Hunters pa-3

by W. E. B Griffin

  Far more of a secret was that he was also the judge of the commissioned officers going through the Q course.

  Jack Davidson had not wanted the job-for one thing, Mackall was in the boonies and a long drive from his quarters on the post, and, for another, he thought of himself as an urban special operator-as opposed to an out in the boonies eating monkeys and snakes and rolling around in the mud field special operator-and running Mackall meant spending most of his time in the boonies.

  But two people for whom he had enormous respect-he had been around the block with both of them: Vic D'Allessando, now retired and running the Stockade, and Bruce J. "Scotty" McNab, whom Davidson had known as a major and who was now the XVIII Airborne Corps commander and a three-star general-had almost shamelessly appealed to his sense of duty.

  "Jack, you know better than anybody else what it takes," Scotty McNab had told him. "Somebody else is likely to pass some character who can't hack it and people will get killed. You want that on your conscience?" Sergeant Major Davidson was not surprised when he heard the peculiar fluckata-fluckata sound the rotor blades of MH-6H helicopters make as they came in for a landing. And he was reasonably sure that it was either D'Allessando or the general, who often dropped in unannounced once a week or so, and neither had been at Mackall recently.

  But when he pushed himself out of his chair and walked outside the small, wood-frame operations building just as the Little Bird touched down, he was surprised to see that the chopper held both of them. That seldom happened.

  He waited safely outside the rotor cone as first General McNab-a small, muscular ruddy-faced man sporting a flowing red mustache-and then Vic D'Allessando ducked under the blades.

  He saluted crisply.

  "Good morning, General," he said, officially. "Welcome to Camp Mackall. May the sergeant major ask the general who the bald, fat old Guinea is?"

  "I told you it was a bad idea to teach the bastard how to read," D'Allessando said, first giving Davidson the finger with both hands and then wrapping his arms around him.

  "How are you, Jack?" McNab asked.

  "Can't complain, sir. What brings you to the boonies?"

  "A bit of news that'll make you weep for the old Army," McNab said. "Guess who's now a lieutenant colonel?"

  "Haven't the foggiest."

  "Charley Castillo," Vic D'Allessando said. "Make you feel old, Jack?"

  "Yeah," Davidson said, thoughtfully. "I remember Charley when he was a second john and driving the general's chopper in Desert One. Lieutenant Colonel Castillo. I'll be damned." He paused, thought about that, then added, "I think he'll be a good one."

  "And I want to see Corporal Lester Bradley of the Marines," McNab said.

  "You heard about that, did you, General?" Davidson said.

  "Heard about what?"

  "The goddamned Marines pulling our chain."

  "How pulling our chain?"

  "I'm responsible," Davidson said.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I went to Quantico and talked to the jarheads about the people they're starting to send here. The master gunnery sergeant of Force Recon there-an Irishman named MacNamara-was a pretty good guy. We hit it off. We had a couple of tastes together. And while we were talking, I asked him if he had any influence on who they were sending here. He said he did. So I asked him as a favor if he could send us at least one who wasn't all muscles, especially between the ears, and could read and write."

  He stopped when he saw the look on McNab's face.

  "General," he went on, "they send all their Force Recon guys through the SEAL course on the West Coast. They run them up and down the beach in the sand carrying telephone poles over their heads. By the time they finish, they all look like Arnold Schwarzenegger. They're more into that physical crap than even the goddamned Rangers."

  "And?" McNab asked.

  "So I forgot about it," Davidson said. "I'd pulled MacNamara's chain a little and I was satisfied. And then Bradley appeared."

  "And?" McNab pursued.

  "Well, not only can he read and write-he talks like a college professor, never using a small word when a big one will do-and not only is he not all muscle, he's no muscle at all. And he's eighteen, nineteen years old and looks fifteen. I have to hand it to Master Gunnery Sergeant MacNamara. He had to look all over the Marine Corps to find this guy."

  "And where is this stalwart Marine warrior?"

  "In the office. I've got him typing. He didn't even-I forgot to mention this-have orders. What I'm doing now is hoping that MacNamara's going to call me and go, 'Ha-ha! Got you good, my doggie friend. Now you can send him back.'"

  "I think that's unlikely, Jack," General McNab said and walked toward the small frame building, where he pushed open the door.

  A voice inside, in a loud but some what less than commanding voice, cried, "Attention on deck!"

  Mr. D'Allessando and Sergeant Major Davidson followed General McNab into the building.

  Corporal Bradley was standing at rigid attention behind a field desk holding a notebook computer.

  General McNab turned and looked at Sergeant Major Davidson.

  "Never judge a book by its cover," he said. "You might want to write that down, Jack."

  Then he looked at Corporal Bradley.

  "At ease," he said, softly.

  Bradley shifted from his rigid position of attention to an equally rigid position, with his hands in the small of his back, his legs slightly spread.

  "Unless I'm mistaken, son," General McNab said, "you are now standing at parade rest."

  "Sir, the corporal begs the general's pardon. The general is correct, sir," Bradley said, let his body relax, and took his hands from the small of his back.

  "So you're the sniper, are you, son?" McNab asked.

  "Sir, I was a designated marksman on the march to Baghdad."

  "Thank you for the clarification."

  "With all respect, sir, my pleasure, sir."

  "Tell me, son, how would you describe your role in the assault on that wonderfully named Estancia Shangri-La?"

  "With all respect, sir, I am under orders not to discuss that mission with anyone."

  "Can you tell me why not?"

  "Sir, the mission is classified Top Secret Presidential."

  General McNab looked at Sergeant Major Davidson but didn't say anything.

  Vic D'Allessando said, "It's okay, Lester. The general and the sergeant major are cleared."

  "Yes, sir," Lester said.

  "Well, son? What did you do on that mission?"

  "Sir, Major Castillo, who was in command, assigned me to guard the helicopter."

  "For your information, Corporal, Major Castillo has been promoted to lieutenant colonel," McNab said.

  "If it is appropriate for me to say so, sir, it is a well-deserved promotion. Maj…Lieutenant Colonel Castillo is a fine officer under whom I am proud to have served."

  Vic D'Allessando was smiling widely at a thoroughly confused Sergeant Major Davidson.

  "So you guarded the helicopter?" McNab pursued.

  "Yes, sir. Until the situation got a bit out of control, when I realized it had become my duty to enter the fray."

  "'The fray'? Is that something like a firefight?" McNab asked.

  "Yes, it is, sir. Perhaps I should have used that phrase."

  "How exactly did you enter the fray, Corporal?" McNab asked. "When the situation got a bit out of control?"

  "Sir, when it became evident that one of the villains was about to fire his Madsen through a window into a room into which Maj…Lieutenant Colonel Castillo had taken the detainee, I realized I had to take him out. Regrettably, he managed to fire a short burst before I was able to do so."

  "How did you take him out?"

  "With a head shot, sir."

  "You didn't consider that it would be safer to try to hit him in the body?"

  "I considered it, sir, but I was no more than seventy-five meters distant and knew I could make the shot."


  "Is that all you did, Corporal?"

  "No, sir. I took out a second villain perhaps fifteen seconds later."

  "With another headshot?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Just to satisfy my curiosity, Corporal," McNab asked, "were you firing offhand?"

  "Yes, sir. There just wasn't time to adjust a sling and get into a kneeling or prone position, sir."

  "Colonel Castillo has told Mr. D'Allessando that there is no question you saved his life. Sergeant Major Davidson and myself are old friends of Colonel Castillo's and we are grateful to you, aren't we, Sergeant Major?"

  "Yes, sir. We certainly are."

  "Just doing my duty as I saw it, sir."

  "The yare going to bury Sergeant Kranz at sixteen hundred today in Arlington. If Sergeant Major Davidson can spare you from your duties here, I thought perhaps you might wish to go there with Mr. D'Allessando and me."

  "Yes, sir. I would like very much to pay my last respects."

  "Have you a dress uniform?"

  "Yes, sir. But I'm afraid it's not very shipshape, sir."

  "Well, I'm sure Sergeant Major Davidson will be happy to see that it's pressed and that you're at Pope at twelve hundred, won't you, Jack?"

  "My pleasure, sir," Sergeant Major Davidson said.

  VII

  [ONE] Ferihegy International Airport Budapest, Hungary 1655 6 August 2005 Hungary is not a member of the European Union. It was therefore necessary for Otto Gorner and Karl W. von und zu Gossinger to pass through immigration and customs when the Eurojet Taxi deposited them before the small civil-aviation building.

  But it was just the briefest of formalities. Not only were their passports quickly stamped by the officer who came aboard the twin-engine jet aircraft but he volunteered the information, "Your driver is waiting, Ur Gorner."

  Then he left without even looking at the luggage the pilot and copilot had carried down the stair door.

  "Thanks for the ride and the cockpit tour," Castillo said, in English, offering his hand to the pilot.

  "My pleasure, Colonel," the pilot replied, also in English-American English.

  "Maybe we can do it again."

  "Any time. You've got our number." There had been no other passengers on the flight from Leipzig, which made Castillo wonder if that was coincidence or whether the Cessna Citation III had been sent to pick him up because there would be no smaller aircraft available for some time and Montvale had ordered them to put him at the head of the line.

  Just after they had gone wheels-up, he had made his way to the cockpit and asked, in English, "How's chances of sitting in the right seat and having you explain the panel to me?"

  The copilot had exchanged glances with the pilot, who nodded, and then wordlessly got up.

  "Thanks," Castillo said to the pilot as he sat down and strapped himself in.

  "Anything special you want to see, Colonel?" the pilot had asked, in English, making it clear that there was no reason to pretend he was anything but an employee of the agency or that Castillo was a German businessman named Gossinger availing himself of Eurojet Taxi's services.

  "How long do you think it would take to show a pilot-several hundred hours in smaller business jets-enough to make him safe to sit in the right seat?"

  "These are nice airplanes," the pilot said. "They come in a little hot, and sometimes, close to max gross, they take a long time to get off the ground, but aside from that they're not hard to fly. How long it would take would depend on the IP and the student. But not long."

  "I'd really be grateful to be able to sit here and watch until you get it on the ground in Budapest. Is that possible?"

  "You know how to work the radios?" the pilot asked and when Castillo nodded the pilot motioned for him to pick up the copilot's headset and, when Castillo had them on, pointed out on the GPS screen where they were-over the Dresden-Nurnberg Autobahn, near Chemnitz.

  I think Montvale will learn that I wanted to sit in the cockpit, but I don't think he'll think it's anything but my boyish enthusiasm for everything connected with flying. "Good afternoon, Ur Gorner," Sandor Tor greeted them inside the civil-aviation building. "The car's right outside."

  "Sandor, this is Herr von und zu Gossinger," Gorner said. "And this, Ur von und zu Gossinger, is Sandor Tor, who was supposed to keep Kocian from falling over his goddamned dog and down the stairs."

  "Ur Gorner…" Tor began, painfully embarrassed.

  "And also, incidentally, to telephone me immediately, at any time, if anything at all out of the ordinary happened to Ur Kocian."

  "Ur Gorner…" Tor began again, only to be interrupted again by Gorner.

  "Why don't we wait until we're on our way to the hospital?" Gorner said. "Then you can tell us everything."

  "I wish God had put me in that hospital bed instead of Ur Kocian," Tor said, emotionally.

  I think I like you, Sandor Tor, Castillo thought. In 2002, Otto Gorner had reluctantly concluded Eric Kocian, in his eighties, needed protection-protection from himself.

  The old man was fond of American whiskey-Jack Daniel's Black Label in particular-and driving fast Mercedes-Benz automobiles. A combination of the former and his age-reduced reflexes and night vision had seen him in half a dozen accidents, the last two of them spectacular. The final one had put him in hospital and caused the government to cancel his driver's license.

  Otto Gorner had come to Budapest and sought out Sandor Tor right after he'd been to Kocian's hospital room.

  "We're going to have to do something or he's going to kill himself," Gorner had announced. "It won't take him long to get his driving license back-he knows where all the politicians keep their mistresses. We have to get this fixed before that happens."

  "You mean get him a chauffeur?"

  Gorner nodded.

  "Good luck, Ur Gorner," Tor had said. "I'm glad I'm not the one who's going to have to tell him that."

  Gorner had smiled and, obviously thinking about what he was going to say, didn't reply for a moment.

  Then he said, "Let me tell you what he said in the hospital just now. Not for the first time, he was way ahead of me."

  Tor waited for Gorner to go on.

  "'Before you say anything, Otto,' he said, the moment I walked in the door, 'let me tell you how I'm going to deal with this.'"

  "I can't wait to hear this," Tor said.

  "'Sandor Tor will now drive me around,'" Gorner quoted.

  "No," Tor said, quickly and firmly, not embracing the idea at all.

  "I told him you were the director of security, not a chauffeur," Gorner said.

  "And?"

  "'Did you think I don't know that?'" Gorner quoted. "'As director of security, he carries a gun. I'm getting too old to do that anymore, too. Further-more, Sandor can be trusted to keep his mouth shut about where I go and who I talk to. I don't want some taxi driver privy to that or listening to my conversations. And, finally, Sandor's a widower. Driving me around may interfere with his sex life, but at least he won't go home and regale his wife with tales of what Kocian did today and with whom.'"

  "No, Ur Gorner," Tor repeated, adamantly.

  "I told him you would say that," Gorner said. "To which he replied, 'I'll handle Tor.'"

  "No. Sorry, but absolutely not."

  "Do you know, Sandor, how far back Eric Kocian goes with Gossinger, G.m.b.H.?"

  "Not exactly. A long time, I know that."

  "He was with Oberstleutnant Hermann Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger at Stalingrad," Gorner said. "They met on the ice-encrusted basement floor of a building being used as a hospital. Both were very seriously wounded."

  "I've heard that the Herr Oberst had been at Stalingrad…"

  "Eric was an eighteen-year-old Gefreite," Gorner went on. "He and the colonel were flown out on one of the very last flights. The colonel was released from hospital first and placed on convalescent leave. He went to visit a friend in the Army hospital in Giessen and ran into Kocian there. Eric had apparently done something for the colon
el in Stalingrad-I have no idea what, but the colonel was grateful-so the colonel arranged for him to be assigned to the POW camp he was going to command. The alternative for Kocian was being sent back to the Eastern Front.

  "They ended the war in the POW camp and became prisoners themselves. Kocian was released first. He went home to Vienna and learned that the American bombs that had reduced St. Stephen's Cathedral and the Opera to rubble had done the same to his family's apartment. All of his family, and their friends, were dead."

  "Jesus!" Tor exclaimed, softly.

  "His only friend in the world was the colonel. So he made his way back to Germany and Fulda. The presses of the Fulda Tages Zeitung were in the basement of what had been the building. Eric arrived there a day or so after the colonel had been given permission by the Americans to resume publishing. They had found his name on a list the SS had of people they were going to execute for being anti-Nazi and defeatist and he was thus the man they were looking for to run a German newspaper.

  "The problem was the presses were at the bottom of a huge pile of rubble that had been the Fulda Tages Zeitung building. Eric Kocian began his journalistic career making one whole Mergenthaler Linotype machine from parts salvaged from the dozen under the rubble.

  "A year later, when the Wiener Tages Zeitung got permission from the Americans to resume publishing, Eric was named editor in chief primarily because he had already been cleared by the de-Nazification courts and also because their Linotype machines had to be rescued from the rubble of the Wiener Tages Zeitung building. It was understood that Eric was to be publisher and editor in chief only and that older, wiser, bonafide professional journalists would really run things.

  "When the colonel went to Vienna for the ceremonies marking the first edition, he found that Eric had fired the older, wiser, etcetera people, hired his own, and was sitting at the editor in chief's desk himself."

  "That sounds like him," Tor said, chuckling.

  "Well, he kept the job and now he's the oldest employee of Gossinger, G.m.b.H. Further, I learned that when the colonel and his brother were killed it was Eric who went to the colonel's daughter and got her to give me the job of running the business. So I think I owe him."