“What happened?”
“She called my grandfather in New York, told him, and his reaction to the news was that she was to do nothing until he could get back to Texas. He didn’t want to be cruel, but, on the other hand, he didn’t want to open the family safe to some German woman just because she claimed her bastard was his son’s.”
“Oh, Charley!”
“You keep saying that,” Castillo said. He took another swig and went on: “Couldn’t blame him. I’d have done the same thing. Asked for proof.”
“So how long did that take? Proving who you were?”
“Not long. Thirty minutes after she hung up on Grandpa, the Lear went wheels-up out of San Antonio with Abuela and Naylor on it. They caught the five-fifteen Pan American flight out of New York to Frankfurt that afternoon. Abuela was at the Haus im Wald at eleven o’clock the next morning.”
“Haus in Wald? What’s that?”
“Means house in the woods. It’s not really a castle. Really ugly building.”
“Oh. And she went there?”
“And I didn’t want to let her in,” Castillo said, now speaking very carefully. “My mother was pretty heavily into the sauce. What she had was very painful. I was twelve, had never seen this woman before, and I was Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger. I was not about to display my drunken mother to some Mexican from America.
“So Abuela grabbed my arm and marched me into the house, and into mother’s bedroom, and my mother, somewhat belligerently, said, ‘Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my bedroom?’ Abuela said she didn’t speak German, so my mother switched to English and asked exactly the same question. And Abuela said”—Castillo’s voice broke, and he started to sob—“and Abuela said, ‘I’m Jorge’s mother, my dear, and I’m here to take care of you and the boy.’”
He turned his back to Beth and she saw him shaking with sobs.
And she saw him raise the bottle of Schlitz.
And she ran to him to take it away from him.
And he didn’t want to give it up.
They wrestled for it, then he fell backward onto the floor, pulling the bottle and Beth on top of him as he went down.
Neither remembered much of what happened after that, or the exact sequence in which it happened.
Just that it had.
The next thing they both knew was Beth asking, “Charley, are you awake?”
“I’m afraid so. I was hoping it was a dream.”
“It’s half past ten,” she said.
“Time marches on.”
“My God!” she said. “What happened?”
“You don’t remember?”
“You sonofabitch!” she said, and swung at him.
He caught her wrist, and she fell on him.
“I told you not to call me that,” he said.
And then it happened again.
[-VIII-]
The Daleville Inn
Daleville, Alabama
2005 9 February 1992
The rain was coming down in buckets, and First Lieutenant C. G. Castillo, who had gotten drenched going from the Apache to Base Ops and then drenched again going from Base Ops to his car, got drenched a third time going from where he had parked his car to the motel building.
The Daleville Inn was full of parents and wives who had come to see their offspring and mates get their wings pinned on them, and one of these had inconsiderately parked in the slot reserved for Room 202.
As he walked past the car and started up the stairs to the second floor, the car in his slot flashed its lights at him and then blew its horn.
He was tempted to go to the car and deliver a lecture on motel parking lot courtesy, but decided that was likely to get out of hand and satisfied himself with giving the driver the finger as he continued up the stairs.
He was standing at his door, patting the many pockets of his soaking-wet flight suit in search of his key, when he heard someone bonging their way up the steel stairs. Then he sensed someone standing behind him.
“I was just about to give up,” Beth Wilson said. “I’ve been sitting out there since six.”
“I was afraid of this,” he said.
“Afraid that I’d be here?”
“Or that you wouldn’t,” he said.
“We have to talk, Charley.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Just talk. Nothing else.”
“Would you believe I expected you to say something like that?”
He found the key. He opened the door, waved her through it, followed her in, closed the door, and only then turned the lights on.
“You could have turned them on before you pushed me in here,” Beth said. “I almost fell over your wastebasket.”
“But no one saw the general’s daughter and the affianced of Righteous Randolph in Castillo’s room, did they? As they would have had I turned the lights on first.”
“You’re soaking wet,” Beth said. “Where have you been?”
“Where would you guess I’ve been, dressed as I am in my GI rompers?”
“You haven’t been flying?”
“Oh, yes, I have.”
“Randy called and said they were weathered in. That there was weather all over this area and nobody could fly.”
“Except courageous seagulls and Pete Kowalski. He holds that coveted green special instrument card which permits him to decide for himself whether it’s safe to take off. He told me that it would be educational, and it was.”
“Where were you?”
“The last leg was Fulton County to here. Can you amuse yourself while I take a shower? We’re going flying again in the morning, and I’d rather not have pneumonia when I do that.”
“Go ahead,” she said.
Beth was sitting on the couch with her legs curled up under her skirt when he came into the living room, She was wearing another transparent blouse through which he could see her brassiere.
I know she didn’t do that on purpose.
“I am now going to have a drink,” Castillo announced. “Not, I hasten to add, a martini. We have learned our lesson about martinis, haven’t we?”
“I really wish you wouldn’t.”
“I’ve told you about Ed McMahon. And, oh boy, did I earn it today.”
“Do whatever you want.”
“I don’t think you really mean that,” he said.
“I meant about taking a drink.”
“Oh.”
“And you knew it,” she said. “Goddamn you, Charley. You never quit.”
He made himself a stiff scotch on the rocks and carried it to the couch.
“You will notice I didn’t offer you one,” he said, raising the glass.
“I noticed. Thank you.”
“So what have you decided to do about Righteous?”
“I wish you wouldn’t call him that.”
“So what have you decided to do about He Who Is Nameless?”
“What do you mean, what am I going to do about him?”
“If I may dare to offer some advice, when you tell him you’ve thought things over and the wedding is off, don’t mention what caused you to do some serious reconsidering.”
“The wedding’s not off,” she said, surprised.
“You’re still going to marry him?”
“Of course. What did you think I was going to do, elope with you to Panama City or someplace?”
“Aware of the risk of having you throw something at me, I have to tell you that is not one of your options.”
“I never thought it was.”
“I’m glad we can agree on at least that,” Castillo said. “So you’re going ahead with the wedding?”
“Why is that so hard for you to understand?”
“Think about it, Beth.”
“What happened last night was a mistake.”
“Yes, it was. It made me reconsider the merits of the Roman Catholic Church.”
“Now, what is that supposed to mean?”
“If you’re a Cat
holic—and all the Castillos but this one are devout Roman Catholics—when you have sinned, all you have to do is go to confession. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Convince the priest that you’re sorry, and he grants you absolution, and all is forgiven. Clean slate. Forget it.”
“Well, at least you’re sorry about yesterday.”
“On a strictly philosophical, moral level, yeah. But Satan has his claws in me, and on another level, I’m not sorry, and I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”
“Does that mean you’re sorry or not?”
“I don’t like the prospect of having always to remember that I plied my father’s buddy’s about-to-be-married daughter with martinis and had my wicked way with her.”
“My God!”
“Not that I seem to recall there was much resistance involved.”
“You bastard!”
“You’re learning,” Castillo said, and sipped his scotch.
“It happened. What we have to do is decide what we’re going to do about it.”
“Is one of my options doing it again? The cow, so to speak, being already out of the barn.”
“I won’t even respond to that. What I came to ask you is what I came to ask you last night. Will you take a part in the wedding?”
“Jesus Christ! I’m a bastard, not a hypocrite!”
“My mother, this morning, said she was going to ask you. My father said it probably wasn’t that good an idea. She told him to ask you. At supper he said he couldn’t, because you were stuck someplace because of the weather. But he’ll ask you tomorrow.”
“He won’t find me tomorrow, trust me.”
She didn’t reply.
He said, “I just can’t believe you’re going to marry Righteous. Just can’t understand it.”
“I love him. Can you understand that?”
“No.”
“It’s as simple as that, Charley. We have a lot in common. I understand him. He understands me.”
“I don’t think he would understand what happened last night.”
“He’s never going to know what happened last night…is he?”
“As tempting as it is for me to consider having it whispered down the Long Gray Line that Castillo nailed Righteous Randolph’s fiancée five days before they got hitched, I couldn’t do that to you or your parents. Our sordid little secret will remain our sordid little secret.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Beth got off the couch and said, “I’ll say good night.”
“Good night.”
She walked to the door. He went with her.
She looked up at him.
“Thank you again,” she said. “Good luck.”
“You’re welcome again,” he said.
She took the lock off the door.
“Beth,” he said, very seriously. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t get your hopes up too high about the wedding night, the honeymoon.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve seen Righteous in the shower. I’ve seen bigger you-know-whats on a Pekingese.”
He held up his right hand with the thumb and index finger barely apart to give her some idea of scale.
She swung her purse at him.
He caught her wrist.
She spit in his face…then fell into his arms.
She didn’t go home until it was almost midnight.
By then it had stopped raining.
THIRTEEN YEARS LATER
[TWO]
Cairns Army Airfield
Fort Rucker, Alabama
1820 1 September 2005
The glistening white Gulfstream III taxied up to the visitors’ tarmac in front of the Base Operations building. Waving wands, ground handlers directed it into a parking space between two Army King Air turboprops.
Colonel Jake Torine looked out the cockpit window.
“Our reception committee apparently includes a buck general, Charley,” he said. “You want me to do the talking?”
The reception committee walking toward them included four military policemen and half a dozen other men in uniform. Three of them were armed and wearing brassards on their sleeves, making Castillo think they were probably the AOD, the FOD, and the OD, which translated to mean the Air Officer of the Day, the Field Grade Officer of the Day, and the Officer of the Day.
One of the others was a general officer, and another man was more than likely his aide. Castillo hoped that a public information officer was not among them, but that was a very real possibility.
Cairns had not wanted them to land, and they had had to declare an emergency.
“Please, Jake,” Castillo said. “And take Doherty with you. Maybe they’ll be impressed with the FBI.”
He followed Torine into the passenger compartment.
“Jack,” he said to Inspector Doherty, “would you come flash your badge at these people? They didn’t want us to land.”
Doherty nodded and stood up.
Castillo opened the stair door. Max came charging up the aisle, headed for the door with Mädchen behind him. They pushed Torine out of the way and jumped to the ground. Max ran to one of the King Airs and raised his leg at the nose gear. Mädchen met the call of nature under the wing.
Torine went down the stairs and saluted the general.
“Torine, sir,” he said. “Colonel, USAF, attached to the Department of Homeland Security. This is Inspector Doherty of the FBI. Would you like to see our identification?”
“I think that would be a good idea, Colonel,” the general said.
Torine handed his identity card to the general. Doherty took out his credentials and held them open.
The general examined both carefully.
“Welcome to Fort Rucker,” he said. “I’m Brigadier General Crenshaw, the deputy post commander.”
“I’m sorry about causing the fuss, sir,” Torine said. “But we had planned to land at Hurlburt—”
“They took a pretty bad hit from Katrina,” General Crenshaw said.
“—and we were getting pretty low on fuel.”
“Where’d you come from?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but that’s classified,” Torine said.
“The reason I asked had to do with customs and immigration, Colonel.”
“We’ll do that when we get to Washington, sir. Presuming we can get fuel from you.”
“That’s a civilian airplane,” General Crenshaw said.
“Sir, if you will contact General McNab at Special Operations Command, I’m sure he’ll authorize you to fuel us.”
“You work for Scotty McNab, do you?”
“With him, sir.”
“Okay, Colonel. You have an honest face, and the FBI seems to be vouching for you. We’ll fuel you. Anything else we can do for you?”
“Two things, sir. Forget we were ever here, and…uh…the dogs aren’t the only ones who need a pit stop.”
“They did have the urge, didn’t they?” General Crenshaw said. “Not a problem. We can even feed you.”
“Very kind of you, sir. We’ll pass on the food, but some coffee would be really appreciated.”
“Is there a problem with me having a look at your airplane?”
“None at all, sir,” Torine said, and waved the general toward the door stairs.
Castillo stepped away from the door as Crenshaw mounted the steps.
“Hello,” Crenshaw said to him as he stepped inside. “Who are you?”
“I’m the copilot, sir.”
“Air Force?”
“Secret Service.”
Crenshaw studied him a moment, then nodded. Then he raised his voice to those in the cabin:
“Although I understand you’re not here, gentlemen, welcome to Cairns Army Airfield and the Army Aviation Center. If you’d care to use our facilities while you’re here, we’ll throw in coffee and doughnuts.”
Then he turned to Castill
o again.
“Where’d you learn how to fly? If you don’t mind my asking?”
“In Texas, sir.”
Crenshaw looked at him again, then nodded, and went down the stairs.
Did he remember my face from somewhere?
He didn’t ask my name.
My replies to his questions weren’t the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but I really did learn to fly in Texas, rather than here, which is what I think he was asking. And I have bona fide credentials of a Secret Service supervisory agent in my pocket.
So why am I uncomfortable?
Because while I’m wildly out of step with others in the Long Gray Line, I’m still in it. And a cadet does not lie, or cheat, or tolerate those who do.
How the hell did a nice young West Pointer like me wind up doing what I’m doing?
Thirty-five minutes later, Cairns departure control cleared Gulfstream Three Seven Nine for immediate takeoff.
III
[ONE]
Signature Flight Support, Inc.
Baltimore–Washington International Airport
Baltimore, Maryland
2205 1 September 2005
A black Chevrolet sedan with a United States Customs and Border Protection Service decal on the door and four identical dark blue GMC Yukon XL Denalis were waiting for the Gulfstream III when it taxied up to the Signature tarmac.
Two uniformed customs officers got out of the Chevrolet sedan and walked across the tarmac toward the aircraft. Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., in civilian clothing, slid gingerly out of the front seat of the first Yukon in the line, turned and retrieved a crutch, stuck it under his arm, and moved with surprising agility after them.
As soon as the stair door opened into place, one of the customs officers, a gray-haired man in his fifties, bounded quickly up it, then stopped, exclaimed, “Jesus Christ!” and then backed up so quickly that he knocked the second customs officer, by then right behind him, off the stairs and then fell backward onto him.
Max appeared in the door, growling deeply and showing an impressive array of teeth. Mädchen moved beside him and added her voice and teeth to the display.
Castillo appeared in the door.
“Gentlemen,” he said, solemnly, “you have just personally witnessed the Office of Organizational Analysis Aircraft Anti-Intrusion Team in action.”
The Shooters Page 12
