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By the time they reached that altitude, they were over Pascagoula, Mississippi, where the damage was literally incredible. Along the beach, the storm had either destroyed or floated away everything within a quarter-or half-mile of the normal waterline.
"Take it down another five hundred feet, copilot, and then I'll take it."
"Yes, sir."
The damage got worse as they flew along the beach. They saw where two floating casinos had been moved five hundred yards from where they had been moored on the beach.
"Now, Randy, since I don't know where I am, or exactly where it is that I want to go, we will now let the computer take over."
"Yes, sir."
Ten minutes later they were over the landing strip of the Masterson Plantation.
There was clear evidence of hurricane damage-tall pines snapped and huge oaks, some of them obviously hundreds of years old, uprooted-but the airstrip and the house and its outbuildings seemed intact.
There were a number of cars and trucks parked around the house.
Castillo made two low passes over the runway to make sure it was clear. As he pulled out of the second pass to gain altitude to make his approach, he happened to glance at the boy's face. Randy clearly was excited, grinning from ear to ear.
Damned shame the general stopped flying. He could have done this, and the kid could remember that.
Oh, for Christ's sake, stop it!
You're here on business, not to pretend you're the kid's loving uncle.
As Castillo completed the landing roll, he saw three SUVs quickly approaching the field. Then, as he taxied back to the single hangar where a sparkling V-tail Beechcraft Bonanza was tied down, he saw people. He recognized Winslow Masterson and his wife, and their daughter and her three children. There was an older couple standing with them. Logic told him they were the other grandparents, Ambassador Lorimer-the man he had come to see-and his wife.
And logic told him, too, that the two approaching-middle-aged men in business suits were members of China Post No. 1 in Exile, the retired special operators whom Castillo had arranged for Masterson to hire to protect his daughter-in-law and grandchildren.
Winslow Masterson was a tall, slim, elegant, sharp-featured man. He had told Castillo that he suspected his ancestors had been Tutsi.
The men in business suits watched carefully as Castillo parked the airplane, and then one of them nodded-but didn't smile-at Castillo when he apparently recognized him. Both men then leaned against the fender of their SUV as everybody else walked up to the airplane.
"Welcome back to the recently renamed Overturned Oaks Plantation, Major Castillo," Masterson said when Castillo climbed out of the airplane. "This is a pleasant surprise."
"Good to see you, sir," Castillo said. "Anybody afraid of dogs?"
The question seemed to surprise everybody, but no one expressed any concern.
Neidermeyer opened the aircraft's rear double door, stepped out, commanded, "Okay, Max," and let loose of his collar.
At the command, Max jumped out of the plane, headed for the nose gear, and relieved himself.
The older Masterson boy laughed.
"It took months to train him how to do that," Castillo said after everyone else had crawled out of the airplane through the same double door.
Jesus Christ it's hot! Castillo thought. And the humidity is damn near unbearable. Worse than at Rucker.
"I'm not going to call you Major," Elizabeth Masterson, a tall, slim, thirty-seven-year-old, said. "You're a friend, Charley."
She advanced on him and kissed his cheek.
"Actually, I'm a lieutenant colonel, he announced with overwhelming immodesty."
"Good for you," she said. "And is this your son, Charley?"
"No. Randy is General Wilson's grandson."
