Wilson and Neidermeyer would take the middle-row bucket seats.
The bench seat in the rear was just wide enough for Max to lie down, if he wanted.
"What do I do about a seat belt for him?" Castillo wondered aloud.
"Try to fly smooth and not come to a sudden stop," General Wilson said.
Castillo sensed the boy's eyes on him as he trimmed out the airplane and set the autopilot on a more or less southwesterly course for Pensacola, Florida.
"Back in the dark ages when your grandfather and my father were flying, they had to do this just about by themselves," Castillo explained to Randy over the intercom, his voice coming through the David Clark headsets that everyone wore. "Now we just push buttons and computers do all the work."
He showed him the Global Positioning System, then pointed to the screen with its map in motion.
"Here we are, south of Fort Rucker. There's where we're going, Pass Christian, Mississippi. The computer tells me we have one hundred eighty-four miles to go, that we're at five thousand feet, and making about one hundred fifty miles an hour over the ground."
The boy soaked that all in, then asked, "Wasn't it more fun when you did it yourself?"
Without really thinking about it, Castillo disengaged the autopilot, said, "Find out for yourself," then, imitating the tone of a commercial airliner pilot, raised his voice: "Attention in the passenger compartment. The copilot is now flying."
The boy looked at him in disbelief.
"If you're going to drive, it might be a good idea to put your hands on the yoke," Castillo said. He pointed. "That's the yoke."
"The thing to remember, Randy, is to be smooth," General Wilson said, leaning over his grandson's shoulder. "Don't jerk the wheel. A very little goes a long way."
The boy put his hands on the yoke.
"Can you reach the pedals?" Castillo asked.
The boy tried, then nodded.
This probably isn't the smartest thing I've ever done, but what the hell.
General Crenshaw was right last night: The kid will never forget that he went flying with his grandfather to see what Hurricane Katrina did to the Gulf Coast.
And we have plenty of fuel.
"Keep your feet on the pedals," Castillo ordered. "But don't move them till I say. What you're going to do now is make it go up and down. When you've got that down pat, you're going to turn us dead south."
"Yes, sir," the boy said.
"Just ease the yoke forward, Randy," his grandfather said. "And try to keep the wings level."
The hurricane damage-a lot of it-became worse as they came closer to the coast. When they were over Pensacola Beach, Florida, the damage was so bad that Castillo decided they needed a closer look.
"I'll take it now, Randy. I want to get down for a better look, and I don't think you're quite ready to make low-level passes."
"Yes, sir," the boy said, reluctantly taking his hands off the yoke.
The damage to Pensacola Beach was worse than anyone expected.
General Wilson and Jamie Neidermeyer got their video, then Castillo adjusted the flaps and throttle in preparation for the aircraft to climb.
"I'm going to give it back to you, Randy," Castillo said. "What you're going to do now is climb, slowly, to five thousand feet and steer two seven zero."
"Just ease back on the yoke," Grandpa Wilson said. "You're doing fine."
He is. What the hell, his father and grandfather are pilots.
What was it Don Fernando used to say? "Genes don't teach you how to do anything, but they damn sure determine whether or not you can learn."
How big were we when he taught Fernando and me to fly? About as big as this kid, I guess.
God, Fernando and I had flown all over Texas and Mexico by the time we were old enough to get a student's license.
Over Mobile, Alabama, Castillo ordered the boy to turn south and fly to the Gulf, and when they were over it, to turn right and start a gentle descent to fifteen hundred feet.
By the time they reached that altitude, they were over Pascagoula, Mississippi, where the damage was literally incredible. Along the beach, the storm had either destroyed or floated away everything within a quarter-or half-mile of the normal waterline.
"Take it down another five hundred feet, copilot, and then I'll take it."
"Yes, sir."
The damage got worse as they flew along the beach. They saw where two floating casinos had been moved five hundred yards from where they had been moored on the beach.
"Now, Randy, since I don't know where I am, or exactly where it is that I want to go, we will now let the computer take over."
"Yes, sir."
Ten minutes later they were over the landing strip of the Masterson Plantation.
There was clear evidence of hurricane damage-tall pines snapped and huge oaks, some of them obviously hundreds of years old, uprooted-but the airstrip and the house and its outbuildings seemed intact.
There were a number of cars and trucks parked around the house.
Castillo made two low passes over the runway to make sure it was clear. As he pulled out of the second pass to gain altitude to make his approach, he happened to glance at the boy's face. Randy clearly was excited, grinning from ear to ear.
Damned shame the general stopped flying. He could have done this, and the kid could remember that.
Oh, for Christ's sake, stop it!
You're here on business, not to pretend you're the kid's loving uncle.
As Castillo completed the landing roll, he saw three SUVs quickly approaching the field. Then, as he taxied back to the single hangar where a sparkling V-tail Beechcraft Bonanza was tied down, he saw people. He recognized Winslow Masterson and his wife, and their daughter and her three children. There was an older couple standing with them. Logic told him they were the other grandparents, Ambassador Lorimer-the man he had come to see-and his wife.
And logic told him, too, that the two approaching-middle-aged men in business suits were members of China Post No. 1 in Exile, the retired special operators whom Castillo had arranged for Masterson to hire to protect his daughter-in-law and grandchildren.
Winslow Masterson was a tall, slim, elegant, sharp-featured man. He had told Castillo that he suspected his ancestors had been Tutsi.
The men in business suits watched carefully as Castillo parked the airplane, and then one of them nodded-but didn't smile-at Castillo when he apparently recognized him. Both men then leaned against the fender of their SUV as everybody else walked up to the airplane.
"Welcome back to the recently renamed Overturned Oaks Plantation, Major Castillo," Masterson said when Castillo climbed out of the airplane. "This is a pleasant surprise."
"Good to see you, sir," Castillo said. "Anybody afraid of dogs?"
The question seemed to surprise everybody, but no one expressed any concern.
Neidermeyer opened the aircraft's rear double door, stepped out, commanded, "Okay, Max," and let loose of his collar.
At the command, Max jumped out of the plane, headed for the nose gear, and relieved himself.
The older Masterson boy laughed.
"It took months to train him how to do that," Castillo said after everyone else had crawled out of the airplane through the same double door.
Jesus Christ it's hot! Castillo thought. And the humidity is damn near unbearable. Worse than at Rucker.
"I'm not going to call you Major," Elizabeth Masterson, a tall, slim, thirty-seven-year-old, said. "You're a friend, Charley."
She advanced on him and kissed his cheek.
"Actually, I'm a lieutenant colonel, he announced with overwhelming immodesty."
"Good for you," she said. "And is this your son, Charley?"
"No. Randy is General Wilson's grandson."
Castillo made the introductions.
"General Wilson," Castillo then went on, "flew with my father in Vietnam. I bumped into him at Fort Rucker, and since we were going to fly over what used to be the beautiful Gulf Coast, and there was room in the plane…"
"Welcome to Overturned Oaks, formerly Great Oaks, General," Masterson said. "Any friend of Colonel Castillo is welcome here. We're all indebted to the colonel. And in that connection, Colonel, let me say that whenever your promotion came through it was long overdue."