The shooters

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."

Castillo's confusion showed on his face.

General Crenshaw smiled and nodded toward Base Operations. Two familiar faces were now standing outside the building.

One was Lieutenant General Harold F. Wilson, U.S. Army (Retired), wearing Bermuda shorts and a pink golf shirt. The other was Lieutenant Colonel Randolph Richardson, in ACUs. General Wilson waved happily. Colonel Richardson smiled.

Or is he grimacing as he squints in the bright sunlight? Castillo thought.

"When General McNab called to tell me you were coming, I was on the fifteenth hole with General Wilson. I was once his aide, so I knew about his relationship with your father."

"I haven't seen General Wilson for several years," Castillo said. "He retired to Phoenix, I believe."

"That's right," General Crenshaw said.

"And I haven't seen Richardson for…I don't remember the last time I saw him."

"Well, he's my very competent assistant G-3, which makes him just the man to get you whatever you came for. Would that be all right with you?"

"Yes, sir. That would be fine. Thank you."

"And this gentleman is?" Crenshaw asked.

"My communicator, sir. Sergeant First Class Neidermeyer. He has to be close to me, so I was going to introduce him as Mister Neidermeyer and smuggle him in a BOQ with me. But I'm a little tired of bending the truth. So I guess it's the Daleville Inn."

Crenshaw offered his hand to Neidermeyer.

"Welcome to Fort Rucker, Mr. Neidermeyer," he said. "I hope you and Colonel Castillo find the Magnolia House comfortable."

Hearing the name Magnolia House brought back fond memories for Castillo. More than a decade ago, his grandparents had stayed in the World War II-era frame housing that had been converted to a cottage for transient VIPs.

"Thank you, sir," Castillo said.

Castillo, Crenshaw, and Neidermeyer started to walk across the tarmac. Two neat young sergeants trotted out to them and offered to take their luggage. Neidermeyer would not part with the radio suitcase.

When Castillo and Neidermeyer got close to the building, General Wilson spread his arms wide.

"How are you, Charley?" he called, and wrapped him in a bear hug.

When he let him go, he said, "Bethany talked yesterday to your grandmother, who told her you had made a couple of flying trips to the Double-Bar-C but, as usual, she had no idea where you were. So I'm really glad to see you."

"I've been moving around a lot," Castillo said. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, we came to see Beth and Randy and the grandchildren. Rucker's hot, but not as hot as Phoenix, and I do like to play golf."

"How is Beth?" Castillo asked, politely, as he put out his hand to Richardson.

"Well, thank you," Richardson said without emotion.

What do I call him?

Randolph? Randy?

"Good to see you, Randy."

"Likewise."

"Your grandmother," General Wilson went on, "told us your promotion finally came through. Congratulations."

"They were scraping the bottom of the barrel," Castillo said. "This is Jamie Neidermeyer, my communicator. Jamie, General Wilson flew with my father in Vietnam. And this is Colonel Richardson. We were classmates at West Point."

They shook hands.

It was fairly obvious from Neidermeyer's "how do you do, sirs" as well as his general appearance that he was military. But Richardson either didn't pick up the significance of his not being identified by rank or didn't want to.

"You're in the service, Neidermeyer?"

Neidermeyer looked at Castillo for guidance.

"He works for General McNab, Randy," General Crenshaw said. "At the moment, he's not wearing his uniform. When Castillo was here the last time, neither was he. He told me he was in the Secret Service. Mysterious indeed are the ways of the Special Operations Command and those in it."

"Well, now that that's out in the open," General Wilson said, "am I sticking my nose in where it's not particularly welcome?"

"No, sir. Not at all," Castillo said. "I'm scrounging things for General McNab, but, if you're free, I'd love to buy you and your bride dinner tonight."

"Beth and her mother are at this moment preparing dinner," Richardson said. "She said she couldn't remember the last time she saw you."

Odd. I remember it with great clarity.

"The invitation of course includes you and Mrs. Crenshaw, General," Richardson went on. "And you, Mr. Neidermeyer."

"I don't want to intrude, Richardson," General Crenshaw said.

"It wouldn't be an intrusion at all, sir. And it would give you and the general more time together."

Crenshaw looked at Castillo to see what he should do.

"And you and I could talk about the terrible things we had to do as aides-de-camp to difficult generals, General," Castillo said, then smiled.

"Who was yours?" Crenshaw said.

"Bruce J. McNab."

"I didn't know that," Crenshaw said. "I'd love to hear what that was like. Yes, Colonel Richardson. Mrs. Crenshaw and I gratefully accept your kind invitation to dinner."

"General Crenshaw, could I have a moment of your and Randy's time?" Castillo asked.

"Certainly."

Crenshaw led them to the pilots' lounge, politely asked the two pilots there if they would mind giving them a few minutes alone, and then looked at Castillo.

"This operation is highly classified, sir," Castillo said. "The fewer people who know I'm here, or have been here, the better. What I need is four H-Model Hueys for an operation-"

"What kind of an operation?" Richardson interrupted.

"If you don't know that, Randy," Castillo said somewhat impatiently, "then you can truthfully swear that I didn't tell you what I wanted them for."

Of all the light colonels at Rucker, I get Righteous Randolph?

Richardson nodded his understanding.

"They have to have GPS," Castillo went on, "and they have to be in very good shape. And, I have to tell you, you probably won't get them back."

Righteous's jaw just now about bounced off the tiled floor.

"We have been directed to give Colonel Castillo whatever he asks for, and that he has the highest priority," General Crenshaw said.

"How do we explain your presence if someone recognizes you?" Richardson asked.

"The cover story is that I'm an executive assistant to the secretary of Homeland Security, and that I'm here because this was the most convenient place for me to come and rent a light aircraft-I'll get to that in a minute-and fly to Pass Christian, Mississippi, on a mission for the secretary."

"Two things, Castillo," General Crenshaw said. "That area was badly mauled by Hurricane Katrina. I don't know if any fields down there are open. Have you considered a Black Hawk?"

"There's an airstrip where I'm going. It's open. And a light airplane will attract less attention than an Army helicopter. Neidermeyer went on the Internet and found a Cessna 206H available for charter at the airport in Ozark-"

"The Flying Hearse," Crenshaw interrupted, chuckling.

"Sir?"

Crenshaw smiled, then explained:

"Actually, it's a T206H-turbocharged. The fellow who owns the funeral home is a flying enthusiast. Flying is expensive-that airplane cost more than a quarter million dollars-but he thought he had the solution. If he had an airplane, he could fly cadavers to where they were going to be buried and charge the same thing airlines do-twice the price of the most expensive first-class ticket. That would be a substantial contribution to the cost of his hobby. He was so enthusiastic that he didn't check to see if a coffin would fit in the airplane. They don't. So, it is reliably reported, he transports-in of course the dead of night, so to speak-the cadavers in body bags, strapped into a seat, and has a casket waiting wherever he's going. I know him. I can call and set that up for you, if you'd like. You can fly a 206?"

"I can fly a 182 and a Citation," Castillo said. "Will that work?"

"I don't think that will be a problem," Crenshaw said. "But he'll probably want to ride around the pattern with you. Anything else?"

"There will be pilots and crew chiefs coming here from the 160th at Fort Campbell."

"General McNab told me," Crenshaw said, and looked at his aide. "Find accommodations for them, Richardson. They should start arriving tomorrow. Eight pilots and four crew chiefs."

"Yes, sir," Richardson said.

"And some supplies from Fort Bragg," Castillo added. "Which will have to be stored somewhere secure until they can be loaded on the Hueys."

"What kind of supplies?" Richardson asked.

"The kind that need someplace secure to store them," Castillo said, pointedly avoiding details.

"General McNab said they're coming by truck tonight," Crenshaw said to Richardson. "They'll probably be here by morning. Have the truck put in the MP impound lot until you can make better arrangements in the morning. And make sure the MPs are guarding the impound lot."

"Yes, sir," Richardson said.

"And as soon as possible, Neidermeyer has to get his radio up," Castillo said.

He saw the questioning look on Crenshaw's face.

"It's in the suitcase," Castillo said, nodding at it. "It doesn't take long, but I'd rather not do it here."

"May I ask what kind of a radio?" Richardson asked.

I am tempted to tell you, "None of your fucking business."

But resuming hostilities with you, Righteous, would be counterproductive.

"It's a rather amazing system developed by AFC," Castillo said. "Bounces signals-voice and data, both really deeply encrypted-off satellites. When we get to Magnolia House, I'll show you how it works."

"I'd like to see that," Crenshaw said. "I just thought of something. How are you going to pay for the Flying Hearse?"

"American Express," Castillo said, reaching for his wallet. "Never leave home without it."

He took his AmEx card from his wallet and handed it to Crenshaw, who examined it. He then looked at Castillo.

"The Lorimer Charitable amp; Benevolent Fund," the general said.

Castillo nodded and grinned. "Yes, sir."

"I won't ask what that is," the general went on, "but will simply repeat what I said before, that mysterious indeed are the ways of the Special Operations Command and those in it." He paused. "I can call from the car on the way to the post, if you'd like. I'm driving my own car, but Richardson's got a van."

I'll be damned if I'm stuck riding the bus with Righteous.

"If you've room in your car, and I'm not an imposition, that'd be great, sir," Castillo said. "Thank you."

[TWO] "Would you like a drink, Charley?" General Wilson asked when they were inside the Magnolia House. "Under the circumstances, I'm going to allow myself to have one. And I might even allow my dear friend General Crenshaw here a little taste."

"Indeed, I would," Castillo said. "I have been a good boy all day, and it's been a very long day."

And I just drove past the Daleville Inn, which triggered a flood of not at all unpleasantly lewd and lascivious memories.

Neidermeyer came into the living room carrying a DirecTV dish antenna.

"You want a drink, Jamie?" Castillo said.

"Wait 'til I get this thing up, sir. What I need now is a stepladder or a chair, so I can stick this thing on the roof."

"Try the kitchen," General Wilson said, and pointed, then asked, "DirecTV?"

Neidermeyer looked at Castillo for guidance. Castillo nodded.

"Actually, sir," Neidermeyer said seriously, "I have a much better one, but it says Super Duper Top Secret Delta Force Satellite Antenna and the colonel won't let me use it. He says it makes people curious."

The general chuckled.

"It took only a couple of small modifications to this," Neidermeyer said. "Mostly the installation of a repeater, so we don't need the coaxial cable to connect to the box. It ought to be up in a minute or so."

"Need any help, Jamie?" Castillo said.

"No, sir. Thank you."

Richardson came in as Castillo, Crenshaw, and Wilson touched glasses.

"Your man is installing a cable TV dish on the roof," Richardson announced.

"And any minute now, we can get Fox News," General Crenshaw said with a straight face.

Castillo chuckled, and Richardson shot him a look, wondering what that was about. Then Richardson turned his attention back to the general.

"Sir, the field-grade OD has been advised of the truck coming from Bragg. They'll be expecting it at the gate, and there will be an MP escort to guide it to the MP impound lot, where it will be under guard until Colonel Castillo tells me what he wants to do with it."

"First thing in the morning, Randy," General Crenshaw said, "go out to Hanchey Field and take over a hangar large enough for four H-models. Arrange for the MPs to guard it, then move this equipment into it. That sound about right, Castillo?"

"Yes, sir, that sounds fine."

"Sir," Richardson said, "am I to sign a receipt for this equipment?"

"Good question," Castillo said. "I didn't think about that. Well, when the truck gets here"-he stopped as Neidermeyer came back in the house, then went on-"Neidermeyer here will happily get out of bed and sign for it. Right, Jamie?"

"The stuff from Bragg?"

Castillo nodded. "Tonight it goes into an MP lot. In the morning, Colonel Richardson will have it moved to a guarded hangar at Hanchey-one of the airfields."

"Yes, sir. Am I going with you tomorrow, sir?"

"You and the magic box."

"Sir, it might be a good idea if we had our own wheels."

"I didn't think of that," Crenshaw said. "What would you like?"

"Sir, vans are pretty inconspicuous. And I don't think we need a driver."

"Randy?" the general said.

"I'll have one here in fifteen minutes, sir."

"This should take me about ninety seconds, sir," Neidermeyer said to Castillo, and walked out of the room.

Richardson walked to a telephone on a credenza, took a small notebook from his pocket, found what he was looking for, and dialed a number.

"Colonel Richardson, Sergeant. General Crenshaw desires that a van be sent immediately to the Magnolia House. A driver will not be required.

"Yes, Sergeant, I'm aware that it's unusual. But that is the general's desire."

He listened a moment and said, "Thank you," and hung up.

For Christ's sake, Righteous!

You're a lieutenant colonel. You can give orders for a lousy van all by yourself.

You didn't have to hide behind Crenshaw's stars.

Castillo caught General Wilson's watching eye.

And that wasn't lost on him, either.

"A van has been laid on, sir," Richardson announced.

"Thank you."

Neidermeyer walked back into the living room and handed a handset to Castillo.

"They say twenty-five feet max with no wire, but give it a try."

Castillo looked at the handset, saw H. R. MILLER, JR. on its small screen, pushed the loudspeaker button, and said, "So I shamed you into not taking off early?"

"Where are you, Charley?"

"In Magnolia House at Rucker. And guess who's with me?"

"No, thanks."

"General Wilson and Randy Richardson."

"You're on loudspeaker?"

"Yeah."

"Good evening, sir. Dick Miller, sir. Hey, Righteous, how they hanging?"

"Hello, Dick," General Wilson said. "Good to hear your voice."

Restraining a smile, Wilson added softly to General Crenshaw: "That's Dick Miller's son. He's also a classmate of Randy's."

"Hello, Miller," Richardson said without enthusiasm.

"Anything happen?" Castillo asked.

"I made the deposit to the bank where you were earlier," Miller said. "That airplane's back from you know where. The pilot thereof is crashing in suburbia. He says if you need to go anywhere in the next twenty-four hours, take a bicycle. The copilot's on his way you know where, and the plane that took him will bring J. Edgar Hoover, Jr., back here. That's about it."

"In the morning, I'm going to Mississippi to see the ambassador. Then back here."

"How are you going to get to Mississippi?"

"I rented a T206H."

"You'll be flying right over what used to be Pascagoula and Biloxi."

"Yeah, I guess."

"I've been watching that on the tube right now. Incredible. The storm surge picked up a couple of those floating casinos and dumped them two, three hundred yards-maybe more-inland. There are slot machines all over. No damage at Rucker?"

"I didn't see any. Nothing like that."

"Okay, Chief. Keep in touch."

Castillo pushed the OFF button.

"I'll hang this up, Jamie. Make yourself a drink. And while you're at it, see what Colonel Richardson will have."

As he left the living room, he heard Richardson say somewhat piously, "Nothing for me, thank you."

[THREE] 1040 Red Cloud Road

Fort Rucker, Alabama 1735 4 September 2005 "There it is, Jamie," General Wilson said. "One Zero Four Zero."

He and Castillo were in the second-row bench seat of the Army Dodge Caravan, Max having decided he would rather ride in the front passenger seat.

Neidermeyer slowed the van almost to a stop as they approached the house. It was a single-family frame one-story building, identical to the ones on its left and right as far as Castillo could see.

Castillo vaguely remembered that lieutenant colonels and better-or was it majors and better?-got separate houses. Lower ranks had to share an interior wall.

Hanging from two eighteen-inch-high posts next to the driveway was a sign: LTC R. W. RICHARDSON, AV.

The carport was full with a Pontiac sedan and a civilian Dodge van. Behind them, on the drive, was a Buick sedan with Arizona license plates and a Mercury sedan pulled up behind the Dodge.

"It looks like the Crenshaws are here," General Wilson.

"Maybe I'd better park on the street," Neidermeyer said.

"It's against the law," Wilson said. "Pull in behind the Mercury."

"Why is it against the law?" Castillo asked.

"About the time of Custer's Last Stand, a child darted out between two cars parked on the street and was run over. You just can't have that sort of thing, and so they passed a law. I tried to change it when I was post commander and was dissuaded by a regiment of outraged mothers."

"What do you do if you have more people coming to dinner than you have room in your driveway?"

"You politely ask your neighbors if the extras can park in their drive," Wilson said. "If your neighbor outranks you, or your wives have been scrapping, you're out of luck."

Neidermeyer pulled the van in behind the Mercury.

The house front door opened. Mrs. Harry F. Wilson looked out at the van.

"What do you say I get out and stagger up to the door?" General Wilson said.

"General, please don't do that to me," Castillo said with a grin.

General Wilson slid the back door open, got out, and walked to the door, holding up an index finger.

"Max, you stay," Castillo said in Hungarian, and followed Wilson.

"What's this mean?" Bethany Wilson asked, more than a little suspiciously, holding up her own index finger.

"It's the answer to your question, dear. 'How many drinks did Charley feed you?'"

"Very funny," she said. "Hello, Charley, how are you?"

Castillo held up three fingers.

"Haven't changed a bit, have you, handsome?" she asked, and kissed his cheek.

Neidermeyer was by then standing outside the van.

"Mrs. W., this is Jamie Neidermeyer," Castillo said.

"Hello, Jamie," she said.

"He and Charley are tied together," General Wilson said. "He's got a radio in that suitcase."

"Hello, Charley," Mrs. Randolph Richardson said from behind her mother. "How nice to see you again."

She's still a looker, still looks like a younger version of her mother.

And why do I suspect she's less thrilled than her father and mother that Good Ole Charley's coming to dinner?

"It's nice to see you, too, Beth," Castillo said. "Beth, this is my communicator-and friend-Jamie Neidermeyer."

"Hello, Jamie," Beth said, offering her hand.

"Jamie's going to need a place to put a small dish antenna," General Wilson said.

"A what?"

"A DirecTV antenna," Wilson said. "Except it's not. It's the satellite antenna for the radio in his suitcase. What about the patio?"

Beth smiled uneasily.

A small, dressed-for-company girl, about six years old, pushed past Beth and called out, "Grandpa!"

Another girl, about eleven or twelve and who looked like her mother and grandmother, came through the door, followed finally by a boy Castillo guessed to be about twelve or thirteen.

"Charley," Beth said. "This is Randy, the Fourth, and Bethany-"

"The third?" Castillo asked.

"Girls don't usually do that," Beth said. "And Marjorie. This is Colonel Castillo. You know who he is?"

None of the three had a clue.

"This is Dona Alicia's grandson," Beth explained.

The boy showed a very faint glimmer of interest; the girls none at all.

"Grandpa Wilson flew with Colonel Castillo's father in Vietnam," Mrs. Bethany Wilson said.

"And Daddy and Colonel Castillo were friends, classmates, at West Point," Beth Richardson said.

This produced the same level of fascination and excitement as had the previous footnotes to history.

They're not being rude, Castillo thought. They just don't give a damn. And why should they?

Something did excite Marjorie, the smallest: "There's a dog in Grandpa's car!"

She ran toward it.

Oblivious to her mother's order-"Marjorie, come back here this instant!"-she pulled open the front passenger door.

Oh shit! Castillo thought.

The evening's festivities will begin with Beth's forty-pound daughter being mauled by my one-hundred-forty-pound dog.

He ran to the van.

By the time he got there, Max had leapt out of the van, licked Marjorie's face to the point of saturation, and was sitting down offering her his paw.

She put her arms around his neck.

"Marjorie, it would appear, has found a new friend," General Wilson observed. He had been on Castillo's heels and now was catching his breath.

"Is that yours?" Beth accused from behind her father. She didn't seem surprised when Castillo nodded.

"She really loves dogs," Beth said.

"So did you, honey," General Wilson said. "All your life."

"We've never had one," Beth said, and when she saw the look on Castillo's face, added, "You know how it is, moving around all the time in the Army."

Bad answer, Beth.

Your father always was able to keep one.

Truth is that Righteous probably doesn't like dogs.

They're always a nuisance and a potential source of trouble and might interfere with the furtherance of one's career.

Beth averted her eyes as General Crenshaw and Lieutenant Colonel Richardson came out of the house.

"Look at that, will you? Love at first sight!" General Crenshaw called. "Hey, Max!"

Oblivious to the weight of Marjorie clinging to his neck, Max walked to General Crenshaw and offered him his paw.

Now what, Righteous?

Your general thinks Max and your kid make a great pair.

Think fast!

"Beautiful animal," Richardson said. "You've got a nice one there."

"Yeah."

I guess I might as well face it that you are now mine, Max.

Well, what the hell. I told Abuela when she said I didn't even have a dog that I'd get one.

"Well," Richardson went on, "why don't we put the dog back in the car and then see about having a drink and something to eat?"

"I want to play with him!" Marjorie announced firmly.

"Randy," General Wilson said. "What about putting him on the patio and letting the kids play with him?"

"Good idea!" Richardson said with forced enthusiasm.

Dinner-the whole evening-went better than Castillo thought it would.

Beth was a good hostess.

Why am I surprised?

She learned the profession of Officer's Lady from her mother, who may as well have written the book.

And more than that, Beth was gracious.

She seated Jamie Neidermeyer next to her and across from General Crenshaw, and went out of her way to make him comfortable.

And the kids were remarkably well behaved, even the little one.

Castillo was seated between Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Crenshaw, who struck him as another first-class officer's lady.

Even Max behaved. He lay outside the sliding glass door to the patio, his head between his front paws, just watching and neither whining nor suggesting that he would really like something to eat.

General Wilson, a little happy but not drunk after two glasses of wine, regaled everybody with stories of Warrant Officer Junior Grade Jorge Castillo, who, Colonel Castillo decided, must have driven his commanding officer nuts.

One of the stories, which Castillo had not heard, was of a middle-of-the-night moonlight requisitioning flight in which a mess-hall-sized refrigerator and a generator to power it were, as General Wilson gaily related, "liberated from a QM dump and put to work for the 644th Helicopter Company."

He sipped his wine, then with a huge grin said: "For the better part of the next day, the old man was torn between socking it to Jorge and me for misappropriation of government property-or enjoying the cold beer. Cold beer won in the end."

Castillo glanced at Richardson, who clearly was not as amused with the story as was his son, whose face showed he thought the idea of stealing things with a helicopter sounded great.

Then Castillo's eyes met Beth's, and he wondered if she was thinking of what had happened in the Daleville Inn.

Hell yes, she is.

That would be natural.

But that was a very long time ago.

The last thing I'd do is try to resurrect anything.

A little after eight-thirty, just after Castillo had turned down a glass of brandy-"I have to fly in the morning"-there was a familiar faint beep and, a moment later, Neidermeyer reached into his lap and came up with the radio handset.

He looked at it, then stood up, said, "Excuse me. It's for you, sir," and leaned across the table to hand it to Castillo.

The legend read GEN MCNAB.

"Yes, sir?" Castillo said into the handset.

"I've got the truck driver on a landline. He's fueling at Benning. Who do I tell him to see when he gets to Rucker?"

"General Crenshaw has named Colonel Richardson as his action officer, sir. But Neidermeyer-and maybe me-will meet the truck at the gate."

"Driver and two shooters," McNab said. "Make sure they're taken care of."

"Yes, sir, of course."

Castillo was aware that everyone was looking at him.

"Crenshaw taking good care of you?" McNab went on.

"Couldn't ask for anything more, sir. As a matter of fact, I'm sitting across Colonel Richardson's dinner table from him. And General Wilson."

"I don't have the time to wander down memory lane. Give them my compliments," McNab said, and a faint change in the background noise told Castillo that McNab had broken the connection.

Castillo pushed the OFF button and handed the handset back to Neidermeyer.

"That was General McNab," Castillo said. "His compliments to you, gentlemen, and his apologies for having to take another call right now. The truck has just refueled at Fort Benning. What is that, an hour, hour and a half from here?"

Both Wilson and Crenshaw nodded.

"He was checking to make sure the truck driver and his crew-total of three-are taken care of."

"I'll take care of that, General," Richardson said before Crenshaw could give the order.

And now, Castillo thought, I can get out of here.

"Beth, thank you for a delightful meal," he said. "But I'm afraid that Jamie and I are going to have to be the infamous guests who eat and run. We've got a lot on our plate tonight and a first-light flight tomorrow."

"I understand," she said. "We'll have to do it another time."

"I'd like that. I accept."

And with that exchange of polite lies, I really can get out of here.

"Charley, do you know how to find the airport in Ozark?" General Wilson asked.

"I'm sure I can find it, sir."

"I'll take you," Wilson offered.

"That's unnecessary, sir."

"I'll take you," Wilson insisted.

He's trying to be nice, sure. But there's more to it than that.

Hell, he wants to go. Why didn't I think of that?

"Sir, would you like to go along? What I have to do there won't take long-it just has to be done in person. We should be back here at, say, four or five."

"I don't want to intrude, Charley. But I really would like to see the damage along the Gulf Coast."

"Then you'll go. And there's room for one more in the airplane. Any takers? It would be something to see."

"Can I go?" Randolph Richardson IV asked.

"Of course not, son," Randolph Richardson III said quickly.

The look on Beth's face showed that she firmly supported that parental decision.

"Why not?" General Wilson said.

"This is none of my business, of course," General Crenshaw said. "But think it over, Richardson. It's one hell of an opportunity for the boy. For the rest of his life he'd remember that right after the hurricane, he flew over the area with his grandfather and saw everything."

"Well, viewed in that light," Randolph III said.

"I don't think so," Beth announced. "It would be dangerous."

"But General Crenshaw is right, honey," Randolph III said. "It would be something he would remember all his life. Are you sure of your landing field, Castillo? It's safe to use?"

Castillo nodded.

I don't want to take the kid.

I don't even want to take General Wilson.

I was just being a good guy. No good deed ever goes unpunished.

"Okay, then, it's settled," General Wilson said. "Randy and I will pick you up at oh dark hundred at the Magnolia House. That way you won't have to leave the Army van at the airport."

[FOUR]

Ozark Municipal Airport

Ozark, Alabama 0655 5 September 2005 J. G. Jenkins, the somewhat plump proprietor of the Greater Dale County Funeral Home and Crematorium, Inc., incongruously attired in a loud flowered Hawaiian shirt and powder blue shorts, did insist on taking a ride around the pattern with Castillo before turning over his Flying Hearse to him.

In the end, Castillo was glad he did.

As Castillo turned on final, Jenkins idly mentioned that he was sure Castillo was aware that the Rucker reservation-and Cairns Field-was restricted airspace.

"You're going to have to go to either Dothan or Troy before heading for the beach."

"Yes, I know. Thank you."

And another lie leaps quickly from my lips.

I'd forgotten that. And, if you hadn't reminded me, I would've taken off and flown the most direct route to the Gulf-right over both the base and the airfield.

I doubt they would've scrambled jets to shoot me down. But there damned sure would have been a lot of FAA forms to fill out.

"Explain in two hundred words or less why you have done something really stupid like this."

He set the single-engine, high-wing T206H down smoothly on its tricycle gear, then taxied to the hangar where General Wilson, Randy the Fourth, Neidermeyer, and Max were waiting.

Castillo was a little surprised that Jenkins hadn't at least asked questions about Max getting into his pristine airplane-it was painted a glossy black, like a hearse, and the tan leather interior spotless. He concluded in the end that Jenkins had decided in view of the three hundred fifty dollars an hour that he was charging for the use of his hearse-dry, as Castillo had to fuel it himself-it was necessary to accommodate the customer.

"Well, I guess you're my copilot, General," Castillo said after he'd shut down the engine and his passengers approached the aircraft.

"Charley, I'd be useless in the right seat. I haven't flown in years, and…"

General Wilson held up a Sony digital motion picture camera. Neidermeyer had an almost identical one hanging from the lanyard around his neck.

When Castillo looked at him, Wilson said, "I'd really like to get pictures of the damage, Colonel."

Castillo looked at the boy.

"Well, I guess you're my copilot, Randy."

"Yes, sir."

Castillo motioned to the double doors on the starboard side of the fuselage and said, "Then hop in and make your way forward to the right seat."

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."

"I am ready and willing to sign autographs," Castillo said.

Max had already discovered the Masterson children, and they him.

"Where'd you get the dog, Colonel?" J. Winslow Masterson III asked, as he shook Max's paw. "He's awesome!"

"My grandmother told me that since I didn't have a family, I should get a dog. And I always do what my grandmother says."

"Pay attention," Mrs. Winslow Masterson said.

"And speaking of grandparents," Betsy Masterson said. "Dad, Mother, this is Charley Castillo, who took such great care of us in Argentina, and brought us home."

"My wife and I are very grateful to you, Colonel," Philippe Lorimer said. He was a very small, very black man with closely cropped white hair and large intelligent eyes. If there was visible evidence of his heart condition, Castillo couldn't see it.

"How do you do, sir? Ma'am? Mr. Ambassador, the secretary of State sends her best regards to you and Mrs. Lorimer."

"That's very kind of her," Lorimer said. "But why do I suspect that's not all she sent?"

"Sir, in fact, the secretary hopes that you'll be willing to have a private minute or two with me. Perhaps out of this heat?"

"Of course. But why do I suspect that's going to take a lot longer than a minute or two?"

Castillo was aware that General Wilson was taking all this in but had absolutely no idea what anyone was talking about.

Ambassador Lorimer looked at Jamie Neidermeyer, then at Castillo.

"I'm surprised that someone like you, Colonel, needs a bodyguard," Lorimer said.

"Dad!" Betsy Masterson protested.

"The one advantage to being an old and retired ambassador, sweetie," he said, "is that after a lifetime of subtlety, evasion, and innuendo, you can just say whatever pops into your mind."

"The same thing is true of being a retired general, Mr. Ambassador," General Wilson said.

"Actually, sir, Jamie is my communicator," Castillo said. "They keep me on a short leash to make sure I don't say whatever pops into my mind."

Lorimer laughed.

"He's got one of those satellite telephones in that suitcase?"

"Yes, sir."

"With which you have direct contact with the secretary of State?"

"Yes, sir, if you'd like to."

"Don't plug it in yet, young man," Lorimer ordered. "I don't wish to speak to Secretary Cohen until after the colonel and I have had our two-minute chat."

"You have a beautiful home," General Wilson said when they were in the foyer of the house.

Castillo thought the house made Tara, of Gone With the Wind, look like a Holiday Inn. Off of the foyer, a curved double stairway rose to the second floor. It was not hard to picture Clark Gable carrying Whatshername, the English actress, up the steps to work his wicked way on her.

"Thank you," Mrs. Masterson said. "It's been here a very long time, and God spared it."

"I told her that was God's reward for her unrelenting battle against the gambling hells of the Mississippi Gulf Coast," Masterson said.

"Don't mock me, Winslow!" she said. "But you'll notice what did happen to the casinos."

"Faulty argument, darling. Katrina also wiped out Jefferson Davis's home, and you know that he was a God-fearing gentleman always battling the devil and all his wicked works."

"That's right," General Wilson said. "I'd forgotten that. My wife and I went to his home twice when I was at Fort Rucker. That was damaged?"

"Wiped out," Masterson said. "Utterly destroyed."

"Then you were very lucky here," Wilson said.

"Yes, we were," Masterson said. "And thanks more to the charm of the salesman than any wise planning on my part, there were diesel emergency generators in place to kick in as they were supposed to when the electricity went off. When my cousin Philip flew in with emergency rations-that's his Bonanza in the hangar-he found us with Betsy and the Lorimers watching the aftermath of the disaster on television."

Wilson shook his head.

"You were very lucky," he said.

"You're an admirer of Jefferson Davis, General?" Masterson asked, changing the subject.

"We went to the same school," Wilson said. "At different times, of course." Then he added, very seriously, "Yes, I am."

"That's the right thing to say in this house," Masterson said. "From which my ancestors marched forth to do battle for Southern rights."

"And just as soon as the history lesson is over," Ambassador Lorimer said, "I'm sure Colonel Castillo would like to have our little chat."

"Why don't you take the colonel into the library, Philippe?" Masterson said, smiling tolerantly. "I'll send Sophie in with coffee and croissants."

"This way, Colonel, if you please," Lorimer said.

The library, too, would have been at home in Tara, except that an enormous flat-screen television had been mounted against one of the book-lined walls and half a dozen red leather armchairs had been arranged to face it.

And there was an array of bottles and glasses above a wet bar set in another wall of books.

Ambassador Lorimer headed right for it.

"May I offer you a little morning pick-me-up from Winslow's ample stock?" he asked.

"No, thank you, sir. I'm flying."

"One of the few advantages of having a heart condition like mine is that spirits, in moderation of course, are medically indicated," Lorimer said as he poured cognac into a snifter.

"Churchill did that," Castillo said. "He began the day with a little cognac."

"From what I hear, it was a healthy belt. And he was a great man, wasn't he? Who saved England from the Boche?"

"Yes, sir, he was."

"In large part, in my judgment, because he put Franklin Roosevelt in his pocket."

"Yes, sir, I suppose that's true."

Lorimer waved Castillo into one of the armchairs and sat in the adjacent one.

A middle-aged maid wearing a crisp white apron and cap came in a moment later with a coffee service and a plate of croissants. Lorimer waited for her to leave before speaking.

"I was trained to be a soldier, Colonel," he said. "Are you familiar with Norwich University?"

"Yes, sir, I am."

"It was one of the few places in the old days where a black man had a reasonable chance to get a regular Army commission. So I went there with that intention. Just before graduation, however, I was offered a chance to join the foreign service, and took it primarily, I think, because I thought someone of my stature looked absurd in a uniform."

"I have a number of friends who are Norwich, sir."

"I remember a pithy saying I learned as a Rook at Norwich: 'Never try to bullshit a bullshitter.' Keeping that and the fact that I spent thirty-six years as a diplomat in mind, why don't you tell me why Secretary Cohen is trying to put me in her pocket?"

"I'm not sure I know what you mean, Mr. Ambassador."

"I think you do, Colonel. Let's start with why she doesn't want me to go to my late son's… estancia… in Uruguay."

"The secretary believes that would be ill-advised, sir," Castillo said. "She asked me to tell you that."

He nodded. "She sent the same message to me through others. What I want to know is: why? I'm old, but not brain-dead. I don't think it has a thing to do with my physical condition, or for that matter do I swallow whole the idea that the secretary, as gracious a lady as I know she is, is deeply concerned for Poor Old Lorimer. Why doesn't she want me to go down there?"

Castillo didn't reply immediately as he tried to gather his thoughts.

Lorimer went on:

"I have my own sources of information, Colonel. Let me tell you what I've learned. It is the belief of our ambassador there, a man named McGrory, who is not known for his dazzling ambassadorial ability, and that of the Uruguayan government, that my son died as the result of a drug deal gone wrong. I'm having trouble accepting that."

"I don't know what to say, Mr. Ambassador," Castillo said.

"Let me clarify that somewhat," Lorimer said. "Sadly, I did not have the same relationship with my son that Winslow Masterson enjoyed with his son Jack. I didn't particularly like Jean-Paul and he didn't like me. I doubt that Jean-Paul was involved in the illicit drug trade, not because he was my son and thus incapable of something like that, but because it's out of character for him."

He paused, then finished: "So, if he wasn't in the drug trade, Colonel, what was he doing that caused his murder?"

Castillo didn't reply.

"Please do me the courtesy, Colonel, of telling me 'I can't tell you' rather than 'I don't have any idea what you're talking about.'"

"I can't tell you, Mr. Ambassador."

"We are now at what is colloquially known as 'the deal breaker,'" Lorimer said. "You have your choice of telling me, which means I will listen to whatever else you have to say, or not telling me, which means our little chat is over, and Mrs. Lorimer and I will be on the first airplane we can catch to Uruguay. We've been imposing on the Mastersons' hospitality too long as it is."

"Mr. Ambassador, this information is classified Top Secret Presidential."

Lorimer didn't seem surprised.

"To me," Lorimer said simply, "that strongly suggests there has been a Presidential Finding."

Castillo didn't reply.

"I will take your silence to mean that there is a Presidential Finding and you don't have the authority to confirm that. Your choice, Colonel. Get on that satellite telephone and tell the secretary-or whoever has put you in your present predicament-that unless you are authorized to tell me about the Finding, the Lorimers are off to Estancia Shangri-La."

Well, what the hell!

If he goes down there-and there's no way I can stop him-the chances are that he'll do something-not on purpose-to compromise that operation, and thus the Presidential Finding.

And for some reason-which is probably foolish-I trust him.

He's a tough old bastard.

"I have that authority, Mr. Ambassador."

"And you're not going to tell me?"

"The President was at the air base in Biloxi when we returned from Argentina with Mr. Masterson's remains and his family. He informed me there that he had made a Finding. A covert and clandestine organization had been formed and charged with finding and rendering harmless those responsible for…"

Tapping the balls of his fingers together, Ambassador Lorimer considered for a good sixty seconds what Castillo had told him before raising his eyes to Castillo.

"So the ever-present silver lining is that Jean-Paul was not a drug dealer," he said. "Hell of a note when you're happy to hear your only son was just a thief from other thieves, not a drug dealer."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ambassador."

"Why should you be sorry? From what I hear, you've been the knight in shining armor on a white horse in the whole sordid affair."

"That's not an accurate description, Mr. Ambassador."

"It's my judgment to make, Colonel," Lorimer said. "How much of what you have just told me does my daughter know?"

"Very little of it, sir. She doesn't have the need to know. I did tell her-and Mr. Masterson-that I was almost certain that the people who had murdered Mr. Masterson-"

"Were 'rendered harmless'?"

"Yes, sir."

"How can you be 'almost certain' of that?"

"You don't have the need to know that, sir."

"You wouldn't have told them that unless you were 'almost certain,' which means you weren't repeating what someone else had told you, but rather that you were personally involved."

Castillo didn't reply.

"All of this except for your possible concern that I would go down and somehow compromise the Presidential Finding-which is absurd-doesn't explain why you-and I mean you, not the secretary-don't want me to go to Uruguay."

"May I go off at a tangent for a moment, Mr. Ambassador?"

Lorimer nodded.

"I understand, sir, why you're anxious to…get out from under Mr. Masterson's hospitality-"

"Guests, as with fish, you know, begin to smell after three days."

"My grandfather was known to say that, often in more colorful terms," Castillo said. "Mr. Ambassador, what would it take to get you to go someplace-Paris, for example; Mr. Lorimer's apartment is there and available to you-for sixty days before you go to Uruguay?"

"The apartment is no longer available, Colonel. The man from the UN who brought me the check for Jean-Paul's death benefit-one hundred thousand euros-also brought with him an offer for Jean-Paul's apartment. Time and half what it was worth. They obviously wanted to make sure Jean-Paul was forgotten as soon as possible; now I know why."

"Mr. Ambassador, I am prepared to offer you fifty thousand dollars a month for two months to lease Estancia Shangri-La."

"Either that's your remarkably clumsy way of offering me a bribe to keep me away from the estancia-which raises again the unanswered question of why you don't want me down there-or you really want to lease the ranch, and that raises the really interesting question of why. What would you do with it?"

"I understand Phoenix, Arizona, is very nice this time of year, Mr. Ambassador."

"So is Bali, but I'm getting a little old for bare-breasted maidens in grass skirts. What do you want with the estancia, Colonel?"

"I'm running another operation down there, sir."

"You going to do it under the nose of this fellow McGrory again?"

Castillo nodded.

"I want to use it as a refueling point for several helicopters I want to get into Argentina."

"You mean get into Argentina black," Lorimer replied. He considered that a moment. "Okay. You're going to fly them off some ship in the middle of the night and under the radar, right? Refuel them in the middle of nowhere in Uruguay, and then on to Argentina?"

Castillo nodded.

"What's the operation?"

"We're going to try to get a DEA agent back from the drug dealers who kidnapped him."

"That sounds like a splendid idea," Lorimer said. "It also sounds like the DEA agent is not an ordinary DEA agent. We lose a lot of DEA agents in Mexico and all we do is wring our hands. We certainly don't send Special Forces teams in unmarked helicopters to get them back."

"This one's grandfather is a friend of the mayor of Chicago."

"That would make him special, wouldn't it? Okay, you can use the estancia, and I will forget that money you offered. If I remembered it, it would make me angry."

Castillo looked him in the eyes a long moment and said, "Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome. And now you can tell me the best way to get from the airport in Montevideo to Shangri-La. Rent a car? Buy one? How's the roads?"

Oh, shit!

I totally misread him…he's still determined to go.

"I can't talk you out of going down there, sir?"

"You didn't really expect that you could, did you?"

"I really hoped that I could."

Lorimer held up his hands in a gesture of mock sympathy.

"Look at it this way, Colonel," he said. "If I'm there-Jean-Paul's father, come to look after his inheritance-far fewer questions will be asked than if two or three men of military age showed up there by themselves and started hauling barrels of helicopter fuel onto the place."

Castillo didn't say anything.

"Don't look so worried. I didn't spend all my diplomatic career on the cocktail-party circuit."

"I'm sure you didn't, Mr. Ambassador."

"You ever hear of Stanleyville, in the ex-Belgian Congo?"

"Yes, sir."

"When the Belgians finally jumped their paratroops on it-out of USAF airplanes-to stop the cannibalism on the town square, we did things differently back then. We paid less attention to the sensitive nationalist feelings of the natives than to Americans in trouble. There I was on the airfield with two sergeants from the Army Security Agency who'd been running a radio station for me in the bush. We were waving American flags with one hand and.45s in the other."

Castillo shook his head in disbelief.

"I don't lie, Colonel," Lorimer said. "At my age, I don't have to."

"I wasn't doubting your word, Mr. Ambassador."

"I hope not. Until just now I was starting to like you."

"It was not, sir, what I expected to hear from an ambassador."

"There are ambassadors and ambassadors, Colonel. For example, my daughter tells me we have a very good one in Buenos Aires."

"Yes, sir, we do."

"Are we through here? Can we go deal with her now? She's going to have a fit when she hears you have failed in your noble mission to save the old man from himself."

"Sir, about getting to Shangri-La from the airport. I think I can arrange for several Spanish-speaking Americans to meet you and take you there. Maybe they could stay around and help you get organized."

"These Good Samaritans just happen to be in Montevideo, right?"

Castillo laughed.

"No, sir. They'd actually be shooters from Fort Bragg…"

"That's a very politically incorrect term, 'shooters,'" the ambassador said. "I like it."

"They would have a satellite radio with them. That would be useful. And they would provide you and Mrs. Lorimer with a little security."

"I would be delighted to have your friends stay with us as long as necessary and be very grateful for their assistance."

"Thank you, sir."

Ambassador Lorimer stood up, picked up his now empty cognac snifter, returned to the bottles on the credenza, and poured a half inch of Remy Martin into it. He raised the glass to Castillo.

"Since you're on the wagon, Colonel: Mud in your eye."

"I suspect there will be another time, sir."

"I hope so."

Lorimer looked at him intently for a moment, so intently that Castillo asked, "Sir, is there something else?"

"I always look into a man's eyes when I'm negotiating with him," Lorimer said. "I did so just now. And while I was doing that, I had the odd feeling I'd recently seen eyes very much like yours before."

"Had you, sir?"

"Yes. I just remembered where. On that nice boy you brought with you. The general's grandson. He has eyes just like yours."

I've seen eyes very much like yours, too.

On Aleksandr Pevsner.

"I didn't notice," Castillo said.

The ambassador drained the snifter, then waved Castillo ahead of him out of the library.

J. Winslow Masterson III and Randolph Richardson IV were kicking a soccer ball on the lawn for Max. The adults and the younger Masterson children were sitting in white wicker rockers on the porch.

Just as Castillo was about to warn them that Max was likely to take a bite from the ball, Max did. There was a whistling hiss, which caused Max to drop the ball, push it tentatively with his paw, and then take it into his mouth and give it a good bite.

"Awesome!" Masterson III cried. "Did you see that?"

"I owe you a soccer ball," Castillo said.

"Don't be silly, Charley," Betsy Masterson said, then turned to her father. "How'd your little chat go?"

"Splendidly," the ambassador said. "Colonel Castillo and I are agreed there's absolutely no reason your mother and I can't go to Uruguay."

"Dad, that's absurd," Betsy Masterson said. "Worse than absurd. Insane."

"That's not exactly what I said, Mr. Ambassador," Charley protested.

"Be that as it may," Ambassador Lorimer said, "for the next several months, Betsy, your mother and I will be using Jean-Paul's home in Uruguay in lieu of our own, which is now, as you may have heard, the dikes having been overwhelmed, under twenty feet of water and Mississippi River mud."

Betsy Masterson looked at him in exasperation, as if gathering her thoughts.

"I am reliably informed," Lorimer went on reasonably, "that the house is quite comfortable, that there is a staff to take care of your mother and myself more than adequately-if not quite at the level of Winslow and Dianne's hospitality, for which we will be forever grateful-"

"You know what happened there, Dad!" she interrupted.

"-and your mother and I both speak, as a result of our service in Madrid, quite passable Spanish."

Betsy Masterson looked at Castillo. "Charley, you didn't encourage him to go down there, did you?

"No, ma'am. More the opposite."

"Can't you stop him?"

"I don't see how," Castillo said.

"I'll call the secretary of State myself!"

"Secretary Cohen has already taken her best shot, sweetheart. She sent Colonel Castillo to dissuade me. He failed."

"You're in no condition to fly all the way down there, Dad," Betsy argued. "You're in no condition to go through the security hassle at an airport, much less get on an airplane and fly that far."

"I have survived going through the security hassles at a number of Third World airports," he said. "The one in Addis Ababa comes to mind as the worst."

Despite herself, she smiled.

General Wilson stood up.

"I think I'll take a little walk," he said.

"Please keep your seat, General," Winslow Masterson said. "This is not a family argument. Philippe doesn't have family arguments. He politely listens to whatever anyone wishes to say, then does what he had planned to do in the first place."

"My wife does much the same thing," General Wilson said.

"Thanks for the support, Father Masterson," Betsy said, then turned to her father.

"I'm not talking about down there, Dad, and you know it. I'm talking about here. New Orleans is closed. You'd have to go to Miami. And how are you going to get to Miami?"

"We'll manage. May I suggest we change the subject?"

"Mrs. Masterson…" Castillo began.

"I've asked you to call me Betsy, Charley," she snapped.

"Sorry. Betsy, since the ambassador is determined to go down there, what I can do is arrange to fly your parents down there in a Gulfstream. I could arrange to have them picked up in New Orleans, and if customs and immigration's not functioning there, stop at Tampa or Miami on the way down."

"I don't know whether to say 'that would be fine, thank you very much' or 'for God's sake, don't enable him!'"

"You could do that, Charley?" Winslow Masterson said.

Castillo nodded.

"And I'll arrange to have some friends keep an eye on your parents."

"The same kind of friends who've been keeping an eye on Betsy and the kids here?" Winslow Masterson asked.

Castillo nodded.

"Darling Betsy," Masterson said. "I agree with you. If I had my way, Philippe and your mother would stay here with us until they can have their house repaired-"

"Winslow, it's under water," Lorimer said. "Everything in it has been destroyed. And you know what they say when someone goes to the hereafter-'I want to remember him as he was, not lying in the coffin.' I want to remember the house as it was. I'm not foolish enough to try to resurrect it."

"-as I was saying, darling Betsy, until they can have their house repaired and a new one can be built for them. Here or in New Orleans-"

"That would be the prudent thing to do," Betsy said. "The intelligent thing. The only thing."

"But he's determined to go to Uruguay, and nothing you or I or anyone else has to say will deter him. Just be grateful that Charley can arrange to carry him there in comfort, and that Charley's friends will be available to provide security."

"Can I offer you a taste of Winslow's whiskey, General?" the ambassador asked. "I'm not a drinking man, myself, but a little belt in the morning is medically indicated for someone my age. Our age."

"I've heard that," General Wilson said. He looked at Castillo. "I think one would be in order, Mr. Ambassador, thank you."

Max trotted up on the porch with the now deflated soccer ball in his mouth and dropped it at Castillo's feet.

[FIVE]

Ozark Municipal Airport

Ozark, Alabama 1710 5 September 2005 When they walked up to General Wilson's Buick, they found an envelope jammed under the windshield wiper.

General Wilson opened it.

"From Beth," he said. "'Please call Randy as soon as you land. Charley's friends from Fort Campbell are waiting for him at the Magnolia House.'"

"That was quick," Castillo said.

"So, knowing neither Randy's number nor that of the Magnolia House, what I think I'll do is call Beth, ask her to call Randy, and tell her to tell him we're back, and that we're going to be at the Magnolia House just as soon as we can drop off our copilot at their quarters and get there."

"Thank you," Castillo said.

Mrs. Randolph Richardson III came out of her kitchen door as the Buick drove up the driveway.

"How was the flight?" she asked.

"Colonel Castillo let me fly most of the way over there," Randolph Richardson IV announced, "and just about all the way back. And Max flattened a soccer ball in his mouth."

"How nice of him," she said with some effort.

"And Randy did very well," General Wilson said. "I'll be back right after I drop Charley and Jamie off."

Mrs. Richardson smiled.

"Take care, Randy," Castillo said, and touched the boy's shoulder. "Maybe we can do it again sometime."

"Oh, yeah! Thanks very, very much, Colonel."

The look in her eyes makes it pretty clear she thinks that's about as likely to happen as is our being canonized for a lifetime of sexual fidelity.

"My pleasure, Randy."

"I won't go in, Charley," General Wilson said, as they drove up to the Magnolia House. "But let's try to get together again while you're here."

"I'll try, sir."

"And thank you for the ride. Randy will never forget it, and neither will I."

"I'm glad it worked out."

"Your dad would have been very proud of you, Charley," Wilson said, as he offered his hand.

"Thank you," Castillo said.

I never thought of that before.

What would my father think of me if he were around to have a look?

There were nine men in flight suits sitting at the dining room table of the Magnolia House with Lieutenant Colonel Randolph Richardson III when Castillo and Neidermeyer walked in.

"I would have called 'attention,' Colonel," a barrel-chested, nearly bald man greeted him, "but I knew you would really rather have me kiss your Hudson High ring."

"My God, look what the cat drug in, all the way from Norwich," Castillo said happily.

He put his briefcase on the table, went to him, and wrapped him in a bear hug.

"How the hell are you, Dave?"

Max sat down and looked up at them curiously.

"Where did you get the dog, Charley?"

"Long story," Castillo said. "But he won't tear your leg off if you're polite."

Dave squatted and accepted Max's paw.

Castillo became aware that except for Richardson the other men at the table had stood up.

"And I know who these guys are," Castillo said. "The misfits, scalawags, and ne'er-do-wells the colonel decided he could get rid of when they laid the personnel requirement on him."

"You got it, Charley," a tall, lanky man said, laughing. "Good to see you."

"Where we going, Charley?" another asked.

Castillo didn't reply directly.

Instead, he said, "Has Colonel Richardson gotten you all a place to stay? Chow?"

"They've all been given transient quarters," Richardson said. "We were discussing somewhere to eat when you came in. And there are two vans for their use while they're here."

"I can't stay, Charley," the barrel-chested bald man said. He held up a can of 7UP as proof suggesting that he was about to fly and had not been able to help himself to anything alcoholic.

"The boss," he went on, "is out of town and I'm minding the store. And as the commanding officer, when General McNab said 'ASAP,' I made the command decision that the best way to do that was fire up a Black Hawk and fly these clowns down here. And I knew, of course-being an old buddy who is at least a year senior to you-you would be delighted to tell me what the hell this is all about."

"Nice try, Dave," Castillo said. "But if you're not staying, I can't tell you."

"Nothing?"

"Not one goddamn word, Colonel."

"He just shifted into his official mode, Jerry," Dave said. "So there'll be no arguing with him. We might as well go home."

"Yes, sir," one of the pilots said.

"You understand, Charley, that it's breaking my heart that you don't trust me?"

"Don't let the doorknob hit you in the ass, Dave."

Dave put out his hand.

"Great to see you, Charley," he said, warmly. "You've got four more pilots and two crew chiefs coming. You want them flown down?"

"The sooner they can be here, the better."

"My master has spoken," Dave said. "Not you. McNab. They'll be here for lunch tomorrow. How long are you going to need them?"

"You are tenacious, aren't you?"

"That's why I got promoted eighteen months before you did."

Another of the pilots said, "I thought that had something to do with Charley being out of uniform while flying a borrowed Black Hawk."

The others laughed.

"Come to think of it…," Dave said, which produced more laughter. And then he went on, "And really coming to think about it, he was really much better-looking wearing a beard and Afghan robes, wasn't he? In these civvies, he looks like a used-car salesman."

Castillo gave him the finger.

"Richardson, can we mooch a ride from you out to Cairns?" Dave asked.

"Of course," Richardson said. "Castillo, will I be needed here any more tonight?"

Castillo shook his head. "Why don't you meet us at Hanchey at, say, 0730?"

"I'll be there," Richardson said, then looked at Dave. "Anytime you're ready, Colonel."

"Charley," Dave said, "you take care of my scalawags and ne'er-do-wells, or I'll have your ass."

Castillo nodded.

As Richardson opened the door to leave, Neidermeyer came through it.

"Hey, Jamie, long time no see!" Dave said, offering his hand.

"Good to see you, sir. You going to be in on this?"

"No, goddamn it, I'm not. McNab said, 'Not only no, but hell no!'"

"Remember to send the colonel a postcard, Neidermeyer," Castillo said.

"Yes, sir, I'll do that."

He waited until the door was closed, then went around shaking the hands of the people he knew and was introduced to the others.

"Presumably you have put the antenna back up on the roof?" Castillo said.

"Yes, sir. We should be up."

"Get on it, please, Jamie. Tell Miller and General McNab that we're back and that we have four pilots and two crew chiefs here, and are promised the others by noon tomorrow. And check to see what's going on."

"Yes, sir."

Castillo went to the table, took his laptop from his briefcase, and booted it up.

As the computer hard drive made whirring sounds, he looked up at the others.

"You know the drill," he said. "This is where I tell you the operation is Top Secret and anyone who lets anything out goes to Leavenworth. The only difference this time is that the security classification is Top Secret Presidential. Anyone with a loose lip gets two years as a Phase I Instructor Pilot and then goes to Leavenworth."

"A Presidential Finding, Charley?" one of them asked.

Castillo nodded.

"Let me give a quick taste, and then we'll go get something to eat."

From the laptop speakers came the familiar sound of a bugle sounding Charge!-Castillo had replaced the annoying out-of-the-box Microsoft tune-announcing that the computer was booted up and ready.

Castillo opened the Google World program and shifted the image of the earth so that it showed the lower half of South America.

"Where in hell are we going?" one of them asked.

"Patience is a virtue, Mr. Reston," Castillo said.

Finally, he had what he wanted, and pressed the keys to zoom in on the image.

"That's an estancia, a ranch, called Shangri-La, 31.723 south latitude, 55.993 west longitude."

"What's there, Colonel?"

"A field big enough to take four Hueys at once and refuel them."

"Flying in from where?"

"The USS Ronald Reagan, at sea."

"Jesus Christ!"

"And where do we go from there, sir?"

"I'm working on that."