"There's always an exception to every rule," he said, finally. "General Bruce J. McNab himself once told me that personally."
"It's about twelve hundred miles from San Antonio here," Castillo said. "That's about two hours and fifteen minutes flight time. That means we have that much time to find the radios, find three communicators, get them into civilian clothes, have them check out the radios, check me out on them, and get from here to Pope."
D'Alessandro looked at the captain.
"Can do?"
"I'm not only a green beanie, Vic, I'm a Delta Force guy in good standing. I can do fucking anything." He turned to Castillo. "It'll be cutting it close, sir, but it can be done."
[FOUR]
Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina
0025 10 June 2005
Sergeant Dwayne G. Lefler, USAF, who had sincerely believed the civilian who'd gotten off the Citation with no ID had been sent by Air Force counterintelligence to catch him with his security pants down, was still on duty at Pope Base Operations when Castillo led the three Delta Force communicators and Captain Brewster into the building.
Sergeant Lefler eyed with some suspicion Major C. G. Castillo, now attired in the Class A uniform prescribed for field-grade officers.
"Sorry about the confusion before, Sergeant," Castillo said, going to him and offering his Army ID card. "It couldn't be helped."
After examining the ID card, Sergeant Lefler said, "Yes, sir," handed it back, and then reached for his telephone and punched in a number.
"Major, I'm sorry to get you up again but I think you better come back down here."
Major Thomas F. Treward, USAF, appeared a minute or so later, took a good look at Castillo, and said, "Well, Major, back again?"
"This time we're looking for a civilian Lear that's supposed to be here right about now."
"The tower just cleared him to land," Treward said, gesturing toward the glass doors.
Castillo went outside and looked up at the sky.
There were a half-dozen flashing Grimes lights in the sky. After a moment, Castillo decided which of them were making an approach to the runway and followed them with his eyes. The first two aircraft in the pattern were USAF C-130s. The third was a glistening white Bombardier/Learjet 45XR.
Two minutes later, it rolled up to the tarmac before base operations and stopped. Castillo saw the copilot take off his headset and then get out of his seat. Castillo walked toward the plane. Before he got there, the door opened and the copilot got out, carrying a small bag.
He was a silver-haired man in his fifties whose zippered flight jacket was adored with the four-stripe shoulder boards of a captain. Castillo guessed that he was ex-military, maybe retired, who was on some sort of a list for people who needed a pilot for a light jet on short notice.
"You're Major Castillo?" the copilot asked, and, when Castillo nodded, went on: "Two questions for you. He wants to know how long the airplane will be on the ground? And what about transportation to Fayetteville?"
"I've arranged for a ride for you to Fayetteville, and made reservations for you in the Airport Motel, and on the Delta feeder flight to Atlanta leaving at eight forty-five in the morning. You'll connect in Atlanta to San Antonio. I'd like to get off the ground as soon as possible. What's the fuel aboard?"
"Enough for another nine hundred miles, maybe a thousand."
"There's an Army captain inside base operations. Name of Brewster. He'll take care of you from here on. If you'll ask him to send the others out, I'll talk to the pilot."
"Okay, thanks," the copilot said and walked toward the base operations building.
Castillo went in the airplane and walked to the cockpit.
"Wow, don't you look spiffy in your soldier suit!" Fernando Lopez said from the pilots seat.
"Jesus, you didn't have to come, Fernando."
"Yeah, I did, Gringo. I seem to recall you saying it was important."
"I made reservations for two at the motel, plus two Delta tickets back to San Antonio."
Lopez shrugged. "So now it's reservations for one. Where do we go from here, Gringo? And when?"
Castillo stared at his cousin, considered the options, then nodded slightly. "Washington, Philadelphia, and then back here. Now."
"Just you and me?"
"Three guys-figure six hundred pounds-and another four hundred in gear."
"There's enough fuel remaining to make Washington-Ronald Reagan-I know those approaches and it's a good place to refuel. Okay?"
"Sounds fine."
"I don't suppose you remembered to check the weather and file a flight plan?"
"Weather's fine, and, yeah, they're holding our clearance to Washington with a fuel stop at Raleigh-Durham. I didn't know what your fuel remaining would be."
"We can change Raleigh-Durham once we're up," Fernando said.
"Did you remember to give the copilot some cash?"
"Indeed, I did. Which reminds me:"
He handed Castillo an envelope.
"What's this?"
"A thousand dollars."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Thank Abuela."
"Abuela?" Castillo asked, surprised.
"Like she says, she's old but not brain-dead," Fernando said. "She's got a pretty good idea of what you do for a living. You wouldn't believe how long that money-and that's not all of it-has been in my bedside table waiting for you to need it. There's also a couple of pistols in my Jepp case."
"You didn't tell her about this, for Christ's sake?"
"Yeah. I promised her if anything ever happened I would tell her and I did. She said to tell you she's praying for the both of us."
"Jesus H. Christ!"
"Are you going to stand there blaspheming," Fernando lisped, "or are you going to see if our passengers are comfy, their seat belts fastened, and the NO SMOKING light is on?"
He pointed out the side window.
Castillo bent over and looked out.
The three Delta Force communicators, all dressed in sports jackets and slacks, were almost to the airplane, dragging enormous, wheeled, hard-sided civilian suitcases behind them.
"You told Abuela?" he repeated. "Jesus H. Christ!"
Then he turned and went into the cabin and helped the communicators load their enormous suitcases aboard.
"Raleigh area control," Castillo said into his microphone. "Lear Five-Oh-Seven-Five."
"Seven-Five, Raleigh."
"Lear Seven-Five passing through flight level twenty-five, on a course of twenty true, indicating five hundred knots."
"I have you on radar, Seven-Five."
"Request change in flight plan to skip fuel stop at Raleigh. Request permission Ronald Reagan direct at flight level three-zero."
"Raleigh area control accepts change of flight plan for Lear Five-Oh-Seven-Five. Proceed on present heading. Report to Washington approach control on reaching flight level thirty. Raleigh hands over Lear Five-Oh-Seven-Five to Washington approach control at this time."
"Understand maintain present course, report to Washington approach when at flight level thirty. Thank you, Raleigh."
Castillo turned to Fernando and gave him a thumbs-up. Then he looked at the altimeter and spoke into his microphone again.
"Washington approach control, Lear Five-Oh-Seven-Five."
"Seven-Five, Washington."
"Seven-Five is at flight level three-zero, on heading of twenty true, indicating 530 knots. Request approach to Reagan."
"I have you on radar, Seven-Five. Maintain present course and flight level. Report over Richmond."
"Seven-Five understands maintain present course and flight level, report over Richmond."
Castillo touched a small button on his headset which switched his microphone and earplug from TRANSMIT to INTERCOM.
"Okay, Fernando," he said. "Tell me about Abuela being old but not brain-dead."
"I wondered how long it was going to take you to get around to asking me about that," Fernando said, smiling at him.
"Come on," Castillo said, not pleasantly.
"It started right after we buried Grandpa:" Fernando began.