The informality of the radio exchange between the Bell Ranger and Newbery Ground Control would have driven an American FAA examiner to distraction, but in practical terms there was nothing wrong with it.
Ground Control had not bothered to identify the runway by number. There is only one, about seven thousand feet long. And since he had given the helicopter pilot permission to make a direct approach, and the winds were negligible, there wasn't much chance the pilot would misunderstand where he was supposed to go.
"Newbery, Ranger Zero-Seven at five hundred over the threshold."
"Zero-Seven, you are cleared to make a low-level transit of the field to the right, repeat right of the runway for landing at the JetAire hangar."
"Mucho gracias."
"Report when you land."
"Will do." As the Bell Ranger came down the field, over the grass to the right of the runway, the doors of the JetAire hangar began to slide open.
A sleek, small, glistening white jet airplane-a Bombardier/Learjet 45XR with American markings-sat, nose out, behind one of the doors. It was connected to ground power and there were lights visible in both the cockpit and cabin.
Four men pushing a trundle bed, which would attach to the skids of the helicopter-the Ranger does not have wheels-and permit it to be rolled into the hangar, came out and waited for the helicopter to land. "Newbery, Ranger Zero-Seven on the ground. Mucho gracias."
"You're welcome. Have a nice time."
"I'll try."
The Ground Control operator had assumed-not without reason-that the Bell Ranger was owned by a wealthy estanciero who had flown into the city for a night on the town. That happened three or more times every night. Sometimes the tarmac in front of JetAire was as crowded with private airplanes and helicopters as the terminal tarmac was with airliners. As soon as the Ranger had been trundled into the hangar, the doors began to slide closed again.
Three men came down the Lear's stair door and approached the helicopter as the pilot pushed the cockpit door open.
The larger of them was Fernando Lopez, Castillo's cousin. He was a dark-skinned man in his midthirties, six feet two inches tall and weighing well over two hundred pounds.
Lopez saw something he didn't like on Castillo's face. "You okay, Gringo?"
Castillo nodded.
"Solez?" Fernando Lopez asked.
Ricardo Solez was a special agent of the Drug Enforcement Administration assigned to the U.S. embassy in Buenos Aires. He had been drafted from the DEA by Castillo for the Estancia Shangri-La operation.
"He's driving the Yukon back here," Castillo said. "He's all right."
"I thought the kid was going to do that," Lopez said.
"Bradley's in there," Castillo said, indicating the helicopter.
"How did it go, Charley?" Colonel Jacob Torine, USAF, a tall, slim redhead in a sports coat, asked.
"Not well," Castillo replied. "Lorimer is dead. And Kranz bought the farm."
"Oh, shit! What happened?"
"And Munz took a hit," Castillo went on. He looked at the third man, who was slim, in his early forties, with shortly cropped thinning hair and wearing a light brown single-breasted suit.
"Well, hello, Howard," he said, not kindly. "Your boss send you to see how badly I bent his chopper?"
Howard Kennedy had spent most of his adult life as an FBI agent. Two years before, he had abruptly abandoned his prestigious duties in the FBI's Ethical Standards-read Internal Affairs-Division to go to work for Aleksandr Pevsner, a Russian national, who, it was alleged in warrants issued for his arrest by nearly a dozen countries, had committed an array of crimes ranging from being an international dealer in arms and drugs all the way down to murder.
"I came because he thought I might be useful," Howard Kennedy said.
"What happened, Charley?" Colonel Torine asked again.
"There were some other people at the estancia. Six of them…"
"Who?" Kennedy said.
"…all dressed in black and armed with Madsens," Castillo finished.
"Who were they?" Kennedy pursued.
"I wish to hell I knew," Castillo said, and turned to Torine. "How soon can we go wheels-up?"
"All I have to do is file the flight plan. It shouldn't take long this time of night."
"Howard, can you take care of Colonel Munz?" Castillo asked.
"Does he need a hospital?"
"The bullet's out, and he's been given antibiotics. Unless he develops an infection, no."
"Who took the bullet out?" Kennedy asked.
Castillo ignored the question.
"Take him home, Howard. Right now, he's still in la-la land, but that should wear off in no more than an hour. Then he'll start to hurt."
"Can he walk?"
Castillo nodded.
"I don't like this," Kennedy said.
"Howard, didn't your mother ever tell you when you go somewhere uninvited, you're likely to find something at the party you won't like?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about. And if I wasn't here, what would you have done with Munz?"
"He gave me a number to call if something went wrong," Castillo said. "I just want you to remember I didn't have any idea you would be here."
"Okay. So what?"
"Special Agent David W. Yung, Jr., of the FBI is in the chopper."
"Oh, Jesus Christ!"
"I'm going to tell him that who was here when we got here is classified 'Top Secret Presidential.' I have no reason to believe that he will breach security regulations."
"Then you are naive."
"Well, what do you want to do?" Castillo asked.
Kennedy looked at him for a moment, then walked quickly to the fuselage door and opened it.
"Well, how are you, David?" he said. "Long time no see."
He put out his hand.
"I thought that was you, Howard," Yung said.
"Glad to see me?"
"'Surprised' is the word that comes to mind."
"I'm on the pariah list, but I don't have leprosy," Kennedy said, nodding at his still-extended hand. "We go way back, David."
Yung looked at Kennedy's extended hand.
"Yeah, we do," he said and took it. "And I just realized I'm glad to see you."
"That you saw him, Yung, is classified Top Secret Presidential," Castillo said.
"That's good," Yung said. "That saves me from having to decide what to do now that I have seen him."
"Do you mind if I interpret that to mean you wouldn't have reported me even without Charley's invoking the criminal code vis-a-vis unauthorized disclosure of classified information?"
"To tell you the truth, Howard, I don't know what I would have done," Yung said.
"Okay, Howard, get Colonel Munz out of here," Castillo said.
"He's unconscious," Yung said.
"Probably asleep," Castillo said. "Shake him and find out."
El Coronel Alfredo Munz woke instantly when Yung touched his shoulder.
"Aha!" he said, cheerfully. "We have arrived. I must have dozed off." He spotted Kennedy. "?Hola, Howard!" he cried. "I didn't know that you were going to be here."
"Alfredo, can you walk?" Castillo asked.
"Certainly I can walk," Munz said and tried to get out of his seat.
"That'll be easier if you take the seat belt off," Castillo said, then added: "Unfasten it for him, Yung."
Yung did so. Munz got out of his seat and went through the door. He started to walk across the hangar floor, then felt a little woozy and staggered. He put his good arm out like the wing of an airplane, cried, "Wheee," and started trotting in curves around the hangar.
Kennedy went quickly to him and steadied him.
"What we are going to tell my wife is that I shot myself when I was cleaning my pistol," Munz confided to Kennedy. "And you are my witness. My wife says you have an honest face."
Kennedy maneuvered Munz over to Castillo.
"Howard'll take care of you now, Alfredo," Castillo said. "Th
anks for everything."
"It was my great pleasure," Munz said and bowed.
"I suppose we'll be in touch, won't we, Charley?" Kennedy asked.
Castillo nodded. "Tell your boss thanks, Howard."
"I'll do that," Kennedy said and then started guiding Munz toward the rear of the hangar.
Castillo walked around the Ranger and opened the copilot's door.
"Bradley, load the stuff-everything in the chopper that belongs to us-into the Lear and make sure there's a seat where we can put Sergeant Kranz."
"Yes, sir," Corporal Lester Bradley said.
"I'll give you a hand with the body," Yung said.
"Just put him over my shoulder," Castillo said. "I'll carry him." Five minutes later, Jorge Newbery Ground Control cleared Lear Five-Oh-Seven-Five to the threshold of runway thirty-one. [FOUR] Office of the Commander in Chief United States Central Command MacDill Air Force Base Tampa, Florida 1235 1 August 2005 There were several reasons that Command Sergeant Major Wesley Suggins was rarely in the commander in chief's conference room when the twelve chairs around the long table were occupied by what he privately thought of as "the heavy brass."
Or even when only three or four of them were occupied by what he privately thought of as "the light brass."
He defined the heavy brass as general or flag officers whose personal flags carried three or more stars. It also included a few heavy civilians. The liaison officer between the Office of the Director of National Intelligence and CentCom was one of these. He was a member of what was known as the Executive Civil Service and held the grade therein of GS-18, which carried with it the assimilated grade within the military establishment of lieutenant general. The State Department, Central Intelligence Agency, and Federal Bureau of Investigation liaison officers each carried the Executive Civil Service grade of GS-16, which carried with it the assimilated grade of major general.
The light brass was brigadier generals, rear admirals (lower half), and GS-15 civilians and below.
The primary reason Command Sergeant Major Suggins almost never took a seat at the conference table was not, as most of the light and heavy brass believed, because he was an enlisted man and would be out of place in their exalted senior company.
The primary reason was that General Allan Naylor, the CentCom commander in chief, had decided that Command Sergeant Major Suggins had more important things to do than sit at the table for long periods with his mouth shut.
This was not to say General Naylor did not want Command Sergeant Major Suggins to know what transpired at the frequent conferences; quite the contrary. It was General Naylor's habit after most conferences-there were at least four every day, including the twice-daily intelligence briefings-to motion Suggins into his office and solicit both his opinions of what had been discussed and his recommendations as to how an action decided upon could best be implemented.
That Command Sergeant Major Suggins was not physically present in the conference room did not mean he hadn't heard what was being discussed. The room was equipped with a wide array of electronic devices, including a battery of microphones placed around it so that even the sound of a dropped pencil would be detected.
Sometimes the conferences were recorded. At all times, what the microphones heard was relayed to a single-earphone headset Suggins put on the moment the door to the conference room closed, the red light above the door began to flash, and the CONFERENCE IN PROGRESS DO NOT ENTER sign lit up.
It was commonly believed by those seeing Suggins wearing his headset that he was taking the opportunity, while a conference was in progress, to listen to the Dixieland recordings of Bob French's Original Tuxedo Jazz Band, to which he was known to be quite addicted. Suggins did nothing to correct this erroneous belief.
About the most important thing Suggins did while not sitting at the conference table with his mouth shut was field General Naylor's telephone calls. There were usually many, and almost all of them from people really important-or who believed they were really important-and who all believed they had the right to speak with General Naylor immediately.
Some of them Suggins deftly diverted with white lies: The general was jogging or indisposed, or speaking with the president or the secretary of Homeland Security or the secretary of defense, and he would have the general return the call the moment he was free.
There were some callers, of course, that Suggins did not try to divert. These included, for example, the president of the United States; the secretaries of defense, state, and Homeland Security; the director of National Intelligence; and Mr. Elaine Naylor.
When one of these luminaries called, Suggins would turn to a laptop computer on the credenza behind his desk and quickly type, for example, if the caller were the secretary of Homeland Security, the Honorable Matthew Hall:
HALL?
The message would instantly appear on the screen of what was nearly universally-and not very fondly-known as the general's IBB, meaning "Infernal Black Box."
The IBB was in fact a laptop computer identical to Suggins's. General Naylor always had it on the conference in front of him, situated so that the screen would be visible to no one else.
The system was effective. Whoever had the floor in the conference room would not have to stop in midsentence as Naylor's telephone rang or Command Sergeant Major Suggins came through the door.
Naylor could read the message and quickly type his reply:
CAN I CALL IN FIVE MINS?
Or:
PUT HIM THROUGH
Or:
CAN YOU TAKE A MESSAGE?
Etcetera. The regularly scheduled afternoon intelligence briefing had been in session for about five minutes when one of the telephones on Command Sergeant Major Suggins's desk rang.
"Office of the Sink. Suggins."
C in c was often pronounced "sink." And "Command Sergeant Major Suggins speaking, sir" wasted time.
"Jack Iverson, Wes," the caller announced. "I've got an interesting in flight advisory for your boss."
Chief Master Sergeant Jack Iverson, USAF, was the senior noncommissioned officer of what was informally known as "the Air Force side of MacDill." MacDill was an Air Force base. The United States Central Command was a "tenant" of MacDill Air Force Base.
"Shoot," Suggins replied as he spun in his chair to the laptop on the credenza. His fingers flew on the keys as Iverson relayed the in flight advisory message:
FOR CINC CENTCOM
CHARLEY URGENTLY REPEAT URGENTLY REQUESTS CINC CENTCOM PERSONALLY REPEAT PERSONALLY MEET LEAR FIVE-OH-SEVEN-FIVE ON ARRIVAL MACDILL. ETA 1255. TORINE COL USAF.
"Got it, Jack. Hang on a minute."
"You're not going to tell me what the hell it's all about, Wes?"
"If I knew, I would. I don't," Suggins replied.
He pushed the key that would cause the message to appear on the screen of General Naylor's IBB.
The reply came in a second: ????????????????????????????
The translation of that was, "What the hell?"
A moment later, there was another reply:
OK
"Jack, reply that the CINC will do," Suggins said. "And the CINC authorizes the landing of the civilian airplane, if that's necessary. And for Christ's sake, keep this quiet."
"Why do I think you're not telling me everything you know?"
"Because I'm not," Suggins said. "Thanks, Jack."
Then Suggins picked up the telephone and ordered that the CINC's car be at the front door in five minutes. [FIVE] As the sleek white Bombardier/Learjet 45XR taxied up to the tarmac in front of Base Operations, General Allan Naylor could see the pilot. He knew him well. He was Major Carlos G. Castillo, U.S. Army. Naylor could also see who was sitting in the copilot's seat. He knew him well, too. He was Colonel Jacob Torine, USAF.
That figures, General Naylor thought. A full goddamned Air Force colonel is flying copilot, and Charley-a lousy major-is in the pilot's seat.
Naylor saw Castillo rise from the pilot's seat and leave the cockpit. A
moment later, the fuselage door began to unfold and in a moment Castillo appeared in the opening. He was in civilian clothing.
"Good afternoon, sir," Castillo called, politely. "Would you come aboard, please, sir? Alone?"
Now he's giving orders to a four-star general? Goddamn it!
"Wait here, please, Jack," Naylor said to the lieutenant colonel, his aide-de-camp, standing beside him, and then walked to the Lear and climbed up the stairs.
"Thank you, sir," Castillo said as Naylor entered the cabin.
"This had better be important, Charley."
"I thought it was, sir."
Naylor looked around the cabin. There were four men in it. One, Fernando M. Lopez, he knew well. The Lear belonged to one of the companies his family controlled.
The other three he did not know. One was an Asiatic, another a light-skinned African American, and the third looked like a high school kid.
"Who are these gentlemen, Charley?" Naylor asked.
"Special Agent Yung of the FBI, sir," Castillo answered, "Special Agent Britton of the Secret Service and Corporal Lester Bradley. Bradley's a Marine."
"Good afternoon, sir," Colonel Torine said from behind him.
"Hello, Jake," Naylor said and shook his hand.
None of them look smug, as if they've just pulled off something clever. They all look uncomfortable. As if whatever crazy operation they launched went the wrong way?
"I'm waiting, Charley," Naylor said.
Castillo pointed to the aisle at the rear of the cabin.
There was something there wrapped in what looked like sheets. And then Naylor knew what It was.
"Another body?" he asked, icily.
"Sir, those are the remains of Sergeant First Class Seymour Kranz," Castillo said. "He was KIA last night."
"What?"
"Garroted, sir," Castillo said.
"Garroted?"
"Yes, sir."
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