

  Finally, he had what he wanted, and pressed the keys to zoom in on the image.

  "That's an estancia, a ranch, called Shangri-La, 31.723 south latitude, 55.993 west longitude."

  "What's there, Colonel?"

  "A field big enough to take four Hueys at once and refuel them."

  "Flying in from where?"

  "The USS Ronald Reagan, at sea."

  "Jesus Christ!"

  "And where do we go from there, sir?"

  "I'm working on that."

  VIII

  [ONE] 7200 West Boulevard Drive

  Alexandria, Virginia 1115 7 September 2005 Castillo walked into the living room with Max on his heels and, following the dog, an enormous, very black man in a three-button black suit-all buttons buttoned-a crisp white shirt, and a black tie.

  Colonel Jake Torine was sitting with Edgar Delchamps at the battered coffee table. They both had their feet up on it, and Delchamps was reaching into the box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts on the table between them.

  Special Agent David W. Yung of the FBI and Sergeant Major John Davidson were sprawled in the red leather armchairs, with their own Krispy Kreme box between them on a footstool.

  Torine was wearing a blue polo shirt and khaki pants. Yung, Davidson, and Delchamps wore single-breasted nearly black suits. Yung's and Davidson's suits looked as if they were fresh from a Brooks Brothers box. Delchamps's suit looked as if it had been at least six months since it had received any attention from a dry cleaning establishment.

  "Welcome home," Torine said, taking a bite of his doughnut. They all looked curiously at the black man.