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"Secret Service."
Crenshaw studied him a moment, then nodded. Then he raised his voice to those in the cabin:
"Although I understand you're not here, gentlemen, welcome to Cairns Army Airfield and the Army Aviation Center. If you'd care to use our facilities while you're here, we'll throw in coffee and doughnuts."
Then he turned to Castillo again.
"Where'd you learn how to fly? If you don't mind my asking?"
"In Texas, sir."
Crenshaw looked at him again, then nodded, and went down the stairs.
Did he remember my face from somewhere?
He didn't ask my name.
My replies to his questions weren't the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but I really did learn to fly in Texas, rather than here, which is what I think he was asking. And I have bona fide credentials of a Secret Service supervisory agent in my pocket.
So why am I uncomfortable?
Because while I'm wildly out of step with others in the Long Gray Line, I'm still in it. And a cadet does not lie, or cheat, or tolerate those who do.
How the hell did a nice young West Pointer like me wind up doing what I'm doing?
Thirty-five minutes later, Cairns departure control cleared Gulfstream Three Seven Nine for immediate takeoff.
III
[ONE]
Signature Flight Support, Inc.
Baltimore-Washington International Airport Baltimore, Maryland 2205 1 September 2005 A black Chevrolet sedan with a United States Customs and Border Protection Service decal on the door and four identical dark blue GMC Yukon XL Denalis were waiting for the Gulfstream III when it taxied up to the Signature tarmac.
Two uniformed customs officers got out of the Chevrolet sedan and walked across the tarmac toward the aircraft. Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., in civilian clothing, slid gingerly out of the front seat of the first Yukon in the line, turned and retrieved a crutch, stuck it under his arm, and moved with surprising agility after them.
As soon as the stair door opened into place, one of the customs officers, a gray-haired man in his fifties, bounded quickly up it, then stopped, exclaimed, "Jesus Christ!" and then backed up so quickly that he knocked the second customs officer, by then right behind him, off the stairs and then fell backward onto him.
Max appeared in the door, growling deeply and showing an impressive array of teeth. Madchen moved beside him and added her voice and teeth to the display.
Castillo appeared in the door.
"Gentlemen," he said, solemnly, "you have just personally witnessed the Office of Organizational Analysis Aircraft Anti-Intrusion Team in action."
The gray-haired customs officer gained his feet, glared for a moment at the stair door, and then, shaking his head, smiled.
"Very impressive, Colonel," he said, finally.
"They're okay, Max," Castillo said, in Hungarian. "You may now go piss."
Max looked at him, stopped growling, went down the stairs, and headed for the nose gear. Madchen went modestly to the other side of the fuselage.
"You all right?" Castillo said.
"What the hell kind of dogs are they?" the gray-haired customs officer asked.
"Bouvier des Flandres," Castillo said.
