The Shooters

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Okay.”

  “You bring a three-hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar ship into port, everybody’s going to say he must be an ‘any tonnage, any ocean’ master mariner, right? And proved this to the owners—otherwise, they would not have given him their ship, right?”

  Castillo nodded once again.

  “We have proof that the master of the Holiday Spirit and four of his officers gained their nautical experience in the submarine service of the Navy of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and are not Latvians, Estonians, or Poles, or using the names they were born with.

  “Now, all we have to do is prove that the owners knew this, and that said officers were actively involved in the smuggling of controlled substances into the United States….”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “By having people on the Holiday Spirit. Filipino seamen come cheap. Getting them onto the Holiday Spirit took some doing, but they’re in place. And they have been compiling intel—including pictures of the ship’s officers checking the incoming drugs, and putting them over the side—for some time. When we’re absolutely sure we have enough to go to the Maritime Court in The Hague, we’re going to blow the whistle.

  “Unless, of course, you go down there and start making waves causing the system to go on hold. Which would mean we would have to start all over again from scratch.”

  “And you don’t want me to make waves, is that it?”

  “It’s a question of priority.”

  “The President wants Timmons freed.”

  “So I understand.”

  “The only person who can call off my operation is the President,” Castillo said simply. “And I don’t think he will. And talking about waves, if I go to him with this, and he hears the company is withholding intel like this from Montvale, you’ll have a tsunami.”

  “You were listening, I trust, when I told you we never had this conversation?”

  Castillo nodded.

  Weiss went on: “Montvale will be pissed on two accounts—first, that he’s been kept in the dark, and second, that you let the President know he didn’t know what was going on under his nose. When the company denies any knowledge of this, where does that leave you with Montvale? Or the President?”

  “You’re suggesting I go down there and go through the motions, but don’t really try to get Timmons back?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Colonel,” Weiss said. “But it’s pretty clear to me that if you go down there and pull a professional operation to get this DEA guy back, it’s going to tell these people that they have attracted attention they don’t want. They’ll go in a caution mode, and we don’t want that.”

  He stood up and looked at Castillo.

  “See you at the briefing tomorrow,” he said. “I’ve been selected to brief you.”

  “What you’re suggesting, Weiss, is that I just leave Timmons swinging in the breeze.”

  “People get left swinging in the breeze all the time,” Weiss said. “You know that as well as I do. I told you before, this is your call. One guy sometimes gets fucked for the common good.”

  Weiss looked at Delchamps.

  “Always good to see you, Ed. We’ll have to do lunch or something real soon.”

  And then he walked out of the room.

  Castillo looked at Delchamps.

  “Thanks a lot, Ed.”

  “If you want me to, Ace, I’ll go with you to Montvale. Or the President. Or both.”

  Castillo looked at him with a raised eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

  “I said I went back a long way with Weiss. That’s not the same thing as saying I liked him then, or like him now. And I don’t like the smell of his operation.”

  He paused to let that sink in.

  “That being said, I don’t think that Montvale will believe you, or me, and his first reaction will be to cover his ass.”

  “What if there were three witnesses to that fascinating conversation?” Dick Miller asked, coming into the living room from the den. “I’m a wounded hero. Would that give me credence?”

  “How long have you been in there?” Castillo asked.

  “I got back here just as the Secret Service guy got booted out,” Miller said. “And curiosity overwhelmed me.”

  “I still don’t think that Montvale would believe you, me, or the wounded hero,” Delchamps said, “and that his first reaction would be to cover his ass.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “You’re asking for my advice, Ace?”

  “Humbly seeking same.”

  Delchamps nodded and said, “Aside from calling off Jake Torine and Munz, nothing. Give yourself some time to think it over. Hear what Weiss says at the briefing tomorrow.”

  “You better call off Munz and Torine,” Miller agreed. “I don’t think Darby and Solez are a problem. They don’t know you’ve been ordered to get Timmons back. They went to Asunción to shut mouths; that’s to be expected.”

  “Let’s hope Aloysius’s radio works,” Castillo said. “I told Torine to go right to Asunción. They’re probably already over the Caribbean.”

  He pushed himself out of his chair, picked up his mostly untouched drink, and walked to the den.

  Max followed him.

  VI

  [ONE]

  7200 West Boulevard Drive

  Alexandria, Virginia

  0630 4 September 2005

  Castillo’s cell phone buzzed, and on the second buzz, he rolled over in bed, grabbed it, rolled back onto his back, put the phone to his ear, and said, “You sonofabitch!”

  “Good morning, Colonel.”

  Castillo recognized the voice as that of his Secret Service driver.

  “It may be for you,” Castillo said, “but I have just been licked—on the mouth—by a half-ton dog.”

  “I tried to put my head in your door to wake you, but Max made it pretty clear he didn’t think that was a good idea.”

  “I’ll be right down,” Castillo said, and sat up.

  Max was sitting on the floor beside the double bed.

  Castillo put his hand on the bed to push himself out of the bed. The blanket was warm. He looked, and saw that the pillow on the other side was depressed.

  “Goddamn it, Max, you’re a nice doggie, but you don’t get to sleep with me.”

  Max said, “Arf.”

  Castillo pulled open the door to the front passenger seat of the Denali. Max brushed him aside and leapt effortlessly onto the seat.

  “Tell him to get in the back, Dick,” Castillo said.

  Major Dick Miller gave Lieutenant Colonel Castillo the finger and bowed Castillo into the second seat.

  There was a muted buzz and the red LED on the telephone base mounted on the back of the driver’s seat began to flash.

  Castillo looked at it. The legend DNI MONTVALE moved across the screen.

  Castillo picked up the handset.

  “Good morning, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “Where are you, Charley?”

  “We just pulled into a Waffle House for our breakfast.”

  “Are you open to a suggestion?”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  “Vis-à-vis the briefing this morning: If I sent Truman Ellsworth, representing me, and he announced that you were representing Secretary Hall, I think fewer questions would be raised.”

  Truman C. Ellsworth was executive assistant to Montvale. He had worked for Montvale in a dozen different positions in government over the years. Montvale had tried to send him to work as liaison officer between the office of the director of National Intelligence and the Office of Organizational Analysis.

  Recognizing this as an attempt to plant a spy in his operation, Castillo had declined the offer, and had to threaten that he would appeal it to the President to keep Ellsworth out of OOA. For this and other reasons—as Ellsworth seemed to be personally offended that the OOA did not come under Montvale’s authority—Castillo knew he was not one of Ellsworth’s favorite people.


  His first reaction was suspicion—What’s the bastard up to here?—but what Montvale was suggesting made sense. The less conspicuous he was, the better.

  “That makes sense, Mr. Ambassador,” Castillo said.

  “I think so,” Montvale said, and the connection was broken.

  They all ordered country ham and eggs for breakfast. When Castillo was finished with his, he collected the ham scraps and silver-dollar-sized bone and put them onto a napkin.

  “For the beast?” the Secret Service driver asked, and when Castillo nodded, added his to the napkin. And then Miller added his. The napkin now was full to the point of falling apart.

  In the Denali, Max sniffed the offering. He then delicately picked up one of the pieces of bone. There was a brief crunching sound, and then he picked up another, crunched that, and then picked up the third.

  “I wonder,” the Secret Service man asked softly, “how many pounds of pressure per square inch that took?”

  “Try not to think what he would have done to your arm had you tried to disturb my sleep,” Castillo said.

  [TWO]

  Office of the Chief

  Office of Organizational Analysis

  Department of Homeland Security

  The Nebraska Avenue Complex

  Washington, D.C.

  0745 4 September 2005

  “Good morning, Chief,” OOA Deputy Chief of Administration Agnes Forbison greeted Castillo. “And hello again, Max. Where’s your sweetheart?”

  “That’s right,” Castillo said. “You’ve met Max. Mädchen is in the family way, and resting at the Motel Monica Lewinsky. It’s a long story…”

  “What are you going to do with him?”

  “I don’t really know,” Castillo admitted. He switched to Hungarian. “Say hello to the nice lady, Max.”

  Max looked at him, then walked to Agnes, sat down, and looked up at her.

  Agnes scratched his ears.

  “What did you say to him?” she asked.

  “I told him you had a pound of raw hamburger in your purse.”

  “I don’t, Max,” Agnes said to him. “But if you’re going to be here for long, I’ll pick some up at lunch.” She looked at Castillo. “Is he? Going to be here for long?”

  Castillo told her how he had come into temporary possession of Max. Agnes smiled and shook her head.

  “Well, maybe he’s just what you need, Chief. Every boy should have a dog. And it looks to me that he’s not all that upset about getting the boot from his happy home.”

  Max had returned to Castillo and was now sitting beside him, pressing his head against Castillo’s leg.

  “He’s an excellent judge of character,” Castillo said.

  “The intelligence community is gathering in the conference room,” Agnes said. “Is there anything you need besides a cup of coffee before you go in there?”

  She put action to her words by going to a coffee service on a credenza behind her desk and getting him a cup of coffee.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Castillo said, and then asked, “What do we hear from Jake Torine?”

  “He called five minutes ago. Over one of those new radios you got in Vegas.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  “They just took off from Buenos Aires. That translates to mean that he’ll be in Baltimore in about ten hours.”

  “I can’t wait that long,” Castillo said, thoughtfully. “And Jake’ll be beat when he gets here.”

  “Wait that long for what?”

  “I have to go to Fort Rucker.”

  “You want to go commercial—which may be difficult because of the hurricane—or are you in your usual rush?”

  “What’s the other option?” he asked as Dick Miller walked in.

  “OOA now has a contract with ExecuJet,” she said, “who promise to provide service at the airport of your choice within an hour, then transport you to any airport of your choice within the United States in unparalleled luxury and comfort.”

  “Two questions. Isn’t that ‘unparalleled luxury and comfort’ going to be painfully expensive? And how do you think—what did you say, ExecuJet?—feels about dogs?”

  “Expensive, yes. But painfully, no. You did hear that there has been a substantial deposit to our account in the Caymans…right at forty-six million?”

  Castillo nodded. “Ill-gotten gains about to be spent on noble purposes,” he said, mockingly solemn.

  “You’re taking Max with you?”

  “Until I figure out what to do with him. Maybe my grandmother’d take care of him for me.”

  “I don’t think that’s a viable option, Chief,” she said drily.

  “And I’ll have to take one of the new radios and our Sergeant Neidermeyer with me. Dick can work the radio here until we can get some more communicators up here from Bragg.”

  “Once more, Colonel, sir,” Dick Miller said. “Your faithful chief of staff is way ahead of you. We now have four communicators, five counting Sergeant Neidermeyer. General McNab said to be sure to tell you how much he now deeply regrets ever having made your acquaintance.”

  “I’ll give ExecuJet a heads-up,” Agnes said. “Max won’t be a problem. When do you want to leave?”

  “As soon as whatever happens in there is over,” he said, nodding at the door to the conference room. “First, I want to hit the commo room.”

  There were five young men in the small room off Castillo’s office, which had been taken over as the commo room. There was something about them that suggested the military despite their civilian clothing—sports jackets and slacks—and their “civilian haircuts.”

  No one called attention, but the moment Castillo pushed open the door all of them were on their feet and standing tall.

  “Good morning, Jamie,” Castillo said to the young man closest to him, gesturing for the men to relax.

  “Welcome home, Colonel,” Sergeant James “Jamie” Neidermeyer said.

  Neidermeyer, just imported from the Stockade at Bragg to run the OOA commo room, was a little shorter than Castillo, with wide shoulders, a strong youthful face, and thoughtful eyes.

  “Thank you, Jamie. Unfortunately, I won’t be staying. Got your bag packed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You don’t have to leave our nation’s capital, of course, Jamie. You could send one of these guys.”

  Castillo put out his hand to the next closest of the young men.

  “My name is Castillo.”

  “Yes, sir. Sergeant First Class Pollman, Colonel.”

  As he repeated the process with the others, Max went to the near corner of the room and lay down, his eyes on Castillo and the room.

  “What do you guys think of our new radios?” Castillo asked.

  There was a chorus of “Outstanding, sir!” and “First class, sir!”

  “We just talked to Colonel Torine, sir,” Neidermeyer said. “He was five minutes out of Buenos Aires.”

  “Mrs. Forbison told me,” Castillo said. “I guess Jamie has brought you up to speed on the new radios? And what we’re doing here?”

  Another chorus of “Yes, sir.”

  “Anyone got any family problems—girlfriend problems don’t count—with working with us—here and elsewhere—for a while?”

  Another chorus, this time of “No, sir.”

  “And everybody is on per diem, right? Which doesn’t look like it’s going to be enough for Washington?”

  This time it was apparent that all of them were reluctant to complain.

  “Mrs. Forbison will get you each an American Express credit card,” Castillo said. “They will be paid by the Lorimer Charitable & Benevolent Fund, which understands the problems of a hardship assignment in Washington. Use them for everything—meals, your rooms, laundry—everything but whiskey and wild women. Save your per diem for the whiskey and wild women. There’s a threat to go along with that: Make any waves that call any attention whatever to what’s going on here and you will shortly afterward find yoursel
f teaching would-be Rangers how to eat snakes, rodents, and insects in the semitropical jungle swamps at Hurlburt. Everybody understand that?”

  That produced another chorus, this time with smiles, of “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay. I’m glad to have you. I know that Vic D’Alessando wouldn’t have sent you if you weren’t the best.” He paused to let that sink in, then asked, “Questions?”

  “Sir, what kind of a dog is that?”

  “Max is a Bouvier des Flandres,” Castillo said. “It has been reliably reported that one of his ancestors bit off one of Adolf Hitler’s testicles during the first world war.”

  That produced more smiles.

  “And you, Sergeant Phillips, are herewith appointed his temporary custodian. I’ve got to go sit around a table with some Washington bureaucrats, and I don’t think Max would be welcome. Have we got anything we can use as a leash?”

  Phillips opened a drawer in the table holding the radios and came out with a coil of wire from which he quickly fashioned a leash.

  He handed it to Castillo, who looped it to the D-ring of Max’s collar and then handed the end of it to Sergeant Phillips.

  “Max, you stay,” Castillo said, in Hungarian, and then switched back to English. “And while I’m gone, Jamie, make up your mind who’s going with me.”

  “Ever willing to make any sacrifice for the common good, Colonel,” Neidermeyer said, “I will take that hardship upon myself.”

  “Your call, Jamie.”

  “Where we going, sir?” Neidermeyer said. “Buenos Aires?”

  “You like Buenos Aires, do you?”

  “It is not what I would call a hardship assignment, sir.”

  “We’re going to Rucker, Sergeant Neidermeyer. One more proof that a smart soldier never volunteers for anything.”

  Castillo raised his arm in a gesture of So long and walked out of the radio room and into his office.

  Miller was sitting on the edge of his desk.

  “They’re waiting for you,” he said, nodding toward the door to the conference room. “You want me to come along?”

  “Please,” Castillo said, and went to the door and opened it.

  Truman Ellsworth, a tall, silver-haired, rather elegant man in his fifties, was standing at a lectern set up at the head of the conference table.