with thanks, knowing that consumption of intoxicants aboard USAF aircraft is strictly forbidden.”
The chief master sergeant chuckled. “Nice food,” he said. “Chicken and pasta for lunch, filet mignon and broiled salmon for dinner. And very cheap.”
“And the headset?”
The chief master sergeant held up a wireless headset.
“Thank you,” Torine said.
The chief master sergeant gestured toward the terminal. A second convoy of Yukons and security vehicles was approaching the Globemaster.
C. G. Castillo got out of an embassy BMW and walked to the ramp. A Marine corporal went to the trunk of the BMW and took luggage from it, then followed Castillo to the ramp.
“Put that inside, Corporal, and then find yourself a seat,” Castillo ordered, and then turned to Torine. “Good morning, sir.”
“How is she, Charley?”
“Her jaw is wired shut,” Castillo said. “But she was awake and reasonably comfortable when I left her.”
Torine shook his head sympathetically, and then said, “I spoke with Colonel Newley a few minutes ago. He assured me that the Gulfstream has been placed in the ambulance configuration and is ready to go wheels-up on thirty minutes’ notice.”
“Thank you.”
“Chief Master Sergeant Dotterman, this is Major Castillo.”
Sergeant Dotterman saluted. “The colonel’s told me a good deal about you, sir.”
He held out the wireless headset.
“Intercom is up,” he said, indicating a switch. “Down is whatever radio the pilot is using.”
Castillo examined the headset and then put it on.
“Voice-activated,” Sergeant Dotterman said.
Castillo blew into the small microphone and then nodded, signifying both that he understood and that the device was working.
The flag-draped casket of J. Winslow Masterson, on the shoulders of the honor guard of the Old Guard, was now very slowly approaching the ramp.
“I better go up front, Charley,” Torine said. “Dotterman will let me know when everybody’s onboard.”
“Yes, sir,” Castillo and Dotterman said, almost in chorus.
The honor guard pallbearers slow-marched up the ramp and into the airplane with the casket.
Dotterman followed them inside to supervise its placement and tie-down. Castillo turned to watch and saw that Dotterman was placing it aft of Sergeant Markham’s casket, and decided that meant they were going to unload Masterson first.
“How’s Special Agent Schneider?” Ambassador Silvio asked, startling Castillo.
When he turned to look at him, he saw that Mrs. Silvio, Alex Darby, and another woman, probably Mrs. Darby, were also standing at the bottom of the ramp.
“She was awake when I left the hospital. Her jaw is wired shut.”
The ambassador introduced Mrs. Darby, then said, “My wife and Mrs. Darby, if you think it’s a good idea, will go to the hospital from here to let her know she’s not alone.”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea. Thank you,” Castillo said, and then had a sudden thought. “Where’s Santini?”
Darby pointed.
Tony Santini, an M-16 rifle cradled in his arms like a hunter, was standing on the cab of an enormous yellow fire engine.
When he saw Castillo looking, Santini waved.
“Alex,” Castillo said, returning the wave, “tell him thanks and that I’ll be in touch, please.”
“We’ll tell the Mastersons goodbye and then let you get out of here,” Ambassador Silvio said.
Castillo nodded.
As soon as they had moved into the fuselage, the Old Guard lieutenant walked—more accurately, marched— down the ramp to Castillo, came to attention, and saluted.
“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Castillo said. “That was well done. At the cathedral and here.”
“Thank you, sir,” the lieutenant replied and then handed Castillo a handful of ribbon and a gold medal.
“Mr. Masterson’s Grand Cross of the Great Liberator, sir. I took the liberty of removing it from the colors.”
“Good thinking, Lieutenant. Thank you. No presentation box, I gather?”
“None that I saw, sir.”
Castillo looked around to make sure no one was watching, then put the medal in his trousers pocket.
“I’ll see that Mrs. Masterson gets this. Thank you.”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said, saluted again, did a crisp about-face movement, and marched back up the ramp.
Castillo watched as he went. The difference between me and that natty young officer—when I was out of Hudson High as long as he’s been out—was that I had already fallen under the mentorship—General Naylor called it “the corrupting influence”—of General Bruce J. McNab, and had already acquired at least some of his contempt for the spit-and-polish Army and a devout belief in the Scotty McNab Definition of an Officer’s Duty: Get the job done and take care of your men, and if the rules get in the way, screw the rules.
Ambassador Silvio, Alex Darby, and their wives came back through the fuselage.
Darby wordlessly offered his hand, and then, after the wives had done the same, started to help