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"Thank you, sir."
"What's going to happen now, sir," Castillo went on, "is that the choppers and their crews will stay here until the word comes for them to move."
"Will that come through me or…?"
"Directly, sir. I have a communicator here, as you know-"
"The man from DirecTV."
"Yes, sir. The execute order will pass through him to Major Ward, the senior pilot. And then they will leave, taking everything with them, and leaving nothing behind but their thanks and the hope that nobody even knew they were here."
"Is there going to be a problem with that, Richardson?" General Crenshaw asked. "Has anyone been extra curious about what's going on in the Hanchey hangar?"
"I don't anticipate any problems in that area, General," Richardson said.
Crenshaw looked at Castillo and asked, "What about my putting out a discreet word that no one is to gossip about what's going on at Hanchey?"
"Sir, I appreciate the offer, but I suggest it would be counterproductive; it might call attention to the Hanchey hangar. We have put out the disinformation-when the question 'What are you guys doing here?' comes up at Happy Hour-that the choppers are being prepared for use as Opposing Force aircraft at the National Training Center at Fort Irwin. We think that's credible."
Crenshaw nodded his agreement.
"You think of everything, don't you, Castillo?"
"Sir, I think of a lot, but there's always something important that gets right past me."
Crenshaw bent over again, and Max gave him his paw again.
"So long, Max," Crenshaw said. "Meeting you has been an experience…"-he stood up as he glanced at Castillo-"…and so has been meeting your boss."
Castillo put his virtually untouched coffee mug down and stood up.
Crenshaw put out his hand to him. "Good luck in whatever you're up to, Colonel."
"Thank you very much, sir. Permission to withdraw, sir?"
Crenshaw nodded.
Castillo and Richardson came to attention and saluted, Crenshaw returned it, then Castillo and Richardson marched out of his office. Max followed.
[THREE]
Aboard Gulfstream III N379LT 33,000 Feet Above the Atlantic Ocean Approximately 100 Nautical Miles East of Cancun, Mexico 1630 8 September 2005 Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo couldn't move his legs. He was up to his knees in some kind of muck.
Where the hell am I? What's going on?
He opened his eyes and found himself sitting in the rear-facing seat against the right bulkhead separating the cockpit from the passenger compartment. And saw the reason he had the nightmare in which he couldn't move his legs.
Max was having a little snooze, too, and had chosen to take it in the space between the rear-facing seat and the forward-facing seat, and to rest his weary head on Castillo's feet.
"You big bastard, how did you get in there?"
Max raised his head just enough to look at Castillo-and for Castillo to free his feet-and then laid it down again.
Castillo swung his feet into the aisle, unfastened his seat belt, stood up, and walked down the aisle to meet the call of nature.
He saw that he and Max were not the only ones having a little snooze. Davidson was sitting in the rear-facing seat across the aisle, snoring softly. Delchamps and Leverette were stretched out on the couches, sound asleep.
Yung and Neidermeyer were awake, talking softly, in two of the aisle-facing seats, and Bradley was in one of the forward-facing seats in the rear of the fuselage, looking as if sleep was just around the corner.
