The Shooters

by W. E. B Griffin

  “American Express,” Castillo said, reaching for his wallet. “Never leave home without it.”

  He took his AmEx card from his wallet and handed it to Crenshaw, who examined it. He then looked at Castillo.

  “The Lorimer Charitable & Benevolent Fund,” the general said.

  Castillo nodded and grinned. “Yes, sir.”

  “I won’t ask what that is,” the general went on, “but will simply repeat what I said before, that mysterious indeed are the ways of the Special Operations Command and those in it.” He paused. “I can call from the car on the way to the post, if you’d like. I’m driving my own car, but Richardson’s got a van.”

  I’ll be damned if I’m stuck riding the bus with Righteous.

  “If you’ve room in your car, and I’m not an imposition, that’d be great, sir,” Castillo said. “Thank you.”

  [TWO]

  “Would you like a drink, Charley?” General Wilson asked when they were inside the Magnolia House. “Under the circumstances, I’m going to allow myself to have one. And I might even allow my dear friend General Crenshaw here a little taste.”

  “Indeed, I would,” Castillo said. “I have been a good boy all day, and it’s been a very long day.”

  And I just drove past the Daleville Inn, which triggered a flood of not at all unpleasantly lewd and lascivious memories.

  Neidermeyer came into the living room carrying a DirecTV dish antenna.

  “You want a drink, Jamie?” Castillo said.

  “Wait ’til I get this thing up, sir. What I need now is a stepladder or a chair, so I can stick this thing on the roof.”

  “Try the kitchen,” General Wilson said, and pointed, then asked, “DirecTV?”

  Neidermeyer looked at Castillo for guidance. Castillo nodded.

  “Actually, sir,” Neidermeyer said seriously, “I have a much better one, but it says Super Duper Top Secret Delta Force Satellite Antenna and the colonel won’t let me use it. He says it makes people curious.”

  The general chuckled.

  “It took only a couple of small modifications to this,” Neidermeyer said. “Mostly the installation of a repeater, so we don’t need the coaxial cable to connect to the box. It ought to be up in a minute or so.”

  “Need any help, Jamie?” Castillo said.

  “No, sir. Thank you.”

  Richardson came in as Castillo, Crenshaw, and Wilson touched glasses.

  “Your man is installing a cable TV dish on the roof,” Richardson announced.

  “And any minute now, we can get Fox News,” General Crenshaw said with a straight face.

  Castillo chuckled, and Richardson shot him a look, wondering what that was about. Then Richardson turned his attention back to the general.

  “Sir, the field-grade OD has been advised of the truck coming from Bragg. They’ll be expecting it at the gate, and there will be an MP escort to guide it to the MP impound lot, where it will be under guard until Colonel Castillo tells me what he wants to do with it.”

  “First thing in the morning, Randy,” General Crenshaw said, “go out to Hanchey Field and take over a hangar large enough for four H-models. Arrange for the MPs to guard it, then move this equipment into it. That sound about right, Castillo?”

  “Yes, sir, that sounds fine.”

  “Sir,” Richardson said, “am I to sign a receipt for this equipment?”

  “Good question,” Castillo said. “I didn’t think about that. Well, when the truck gets here”—he stopped as Neidermeyer came back in the house, then went on—“Neidermeyer here will happily get out of bed and sign for it. Right, Jamie?”

  “The stuff from Bragg?”

  Castillo nodded. “Tonight it goes into an MP lot. In the morning, Colonel Richardson will have it moved to a guarded hangar at Hanchey—one of the airfields.”

  “Yes, sir. Am I going with you tomorrow, sir?”

  “You and the magic box.”

  “Sir, it might be a good idea if we had our own wheels.”

  “I didn’t think of that,” Crenshaw said. “What would you like?”

  “Sir, vans are pretty inconspicuous. And I don’t think we need a driver.”

  “Randy?” the general said.

  “I’ll have one here in fifteen minutes, sir.”

  “This should take me about ninety seconds, sir,” Neidermeyer said to Castillo, and walked out of the room.

  Richardson walked to a telephone on a credenza, took a small notebook from his pocket, found what he was looking for, and dialed a number.

  “Colonel Richardson, Sergeant. General Crenshaw desires that a van be sent immediately to the Magnolia House. A driver will not be required.

  “Yes, Sergeant, I’m aware that it’s unusual. But that is the general’s desire.”

  He listened a moment and said, “Thank you,” and hung up.

  For Christ’s sake, Righteous!

  You’re a lieutenant colonel. You can give orders for a lousy van all by yourself.

  You didn’t have to hide behind Crenshaw’s stars.

  Castillo caught General Wilson’s watching eye.

  And that wasn’t lost on him, either.

  “A van has been laid on, sir,” Richardson announced.

  “Thank you.”

  Neidermeyer walked back into the living room and handed a handset to Castillo.

  “They say twenty-five feet max with no wire, but give it a try.”

  Castillo looked at the handset, saw H. R. MILLER, JR. on its small screen, pushed the loudspeaker button, and said, “So I shamed you into not taking off early?”

  “Where are you, Charley?”

  “In Magnolia House at Rucker. And guess who’s with me?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “General Wilson and Randy Richardson.”

  “You’re on loudspeaker?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good evening, sir. Dick Miller, sir. Hey, Righteous, how they hanging?”

  “Hello, Dick,” General Wilson said. “Good to hear your voice.”

  Restraining a smile, Wilson added softly to General Crenshaw: “That’s Dick Miller’s son. He’s also a classmate of Randy’s.”

  “Hello, Miller,” Richardson said without enthusiasm.

  “Anything happen?” Castillo asked.

  “I made the deposit to the bank where you were earlier,” Miller said. “That airplane’s back from you know where. The pilot thereof is crashing in suburbia. He says if you need to go anywhere in the next twenty-four hours, take a bicycle. The copilot’s on his way you know where, and the plane that took him will bring J. Edgar Hoover, Jr., back here. That’s about it.”

  “In the morning, I’m going to Mississippi to see the ambassador. Then back here.”

  “How are you going to get to Mississippi?”

  “I rented a T206H.”

  “You’ll be flying right over what used to be Pascagoula and Biloxi.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “I’ve been watching that on the tube right now. Incredible. The storm surge picked up a couple of those floating casinos and dumped them two, three hundred yards—maybe more—inland. There are slot machines all over. No damage at Rucker?”

  “I didn’t see any. Nothing like that.”

  “Okay, Chief. Keep in touch.”

  Castillo pushed the OFF button.

  “I’ll hang this up, Jamie. Make yourself a drink. And while you’re at it, see what Colonel Richardson will have.”

  As he left the living room, he heard Richardson say somewhat piously, “Nothing for me, thank you.”

  [THREE]

  1040 Red Cloud Road

  Fort Rucker, Alabama

  1735 4 September 2005

  “There it is, Jamie,” General Wilson said. “One Zero Four Zero.”

  He and Castillo were in the second-row bench seat of the Army Dodge Caravan, Max having decided he would rather ride in the front passenger seat.

  Neidermeyer slowed the van almost to a stop as they
approached the house. It was a single-family frame one-story building, identical to the ones on its left and right as far as Castillo could see.

  Castillo vaguely remembered that lieutenant colonels and better—or was it majors and better?—got separate houses. Lower ranks had to share an interior wall.

  Hanging from two eighteen-inch-high posts next to the driveway was a sign: LTC R. W. RICHARDSON, AV.

  The carport was full with a Pontiac sedan and a civilian Dodge van. Behind them, on the drive, was a Buick sedan with Arizona license plates and a Mercury sedan pulled up behind the Dodge.

  “It looks like the Crenshaws are here,” General Wilson.

  “Maybe I’d better park on the street,” Neidermeyer said.

  “It’s against the law,” Wilson said. “Pull in behind the Mercury.”

  “Why is it against the law?” Castillo asked.

  “About the time of Custer’s Last Stand, a child darted out between two cars parked on the street and was run over. You just can’t have that sort of thing, and so they passed a law. I tried to change it when I was post commander and was dissuaded by a regiment of outraged mothers.”

  “What do you do if you have more people coming to dinner than you have room in your driveway?”

  “You politely ask your neighbors if the extras can park in their drive,” Wilson said. “If your neighbor outranks you, or your wives have been scrapping, you’re out of luck.”

  Neidermeyer pulled the van in behind the Mercury.

  The house front door opened. Mrs. Harry F. Wilson looked out at the van.

  “What do you say I get out and stagger up to the door?” General Wilson said.

  “General, please don’t do that to me,” Castillo said with a grin.

  General Wilson slid the back door open, got out, and walked to the door, holding up an index finger.

  “Max, you stay,” Castillo said in Hungarian, and followed Wilson.

  “What’s this mean?” Bethany Wilson asked, more than a little suspiciously, holding up her own index finger.

  “It’s the answer to your question, dear. ‘How many drinks did Charley feed you?’”

  “Very funny,” she said. “Hello, Charley, how are you?”

  Castillo held up three fingers.

  “Haven’t changed a bit, have you, handsome?” she asked, and kissed his cheek.

  Neidermeyer was by then standing outside the van.

  “Mrs. W., this is Jamie Neidermeyer,” Castillo said.

  “Hello, Jamie,” she said.

  “He and Charley are tied together,” General Wilson said. “He’s got a radio in that suitcase.”

  “Hello, Charley,” Mrs. Randolph Richardson said from behind her mother. “How nice to see you again.”

  She’s still a looker, still looks like a younger version of her mother.

  And why do I suspect she’s less thrilled than her father and mother that Good Ole Charley’s coming to dinner?

  “It’s nice to see you, too, Beth,” Castillo said. “Beth, this is my communicator—and friend—Jamie Neidermeyer.”

  “Hello, Jamie,” Beth said, offering her hand.

  “Jamie’s going to need a place to put a small dish antenna,” General Wilson said.

  “A what?”

  “A DirecTV antenna,” Wilson said. “Except it’s not. It’s the satellite antenna for the radio in his suitcase. What about the patio?”

  Beth smiled uneasily.

  A small, dressed-for-company girl, about six years old, pushed past Beth and called out, “Grandpa!”

  Another girl, about eleven or twelve and who looked like her mother and grandmother, came through the door, followed finally by a boy Castillo guessed to be about twelve or thirteen.

  “Charley,” Beth said. “This is Randy, the Fourth, and Bethany—”

  “The third?” Castillo asked.

  “Girls don’t usually do that,” Beth said. “And Marjorie. This is Colonel Castillo. You know who he is?”

  None of the three had a clue.

  “This is Doña Alicia’s grandson,” Beth explained.

  The boy showed a very faint glimmer of interest; the girls none at all.

  “Grandpa Wilson flew with Colonel Castillo’s father in Vietnam,” Mrs. Bethany Wilson said.

  “And Daddy and Colonel Castillo were friends, classmates, at West Point,” Beth Richardson said.

  This produced the same level of fascination and excitement as had the previous footnotes to history.

  They’re not being rude, Castillo thought. They just don’t give a damn. And why should they?

  Something did excite Marjorie, the smallest: “There’s a dog in Grandpa’s car!”

  She ran toward it.

  Oblivious to her mother’s order—“Marjorie, come back here this instant!”—she pulled open the front passenger door.

  Oh shit! Castillo thought.

  The evening’s festivities will begin with Beth’s forty-pound daughter being mauled by my one-hundred-forty-pound dog.

  He ran to the van.

  By the time he got there, Max had leapt out of the van, licked Marjorie’s face to the point of saturation, and was sitting down offering her his paw.

  She put her arms around his neck.

  “Marjorie, it would appear, has found a new friend,” General Wilson observed. He had been on Castillo’s heels and now was catching his breath.

  “Is that yours?” Beth accused from behind her father. She didn’t seem surprised when Castillo nodded.

  “She really loves dogs,” Beth said.

  “So did you, honey,” General Wilson said. “All your life.”

  “We’ve never had one,” Beth said, and when she saw the look on Castillo’s face, added, “You know how it is, moving around all the time in the Army.”

  Bad answer, Beth.

  Your father always was able to keep one.

  Truth is that Righteous probably doesn’t like dogs.

  They’re always a nuisance and a potential source of trouble and might interfere with the furtherance of one’s career.

  Beth averted her eyes as General Crenshaw and Lieutenant Colonel Richardson came out of the house.

  “Look at that, will you? Love at first sight!” General Crenshaw called. “Hey, Max!”

  Oblivious to the weight of Marjorie clinging to his neck, Max walked to General Crenshaw and offered him his paw.

  Now what, Righteous?

  Your general thinks Max and your kid make a great pair.

  Think fast!

  “Beautiful animal,” Richardson said. “You’ve got a nice one there.”

  “Yeah.”

  I guess I might as well face it that you are now mine, Max.

  Well, what the hell. I told Abuela when she said I didn’t even have a dog that I’d get one.

  “Well,” Richardson went on, “why don’t we put the dog back in the car and then see about having a drink and something to eat?”

  “I want to play with him!” Marjorie announced firmly.

  “Randy,” General Wilson said. “What about putting him on the patio and letting the kids play with him?”

  “Good idea!” Richardson said with forced enthusiasm.

  Dinner—the whole evening—went better than Castillo thought it would.

  Beth was a good hostess.

  Why am I surprised?

  She learned the profession of Officer’s Lady from her mother, who may as well have written the book.

  And more than that, Beth was gracious.

  She seated Jamie Neidermeyer next to her and across from General Crenshaw, and went out of her way to make him comfortable.

  And the kids were remarkably well behaved, even the little one.

  Castillo was seated between Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Crenshaw, who struck him as another first-class officer’s lady.

  Even Max behaved. He lay outside the sliding glass door to the patio, his head between his front paws, just watching and neither whining nor suggesting that he
would really like something to eat.

  General Wilson, a little happy but not drunk after two glasses of wine, regaled everybody with stories of Warrant Officer Junior Grade Jorge Castillo, who, Colonel Castillo decided, must have driven his commanding officer nuts.

  One of the stories, which Castillo had not heard, was of a middle-of-the-night moonlight requisitioning flight in which a mess-hall-sized refrigerator and a generator to power it were, as General Wilson gaily related, “liberated from a QM dump and put to work for the 644th Helicopter Company.”

  He sipped his wine, then with a huge grin said: “For the better part of the next day, the old man was torn between socking it to Jorge and me for misappropriation of government property—or enjoying the cold beer. Cold beer won in the end.”

  Castillo glanced at Richardson, who clearly was not as amused with the story as was his son, whose face showed he thought the idea of stealing things with a helicopter sounded great.

  Then Castillo’s eyes met Beth’s, and he wondered if she was thinking of what had happened in the Daleville Inn.

  Hell yes, she is.

  That would be natural.

  But that was a very long time ago.

  The last thing I’d do is try to resurrect anything.

  A little after eight-thirty, just after Castillo had turned down a glass of brandy—“I have to fly in the morning”—there was a familiar faint beep and, a moment later, Neidermeyer reached into his lap and came up with the radio handset.

  He looked at it, then stood up, said, “Excuse me. It’s for you, sir,” and leaned across the table to hand it to Castillo.

  The legend read GEN MCNAB.

  “Yes, sir?” Castillo said into the handset.

  “I’ve got the truck driver on a landline. He’s fueling at Benning. Who do I tell him to see when he gets to Rucker?”

  “General Crenshaw has named Colonel Richardson as his action officer, sir. But Neidermeyer—and maybe me—will meet the truck at the gate.”

  “Driver and two shooters,” McNab said. “Make sure they’re taken care of.”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  Castillo was aware that everyone was looking at him.

  “Crenshaw taking good care of you?” McNab went on.

  “Couldn’t ask for anything more, sir. As a matter of fact, I’m sitting across Colonel Richardson’s dinner table from him. And General Wilson.”