"Fuck it, far enough," Castillo said, stopped pushing, rolled onto his back, and put his arm over his eyes against the bright sunlight.
A moment later, as he was still taking breaths in deep heaves, he felt a nudge against his side. From under his arm, without moving, he saw an old, battered military-looking boot.
Oh, shit! If Torine or Sherman wanted my attention, they wouldn't nudge me with a boot. They aren't even wearing boots.
He took his arm off his eyes.
There was a man standing over him, his face covered with green, brown, and black grease stripes.
"I understand that old Air Force fart wheezing like a rode-hard racehorse," Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab said, "but you and Sherman? By God, what are people going to think?"
Castillo didn't reply. He forced himself into a sitting position. His arm was nudged, and, when he looked, McNab was holding out a plastic quart bottle of 7UP to him.
Castillo took it wordlessly, opened it, and drank from it.
"For your general information, the Air Force survived his crash landing," McNab said. "His dignity, unfortunately, took a beating."
"How long have you been here?" Castillo asked, finally getting his breath.
"Long enough, were I a wagering man, to lay heavy odds the 727 is here. I got a guy out there now taking a real close look."
"I'm pretty sure it's the one we're looking for," Charley said. "We taxied past it. It's got freshly painted registration numbers, and the red, white, and blue stripes on the vertical stabilizer Pevsner's guy saw on it in Venezuela."
Colonel Torine and Sergeant Sherman walked up.
"You all right, Jake? Nothing broken?"
"I'm fine."
"You okay, Charley?" Torine asked.
Castillo nodded.
"How is it that you're here, sir?" Torine asked McNab.
"McFadden and Naylor got me on the radio and said they'd found a sandy beach not far from here. Some CIA guy had done compression tests and, theoretically, it would take a C-17. With the fingers of both hands crossed, I decided to give it a shot."
"Obviously, it took the 17."
"More or less. We got down all right. But stopped for more than a couple of minutes, the Globemaster starts to sink in the sand. It was a hell of a job getting the Little Birds off; we had to keep the airplane moving all the time we were unloading. It looked like a Chinese fire drill."
"But you're unloaded."
"There's two gunships and four troop carriers about five miles away. Did I mention that the C-17 is taxiing up and down the beach, back and forth, back and forth? I don't know how long that's going to work. Nor do I know whether or not we can get it back in the air."
"Empty, you probably can," Torine said. "There's an awesome amount of thrust on a 17."
"Empty? What am I supposed to do with the Little Birds? Torch them?"
A tall, blond sergeant first class, dressed as was General McNab in a jungle camouflage uniform, came up. He had a CAR-4 hanging from his shoulder and was carrying what looked like a laptop computer in his hands like a tray. It was open.
"Stedder's in place, General," he said and started to hand the laptop to McNab.
"Will you hold it, please, Sergeant Orson?" McNab said.
Castillo got quickly up.
"Careful with that 7UP, Charley," McNab said. "This is the only one of these we have."
"Stedder reports the Lear has taken off, sir," Sergeant Orson said.
"Where's he going, Charley?" McNab asked.
"Nicaragua, to report where we are and that we think we've found the 727."
McNab grunted and looked at the laptop computer. It displayed an image of the 727 from the side.
Whoever's taking these must be on the roof of that building, CENTRAL AMERICAN FREIGHT FORWARDING, whatever.
The image also showed some movement. There were a half-dozen security guards in military-looking uniforms on the tarmac. When they moved, it was as if they did so in slow motion.
"Can he give us a close-up of the front door?" Castillo asked.
McNab typed rapidly on the laptop's keyboard.
The screen went dark, then lit up with an out-of-focus view of the forward part of the aircraft, which then came into focus.
All that could be seen was the top of the movable stairway. The open door was clearly visible but nothing was visible inside the aircraft.
"I don't suppose we'd see a hell of a lot more up the rear stairway," Castillo said.
"Probably less, Major," Sergeant Orson said. "The angles there are a bear."
"Don't call him 'Major,' Orson," McNab said. "We don't want anybody to know that he's one of us. Didn't you did see him skiing down the hill?"
Orson chuckled.
"Let's have another look at the whole airplane," Torine said.
McNab typed on the keyboard again and a few moments later an image of the 727 from the side appeared. And this shot showed other movement. An open-bodied Ford ton-and-a-half truck, loaded high with thin cardboard boxes, moved in jerking movements toward the airplane and two men moved jerkily toward the 727, obviously intending to open the cargo doors.
"Well, there's your flowers, Charley," McNab said.
"Which means they're getting ready to go," Castillo said.
"And what would you suggest we do about that?" McNab asked. "Keeping in mind the president wants this done quietly, which would seem to rule out telling one of the gunships to put a couple of rockets in it."
"Why don't we steal it back?" Colonel Torine asked.
"How would you propose that we do that?" McNab asked. "Can you fly that thing by yourself, Jake?"
"With Charley in the right seat, I can," Torine said and looked at Castillo.
"How can we do that quietly?" Castillo asked.
"Quietly is a relative term," McNab said. "Not very quietly would be to put a couple of rockets in it, which would leave a burned-out airplane for the television cameras of the world to see proof of our arrogant invasion of friendly Costa Rica. A little less quietly would be having the Air Force take it out after it gets in the air. A lot of airplanes-and who knows who else-are going to hear our pilot order the airplane to return here or get shot down. How the hell are we going to be able to deny that if he has to shoot it down?"
Torine grunted.
McNab added, "There's a flight of F-15s on their way from Eglin, by the way. Hell, they may even be here, out over the Pacific."
"They've probably built some sort of framework over the fuel bladders," Castillo said.
"What?" McNab asked.
"There's thirteen fuel bladders in the passenger compartment," Castillo said. "They'll have to be hidden from the customs guys at Tampa. So they will cover them with flowers. Hence, a framework."
"Okay, so?" McNab said.
"Which means they will have to be placed on that framework by the guys who stole the airplane, not by ground handlers, who would want to know what's up with the fuel bladders."
"Major," Sergeant Orson said, "when Sergeant Stedder was getting into position he said it looked to him as if there was a crew of four."
"They must have brought two guys to help carry the flowers up the back stairs," Torine said. "And protect the airplane."
"Making a total of four we have to take out if we're going to take over the airplane. Figure it's going to take them forty minutes to load all those flowers, six boxes at a time, up the front and back stairways."
"So that's how much time we have," McNab agreed.
"We don't know all they have is two more guys," Castillo said. "The sergeant said he saw four. There could be more."
"And they all have to be taken out, right?" Torine asked.
McNab grunted. "Odds are, we can't have a little chat with them and explain the futility of their position. We have to take them out quickly and then get that airplane off the ground quickly."
"How is Gray Fox equipped for snipers, sir?" Castillo asked.
"Well, there's one really good one, Major Castillo," Sergeant Orson said. "If I do have to say so myself. And Sergeant Stedder thought it would be a good idea if he took his rifle along when he went out to climb on the roof. How many do you think you're going to need?"