What the hell’s the matter with me?
Well, it’s not as if I’ve been sprawled in a chair watching TV and sucking on a beer.
I’ll call her the first chance I get and explain. As soon as I get to the hotel. She’ll understand.
He turned his attention to the Micro Uzi and took it from its box. It looked almost brand-new.
Castillo had had a lot of experience with the Uzi in the three common variants—Standard, Mini, and Micro—which all fired the 9mm Luger Parabellum cartridge, which was a much better cartridge than the 9mm Kurz .380 ACP.
The Standard Uzi, with a full magazine, weighed about eight pounds, just about what the standard M-16 rifle weighed. The Mini Uzi weighed just under six pounds, about half a pound more than the Car-4 version of the M-16. The Micro weighed about three and a half pounds. There was no equivalent version of the M-16.
Which was one of the reasons why the Micro was a favored weapon of special operators. Another was that it had a much higher rate of fire, 1,250 rounds per minute, double that of the Standard and 300 rpm more than the Micro. In Castillo’s mind, using the Micro was like having a shotgun in your hand, with nowhere near the bulk, weight, or recoil of a 12-gauge shotgun.
“At the risk of repeating myself,” Castillo said, “just what the doctor ordered.”
Franklin looked at him uncomfortably but didn’t say anything.
“Let’s go get you off hook and get the ambassador on the horn,” Castillo said.
“Why don’t we?” Franklin said, and added, “Let me carry those for you, Mr. Castillo.”
Does he think I’m going to grab them and run out of the embassy?
“Thank you,” Castillo said. “And I’ll need ammunition. A couple of boxes of 9mm Parabellum and a box of .22 Long Rifle, please.”
Franklin nodded, went into a cabinet inside the locker, and came out with the ammunition.
A fat man in a white shirt limp with sweat was coming heavily down the stairwell as they went up.
“There’s a call from the White House switchboard for Colonel Castillo, Mr. Franklin,” he announced in awe.
“Come into the phone room with me, please, Mr. Franklin,” Castillo said. “If that’s who I think it is, maybe we won’t have to bother the ambassador.”
“We have Colonel Castillo on a secure line for you, Director Montvale,” the White House operator announced.
“Director Montvale is ready for the colonel,” Montvale said.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Castillo said.
“I’m glad I caught you, Colonel. We seem to be having communications problems.”
“It seems that way, sir. Sir, before we get into this, I have Mr. Franklin with me…”
“Who?”
“He’s the CIA station chief, sir.”
“What’s that about?”
“I need a weapon—weapons—sir, and he seems uncomfortable giving them to me.”
“Why do you need a weapon?”
Castillo didn’t reply. After ten seconds, which seemed much longer, Ambassador Montvale said, a touch of resignation in his voice, “‘Put him on the line.”
“Is there a speakerphone on this?” Castillo asked Franklin.
“There’s a switch on the wall,” Franklin said, then went to it and pushed a button.
“Nathaniel Franklin, sir,” he announced.
“Do you know who I am?” Montvale asked.
“Yes, sir. We’ve spoken before. You’re Ambassador Montvale, the director—”
“‘Yes, sir’ would have been sufficient,” Montvale interrupted him. “Now, there’s two ways we can deal with Colonel Castillo’s request. You can give him whatever he asks for. Or I will call the DCI and in a couple of minutes he will call you and tell you to give the colonel whatever he asks for. What would you like to do?”
“Your permission is all I need, Mr. Ambassador,” Franklin said.
“Thank you, Mr. Franklin. Nice to talk to you.”
Castillo looked at Franklin and then waited until Franklin had left the small room and closed the door before going on.
“Elvis has left the theater, Mr. Ambassador,” he said.
He had just enough time to decide That was a dumb thing to say when he heard Montvale laugh.
“I told you, Charley, I can be useful,” he said. “If I had had to call John Powell, then the DCI would want to know why you wanted his weapons.”
“I told you I was going to Budapest to see if I can get my source to release me from my promise not to pass along to anyone what he gave me. When I got here, I learned that an attempt to kidnap him had been made. I want to keep him alive. I can’t do that without a weapon.”
“You can protect him yourself, you think?”
“I’ve already started getting help. Local help.”
“How long is this going to take? Getting your source to release you—or refuse to release you—from your promise?”
“Several days, probably.”
“You want me to tell Mr. Franklin to help you protect this chap?”
“I think that would draw attention I’d rather not have to my source. But thank you.”
“If you change your mind, let me know.”
“Yes, sir, I will. Thank you.”
“Tell me about explosive suitcases in Pennsylvania.”
“I told Major Miller to tell you about that. Didn’t he?”
“He didn’t seem to think that a possible nuclear device in a briefcase was very important.”
“Sir, he didn’t think it was credible. Neither did the chief of counterterrorism of the Philadelphia Police Department. That’s not the same thing as saying they don’t think the threat of a small nuclear device is important.”
“You sent people up there to look into it,” Montvale challenged.
“The reason I sent them up there was to see where the AALs got the money to buy a farm…”
“The what?”
“AALs. That’s what the Philly cops call the Muslim brothers of the Aari-Teg mosque. It stands for ‘African American Lunatics.’”
“Not only is that politically incorrect but, as I recall, those lunatics were involved in the theft of the 727.”
“Yes, sir, they were, and that’s why the Philly cops and the Secret Service—the Secret Service at my request—are keeping an eye on them. I’d like to find out what their connection with the people who stole the 727 was—is.”
“And you think you can investigate this matter better than the FBI?”
“I think the Secret Service agent I sent up there—he was an undercover cop in the mosque for several years—can. Yes, sir. I think that all FBI involvement would do is tip them off that we’re watching them. I hope you don’t feel compelled to bring the FBI in.”
“You realize what a spot that puts me in, Castillo? If it turns out there’s something to this, and I heard there was, and didn’t tell the FBI what I’d heard…”
“This is what I was afraid of when we struck our deal, sir. If we hadn’t, then I wouldn’t have told you and the problem wouldn’t have come up.”
There was a perceptible pause before Montvale replied.
“On the other hand, Charley, if we hadn’t come to an accommodation you’d have had to take the train to Budapest, not gotten to fly that airplane, and you wouldn’t have the weapons Whatshisname is about to give you, right?”
“Yes, sir. I can’t argue with that.”
“Okay. Let me think about it. I won’t get the FBI involved…”
“Thank you. All they would do right now is get in the way…”
“…at this time. If I do decide they have to know, I’ll tell you before I tell them.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“And I want to talk to the cop who was undercover in the mosque as soon as that can be arranged. Is that going to be a problem?”
“No, sir. Just as soon as he gets back to Washington, I’ll have Miller set up a meeting.”
“Good enough. Good
luck with your source. Keep me posted.”
Charley said, “Yes, sir,” but suspected that Montvale had hung up before he had spoken the two words.
“White House. Are you through?”
“See if you can get Major Miller at Homeland Secur—at my office, please. On a secure line.”
“Colonel Castillo’s secure line,” Miller said a moment later.
“Is it smart to say ‘Colonel’?” Castillo greeted him.
“I don’t know about smart, but, frankly, I find it a little humiliating. Anyway, it’s hardly a secret. All kinds of people have called obviously hoping to hear you getting promoted was just a ridiculous rumor.”
“Shit.”
“What can I do for you, Colonel?”
“I just told Montvale that I would have you set up a meeting with Jack Britton the minute he got back to Washington. Therefore, get in touch with Jack and tell him he is to stay away from Washington until I get back.”
“Got it. And when will that be?”
“The day after tomorrow—presuming Jake arrives tomorrow morning with the Gulfstream—I’m going to Buenos Aires. Get on the horn to Alex Darby at the embassy and tell him I will need a safe house—the one we used would be fine, but anything will do—to house an important witness. A safe house and people to keep it that way. I’ll also need a black car. Actually, a couple of them.”
“This important witness have a name?”
“Let me sit on that awhile. And tell Darby to find Yung and have him at the safe house.”
“Yung tried to call you here.”
“What did he want?”
“To tell you the ambassador in Montevideo thinks Lorimer was a drug dealer.”
“Isn’t that interesting?”
“Yeah. And not only that, the ambassador in Uruguay wants Yung to pass this on to the secretary of state. In confidence. What do I tell him about that?”
“Tell him it will hold until I see him there.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
“As soon as I get things organized in Buenos Aires—maybe two days, tops—I’ll come home.”
“That’s it?”
“Can’t think of anything. How’s the leg?”
“Improved. It only hurts now ninety percent of the time. Watch your back, buddy.”
VIII
[ONE]
Arlington National Cemetery
Arlington, Virginia
1600 6 August 2005
There is an average of twenty burials every day at Arlington. There is a prescribed routine for enlisted men, one for warrant officers and officers, and one for general or flag officers.
Enlisted men being interred are provided with a casket team (pallbearers), a firing party to fire the traditional three-round salute, and a bugler to sound taps.
In addition to the basics, warrant and commissioned officers may be provided with an escort platoon, its size varying according to the rank of the deceased, and a military band.
Officers are entitled to the use of a horse-drawn artillery caisson to move the casket to the grave site. Army and Marine Corps colonels and above are entitled to have a caparisoned, riderless horse. General officers are also entitled to a cannon salute—seventeen guns for a four-star general, fifteen for a three-star, thirteen for a two-star, eleven for a one-star.
There is almost never a deviation from the prescribed rites and the late Sergeant First Class Seymour Kranz was entitled to the least of these prerogatives.
But from the moment the hearse bearing his casket arrived near the grave site, Sergeant Kranz’s internment did not follow the standard protocol.
As the immaculately turned-out officer in charge reached for the door handle at the rear of the hearse, an immaculately turned-out Special Forces sergeant major stepped up and spoke to him.
“With your permission, sir, we’ll take it from here,” Sergeant Major John K. Davidson said.
“Excuse me?” the OIC, a first lieutenant, said.
It was the first time anyone had ever interrupted his procedure.
“The sergeant major said we’ll take it from here,” another voice said. “Do you have a problem with that, Lieutenant?”
The lieutenant turned and found himself facing another Green Beret, this one with three silver stars glistening on each of his epaulets.
“Sir…” the lieutenant began to protest.
“Good. I didn’t think there would be a problem,” Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab said. “Carry on, Sergeant Major.”
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Major Davidson said, then raised his voice slightly. “Casket detail, ten-hut. Execute!”
Seven Green Berets of varying ranks—including one lieutenant general plus one corporal, USMC—marched up to the rear of the hearse, halted, then did an about-face without orders. When Sergeant Major Davidson pulled open the hearse door, the casket was removed and raised onto the shoulders of the casket detail.
“Escort detail, ten-hut!” Sergeant Major Davidson barked softly, and very quickly twenty-odd Special Forces soldiers, mostly sergeants of one grade or another but including one full colonel, one lieutenant colonel, two majors, a captain, and two lieutenants, formed a column of twos and snapped to attention.
“Chaplain! Detail!” Sergeant Davidson barked. “At funeral pace, forward harch!”
The chaplain from the Military District of Washington, a captain, who now found himself standing beside a Green Beret major—whose lapels carried the silver cross of a Christian chaplain and whose breast bore the Combat Infantry Badge—looked around in some confusion until his brother of the clergy took his arm and gently prodded him forward.
The casket team and escort detail marched at funeral pace toward the open grave. As the last of them passed the hearse, a Special Forces major in a wheelchair, pushed by a Special Forces sergeant, joined the detail. Then several men in civilian clothing followed the wheelchair.
The rear was brought up, after a moment’s indecision, by the Arlington National Cemetery’s official casket team.
As the column made its way through the sea of crosses and Stars of David to the open grave, another detail of Special Forces soldiers, eight enlisted men under a captain, relieved the eight-man cemetery firing party of their weapons and ordered them to form a single rank behind the new firing party.
When the casket team reached the grave, the casket was lowered onto the green nylon tapes of the lowering device. All but two of them came to attention.
Sergeant Major Davidson then handed the national colors to Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab, USA, and Corporal Lester Bradley, USMC, who placed them on the casket, making sure they were stretched out level and centered over the casket.
Then they assumed the position of attention, and when Sergeant Major Davidson gave the order the entire casket team took two steps back from the grave.
The Green Beret chaplain then led the graveside ritual prescribed for members of the Lutheran faith. Then he stepped back from the casket and grave.
The captain in charge of the new firing party barked, in rapid order, “Present, h’arms. Ready, aim, fire! Ready, aim, fire! Ready, aim, fire!” And then, a moment later, “Or-duh h’arms.”
“Bugler, sound taps!” Sergeant Major Davidson barked.
When the bugler was done, Sergeant Major Davidson and Corporal Bradley began folding the colors. When they had finished, the flag, now folded into a crisp triangle of blue with white stars, was given to Lieutenant General McNab, who waited until the casket team had marched away from the grave and then presented it to Sergeant Kranz’s sister.
General McNab spoke briefly with Sergeant Kranz’s sister, then saluted her and respectfully backed away.
A middle-aged gray-haired woman—an “Arlington Lady,” one of the wives of retired general officers who voluntarily appear at every funeral—then presented a card of condolence from the chief of staff of the United States Army to Sergeant Kranz’s sister, offered her personal condolences, and kissed her on the cheek.
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As this was going on, the Special Forces firing detail returned the rifles of the Arlington firing detail to them, then marched to the waiting line of cars on the road lined up with the escort detail. They were joined by the casket detail, but without General McNab and Corporal Bradley, who was standing beside the general. Bradley then followed the general and Sergeant Kranz’s sister as the general walked with her past the lined-up Green Berets to her limousine.
When he had seen Sergeant Kranz’s sister into the limousine, General McNab stepped back and Corporal Lester Bradley stepped up.
“Ma’am,” he said. “I shall treasure for the remainder of my life my privilege of having been with Sergeant Kranz when he fell. Please accept again my profound condolences on your loss.”
When she looked at Corporal Bradley’s young—boyish—face and saw the tears in his eyes, Sergeant Kranz’s sister lost control for the first time.
“Thank you,” she said, barely audibly, then turned her face away.
General McNab gently pushed Corporal Bradley out of the way and closed the limousine door. The car then slowly pulled away.
At the grave, the officer in charge of the burial detail—who had waited to over-see the one soldier, “the Virgil,” whose job it was to remain at the grave until it was closed—saw that the Green Berets had decided to participate in that, too. A Green Beret sergeant first class was standing at parade rest at the head of the casket.
The officer in charge looked at the Arlington Lady, whom he had seen at many another funeral, and the two of them wordlessly agreed to walk together back to the waiting cars.
Halfway there, the lieutenant said, “Well, that was interesting, wasn’t it? Different?”
“Lieutenant,” the Arlington Lady said, “my husband and I spent thirty-three years on active duty. One of the few things I know for sure about the Army is that Special Forces soldiers are indeed interesting and different.”
[TWO]
Office of Organizational Analysis
Department of Homeland Security
Nebraska Avenue Complex
Washington, D.C.
1745 6 August 2005
Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., his tunic unbuttoned and necktie pulled down, sat at the desk of the chief of the Office of Organizational Analysis with his leg resting on an open drawer of the ornate desk.
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