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Edmonds shook his head in amazement, then said, "Well, let's get going."
"Mr. Kowalski, what do I do?" Lieutenant Castillo asked. "I'm between two masters."
"Lieutenant," CWO Kowalski said, smiling, "you being a West Pointer, I'm surprised nobody told you that you always obey the last order you got from a senior officer. You go get your picture taken with the general."
"Thank you," Castillo said.
"Call me when you've had your picture taken, and we'll go flying again," Kowalski said. "I'll take care of the paperwork here."
"And did I pass the check ride?"
"Well, I'm reasonably sure that after another couple of hours-if you don't do something really stupid-I will feel confident in certifying you as competent to fly the Mohawk on instruments."
Colonel Edmonds was a pilot. He knew what the translation of that was.
Castillo had passed-without question-his check ride. Otherwise Instructor Pilot Kowalski would not have said what he did. What the two of them were going to do later was take the Mohawk for a ride. Play with it. Maybe fly down to Panama City, Florida, and fly over the beach "practicing visual observation." Or maybe do some aerobatics.
"Would you like to come in, sir, while I shower and change?" Lieutenant Castillo asked when they had reached the Daleville Inn.
"Thank you," Edmonds said.
He's a West Pointer. He will have an immaculate Class A uniform hanging in his closet. And he will probably shave again when he showers. But there is no sense taking a chance.
Lieutenant Castillo did not have a motel room. He had a three-room suite: a living room with a bar, a bedroom, and a smaller second bedroom that had been turned into an office by shoving the bed in there against a wall and moving in a desk.
I don't know what this is costing him, but whatever it is, it's a hell of a lot more than his per diem allowance.
If he somehow managed to get permission to live off post and is getting per diem.
And why don't I believe him when he said he moved in here to have a quiet place to study? Probably because there are half a dozen assorted half-empty liquor bottles on the bar. And a beer case on the floor behind it.
He's spending all this money to have a place to entertain members of the opposite sex. They've been cracking down on that sort of thing in the BOQs.
Well, why not? He's young and the hormones are raging.
When Castillo went into the bedroom to shower and change, Colonel Edmonds looked around the living room. On a shelf under the coffee table he saw a newspaper and pulled it out.
It was a German newspaper.
What the hell is that doing here?
Maybe he's studying German. I read somewhere that Special Forces officers are supposed to have, or acquire, a second language.
That would explain the German newspaper, but it doesn't explain what he said about his branch being Special Forces, not Aviation. What in the hell was that all about?
When Lieutenant Castillo appeared ten minutes later, freshly shaven and in a Class A uniform, Colonel Edmonds was glad that he had accompanied him to his room.
While technically there was nothing wrong with the uniform-it was crisply pressed and well fitting-it left a good deal to be desired.
The only insignia on it were the lieutenant's silver bars on the epaulets, the U.S. and Aviation insignias on the lapels, and the aviator's wings on the breast. There were no ribbons indicating awards for valor or campaigns. And there was no unit insignia sewn to the shoulder.
"Two questions, Lieutenant," Colonel Edmonds said. "First, didn't you tell me you were Special Forces and not Aviation? I ask because you are wearing Aviation branch insignia."
"Yes, sir."
"Excuse me?"
"Yes, sir, I'm Special Forces."
