"It would be impolitic of you, Tom," McNab said, "to ask where he's getting the money."
"My concern is whether there's enough."
"There's enough," Castillo said.
"Charley has some experience with how much black costs," McNab said. "So how do we get the Hueys down there, and exactly where do we send them?"
"Open for a wild hair?" Kingston asked.
McNab nodded.
"The Ronald Reagan," Kingston said.
McNab pursed his lips thoughtfully.
"Excuse me?" Castillo asked.
"It's an aircraft carrier, Charley. Named after the Gipper," McNab said drily.
Kingston added, "And it's sailing around the world, or at least down the east coast of South America, and around the horn, or whatever they call it, and then up the west coast to San Diego.
"Onto her, Tom," McNab corrected him. "She's sailing around the world."
Kingston nodded. "If we could get those Hueys onto her either before she leaves, or even after she leaves, they could just be flown off…"
"Wouldn't that make waves?" Castillo asked, and then heard what he had just said and, shaking his head, muttered, "Jesus Christ!"
"I don't think so," Kingston said, smiling at him. "We could say they're for the press or something. The Navy probably won't like the idea-"
"The Navy will do what the secretary of Defense tells it to do," McNab said, flatly.
"You have a place where they could be landed black?" Kingston asked.
"I know just the place," Castillo said. "But the last time I was in Uruguay their head cop told me, 'Good-bye and please don't come back.'"
"You want me to set this up with the Navy or not, Charley?" McNab asked.
"Yes, sir, please. I'll find a place to fly them off to before they get there."
"Just the Hueys? Or the Hueys and the shooters?"
"Just the Hueys," Castillo said. "We've got a few days. It would be better to send them down as tourists, or soccer players, a couple at a time."
"No problem with Spanish-speaking A-Teams, Tom?" McNab asked.
"No."
"Get on the horn to Bragg. I want four shooters on their way within twelve hours, different airlines, and six every twenty-four hours thereafter. You have a place for them to go, Charley?"
"By the time they get there, I will."
He wrote several telephone numbers on a sheet of paper and handed the paper to Kingston.
"That's if something happens and Lorimer doesn't meet them at the airport."
Kingston nodded his understanding.
"We could send the weapons and the gear on the Hueys," Castillo said, thoughtfully. "If we can't get the Hueys into the country black, we won't need the weapons. And that'll eliminate having to send them under diplomatic cover, which would open a can of worms."
Kingston grunted his approval.
"Get the weapons and gear moving to Rucker right away," McNab ordered. "There's a buck general there, Crenshaw, I've dealt with before. I'll get on the horn to him and give him a heads-up, tell him to stash the weapons and gear until Charley knows what he wants to do with it."
"Yes, sir."
"I'll also tell him to expect eight Huey pilots-and four crew chiefs-from the 160th at Campbell, same story. I'll get on the horn to Campbell myself as soon as I can."
"Yes, sir," Kingston said.
"Anything else for right now?"
Kingston looked at Castillo.
"The money?" Kingston said.
"You've got a black account here, sir?"
"In the base branch of the Wachovia Bank."
"If you'll give me the number, sir, I'll get on the horn to Dick Miller, and the money will probably be in it by the close of their business day. How much will you need, sir?"
"This isn't going to be cheap, Castillo. We've got-"
"Will a million cover it for openers, sir?"
"More than enough," Kingston said.
"Wrong answer, Tom," McNab said. "Probably not, Colonel Castillo. But we can always come back to you for more, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's it, then?" McNab asked.
"I think that covers just about everything for now, sir," Kingston said.
"Yes, sir. Thank you both."
"Why don't we see if Miller is going to have any problems getting the money down here before I start loaning you money from my special funds?" McNab said.
Castillo took his cellular phone from his pocket. Kingston handed him a slip of paper.
Ninety seconds later, Castillo broke the connection.
"Done, sir. Major Miller sends his compliments, sir."
"Story going around is that he's being retired medically. True?"
"Yes, sir. First of the month. He's going to work for me."
McNab shook his head.
"Goddamn shame," he said, and then heard what he had said. "I don't mean his working for you, Charley. I meant…his being involuntarily retired."
"Yes, sir. It is."
McNab shook his head and then smiled.
"Okay. Those shrill girlish giggles you may have been hearing are those made by my wife when she is playing with a dog. I suspect everybody's here. Once again, my timing is perfect."
He began to scrape the meat scraps from his plate onto another and then reached for Castillo's plate.
"That animal of yours eats meat, right?"
"Yes, sir. He does."
When they went into house, Mrs. Bruce J. McNab was already feeding Max.
"Charley, he's adorable," she said. "And he really loves chocolate, doesn't he? That's his fourth Hershey bar."
VII
[ONE]
Cairns Army Airfield
Fort Rucker, Alabama 1530 4 September 2005 Castillo stuck his head in the cockpit of the Gulfstream V and said, "Thanks, guys."
"Any time, Colonel," the pilot, an Air Force major, said as he offered his hand.
"You've got another general meeting you, Colonel," the copilot, a young captain, said, offering his hand and then pointing out the window.
Castillo saw that the copilot was wearing an Air Force Academy ring.
Another bright and bushy-tailed young man, he thought, not unkindly, who went through the academy dreaming of soaring through the wild blue yonder in a supersonic fighter jet…and wound up in the right seat of a Gulfstream.
And who by now has realized he's lucky to be there.
Most of his classmates are probably still wingless, flying a supply room desk.
The Air Force had far more academy graduates wanting-and qualified for-flight training than the Air Force had a requirement for pilots. The bitter joke going around the Air Force was "If you really wanted to fly, you should have joined the Army. They have more aircraft than we do."
Castillo looked to where the lieutenant pointed.
Brigadier General Crenshaw, the deputy commander of Fort Rucker and the Army Aviation Center, was standing in the door of the Base Operations building with a young officer.
Oh, shit!
Last time I saw him, I said I was Secret Service.
That was-what?-just three days ago…
When Castillo turned back to the passenger compartment, he saw that the crew chief/steward had already unloaded their luggage, and Neidermeyer was going down the stair door steps cradling the radio suitcase in his arms. Max was standing in the aisle straining against his makeshift leash, which was firmly tied to a seat mount.
Untying the wire leash proved difficult, as Max's tugging on it had really tightened the knot. Castillo finally got it undone, and allowed Max to tow him down the stair-door steps. As he did, he saw that Crenshaw had walked across the tarmac to the airplane.
He saluted as well as he could while allowing Max to make his way to the nose gear, where Max lifted his leg and broke wind. Several times. Loudly.
"Did you have to teach him to do that, Colonel?" General Crenshaw asked. "Or did it come naturally to him?"
Castillo could think of nothing to say but "Good afternoon, sir," so he said that.
"Welcome back to Fort Rucker, Colonel," Crenshaw said. "I have been reliably informed that you did in fact learn how to fly in Texas, and that there was probably a good reason you told me you were in the Secret Service."