Hazardous Duty - PA 8

by W. E. B Griffin

  X

  [ONE]

  Hacienda Santa Maria

  Oaxaca Province, Mexico

  1001 19 June 2007

  “Don Fernando’s House,” as the main residence of Hacienda Santa Maria was known, was a sprawling, red-tile-roofed house with a wide shaded veranda all around it sitting on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

  “I hate to mention this, Gringo,” Don Fernando Lopez, great-grandson of the man for whom the house was named, a heavyset, almost massive olive-skinned man in his late thirties, said from the wicker lounge on which he was sprawled on the veranda, “but the magic moment of ten hundred has come and gone.”

  His cousin, Carlos Guillermo Castillo, gave him the finger.

  “Fernando,” their grandmother, Doña Alicia Castillo, a trim woman who appeared to be in her fifties but was actually the far side of seventy, said, “don’t call Carlos ‘Gringo.’” And then she said, in awe, “Oh, my God!” and pointed out to sea.

  Juan Carlos Pena, who was seated between Castillo and Doña Alicia, said, “I’ll be a sonofabitch!”

  Doña Alicia said, “Watch your mouth, Juan Carlos. I haven’t forgotten how to wash your mouth out!”

  “Sorry, Abuela,” Pena said, genuinely contrite.

  “Great big son of a b— gun, isn’t she?” Castillo inquired admiringly.

  The nuclear attack submarine USS San Juan (SSN-751) had just surfaced a thousand yards offshore. As the national colors were hoisted from her conning tower, hatches on her forward deck opened and lines of men in black rubber suits emerged. A davit then winched up black semi-rigid-hulled inflatable boats, which were quickly put over the side. The men in black rubber suits leapt into the sea and then climbed into the rubber boats. The hatches closed, the national colors were lowered, and the USS San Juan started to sink below the surface as the outboard-engine-powered rubber boats raced for the beach. The whole process had taken no more than four minutes.

  “Fernando,” Castillo said, “I think that cheap watch of yours is running a little fast. Why don’t you get a real watch?”

  Then he turned to Gunnery Sergeant Lester Bradley, USMC, and said, “Bradley, as the senior naval person on my staff—once a Marine, always a Marine—why don’t you go with Comandante Pena’s men to welcome our naval guests ashore?”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  “Carry on, Gunnery Sergeant,” Castillo ordered.

  About five minutes later, a very large man in a rubber suit and carrying a CAR-4 got out of one of the Policía Federal Suburbans and, looking more than a little uncomfortable, walked onto the veranda.

  “Welcome to Hacienda Santa Maria,” Doña Alicia said.

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. I’m looking for Colonel C. G. Castillo.”

  “Congratulations, you have found Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo, Retired. And you are?”

  The man in the black rubber suit came to attention and saluted.

  “Sir, Lieutenant Commander Edwin Bitter, SEAL Team Five, reporting as ordered to the colonel for hazardous duty.”

  “Hello, Eddie,” Major H. Richard Miller, Junior, said. “Long time no see. How are you?”

  “I will be goddamned!” Commander Bitter said.

  “Probably,” Castillo said. “I have heard some really terrible things about you SEALs. But I must warn you, if you keep talking like that, my grandmother will wash your mouth out with soap.”

  “And I know who you are, too!” Commander Bitter said excitedly.

  “Indeed?”

  “When Dick Miller dumped his Black Hawk in Afghanistan, with me and some other SEALs on it, you’re the crazy sonofabitch who stole another Black Hawk and came and got us off that mountain in the middle of a blizzard. The last I heard they were either going to court-martial you or give you the Medal of Honor.”

  “In the end, wiser heads prevailed and they did neither,” Castillo said.

  Sweaty came onto the veranda.

  Commander Bitter’s face showed great surprise.

  “Good morning,” Sweaty said, and offered Bitter her hand.

  He took it and said, “A great honor, Miss Ravisher. I’m one of your biggest fans!”

  Commander Bitter suddenly found himself flying through the air.

  Castillo walked to the edge of the veranda and looked down at Bitter, who was now lying on his back on the hood of one of the Policía Federal Suburbans with his feet on the roof.

  “If you think you can ever get off there, and make it back up here, Commander,” Castillo said, “and apologize nicely, I will ask the Widow Alekseeva to give you back your CAR-4, and then I will attempt to answer any questions you might have.”

  “What he didn’t tell you, Commander,” Juan Carlos Pena said ten minutes later when Castillo had finished explaining the problem and what the role of the SEALs was to be in dealing with it, “is what at least three of the drug cartels want to do with him.”

  “Which is?”

  Pena looked uncomfortably at Doña Alicia.

  “How do I say this delicately?” he asked.

  “What they have announced they are going to do to Carlos, Commander,” Doña Alicia said, “is behead him, and then hang his head from a bridge over the highway in Acapulco.”

  Juan Carlos Pena nodded. “They seem to feel Carlos had something to do with the untimely deaths of about a dozen of the drug cartel people who murdered—”

  “Danny Salazar?” Bitter interrupted, and when Pena nodded again, said, “We heard about that.”

  “He also didn’t tell you we are going to be married in Cozumel,” Sweaty said. “We would be pleased if you and your men were to come.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Bitter said very respectfully, “but neither you nor this lady seem to be very concerned with this threat to Colonel Castillo.”

  “You’ve heard of Pancho Villa, Commander?” Doña Alicia asked. “The famous Mexican bandito?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Villa announced to the world that after he cut the throat of Carlos’s great-grandfather Marcos Castillo—who was, of course, also Fernando’s great-grand-uncle Marcos—he intended to drag his corpse through the streets of Tampico behind his horse until there was nothing left but the rope.”

  “Why did he want to do that, ma’am?” Bitter asked.

  “In those days, this was a cattle ranch. Now we grow grapefruit, but in those days we raised cattle. Well, Señor Villa decided he needed some of our cattle, and helped himself. Great-grandfather Marcos did the only thing he could—he applied Texas law.”

  “Which was?”

  “He hung twenty-seven of Señor Villa’s banditos,” she said. “So, Señor Villa—he was something of a blowhard, truth to tell—announced he was going to drag Great-grandfather Marcos behind his horse. That didn’t happen. But it was necessary for Great-grandfather Marcos to hang another thirty-four banditos before Señor Villa understood that those sorts of threats were unacceptable.

  “And when, in 1923, Señor Villa met his untimely death, in a manner similar to the deaths of those drug people near here—that is to say, he was shot multiple times while riding in his automobile—the same sort of scurrilous allegations were made that Great-grandfather Marcos was responsible. Until his death, at ninety-two, he refused to comment publicly on them.”

  “My Carlito’s beloved ancestor, Commander,” Sweaty said, “was—as my Carlito is—what they call a Texican. That means an American of Mexican blood. There’s a phrase, ‘Don’t mess with a Texican.’ You might want to write that down.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Commander Bitter said. “And may I take the liberty of saying, ma’am, that I think I understand why you and Colonel Castillo were attracted to one another?”

  “Yes, you may,” Sweaty said. “Actually, it was love at
first sight.”

  “Oh, really? Where did you meet?”

  “In the charming ancient university town of Marburg an der Lahn in Germany. Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin had sent my brother and me there—we were at the time SVR officers—to whack him. Circumstances didn’t permit that to happen. And the next day, we met for the first time. One glance and—well, here we are.”

  [TWO]

  The Dignitary’s Exhibition Area

  The Pots of Gold Grand Theater and Slots Arena

  The Streets of San Francisco Hotel, Resort and Casino

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  2159:55 19 June 2007

  The producer held up his hand with four fingers extended and began to count downward, “Five, four, three…”

  Where he would have said “two” he balled his fist, extended his index finger upward, and, where he would have said “one,” pointed it toward Pastor Jones, who was wearing a wing-collared boiled shirt and a tuxedo.

  “Good evening, it’s twelve o’clock in Montpelier and nine o’clock here in Sin City, and this is Pastor Jones.”

  He stopped suddenly and put his finger on what looked like a hearing aid. His face showed either chagrin or annoyance and then he went on. “Excuse me, I’ve just been informed it’s ten o’clock here in Sin City, where we have Wolf News World Wide cameras set up at the fabled Streets of San Francisco Hotel, Resort and Casino, where Miss Red Ravisher just moments ago won the distinguished actress award in the fifteenth annual Climax Awards of the Adult Motion Picture Industry Association.

  “And that means, Mommies and Daddies across the world, that it’s time to send the wee ones off to bed, as we expect Miss Ravisher to be with us momentarily, and if we’re lucky, we hope to have a clip from her epic film Catherine and the Household Cavalry.

  “And here she is,” Pastor Jones said, as Red Ravisher walked up to him. She was wearing a gold lamé frock that clung closely to her body and carrying against her bosom the gold—probably gold-plated—sculpture the AMPIA had just awarded her.

  “Thank you for finding time for us,” Pastor Jones said.

  “My pleasure, Reverend.”

  “I’m not a reverend. Pastor is my first name.”

  “How odd!”

  “Red isn’t exactly an ordinary name, if I may say so.”

  “Red Ravisher is my professional name,” she said. “My birth certificate says ‘Agrafina Bogdanovich.’ Agrafina means ‘born feet first.’ What’s your real name?”

  “Pastor Jones is my real name.”

  “How odd! Have you ever thought of taking a professional name? If you did, you wouldn’t be mistaken for a man of the cloth.”

  “Your name sounds Russian,” Pastor said.

  “I am of Russian heritage.”

  “Well, let me congratulate you on your award. There aren’t very many women who have earned so many Hard-Ons as you have. How many is it that you have?”

  “I have six Best Actress Hard-Ons, plus this one, which is for best film of the year. I wrote, produced, and directed Catherine and the Household Cavalry. That’s seven, altogether.”

  “So tell me, who is Catherine?”

  “You’re kidding, right? You don’t know who Catherine was?”

  “You tell me.”

  “She was Empress of Russia.”

  “And she liked the cavalry, I take it.”

  “She liked cavalrymen. I make adult films, not documentaries.”

  “And you played Catherine?”

  “No. I played one of the horses. Are you for real?”

  “So tell me, Miss Bog— Bogdo—”

  “Bogdanovich. Agrafina Bogdanovich.”

  “Now that you’ve walked off the stage with a Hard-On—”

  “Two Hard-Ons. For a total of seven. I just told you that.”

  “What are your plans?”

  “A little vacation. In Mexico. To get away from my fans, to tell you the truth.”

  “Where in Mexico?”

  “If I told you where in Mexico, then my fans would know where to find me, wouldn’t they?”

  “Well, can you tell me why you’re going to this place you won’t tell me where it is?”

  Red Ravisher shook her head, but answered the question.

  “Two reasons. They make great borscht.”

  “That’s unusual for Mexico, isn’t it?”

  “Well, the resort makes it for the security staff, all of whom are Russian émigrés. They’re all ex-Spetsnaz, which is like our Special Forces, but Russian. There’s nobody better at security, except maybe our Special Forces or SEALs, than ex-Spetsnaz.”

  “So you’re going to this place so these Russian ex-Spetsnaz émigrés can protect you from the attention of your millions of fans?”

  “Not exactly. The last time I was there, they said if I ever came back, they would show me how to slowly and painfully kill people by breaking their bones one at a time.”

  “You want to break the bones of your fans?”

  “Not of my fans, stupid. I want to break Matthew Christian’s bones. If I ever run into that miserable twerp, I intend to be ready for him.”

  [THREE]

  The Lady Bird Johnson VIP Guest Room

  The White House

  1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.

  Washington, D.C.

  2205 19 June 2007

  The President of the United States knocked softly on the door and politely inquired, “May I—or more specifically, may I and Robin Hoboken—intrude?”

  When there was no reply, President Clendennen slowly and carefully opened the door.

  The First Lady and the First Mother-in-Law were seated on identical red-leather-upholstered reclining armchairs, which were in the reclined position, watching a wall-mounted flat-screen television.

  “Mommy, dearest,” the First Lady inquired, “what do they call that gold-plated thing Miss Ravisher is cradling so lovingly in her arms?”

  “I don’t know what they call it, Belinda-Sue,” the First Mother-in-Law replied, her voice coarsened by cigarettes from what once had been a three-pack-a-day habit, “and as a Southern lady, I’m certainly not going to say what it looks like.”

  “Getting settled in comfortably, are you, Mother Krauthammer?” President Clendennen inquired politely.

  “Shut up, Joshua,” the First Mother-in-Law snapped. “Can’t you see that Belinda-Sue and I are watching Pastor Jones interview Red Ravisher live from the Climax Awards at the Streets of San Francisco in Las Vegas?”

  “Mommy, dearest,” the First Lady inquired, “what’s ‘borscht’?”

  “I think that’s what the Russians call grits, darling.”

  “Actually, Madam First Mother-in-Law,” Robin Hoboken offered, “borscht is a soup made with fresh red beets, beef shank, onions, carrots, potatoes, cabbage, dill, and sour cream.”

  “Belinda-Sue, darling,” Mother Krauthammer said, “guess who Whatsisname has with him? The talking encyclopedia.”

  “Is there any chance, girls,” the President asked, “that you’d be willing to turn Wolf News off for a minute or two—”

  “Not a chance in hell until Pastor Jones is finished interviewing Red Ravisher,” Mother Krauthammer said.

  “I gather you’re a fan of Miss Ravisher, Madam First Mother-in-Law?” Robin Hoboken asked.

  “Yes, I am. On several levels. I was deeply touched by her portrayal of Catherine the Great. It brought on a flood of memories of my time as the Magnolia Queen of the University of Mississippi. The Ole Miss Rebels weren’t cavalry, of course, they were football players, but they sure knew how to ride, so to speak.

  “And then I certainly admire her for throwing that French pervert at the other one. I refer, of course, Joshua, to your dear
friend Roscoe J. Danton.”

  “Actually, Madam First Mother-in-Law,” Robin Hoboken said, “that might be a slight mischaracterization vis-à-vis Mr. Danton’s relationship with the nation’s Commander in Chief and that incident in general as reported by Mr. Matthew Christian.”

  “Joshua, do you have any idea what the hell he’s talking about?” Mother Krauthammer asked.

  “Miss Ravisher,” the First Lady said, “just said she wants to break Mr. Christian’s bones.”

  “I’d like to break his bones,” the President said. “Roscoe J. Danton’s bones, I mean. He’s supposed to be in Europe trying to get into Somalia, not in Las Vegas having French perverts thrown at him by the Ethel Barrymore of the dirty movie business.”

  “People who keep a box full of adult films in the James Earl Carter historical presidential desk in the Oval Office are in no position—”

  “What Robin and I were hoping to talk to you and Belinda-Sue about, Mother Krauthammer,” the President said, “is my library… actually Belinda-Sue’s and my library and last resting place.”

  “And the necessity for you, Madam First Mother-in-Law,” Robin Hoboken amplified, “to make a real effort, as we start to raise money for the foregoing, to avoid as much as possible doing anything, such as your recent difficulties with the Public Drunkenness Squad of the Pascagoula Police Department, that might be in the newspapers or, God forbid, on Wolf News, as that might impede our fund-raising efforts.”

  “This I have to hear,” Mother Krauthammer said. “But make it quick. Belinda-Sue and I want to watch the rerun of the Pastor Jones show.”

  [FOUR]

  The Ivan the Terrible Penthouse Suite

  The Grand Cozumel Beach & Golf Resort

  Cozumel, Mexico

  0915 20 June 2007

  “Good morning, Alek,” Charley Castillo called cheerfully as he got off the elevator. “Tom and I understand you need a little cheering up.”

  He pointed to Tom Barlow, formerly Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky of the SVR, who had followed him off the elevator. Both Dmitri and Charley, who looked so much alike they could have been mistaken for brothers, were wearing polo shirts and tennis shorts and carrying rackets and cans of balls.