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“I’m pretty confused, Gringo.”
“Try living it,” Castillo said. “Okay. Let’s start with the Army. I’m a major, just selected for promotion—which means that I go on the bottom of a list. When some Special Forces lieutenant colonel retires, or gets dead or promoted, and there is a space for one more lieutenant colonel, the top man on the list gets promoted. Eventually, I work my way up to the top of the list and become Lieutenant Colonel Castillo.”
“Are congratulations in order?”
“That may take a while. I’ll let you know when it happens and you can buy me a drink.”
“You just said Special Forces. I thought you were Aviation. ”
“I was commissioned into Aviation when I graduated from West Point . . .”
“I was there, remember? I was still an Aggie cadet, and I wanted that dollar you had to give me when I was the first one to salute you. I got it framed. It’s in my office.”
“I was commissioned into Aviation because of my father. Into what other branch of service could I go?”
“Makes sense.”
“General Naylor wasn’t so sure about that,” Castillo said. “He thought I had the potential to be an armor officer.”
“Hey, Gringo. Me too. I remember our first trip to Fort Knox. That’s when his sales pitches started. He thinks he’s your stepdaddy, and that makes me his nephew.”
“Anyway, full of West Point piss and Tabasco I embarked on what I thought was going to be my career as an Army Aviator. I spent most of my graduation leave taking the ATR exams. Remember?”
“I remember. I didn’t quite understand why you wanted an airline transport rating if you were going to be flying in the Army . . .”
“I wanted to be prepared. What occurred to me lately is that that’s when all this bending of the rules started.”
“What do you mean?”
“Brand-new second lieutenants don’t go right to flight school. They spend a couple of years learning how to run a platoon in the Infantry or laying in cannon in the Artillery. Or driving tanks. I don’t suspect for a second that General Naylor had anything at all to do with me being sent to Fort Knox for my initial assignment . . .”
“That’s because you know he doesn’t like you, right?” Fernando chuckled. “Jesus, he came to College Station and gave me a sales pitch to go in Armor that wouldn’t quit. He made it clear to me that if our sacred ancestors only had a couple of tanks at the Alamo, we really would have kicked Santa Anna’s ass all the way back to Mexico City.”
“So you went in Armor when you finished A&M, and you learned all about the M1 Abrams, right?”
“Right. And I finished that just in time to get my ass shipped to Desert Storm.”
“And I was supposed to be there, doing the same thing, but I wasn’t, right?”
“They found a vacancy for you in flight school at Fort Rucker, as I recall.”
“They made one. ‘Son of Medal of Honor Recipient Enters Flight School.’ Looks good in the newspapers. I had my picture taken with the post commander the day I arrived. I couldn’t have flunked out of flight school if I wrecked every aircraft on Cairns Army Airfield.”
“Well, so what? You could fly when you got there.”
“You’re supposed to forget all that and start with: ‘This is a wing. Because of less pressure on its upper surface, it tends to rise in the air taking with it whatever it’s attached to.’ ”
Fernando laughed.
" ’And this is a helicopter,’ ” Castillo went on. “ ‘It is different from an airplane becaus
e the wings go round and round.’ ”
Fernando chuckled and, smiling fondly, shook his head. “I was there about three weeks, I guess, and I fell asleep in class. Basic radio procedure or something. I’d been out howling the night before. With a magnolia blossom named Betty-Sue or something. Unsuccessfully, as I remember. Betty-Sue was holding out for marriage. Anyway, the instructor, a lieutenant, stood me tall: ‘Are you bored in this class, Lieutenant?’
“Well, the answer to that was, ‘Hell, yes, I’m bored,’ but I couldn’t say that. So I thought about what I could say.
“ ‘I asked you a question, Lieutenant!’ he pursued.
