The shooters

XV

[ONE]

Estancia San Patricio

Near Clorinda

Formosa Province, Argentina 0355 21 September 2005 Castillo had an uneasy feeling that things were going too well, too smoothly.

Even the damn TVs came through.

All four of them. And in working order.

They were the sixty-four-inch flat-screen LCD television monitors from the quincho at Nuestra Pequena Casa. He had mentioned idly to Comandante Duffy that it was a pity they wouldn't have one of them at what Edgar Delchamps had dubbed the Cathedral-"as in Saint Patrick's Cathedral"-meaning the huge warehouse buildings at Estancia San Patricio.

"They'd sure make the final briefing a lot easier," Castillo had said.

"Not a problem," Duffy said. "I'll have one of them there in the morning. Maybe we should send two, to be sure."

"Hell, take all of them. They're not going to do us any good here in the quincho."

And if we're really lucky, he'd thought, maybe more than one will survive getting trucked over a thousand clicks of bumpy provincial roads.

Thirty minutes later, one of the seized trucks from Duffy's combination headquarters-garage-warehouse had arrived at Nuestra Pequena Casa. The cargo area of the truck was half filled with mattresses.

And the next day-yesterday, at lunchtime-when Castillo arrived at the Cathedral with Delchamps, Lester, Leverette, and Max in a confiscated Mercedes SUV, Sergeant Major Jack Davidson had all four of the screens up and running, displaying the latest satellite updates.

"This is great, Jack, but now everybody knows more than they should," Castillo said.

"Well, surprising me not a little, Duffy didn't argue with me when I told him that we were in the lockdown stage of the operation and that nobody leaves the Cathedral once they come in."

"You're a good man, Jack. Don't pay any attention to what people are always saying about you."

Comandante Liam Duffy, now wearing what was apparently the Gendarmeria Nacional uniform for going to war-camouflage shirt and trousers, sort of jump boots, and web equipment that seemed designed primarily to support many ammunition magazines-walked up to Castillo, pointed at his wristwatch, and raised his eyebrows in question.

"Yeah, Liam," Castillo said. "It's about time."

Duffy bellowed a name.

An enormous gendarme with a sleeve full of chevrons appeared, came to attention before Duffy, and announced that he was at his orders.

"Form the men!" Duffy ordered, loudly.

The gendarme bellowed something not quite intelligible but what apparently was the gendarme command to come to attention.

All the gendarmes popped to their feet, stamped their feet in the British manner, and stood rigidly at attention.

Comandante Duffy grandly gestured for Castillo to precede him to the speaker's platform: the cargo bay of yet another confiscated vehicle pressed into service.

More than a few of the Americans in the room-two dozen Delta Force shooters and the crews of the Hueys-obviously found this military precision amusing. Perhaps even ludicrous.

Shit, the last thing I need is for the gendarmes to think the gringos are laughing at them.

But it's too late now for the speech about respecting the customs of your brothers-in-arms.

Castillo started to walk toward the pickup truck.

Chief Warrant Officer Five Colin Leverette put his hand on Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo's arm, stopping him.

Leverette then screamed or shouted or bellowed, "On your feet, you candy-asses!"

This caught the attention of the Americans.

But no one moved.

Leverette then announced, at equal volume: "I will personally castrate any one of you candy-asses not standing tall by the time I get to the truck!"

Then, politely, he said to Castillo, "With your permission, sir?" and marched erectly toward the pickup truck, loudly and rapidly repeating "Up! Up! Up!" until he got there.

By then the Americans understood what was going on and had gotten to their feet.

Leverette jumped nimbly into the bed of the pickup, popped to rigid attention, and bellowed, "Assault force, atten-hut!"

The shooters and the fliers stood at rigid attention.

"Sir!" Leverette bellowed as he saluted. "Your assault force is formed!"

By then even the assault force commander understood what was going on.

Lieutenant Colonel Castillo marched across the Cathedral to the truck, jumped nimbly into the cargo area, put his hands on his hips, and examined his force as if he didn't like what he saw.

He turned to Leverette, who was still holding his salute.

"Very well," he said, quite loudly. "Carry on, Mr. Leverette."

"Yes, sir!" Leverette bellowed, then ordered the men, "At-ease!"

Leverette turned back to face Castillo. Neither the assault force nor the gendarmes could see his face. And they could not hear him as he softly said, "And to think you didn't want me to come…"

"I've never thought pep talks did much good," Castillo said loudly to the assault force and gendarmes. "So I'm not going to give one. And if there's anybody out there who doesn't know what he's supposed to do and when he's supposed to do it, he's out of luck. There's no time for that now.

"The only things I am going to say, and I'm sure Comandante Duffy agrees with me, is that the priority of this mission-above all else-is to get our people back from these hijos de puta. And to do that, we have to follow the schedule.

"This is one of those situations where one man, acting a minute too soon or a minute too late, can screw up the whole operation. Don't jump the gun! That'll get people-almost certainly the people we're going after, but members of the assault team as well-killed.

"And when your time comes to take action, don't hesitate. Hesitation will get people killed, too!

"And that's all I have."

Castillo looked down at Duffy, who stood beside the truck.

"Comandante?"

Comandante Duffy put his hands on the waist of a slight man in a gendarme uniform and hoisted him into the back of the pickup.

What the hell?

The gendarmes bowed their heads, and the slight man then invoked a lengthy, somewhat flowery blessing of the Deity upon the noble mission they were about to undertake.

It was only after everyone raised their heads that Castillo saw the clerical collar under the slight man's camouflage shirt.

Max sensed that something was going on that he was not going to be part of, but didn't protest when Castillo put him in the back of the Mercedes SUV and firmly lashed his leash to a metal loop in the floor. Delchamps would drive the truck, and Max, to the airfield at Formosa, where Torine and Miller had taken the Gulfstream.

Castillo had planned to send Lester Bradley with Torine and Max, but the piteous look in Bradley's eyes when he was told of this was even more piteous than the look in Max's eyes, and Castillo's resolve melted.

"Cover my back, Lester, and that's all," Castillo ordered.

"Aye, aye, sir."

Leverette intercepted Castillo and Bradley as they walked toward Big Bad Wolf, its rotor blades already turning. Lorimer, Mullroney, and two shooters were getting situated inside.

"Go get aboard, Lester," Leverette ordered. "I need a word with the colonel. And don't shoot anything until I tell you."

When Bradley was out of earshot, Castillo said, "Now what, Colin?"

"Would the colonel accept some friendly advice?"

"Not right now, thank you just the same, Mr. Leverette. I have a lot on my mind."

"Thank you, sir. How long has it been since the colonel has been referred to as Hotshot Charley, the Boy Wonder?"

"Meaning what?"

"May I remind the colonel that he is now a colonel? And that colonels-even light colonels, sir-are supposed to keep their minds free to make command decisions? Not drive helicopters."

Castillo stared at Leverette.

"Let the kid drive, Charley. He's good. I've been around the block with him, and the other kid, before."

Castillo glanced at the Huey, then looked back at Leverette.

"If the old man's memory serves, you've been around the block with me once or twice, too, Colin. Some people thought I was pretty good at this sort of thing."

"You were. That was then, this is now." He paused. "Let the kids drive, Charley."

"Fuck you, Colin," Castillo said, and walked quickly toward Big Bad Wolf.

The pilot, a young captain, was holding open the pilot's door.

"Where would like me to ride, sir?"

"Probably there would be a good idea," Colonel Castillo said, pointing to the pilot seat. "That's where they keep the handles and levers and all that aircraft crap."

"Yes, sir."

"Big Bad Wolf light on the skids."

"Big Bad Wolf off."

"Big Bad Wolf. Commo check."

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

"Big Bad Wolf. M-Minute in ten. Engage computer on my bong."

"Bong."

This was far from the first time Castillo had flown an assault mission using the technique known informally as "flying the needles." But it would be the first when he would not actually be flying from the pilot's seat of one-usually the lead-helicopter.

I'm not flying. The "kids" are.

Colin was right about that. I haven't flown a Huey for a long time.

I am no longer Hotshot Charley, the Boy Wonder.

This is no time for me to fuck it up by thinking I am.

Castillo knew that the destination coordinates and the desired time of arrival-in this case, six hundred seconds from his bong setting order-had been all fed into computers aboard the Hueys. The computers would make the necessary computations and convert them to signals that activated indicator pointers-the "needles"-on the compass, the radar altimeter, and the ground speed indicator.

By keeping each helicopter's compass and its altitude and ground speed indicator's pointers lined up precisely with the computer-generated data-continuously making adjustments en route-as many as ten helicopters can arrive simultaneously (within two to three seconds) on target from several directions.

In our case-Big Bad Wolf and Red Riding Hood One, Two, and Three-from three different directions.

Making this damned difficult and complicated, and requiring pilots of extraordinary skill and great experience to carry it off.

And these "kids"-these Army aviators of the 160th-are the world's best damn chopper jockeys.

At M-Minute less three seconds, Red Riding Hood One popped up from its nap of the earth altitude east of the target and rose to one hundred feet above the ground.

There were faint lights visible within the compound beneath Red Riding Hood One.

At M-Minute, what looked like an orange ribbon flashed down to the ground from the opened side door of the helicopter. It lasted about ten seconds, and then Red Riding Hood One made a steep turn and left the area.

The orange ribbon had come from a Dillon Aero M134D 7.62mm "weapon system" mounted on a pintle in the helicopter. This weapon is patterned after the Gatling gun, a multiple-barrel weapon that was developed just in time for Private Tiffany of the jewelry firm Tiffany amp; Company and of the First United States Volunteer Cavalry, to buy several from the Colt people with his own money and in 1899 take them to Cuba, where he put them to use assisting Lieutenant Colonel Theodore Roosevelt in chasing the Spaniards off San Juan Hill.

The M134D-with six rotating barrels like the original Gatling, but ones electrically powered rather than hand-cranked-on Red Riding Hood One was fed by a 4,400-round magazine that could empty in just over sixty seconds.

In the ten seconds the weapon did fire, it sent from Red Riding Hood One almost seven hundred 168-grain bullets into a corrugated steel shed that contained a nearly new Cummins diesel-powered one-hundred-fifty-kilowatt generator. This caused the generator to malfunction-and the lights in the compound to go black.

A moment later, the diesel fuel in the tank behind the shed burst into flame.

Several moments after that, the electric lights of the compound flickered back on as an automatic system fired up the backup generator, an identical Cummins.

This coincided with the arrival of Red Riding Hood Two from the north at M-Minute plus five seconds.

And again there was an orange ribbon coming from the sky.

And again somewhere around seven hundred bullets flowed down, these striking the shed housing the backup generator-and causing the generator to malfunction, its fuel supply to ignite, and the lights in the compound to go out again.

As Red Riding Hood Two left the immediate area, Red Riding Hood Three and Big Bad Wolf appeared from the south.

Red Riding Hood was going to go in as low as possible to the ground and train its M134D on the corrugated steel building that the satellite imagery interpreters believed to be the compound headquarters-lots of people and a rather powerful shortwave radio station had been detected-and a motor pool behind that building.

Big Bad Wolf was going to land in the compound as soon as Red Riding Hood Three fired at the headquarters building, then off-load three shooters. The shooters would rush to the pole where DEA Special Agent Timmons and the two gendarmes had been chained, free them, and load them onto Big Bad Wolf, which would then immediately take off, under cover of Red Riding Hood One and Two, which by then would have returned to lay down covering fire.

Red Riding Hood Three by then would be seeing what it could do to facilitate the passage of the gendarmes from the highway to the compound, conducting what is known as "reconnaissance by fire."

Everything went as planned until Red Riding Hood Three picked up a little altitude to give it a better shot at the motor pool.

The pilot of Big Bad Wolf, the copilot, and Castillo-who was kneeling on the deck just behind them-almost simultaneously said, "Oh, shit!"

"Fuck, he hit a wire," the copilot said. "It cut the fucking blade!"

Red Riding Hood Three, which was tilted to the left, straightened out for a moment, looked as if it was trying to turn, then tilted back left, and was almost upside down when it crashed into the motor pool.

The pilot looked at Castillo for orders.

Castillo gestured impatiently at the ground.

"As soon as you're down, turn it around so we can take off the way we came in," Castillo ordered.

"Big Bad Wolf. Three is down. Repeat, Three is down. Two, go cover the gate. One, give us some covering fire."

"One on you, Big Bad Wolf."

"See what you can do for the guys on Three, Colin," Castillo ordered. "I'm going to get Timmons. Give me your chain-cutters."

Leverette gave him a thumbs-up and jumped off the helicopter.

Castillo turned to the two shooters.

"You go with Mr. Leverette," Castillo said to one, then to the other said, "And you come with me."

There was also a former Green Beret and a Chicago police officer on the helicopter, the latter grasping a snub-nosed.38 Smith amp; Wesson revolver.

"You stay on the chopper," Castillo ordered them.

"He's my brother-in-law," Mullroney protested.

Shit. That's why we brought him along in the first place.

Castillo looked at Lorimer and shouted, "I don't want him hurt, Pegleg. Got it?"

Lorimer nodded.

Castillo turned to Bradley.

"Lester, cover my back."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Special Agent Timmons was sitting with his back resting against the pole to which he had been chained. He was looking with confused eyes at what was going on. The two gendarmes were asleep.

"Hey, Charley," he said with slurred speech, dimly recognizing his brother-in-law and smiling. "What's up?"

Mullroney and Lorimer worked as a team to hold and cut through the chain. Castillo then hoisted the freed Timmons over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. He started trotting toward Big Bad Wolf. Mullroney and Lorimer quickly snipped the chains on the gendarmes, then followed Castillo back toward the helo.

Halfway there, Castillo suddenly felt as if somebody had hit him with a baseball bat in the leg, and then, a moment later, in the buttocks.

He felt himself falling.

"Oh, shit!"

He heard a burst from a CAR-4, then his lights went out.

"It's okay, kid, we've got him."

"Don't you call me kid, you oversized sonofabitch!"

"Goddamn, Charley, didn't you hear me when I said to remember to duck?"

"Where's Timmons?"

"You took a couple of hits-one in the ass, one in the leg-from what I'd say was that short Russian round, the 5.45?39. Not too much tissue damage, but you lost a lot of blood."

"Where's Timmons?"

"You want a shot? Or the happy pill?"

"I don't want either. Where the fuck is Timmons?"

"Not your choice, Charley, the one you took in the leg broke it. It's going to start hurting bad right about now."

"I don't want to go out, goddamn you!"

He didn't remember a needle prick, or any sense of being drugged, or even of feeling dizzy.

One moment, he was fighting with Colin Leverette.

The next moment, nothing.

[TWO]

Room 142

Hospital Britanico

Avenida Italia 2420

Montevideo, Uruguay 1035 24 September 2005 "I shudder to think how you're going to answer the calls of nature in that apparatus, Colonel," Chief Warrant Officer Five Colin Leverette said to Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo from the door of the room.

Castillo was suspended over-not in-his hospital bed. His left leg was encased in plaster from above the knee. Stainless steel cables attached to small D-rings in the plaster held the leg six inches over the mattress. This was necessary to keep the leg straight, this in turn being necessary to accommodate a cradle under Colonel Castillo's buttocks, which allowed his left buttock to hang free, which was also suspended from stainless steel cables attached to a frame above the bed.

Colonel Castillo gave Mr. Leverette the finger with his right hand. His left hand held a long black cigar.

"I don't think you're supposed to be smoking," Leverette said.

Castillo gave him the finger again.

"Where am I, and what am doing here?"

"You're in the British Hospital in Montevideo, Uruguay. I think the term is 'recuperating.' You apparently were involved in a firearms accident while hunting feral swine in the north."

"And Timmons?"

"Special Agent Timmons is undergoing drug detoxification in Saint Albans Hospital in Washington, D.C. Sergeant Mullroney is also in Saint Albans, recovering from minor injuries he suffered while shooting feral hogs with you."

"Anybody else get hit?"

Leverette shook his head.

"Amazing. They were waiting for us, Charley. A lot of them."

"What I remember is Three hitting an antenna cable and going in-"

"What it hit was a fucking cable, one of a bunch of fucking cables, strung across every area in that compound large enough to land a chopper. I don't see why everybody didn't hit one."

"But just Three did?"

Leverette nodded.

"And?"

"Bruises and contusions, one broken arm. We brought him here, too. They set the arm and put him on an American Airlines flight last night for Miami."

"Why here?"

"You lost a lot of blood, Charley, and your leg was a mess. Delchamps took one look at you in Formosa and decided you were in no shape for a ten-hour flight to the States. So he flew you here."

"And where is he?"

"He went on the Gulfstream with Timmons, Mullroney, and the guys from the 160th."

"Lester?"

"He took out the guy who shot you, and then started dragging you to the chopper. I was right."

He went into his pocket and came out with a small clear plastic zip-top disposable bag. He handed it to Castillo. It held three bullets, one fairly intact, the other two distorted.

"That's 9?39mm, PAB-9. I suppose the beat-up ones are the ones that did the damage to your leg."

"I didn't even hear any firing, and I thought I took two hits, not three."

"These are the rounds the FSB uses in their-suppressed-AS VAL Special Purpose Assault Rifle. Odd that a bunch of drug dealers would have weapons like that, isn't it?"

"We were up against Russians?"

"Maybe. Maybe Cubans. Dead men tell no tales, and after Duffy got there and found his two guys full of holes from these things, that's all that was left."

"He took out everybody?"

Leverette nodded. "And then blew everything up," he said. "Spectacular! It looked like something from a Rambo movie. All kinds of secondary detonations. I was surprised nobody got hurt. Or the choppers."

"Our guys get involved?"

Leverette shook his head. "There was a moment-the first word was that you'd bought the farm-when I thought they would. But Jack Davidson stopped it."

"And you," Castillo said. It was a statement, not a question.

"What the hell, I'm a W-Five and Jack's just a lousy sergeant major."

"Where is he?"

"He and Lester are trying to sneak Max in here."

"He's still here? Why?"

"The Almighty has spoken."

"McNab?"

Leverette nodded.

"The verbal orders of our leader were 'You don't let that sonofabitch out of your sight until you can get him up here so I can ream him…a new rectal orifice.' Or words to that effect."

Castillo shook his head.

"You know the general, Charley. Any shooter gets shot, it's his fault for not shooting first."

The door opened, and was held open by a nurse.

A slight young man wearing dark glasses and tapping his way carefully with a white cane then entered, holding a very large dog on a leash.

Castillo grinned.

Lester, if those at Quantico could only see the Pride of the Marines now…

The dog, whining, very carefully put his feet on the bed and then licked first Colonel Castillo's left hand, then his face.

"It's all right, nurse," Sergeant Major Jack Davidson said. He was wearing a white nylon surgeon's smock and had a stethoscope hanging around his neck. "I cleared it with the chief of staff. And actually, canine saliva has a certain germicidal quality."

The nurse shook her head but left, letting the door slowly close by itself.

[THREE]

Room 142

Hospital Britanico

Avenida Italia 2420

Montevideo, Uruguay 1650 24 September 2005 The very tall, well-dressed, somewhat ascetic-looking man entered the room without knocking and found himself facing a nice-looking teenage boy in a gray suit-who was holding a.45 ACP pistol aimed at his crotch. Beside the boy was the largest dog the man had ever seen, showing an impressive array of teeth and growling deeply.

The man quickly put up his hands.

"You must be Corporal Bradley," the man said.

"Who the hell are you?" Castillo demanded.

"My name is Frank Lammelle, Colonel. I'm the DDCI. Ambassador Montvale suggested I come to see you."

"You have any identification, sir?" Bradley demanded.

"It's okay, Lester," Castillo said. "I don't think he's making that up."

"May I put my hands down?"

Castillo nodded.

"And would you give the colonel and me a few minutes alone, please, Corporal?"

"Go get a Coke or something, Lester," Castillo ordered.

When the door had closed after Bradley, Lammelle said, "That looks very uncomfortable, Colonel."

"Until ten o'clock this morning, they had me literally twisting in the wind. That was worse."

"And now?"

"Now I have to lie on my side."

They looked at each other curiously.

"How did you know who Bradley was?" Castillo asked.

"Edgar Delchamps described him to me as a choirboy with a.45 who is seldom far from your side."

Castillo smiled but didn't say anything.

"Delchamps came to see me, and the DCI, immediately after he came from Saint Albans Hospital," Lammelle said.

Castillo said nothing.

"You didn't know he planned to do that?"

"No. But now that I think about it, I'm not surprised."

"He told us an incredible, unsupportable, unbelievable tale about several members of the CIA having, so to speak, sold out."

"Well, you don't have to believe Delchamps if you don't want to, Mr. Lammelle," Castillo said, coldly and softly, "but I'm going to tell the President about those two bastards just as soon as I can get to Washington. I suspect he'll believe me." His voice changed tenor. "Jesus Christ, did Montvale send you down here to talk me into going along with a whitewash of those two traitorous sonsofbitches?"

"My mother always taught me it was bad form to speak ill of the dead," Lammelle said.

"Excuse me?"

"We are both referring to Mr. Milton Weiss and Mr. Jonathon Crawford, are we not, Colonel?"

"I think of them as miserable CIA sonofabitch one and miserable CIA sonofabitch two."

"I'm afraid that I'm the bearer of bad news, Colonel. Mr. Crawford and Mr. Weiss are no longer with us."

"What did they do, catch a plane to the former Soviet Union?"

"They are deceased," Lammelle said. "Mr. Crawford was found three days ago in his apartment in Asuncion. He had apparently been strangled to death during a robbery. With a garrote, actually. A blue steel garrote."

"And Weiss?"

"Mr. Weiss was found in his car in the parking lot at Langley yesterday morning. He died of a drug overdose. The needle was still in his arm-no, actually, it was in his neck-when his body was discovered."

"How interesting."

"Well, naturally, since Mr. Delchamps had raised these awful allegations against Mr. Weiss, our investigators had some questions for him."

"And?"

"Apparently, Mr. Delchamps had been involved in a marathon poker game at the house he shares with you in Alexandria during the time the coroner tells us Mr. Weiss got his fatal injection. With some other CIA veterans, now mostly retired. They have a small informal organization; they call themselves The Dinosaurs."

"So I've heard."

"Well, the CIA certainly is willing to take the word of such a group regarding who was where and when."

"That's probably a good idea."

"Some of those Cold War warriors, The Dinosaurs, tell fascinating stories-they can't be believed, of course-about what happened to traitors in their day."

"Such as?"

"I really don't like to get into this sort of thing, so let me just say it's rumored they acted as judge, jury, and executioner when they were sure one of their number had sold out. Just a legend, I'm sure."

"Yeah."

"Well, aside from saying that I don't think you could get arrested in Chicago for anything-Sergeant Mullroney has told both the mayor and the President of your courageous dash through fierce small-arms fire carrying Special Agent Timmons on your back…"

"Oh, Jesus!"

"…that's about all I have. I have to get to Buenos Aires."

"Why?"

"Well, I probably shouldn't tell you this, as it's classified. Nevertheless, we've decided to beef up our operation in Asuncion in light of what's happened there. Mr. Darby is going there to help Mr. and Mrs. Sieno get things straightened out. I want to see them before they go."

He put out his hand.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you, Colonel, and I wish you a speedy recovery."

[FOUR] 1040 Red Cloud Road

Fort Rucker, Alabama 1740 22 December 2005 Major General Harry Wilson, USA (Ret.), elected to park his Buick sedan on Red Cloud Road although he was fully aware that this was prohibited. There were several reasons he chose to do so, not the least of which was sitting next to him in the person of just-promoted Major General Crenshaw, the newly appointed post commander. Military Police only rarely ticketed post commanders for any nonfelonious breach of the law. Other reasons included that he and General Crenshaw had had several drinks on the flight from Texas, and he really could not handle more than one ounce of alcohol per hour.

Master Randolph Richardson IV was out of the Buick and up the lawn before either General Wilson or General Crenshaw could brief him on the best approach to the problems that were about to develop. Young Randy was holding something black and about the size of a shoe in his hand.

"Oh, shit!" General Wilson said.

"My thoughts exactly," General Crenshaw said. "But I'll deal with him."

"He's my son-in-law," General Wilson said.

"But I write the officer's efficiency report on the officer who writes his," General Crenshaw said.

"Point taken," General Wilson said. "You bring your animal and I'll bring the dead birds."

General Crenshaw opened the rear door and picked up a small animal more or less identical to the one Randolph Richardson IV had rushed to the door holding.

Generals Wilson and Crenshaw got to the door just as Lieutenant Colonel Randolph Richardson III opened it. His wife stood behind him.

"I made twenty takeoffs and landings," young Randy announced, then held up the soft black object in his hands for inspection. "And look at this!"

"You did what?" Mrs. Richardson asked.

"What is that?" Lieutenant Colonel Richardson asked.

"His name is Goliath," Randy answered. "General Crenshaw's got his brother, David."

"You did what?" Mrs. Richardson asked again.

"I made twenty takeoffs and landings in a Ryan PT-22," her son answered.

"That isn't one of those huge dogs Colonel Castillo had, is it?" Lieutenant Colonel Richardson asked.

"Not yet, Richardson," General Crenshaw said. "Right now Goliath and David are what they call puppies."

"Max had eight," Randy said. "Or his…the girl dog did. Colonel Castillo gave General Crenshaw one and he gave me one."

"How nice of him," Lieutenant Colonel Richardson said, carefully choosing his words. "But I'm not sure we'll be able to keep it, moving around the way we do."

"Nonsense," Generals Crenshaw and Wilson said, almost in unison.

"Every boy should have a dog," General Crenshaw added.

"Teaches him character," General Wilson agreed.

"A dog that size?" Lieutenant Colonel Richardson said.

"And Colonel Castillo gave one to a girl he knows in Argentina," Randy said, "a girl my age he says he wants me to meet some time."

"I would like to know what he means by twenty takeoffs and landings," Mrs. Richardson said. "Not by himself, certainly."

"What kind of an airplane?" Lieutenant Colonel Richardson said.

"A Ryan PT-22, open-cockpit tail dragger," Randy announced with a pilot's elan. "Hundred-and-sixty-horse Kinner five-cylinder radial. Cruises at about one thirty-five."

"Colonel Castillo has such an airplane?" Lieutenant Colonel Richardson inquired. "I don't think I've ever seen one."

"Uncle Fernando does," Randy said, softly stroking Goliath.

"You remember Fernando, Beth?" her father said. "Charley's cousin?"

She smiled somewhat wanly.

"You're calling this man 'Uncle Fernando'?" she said to her son.

"If he lets me fly his airplane," Randy replied matter-of-factly, "I'll call him anything he wants me to call him!"

"And what do you call Colonel Castillo?" his mother asked.

"He said that he's not my uncle so I could call him either 'sir' or 'Charley.'"

Beth exchanged a long look with her father.

"So this 'Uncle Fernando' took you for a ride in his airplane, did he?" Lieutenant Colonel Richardson inquired.

"No," Randy explained somewhat impatiently. "Colonel Castillo taught me how to fly Uncle Fernando's PT-22. I made twenty takeoffs and landings. I told you."

"And you found nothing wrong with this, Dad?" Mrs. Richardson asked.

"Not a thing," he said. "I've always thought of the Castillos as family. Haven't you?"