The Outlaws

by W. E. B. Griffin

  The exercise machines had been moved into a corner of the room. The billiards and Ping-Pong tables were covered with maps. Lester Bradley was at a table on which sat a Casey communicator and several printers. There were armchairs, most of them in a semicircle facing large maps taped to a wall. Another armchair was alone against the side of the wall. And again, there were two burly, fair-skinned, Uzi-armed men sitting by the doors to the room.

  “Colonel Castillo, I think we should discuss my understanding of my parole.”

  “With respect, sir, will you hold that until I ask the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency if it’s convenient for him to join us?” Castillo replied, and then issued an order in Russian.

  Thirty seconds later, Frank Lammelle was ushered into the room by two burly Russians. He was wearing a shirt and trousers. He was barefoot. His wrists were encircled with plastic handcuffs. The handcuffs were held against his waist by another plastic handcuff attached to his belt.

  “Good afternoon, Frank,” Castillo said.

  “You’re going to jail for this, Castillo.”

  Castillo issued another order in Russian. One of the ex-Spetsnaz operators left the room and returned a moment later with a folding metal chair. Castillo showed him where he wanted it, and then, not gently, guided Lammelle into it.

  “Lester, go sit in the armchair. Take Mr. Lammelle’s air pistol with you.”

  Bradley complied.

  “Frank,” Castillo then said, “you pose a problem for me. General McNab, General Naylor, and General Naylor’s staff are also here involuntarily. But they have given me their parole under the Code of Honor. I’m fairly sure you’ve heard of it. I’m also absolutely sure—you being the DDCI—that you wouldn’t consider yourself bound by it. So I will not accept your parole.

  “Which means you will sit there in handcuffs. If you even look like you’re thinking of getting out of the chair without my express permission, Lester will dart you. I should tell you that he’s not only a former Marine gunnery sergeant but also a crack shot. He was a designated marksman on the March to Baghdad. He will also dart you if you speak without my permission. You understand?”

  “You heard what I said about you going to jail for this, you sonofabitch!”

  “You are entitled to one emotional outburst before Lester darts you. You just used it. Lester, put a dart in the back of his neck the next time he says anything.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “And, Frank, the next time you use language that offends my fiancée, I will let Max bite you. Show the man your teeth, Max,” Castillo said, then spoke a few words in Hungarian while pointing at Lammelle.

  Max, growling deep in his throat, walked to Lammelle and showed him his teeth. Lammelle squirmed on the folding chair.

  All the special operators in the room, plus Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor, chuckled.

  General Naylor thought: There’s that perverted sense of humor again!

  And Allan thinks that threatening to sic that enormous dog on Lammelle is perfectly acceptable conduct!

  “Oh, that’s right,” Castillo said. “You haven’t met my fiancée, have you, Frank? Sweetheart, say hello to Frank Lammelle. He used to be a friend of mine. Frank, the lady is former Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva of the SVR. And sitting next to her is her brother, former Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky of the SVR. I know you’ve been anxious to meet them.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Lester, if Frank doesn’t say ‘Pleased to meet you’ or ‘How do you do?’ in the next three seconds, dart him.”

  Lammelle very hastily said, “Pleased to meet you.”

  The special operators and Allan Junior now laughed.

  “Colonel, regarding the Code of Honor,” General Naylor said.

  Goddamn it, I’m smiling! What the hell is happening to me?

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I don’t know what your intentions are here, but I think I should tell you that when I am no longer constrained by my parole, I will feel free to relate to the proper authorities anything I see or hear here.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s understood. It’s not a problem, sir, as you remain here—in other words, not in a position to tell anyone anything—until this operation concludes.”

  Castillo looked around the room.

  “I think I should make it clear before I start that—as much as I know I could have used his wise counsel—I did not ask General McNab for any assistance in coming up with this plan. The Code of Honor would have precluded him giving me any assistance.”

  “You’re wrong about that, Charley,” McNab said.

  Naylor glared at him.

  “On the other hand,” Castillo, ignoring the comment, went on, “I have been privileged over the years to watch General McNab plan and execute maybe two dozen operations such as this one. What I’m doing now is praying that enough of his expertise has rubbed off on me so that this one will work.”

  He looked at Svetlana.

  “And I meant that, Sweaty, about praying. That wasn’t a figure of speech.”

  “I know, my Carlitos,” Svetlana said.

  “Okay, here we go,” Castillo said. “Statement of the Problem: We have to interrogate General Yakov Sirinov to determine how much Congo-X the Russians have. To do this, we have to bring the general, plus whatever Congo-X he has in his possession, here.

  “We know from satellite imagery that General Sirinov went from here to the airfield on La Orchila, the island off the coast of Venezuela. The latest satellite imagery we have, as of oh-six-hundred today, no longer shows the Tu-934A aircraft, but does show half a dozen of the Spetsnaz operators near what appears to be one of those canvas-and-poles, throw-it-up-overnight hangars. It is therefore reasonable to presume the Tu-934A is in the hangar; it is unlikely that Sirinov would leave the Spetsnaz in Venezuela. . . .”

  “Colonel,” Roscoe Danton said, “you never said where are you getting the satellite imagery ...”

  Castillo nodded. “That’s another of those questions, Roscoe, that I’d like to answer, but . . .”

  “I know,” Danton said. “You’d have to kill me if you did.”

  “Right,” Castillo said. “Now, as far as personnel go, we’re going to use as few Americans as possible. Colonel Berezovsky said that we stand a good chance, if we have the element of surprise on our side and use our ex-Spetsnaz people, to confuse Sirinov’s Spetsnaz to the point where their efficiency will be substantially reduced.”

  “Explain that to me, Charley,” General McNab said softly.

  “Dmitri and our Spetsnaz get off the plane, the chopper, whatever we wind up using. Dmitri points to the nearest of Sirinov’s Spetsnaz and says, ‘I am Colonel Berezovsky. Take me to General Sirinov.’ Dmitri thinks, and Sweaty thinks, and I agree, there’s a good chance we can get away with that. If we do, we stick a pistol up Sirinov’s nose. . . .”

  “And if you don’t?” McNab asked.

  “Then we can probably disarm Sirinov’s Spetsnaz. Or, if necessary, take them out.”

  “You don’t want to start by taking them out?” McNab said.

  “We’re trying to avoid taking anybody out,” Castillo said.

  Berezovsky put in: “I think going in there with guns blazing would be counterproductive, General. And possibly disastrous. We don’t know what would happen if one of those rubber barrels was subjected to machine-gun fire. We don’t want little pieces of Congo-X scattered all over that airfield.”

  “Good point,” McNab said. “What did you say, Charley, about ‘whatever we wind up using’? That sounds like you’re not planning to use the Black Hawks.”

  “We may not be able to use them,” Castillo said. “The closest staging point we can use is Cozumel. And that island is thirteen hundred nautical miles, give or take, from La Orchila. The ferry range of a Black Hawk is in the book at twelve hundred. We might be able to stretch that to thirteen hundred—we probably could; Dick and I have a lot of time in Black Hawks watc
hing the fuel exhaustion warning light blinking at us—but that would put us in La Orchila with dry tanks.”

  “Auxiliary fuel cells?” General Naylor asked.

  “I don’t know where I can get any, sir,” Castillo said. “And even with fuel cells, we’d have to top off the Black Hawks, and the fuel cells, at La Orchila. That would take twenty minutes at least. I don’t want to be on the ground more than fifteen minutes. And that’s presuming we would be able to refuel at La Orchila.”

  “So what is your alternate plan?” McNab said.

  “Overload the Gulfstream III—I can get a lot of people in there; maybe fifteen—to go in under the radar at first light and hope Dmitri’s ‘Take me to General Sirinov’ order dazzles Sirinov’s Spetsnaz. Then we load him and what Congo-X he has on his Tu-934A and come back here.”

  “What would happen to your Gulfstream?” Naylor asked.

  “Sir, maybe there would be fuel there, and time to refuel. Unlikely, but possible. If not, Sparkman leaves with what fuel remains and heads for Barranquilla, Colombia. And we get on the Tu-934A and come here.”

  “Charley,” McNab asked softly, “what would your wish list be for this operation?”

  “General, we’ve given that very subject a lot of thought,” Castillo said. “If I had my druthers, I’d commandeer four UH-60Ms from the One-Sixtieth Special Operations fleet. Two to use and two for redundancy. All with stub wings and external tanks. They would be armed with GAU-19 fifty-caliber Gatling guns and AGM-114 Hellfire laser-guided missiles to take out the commo building.”

  He paused, and then went on, “And since I have been a very good boy, I would like Santa to also bring me a Red Ryder BB gun and an anatomically correct Barbie doll.”

  McNab, D’Allessando, and Allan Junior laughed.

  “Well, you asked me,” Castillo said. “And, oh, I forgot: An aircraft carrier—preferably the USS Ronald Reagan—sitting somewhere out there on the blue Caribbean so that I and my stalwart band could have a last meal on the Navy before we sallied forth to battle the forces of evil.”

  This got the expected laughter.

  “But since I don’t believe in Santa Claus, I guess we’ll have to go with my tired old Gulfstream III. Among other things, I suspect we’re running out of time.”

  “How much time do you think you have?” General Naylor asked.

  “Seventy-two hours tops, sir. If I had to bet, I’d wager that in forty-eight hours the Tu-934A will be on its way somewhere.”

  “Somewhere?”

  “Sir, I have no idea where it will go. Maybe Cuba. I just don’t know.”

  General Naylor then suddenly said, “Colonel Castillo, I herewith inform you I am withdrawing my parole.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Allan!” General McNab said disgustedly. “Now what?”

  “Yes, sir, General Naylor,” Castillo said evenly. “I regret to tell you, sir, that I am placing you under arrest.”

  “Colonel Castillo, are you still determined to proceed on an operation that not only is unauthorized but in my professional opinion is suicidal?”

  “Sir, I see going ahead with this as my duty. I beg you, sir, please don’t get in my way.”

  General Naylor nodded, then said, “Colonel Brewer, make note of the time.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s fourteen twenty-eight, sir.”

  General Naylor went on: “Make note of this, please, Colonel Brewer. Write it down. Quote. Having at fourteen twenty-seven withdrawn my parole, at fourteen twenty-eight, in the realization that I was not going to be able to deter Lieutenant Colonel Castillo from proceeding on an unauthorized operation involving Congo-X in Venezuela, I came to the conclusion that my duty lay in increasing his chances of success, as the failure of his operation would cause more damage to the United States than its success.”

  “Sir, I don’t understand,” Castillo said.

  “Get me on a secure line to my headquarters at MacDill and it will be made clear to you, Colonel.”

  The two looked into each other’s eyes for a long minute.

  “Do what he says, Carlos,” Svetlana said softly.

  Castillo turned to Lester Bradley, and ordered: “Give the air pistol to Uncle Remus, Lester, and get a secure line to MacDill.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Where will the general be calling from?”

  “Mexico City,” Naylor said. “I wish to speak with my deputy, General Albert McFadden, USAF.”

  Lester looked at Castillo for permission, and when Castillo nodded, said, “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “And put it on the loudspeaker,” Naylor said.

  “Office of the Deputy Commander, Central Command. Sergeant Major Ashley speaking, sir.”

  “This line is secure,” Lester announced. “General Naylor calling for General McFadden.”

  “One moment, please.”

  “Hello, boss. Where the hell are you?”

  “Mexico City, Albert. And you know why I’m here.”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  Naylor moved to the map on the wall.

  “What’s the Navy got, capable of refueling four UH-60Ms, in the area of eighteen degrees north latitude, eighty-five degrees west longitude? I need it there no later than tomorrow.”

  “What the hell is going on, Allan?”

  “Don’t ask questions, please. Answer mine, but don’t ask any. And this conversation goes no further than your ears. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Just a moment, General.”

  “I can have the USS Bataan at that point by sixteen-hundred hours, sir.”

  “Tell me about the Bataan.”

  “It’s a Wasp-class amphibious assault ship,” General McFadden said.

  “I know the class. That’ll do fine. Make sure it’s on station as of oh-eight-hundred tomorrow. Alert them, Top Secret, to be prepared to receive and fuel four UH-60Ms.”

  “Yes, sir. Sir, I’m guessing this is a black operation?”

  “About as black as it can get. Hold one, Albert,” General Naylor said, and turned to McNab.

  “General McNab, I presume the four UH-60Ms will be coming from Fort Campbell?”

  “Yes, sir,” McNab said, and joined Naylor at the map.

  “Where’s the best jumping-off place for them to fly out to the Bataan, would you say?”

  “Sir, can we use the Navy base at Key West?” McNab asked.

  “General, I’m the commander in chief of Central Command. Of course we can use NAS Key West. Albert?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Tell Boca Chica airfield to be prepared to receive the Black Hawks, and order them to keep their mouths shut about it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll get back to you, Albert. General McNab needs the phone.”

  “Sir, how do I get in touch with you?”

  “You don’t. I’ll check in with you periodically. Naylor out.”

  “Lester,” McNab then said. “Get me the One-Sixtieth Special Operations Aviation Regiment at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Make it look like I’m calling from Washington.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  General Naylor looked around the room. “Why do I feel I’m basking in the approval of a number of people who five minutes ago thought I was a chicken-shit sonofabitch?”

  “Dad,” Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Allan Naylor, Jr., said, “why don’t we all try to forget what you were five minutes ago?”

  [TWO]

  The President’s Study

  The White House

  1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.

  Washington, D.C.

  0905 12 February 2007

  “Good morning, Mr. President,” John Powell, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, said as he walked into the room.

  “You’re here to tell me that the Russians and Castillo are now en route to Moscow, right?”

  “No, sir, I regret that I am not. But there have been some interesting developments, Mr. President, that suggest we’re a good deal closer to that solution of the problem tha
n we were at this time yesterday.”

  “Let’s hear them. Before a National Park Service policeman finds another beer barrel of that stuff at Nine Hundred Ohio Drive, Southwest.”

  “Mr. President, Nine Hundred Ohio Drive?”

  “The Lincoln Memorial, Jack. You don’t know where it is?”

  The President looked very pleased with himself.

  “Jack,” he went on, “we promised that Russian sonofabitch . . . what’s his name, the rezident?”

  “Murov, sir. Sergei Murov.”

  “We promised Murov his two traitors and Castillo several days ago. If I were this guy, I would be wondering why that hasn’t happened, and if I were this guy, I think I would be tempted to leave another barrel of this stuff somewhere—say, at Nine Hundred Ohio Drive, Southwest—as a little reminder. You heard what that Fort Detrick scientist . . . what’s his name, the black guy . . . ?”

  “Colonel Hamilton, sir. Colonel J. Porter Hamilton.”

  “. . . had to say about how dangerous this stuff is.”

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “I don’t want any more barrels of Congo-X popping up anywhere. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  “Now, with that in mind, tell me about the interesting developments.”

  “Sir, General Naylor has been heard from.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Sir, according to Bruce Festerman—”

  “Who the hell is he?”

  “Festerman is the CIA liaison officer with Central Command at MacDill, Mr. President. We’ve been on the phone a half-dozen times since yesterday afternoon.”

  “And?”

  “General Naylor called General McFadden, his deputy, from Mexico City and ordered that a ship, the USS Bataan, which is a Wasp-class amphibious assault ship, be moved to a location in the Caribbean and be prepared to receive and refuel four Black Hawk helicopters. He also ordered the Navy base at Key West to do the same thing; in other words, be prepared to receive and refuel four UH-60s. It seems clear, sir, that the helicopters will be flown from Key West to the Bataan.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, sir. What I suspect is that General Naylor has learned where Castillo and/or the Russians are, somewhere in Mexico, and is going to go get them.”