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After examining the ID card, Sergeant Lefler said, “Yes, sir,” handed it back, and then reached for his telephone and punched in a number.
“Major, I’m sorry to get you up again but I think you better come back down here.”
Major Thomas F. Treward, USAF, appeared a minute or so later, took a good look at Castillo, and said, “Well, Major, back again?”
“This time we’re looking for a civilian Lear that’s supposed to be here right about now.”
“The tower just cleared him to land,” Treward said, gesturing toward the glass doors.
Castillo went outside and looked up at the sky.
There were a half-dozen flashing Grimes lights in the sky. After a moment, Castillo decided which of them were making an approach to the runway and followed them with his eyes. The first two aircraft in the pattern were USAF C-130s. The third was a glistening white Bombardier/Learjet 45XR.
Two minutes later, it rolled up to the tarmac before base operations and stopped. Castillo saw the copilot take off his headset and then get out of his seat. Castillo walked toward the plane. Before he got there, the door opened and the copilot got out, carrying a small bag.
He was a silver-haired man in his fifties whose zippered flight jacket was adored with the four-stripe shoulder boards of a captain. Castillo guessed that he was ex-military, maybe retired, who was on some sort of a list for people who needed a
pilot for a light jet on short notice.
“You’re Major Castillo?” the copilot asked, and, when Castillo nodded, went on: “Two questions for you. He wants to know how long the airplane will be on the ground? And what about transportation to Fayetteville?”
“I’ve arranged for a ride for you to Fayetteville, and made reservations for you in the Airport Motel, and on the Delta feeder flight to Atlanta leaving at eight forty-five in the morning. You’ll connect in Atlanta to San Antonio. I’d like to get off the ground as soon as possible. What’s the fuel aboard?”
“Enough for another nine hundred miles, maybe a thousand. ”
“There’s an Army captain inside base operations. Name of Brewster. He’ll take care of you from here on. If you’ll ask him to send the others out, I’ll talk to the pilot.”
“Okay, thanks,” the copilot said and walked toward the base operations building.
Castillo went in the airplane and walked to the cockpit.
“Wow, don’t you look spiffy in your soldier suit!” Fernando Lopez said from the pilot’s seat.
“Jesus, you didn’t have to come, Fernando.”
“Yeah, I did, Gringo. I seem to recall you saying it was important.”
“I made reservations for two at the motel, plus two Delta tickets back to San Antonio.”
Lopez shrugged. “So now it’s reservations for one. Where do we go from here, Gringo? And when?”
Castillo stared at his cousin, considered the options, then nodded slightly. “Washington, Philadelphia, and then back here. Now.”
“Just you and me?”
“Three guys—figure six hundred pounds—and another four hundred in gear.”
“There’s enough fuel remaining to make Washington— Ronald Reagan—I know those approaches and it’s a good place to refuel. Okay?”
“Sounds fine.”
“I don’t suppose you remembered to check the weather and file a flight plan?”
“Weather’s fine, and, yeah, they’re holding our clearance to Washington with a fuel stop at Raleigh-Durham. I didn’t know what your fuel remaining would be.”
“We can change Raleigh-Durham once we’re up,” Fernando said.
“Did you remember to give the copilot some cash?”
