hide.”
“I haven’t even thought of shooters down there,” Castillo confessed. “I don’t see where I’m going to need them. But if something came up, yeah, there’s people I could use. There’s a Secret Service guy, and a DEA agent. In a pinch, I could probably use some of the Marine guards.”
“To play it safe, what if I send another crate down there under diplomatic cover? Weapons, night-vision goggles, some flash-bangs, et cetera? Enough for, say, six shooters?”
“Yes, sir. That would be a very good idea. I’m really embarrassed I didn’t think about that.”
“Even though you studied at the feet of the master, Charley, the master didn’t really expect you to be perfect,” McNab said.
“Colonel,” Castillo asked, turning to Torine, “how would the weight of what the general’s talking about affect our cross-the-drink flight?”
Torine considered the question carefully.
“That’s a crate weighing about, ballpark, what? Three hundred pounds?”
“The stuff is in the crate in two duffels,” Captain Walsh furnished. “Total weight three hundred twenty pounds. Not much ammunition; we figured you could get some there. Knock off twenty pounds for the crate, we’re right at three hundred.”
“Another three hundred pounds gross isn’t going to change much, Charley,” Torine said.
“What about somebody getting curious about what’s on the Lear?”
“Customs very seldom checks what a plane is carrying until you try to get it off the plane,” Torine replied.
“You want to take the goodies with you now?” McNab asked.
“No, sir. I was thinking about it, but I don’t think it would be a good idea. I don’t think the risk of getting caught with half a dozen Car 4s is worth it.”
“Okay, so that goes diplomatic,” McNab said. “Anything else?”
“No, sir. Not that I can think of.”
“Okay,” McNab said. “That’s the way we’ll do it.” He turned to Captain Walsh. “Go fetch the mess sergeant.”
The mess sergeant appeared almost immediately.
McNab stood up. Everybody followed suit.
“Yes, sir?” the sergeant said, trying not to appear nervous. “Was everything all right, sir?”
“You look like you’ve been around the Army awhile. . . .” McNab began.
“Yes, sir. I’m working on sixteen years.”
“I want a straight answer. Do you like it better with all these civilians doing what GI cooks and KPs used to do? Or do you miss the old days?”
“General, I really think the food is better now. But I sometimes wish I could eat some of these civilians a new asshole, like I could with cooks and KPs in the old Army.”
“Sergeant, we all yearn for the old Army,” McNab said. “But that was a first-class breakfast you just served us, and you can take pride in it.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Okay,” McNab said, offered the sergeant his hand, and then turned to the others. “Okay, you clowns, get your asses out of low gear and get in the goddamn truck!” He turned back to the mess sergeant. “Oh, I really miss the old Army!”
The mess sergeant—now known as the dining facility supervisor—smiled broadly and followed them out of the dining facility.
[THREE]
Near Richmond, Virginia 0840 26 July 2005
“Washington Center,” Fernando Lopez—who was now in the right seat—said into his throat microphone. “Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five for direct Reagan National. We have special clearance Six-Dash-A-Dash-Two-Seven. Estimate Reagan in one zero minutes.”
“Lear Zero-Seven-Five, you are cleared to Reagan Airport. Begin descent to five thousand feet at this time. Contact Reagan approach control on 122.7 at this time.”
“Thank you, Washington Center,” Fernando said, and switched frequencies. “Reagan approach control, Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five.”
“Zero-Seven-Five, Reagan. We have you on radar. Maintain current heading, airspeed, and rate of descent. Report when at five thousand feet.”
“Reagan, Zero-Seven-Five understands maintain airspeed, heading, and rate of descent, reporting when at five thousand.”
Fernando turned to Torine, who was in the pilot’s seat—Castillo was now kneeling between them—and announced, “Now that, gentlemen, is the way a real pilot does it. He calls somebody important in Washington and makes sure he has a landing clearance before he takes off, thus ensuring—”
“Lear Zero-Seven-Five, Reagan approach control.”
“What now?” Fernando wondered aloud.
“We have a saying in the Air Force, Fernando,” Torine said. “Counteth not thy chickens until the eggs hatcheth.”
“Reagan, Zero-Seven-Five,” Fernando replied after keying the TRANSMIT button.
“Zero-Seven-Five, in-flight advisory. Be advised that U.S. Air Force C-37A Tail Number Zero-Four-Seven— that’s a Gulfstream—entered United States airspace at one five past the hour.”
Castillo had a sudden mental image of Special Agent Schneider wrapped in white sheets and bandages lying on the hospital configuration bed in the Gulfstream. His throat was suddenly tight and his eyes watered. He turned so that no one would see.
“Reagan,” Fernando