The shooters

THIRTEEN YEARS LATER

[TWO]

Cairns Army Airfield

Fort Rucker, Alabama 1820 1 September 2005 The glistening white Gulfstream III taxied up to the visitors' tarmac in front of the Base Operations building. Waving wands, ground handlers directed it into a parking space between two Army King Air turboprops.

Colonel Jake Torine looked out the cockpit window.

"Our reception committee apparently includes a buck general, Charley," he said. "You want me to do the talking?"

The reception committee walking toward them included four military policemen and half a dozen other men in uniform. Three of them were armed and wearing brassards on their sleeves, making Castillo think they were probably the AOD, the FOD, and the OD, which translated to mean the Air Officer of the Day, the Field Grade Officer of the Day, and the Officer of the Day.

One of the others was a general officer, and another man was more than likely his aide. Castillo hoped that a public information officer was not among them, but that was a very real possibility.

Cairns had not wanted them to land, and they had had to declare an emergency.

"Please, Jake," Castillo said. "And take Doherty with you. Maybe they'll be impressed with the FBI."

He followed Torine into the passenger compartment.

"Jack," he said to Inspector Doherty, "would you come flash your badge at these people? They didn't want us to land."

Doherty nodded and stood up.

Castillo opened the stair door. Max came charging up the aisle, headed for the door with Madchen behind him. They pushed Torine out of the way and jumped to the ground. Max ran to one of the King Airs and raised his leg at the nose gear. Madchen met the call of nature under the wing.

Torine went down the stairs and saluted the general.

"Torine, sir," he said. "Colonel, USAF, attached to the Department of Homeland Security. This is Inspector Doherty of the FBI. Would you like to see our identification?"

"I think that would be a good idea, Colonel," the general said.

Torine handed his identity card to the general. Doherty took out his credentials and held them open.

The general examined both carefully.

"Welcome to Fort Rucker," he said. "I'm Brigadier General Crenshaw, the deputy post commander."

"I'm sorry about causing the fuss, sir," Torine said. "But we had planned to land at Hurlburt-"

"They took a pretty bad hit from Katrina," General Crenshaw said.

"-and we were getting pretty low on fuel."

"Where'd you come from?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but that's classified," Torine said.

"The reason I asked had to do with customs and immigration, Colonel."

"We'll do that when we get to Washington, sir. Presuming we can get fuel from you."

"That's a civilian airplane," General Crenshaw said.

"Sir, if you will contact General McNab at Special Operations Command, I'm sure he'll authorize you to fuel us."

"You work for Scotty McNab, do you?"

"With him, sir."

"Okay, Colonel. You have an honest face, and the FBI seems to be vouching for you. We'll fuel you. Anything else we can do for you?"

"Two things, sir. Forget we were ever here, and…uh…the dogs aren't the only ones who need a pit stop."

"They did have the urge, didn't they?" General Crenshaw said. "Not a problem. We can even feed you."

"Very kind of you, sir. We'll pass on the food, but some coffee would be really appreciated."

"Is there a problem with me having a look at your airplane?"

"None at all, sir," Torine said, and waved the general toward the door stairs.

Castillo stepped away from the door as Crenshaw mounted the steps.

"Hello," Crenshaw said to him as he stepped inside. "Who are you?"

"I'm the copilot, sir."

"Air Force?"

"Secret Service."

Crenshaw studied him a moment, then nodded. Then he raised his voice to those in the cabin:

"Although I understand you're not here, gentlemen, welcome to Cairns Army Airfield and the Army Aviation Center. If you'd care to use our facilities while you're here, we'll throw in coffee and doughnuts."

Then he turned to Castillo again.

"Where'd you learn how to fly? If you don't mind my asking?"

"In Texas, sir."

Crenshaw looked at him again, then nodded, and went down the stairs.

Did he remember my face from somewhere?

He didn't ask my name.

My replies to his questions weren't the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but I really did learn to fly in Texas, rather than here, which is what I think he was asking. And I have bona fide credentials of a Secret Service supervisory agent in my pocket.

So why am I uncomfortable?

Because while I'm wildly out of step with others in the Long Gray Line, I'm still in it. And a cadet does not lie, or cheat, or tolerate those who do.

How the hell did a nice young West Pointer like me wind up doing what I'm doing?

Thirty-five minutes later, Cairns departure control cleared Gulfstream Three Seven Nine for immediate takeoff.