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“What you did, Tom, probably contributed to that, but I don’t think it was the only thing that made President Clendennen decide he could do without my services. He really isn’t quite as stupid as he appears. I think it is entirely likely that he has known for some time what I think of him. He would like nothing better than to have Roscoe J. Danton write a column detailing how his director of National Stupidity went on a wild-goose chase to Ushuaia, but he can’t do that because Roscoe would be sure to ask him why he sent Truman and me to Argentina in the first place, and he can’t be sure how far he can push my reluctance to embarrass the Office of the President—for that matter, Clendennen himself—before it is overwhelmed by my contempt.
“Inasmuch as he knows that I won’t oblige him by resigning, what he’s doing is looking for a way to fire me in conditions that won’t reflect adversely on him.”
“Is Danton going to write about ... you going to Ushuaia?”
“I don’t know. I’m having trouble getting in touch with him. Just before you came in, Truman and I decided that we will take our lunch at the Old Ebbitt Grill. Not only are we fairly sure that the Executive Dining Room will no longer welcome us, but we suspect we can find Mr. Danton at one of his favorite watering holes, the Old Ebbitt.
“We’ll have to walk. Truman and I no longer have access to the White House fleet of Yukons.”
“My God!”
“If you don’t mind the walk, Truman and I would be delighted if you were to join us.”
“You don’t have to do that, Mr. Ambassador.”
“I want to do it,” Montvale said. “Please join us.”
[ONE]
Laguna el Guaje
Coahuila, Mexico
1335 11 February 2007
“Sorry to have taken so long,” Castillo said when he walked into the dining room trailed by Max. “Unexpected problems at the used helicopter lot.”
“But you got another Black Hawk?” Sweaty asked.
“I got another one. But the price went up to one point four million, and I suspect it’s not going to be as nice as the one downstairs.”
“Colonel, can I ask where you’re getting all that money?” Roscoe Danton said.
“The LCBF Corporation actually purchased the Black Hawks, and is loaning them to us,” Castillo answered.
“That’s ‘those people’ in Las Vegas?” Danton asked.
“Oh, no,” Castillo said. “The LCBF Corporation has absolutely nothing to do with those people in Las Vegas.”
“Then what the hell is it?”
“I’d really like to tell you, Roscoe,” Castill
o said solemnly. “I really would. But if I did, I’d have to kill you.”
That earned a chuckle from not only the Special Operations people around the table—there was one more of them now, CWO5 Colin Leverette (Retired) having come in while they were watching the surveillance camera tapes—but also from Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Allan Naylor, Jr.
General Naylor, however, who had heard the comment often, was not amused.
He thought: These Special Operations types, from Charley’s teenaged ex-Marine “bodyguard” Lester Bradley up to Lieutenant General Bruce McNab, have an almost perverse sense of humor. They’re different. They have no respect for anything or anyone but each other.
And then he thought: Why do I suspect that things did not go well when Charley was off buying another Black Hawk?
And I think he was telling the truth about that, too. We give the Mexicans multimillion-dollar helicopters, which then promptly wind up in the hands of the drug cartels.
Castillo said, “Well, now that you’ve seen the movie starring General Yakov Sirinov and his Dancing SVR Ninjas ...”
There he goes again! Why does he feel compelled to make a joke even of that?
