“Excuse me?” Castillo asked.
“It’s an aircraft carrier, Charley. Named after the Gipper,” McNab said drily.
Kingston added, “And it’s sailing around the world, or at least down the east coast of South America, and around the horn, or whatever they call it, and then up the west coast to San Diego.
“Onto her, Tom,” McNab corrected him. “She’s sailing around the world.”
Kingston nodded. “If we could get those Hueys onto her either before she leaves, or even after she leaves, they could just be flown off….”
“Wouldn’t that make waves?” Castillo asked, and then heard what he had just said and, shaking his head, muttered, “Jesus Christ!”
“I don’t think so,” Kingston said, smiling at him. “We could say they’re for the press or something. The Navy probably won’t like the idea—”
“The Navy will do what the secretary of Defense tells it to do,” McNab said, flatly.
“You have a place where they could be landed black?” Kingston asked.
“I know just the place,” Castillo said. “But the last time I was in Uruguay their head cop told me, ‘Good-bye and please don’t come back.’”
“You want me to set this up with the Navy or not, Charley?” McNab asked.
“Yes, sir, please. I’ll find a place to fly them off to before they get there.”
“Just the Hueys? Or the Hueys and the shooters?”
“Just the Hueys,” Castillo said. “We’ve got a few days. It would be better to send them down as tourists, or soccer players, a couple at a time.”
“No problem with Spanish-speaking A-Teams, Tom?” McNab asked.
“No.”
“Get on the horn to Bragg. I want four shooters on their way within twelve hours, different airlines, and six every twenty-four hours thereafter. You have a place for them to go, Charley?”
“By the time they get there, I will.”
He wrote several telephone numbers on a sheet of paper and handed the paper to Kingston.
“That’s if something happens and Lorimer doesn’t meet them at the airport.”
Kingston nodded his understanding.
“We could send the weapons and the gear on the Hueys,” Castillo said, thoughtfully. “If we can’t get the Hueys into the country black, we won’t need the weapons. And that’ll eliminate having to send them under diplomatic cover, which would open a can of worms.”
Kingston grunted his approval.
“Get the weapons and gear moving to Rucker right away,” McNab ordered. “There’s a buck general there, Crenshaw, I’ve dealt with before. I’ll get on the horn to him and give him a heads-up, tell him to stash the weapons and gear until Charley knows what he wants to do with it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll also tell him to expect eight Huey pilots—and four crew chiefs—from the 160th at Campbell, same story. I’ll get on the horn to Campbell myself as soon as I can.”
“Yes, sir,” Kingston said.
“Anything else for right now?”
Kingston looked at Castillo.
“The money?” Kingston said.
“You’ve got a black account here, sir?”
“In the base branch of the Wachovia Bank.”
“If you’ll give me the number, sir, I’ll get on the horn to Dick Miller, and the money will probably be in it by the close of their business day. How much will you need, sir?”
“This isn’t going to be cheap, Castillo. We’ve got—”
“Will a million cover it for openers, sir?”
“More than enough,” Kingston said.
“Wrong answer, Tom,” McNab said. “Probably not, Colonel Castillo. But we can always come back to you for more, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s it, then?” McNab asked.
“I think that covers just about everything for now, sir,” Kingston said.
“Yes, sir. Thank you both.”
“Why don’t we see if Miller is going to have any problems getting the money down here before I start loaning you money from my special funds?” McNab said.
Castillo took his cellular phone from his pocket. Kingston handed him a slip of paper.
Ninety seconds later, Castillo broke the connection.
“Done, sir. Major Miller sends his compliments, sir.”
“Story going around is that he’s being retired medically. True?”
“Yes, sir. First of the month. He’s going to work for me.”
McNab shook his head.
“Goddamn shame,” he said, and then heard what he had said. “I don’t mean his working for you, Charley. I meant…his being involuntarily retired.”
“Yes, sir. It is.”
McNab shook his head and then smiled.
“Okay. Those shrill girlish giggles you may have been hearing are those made by my wife when she is playing with a dog. I suspect everybody’s here. Once again, my timing is perfect.”
He began to scrape the meat scraps from his plate onto another and then reached for Castillo’s plate.
“That animal of yours eats meat, right?”
“Yes, sir. He does.”
When they went into house, Mrs. Bruce J. McNab was already feeding Max.
“Charley, he’s adorable,” she said. “And he really loves chocolate, doesn’t he? That’s his fourth Hershey bar.”
VII
[ONE]
Cairns Army Airfield
Fort Rucker, Alabama
1530 4 September 2005
Castillo stuck his head in the cockpit of the Gulfstream V and said, “Thanks, guys.”
“Any time, Colonel,” the pilot, an Air Force major, said as he offered his hand.
“You’ve got another general meeting you, Colonel,” the copilot, a young captain, said, offering his hand and then pointing out the window.
Castillo saw that the copilot was wearing an Air Force Academy ring.
Another bright and bushy-tailed young man, he thought, not unkindly, who went through the academy dreaming of soaring through the wild blue yonder in a supersonic fighter jet…and wound up in the right seat of a Gulfstream.
And who by now has realized he’s lucky to be there.
Most of his classmates are probably still wingless, flying a supply room desk.
The Air Force had far more academy graduates wanting—and qualified for—flight training than the Air Force had a requirement for pilots. The bitter joke going around the Air Force was “If you really wanted to fly, you should have joined the Army. They have more aircraft than we do.”
Castillo looked to where the lieutenant pointed.
Brigadier General Crenshaw, the deputy commander of Fort Rucker and the Army Aviation Center, was standing in the door of the Base Operations building with a young officer.
Oh, shit!
Last time I saw him, I said I was Secret Service.
That was—what?—just three days ago….
When Castillo turned back to the passenger compartment, he saw that the crew chief/steward had already unloaded their luggage, and Neidermeyer was going down the stair door steps cradling the radio suitcase in his arms. Max was standing in the aisle straining against his makeshift leash, which was firmly tied to a seat mount.
Untying the wire leash proved difficult, as Max’s tugging on it had really tightened the knot. Castillo finally got it undone, and allowed Max to tow him down the stair-door steps. As he did, he saw that Crenshaw had walked across the tarmac to the airplane.
He saluted as well as he could while allowing Max to make his way to the nose gear, where Max lifted his leg and broke wind. Several times. Loudly.
“Did you have to teach him to do that, Colonel?” General Crenshaw asked. “Or did it come naturally to him?”
Castillo could think of nothing to say but “Good afternoon, sir,” so he said that.
“Welcome back to Fort Rucker, Colonel,” Crenshaw said. “I have been reliably informed that you did i
n fact learn how to fly in Texas, and that there was probably a good reason you told me you were in the Secret Service.”
Castillo’s confusion showed on his face.
General Crenshaw smiled and nodded toward Base Operations. Two familiar faces were now standing outside the building.
One was Lieutenant General Harold F. Wilson, U.S. Army (Retired), wearing Bermuda shorts and a pink golf shirt. The other was Lieutenant Colonel Randolph Richardson, in ACUs. General Wilson waved happily. Colonel Richardson smiled.
Or is he grimacing as he squints in the bright sunlight? Castillo thought.
“When General McNab called to tell me you were coming, I was on the fifteenth hole with General Wilson. I was once his aide, so I knew about his relationship with your father.”
“I haven’t seen General Wilson for several years,” Castillo said. “He retired to Phoenix, I believe.”
“That’s right,” General Crenshaw said.
“And I haven’t seen Richardson for…I don’t remember the last time I saw him.”
“Well, he’s my very competent assistant G-3, which makes him just the man to get you whatever you came for. Would that be all right with you?”
“Yes, sir. That would be fine. Thank you.”
“And this gentleman is?” Crenshaw asked.
“My communicator, sir. Sergeant First Class Neidermeyer. He has to be close to me, so I was going to introduce him as Mister Neidermeyer and smuggle him in a BOQ with me. But I’m a little tired of bending the truth. So I guess it’s the Daleville Inn.”
Crenshaw offered his hand to Neidermeyer.
“Welcome to Fort Rucker, Mr. Neidermeyer,” he said. “I hope you and Colonel Castillo find the Magnolia House comfortable.”
Hearing the name Magnolia House brought back fond memories for Castillo. More than a decade ago, his grandparents had stayed in the World War II–era frame housing that had been converted to a cottage for transient VIPs.
“Thank you, sir,” Castillo said.
Castillo, Crenshaw, and Neidermeyer started to walk across the tarmac. Two neat young sergeants trotted out to them and offered to take their luggage. Neidermeyer would not part with the radio suitcase.
When Castillo and Neidermeyer got close to the building, General Wilson spread his arms wide.
“How are you, Charley?” he called, and wrapped him in a bear hug.
When he let him go, he said, “Bethany talked yesterday to your grandmother, who told her you had made a couple of flying trips to the Double-Bar-C but, as usual, she had no idea where you were. So I’m really glad to see you.”
“I’ve been moving around a lot,” Castillo said. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, we came to see Beth and Randy and the grandchildren. Rucker’s hot, but not as hot as Phoenix, and I do like to play golf.”
“How is Beth?” Castillo asked, politely, as he put out his hand to Richardson.
“Well, thank you,” Richardson said without emotion.
What do I call him?
Randolph? Randy?
“Good to see you, Randy.”
“Likewise.”
“Your grandmother,” General Wilson went on, “told us your promotion finally came through. Congratulations.”
“They were scraping the bottom of the barrel,” Castillo said. “This is Jamie Neidermeyer, my communicator. Jamie, General Wilson flew with my father in Vietnam. And this is Colonel Richardson. We were classmates at West Point.”
They shook hands.
It was fairly obvious from Neidermeyer’s “how do you do, sirs” as well as his general appearance that he was military. But Richardson either didn’t pick up the significance of his not being identified by rank or didn’t want to.
“You’re in the service, Neidermeyer?”
Neidermeyer looked at Castillo for guidance.
“He works for General McNab, Randy,” General Crenshaw said. “At the moment, he’s not wearing his uniform. When Castillo was here the last time, neither was he. He told me he was in the Secret Service. Mysterious indeed are the ways of the Special Operations Command and those in it.”
“Well, now that that’s out in the open,” General Wilson said, “am I sticking my nose in where it’s not particularly welcome?”
“No, sir. Not at all,” Castillo said. “I’m scrounging things for General McNab, but, if you’re free, I’d love to buy you and your bride dinner tonight.”
“Beth and her mother are at this moment preparing dinner,” Richardson said. “She said she couldn’t remember the last time she saw you.”
Odd. I remember it with great clarity.
“The invitation of course includes you and Mrs. Crenshaw, General,” Richardson went on. “And you, Mr. Neidermeyer.”
“I don’t want to intrude, Richardson,” General Crenshaw said.
“It wouldn’t be an intrusion at all, sir. And it would give you and the general more time together.”
Crenshaw looked at Castillo to see what he should do.
“And you and I could talk about the terrible things we had to do as aides-de-camp to difficult generals, General,” Castillo said, then smiled.
“Who was yours?” Crenshaw said.
“Bruce J. McNab.”
“I didn’t know that,” Crenshaw said. “I’d love to hear what that was like. Yes, Colonel Richardson. Mrs. Crenshaw and I gratefully accept your kind invitation to dinner.”
“General Crenshaw, could I have a moment of your and Randy’s time?” Castillo asked.
“Certainly.”
Crenshaw led them to the pilots’ lounge, politely asked the two pilots there if they would mind giving them a few minutes alone, and then looked at Castillo.
“This operation is highly classified, sir,” Castillo said. “The fewer people who know I’m here, or have been here, the better. What I need is four H-Model Hueys for an operation—”
“What kind of an operation?” Richardson interrupted.
“If you don’t know that, Randy,” Castillo said somewhat impatiently, “then you can truthfully swear that I didn’t tell you what I wanted them for.”
Of all the light colonels at Rucker, I get Righteous Randolph?
Richardson nodded his understanding.
“They have to have GPS,” Castillo went on, “and they have to be in very good shape. And, I have to tell you, you probably won’t get them back.”
Righteous’s jaw just now about bounced off the tiled floor.
“We have been directed to give Colonel Castillo whatever he asks for, and that he has the highest priority,” General Crenshaw said.
“How do we explain your presence if someone recognizes you?” Richardson asked.
“The cover story is that I’m an executive assistant to the secretary of Homeland Security, and that I’m here because this was the most convenient place for me to come and rent a light aircraft—I’ll get to that in a minute—and fly to Pass Christian, Mississippi, on a mission for the secretary.”
“Two things, Castillo,” General Crenshaw said. “That area was badly mauled by Hurricane Katrina. I don’t know if any fields down there are open. Have you considered a Black Hawk?”
“There’s an airstrip where I’m going. It’s open. And a light airplane will attract less attention than an Army helicopter. Neidermeyer went on the Internet and found a Cessna 206H available for charter at the airport in Ozark—”
“The Flying Hearse,” Crenshaw interrupted, chuckling.
“Sir?”
Crenshaw smiled, then explained:
“Actually, it’s a T206H—turbocharged. The fellow who owns the funeral home is a flying enthusiast. Flying is expensive—that airplane cost more than a quarter million dollars—but he thought he had the solution. If he had an airplane, he could fly cadavers to where they were going to be buried and charge the same thing airlines do—twice the price of the most expensive first-class ticket. That would be a substantial contribution to the cost of his hobby. He was so enth
usiastic that he didn’t check to see if a coffin would fit in the airplane. They don’t. So, it is reliably reported, he transports—in of course the dead of night, so to speak—the cadavers in body bags, strapped into a seat, and has a casket waiting wherever he’s going. I know him. I can call and set that up for you, if you’d like. You can fly a 206?”
“I can fly a 182 and a Citation,” Castillo said. “Will that work?”
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Crenshaw said. “But he’ll probably want to ride around the pattern with you. Anything else?”
“There will be pilots and crew chiefs coming here from the 160th at Fort Campbell.”
“General McNab told me,” Crenshaw said, and looked at his aide. “Find accommodations for them, Richardson. They should start arriving tomorrow. Eight pilots and four crew chiefs.”
“Yes, sir,” Richardson said.
“And some supplies from Fort Bragg,” Castillo added. “Which will have to be stored somewhere secure until they can be loaded on the Hueys.”
“What kind of supplies?” Richardson asked.
“The kind that need someplace secure to store them,” Castillo said, pointedly avoiding details.
“General McNab said they’re coming by truck tonight,” Crenshaw said to Richardson. “They’ll probably be here by morning. Have the truck put in the MP impound lot until you can make better arrangements in the morning. And make sure the MPs are guarding the impound lot.”
“Yes, sir,” Richardson said.
“And as soon as possible, Neidermeyer has to get his radio up,” Castillo said.
He saw the questioning look on Crenshaw’s face.
“It’s in the suitcase,” Castillo said, nodding at it. “It doesn’t take long, but I’d rather not do it here.”
“May I ask what kind of a radio?” Richardson asked.
I am tempted to tell you, “None of your fucking business.”
But resuming hostilities with you, Righteous, would be counterproductive.
“It’s a rather amazing system developed by AFC,” Castillo said. “Bounces signals—voice and data, both really deeply encrypted—off satellites. When we get to Magnolia House, I’ll show you how it works.”
“I’d like to see that,” Crenshaw said. “I just thought of something. How are you going to pay for the Flying Hearse?”
The Shooters Page 27
