The Shooters

by W. E. B Griffin

  General Wilson stood up.

  “I think I’ll take a little walk,” he said.

  “Please keep your seat, General,” Winslow Masterson said. “This is not a family argument. Philippe doesn’t have family arguments. He politely listens to whatever anyone wishes to say, then does what he had planned to do in the first place.”

  “My wife does much the same thing,” General Wilson said.

  “Thanks for the support, Father Masterson,” Betsy said, then turned to her father.

  “I’m not talking about down there, Dad, and you know it. I’m talking about here. New Orleans is closed. You’d have to go to Miami. And how are you going to get to Miami?”

  “We’ll manage. May I suggest we change the subject?”

  “Mrs. Masterson…” Castillo began.

  “I’ve asked you to call me Betsy, Charley,” she snapped.

  “Sorry. Betsy, since the ambassador is determined to go down there, what I can do is arrange to fly your parents down there in a Gulfstream. I could arrange to have them picked up in New Orleans, and if customs and immigration’s not functioning there, stop at Tampa or Miami on the way down.”

  “I don’t know whether to say ‘that would be fine, thank you very much’ or ‘for God’s sake, don’t enable him!’”

  “You could do that, Charley?” Winslow Masterson said.

  Castillo nodded.

  “And I’ll arrange to have some friends keep an eye on your parents.”

  “The same kind of friends who’ve been keeping an eye on Betsy and the kids here?” Winslow Masterson asked.

  Castillo nodded.

  “Darling Betsy,” Masterson said. “I agree with you. If I had my way, Philippe and your mother would stay here with us until they can have their house repaired—”

  “Winslow, it’s under water,” Lorimer said. “Everything in it has been destroyed. And you know what they say when someone goes to the hereafter—‘I want to remember him as he was, not lying in the coffin.’ I want to remember the house as it was. I’m not foolish enough to try to resurrect it.”

  “—as I was saying, darling Betsy, until they can have their house repaired and a new one can be built for them. Here or in New Orleans—”

  “That would be the prudent thing to do,” Betsy said. “The intelligent thing. The only thing.”

  “But he’s determined to go to Uruguay, and nothing you or I or anyone else has to say will deter him. Just be grateful that Charley can arrange to carry him there in comfort, and that Charley’s friends will be available to provide security.”

  “Can I offer you a taste of Winslow’s whiskey, General?” the ambassador asked. “I’m not a drinking man, myself, but a little belt in the morning is medically indicated for someone my age. Our age.”

  “I’ve heard that,” General Wilson said. He looked at Castillo. “I think one would be in order, Mr. Ambassador, thank you.”

  Max trotted up on the porch with the now deflated soccer ball in his mouth and dropped it at Castillo’s feet.

  [FIVE]

  Ozark Municipal Airport

  Ozark, Alabama

  1710 5 September 2005

  When they walked up to General Wilson’s Buick, they found an envelope jammed under the windshield wiper.

  General Wilson opened it.

  “From Beth,” he said. “‘Please call Randy as soon as you land. Charley’s friends from Fort Campbell are waiting for him at the Magnolia House.’”

  “That was quick,” Castillo said.

  “So, knowing neither Randy’s number nor that of the Magnolia House, what I think I’ll do is call Beth, ask her to call Randy, and tell her to tell him we’re back, and that we’re going to be at the Magnolia House just as soon as we can drop off our copilot at their quarters and get there.”

  “Thank you,” Castillo said.

  Mrs. Randolph Richardson III came out of her kitchen door as the Buick drove up the driveway.

  “How was the flight?” she asked.

  “Colonel Castillo let me fly most of the way over there,” Randolph Richardson IV announced, “and just about all the way back. And Max flattened a soccer ball in his mouth.”

  “How nice of him,” she said with some effort.

  “And Randy did very well,” General Wilson said. “I’ll be back right after I drop Charley and Jamie off.”

  Mrs. Richardson smiled.

  “Take care, Randy,” Castillo said, and touched the boy’s shoulder. “Maybe we can do it again sometime.”

  “Oh, yeah! Thanks very, very much, Colonel.”

  The look in her eyes makes it pretty clear she thinks that’s about as likely to happen as is our being canonized for a lifetime of sexual fidelity.

  “My pleasure, Randy.”

  “I won’t go in, Charley,” General Wilson said, as they drove up to the Magnolia House. “But let’s try to get together again while you’re here.”

  “I’ll try, sir.”

  “And thank you for the ride. Randy will never forget it, and neither will I.”

  “I’m glad it worked out.”

  “Your dad would have been very proud of you, Charley,” Wilson said, as he offered his hand.

  “Thank you,” Castillo said.

  I never thought of that before.

  What would my father think of me if he were around to have a look?

  There were nine men in flight suits sitting at the dining room table of the Magnolia House with Lieutenant Colonel Randolph Richardson III when Castillo and Neidermeyer walked in.

  “I would have called ‘attention,’ Colonel,” a barrel-chested, nearly bald man greeted him, “but I knew you would really rather have me kiss your Hudson High ring.”

  “My God, look what the cat drug in, all the way from Norwich,” Castillo said happily.

  He put his briefcase on the table, went to him, and wrapped him in a bear hug.

  “How the hell are you, Dave?”

  Max sat down and looked up at them curiously.

  “Where did you get the dog, Charley?”

  “Long story,” Castillo said. “But he won’t tear your leg off if you’re polite.”

  Dave squatted and accepted Max’s paw.

  Castillo became aware that except for Richardson the other men at the table had stood up.

  “And I know who these guys are,” Castillo said. “The misfits, scalawags, and ne’er-do-wells the colonel decided he could get rid of when they laid the personnel requirement on him.”

  “You got it, Charley,” a tall, lanky man said, laughing. “Good to see you.”

  “Where we going, Charley?” another asked.

  Castillo didn’t reply directly.

  Instead, he said, “Has Colonel Richardson gotten you all a place to stay? Chow?”

  “They’ve all been given transient quarters,” Richardson said. “We were discussing somewhere to eat when you came in. And there are two vans for their use while they’re here.”

  “I can’t stay, Charley,” the barrel-chested bald man said. He held up a can of 7UP as proof suggesting that he was about to fly and had not been able to help himself to anything alcoholic.

  “The boss,” he went on, “is out of town and I’m minding the store. And as the commanding officer, when General McNab said ‘ASAP,’ I made the command decision that the best way to do that was fire up a Black Hawk and fly these clowns down here. And I knew, of course—being an old buddy who is at least a year senior to you—you would be delighted to tell me what the hell this is all about.”

  “Nice try, Dave,” Castillo said. “But if you’re not staying, I can’t tell you.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Not one goddamn word, Colonel.”

  “He just shifted into his official mode, Jerry,” Dave said. “So there’ll be no arguing with him. We might as well go home.”

  “Yes, sir,” one of the pilots said.

  “You understand, Charley, that it’s breaking my heart that you don’t trust me?�
�

  “Don’t let the doorknob hit you in the ass, Dave.”

  Dave put out his hand.

  “Great to see you, Charley,” he said, warmly. “You’ve got four more pilots and two crew chiefs coming. You want them flown down?”

  “The sooner they can be here, the better.”

  “My master has spoken,” Dave said. “Not you. McNab. They’ll be here for lunch tomorrow. How long are you going to need them?”

  “You are tenacious, aren’t you?”

  “That’s why I got promoted eighteen months before you did.”

  Another of the pilots said, “I thought that had something to do with Charley being out of uniform while flying a borrowed Black Hawk.”

  The others laughed.

  “Come to think of it…,” Dave said, which produced more laughter. And then he went on, “And really coming to think about it, he was really much better-looking wearing a beard and Afghan robes, wasn’t he? In these civvies, he looks like a used-car salesman.”

  Castillo gave him the finger.

  “Richardson, can we mooch a ride from you out to Cairns?” Dave asked.

  “Of course,” Richardson said. “Castillo, will I be needed here any more tonight?”

  Castillo shook his head. “Why don’t you meet us at Hanchey at, say, 0730?”

  “I’ll be there,” Richardson said, then looked at Dave. “Anytime you’re ready, Colonel.”

  “Charley,” Dave said, “you take care of my scalawags and ne’er-do-wells, or I’ll have your ass.”

  Castillo nodded.

  As Richardson opened the door to leave, Neidermeyer came through it.

  “Hey, Jamie, long time no see!” Dave said, offering his hand.

  “Good to see you, sir. You going to be in on this?”

  “No, goddamn it, I’m not. McNab said, ‘Not only no, but hell no!’”

  “Remember to send the colonel a postcard, Neidermeyer,” Castillo said.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll do that.”

  He waited until the door was closed, then went around shaking the hands of the people he knew and was introduced to the others.

  “Presumably you have put the antenna back up on the roof?” Castillo said.

  “Yes, sir. We should be up.”

  “Get on it, please, Jamie. Tell Miller and General McNab that we’re back and that we have four pilots and two crew chiefs here, and are promised the others by noon tomorrow. And check to see what’s going on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Castillo went to the table, took his laptop from his briefcase, and booted it up.

  As the computer hard drive made whirring sounds, he looked up at the others.

  “You know the drill,” he said. “This is where I tell you the operation is Top Secret and anyone who lets anything out goes to Leavenworth. The only difference this time is that the security classification is Top Secret Presidential. Anyone with a loose lip gets two years as a Phase I Instructor Pilot and then goes to Leavenworth.”

  “A Presidential Finding, Charley?” one of them asked.

  Castillo nodded.

  “Let me give a quick taste, and then we’ll go get something to eat.”

  From the laptop speakers came the familiar sound of a bugle sounding Charge!—Castillo had replaced the annoying out-of-the-box Microsoft tune—announcing that the computer was booted up and ready.

  Castillo opened the Google World program and shifted the image of the earth so that it showed the lower half of South America.

  “Where in hell are we going?” one of them asked.

  “Patience is a virtue, Mr. Reston,” Castillo said.

  Finally, he had what he wanted, and pressed the keys to zoom in on the image.

  “That’s an estancia, a ranch, called Shangri-La, 31.723 south latitude, 55.993 west longitude.”

  “What’s there, Colonel?”

  “A field big enough to take four Hueys at once and refuel them.”

  “Flying in from where?”

  “The USS Ronald Reagan, at sea.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “And where do we go from there, sir?”

  “I’m working on that.”

  VIII

  [ONE]

  7200 West Boulevard Drive

  Alexandria, Virginia

  1115 7 September 2005

  Castillo walked into the living room with Max on his heels and, following the dog, an enormous, very black man in a three-button black suit—all buttons buttoned—a crisp white shirt, and a black tie.

  Colonel Jake Torine was sitting with Edgar Delchamps at the battered coffee table. They both had their feet up on it, and Delchamps was reaching into the box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts on the table between them.

  Special Agent David W. Yung of the FBI and Sergeant Major John Davidson were sprawled in the red leather armchairs, with their own Krispy Kreme box between them on a footstool.

  Torine was wearing a blue polo shirt and khaki pants. Yung, Davidson, and Delchamps wore single-breasted nearly black suits. Yung’s and Davidson’s suits looked as if they were fresh from a Brooks Brothers box. Delchamps’s suit looked as if it had been at least six months since it had received any attention from a dry cleaning establishment.

  “Welcome home,” Torine said, taking a bite of his doughnut. They all looked curiously at the black man.

  “Colin,” Castillo said. “This is Colonel Torine, Mr. Yung, Mr. Delchamps, and Mr. Davidson.”

  “Gentlemen,” the black man said in a very deep, very Southern voice.

  “Every nice house in suburbia needs a butler,” Castillo said. “So I got us one. Say something in butler, Colin.”

  “Yah, suh,” the black man said in an even thicker Southern accent. “Can I fix you gentlemen a small Sazerac as a li’l wake-me-up?”

  Delchamps’s eyebrows rose. A smile crossed Davidson’s face. Yung looked baffled. Torine looked confused, and then recognition came.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said, getting to his feet and putting out his hand. “I didn’t recognize you in that undertaker’s suit. How the hell are you, Sergeant Major?”

  “You are speaking, sir,” the black man said, now sounding as if he was from Chicago or somewhere else in the Midwest, “to Chief Warrant Officer Five Leverette.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “I took the warrant a couple of years ago when some moron decided they needed two officers on an A-Team and they wanted to make an instructor out of me,” Leverette said. “It’s good to see you, too, Colonel. Charley said they gave you an eagle. When did you get that?”

  “About four years ago. Where did Charley find you?”

  “He found me,” Castillo said. “I was having my breakfast yesterday at Rucker when in he walked. I thought he was a Bible salesman until he demanded to know what I intended to do with his team.”

  “You’re in on this operation with us, Colin?” Davidson asked.

  Leverette nodded. “Somebody’s going to have to keep Charley out of trouble, right?”

  “Oddly enough, I was just talking to somebody else about that,” Torine said. He looked at Castillo. “We need to talk about that, Charley.”

  “I also need a few minutes of your valuable time, Ace,” Delchamps said.

  Max walked to Torine and put out his paw.

  “Can he have a doughnut?” Torine asked. “I’m not sure he’s giving me his paw because he likes me.”

  “As long as it’s not chocolate covered,” Castillo said.

  “The offer of a Sazerac is still on the table,” Leverette said. “Any takers?”

  “I thought you couldn’t get one outside New Orleans,” Delchamps said.

  “Today, you can’t get one in New Orleans. It’s under water, as you may have heard.” He reached into his jacket pocket and came out with a small paper-wrapped bottle about the size of a Tabasco bottle. “But here you can.”

  “What’s that?” Yung asked.

  “What’s this, or what’s a Sazerac
?”

  “Two-Gun has led a sheltered life, Colin,” Delchamps said. “I accept your kind offer.”

  “‘Two-Gun’?” Leverette parroted, and then said, “This, Two-Gun, is Peychaud’s Bitters. I never leave home without it. It is the essential ingredient in a Sazerac cocktail, which I regard as New Orleans’s greatest contribution to the general all-around happiness of mankind.”

  “There’s the booze,” Torine said, pointing to an array of bottles. “I know there’s rye, bourbon, and Pernod. But you need powdered sugar, too, right?” When Leverette nodded, he added: “I saw some in the kitchen, thanks to the ever-efficient Corporal Bradley. I’ll go get it.” Torine started for the kitchen, then stopped and turned, and added: “About whom we also have to talk, Charley.”

  Leverette carried bottles of spirits to the table, then began to construct a cocktail shaker full of Sazerac with all the care and precision of a chemist dealing with deadly substances.

  Torine returned from the kitchen with a box of confectioner’s sugar, a lemon, and a paring knife in one hand, and five glasses in the other.

  “Pay attention, Two-Gun,” Davidson said. “You will see a master at work.”

  “It’s not even lunchtime,” Yung protested.

  “They don’t drink in the morning in the FBI, Colin,” Delchamps said.

  “How sad,” Leverette said.

  “Charley,” Torine said. “Where’s Jamie and his suitcase?”

  “I left him in Rucker. Things went so smoothly down there that any second now the other shoe is sure to drop, and I want to be the first to know what’s going wrong. I’m going to need another communicator right about now.”

  “Does it have to be a communicator?” Torine asked. He stopped, looked down, and saw that Max was again offering his paw. He reached into the Krispy Kreme box and handed Max another doughnut. Then he saw the look of confusion on Castillo’s face and added: “I mean a Delta Force guy?”

  “Where else would I get one?”

  “Lester,” Torine said. “He already knows how to work the satellite radio.”

  “He ask you?” Castillo said.

  “No. This is what I wanted to talk to you about. What happened was he went to Davidson and asked him how he thought you would feel about sending him back to the Marine Corps.”