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“Yeah. It went on hold when I didn’t show up for my annual physical. I didn’t think I could pass it wearing twenty pounds of plaster of paris on my leg. So my ticket became inactive. They didn’t pull it, which is important, but declared it inactive, pending the results of a flight physical. I’ve looked into that. What that means is I find some friendly chancre mechanic. He sees the scars and I tell him they are from a successful knee operation and show him how I can bend my knee. He will make a note of that for the examiner giving me my flight test. In other words, ‘Did his knee operation result in a physical limitation that makes him unsafe in a cockpit?’ The examiner will see that I can push the pedals satisfactorily. My tickets as an instrument-qualified pilot in command of piston and jet multiengine fixed-and rotary-wing aircraft is reactivated. Which means I can then fly just about anything for anybody but the Army.”
“Can you ‘push the pedals satisfactorily’?” Castillo asked.
“I think so. I would hate to believe that all the fucking exercise I’ve been doing flexing the son of a bitch has been in vain. So what I’ve been thinking of doing is going to Tampa and see if I can’t find reasonably ho
nest work as a contractor.”
“Flying worn-out Russian helicopters on some bullshit mission in the middle of now here?”
“The pay is good.”
“What’s wrong with staying right where you are?”
“Working for you?”
“Is something wrong with that?”
“It would look like—would be—cronyism.”
“Think of it as affirmative action,” Castillo said. “The Office of Organizational Analysis is offering employment to somebody who meets all the criteria. You’re ignorant, physically crippled, mentally challenged, and otherwise unemployable.”
“And black. Don’t forget that.”
“And black. I’ll talk to McGuire. Maybe he can get you hired by the Secret Service.”
“I don’t think I could pass their physical.”
“We’ll work something out. I really hate to tell you this, but I need you, Dick.”
“If I thought you really meant that, Charley…”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
“You really don’t want me to answer that, do you?”
“In this case, I’m going to need somebody—you—to protect my back from this goddamned liaison officer Montvale is shoving down my throat. And that’s the truth.”
“You just can’t say, ‘Thank you just the same but I don’t need a liaison officer’?”
“To Ambassador Charles Montvale, the director of National Intelligence? He’s not used to being told no, especially when all he’s trying to do is be helpful.”
“What’s he really after?”
“He doesn’t like the whole idea of a presidential agent. If he can’t take me over—and I’m sure he’s working on that—he wants to put me out of business.”
“So what? What are they going to do, send you back to the Army? What’s wrong with that? Goddamn, I wish that was one of my options.”
Castillo didn’t respond to that. Instead, he asked, “When is all this going to happen?”
“I’ll have thirty days from the time I’m restored to limited duty, which should be in the next week to ten days. I then have to tell them I’ll accept permanent limited-duty status—which means I would wind up in a recruiting office or a mess-kit-repair battalion—or take the medical retirement.”
“Then we have time,” Castillo said. “Just forget that contractor bullshit, okay?”
Miller nodded.
“Thanks, Charley,” he said.
“Jesus, that beer looks tempting,” Castillo said.
