W. Griffin - The Hostage

The soldiers-he corrected himself again-the machine gun-armed Air Commandos were out again protecting the airplane as if they expected Iraqi terrorists to attempt to seize it at any moment.

Now more soldiers appeared. These were really soldiers, wearing their dress uniforms. Some of them lined up at the rear ramp of the airplane, and half a dozen of them went to the rear of one of the sport utility trucks, opened the door, and started to remove a flag-draped casket.

When they had it out, they hoisted it onto their shoulders and started, at a stiff and incredibly slow pace, to carry it up the ramp and into the airplane.

The Air Commandos gave the hand salute.

Some other people got out of the trucks. Jean-Paul had no idea who they were. They went into the airplane. A minute or so later, four people, two men and two women, came back out. They were followed by eight or ten other people, some of them-including two Marines-in uniform. They all headed for the Yukons and got into them. The remaining soldiers and the Air Commandos went quickly up the ramp and into the airplane.

The four people who had come out of it watched as the ramp of the airplane began to close, and then got in two of the trucks.

The huge transport began to move.

Jean-Paul Bertrand watched his television until it showed the airplane racing down the runway and lifting off.

And then he went to the toilet. [THREE] Aeropuerto Internacional Ministro Pistarini de Ezeiza Buenos Aires, Argentina 1110 25 July 2005 Colonel Jacob D. Torine, USAF, who was wearing a flight suit, had been standing on the tarmac beside the open ramp of the Globemaster III when the first convoy had arrived.

He had saluted when Mrs. Masterson and her children, surrounded by the protection detail, approached the ramp.

"My name is Torine, Mrs. Masterson. I'm your pilot. If you'll follow me, please?"

She smiled at him but said nothing.

He led them down the cavernous cargo area of the aircraft, past the strapped-down, flag-covered casket of Sergeant Roger Markham, USMC. A Marine sergeant standing at the head of the casket softly called "Atenhut," and he and a second Marine, who was standing at the foot of the casket, saluted.

Torine led the Mastersons up a shallow flight of stairs to an area immediately behind the flight deck. Here there was seating for the backup flight crew: two rows of airline seats, eight in all, which often doubled, with the armrests removed, as beds.

Torine installed the Mastersons in the front row, where the kids would be able to see the cockpit, pointed out the toilet, and offered them coffee or a Coke. There were no takers.

"I'll be with you in a moment," Torine said. "Just as soon as everybody's aboard."

Mrs. Masterson nodded, made a thin smile, but again said nothing.

Torine went back to the ramp, where the loadmaster, a gray-haired Air Force chief master sergeant, was waiting for him.

"How we doing?" Torine asked.

"There was an unexpected bonus," the chief master sergeant said. "The caterers' lunch and dinner came with wine."

"Which you, of course, declined with thanks, knowing that consumption of intoxicants aboard USAF aircraft is strictly forbidden."

The chief master sergeant chuckled. "Nice food," he said. "Chicken and pasta for lunch, filet mignon and broiled salmon for dinner. And very cheap."

"And the headset?"

The chief master sergeant held up a wireless headset.

"Thank you," Torine said.

The chief master sergeant gestured toward the terminal. A second convoy of Yukons and security vehicles was approaching the Globemaster.

C. G. Castillo got out of an embassy BMW and walked to the ramp. A Marine corporal went to the trunk of the BMW and took luggage from it, then followed Castillo to the ramp.

"Put that inside, Corporal, and then find yourself a seat," Castillo ordered, and then turned to Torine. "Good morning, sir."

"How is she, Charley?"

"Her jaw is wired shut," Castillo said. "But she was awake and reasonably comfortable when I left her."

Torine shook his head sympathetically, and then said, "I spoke with Colonel Newley a few minutes ago. He assured me that the Gulfstream has been placed in the ambulance configuration and is ready to go wheels-up on thirty minutes' notice."

"Thank you."

"Chief Master Sergeant Dotterman, this is Major Castillo."

Sergeant Dotterman saluted. "The colonel's told me a good deal about you, sir."

He held out the wireless headset.

"Intercom is up," he said, indicating a switch. "Down is whatever radio the pilot is using."

Castillo examined the headset and then put it on.

"Voice-activated," Sergeant Dotterman said.

Castillo blew into the small microphone and then nodded, signifying both that he understood and that the device was working.

The flag-draped casket of J. Winslow Masterson, on the shoulders of the honor guard of the Old Guard, was now very slowly approaching the ramp.

"I better go up front, Charley," Torine said. "Dotterman will let me know when everybody's onboard."

"Yes, sir," Castillo and Dotterman said, almost in chorus.

The honor guard pallbearers slow-marched up the ramp and into the airplane with the casket.

Dotterman followed them inside to supervise its placement and tie-down. Castillo turned to watch and saw that Dotterman was placing it aft of Sergeant Markham's casket, and decided that meant they were going to unload Masterson first.

"How's Special Agent Schneider?" Ambassador Silvio asked, startling Castillo.

When he turned to look at him, he saw that Mrs. Silvio, Alex Darby, and another woman, probably Mrs. Darby, were also standing at the bottom of the ramp.

"She was awake when I left the hospital. Her jaw is wired shut."

The ambassador introduced Mrs. Darby, then said, "My wife and Mrs. Darby, if you think it's a good idea, will go to the hospital from here to let her know she's not alone."

"I think that's a wonderful idea. Thank you," Castillo said, and then had a sudden thought. "Where's Santini?"

Darby pointed.

Tony Santini, an M-16 rifle cradled in his arms like a hunter, was standing on the cab of an enormous yellow fire engine.

When he saw Castillo looking, Santini waved.

"Alex," Castillo said, returning the wave, "tell him thanks and that I'll be in touch, please."

"We'll tell the Mastersons goodbye and then let you get out of here," Ambassador Silvio said.

Castillo nodded.

As soon as they had moved into the fuselage, the Old Guard lieutenant walked-more accurately, marched- down the ramp to Castillo, came to attention, and saluted.

"Good morning, Lieutenant," Castillo said. "That was well done. At the cathedral and here."

"Thank you, sir," the lieutenant replied and then handed Castillo a handful of ribbon and a gold medal.

"Mr. Masterson's Grand Cross of the Great Liberator, sir. I took the liberty of removing it from the colors."

"Good thinking, Lieutenant. Thank you. No presentation box, I gather?"

"None that I saw, sir."

Castillo looked around to make sure no one was watching, then put the medal in his trousers pocket.

"I'll see that Mrs. Masterson gets this. Thank you."

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said, saluted again, did a crisp about-face movement, and marched back up the ramp.

Castillo watched as he went. The difference between me and that natty young officer-when I was out of Hudson High as long as he's been out-was that I had already fallen under the mentorship-General Naylor called it "the corrupting influence"-of General Bruce J. McNab, and had already acquired at least some of his contempt for the spit-and-polish Army and a devout belief in the Scotty McNab Definition of an Officer's Duty: Get the job done and take care of your men, and if the rules get in the way, screw the rules.