[ONE] Penthouse C The Belle Vista Casino amp; Resort U.S. Highway 90 ("The Magic Mile") Biloxi, Mississippi 2230 25 July 2005 When the dark blue, nearly black, GMC Yukon XL pulled up in the brilliantly lit drive of the hotel, the driver's door was opened by a doorman in what looked like the uniform of an admiral in the Imperial Russian Navy.
"Welcome to the Belle Vista Casino and Resort," he announced. "How may I be of service?"
"You can tell me where I can park this thing," the driver said.
"We have valet parking, sir."
"No," the driver said, and showed the doorman his Secret Service credentials. "I keep control of the vehicle. And I need it close, in case it's required in a hurry."
"Oh," the doorman said. "Is one of you gentlemen Mr. Costello?"
"My name is Castillo," Charley said, from the backseat.
"And you are Mr. Masterson's guest, sir?"
"Uh-huh."
"Welcome to the Belle Vista Casino and Resort, Mr. Castillo," the doorman said and opened the rear door. "Mr. Threadgill, the manager on duty, will be here momentarily."
Castillo and Fernando Lopez got out of the Yukon.
Fernando Lopez was an enormous man-six-foot-three, two hundred thirty pounds-with a full head of dark black hair and a swarthy complexion. He was wearing a dark blue suit, a crisp blue shirt with a white collar, a red-striped tie, and black ostrich-hide Western boots.
"If you want to get a cup of coffee or something," Castillo said to the driver, "I think this will probably take about an hour."
The Secret Service agent nodded but didn't say anything.
A tall, thin, elegantly dressed man in his late forties walked up to them.
"Mr. Castillo?" he asked and, when Charley nodded, put out his hand. "Welcome to the Belle Vista Casino and Resort, Mr. Castillo. My name is Edward Threadgill, and I am the manager on duty. If you'll follow me, please?"
He led them through the lobby. In a lounge to one side, three enormous television screens showed Air Force One taxiing toward a runway.
He stopped before an elevator, somewhat dramatically flashed a plastic card, and then demonstrated how the card operated the elevator door. He then presented the card to Castillo.
"He'll need one of those, too," Castillo said.
"Certainly," Mr. Threadgill announced, produced anotherplastic card, and handed it to Fernando. "There you are, sir. And you are, sir?"
"My name is Lopez," Fernando said.
"Welcome to the Belle Vista Casino and Resort, Mr. Lopez."
"Thank you."
Threadgill bowed them onto the elevator.
The elevator ascended, then its doors opened on a large foyer. Threadgill led them to one of the four doors opening off it, ran the plastic card through another reading device, and then bowed them through the door.
Penthouse C was a large, elegantly furnished suite of rooms. Threadgill threw a switch, and curtains swished open, revealing a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows offering what in daylight would be a stunning view of the Gulf of Mexico, the sugar-white sandy beach, and the highway running along the coast. Now, a few lights twinkled out on the water and U.S. 90 was an intermittent stream of red lights going west, white lights going east.
There was a basket of fruit on a coffee table, and beside it a cooler holding two bottles of champagne.
"If you need anything, gentlemen," Threadgill said, "there are buttons in every room which will summon the floor waiter. There is of course twenty-four/seven room service."
"Thank you very much," Castillo said.
"Is there anything else, or may I leave you?"
"I can't think of anything, thank you very much," Castillo said.
Fernando Lopez waited until the door closed after Threadgill, and then said, "Knowing you as I do, Gringo, I'm sure there is some very simple reason why we are here in a suite normally reserved for really heavily losing baccarat players."
"Baccarat players?" Castillo asked.
"Yeah, this place is world headquarters for people who want to drop a couple of hundred thousand playing baccarat. You didn't know?"
Castillo shook his head.
"So what are we doing here?" Fernando asked.
"Thank you for not asking in the truck," Castillo said.
"That's the answer?"
"Masterson's father and I have to talk. We can't do that at his place-which he calls the plantation-because the widow's father has a bad ticker, and we don't want to upset him. He sent me here."
"What do you have to talk about? Wait. I'll rephrase that interrogatory: What the fuck is going on?"
"So I don't have to repeat everything twice, can you wait until he gets here? He should be here any minute, and I need a drink."
"Okay. I could use a little belt myself," Fernando said.
"What did that guy say about a floor-waiter button?"
"There has to be a bar in here," Fernando said.
He walked to a panel mounted on the wall and started pushing buttons. One of them caused a section of the paneled wall to move, revealing a small but well-stocked bar.
"Eureka, the gold!"
They had just enough time to fix the drinks and touch glasses when Winslow Masterson walked into the suite.
"I couldn't get away as quickly as I had hoped," he said. "But they were ready for you?"
"Yes, sir," Castillo said. "I took the liberty of…"
"You're my guests," Masterson shut him off with a gentle wave of his hand. "And a drink seems entirely appropriate at this time."
He went to the bar and poured himself a drink from the bottle of Famous Grouse that Fernando had used.
"The economics of this place has always fascinated me," Masterson said. "God only knows how much it costs them to maintain something like this, and since they are obviously not in the business of being a friend to man, there has to be a profit motive. It would therefore seem to follow that their hospitality is offered only to those who have-or are likely to lose-an enormous amount of money at the tables. Where do such people- and so many of them-come from?"
"I was thinking just about the same thing, sir," Fernando said.
"Excuse me, sir, for my breach of courtesy. I am Winslow Masterson."
"My name is Lopez, sir. Fernando Lopez."
"And you're a Westerner, Mr. Lopez. May I say I admire your boots?"
"Thank you, sir. Texan. San Antonio," Fernando said.
Masterson drained his drink and made another.
"Mr. Castillo tells me you're cousins," Masterson said.
"Yes, sir."
"Years ago," Masterson offered, "I had some business dealings with a delightful chap in San Antonio, who had your Christian name, Mr. Lopez, and your surname, Mr. Castillo. I don't suppose…"
"You may be talking about my-our-grandfather, sir," Charley said.
"Did your grandfather have a magnificent Santa Gertruda bull named 'Lyndon J.'?"
"Grandpa was not an admirer of President Johnson," Fernando said, "and Lyndon J., even as a calf, produced amazing amounts of droppings, so when it came to naming the calf for registering…"
"So your grandfather told me," Masterson chuckled. "What is it they say about a small world?"
He's making small talk, Charley thought. He's delaying hearing what he knows he won't like to hear.
What do I do? Bring him back to earth, so I can go out to his farm?
No. Fuck it. Vic's out there. The Mastersons are safe.
We just brought his son home in a flag-draped casket.
Let him do whatever he wants to do.
"I was distressed to learn he had passed," Masterson said. "My deepest condolences to you and your family."
Then he turned and walked to the plate-glass windows and looked out at the twinkling lights on the gulf.
A very long moment later, with his back to them, Masterson said, "Gambling has been going on here on this coast for centuries. Did you know that?"
"No, sir," Charley said, "I didn't."
"No, sir," Fernando added.
"The very first gamblers were the freebooters, the pirates,who plied their profession here," Masterson went on. "They had the custom of raffling off the more comely of the females they had removed, together with other valuable property, from vessels they intercepted entering or leaving the Mississippi River."
"I didn't know that," Fernando said.
"It is, I suspect, why my wife is a bit vague when discussing our ancestors. It is one thing to take some pride in them having been free men of color in New Orleans, before the war of cessation, and quite something else to acknowledge how they achieved that status."
"Excuse me?" Fernando asked.
Masterson took a long sip of his drink, and continued: "After the Battle of New Orleans, Jean Laffite was pardoned for his services. As were his officers and men. Most of them stayed in Louisiana, but some of them, including a notorious scoundrel, Captain Alois Hamele, and his son, Captain Francois Hamele, originally from Haiti, and before that of course from Africa, came here, where the land was cheaper and there were a number of bays and coves where ships not wishing to pass their cargoes through customs could unload.
"Captain-they used the French term, maitre, in those days-Hamele and his son-commonly known as the fils de le Maitre-decided, upon hearing that Jean Laffite had returned to his sinful ways, and knowing that the authorities would almost surely come looking for other pardoned freebooters, that a change of name was probably-"
"I know where you're going," Charley said. "Son of the Master, right? Masterson?"
Winslow Masterson slowly turned from the window, smiled, and nodded.
"Over the years," he went on, "the Masterson family acquired rather extensive land holdings in this area. Some of it was splendid farmland; some was in timber, and some, like the land on which this splendiferous gambling hell is built, was essentially useless swamp."
"And now," Fernando said, smiling, "I think I know where you're going."
"Perhaps," Masterson said, smiling.
"About fifteen years ago, some gentlemen from Las Vegas came to see me about acquiring this property. I suspect, perhaps unkindly, that they were disappointed when they found that I was not plowing my land walking barefoot behind a mule."
Castillo and Fernando chuckled.
"And I know they were disappointed when I told them I wasn't interested in selling the property. I didn't tell them that not only do I dislike selling property, but in this case my wife had also weighed in. She truly believes that proprietors of gambling hells grow rich on the poor.
"But it is true, I suppose, that everyone has their price, and in this case, the Las Vegas people finally met mine. An absurd, from my standpoint, amount of money. And this apartment, in perpetuity, together with what they term 'full maintenance,' which means I never am billed for anything. I suspect they still entertain hope I will come here, have too much of this stuff"-he raised his glass-"and go downstairs and lose it all back to them shooting dice."
Castillo and Lopez laughed.
"Primarily, I use it to house people who come to see me who I would rather not have in my home," Masterson said, and took a sip of his scotch. After a moment, he added, "My wife has never been in the building."
Masterson looked between them for a moment, then drained his glass. He put the glass carefully on the bar and turned to face Castillo.
"Very well," he said. "Enough of that. Please tell me, Mr. Castillo, who abducted my daughter-in-law and murdered my son, and why. And what I can do to avenge his death."
"Yes, sir," Castillo said. "I'll tell you what I know, which isn't very much. When the President heard that Mrs. Masterson was missing in what appeared to be a kidnapping, he sent me to Buenos Aires…" "And you have no idea whatsoever who these people are?" Masterson asked, when Castillo had finished.
"No, sir. I do not. Obviously, it has something to do with Mr. Lorimer. So I'm going to start by trying to find him. If there's anything, anything at all, you can tell me that you think might help…"
Masterson nodded thoughtfully.
"There is a subculture here, Mr. Castillo, of affluent Negroes who can trace their ancestry back to the free men of color. It is simply a matter of our being more comfortable with each other than we are with other people."
"We Texicans have something like that in San Antonio," Fernando said.
Masterson considered that, and said, "Yes, I daresay you would. Your grandfather mentioned in passing that he had ancestors on both sides who died at the Alamo fighting the Mexicans. I don't know about Texas, but here ours is a rather small community. We're primarily Roman Catholic. We send our daughters to the nuns in New Orleans for their high school education, and our sons to the brothers at Saint Stanislaus here in Mississippi for theirs.
"My son went to Saint Stanislaus as I did, and my father did, and my grandfather. So did Jean-Paul Lorimer, as did his father, and-I believe-his grandfather. Jack's mother and Jean-Paul's mother had known each other in the Blessed Heart of Jesus School in New Orleans, and then gone to Spring Hill College in Mobile. It was thus inevitable that Jack would meet Betsy and that they became sweethearts when they were in their teens.
"Surprising most of us, the romance continued after Jack went off to Notre Dame on a basketball scholarship. They were married, against the wishes of both families, two weeks after Jack graduated. Our sole objections were that Betsy had not completed her degree-she's a year younger than Jack-and that they were too young. Their argument, to which we finally acquiesced, was they would be separated again by his professional athletic career."
He paused and smiled. "Betsy, I strongly suspect, was fully aware of the tales of the off-court activities of the Celtics, and was determined that she would not lose Jack to some adoring-what's the phrase?-'basketball groupie.' If Jack was going to Boston, so was she."
Fernando and Castillo chuckled.
"And then, of course, Jack's career ended prematurely when he was struck by the beer truck. I hoped he would come home to work the plantation. He said he would the day I announced my retirement, and not before.
"The ambassador suggested he take the entrance examination for the foreign service, and we all thought this was a splendid idea. The world, as they say, is growing smaller every day, and by the time I was ready to retire, Jack would be fluent in more languages than French and English, and the fruits of their union would have been exposed to experiences they would not have if they went to the nuns and brothers here.
"And, with one exception, until this outrage occurred, their lives were going as well as my wife and I, and Ambassador and Mrs. Lorimer, could have wished. That exception was the unpleasantness that developed between Jack and Jean-Paul Lorimer."
Castillo, about to take a sip of his drink, stopped. "Over what?" he asked.
"At first, we thought it was differing political views, but on second thought, we realized that it almost certainly was more than that. It went back to their days at Saint Stanislaus, and had other causes." Masterson paused. "What I'm doing is what my wife would call 'airing the dirty family linen.' But you said 'anything at all.' Should I continue?"
"Yes, sir, please," Castillo said.
"Shortly after Jack joined the foreign service, he was posted to Paris. My wife and I went to see them. They had an apartment on the Quai Anatole France… Do you know Paris, Mr. Castillo?"
"Yes, sir."
"I can find my way from the Arch of Triumph to the Place de la Concorde without a guide," Fernando said.
"Facing the River Seine from the Place de la Concorde," Masterson said, "just across the river is a row of apartment buildings on the Quai Anatole France. Do you know where I mean?"
"Yes, sir," Fernando said.
"The high-rent district," Castillo said.
Masterson nodded. "And Jack and Betsy-who was very pregnant-were ensconced in an upper-floor apartment in one of the more expensive buildings on the Quai Anatole France. He was so junior in the foreign service that government quarters were not made available to him; they paid a rental allowance instead, and you were supposed to find yourself someplace to live.
"What Jack and Betsy found was a lovely apartment, from which one could see the Bateaux-Mouches on the Seine, the Place de la Concorde… and it was priced accordingly.
"I questioned Jack about the wisdom of his flaunting his affluence. His response was that everyone knew of that incredible settlement he'd been given, and that it would be hypocrisy to pretend they were not extremely well-off. Later in his career he became more discreet.
"In any event, he and Betsy gave a party for us. Jean-Paul Lorimer was also in Paris. He had resigned from the State Department some months before-later I learned that was shortly after he learned Jack would be sent to Paris-and joined the UN. When my wife learned that he had not been invited to the party becausehe and Jack had had words, my wife prevailed upon Betsy to include him.
"I don't think Jean-Paul had been in the apartment ten minutes before he said something that Jack construed as anti-American. It quickly became ugly, very ugly. Betsy was in tears. Cutting that short, Jack threw him-literally threw him-out of the apartment. As far as I know, that's the last time they ever saw one another.
"At first we thought it was a question of their political differences-Jack's mother always said that Jack was more chauvinistically patriotic than Patrick Henry-but on reflection, we realized that it went back as far as Saint Stanislaus."
"I don't think I follow you, sir," Castillo said.
"The green-eyed monster, Mr. Castillo. Jealousy," Masterson said. "Jean-Paul is three years older than Jack. Saint Stanislaus's football team leaves something to be desired, but they have always had a first-rate basketball team. Jean-Paul didn't earn a place on the team until he was a senior. Jack made it as a ninth-grader. They played together, in other words. Jack immediately became the star. The Celtics-and others-made their first offers to him when he was still at Saint Stanislaus, and they were not doing so as their contribution to affirmative action.
"And then came the scholarship to Notre Dame. Jean-Paul went to Spring Hill, where he didn't attempt varsity sports, and where his academic career was unspectacular. Jack's skill on the basketball court, on the other hand, gave a new meaning to the term 'Black Irish,' and academically he did well enough to earn a Phi Beta Kappa key.
"Then came his contract for all that money from the Celtics, and shortly thereafter he was struck by the beer truck. The enormous settlement he received from that exacerbated, my wife and I came to realize, the resentment Jean-Paul-but not, I hasten to add, his father and mother-harbored for our being far better off than the Lorimers.
"Jean-Paul followed his father into the foreign service. His initial assignment was to Liberia. When Jack went into the foreign service, his first assignment was Paris. I later learned that he believed I had something to do with that. I did not, if I have to say so.
"Jean-Paul resigned from the foreign service and joined the United Nations and was assigned to Paris. Where he found Jack and Betsy in the apartment on the Quai Anatole France."
"Wow!" Castillo said.
"That said, Mr. Castillo," Masterson went on, "I cannot believe that Jean-Paul could possibly have anything to do with Jack's murder. Nor can I imagine Jean-Paul being involved in anything illegal. He is one of those people who go through life trying to bend the rules to their advantage, but who simply don't have the courage, if that's the word, to break them."
"Maybe drugs are involved?" Fernando said. "That's a murderous business."
"I find that impossible to accept, even as a remote possibility, Mr. Lopez," Masterson said. "Might it have something to do with our involvement in Iraq?"
"I don't think that's likely, sir," Castillo said.
"Giving my imagination free rein," Masterson asked, "could it be that Jean-Paul has somehow annoyed the Israelis? Their intelligence agency… Mossad? Something like that?"
"Mossad," Castillo confirmed. "Formally, the Institute for Intelligence and Special Tasks."
"Mossad has a certain reputation for ruthlessness," Masterson finished.
"Maybe," Castillo blurted. He collected his thoughts. "All the shooters-of Mr. Masterson, Sergeant Markham, and Special Agent Schneider-were firing Israeli-manufactured nine-millimeter ammunition."
He heard himself. Jesus, motormouth, why did you say that?
"I shouldn't have said that," he said quickly. "My brain isn't functioning. All that proves is that Israel manufactures a lot of ammunition. It's unlikely that Mossad Special Task shooters would use traceable ammunition on a job like this."
"Probably not," Masterson agreed. "But now that I think about it, I don't think that Israeli involvement in this should be dismissed out of hand."
"On the other hand," Castillo went on thoughtfully, "since so much Israeli ammo is around, so readily available, maybe Mossad would use it. Why not?"
"Which appears to point right back to Jean-Paul Lorimer and his connections with the French," Masterson said, "as the key to this."
"Yes, sir, it looks that way. With a little bit of luck, I should be in Paris before our embassy closes tomorrow. Not that the embassy being closed matters. The CIA station chief will just have to give up his cinq a sept."
Masterson chuckled. "You have been in Paris, haven't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"What the hell is a sank… whatever you said?" Fernando asked.
"You could call it 'recreation on the way home from the office,'" Castillo said, and Masterson chuckled again. "It means five to seven. Something like a noonie in the United States."
Fernando shook his head. Masterson chuckled again.
"How well did you know my son, Mr. Castillo?"
"Not well," Castillo said. "But I liked what I saw."
"And that explains your enthusiasm to find these people?"
"That's part of it, sir. The other part is personal. I also really want to find the people who shot Special Agent Schneider and Sergeant Markham."
"Do you think the rest of the government is going to share your enthusiasm? Or will this just fade into memory?"
"I can't speak to enthusiasm, sir, but I expect cooperation."
"I thought perhaps other, higher priorities might be involved," Masterson said. "Or perhaps that when you turn over the rock, there will be worms some might wish had remained concealed. Perhaps in the national interest."
"When I was on Air Force One with the President just now, Mr. Masterson, he ordered Ambassador Montvale, the director of national intelligence, and the secretary of state to give me anything I asked for, and I intend to ask the CIA for everything they have on Lorimer. And I'm going to ask the FBI and the DIA and the DEA, the state department's bureau of intelligence and research, and the post office and the department of agriculture and anybody else I think might possibly have a line on him."
"Would a reward for information, as substantial as necessary, and offered either publicly or privately, be of any use, do you think?"
"I don't think that will be necessary, sir."
"Please keep it in mind, Mr. Castillo, that if something…"
"I appreciate that, sir, and I will."
"Is there anything else you'd be willing to tell me?"
"I can't think of anything else, sir."
"Then perhaps we should go out to the plantation before our being missing really attracts attention."
"Sir, about the plantation," Castillo said. "I'd really like to get out of here first thing in the morning, and we have to think about getting Fernando back to San Antonio-"
"Fernando's not going back to San Antonio," Fernando interrupted. "Fernando's always wanted to go to Paris in the middle of the summer. Somebody once told Fernando you can't find a Frenchman in Paris in July. Just think, all that beauty and no Frenchmen."
Masterson chuckled. "You sound like my son, Mr. Lopez." He turned to Castillo. "I really wish you would spend the night at the plantation, if for no other reason than I think Betsy will be pleased to see that I share her confidence in you."
Jesus H. Christ!
"I can only hope, sir, that her, and your, confidence in me is justified."
Which almost certainly won't be. [TWO] Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina 0715 26 July 2005 "Pope approach control, Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five," Colonel Jake Torine called into his throat mike.
"Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five, Pope."
"Pope, Seven-Five. Do you have us on radar?"
"Affirmative, Seven-Five."
"Estimate Pope in seven minutes. Approach and landing clearance, please."
"Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five, be advised Pope is closed to civilian traffic."
Colonel Torine turned to Major C. G. Castillo, who was in the left seat.
"What now, O Captain, my captain?" he asked.
"I thought we'd be cleared," Castillo said.
"Always check," Torine said. "Write that down, Charley."
"You guys aren't very good at things like this, are you?" Fernando Lopez, who was kneeling between the seats, asked innocently, earning him the finger from Major Castillo.
Colonel Torine switched to TRANSMIT.
"Pope, Seven-Five has been cleared to land at Pope. Verify by contacting Lieutenant General McNab at Special Operations Command."
"Seven-Five, we have no record of clearance-"
"And while you're doing that, give us approach and landing clearance, please. This is Colonel Jacob Torine, USAF. Acknowledge." It proved impossible for the airfield officer of the day, Major Peter Dennis, USAF, to immediately find anyone at the Air Force base who could confirm or deny that Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five had permission to land. Neither could he immediately establish contact with General McNab.
With great reluctance, but seeing no other alternative, Major Dennis telephoned Major General Oscar J. Winters, USAF, Pope's commanding general, at his quarters, where the general was having his breakfast, and explained what had happened.
Major General Winters was fully aware that paragraph one of the mission statement of Pope Air Force Base stated in effect that Pope was there to provide support to Fort Bragg and the major Army units stationed thereon. Furthermore, he knew that Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab, U.S. Army, was wearing the hats of both the commanding general, XVIII Airborne Corps, and the commanding general, U.S. Army Special Operations Command, and thus also had command control of the 82nd Airborne Division (which was under XVIII Airborne Corps) and the U.S. Army Special Warfare School (which was under the Special Operations Command).
He was also aware of General "Scotty" McNab's well-earned reputation for unorthodoxy, and of his legendary temper. And there was, General Winters knew, an Air Force officer, a colonel, named Jacob Torine. Why Torine would be flying a civilian Bombardier/Learjet 45XR Winters had no idea, except that Torine had spent much of his career as an Air Commando, and Air Commandos were about as well known for unorthodoxy as were members of the Army's Special Forces.
Wise major generals, Air Force or Army, make every effort not to unreasonably antagonize lieutenant generals of their own or any other service.
General Winters instructed Major Dennis to grant Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five permission to land, but with the caveat that it be ordered to hold on the taxiway, where two Security Forces Humvees armed with.50 caliber machine guns should meet it prepared to take it under fire in case the sleek and glistening white civilian jet should turn out to be some sort of flying Trojan horse.
"I'll be right there, Major," General Winters said.
On the way to Base Operations in his Air Force blue Dodge Caravan, General Winters managed to get General McNab on his cellular phone.
"General McNab," he said, "we have just learned that a civilian Learjet is about to land at Pope, piloted by someone who says he is Colonel Jacob Torine, USAF, and that you can verify he has permission to land. I am on my way to the field."
General McNab's reply was succinct: "Well, I guess I better do the same. Thank you, Oscar. See you there." The Bombardier/Learjet 45XR had been sitting on the taxiway near the threshold of the active runway for about ten minutes when both Lieutenant General McNab and Major General Winters personally appeared there.
General McNab led the way, standing up in the front seat of an Army Humvee. He was a small, muscular, ruddy-faced man sporting a flowing red mustache. He was wearing a desert camouflage uniform, aviator sunglasses, and a green beret. General Winters followed in his Caravan. He was wearing a class A uniform.
When the Humvee stopped thirty feet from the Lear, General McNab jumped nimbly to the ground and walked up to the Lear, where he, hands on hips, looked up at the cockpit with all the arrogant confidence of General George S. Patton. A very large and muscular captain, similarly uniformed, got out of the Humvee and took up a position immediately behind General McNab.
Major General Winters and Major Dennis got out of the Caravan and walked up beside Lieutenant General McNab and the Green Beret captain.
The Lear's door unfolded, and Colonel Torine and Major Castillo, each wearing a suit and tie, deplaned. Both saluted crisply, which reassured Major Dennis, who reasoned if they weren't military they would not have done so.
"Good morning, sir," Torine and Castillo said, almost in concert.
General Winters returned the salute crisply. General McNab returned it with a casual gesture in the direction of his head.
"I must confess, Oscar," General McNab said, "that these two are well known to me, and that the really ugly one is indeed Colonel Jake Torine."
McNab looked at Torine, and said, "I knew they wouldn't let an old man like you fly big airplanes much longer." He looked at Castillo. "And Major Castillo, daring to show his face at my door again."
General McNab turned to General Winters.
"Whenever I think that Captain Walsh is the worst aide-de-camp I have ever had, Oscar, I think of Major Castillo in that role and realize I am wrong. Castillo earned that appellation in perpetuity."
Captain Walsh smiled, and shook his head.
"As to why there is no record of their aircraft being granted permission to land here, I have no idea. I was notified by CentCom that they were coming. I am forced to conclude that either CentCom or the Air Force fucked things up again, as both are lamentably famous for doing."
"I'll look into it, General," Winters said.
"If I may offer advice without giving offense, Oscar, let sleeping dogs lie."
"No offense taken, General."
"Would it be possible for you to drag that airplane somewhere where it will be more convenient for them to get back in it after we've had some breakfast?"
"Certainly, sir. Colonel, do you need fuel?"
"No, sir. We're all right," Torine said.
"Castillo, once again demonstrating his remarkable ability to arrive at the wrong time, did so by arriving here just as Walsh and I finished our wake-up five-mile trot around Smoke Bomb Hill," General McNab said. "I require sustenance immediately after my morning five-miler. Otherwise, my wife accuses, I become ill-mannered."
"I understand, General," Winters said.
Fernando appeared at the Lear's door.
"Can I get off now without being blown away?" he asked.
"Aha," McNab said. "Unless I err, the owner of the airplane. You may not believe this, Oscar, but he was once a fairly competent captain of armor."
"How are you, General?" Fernando asked.
"Very well, Fernando, for an old man, with all these terrible responsibilities heavily weighing upon my overburdened shoulders. Could you use some sustenance?"
"Yes, sir, I could."
"I'll have it towed to Base Ops," General Winters said.
"Thank you, sir," Torine said.
"Thank you, Oscar," General McNab said, and gestured to Castillo, Torine, and Lopez that they should get into the Humvee. There was still a small line waiting to be fed at what the Army now called the "dining facility"-formerly "mess hall"-of the 1st Battalion, 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment when McNab's Humvee pulled up outside. Everyone in the Humvee piled out and went to the end of the line.
One of the principles of leadership Castillo had learned while he had been Second Lieutenant Castillo, aide-de-camp to Brigadier General McNab, was that the quality of food served was one of the most important factors in troop morale, and that a very good way to ensure that high-quality food was served at all times was for senior officers to drop in unannounced at a randomly selected mess hall and eat what was being served to the privates.
General McNab took out his wallet and paid for breakfast for everybody but his driver, an unmarried sergeant living in barracks who was not drawing a rations and quarters allowance, and they went through the line watched by a visibly nervous mess sergeant, who was aware both of McNab's legendary temper and that it was often triggered when food did not measure up to his expectations.
The food-and there was a wide array of choices- was good. McNab waited until they were through, poured himself another cup of coffee, and then handed Castillo a sheet of Teletype paper.
"If you have trouble with the big words, Charley, I will be happy to explain them to you," he said.
Castillo took the message and read it.