The Outlaws: a Presidential Agent novel

by W. E. B Griffin

  Castillo freed himself, marched up to Kingsolving, came to attention, and saluted.

  “Follow me, Colonel,” Kingsolving ordered, and marched down the deck until they were alone.

  “Face away from the island,” Kingsolving ordered.

  Castillo turned his back to the ship’s superstructure.

  “All McNab told me,” Kingsolving said, “was to send the Black Hawks out here via Key West. ‘The op commander will meet your senior pilot on the Bataan.’ Your name wasn’t mentioned.”

  “You didn’t hear I was retired?”

  “Yeah, and when we have time, I want to ask you about that.”

  “‘Senior pilot’?” Castillo asked.

  “I’m not supposed to be here, Charley. The first time I talked to him, McNab told me I was not to go. And then he called me back and said if I was thinking of having a case of selective deafness, the brigadier’s selection board is sitting right now, and if this op gets out—even if it goes as planned—I can forget a star.”

  “You’re here,” Castillo said. “You don’t want to be a general?”

  “Two reasons, Charley. I’m one of those old-time soldiers who doesn’t send his people anywhere he won’t go himself.”

  “McNab was right. Even if I can carry this off, I think there’s going to be serious political implications.”

  “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.

  The two shook hands.

  “Show Mr. Dinston where you want us to go, Colonel,” Captain Lowe said.

  Castillo bent over the chart table, found La Orchila island, and then put his finger on the map.

  “Fifty miles east of that island,” he said. “I want to be there at oh-three-thirty tomorrow.”

  “What’s on that island?” Mr. Dinston asked.

  “I’m sorry, but you don’t have the need to know,” Castillo said.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t feel bad, Jerry,” Captain Lowe said. “Neither do I.”

  He met Castillo’s eyes as he spoke.

  “Plot the course, Jerry,” Captain Lowe ordered, “and bring it to the wardroom.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Before we get started,” Castillo said, when everyone was in the wardroom and the door had been closed, “Captain Lowe was never in this room nor anywhere else when any aspect of this operation except where we’re asking him to place his ship was discussed. Everybody got that?”

  There came a murmur of “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you like to say anything, Captain, before we get started?”

  “Housekeeping,” Captain Lowe said. “Could I get my chief in here and get the cabin assignments out of the way?”

  “Captain, you don’t have to ask me permission to do anything,” Castillo said. “This is your ship.”

  “I know,” Captain Lowe said. “I’m being nice. Colonel Kingsolving told me he thinks that most of you will shortly be in jail.”

  The chief looked as if he had been in the Navy for longer than anybody in the room was old. And he got right to the point: “How many oh-sixes we got? Raise your hands, please.”

  Kingsolving and Torine raised their hands.

  “Dmitri,” Castillo said, “raise your hand.” Then he explained: “Colonel Berezovsky is a Russian, chief. They don’t do ranks by numbers.”

  “Not a problem,” the chief said. “There are three staterooms for visiting oh-sixes. You’ll find the keys in the doors. We also got three staterooms, two officers per, for oh-fives and oh-fours. How many oh-fives?”

  Castillo raised his hand. “Two, chief,” he said and pointed at Svetlana.

  “You’re an oh-five?” the chief, dubious, asked her.

  Svetlana looked at Castillo for guidance. He nodded, and Captain Lowe, seeing this, said, “Colonel, anything you can tell me, you can tell the chief.”

  “I am a former podpolkovnik of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, Chief Petty Officer,” Sweaty said just a little arrogantly.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the chief said. “Okay, so we put you, ma’am, in one of the oh-five staterooms, and Colonel Castillo in the other, leaving one. How many oh-fours we got?”

  “Excuse me, Chief Petty Officer,” former Podpolkovnik Alekseeva of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki said. “Put Lieutenant Colonel Castillo in one of those oh-five staterooms with me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You seem surprised,” Sweaty said. “Don’t officers of the U.S. Navy sleep with women?”

  “Sometimes, Colonel, some of us do,” Captain Lowe said grinning broadly. “You heard the colonel, chief. Get on with it.”

  The chief recovered quickly, and the remaining accommodations were parceled out among the other officers. There was one captain; the rest of the 160th’s pilots were warrant officers.

  The chie
f left, closing the wardroom door behind him.

  Castillo laid his laptop computer on the table and opened it.

  “Overview,” he said. “The target is on the airfield on the Venezuelan island of La Orchila. The target—targets, plural—are a Russian general named Yakov Sirinov, whom we are going to snatch; the Tu-934A aircraft, which he flew onto La Orchila; and the cargo that that bird carried.”

  He looked down at the computer, saw that it was on, and tapped several keys.

  “These are the latest satellite images of the target,” he went on, then leaned over for a closer look, and added, “as of forty-five minutes ago.”

  “You have imagery like that on your laptop?” Captain Lowe asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lowe bent over the laptop.

  “How could a poor sailor get a laptop like that?” Lowe asked.

  “Well, I could give you this one,” Castillo said, affecting a serious tone, “but then I would have to kill you.”

  With one exception, the others in the room laughed. It was an old joke, but it was theirs.

  The exception was former Podpolkovnik Svetlana Alekseeva of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki.

  “Captain,” she flared, “you will have to excuse Colonel Castillo. He never grew emotionally after he entered puberty. Whenever there is serious business at hand, he makes sophomoric jokes.”

  “What is this, dissension in the ranks?” Castillo asked. “Or the beginning of a lover’s quarrel?”

  Sweaty let loose a thirty-second torrent of angry words in Russian.

  Dmitri Berezovsky laughed, then said, “Captain, gentlemen, permit me to offer an explanation. In our family, my mother used to say that what my sister needed more than anything was a strong man who would take her down a peg or two on a regular basis. She has finally found such a man, and doesn’t like it.”

  This produced from Sweaty another torrent of vulgar and obscene Russian language.

  “If our mother ever heard her speak like that,” Berezovsky went on, “which on occasion she did, our mother would wash her mouth out with laundry soap.”

  This was too much for the men in the room who had been studiously ignoring the exchange. Most of them chuckled, and several laughed.

  Sweaty, red-faced, opened her mouth to deliver another comment.

  “Colonel,” Castillo said very softly. “Zip your lip. One more word and you’re out of here and off the operation.”

  Carlito and Sweaty locked eyes for a very long moment.

  And then wordlessly she sat down.

  Castillo turned to the laptop.

  “If you’ll gather around here, please,” he said, “you’ll see that while the Tu-934A is not visible, there are Spetsnaz guarding this canvas temporary hangar, which makes it fairly certain that the Tu-934A is inside.

  “Now, this is what we’re going to do. Please hold comments until I’ve finished.

  “I want to arrive at first light ...”

  Some five minutes later, when Castillo had finished, he said, “Okay, comments, please. But I’m not going to start with the juniors, the way a good commander is supposed to. We’re starting at the top. Captain Lowe, your thoughts, please.”

  Lowe took a full thirty seconds to consider his response.

  “There’s a maybe ten-minute period, during which we will be recovering the UH-60s, that worries me. We’ll be headed, slowly, into the wind. If Venezuelan Air Force or Navy aircraft find us with our hand still in the cookie jar, so to speak . . . But there’s nothing we can do about that. And insofar as being attacked after we recover the choppers, that would be an unprovoked attack on a U.S. Navy vessel in international waters, which is an act of war. I don’t think they would do that. And of course we’re able to defend ourselves pretty well.”

  “Thank you, sir. Colonel Kingsolving?”

  “Charley, the only question in my mind concerns the UH-60 you stole from the Mexican cops. What are you going to do about that? Torch it?”

  “Well, sir, first, I didn’t steal it. I bought it.”

  “You bought it? You going to tell me about that?”

  Castillo told him.

  “Unbelievable!” Kingsolving said. “But back to my question: What are you going to do with it, torch it?”

  “I’ll tell you what I’d like to do with it,” Castillo said. “I’d like to fly it back out to the Bataan. And then the first time the Bataan goes to its homeport . . . Where is that, Captain Lowe?”

  “Norfolk. And as soon as we finish this operation—this is day fifty-six of a sixty-day deployment—we’ll be headed there ‘at fastest speed consistent with available fuel.’”

  “Then the first thing Captain Lowe does when he docks the Bataan at Norfolk will be to lower the Mexican UH-60 onto the wharf while the Mexican ambassador and the State Department idiots who sold it for a tenth of its value to the Mexicans watch. They then—did I mention that our own Roscoe J. Danton will be there, as will the ever-vigilant cameras of Wolf News?—they will attempt to explain how that particular UH-60, after having died a hero’s death in Mexico’s unrelenting war against the drug cartels, was resurrected.”

  “That’d work, Charley,” Danton said. “And I’m so personally pissed as a taxpayer about that bullshit that I will even arrange for C. Harry Whelan, that sonofabitch, to be there with me.”

  “Then why not do it?” Kingsolving asked.

  “One small problem, sir. Who would fly it out to the Bataan? Jake and I’ll be flying the Tu-934A back to the land of the free and home of the brave with only a fuel stop at Drug Cartel International.”

  “I’ll fly it,” Kingsolving said.

  “Sir, I have painful memories of standing tall before you while you lectured at length on the inadvisability of flying UH-60 aircraft without a co-pilot. I seem to remember you telling me with some emphasis that anyone who did so was an idiot.”

  “Charley, if I went in with you on the Mexican UH-60, and then flew it back out here, that means we would have to land only one of the 160th choppers in there to take your Spetsnaz back to the Bataan. That would reduce the danger that one of my guys would dump one of ours at La Orchila, causing God only knows what consequential collateral political damage.”

  “You don’t see any risk like when your guys take out the commo building?”

  “As I understand your plan, Colonel, the idea is for my guys to hit the commo building in the dark, so they will never learn what happened to them, or who did it.”

  Castillo was silent for a moment.

  Next came dissension in the ranks of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment pilots.

  Four of the Night Stalkers, just about simultaneously, spoke without permission. They all said about the same thing: “Colonel, let me fly that fucking Mexican chopper.”

  To which Colonel Kingsolving replied, “Zip your lips, or nobody gets to go.”

  There was another period of silence.

  “Vis-à-vis my counseling you on the inadvisability of flying UH-60 aircraft without a co-pilot, Colonel,” Kingsolving said, “I meant every word of it. But there is an old military axiom that I’m really surprised you did not learn at our beloved alma mater. To wit: When you are the senior officer, you are, in certain circumstances, permitted to say, ‘Do as I say, not as I do.’

  “I’m going to fly that Mexican UH-60 back and forth to the island of La Orchila, Charley. Period.”

  “There goes your star, you realize.”

  “That thought did run through my mind, frankly. But what the hell. If they made me a general, they’d say I was too valuable to fly myself anywhere, with or without a co-pilot. And I don’t want to fly a desk in the Pentagon.”

  Then he looked at Captain Lowe.

  “I think we’re through here, Captain. Is the Navy planning on feeding us lunch?”

  [FIVE]

  The USS Bataan (LHD 5)

  The Caribbean Sea

  2055 12 February 2007

  Former Podpolkovnik Svetla
na Alekseeva was not in sight when Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo entered the stateroom.

  He was not really surprised. She had not spoken a word to him at lunch, then had spent the entire afternoon with the Spetsnaz somewhere below deck, presumably checking their equipment and seeing to it they understood their roles in the operation.

  They had had a conversation of sorts at dinner.

  “May I please have the butter?” she had asked him.

  “Of course,” he had said. “My pleasure.”

  “Thank you,” she had said, ending their conversation.

  Now, alone in the stateroom, Castillo decided that she had run down the old chief and told him she had changed her mind about sharing his quarters. Earlier, Captain Lowe had shown him the Bataan’s sick bay—actually a small, fully equipped hospital—and while doing so, Castillo had noticed there were sleeping quarters for nurses.

  She’s probably in one of those.

  He took off his Walmart battle dress, and lay down on the lower of the two bunks the room offered.

  I’ll take a shower at 0230, he decided, not now.

  Taking one then will wake me up.

  He closed his eyes.

  “If you think we’re going to make love without you taking a shower, think again,” former Podpolkovnik Svetlana Alekseeva announced not sixty seconds later.

  He opened his eyes. She was standing beside the bunk bed wearing a thin cotton bathrobe.

  “Am I permitted to say I’m a little surprised?” Charley asked, after having regained his breath perhaps ten minutes later.

  “In eight hours, the Venezuelans may have the both of us stretched out on a wooden table, the way your Green Berets stretched out Che Guevara,” Svetlana said. “I did not want to spend all eternity knowing that I had had the chance to spend my last hours making love with you, and threw it away.”

  “Good thinking,” he said.

  “Right now, I don’t like you very much—how dare you talk to me the way you did?—but I love you.”

  He had a wildly tangential thought. “Where’s Max?”

  She pointed.