W. Griffin - The shooters

"I think that would be a good idea, Colonel," the general said.

Torine handed his identity card to the general. Doherty took out his credentials and held them open.

The general examined both carefully.

"Welcome to Fort Rucker," he said. "I'm Brigadier General Crenshaw, the deputy post commander."

"I'm sorry about causing the fuss, sir," Torine said. "But we had planned to land at Hurlburt-"

"They took a pretty bad hit from Katrina," General Crenshaw said.

"-and we were getting pretty low on fuel."

"Where'd you come from?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but that's classified," Torine said.

"The reason I asked had to do with customs and immigration, Colonel."

"We'll do that when we get to Washington, sir. Presuming we can get fuel from you."

"That's a civilian airplane," General Crenshaw said.

"Sir, if you will contact General McNab at Special Operations Command, I'm sure he'll authorize you to fuel us."

"You work for Scotty McNab, do you?"

"With him, sir."

"Okay, Colonel. You have an honest face, and the FBI seems to be vouching for you. We'll fuel you. Anything else we can do for you?"

"Two things, sir. Forget we were ever here, and…uh…the dogs aren't the only ones who need a pit stop."

"They did have the urge, didn't they?" General Crenshaw said. "Not a problem. We can even feed you."

"Very kind of you, sir. We'll pass on the food, but some coffee would be really appreciated."

"Is there a problem with me having a look at your airplane?"

"None at all, sir," Torine said, and waved the general toward the door stairs.

Castillo stepped away from the door as Crenshaw mounted the steps.

"Hello," Crenshaw said to him as he stepped inside. "Who are you?"

"I'm the copilot, sir."

"Air Force?"

"Secret Service."

Crenshaw studied him a moment, then nodded. Then he raised his voice to those in the cabin:

"Although I understand you're not here, gentlemen, welcome to Cairns Army Airfield and the Army Aviation Center. If you'd care to use our facilities while you're here, we'll throw in coffee and doughnuts."

Then he turned to Castillo again.

"Where'd you learn how to fly? If you don't mind my asking?"

"In Texas, sir."

Crenshaw looked at him again, then nodded, and went down the stairs.

Did he remember my face from somewhere?

He didn't ask my name.

My replies to his questions weren't the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but I really did learn to fly in Texas, rather than here, which is what I think he was asking. And I have bona fide credentials of a Secret Service supervisory agent in my pocket.

So why am I uncomfortable?

Because while I'm wildly out of step with others in the Long Gray Line, I'm still in it. And a cadet does not lie, or cheat, or tolerate those who do.

How the hell did a nice young West Pointer like me wind up doing what I'm doing?

Thirty-five minutes later, Cairns departure control cleared Gulfstream Three Seven Nine for immediate takeoff.

[ONE]

Signature Flight Support, Inc.

Baltimore-Washington International Airport Baltimore, Maryland 2205 1 September 2005 A black Chevrolet sedan with a United States Customs and Border Protection Service decal on the door and four identical dark blue GMC Yukon XL Denalis were waiting for the Gulfstream III when it taxied up to the Signature tarmac.

Two uniformed customs officers got out of the Chevrolet sedan and walked across the tarmac toward the aircraft. Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., in civilian clothing, slid gingerly out of the front seat of the first Yukon in the line, turned and retrieved a crutch, stuck it under his arm, and moved with surprising agility after them.

As soon as the stair door opened into place, one of the customs officers, a gray-haired man in his fifties, bounded quickly up it, then stopped, exclaimed, "Jesus Christ!" and then backed up so quickly that he knocked the second customs officer, by then right behind him, off the stairs and then fell backward onto him.

Max appeared in the door, growling deeply and showing an impressive array of teeth. Madchen moved beside him and added her voice and teeth to the display.

Castillo appeared in the door.

"Gentlemen," he said, solemnly, "you have just personally witnessed the Office of Organizational Analysis Aircraft Anti-Intrusion Team in action."

The gray-haired customs officer gained his feet, glared for a moment at the stair door, and then, shaking his head, smiled.

"Very impressive, Colonel," he said, finally.

"They're okay, Max," Castillo said, in Hungarian. "You may now go piss."

Max looked at him, stopped growling, went down the stairs, and headed for the nose gear. Madchen went modestly to the other side of the fuselage.

"You all right?" Castillo said.

"What the hell kind of dogs are they?" the gray-haired customs officer asked.

"Bouvier des Flandres," Castillo said.

The customs officer shook his head. "What do they weigh?" he asked.

"Max has been known to hit one-thirty-five, Madchen maybe one-ten."

"You understand, Colonel, sir," Miller said, "that you may now expect these gentlemen to really search your person and luggage?"

"What I'm hoping you'll say, Colonel," the customs officer said, "is that you're going to show me evidence that you passed through customs someplace else."

"No," Castillo said. "We were going to do that at Hurlburt Field, but the hurricane got Hurlburt. We refueled at Fort Rucker, but we have to do the customs and immigration here."

"Everybody aboard American?"

"No," Castillo replied, and waved them onto the Gulfstream. "No more surprises, I promise."

"Welcome to the United States," the large customs officer said when he had stepped into the cabin. "Or welcome home, whichever the case may be. There would be a band, but I have been led to believe that everybody would prefer to enter the United States as quietly as possible. What we're going to do is collect the American passports and run them through the computers in the main terminal. Then-presuming the computer doesn't tell us there are outstanding warrants on anybody-they will be returned to you and you can be on your way."

He looked around the cabin and continued: "I just learned that some of you are not American citizens, which means that we'll have to check your visas. I think we can run them through the computers without any trouble, but I think we'd better have a look at them before we try to do that. Understood?"

When there were nods, he pulled a heavy plastic bag from his pocket and finished his speech: "And if any of you are carrying forbidden substances, not only mood-altering chemicals of one kind or another but raw fruits and vegetables, any meat product not in an unopened can-that sort of thing-now is the time to deposit them in this bag."

"As my patriotic duty," Castillo said, "I have to mention that the cigarettes that Irishman has been smoking don't smell like Marlboros."

He pointed. The customs officer looked.

"And I've seen his picture hanging in the post office, too," the customs officer said, and walked to the man with his hand extended. "How are you, Jack? And what the hell are you doing with this crew?"

"Hoping nobody sees me," Inspector Doherty said. "And what are you doing in a uniform?"

"The director of National Intelligence suggested it would be appropriate."

"Say hello to Edgar Delchamps," Doherty said. "I'll vouch for him. Use your judgment about the others. Ed, this is Chief Inspector Bob Mitchell."

The men shook hands.

"You're with the bureau?" Mitchell asked.

"Ed's the exception to the rule about people who get paid from Langley," Doherty said. "When he shakes your hand, Bob, you get all five fingers back."