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“Because you stole that helicopter from the Mexicans?”
“Because, for example, the last time I saw Frank Lammelle earlier today, he was wearing plastic handcuffs and Vic D’Allessando was sitting on him.”
“Ouch! Charley, how long is this operation of yours going to take?”
“With a little bit of luck, we should be back on the Bataan by oh-eight-thirty tomorrow.”
“Back from where? Where you’re going to do what? Just the highlights.”
Castillo told him.
“Now I’m really glad I came,” Kingsolving said. “I told you there were two reasons I suffered temporary deafness. The captain of the Bataan, Tom Lowe, is a really good guy. I’ve done a couple of operations with him. Obviously, the more he knows about this one, the better all around. The problem with that is I don’t want him standing at attention before a white-suit board of inquiry trying to explain why he knowingly participated in an obviously illegal operation.”
“How do you want me to handle that?”
“There is a way, but I suspect that as a fellow marcher in that Long Gray Line, it will really bother you. The Code of Honor, don’t you know?”
“Try me. I lie, cheat, and steal all the time, and spend a lot of time hanging out with others that do.”
“Would you be willing to swear on a stack of Bibles that the only thing you told Lowe was where you wanted him to have the Bataan and when, and aside from assuring him that it was a duly authorized, wholly legal operation, didn’t tell him anything else?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thank you, Charley.”
“For what? You’re the guy who just watched his star disappear down the toilet.”
“One more question. Who the hell is the redhead?”
“Would you believe, my fiancée?”
“No.”
“How about she’s an SVR lieutenant colonel?”
“I thought female SVR lieutenant colonels weighed two hundred pounds and had stainless-steel front teeth. Come on, we’ve got to see the captain.”
“Can I bring my dog?”
“Request permission to come onto the bridge with a party of officers,” Kingsolving said from the door to the bridge.
“You and your party of officers have the freedom of the bridge, Colonel Kingsolving,” Captain Thomas J. Lowe, USN, said. He was a man in his late thirties, tall and deeply tanned.
Castillo marched up to him, stood tall, and announced, his voice raised, “Captain, I am Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo. I regret that the nature of the mission I have been ordered to carry out by the United States Central Command is such that I can tell you very little except where we wish you to place your vessel and when.”
“Welcome aboard the Bataan, Colonel.”
“Captain, may I introduce my officers?”
“Certainly. But may I suggest that we deal with first things first? Where do you want the Bataan, and when?”
“If you have a chart, sir?”
“Right this way, Colonel,” Captain Lowe said, and led Castillo into the chart room.
“Colonel, this is my navigator, Mr. Dinston.”
Mr. Dinston was a lieutenant junior grade who looked like he was nineteen.
