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"I wanted to thank you for everything you've done," she said. "And to tell you how sorry I am about Miss Schneider and the sergeant."
Castillo didn't reply. He looked past her for a long moment, told himself to keep his thoughts private. But when he looked back at Mrs. Masterson, the scene of the shot-up embassy BMW fresh in his mind, he said, "His name was Sergeant Roger Markham, Mrs. Masterson. He was twenty years old. And in my judgment, that very nice young man would still be alive and Special Agent Schneider would not be in a hospital bed with three bullet wounds-and her jaw wired shut-if you had b
een truthful about the people who abducted you."
"How dare you talk to me in that manner?"
"My orders are to protect you and your children, Mrs. Masterson. I have done that to the best of my ability- and will continue to do so-until I am relieved of the responsibility. But there is nothing in my orders requiring me to politely pretend I think you were telling the truth to the officers investigating your abduction and your husband's murder when you and I both know you were lying."
He met her eyes for a moment, then nodded, and went down the stairs to the cargo section of the fuselage. Twenty minutes later, Chief Master Sergeant Dotterman walked up to Castillo, who was sitting on the floor of the fuselage-a good deal of experience in riding Globemasters had taught him the floor was far more comfortable than the aluminum pipe-supported nylon seats-and mimed that Castillo should put the headset back on.
When he had done so, Dotterman leaned over him and flipped the switch on the headset to INTERCOM.
"Castillo, you on?" Torine's voice asked.
"Yes, sir."
"You want to come up here, please?"
"Yes, sir."
Well, I put Jake Torine on the spot, didn't I?
In addition to flying the airplane and his other worries, he's had to contend with a furious female who didn't like being called a liar and wasted no time whatever to complain to the most senior officer she could find.
And he didn't need that. Torine is one of the good guys.
But am I sorry I told her what I thought?
Not one goddamn little bit!
Castillo pulled himself to his feet and went through the fuselage again and up to the cockpit. There was no way he could avoid seeing Mrs. Masterson, but if she saw him, she gave no sign.
He walked between the pilot's and copilot's seats, and when Colonel Torine didn't seem to be aware of his presence, leaned down and touched his shoulder.
Torine turned and looked up at him, smiling.
"Dotterman told me you were on the floor back there," Torine said. "If you want to lay down, Charley, and God knows you have every reason to be tired, just pull the armrests out from one of the seats. I've even got a blanket and pillow I'll loan you."
He's neither pissed nor embarrassed, which he would be if the Widow Masterson had complained to him about me.
Well, maybe she's waiting to tell the President what a cold-hearted bastard I am.
And I really don't care if she does.
"Thanks, but I'm not sleepy, sir."
"Well, then, maybe you'd like to sit in the right seat for a while and see how real pilots aerial navigate over the Amazon jungle?"
"Is that where we are, over the Amazon jungle?"
"I don't know where we are," Torine said. He nodded at the copilot. "I'm relying on him, and my painful experience with him has been that he often gets lost in a closet. How about getting out of there, Bill, and we'll see if this Army aviator can find out where we are?"
The copilot smiled and unfastened his harness.
When Castillo had taken his seat and strapped himself in, the copilot leaned over him and pointed out a screen on which their location was shown. A well-detailed electronicmap showed that they were about two hundred miles from Buenos Aires, a few miles north of Rosario. The screen also showed their altitude, airspeed, course, and the distance and time to alternate airfields. Castillo was familiar with the equipment. There was a civilian version of it in the Lear Bombardier. Guided by data from three-or more-satellites fed through a computer, the location and ground speed provided on the screen was accurate within six feet and three miles per hour.
I wonder if Tom got Fernando permission to land at Keesler?
