The Outlaws

by W. E. B. Griffin

  The problem went up the chain of command. Senior officers of the Judge Advocate General’s Corps were directed to find ways to save the boy’s inheritance from squander by his new family.

  Naylor was flown to San Antonio to “reconnoiter the situation” two days after Elaine had walked into his office with the bad news. The commanding general V U.S. Corps telephoned the commanding general of the Fifth United States Army at Fort Sam Houston, and told him Naylor was coming and why.

  That officer quickly informed Naylor that the problem was not that the Castillo family was going to squander the inheritance—they owned square blocks of downtown San Antonio, and a great deal else, and didn’t need anyone else’s money.

  Naylor’s—and the Army’s—problem was going to be to convince them that the boy’s mother was not some fraulein of loose morality trying to dump someone else’s bastard on them to get her hands into the Castillo cashbox.

  Naylor found Doña Alicia Castillo at her office near the Alamo.

  When she telephoned her husband, who was in New York City on business, to tell him she had just been told that their only son had left behind a son in Germany, he begged her to take things very slowly, and to do nothing until he could return to Texas and look into it himself.

  “He has Jorge’s eyes,” Doña Alicia had said, and hung up.

  Juan Fernando Castillo caught the next flight he could get on to Texas. It took him to Dallas, not San Antonio, but that wasn’t going to pose a problem. He had called Lemes Aviation and told them to have the Lear waiting for him in Dallas for the final leg to San Antonio.

  When he got to Dallas, however, the Lear wasn’t there. When he called Lemes Aviation, he was told that Doña Alicia had taken the jet to New York, so that she and some Army officer could make the five-fifteen Pan American flight to Frankfurt.

  Within twenty-four hours of meeting Doña Alicia Castillo, Allan and Elaine Naylor stood in the corridor outside Erika von und zu Gossinger’s room in the castle and overheard Doña Alicia say, “I’m Jorge’s mother, my dear. I’m here to take care of you and the boy.”

  Juan Fernando Castillo arrived in Germany ten hours after his wife.

  A week later—Erika having decided she didn’t want the boy to see her in the final stages of her illness—Naylor and Elaine and Allan Junior had shaken hands and hugged the boy, who now carried an American passport in the name of Carlos Guillermo Castillo and was preparing to board a Pan American 747 airliner bound for New York.

  “You don’t happen to know where your friend Lieutenant Colonel Castillo is, do you, General?” President Clendennen asked.

  “No, sir, I do not.”

  “Well, I’ve got a mission for you, General. I want you—as your highest priority—to find Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, wherever he might be, whereupon you will personally hand him orders recalling him from retirement to active duty. You will then personally order him to turn these Russian traitors over to the CIA. And when he has done so, then I want you to place Castillo under arrest, pending investigation of charges that may be laid against him under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Do you understand these orders?”

  Allan Naylor stood stonefaced, and thought: Goddamn you to hell, Bruce McNab!

  He then said: “May I ask questions, sir?”

  The President wiggled his fingers, granting permission.

  “Sir, what is my authority to detain or arrest the Russians?”

  “That won’t pose a problem for you, General. Mr. Lammelle will deal with that.”

  “Sir, I don’t understand.”

  “From right now—or at least from as soon as Mr. Lammelle can get here from Langley—until this mission has been accomplished, you and Lammelle will be, so to speak, joined at the hip. I wouldn’t think, General, of asking you or the Army to do anything that would constitute a violation of any law. Nor would I ask that Mr. Lammelle or the CIA violate any laws. Having said that, we all know that the agency has a certain latitude in the gray areas, and I will personally accept full responsibility for any action that Mr. Lammelle feels he should take to carry out the desires of the commander in chief in this matter. Does that answer your question, General Naylor?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How soon can you start on this, General?”

  “Sir, I’ll have to set up things at MacDill so that I can devote my full time to this. So, as soon as Mr. Lammelle gets here, I’ll go there.”

  “Jack,” the President said to the DCI, “Lammelle has a radio in his car, right? Why don’t you get on the horn and tell him to meet the general at Andrews? There’s no reason he actually has to come here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good hunting, General,” the President said. “I don’t think I have to tell you to keep me posted, do I?”

  “No, sir.”

  [TWO]

  Office of the Commanding General

  United States Army Central Command

  MacDill Air Force Base

  Tampa, Florida

  1710 8 February 2007

  By the time of the First Desert War, Allan Naylor was a well-respected major general, obviously destined for greater responsibility and the rank that would come with it. He had been selected to be General H. Norman Schwarzkopf’s J-3, the Joint Staff’s operations officer.

  It was the J-3’s responsibility to know what assets—usually meaning which units—were available to his general, and lists were prepared and updated daily that showed the names of the units and of their commanding officers.

  One day, as they prepared to strike at Iraqi forces, Naylor had noticed on that day’s list, under NEWLY ARRIVED IN THEATRE, the 2303rd Civil Government Detachment.

  Lieutenant Colonel Bruce J. McNab was listed as the commanding officer.

  Naylor felt a little sorry for McNab for several reasons, including that lieutenant colonel was a pretty junior rank for those who had graduated from the Point, and that command of a civil government detachment was not a highway to promotion. But Naylor also had decided that the lowly status was almost certainly Scotty McNab’s own fault. He had always been a troublemaker. And Naylor had heard somewhere and some time ago that McNab had gone into Special Forces—another dead end, usually, for those seeking high rank—and this meant that McNab had somehow screwed up that career, too, the proof being that he now held only the rank of a light bird and was commanding a civil government detachment.

  Two days later, the list, under CHANGES, noted: “Change McNab, Bruce J. LTC Inf 2303 CivGovDet to COL, no change in duties.”

  Naylor had thought that McNab had been lucky the Desert War had come along. Now he would be able to retire as a full bird colonel.

  And then the shooting war began, and Major General Naylor gave no further thought to Colonel McNab.

  Two days after that, Naylor learned from the public relations officer that in the very opening hours of the active war, the co-pilot of one of the Apache attack helicopters sent in to destroy Iraqi radar and other facilities had performed these duties with extraordinary skill and valor.

  The Apache had been struck by Iraqi fire, which wounded both the pilot and co-pilot, blinding the former. A lesser man than the co-pilot would have landed the Apache and waited for help. This one, in the belief the pilot would die unless he got prompt medical attention, flew the battered, smoking, shuddering Apache more than a hundred miles back across the desert to friendly lines, ignoring the wounds he had himself received, and the enormous risk to his own life.

  “The G-One, General,” the public relations officer said to Naylor, “has approved the Impact Award of the Distinguished Flying Cross for this officer. Can General Schwarzkopf find time to make the presentation personally?”

  “Why is that important?”

  “The public relations aspect of this, General Naylor, is enormous. Once we release this story—especially with General Schwarzkopf personally making the award—it will be on the front page of every newspaper in America.”

  “Why enormo
us?”

  “The co-pilot is a twenty-one-year-old second lieutenant, General. He just got out of West Point. And there’s more, General, much more!”

  The first thing General Naylor thought was: Then Charley Castillo probably knows him. He also just got out of the Point.

  That was immediately followed by: What the hell is a twenty-one-year-old second lieutenant months out of Hudson High doing flying an Apache over here?

  “What more?” Naylor had asked.

  “This kid’s father won the Medal of Honor in Vietnam, General, flying a Huey helicopter.”

  “Colonel, you don’t win the Medal of Honor. You receive, are a recipient of, the Medal of Honor,” Naylor corrected him in a Pavlovian reaction, and then said, “Let me see that thing.”

  The name of the officer who had performed so heroically was Second Lieutenant Carlos G. Castillo.

  “Where is this officer?” he asked softly.

  “In your outer office, sir.”

  “Get him in here,” Naylor ordered.

  The hand with which Lieutenant Castillo saluted General Naylor was wrapped in a bloody bandage. Much of his forehead and right cheek carried smaller bandages.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Allan said if I had a chance, to pass on his regards.”

  “Right about now, you were supposed to be starting flight school, basic flight school. How is it you’re here, and flying an Apache?”

  “Well, when I got to Rucker, it came out that I had a little over three hundred hours in the civilian version of the Huey, so they sent me right to Apache school. And here I am.”

  Naylor had thought: And damn lucky to be alive.

  Questions of personal valor aside, standing before me is a young officer who is blissfully unaware that he has been a pawn in what is obviously a cynical scheme on the part of some senior aviation officers who wanted to garner publicity for Army Aviation—“Son of Vietnam Army Pilot Hero Flies in Iraq”—and turned a blind eye to his lack of experience, and the very good chance that he would be killed.

  Goddamn them!

  They probably would’ve liked it better if he had been killed. It would have made a better story for the newspapers: “Son of Hero Pilot Dies Like His Father: In Combat, at the Controls!”

  Sonsofbitches!

  Ten minutes later, General H. Norman Schwarzkopf agreed with Major General Naylor’s assessment of the situation.

  “What do you want to do with him, Allan? Send him back to Fort Rucker?”

  “That would imply he’s done something wrong, sir.”

  “Then find some nice, safe flying assignment for him,” Schwarzkopf said. “Anything else?”

  “No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  That then posed the problem of where to find a nice, safe flying assignment for Second Lieutenant Castillo out of the reach of glory-seeking Army Aviators.

  “McNab.”

  “Allan Naylor, Scotty. How are you?”

  “Very well, thank you. How may I serve the general?”

  “Tell me, Scotty, are there any Hueys on your T O and E?”

  “Somebody told me you’re the J-Three. Aren’t you supposed to know?”

  We may be classmates, but I’m a major general, and you’re a just-promoted colonel.

  A touch more respect on your part would be in order.

  “Answer the question, please.”

  Scotty McNab affected an officious tone, and said, “Rotary-wing aircraft are essential to the mission of the 2303rd Civil Government Detachment, sir. Actually, sir, we couldn’t fulfill the many missions assigned to us in the area of civil government without them. Yes, sir, I have a couple of Hueys.”

  “Colonel, a simple ‘Yes, sir’ or ‘No, sir’ would have sufficed,” Naylor snapped.

  “Yes, sir.”

  By then Naylor had been half-convinced that McNab’s disrespectful attitude was induced by alcohol. He had an urge to simply hang up on him, but that would not have solved the problem of finding Second Lieutenant Castillo a nice, safe flying assignment.

  “I’m about to send you a Huey pilot, Colonel. A Huey co-pilot.”

  “What did he do wrong?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What did this guy do to get banished to civil government?”

  “As a matter of fact, Colonel, this officer was decorated not more than an hour ago by General Schwarzkopf with the Distinguished Flying Cross,” Naylor said sharply. He heard his tone, got control of himself, and went on: “The thing is, Scotty, this officer is very young, has been through a harrowing experience, has been wounded, and what I was thinking ...”

  “Got the picture. Send him down. Glad to have him.”

  “Thanks, Scotty.”

  “Think ‘Civil Government,’ General. That’s what we’re really all about.”

  Not long after the shooting war had ended, Schwarzkopf’s aide-de-camp arrived in Naylor’s office, and announced: “General Schwarzkopf asks you to be in his office at 1500, when he will decorate Colonel McNab, General. You’re friends, right?”

  “Colonel McNab is to be decorated? With what? For what?”

  “With the Distinguished Service Cross, General. And afterward, the President’s going to call to offer his congratulations on his promotion. The Senate just confirmed his star.”

  “Jack, are we talking about Colonel McNab of Civil Government?”

  “Well, sir, that’s what they called it. But that’s not what it really was.”

  “Excuse me? If it wasn’t Civil Government, what was it?”

  “Sir, maybe you better ask General Schwarzkopf about that.”

  At 1445, General Naylor went into General Norman Schwarzkopf’s office and confessed that he was more than a little confused about Colonel McNab’s 2303rd Civil Government Detachment and what he had been told was to happen at 1500.

  “You weren’t on the need-to-know list, Allan,” Stormin’ Norman said. “I told McNab I thought you should be, but he said if he ever needed anything from you, he’d tell you what he was up to. And it was his call. My orders were to support him, but he didn’t answer to me. He took his orders from the CIA.”

  “Sir, what was he up to?”

  “He ran Special Operations for the campaign. And did one hell of a job. They grabbed two intact Scud missiles and a half-dozen Russian officers—including two generals—who were showing the Iraqis how to work them. Embarrassed the hell out of the Russians. There was a lot more, but you don’t have the need-to-know. I’m sure you understand.”

  Naylor understood, but that was not the same as saying he liked being kept in the dark.

  At 1500, Colonel Bruce J. McNab, followed by Second Lieutenant Castillo, marched into General Schwarzkopf’s office, came to attention, and saluted. Allan Naylor could not believe his eyes.

  Colonel McNab was a small, muscular, ruddy-faced man with a flowing red mustache. He wore aviator sunglasses, a mostly unbuttoned khaki bush jacket with its sleeves rolled up, khaki shorts, knee-length brown socks, and hunting boots. On his head was an Arabian headdress, circled with two gold cords, which Naylor had recently learned indicated the wearer was an Arabian nobleman. An Uzi submachine gun hung by a strap from his shoulder.

  Castillo was similarly dressed, except he had no gold cords on his headdress, and he had a Colt CAR-15 submachine gun slung from his shoulder.

  “What the hell are you two dressed up for, Scotty?” General Schwarzkopf asked.

  “Sir, I researched what Lawrence of Arabia actually wore during his campaigns in the desert—and it was not flowing robes—and adopted it for me and my aide-to-be.”

  “It’s a good thing the press isn’t here,” Schwarzkopf said. “They’d have a field day with you two.”

  Schwarzkopf offered his hand to Castillo.

  “Good to see you again, Lieutenant,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And speaking of Lieutenant Castillo,” McNab said, and handed Schwarzkopf two oblong blue medal boxes. “These are for him. I�
��m sure he’d rather get them from you, sir.”

  “What are they?”

  “The Silver Star for the business with the Russian generals. And the Purple Heart, second and third awards.”

  “I sent him to you, Scotty,” Naylor heard himself say, “to get him out of the line of fire.”

  “Didn’t work out that way, General,” McNab said. “Charley’s a warrior.”

  “I have General McNab for you, sir,” Command Sergeant Major Wes Suggins, the senior noncommissioned officer of the United States Central Command, announced to General Naylor from the office door.

  Naylor gave him a thumbs-up gesture and snatched the secure telephone from his desk.

  “Good evening, sir,” Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab, commanding general of the Special Operations Command at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, said cheerfully. “And how are things on beautiful Tampa Bay?”

  “General, I want you in my office at oh-seven-thirty tomorrow,” Naylor said.

  “Perhaps, if I may make the suggestion, sir, your quarters would be a better place to meet, sir,” McNab said. “I suspect we are going to say unkind things to one another, and that sometimes adversely affects the morale of your gnomes.”

  “Oh-seven-thirty, General,” Naylor said, coldly furious. “My office, and leave your wiseass mouth at Bragg.”

  “I hear and obey, my general,” McNab said cheerfully.

  Naylor slammed the secure telephone into its cradle.

  The damned call didn’t take thirty seconds and he made me lose my temper!

  Referring to my staff as my “gnomes”! Goddamn him!

  Allan B. Naylor had never liked Bruce J. McNab during their four years at the United States Military Academy at West Point. He had come to dislike him intensely in later years, and now he could not think of an officer he had ever despised more.

  [THREE]