W Griffin - Hunters

No one spoke for a moment, then Miller said, "Charley, those avionics are going to cost a fortune."

"We'll have a fortune in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank. So far as I'm concerned, that's what it's for."

Miller gave him a thumbs-up.

"I'll be in touch," Castillo said and walked toward his office door.

He turned.

"Dick, can you come with me? Sure as Christ made little green apples, I've forgotten something." [THREE] Room 404 The Mayflower Hotel 1127 Connecticut Avenue NW Washington, D.C. 1630 4 August 2005 Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., was sprawled on the chaise longue in the master bedroom, his stiff leg on the chair, his good leg resting, knee bent, on the floor. A bottle of Heineken beer was resting in his hand on his chest.

Major C. G. Castillo was standing by the bed, putting clothing into a hard-sided suitcase.

"If I was just coming back here," he said, "I could get by with a carry-on. But if I take just a carry-on, I'll find myself in the middle of winter in Argentina."

"And if you take the suitcase, it will be misdirected to Nome, Alaska," Miller said, lifting his bottle to take a sip of beer. "It is known as the Rule of the Fickle Finger of Fate."

Castillo closed the suitcase and set it on the floor.

"So tell me about that," Castillo said, pointing to Miller's leg. "What do they say at Walter Reed?"

"I am led to believe that my chances of passing an Army flight physical range from zero to zilch. I have been 'counseled' that what I should do is take retirement for disability. One bum knee is apparently worth seventy percent of my basic pay for the rest of my life."

"Oh, shit," Castillo said.

"What really pisses me off is that I have reason to believe that all I have to do to reactivate my civilian ticket-"

"Reactivate?"

"Yeah. It went on hold when I didn't show up for my annual physical. I didn't think I could pass it wearing twenty pounds of plaster of paris on my leg. So my ticket became inactive. They didn't pull it, which is important, but declared it inactive, pending the results of a flight physical. I've looked into that. What that means is I find some friendly chancre mechanic. He sees the scars and I tell him they are from a successful knee operation and show him how I can bend my knee. He will make a note of that for the examiner giving me my flight test. In other words, 'Did his knee operation result in a physical limitation that makes him unsafe in a cockpit?' The examiner will see that I can push the pedals satisfactorily. My tickets as an instrument-qualified pilot in command of piston and jet multiengine fixed-and rotary-wing aircraft is reactivated. Which means I can then fly just about anything for anybody but the Army."

"Can you 'push the pedals satisfactorily'?" Castillo asked.

"I think so. I would hate to believe that all the fucking exercise I've been doing flexing the son of a bitch has been in vain. So what I've been thinking of doing is going to Tampa and see if I can't find reasonably honest work as a contractor."

"Flying worn-out Russian helicopters on some bullshit mission in the middle of now here?"

"The pay is good."

"What's wrong with staying right where you are?"

"Working for you?"

"Is something wrong with that?"

"It would look like-would be-cronyism."

"Think of it as affirmative action," Castillo said. "The Office of Organizational Analysis is offering employment to somebody who meets all the criteria. You're ignorant, physically crippled, mentally challenged, and otherwise unemployable."

"And black. Don't forget that."

"And black. I'll talk to McGuire. Maybe he can get you hired by the Secret Service."

"I don't think I could pass their physical."

"We'll work something out. I really hate to tell you this, but I need you, Dick."

"If I thought you really meant that, Charley…"

"Have I ever lied to you?"

"You really don't want me to answer that, do you?"

"In this case, I'm going to need somebody-you-to protect my back from this goddamned liaison officer Montvale is shoving down my throat. And that's the truth."

"You just can't say, 'Thank you just the same but I don't need a liaison officer'?"

"To Ambassador Charles Montvale, the director of National Intelligence? He's not used to being told no, especially when all he's trying to do is be helpful."

"What's he really after?"

"He doesn't like the whole idea of a presidential agent. If he can't take me over-and I'm sure he's working on that-he wants to put me out of business."

"So what? What are they going to do, send you back to the Army? What's wrong with that? Goddamn, I wish that was one of my options."

Castillo didn't respond to that. Instead, he asked, "When is all this going to happen?"

"I'll have thirty days from the time I'm restored to limited duty, which should be in the next week to ten days. I then have to tell them I'll accept permanent limited-duty status-which means I would wind up in a recruiting office or a mess-kit-repair battalion-or take the medical retirement."

"Then we have time," Castillo said. "Just forget that contractor bullshit, okay?"

Miller nodded.

"Thanks, Charley," he said.

"Jesus, that beer looks tempting," Castillo said.

"Give in," Miller said.

"I will. Stay there. I'll go get one. You want another?"

Without waiting for an answer, he went into the living room and to the wet bar. As he was taking two bottles of beer from the refrigerator, he heard the telephone ring and when he went back into the bedroom Miller was holding out a handset to him.

"Your guardian angel, saving you from temptation," Miller said.

Castillo took the phone. "Castillo," he said.

"Matt Hall, Charley."

"Yes, sir?"

"Two changes in the plan," Hall said.

What plan?

"Yes, sir?"

"I'll pick you up there at half past seven, not eight."

"Excuse me?"

"I said I'll pick you up at half past seven, not eight."

"Where are we going, sir?"

"To the White House. I told you."

Oh no you didn't. You told me that you were going to the White House. I was going to be on the Metroliner on the way to Philadelphia at seven-thirty.

"That message must have come through garbled, sir."

"Obviously," Hall said. There was a suggestion of annoyance in his tone. "And the second change is that the President wants you to wear your uniform."

"Excuse me?"

"The President said about ten minutes ago, quote, Tell Charley to please wear his uniform, end quote."

"What's that all about?" Castillo blurted.

"The commander in chief did not choose to share with me any explanation of his desire," Hall said. "The Seventeenth Street entrance, seven-thirty. Brass and shoes shined appropriately. Got to go, Charley."

The line went dead.

Castillo said, "Sonofabitch!"

"Good news, huh?"

Castillo didn't reply. He went to the walk-in closet.

Miller heard him say, "Thank you, West Point."

Castillo came out of the closet, carrying a zippered nylon bag.

"'Thank you, West Point'?" Miller parroted.

"Yeah," Castillo said. "The first thing I learned on the holy plain was that when you fuck up the only satisfactory excuse is, 'No excuse, sir.' The second thing I learned was to get your uniform pressed the minute you take it off because some sonofabitch will order you to appear in it when you least expect it and it had better be pressed."

"And in this case, the sonofabitch is the Honorable Matthew Hall? Why does he want you to put on your uniform?"

"Worse," Castillo said, as he unzipped the bag. "The President does."

"What's that about?"

"I have no fucking idea," Castillo said. "But like the good soldier I used to be, I will show up at the appointed place at the appointed hour in the prescribed uniform."