Black Ops (Presidential Agent)

by W. E. B Griffin

  He pointed at the countdown. Castillo saw that it read 41:40:40.

  "I think we have a surfeit of precision. Why the hell are we counting in seconds?"

  "I don't know. Because we can?"

  "Let's wake up the Air Force and see what they're doing to earn all the money the taxpayers are throwing at them," Castillo said. "C. G. Castillo for Colonel Torine. Encryption Level One."

  Sexy Susan said: "One moment, please, Colonel."

  Davidson's fingers attacked his keyboard.

  The monitor Castillo was watching changed its data display. It now showed a three-dimensional picture of the terminal building at Kilimanjaro International Airport, Tanzania. A lightning bolt at the top of the screen began to flash, then the screen showed the local date and time at the airport: 1701 13 JAN 06.

  "Back that up, Jack," Castillo said. "Let's have a look at the Congo."

  Sexy Susan said: "I have Colonel Torine for you, Colonel. Encryption Level One."

  "What's up, Charley?" Jake Torine asked.

  "Hold one, Jake," Castillo said.

  The screen showed the last known positions of 5-Leverette, C and 6-DeWitt, P. They were now inside the Congo, eighty-some kilometers northeast of Kisangani. Their symbols were nearly superimposed on each another, which could have meant that they were together, or in the same area just a klick or two apart.

  "Speaking of precision," Castillo said.

  "That's it, Charley," Davidson replied. "It won't go any closer. What they did was turn on the AFC just long enough for the computer to get a GPS position."

  Castillo's fingers flew over the keyboard of his laptop.

  "Jake, I've got a last-known position on Uncle Remus. He's in the Congo."

  "He told me that's where he was going. Anything a little closer than that? The Congo is a great big place, Charley."

  "You have a pencil or something to write this down?"

  "The Lorimer Fund bought me the latest and greatest laptop computer just before I came over here. I thought maybe it would come in handy."

  Castillo read from his laptop screen: "One point zero six north latitude; twenty-five point nine east latitude. That's eighty-odd klicks northeast of Kisangani."

  "Let me have those coordinates again. Slowly."

  Castillo read them again slowly.

  "Got it. Where the hell did you get that?"

  "We Army special operators try to stay on top of things," Castillo said. "I think this place we're interested in is another fifty or sixty klicks farther northeast of Uncle Remus's LKP."

  "That would fit," Torine said thoughtfully.

  "It's possible, repeat possible, that we'll get position updates, and I thought that while we're waiting maybe we might consider what we could do if this place turns out to be what it is, and where we think it is."

  "The Air Force, as usual, is way ahead of you. There's a number of options, ranging from nuking it from a B-1 through having Uncle Remus sneak up and throw a spear at it."

  "And you've been thinking about them?"

  "If you had to make an educated guess, Charley, would you say the target would be within a fifty- or sixty-klick radius of Uncle Remus's LKP?"

  "I'd be happier with seventy-five klicks, but you could probably narrow it down some from a radius. I have an educated guesstimate that it's not farther than ten klicks either side of National Route 25, and no more than that from the Ngayu River."

  "That will narrow it down a lot. I'll work on it. Give me an hour or so, Charley, and I'll send you my thoughts."

  [NINE]

  1150 13 January 2006

  Two hours and thirty-two minutes passed before Sexy Susan announced that Colonel Torine wanted to speak with Colonel Castillo, and when Castillo went on the AFC, she announced, "Commencing data transmission, Encryption Level One-D."

  Moments later, the printer began to spit out sheets of paper--and then kept spitting them out. After four minutes, it stopped suddenly and Sexy Susan announced: "Partial failure of data transmission to file and printer. Printer paper supply, or printer toner supply, possibly exhausted. Transmission to file will resume momentarily. Check printer paper supply and or printer toner supply, replenish as necessary, and enter RESUME PRINT FILE."

  Doing that consumed another seven minutes.

  And it was another five minutes before Sexy Susan announced, "Transmission of data, Encryption Level One-D, to file and printer verified complete."

  As Svetlana helped Castillo stack the printer's output, he noticed the countdown, no longer reflecting seconds, was down to 37:16.

  When he had finished glancing at the information Torine had sent, he was surprised at how little time Torine had spent detailing the options, not how long.

  There were eight separate "Proposed Operational Order: Congo Chemical Complex" papers. A quick glance showed they called for the use of aerial weaponry ranging from missiles, through the B-1 Stealth bomber, to the F-15E fighter bomber, and the aerial tankers needed to refuel them, and two involved U.S. Navy F/A-18C fighter bombers operating from carriers in the South Atlantic and Indian oceans.

  And there was a ninth paper: "Proposed Operational Order: Bomb Damage Assessment, Congo Chemical Complex." It suggested this could be done by satellite overfly; a U-2 high-altitude photoreconnaissance aircraft; Predator Unmanned Aerial Vehicle; return to the bombing site by bomber or low-flying fighter aircraft, or by "clandestine entry into the Congo of U.S. Air Force or U.S. Army Special Operations personnel to make such evaluation on the ground."

  The ninth was the only one Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, himself a military aviator with a good deal of experience, felt he more or less understood.

  But he was going to have to try to understand the strengths and limitations of the various things Torine was proposing. He was going to have to show them to the President, and he didn't want to look or sound like a goddamn fool when inevitably the President asked him a question and he didn't have the answer.

  He collected everything that Torine had sent him, plus the draft of the report Two-Gun Yung had prepared from his own notes and from what had come from Fulda and what he'd gotten from Dmitri and Svetlana. And he went to his old desk in his old bedroom, where he hoped he would have a little privacy.

  Yung's draft would have to be modified when Yung had a chance to review what had just started coming in from Budapest--Delchamps had finally shown up there--but Yung had put it to him that now was the time to have "a quick look" to make sure it was what he wanted, rather than have him continue "to break his ass on what might well be a waste of everybody's time."

  He had just made himself comfortable at his old desk and poured himself a cup of coffee when Svetlana came into the room. He was convinced he'd pissed her off by telling her that he didn't need help or company right now, thank you very much.

  She simply replied, "Joel Isaacson is on the radio."

  [TEN]

  1150 13 January 2006

  The countdown on his laptop read 36:58 when Castillo sat down at the desk and reached for the AFC handset.

  "C. G. Castillo."

  Sexy Susan said: "I have Colonel Castillo for you, Mr. Isaacson."

  I don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out this has something to do with the President, Joel having been in charge of his Security Detail.

  Confirmation of that came immediately when Isaacson began the conversation by announcing, "Charley, I had a call five minutes ago from the President."

  Castillo waited for him to go on.

  "He wanted to know if I knew where you were," Isaacson said. "When I told him I honestly didn't know, he asked if I could find you. I said--I don't lie to the President, Charley--'I think I can, Mr. President.'

  "To which he replied, 'Do so, Joel. If you can, tell him to call me. If you can't, call me back within ten minutes.'

  "To which I replied, 'Yes, Mr. President.' He hung up. I then called Jack Doherty, who said to get on the AFC. Jack is not capable of lying to the President, either, even secondhan
d."

  "I understand, Joel. I'm sorry you got in the middle of this."

  "So am I, Charley. What do I tell him?"

  "You won't have to tell him anything. I'll call right now."

  "White House."

  "C. G. Castillo for the President on a secure line, please."

  "Hold one, Colonel, please. I have special instructions . . ."

  What "special instructions"?

  "The President's private line," an executive secretary to the President answered.

  Private line?

  The one in what he calls his working office?

  "Colonel Castillo for the President, please."

  "Colonel, the President is in a do-not-disturb conference in the Oval Office. If you will kindly give me a second--"

  "Can you tell me with whom?"

  There was a long pause, then:

  "The secretary of State, Ambassador Montvale, and the directors of the CIA and the FBI. However, the President's given special instructions should someone call about you, sir."

  There was another long pause, then Castillo heard the President's voice snap, "Yes, what is it?"

  "Are you free to speak with Colonel Castillo, Mr. President?"

  "Oh, am I ever. Are you on here, Castillo?"

  "Yes, Mr. President."

  "Hang on a minute. I'm going to the little office."

  "Yes, Mr. President."

  Castillo quickly formed a mental picture of what was happening. The President of the United States was rising from his desk in the Oval Office--or from an armchair or a couch--and marching into the smaller office just off the Oval Office, officially known as "the President's working office," leaving behind him Secretary of State Natalie Cohen, FBI Director Mark Schmidt, Director of Central Intelligence John Powell, and Director of National Intelligence Charles W. Montvale, all of whom had just come to the same conclusion: that the President didn't want any one of them to hear what he was going to say to a lowly lieutenant colonel, and that they were going to be furious to varying degrees, none of them minor.

  "Okay, Charley, I'm in here."

  "Yes, Mr. President."

  "I think you'd agree that Mark Schmidt is not given to colorful speech," the President said.

  "Sir?"

  "He just came up with something very colorful. He said, 'As far as out-of-control loose-cannons rolling around are concerned, Castillo by comparison makes Oliver North look like the Rock of Gibraltar.' "

  The President let that sink in.

  "Of course, that may be because he is just a little humiliated that the FBI can't find you or those two Russians you stole from the CIA."

  Castillo didn't reply.

  "Why did you steal those defectors from the CIA, Charley?"

  "Sir, the CIA never had them."

  "Then there is another side to this horror story I have just heard?"

  "Yes, sir, there is."

  "Did you tell the DCI that you refused to turn over the stolen Russians to him?"

  "Sir, they were not stolen. I told him that the Russians did not wish to turn themselves over to the CIA."

  "And also that the CIA was nothing more than a very few very good people, or words to that effect, trying to stay afloat in a sea of left-wing bureaucrats?"

  "Yes, sir. I'm afraid I did."

  "What are you doing in Las Vegas?"

  "Sir, I'm not in Las Vegas."

  "Charles Montvale says you are."

  "Ambassador Montvale has been wrong before, too, sir."

  "Right now, Charley, you are not in a position where you can afford sarcasm."

  "Yes, sir. No offense intended. I actually meant it as a statement of fact. Sorry, sir."

  The President sighed. "Charley, I have to ask this: Did you personally assassinate or did you set up the assassination of a Russian in Vienna in circumstances designed to make it appear the CIA station chief was the villain?"

  "I learned of that, sir, only after it happened."

  "Frankly, I didn't believe that one."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Okay, Charley, here it is. You've earned the right to tell me your side of the incredible things I have been hearing that you have been doing. The question is how to do that? Where are you?"

  "In Texas, sir."

  "In about an hour, I'm going to Philadelphia. Two speeches, one tonight and one tomorrow at lunch. If you can give me a more precise location than 'Texas,' I'll send a plane to pick you up. I can give you half an hour tomorrow morning. Say, at nine. The Four Seasons Hotel."

  "Sir, I'm in Midland, Texas. On my ranch."

  "Is that where you'll go after you retire?"

  "Possibly, sir. Sir, you don't have to send a plane. I have one."

  "I have to ask this, too: You're not thinking of getting on your plane and flying off to, say, Argentina, are you?"

  "No, Mr. President, I'm not. I'll see you in Philadelphia tomorrow morning."

  "And once more, probably proving that there is such a thing as too much loyalty downward, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt."

  There was a click.

  Castillo, in deep thought, stared wordlessly at the handset.

  "Colonel?" Sexy Susan said. "Colonel . . . ?"

  "Disaster time," Castillo announced five minutes later. "I just promised the President I would report to him at nine tomorrow morning in Philadelphia. I also told him where I am.

  "Priority one is keeping Sweaty and Dmitri out of the hands of the CIA."

  He looked at Casey. "I need a really big favor, Aloysius."

  "I'll take care of them, Charley."

  "I'll need you to fly them to Cozumel . . ."

  "I'll take care of them, Charley," Casey repeated.

  " . . . as soon as possible."

  Casey turned to the AFC. "Casey. Ellwood Doudt."

  "Good afternoon, sir," Doudt answered almost immediately.

  "Pick me up an hour ago."

  "Roger that. On our way, sir."

  "Casey out." He looked at Castillo. "Soon enough, Charley?"

  "Thank you."

  "Why don't I go with you, Carlos?" Dmitri Berezovsky asked.

  "I am going with you," Svetlana announced.

  "Thanks, but no thanks," Castillo said. "For one thing, they wouldn't let either of you get near the President. For another, even if I could get you in to see him, you'd be Russian embezzlers facing Montvale and the DCI, and they both are convinced you're liars.

  "Jack will go with you," Castillo went on. "Les, I'd like you to go with me, if you're willing. And you, too, Two-Gun. Les to work the radios, Two-Gun to explain the money trail in his report if I can get the President to listen."

  "Sure," Yung said.

  "Yes, sir," Bradley said.

  "Jack, as soon as you can," Castillo went on, "get on the horn to the Pilar safe house. Have someone there get in touch with Aleksandr, give him a heads-up that Dmitri and Svetlana are headed back to his Cozumel resort. He'll have an idea or two on how best to get them from there back to Argentina quietly and safely."

  "Done," Davidson said. "When are you going to leave?"

  "Just as soon as I can wind it up, I've got to stop at Midland for fuel and to file a flight plan. Keep an eye on my pal Max, okay?"

  Dmitri repeated his offer to go with them as they shook hands at the house, and Castillo repeated his reasons why that wouldn't make any sense.

  Svetlana and Dona Alicia went as far as the plane. Bradley and Two-Gun boarded the Lear, and Dona Alicia waited in the Yukon while Castillo and Svetlana said their good-byes.

  "I have this terrible feeling I will never see you again, my Carlos," Svetlana said.

  "Don't be silly. The worst that can happen to me is that they'll have somebody sit on me until I go through that retirement charade. As soon as that's over, I'll get on a plane and fly to Gaucho Land, where you'll have my golf clubs all waiting for me."

  "I wish I was with child. At least I would have that."

  "I already have one of those
, and from what I have seen, one is enough."

  "It is all right, my Carlos. We had what we had, and we both know the rules of the game we're in. I will pray for you."

  If I thought it'd work, I'd pray myself.

  "I have to go, sweetheart."

  They kissed.

  The kiss was unlike any he could remember. That frightened him.

  The last thing he saw as the Lear broke ground was Dona Alicia and Svetlana standing in front of the Yukon. Dona Alicia had a comforting arm around Svetlana, who was weeping.

  Castillo caught himself thinking that it looked funny.

  Sweaty's so much taller and larger than Abuela.

  Jesus Christ, that's tremendously touching, not funny.

  I really am a callous bastard!

  [ELEVEN]

  Atlantic Aviation Services, Inc.

  Philadelphia International Airport

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  0810 14 January 2006

  Getting to Philadelphia should have been as simple as Castillo had hoped: fuel the Lear, file the flight plan, get in the bird, and three and a half hours later give or take, land in the City of Brotherly Love.

  It wasn't. There was really bad weather all up and down the eastern seaboard--which he learned when he tried to file his flight plan--and it was not much better most of the way between Midland and the eastern seaboard.

  Arriving in Philadelphia at 1800 for a long conversation with Jack Britton over a nice lobster dinner somewhere and then getting a good night's rest before facing the President the next morning at 0900 proved impossible.

  He hadn't been able to get off the ground at Midland until almost eight at night, and then only because he was going to fly first south-southeast from Midland to Houston, then due east to pass over Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama, then north-northeast over Georgia and on to Norfolk, Virginia, the closest airport to Philadelphia that was not experiencing weather-interrupted operations.

  At 0720, he finally received clearance to fly ORF-PHL direct, which was fortunate inasmuch as a good deal of research had revealed there was no ground transportation that could carry them there from Norfolk rapidly--if at all--as the roads were covered with snow and ice.

  En route, Corporal Bradley managed to contact Jack Britton, who said he would do his best to meet them on arrival, but the roads were icy and he would be personally surprised if the airport didn't shut down again before they got there.