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“After that hard landing, I expect a lot of it would break easily,” Castillo replied.
“That was a greaser and you know it. And did you notice the thrust reversers?”
Castillo had had another vision of everybody in the fuselage slamming into the cockpit wall when he’d activated the thrust reverser controls. The Tu-934A had slowed as if it had caught the cable on the deck of an aircraft carrier.
“I noticed,” he said.
“The agency will be getting a hell of a bargain when the LCBF Corporation sells this to them for a hundred and twenty-five million,” Torine said. “Have you considered asking for more?”
“Don’t be greedy, Jake,” Castillo said. “Where’s the ramp lever?”
General Allan Naylor, Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab, Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Allan Naylor, Jr., Uncle Remus Leverette, Vic D’Allessando, Lester Bradley, Frank Lammelle (now wearing shoes and socks, and no plastic handcuffs), Aloysius F. Casey, and a burly man in a business suit were all standing at the foot of the ramp.
Max raced down the ramp, barked hello, and headed for the landing gear.
Salutes were exchanged, as a Pavlovian reaction. Even the burly man in the business suit saluted. With his left hand.
What the hell is that? Who’s that guy? Castillo wondered.
He asked, “So, what’s happened?”
There had been radio silence during the flight from the island. That had been Castillo’s decision. Once everybody was airborne, they were on their own. They could neither help—nor be helped by—anyone else. That being the case, there was nothing to talk about.
“What else has happened? About what?” General McNab asked innocently, and then took pity on him. “All aircraft having been recovered—including one Mexican UH-60 flown by an officer whose ass I will have just as soon as I can get my hands on him—the USS Bataan is proceeding at best speed consistent with available fuel to Norfolk.”
Castillo smiled. “Then it looks like we got away with it.”
“God answered our prayers,” Sweaty said.
“You have the Congo-X?” General Naylor asked.
“Yes, sir. And General Sirinov.”
“You got away with Phase One, Colonel,” General Naylor said. “The military part. Phase Two, the political part, now begins. I suspect that will be more difficult, and our chances of success less in Phase Two.”
Castillo looked at Lammelle.
“Hey, Frank, I see they turned you loose. More or less. How the hell are you? And what do you think of this airplane the agency is about to buy?”
“Leave him alone, Charley,” McNab said.
“Congratulations, Charley,” Lammelle said. “That was—”
“What did you do, Frank, change sides?” Castillo said. “The last I heard, you were going to shoot me with your air pistol and load me on an Aeroflot flight to Moscow.”
“I told you to leave him alone, Charley!” McNab said firmly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Dennis!” General Naylor said.
The man in the business suit took a step forward, came to attention, and barked, “Sir!”
“Colonel, this is Master Sergeant Dennis. He is Colonel Hamilton’s principal assistant. He will tell you what he wants done with the Congo-X.”
Castillo took a closer look at Master Sergeant Dennis.
No wonder he salutes with his left hand—he doesn’t have a right arm.
