“You don’t get to see him?” Elena asked, sympathetically.
“I saw him just a few days ago,” Castillo said. “I gave him flying lessons as we flew over the Gulf Coast looking at the damage Hurricane Katrina had done.”
“Was it as terrible as we saw on television?” Anna asked.
“If anything, worse. Unbelievable.”
“Have you got a picture?” Elena asked.
“You’re interested?”
She nodded.
“In my son? Or the hurricane damage?”
She giggled and blushed.
“Both,” she said.
Castillo reached under his chair and picked up his soft leather briefcase.
“What’s that?” Pevsner asked.
“My American Express card. I never leave home without it.”
Pevsner exhaled audibly, smiled, and shook his head.
Castillo took out the envelope of photographs that Sergeant Neidermeyer had made for him and handed it to Elena.
“Show these to your father and mother when you’re finished,” Castillo said.
“He’s beautiful, Charley,” Pevsner said some moments later. “His eyes are just like yours.”
So much for the question “Does Abuela know?”
“Boys are ‘handsome,’ Alek,” Castillo said, then glanced at Elena. “Girls are ‘beautiful.’”
She smiled as she flipped to another photo.
“My boys are beautiful,” Pevsner said. “And so is yours.”
The waiter approached, excused his interruption, and said, “A cocktail before dinner?”
“Ginger ale for the children,” Pevsner ordered. “Very dry vodka martinis, with onions, for my wife and myself. Alfredo?”
“I would like scotch,” Munz said. “Single-malt Famous Grouse?”
The waiter nodded, and looked at Castillo.
“Nothing for me, thanks, I’m driving.”
“Have one, friend Charley,” Pevsner said. “I never trust a man who doesn’t drink when I do.”
“You never trust a man, period,” Castillo said.
What the hell.
I’ll just get off the ground in the morning a little later.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” he said to the waiter. “Except hold the vegetables and vermouth.”
[FOUR]
Corporal Lester Bradley appeared at their table about the same time as the appetizers of prosciutto crudo with melon and pâté de foie gras.
“Major Miller would like to speak to you, sir,” Bradley announced. “He said it’s really important.”
I knew I shouldn’t have had that martini.
“Excuse me, please,” Castillo said, and stood. “I’ll try to cut this as short as possible. C’mon, Max.”
He signaled for Bradley to lead the way.
Castillo and Max followed him down the lobby to an elevator, which took them up to the second floor, then down a corridor almost to the end. Bradley unlocked a hotel room door, waved them ahead of him, and then followed them inside.
The control console was nowhere in sight, but Castillo saw a DirecTV dish fastened to the railing of the small balcony and remembered that there was a repeater mounted in the antenna; no cable was required.
Bradley took the control console from the shelf of a small closet and put it on a small table barely large enough to hold it.
For a five-star hotel, this room is pretty damn small.
He looked around the room and saw that the only furniture beside the bed and tiny table was a small chest of drawers and a small upholstered armchair. The chair was across the room from the table, with the control console now sitting on it.
“Will that work in my room without moving the antenna, Lester? This room’s pretty small.”
“This is your room, sir,” Bradley replied. “Mine is even smaller.”
A moment later, Bradley announced, “We’re up, sir,” and handed Castillo what looked very much like an ordinary wireless telephone handset.
“Why don’t you sit, sir?” Bradley asked, nodding at the armchair.
When Castillo settled in the armchair, he learned that it was not only small but also uncomfortably close to the ground. His head was now as far off the ground as Max’s, which Max interpreted to mean Castillo wanted to be kissed. Which he did.
Is this damn place designed for dwarfs?
Castillo looked at the handset. The AFC logo was discreetly molded into the plastic. He also saw that there was a thin soft black cushion on the earpiece.
Not for comfort. That’s to muffle the incoming voice. Bradley won’t be able to hear what Miller’s saying, but needs to.
“Put it on speaker, Les,” Castillo said, as he put the handset to his ear.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Bradley said, and when he had pushed the appropriate button, went to the corridor wall and leaned on it.
It was either that or sit on my bed.
“Hello?” Castillo said into the handset.
“Where the hell have you been, Charley?” Major Richard Miller announced. “I’ve been trying to raise you for two hours.”
“What’s up?” Castillo replied, and then hurriedly added: “Are we secure?”
“According to my indicators we are.”
“Okay, so what’s so important?”
“Now you’ve got me worried, Charley. I therefore will talk in tongues. Four of the birds managed to land where they were going without sinking it. The reason I know this…Oh, to hell with it. I think this may damned well be blown anyway.”
“What may be damned well blown?”
“The reason I know they’re on the carrier is because a bluesuit—a commander—showed up here to personally deliver to you an Info Copy of an Urgent from the captain to the CNO. It took me five minutes to get the bastard to give it to me.”
“What did it say?”
There was a rattling at the door to the hotel room, and it suddenly swung open.
“What the hell?” Castillo said, and then, “Hold one, Dick.”
Castillo saw that the manager of the hotel was holding the door open for Pevsner and János.
“I don’t recall inviting you up here,” Castillo said angrily, in Russian.
“We have to talk, friend Charley,” Pevsner said, matter-of-factly, also in Russian.
“It won’t wait until after dinner?”
Pevsner shook his head, thanked the manager in Spanish, then closed the door on him. He turned to Castillo and, switching back to Russian, asked, “Do you have a weapon?”
“No, but Bradley does,” Castillo said, and pointed at Corporal Bradley.
Bradley held his M1911A1 .45 pistol in both hands, its hammer back and the muzzle aimed at the floor at János’s and Pesvner’s feet.
He didn’t understand a word of the Russian, but he saw the look on my face, and he’s taking no chances.
Neither is Max. He’s on his feet and inching toward Pevsner and János.
“That’s the pistol, János,” Castillo said, almost conversationally, “that Bradley used to take down Colonel Komogorov in the hotel garage in Pilar after Komogorov put a bullet in you.”
“We mean you no harm, friend Charley!” Pevsner said.
For some reason, I don’t think that tone of anguish is phony.
“Put it away, Lester,” Castillo ordered in English. He switched to Hungarian—“Down, Max!”—and then to Russian. “People who come barging into my room are likely to get shot. You might want to write that down, Alek.”
“We came to make sure you had a gun in order to do just that,” Pevsner said. “János, give it him.”
János—very carefully, using his thumb and index finger—took what looked like a Model 1911 Colt pistol from his jacket’s inside pocket and handed it to Castillo.
“That’s an Argentine copy of your .45,” Pevsner said. “Almost identical. A Ballester Molina stolen, I’m told, from the Argentine Army ten years ago.”
In almost a Pavlovian act, Casti
llo ejected the magazine and worked the pistol’s slide. A cartridge flew through the air and landed on the bed. Castillo picked it up, put it in the magazine, then put the magazine back in the pistol and dropped the hammer.
“What the hell is going on there, Charley?” Major Richard Miller’s voice demanded over the speaker circuit.
“Turn the speaker off, Lester,” Castillo ordered, and picked up the handset.
Pevsner looked as if he was going to leave the room.
Oh, what the hell!
“Stay, Alek,” Castillo said.
He’ll be able to hear only one side of the conversation.
And he already knows I work for the President.
Castillo spoke into the handset: “Excuse the interruption, Richard. The maid wanted to turn down the bed. You were saying?”
“I was about to read the message the bluesuit didn’t want to give me.”
“Please do.”
“Skipping the address crap at the top …‘(1) Pursuant to verbal order issued by DepSecNav to undersigned in telecon 1530 6 September 2005, four US Army HU1D rotary-wing aircraft were permitted to land aboard USS Ronald Reagan at 1305 10 September 2005.
“‘(2) Senior officer among them, who states he is a US Army major but declines to further identify himself with identity card or similar document, also has refused to inform the undersigned of the nature of his mission, stating it is classified Top Secret Presidential, and neither the undersigned nor RADM Jacoby, USN, the Task Force Commander, is authorized access to such information.’”
“Good for him,” Castillo said.
“It gets better,” Miller replied. “‘(3) US Army major was denied permission by undersigned to communicate with US Army LtCol Costello of Dept of Homeland Security using a non-standard satellite radio he brought aboard. He said LtCol Costello could quote clarify unquote the situation. He refused use of Reagan’s communication services, stating he could not be sure of their encryption capabilities.
“‘(4) US Army major has also refused inspection of cargo aboard helicopters, again citing classification of Top Secret Presidential.’”
“And, again, good for him,” Castillo said. “Who screwed up and didn’t clue the Navy in on what’s happening?”
“I’m not finished,” Miller said. “Get this: “‘(5) Helicopters and their crews are presently on flight deck in what amounts to a standoff between members of my crew and the Army personnel.”
“Oh, shit!” Castillo said.
“Continuing right along,” Miller replied, “‘(6) Further action was not taken because the US Army personnel are obviously American and they pose no threat to USS Ronald Reagan that cannot be dealt with.
“‘(7) Urgently and respectfully request clarification of this situation and existing orders. It is suggested that contacting LtCol Costello, only, might be useful.’ That’s why the bluesuit didn’t even want to give me this.”
“Jesus Christ!” Castillo said.
“And we conclude with, ‘(8) USS Ronald Reagan proceeding.’ The signature is ‘Kenton, Captain USN, Captain, USS Ronald Reagan’ and below that it says, ‘Rear Admiral K. G. Jacoby, USN, concurs.’”
“What did Montvale have to say?”
“That’s why I called you, Charley. I can’t get through to Montvale.”
“What do you mean you can’t get through to him?”
“Your buddy Truman Ellsworth, who answers his line, says he’s not available.”
“He does?” Castillo said, coldly. “Get me the White House switchboard.”
He saw Pevsner’s eyes light up when he heard “White House.”
Miller said, “Before you charge off in righteous indignation, would you be interested in hearing my probably somewhat paranoid assessment of the situation?”
“As long as it doesn’t take longer than sixty seconds.”
“What happened, I submit, is that General McNab went to the secretary of Defense and told him he had to move the Hueys down there black, under the authority of the Presidential Finding. So far, so good, as the secretary of Defense knows about the Finding and that he’s being told, not asked. So the secretary of Defense got on the horn to the secretary of the Navy and told him to do it.” He paused. “I don’t know if the secretary of the Navy knows about the Finding. Do you?”
“No.”
“Okay,” Miller said. “I don’t think he does, but it doesn’t really matter. I’m pretty sure that the deputy secretary of the Navy doesn’t. Agree?”
“He probably doesn’t.”
“The Urgent says the bluesuit captain got his orders to land the Hueys on his ship from the deputy on the phone. I think it’s very reasonable to assume the bluesuit captain asked the deputy what the hell was going on, and the deputy couldn’t tell him, because he didn’t know any more than he was told, which was essentially, just do it, explanation to follow.”
“Okay,” Castillo agreed.
“Which causes the bluesuit captain to shift into cover-my-ass mode. So he goes and tells the admiral, who is in charge of the whole carrier group. Which causes the admiral not only to be pissed, because he’s the admiral, and the deputy should have called him, not the captain, but also causes him to shift into his cover-my-ass mode.”
“Probably,” Castillo agreed.
“So the admiral says, ‘There’s nothing we can really do except wait for the Army choppers to land. Whoever’s in charge of them probably will explain what’s going on, and based on that we can decide how to best protect our beloved Navy from the fucking Army.
“And then the birds land on the carrier, and good ol’ Major Bob Ward, in the sacred traditions of the 160th, ain’t gonna tell nobody nothing—or show anybody anything, not even a bluesuit with stars—without permission from the guy running the operation, one C. G. Castillo. He is willing to get this permission, providing they let him set up his nonstandard radio which—for reasons I don’t know; they were in their cover-my-ass mode, which may explain it—they were unwilling to do.
“So there’s the standoff and why they sent the Urgent.”
“Very credible,” Castillo said, “but what’s it got to do with Ellsworth not letting you talk to Montvale?”
“Let me finish,” Miller said. “Montvale knew you were worried about the Navy giving us trouble because Jake Torine called him, right?”
“So?”
“And Montvale is going to get Jake on the carrier to make sure there’s no trouble caused by the aforementioned impetuous light colonel Castillo, right?”
“So, again?”
“So, if you were Montvale and had NSA at Fort Meade in your pocket, and wanted to stay on top of the situation, wouldn’t you task NSA to look for—‘search filter: Army choppers on Navy ships, any reference’—and immediately give him any and all intercepts? Of course you would. And I’ll bet that sonofabitch had the Urgent before I did.”
“Where are you going with this, Dick?” Castillo asked.
I think I know, he thought, but I’d like confirmation.
“Montvale doesn’t give a damn whether or not you get Timmons back, Charley. We both heard him say as much. He wants to protect the President, I’ll give him that much, and he thinks your operation is going to blow up in everybody’s face, including the President’s. And Truman Ellsworth, for sure, and probably Montvale, would love to see you fuck up and embarrass the President, which would happen if you can’t run the snatch-and-grab successfully. Which you can’t without the choppers. That’s why he was so helpful in arranging to get Jake onto the Gipper. Montvale, not you, would have sent him. That means Jake works for Montvale, which cuts you out of the picture.
“Then, and you know the sonofabitch is good at this, he whispers in the admiral’s ear that no serious harm would be done if something happened to keep him from launching the choppers, and an embarrassing-to-the-Navy situation might well be avoided.”
“Sonofabitch!”
“And he knows you’re out of touch. And he knows, that being
the case, when I got the Urgent, I would try to call him. So he tells Ellsworth that he’s not available to me. I think he’s betting that I wouldn’t call the President. And if I did, so what? All that would mean was that the Lunatic’s Chief of Staff is as loony as he is. And if the President asked him what the hell’s going on, Montvale could pull the rug out from under you—for this operation and generally.”
“Yeah, except the lunatic found out and is perfectly willing to get on the horn to the President.”
“Permission to speak, sir?” Miller said.
Castillo sensed that Miller was not being clever. He had used the phrase a subordinate officer uses when his superior officer is about to do something the subordinate thinks is wrong.
“Granted.”
“Sir, how often do you think Admiral Jacoby gets phone calls from the White House switchboard?”
It was a moment before Castillo answered.
“Where’s Torine now?” he asked.
“Forty minutes ago, he was about to land at MacDill.”
“As soon as we get off here, contact him, bring him up to speed on what’s happened. Tell him Montvale is not to know we’re onto him, and to call me once he’s on the Gipper.”
“Okay, but what’s happened? I must have missed something.”
“Stay on the line while I brighten Admiral Jacoby’s dull daily routine with a call from the White House.”
“White House,” the pleasant professional female voice answered. “What can I do for you, Colonel Castillo?”
“I need Rear Admiral K. G. Jacoby on a secure line. He’s aboard the USS Ronald Reagan, which is somewhere between Norfolk and Key West.”
There was a moment’s pause, then the operator replied: “The difficult we do immediately, sir; the impossible takes a little longer. I’ll have to go through the Navy. That’ll take a little time. Can I call you when it’s set up?”
“Can I stay on the line?”
“Certainly.”
“Navy.”
“White House. We need a secure encrypted voice connection to the USS Ronald Reagan. It’s in the Atlantic some—”
“We know where she is, thank you very much, White House.”
The Shooters Page 43
