“The point there?” Castillo asked.
“I said, ‘Jack, what I’m really concerned about is that Castillo’s going to go down there like John Wayne and get this guy back, and in the process upset one of your apple carts.’
“And he looked surprised, and asked, ‘One of ours?’ and I nodded and he said, ‘I don’t know of anything we have going on down there that could possibly have a connection with Colonel Castillo’s operation.’
“And then I guess he saw the look on my face, which he could have interpreted as surprise or disbelief. He stabbed himself in the chest with his index finger…”—he demonstrated—“…and then he said, ‘I’m in the coffee shop on level three. Please join me.’
“Two minutes later, in walks A. Franklin Lammelle, the deputy DCI for operations. ‘Frank, Edgar here wonders if we have any operation going in Paraguay or Argentina that in any way could bear on the OOA operation to free the DEA agent. Or, the other way around, can you think of anything Colonel Castillo could do that would in any way interfere with anything we’re doing down there?’
“A. Franklin thinks this over very carefully and says, ‘Aside from getting caught getting the DEA agent back, no, sir.’ And, being the naïve and trusting soul I am, I believed him, too.”
“Which means?” Torine asked.
Castillo said: “Weiss told us—right, Edgar?—that the station agent down there is not as intellectually challenged as people think he is. The implication being that’s on purpose?”
Delchamps nodded.
“And that disinformation,” Delchamps said, “could not have been put in place without a very good reason to do it, or without the knowledge and permission of the DCI and/or A. Franklin Lammelle.”
“Which means he is either really intellectually challenged, or was set up by somebody in Langley who didn’t think the DCI had to know.”
“It smells, Ace,” Delchamps said. “And the odor is not coming from my new friend Jack or Lammelle.”
Castillo raised his eyebrows, then asked, “So what should we do?”
“I want to have a long talk with Alex Darby and the other social pariahs down there. And their contacts.”
“You mean, you want to go down there?”
Delchamps nodded.
“When?”
“Jake,” Delchamps said, “what time did you say our new pilot gets here?”
[TWO]
Headquarters
Fort Rucker and the Army Aviation Center
Fort Rucker, Alabama
1105 8 September 2005
“You’re not planning to take that animal in there with you, are you?” Lieutenant Colonel Randolph Richardson III inquired of Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo as Castillo slid open the side door of the van to let out Max.
“I can’t leave him in the van in this heat,” Castillo said. “And General Crenshaw likes him.”
Castillo was more than a little pleased when they marched into Crenshaw’s office and saluted. General Crenshaw returned the salute, said, “Stand at ease, gentlemen,” then clapped his hands together, bent over, and called, “Hey, Max! C’mere, boy!”
Max walked up to him, sat down, offered his paw, then allowed for his ears to be scratched.
“That’s one hell of a dog, Castillo,” General Crenshaw said, then added, “Please sit down, gentlemen. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you, sir,” Colonel Richardson said.
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, sir,” Colonel Castillo said.
General Crenshaw raised his voice. “Two coffees, please. Black, right, Castillo?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Both black.”
Castillo thought, Righteous, you ass-kissing sonofabitch, you’re actually wondering if it’s too late to change your mind about the coffee.
If the general is having some, it’s obviously the thing for you to do.
“Okay,” General Crenshaw said. “What can I do for you this morning, Castillo?”
“Sir, I’m here to make my manners. I’m moving down the road, and it’s likely I won’t be back. I just wanted to express my thanks for all your support…”
Crenshaw waved deprecatingly.
“…and especially, sir, to let you know how much I appreciate everything Colonel Richardson has done for us. He’s really done a first-class job.”
That’s true, even if he took elaborate precautions to cover his ass every time he did anything.
Crenshaw’s secretary delivered two china mugs of coffee.
“You’ll notice, Colonel Castillo, that I am not asking how things are going,” Crenshaw said, “only if they are going the way you want them to.”
“Exactly the way I hoped they would, sir. Colonel Davies sent his S-4 down here yesterday to get the H-models off your books and onto those of the 160th—”
“From which they will drop into the sea, never to be seen again?” Crenshaw asked, jokingly, then quickly added, “I probably shouldn’t have said that.”
“Into the sea”?
Jesus Christ! Where did he get that?
If he knows about the Ronald Reagan, we’re compromised before we get started.
Easy, Castillo!
That was a figure of speech, nothing more. He doesn’t know about the Ronald Reagan.
“I don’t know about them dropping into the sea, sir, but they might wind up on eBay.”
Crenshaw laughed.
“I don’t mean to pry, Castillo,” he said. “Yes, I guess I do. But I understand the ground rules.”
“Sir, I regret that…”
Crenshaw held up his hand to shut him off.
“You’re obeying your orders, Colonel, I understand that.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“What’s going to happen now, sir,” Castillo went on, “is that the choppers and their crews will stay here until the word comes for them to move.”
“Will that come through me or…?”
“Directly, sir. I have a communicator here, as you know—”
“The man from DirecTV.”
“Yes, sir. The execute order will pass through him to Major Ward, the senior pilot. And then they will leave, taking everything with them, and leaving nothing behind but their thanks and the hope that nobody even knew they were here.”
“Is there going to be a problem with that, Richardson?” General Crenshaw asked. “Has anyone been extra curious about what’s going on in the Hanchey hangar?”
“I don’t anticipate any problems in that area, General,” Richardson said.
Crenshaw looked at Castillo and asked, “What about my putting out a discreet word that no one is to gossip about what’s going on at Hanchey?”
“Sir, I appreciate the offer, but I suggest it would be counterproductive; it might call attention to the Hanchey hangar. We have put out the disinformation—when the question ‘What are you guys doing here?’ comes up at Happy Hour—that the choppers are being prepared for use as Opposing Force aircraft at the National Training Center at Fort Irwin. We think that’s credible.”
Crenshaw nodded his agreement.
“You think of everything, don’t you, Castillo?”
“Sir, I think of a lot, but there’s always something important that gets right past me.”
Crenshaw bent over again, and Max gave him his paw again.
“So long, Max,” Crenshaw said. “Meeting you has been an experience…”—he stood up as he glanced at Castillo—“…and so has been meeting your boss.”
Castillo put his virtually untouched coffee mug down and stood up.
Crenshaw put out his hand to him. “Good luck in whatever you’re up to, Colonel.”
“Thank you very much, sir. Permission to withdraw, sir?”
Crenshaw nodded.
Castillo and Richardson came to attention and saluted, Crenshaw returned it, then Castillo and Richardson marched out of his office. Max followed.
[THREE]
Aboard Gulfstream III N37
9LT
33,000 Feet Above the Atlantic Ocean
Approximately 100 Nautical Miles East of Cancún, Mexico
1630 8 September 2005
Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo couldn’t move his legs. He was up to his knees in some kind of muck.
Where the hell am I? What’s going on?
He opened his eyes and found himself sitting in the rear-facing seat against the right bulkhead separating the cockpit from the passenger compartment. And saw the reason he had the nightmare in which he couldn’t move his legs.
Max was having a little snooze, too, and had chosen to take it in the space between the rear-facing seat and the forward-facing seat, and to rest his weary head on Castillo’s feet.
“You big bastard, how did you get in there?”
Max raised his head just enough to look at Castillo—and for Castillo to free his feet—and then laid it down again.
Castillo swung his feet into the aisle, unfastened his seat belt, stood up, and walked down the aisle to meet the call of nature.
He saw that he and Max were not the only ones having a little snooze. Davidson was sitting in the rear-facing seat across the aisle, snoring softly. Delchamps and Leverette were stretched out on the couches, sound asleep.
Yung and Neidermeyer were awake, talking softly, in two of the aisle-facing seats, and Bradley was in one of the forward-facing seats in the rear of the fuselage, looking as if sleep was just around the corner.
When he came out of the toilet, he thought—as he often did—of the fat lady on a transatlantic flight whose rear end had made a perfect seal around the toilet seat, something she found out when she flushed the device, and the vacuum evacuation system kept her glued to it for several hours.
He laughed, then helped himself to a cup of coffee and carried it up the aisle to the cockpit.
“How’s it going?” Castillo said to the pilots.
“Our leader is awake,” Torine said. “Look busy, Captain!”
Captain Richard M. Sparkman, USAF, glanced over his shoulder and smiled at Castillo, then pointed to a GPS screen in the instrument panel.
“There we are,” he said. “About a hundred miles off Cancún. We should make Quito in four-fifteen, give or take.”
“There’s one of those mounted on the bulkhead in the cabin,” Castillo said. “Our benefactor knowing that your revered leader likes to keep an eye on the pilots.”
Torine gave him the finger.
Castillo smiled, then did the mental math.
That’ll put us in Quito just before eleven. Figure an hour for the fuel, a piss stop, and a sandwich, giving us wheels-up out of there at midnight. And then another five-thirty or six to Buenos Aires, putting us in there about half past five, or six in the morning. Which will be half past three—or four—local time.
Then he had another thought:
Which means there will be almost nothing doing at Jorge Newbery when we land.
People will be curious….
“Jake, how about going into Ezeiza? Jorge Newbery will be deserted at half past three in the morning. Ezeiza starts getting the FedEx and UPS planes and some of the European arrivals very early. Maybe we can sort of not be noticed.”
“You’re right, but they expect us at Jorge Newbery.”
“You are forgetting our new commo equipment.”
“I stand corrected,” Torine said. “And I will get on the horn just as soon as I’m sure they’re all asleep. I don’t see why Dick and I should be the only ones in this group awake all night.”
“Fly carefully and smoothly, children,” Castillo said. “Your leader is going to be sleeping.”
Torine gave him the finger again.
Castillo went back to his seat, this time carefully lowering his feet onto Max’s chest. Max opened his eyes for a moment, then closed them again.
Castillo sat for a moment, then said, “Oh, shit!”
He then gently tapped on Max with his feet. Max raised his head.
“Sorry, pal,” Castillo said. “You have to get up.”
Max didn’t budge, although he continued to look at Castillo.
“Get up, damn it!”
Max didn’t move.
Castillo swung his legs into the aisle, got up, and took a few steps down the cabin aisle.
“Come on, boy!”
No response.
Castillo clapped his hands together. Once. Twice. A third time.
Max, not without effort, got to his feet and backed into the aisle.
“Good boy!”
Castillo pushed Max backward up the aisle until he had access to the drawer under his seat. He bent over and pulled it open. Max took two steps and licked Castillo’s face.
“Sonofabitch!” Castillo said, and, pushing at Max to back up, realized the dog probably thought he was playing.
Castillo reached into the drawer and pulled his laptop from it.
Max kissed him again.
“Aw, goddammit!”
“I think he likes you, Colonel,” Sergeant Neidermeyer said.
Castillo looked up at Neidermeyer.
“This is one of those times when I wish I was not a field-grade officer,” Castillo said.
“Sir?”
“If we were both sergeants, I could tell you to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut,” Castillo said.
“With all due respect, Colonel, sir, it is not the sergeant’s fault that the animal seems to like you, sir.”
“Does the sergeant have something on what is loosely known as his mind?”
“Yes, sir. The sergeant thought the colonel might be interested in some photographs the sergeant took in Louisiana, or, more precisely, Colonel, sir, as we were flying over Mississippi and Louisiana, sir.”
He handed Castillo a large manila envelope.
Castillo took it from him and removed the photographs. There were twenty or more eight-by-ten-inch crisp color prints. Just about all of them were photographs of the hurricane damage they had seen from the air.
“Nice, Jamie,” Castillo said. “What’s the chances of getting a set of these?”
“I made those for you,” Neidermeyer said.
“Thanks, Jamie,” Castillo said. “I appreciate that.”
He was now nearly at the end of the stack of photographs.
The one he had on top of the stack now was of him and the Richardson boy. They had both turned in their seats to look into the rear of the airplane—Neidermeyer must have done something, called something, to get us to turn and look at him—Castillo was turned in his seat to his right, and the Richardson boy to his left, the result being their heads were close together.
“Nice kid,” Neidermeyer said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was yours.”
“What?”
“He’s got your eyes, Colonel,” Neidermeyer said.
“I have so far been spared the joys of matrimony and—so far as I know—of parenthood.”
“The eyes, Colonel. They’re as blue as yours. That’s what I mean.”
No, he doesn’t look like me.
I’m blond and fair-skinned.
This kid is olive-skinned. He could almost be Latin.
He looks like Fernando looked the first time I saw him. We were about as old then as this kid.
Holy Christ!
Calm down!
How could Richardson’s kid possibly be mine?
Castillo suddenly felt a chill down his spine. He had goose bumps.
Dumb fucking question!
“Well, he’s a nice kid. I wish he was mine. But he’s not, obviously,” Castillo said, and put the photographs back in the envelope. “Thanks, Jamie.”
“Happy to do it, Colonel,” Jamie Neidermeyer said, and walked back to his seat.
Castillo picked up his laptop from the seat, sat down, tucked the envelope of photographs under the laptop, and then opened the computer.
He clicked on a file titled CHKLIST.
A screen full of gibberish appeared.
/> Why did I bother to encrypt this? No one could make sense out of it if it was on a billboard.
He held down the CTRL key, typed “DEC,” and the file decrypted.
The gibberish was replaced by a screen more or less in English.
* * *
(1)
RRAC???
AV???????
WHEN????
WHERE???
ETA U??
OR???
(2)
OO??
C5’S???
C-141S??
HOW MANY??
WHERE LAND??
(3)
PEVSNER??
WHERE??
DRUG CONNECTION??
WHERE HIS BELL???
* * *
The list of numbered entries—Castillo’s system of keeping Things To Do notes numbered according to what he considered was their priority at the moment—ran off the computer screen.
He scrolled slowly down the list, reading each one. There were twenty-three.
He scrolled back up the list to (1). He would deal with that first.
The translation of (1) was:
* * *
What about the aircraft carrier USS Ronald Reagan?
Is it going to be available?
When is it going to be available?
Where will it be when/if it is made available?
What will its Estimated Time of Arrival off of Uruguay—or someplace else—be?
* * *
He made the necessary corrections based on his current knowledge.
General McNab had sent Colonel Kingston to Tampa International Airport, where they had taken on fuel and gone through the customs and immigration formalities.
Kingston had told him the USS Ronald Reagan had been ordered through Navy channels to be prepared to receive four (possibly as many as six) UH-1H helicopters that were engaged in a clandestine operation classified Top Secret. The Task Group Commander and the captain of the Ronald Reagan would be advised when and where the helicopters were to be brought aboard. The senior officer of the flight detachment would advise the Task Group Commander and the captain when and where the helicopters were to be launched from the Reagan.
The cover story for the operation was that the helicopters were being ferried to an unspecified Latin American country as part of a military assistance program. In this connection, the Ronald Reagan was to be prepared to strip the helicopters of their existing U.S. Army paint scheme and identification numbers and repaint them in a paint scheme and numbers to be furnished by the senior officer of the flight detachment.
The Shooters Page 33
