W. Griffin: The shooters

"Answer them, Lester," Castillo ordered as he glanced at the Huey-once glossy white but now looking tired and battered-fifty meters away that belonged to the Policia Nacional.

"Go, Red Riding Hood," Corporal Bradley said into his microphone.

"We're due east of you, on the deck. Estimate five minutes," the voice said over the console speaker.

Bradley looked at Castillo for instructions.

"Acknowledged. No wind. Look for automotive headlights," Castillo said.

"Acknowledged. No wind. Look for automotive headlights," Bradley repeated into the microphone.

Chief Inspector Ordonez stood up.

"I suppose I had best get back to Montevideo," Ordonez said.

Castillo stood up, too.

"That's probably a good idea," Castillo said.

He put out his hand.

"Thank you, Jose."

"I realized just now why I really dislike you, Carlos," Ordonez said.

Castillo raised an eyebrow. "Why is that, Jose?"

"You are a corrupting influence, like Satan. When I heard that"-he gestured toward the sky, meaning he meant the radio exchange-"instead of being consumed by shame and remorse for having done what I know I should not have done, I realized I was smiling nearly as broadly as you were."

"Not to worry," Castillo said. "That'll pass."

Ordonez nodded and started walking toward the Policia Nacional helicopter. Halfway there, just as the pilot started the engine-and the lights of half a dozen cars and pickup trucks came on-he turned and walked back to Castillo.

"Tell your people to be very careful with my helicopters," he said.

"I'll do that," Castillo said.

Sixty seconds later, the Policia Nacional Huey broke ground. The sound of its rotor blades faded into the night.

Then the distinct sound of Huey rotors grew louder.

"I believe that is our bird coming in, sir," Corporal Bradley said.

"You're probably right, Lester," Castillo agreed.

Sixty seconds later, a Huey appeared out of the pitch dark, surprising everybody even though it had been expected.

The helicopter displayed no navigation lights; even the Grimes light on top of the fuselage had not been illuminated. The Huey quickly settled to the ground, and the moment it did, the headlights of the vehicles illuminating the field went dark.

And sixty seconds after that, Colonel Jacob Torine, USAF, and U.S. Army Major Robert Ward, 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment-both wearing dyed-black insignia-less flight suits like Castillo's-walked up to the table.

Ward came to attention and saluted.

"Good evening, sir," he said. "I hope that is a cattle-free field. I would really hate to get bullshit all over my rudder pedals."

"And I hope you have not been letting that bluesuit fly one of my choppers."

"Screw you, Colonel," Torine said. "I say that with affection and sincerity."

"How'd it go?" Castillo asked.

"Getting off the Gipper was a bit of a problem," Torine said. "The Navy has a rule that they want to know where aircraft leaving their ships are going, and we of course did not wish to share that information with them."

"What did you do?"

"I told them the admiral would tell him after we were gone."

"Does he know?"

"No."

"Everybody got off all right?"

"At thirty-minute intervals."

"Which means we have to get you fueled and out of here right now," Castillo said. "Mr. Leverette-you know each other, right, Bob?"

"Hey, Colin," Ward said. "How are you?"

"My father just went to jail, and my mother just broke both of her legs. How about you?"

"And this," Castillo went on, "excuse me, sir, is Ambassador Lorimer."

"I have been waiting for the opportunity to say this," the ambassador said. "Welcome to Shangri-La, gentlemen. There's coffee and sandwiches. Please help yourself."

"As I was saying," Castillo went on, "Mr. Leverette has been checked out on the fuel truck."

"Charley, did you steal a police fuel truck?" Ward asked.

"I borrowed it."

"You do have that reputation for borrowing things," Ward said.

"I'll try for the third time to finish this sentence," Castillo said. "Mr. Leverette has been checked out on the fuel truck and has volunteered-"

"My crew chief would rather do that himself, Colonel, thank you very much just the same."

"Drive it over to the chopper, will you, please, Colin?" Castillo said.

"Carefully, please, Colin," Ward said. "Keeping in mind my crew chief test-fired his Gatling gun on the way here, burning six hundred rounds a minute."

"I thought it was three thousand RPM," Castillo said.

"The six-barrel M134D," Corporal Lester Bradley automatically recited, "is capable of firing per-minute fixed rates of three thousand or four thousand rounds of 7.65mm NATO ammunition." He paused. "At three thousand RPM, that's an extreme shot density of fifty rounds each second, the dense grouping designed to quickly suppress multiple targets simultaneously."

"Well," Castillo said after a moment, "we've heard from the Marine Corps…"

"Lester, you're right," Ward said. "And our weapons are tweaked for six-hundred-RPM test firings. Conserves ammo."

"Charley," Torine said, "why were you talking in tongues on the radio?"

"I didn't know if your pal the admiral might be listening," Castillo said. "Turns out we have a problem in Asuncion. Yung found out the CIA station chief is on the bad guy's payroll. I couldn't take the chance the admiral-who I'm convinced is talking back-channel to at least one Pentagon admiral-would pass on anything that might wind up in Langley where another rotten apple would pass it on to Asuncion."

"Jesus Christ, Charley!" Torine said, shocked. "That's one hell of an accusation. You sure?"

"Unfortunately. A long story. Delchamps will bring you up to speed when you're at Nuestra Pequena Casa."

"'Our Little House'? What's that?" Major Ward asked.

"A safe house, outside Buenos Aires. Your next stop. We're going to hide the birds there during the day and finish the ferry operation as soon as it gets dark tonight. And we'll give you the basic plan during the day. We have some really interesting satellite stuff."

"Finish the ferry operation how? And where to?" Ward asked.

Castillo looked at his watch. He didn't want to get into this now, but on the other hand, Ward had a right to know, and if he told him "later," Ward would be annoyed.

"The next leg is to Pilar. It's a little bit out of the way, but we're working with an Argentine cop on this, specifically a gendarmerie comandante named Duffy, and that's where he is. He's arranged fuel to be at a couple of the Argentine Polo Association's polo fields, ones sort of closed down for the day.

"Either Duffy's people-or ours-will take the crews to the safe house, where we can make the first operation briefing and get them something to eat and some rest.

"As soon as it's dark, the choppers-each having taken aboard a couple of gendarmes; in case you have to land someplace you hadn't planned, they'll make you legitimate-will fly separate routes to fields in the boonies for refueling. You'll get the coordinates at the briefing. There are redundant fields in case anything goes wrong.

"You'll wind up at a field in Argentina several miles from the Paraguay River and about ten miles from the target. This place has got a couple of big barns where we can conceal the Hueys and the shooters. The shooters are already moving there in private cars and trucks-mostly trucks-and again with a gendarme or two aboard in case they get stopped.

"As soon as everybody's assembled, and the choppers checked and fueled, we'll make the assault."

"No dry run?"

"No. That would attract too much attention, and you know as well as I do, Bob, that things happen-like dumping birds-during dry runs. You guys have done this sort of thing before; I'm not worried about that."