W. Griffin - By Order of the President

"In other words, sir, what you're hoping is that a Gray Fox operation to keep the airplane on the ground could be put into play as soon as possible?"

"Yes. You want to tell me how you would proceed?"

"Actually, sir, it probably will be less difficult than it seems. We're not going to have to land on a hostile airfield, for one thing, and I can't imagine that they are going to have any meaningful forces defending the airplane. So what has to be done is to put a half-dozen Little Birds-two gunships, four troop carriers-in a C-17 with thirty men, wait until I know where I could sit down the C-17-I've asked DIA about possible landing areas; I haven't heard back yet-and then go do it. 'It' is defined as anything from grabbing the airplane to blowing it up."

"You think you could take over the airplane, Scotty?"

"I think that's possible, sir. And that would be the best thing to do."

"This operation has to be done quietly, Scotty, you understand?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Staging out of where?" General McFadden said. "Hurlburt?"

"Yes, sir. Was that General McFadden?"

"Yes, it is."

"Sir, I'd appreciate any help you could provide about someplace to sit down the C-17."

"I'm working on it, Scotty. The CIA has someone-as we speak-confirming that a field about fifty miles from Zandery is usable. Between the CIA and the DIA, we should have confirmation shortly."

"Thank you, sir," General McNab said.

"Scotty, how long would it take you to get an adequate team of your people and the Little Birds to Hurlburt?"

"Not long at all, sir."

"How much is 'Not long at all' in hours and minutes, Scotty?" Naylor asked. There was a tone of impatience in his voice.

"As a matter of fact, sir, as we speak I'm in the shade of a C-17's wing, watching the Gulf of Mexico lap on the sandy beaches of Hurlburt."

"Do I understand you to say, General," Naylor asked, icily, "that you are at Hurlburt Field?"

"Yes, sir. With six Little Birds and thirty stalwart special operators, waiting for your order to go."

"Who authorized you to go to Hurlburt, General?" Naylor asked, coldly furious.

"Mr. Castillo suggested that if I organized the team and brought it to Hurlburt, it would save a good deal of time, sir. I could not fault his reasoning, sir, and acted accordingly."

"You are referring to Major Castillo, General?"

"In a way, sir. But I have been calling him 'Mister.' That seemed appropriate, inasmuch as he was at Fort Bragg as the personal representative of the president, sir. And in civilian clothing."

"You're a goddamned lieutenant general, Scotty!" Naylor exploded. "And you don't take goddamned 'suggestions' from a goddamned major! And you goddamn well know it!"

"With all respect, sir, he's not functioning as a major. The national security advisor made it quite clear on the telephone that he was coming to Bragg as the personal representative of the commander in chief, sir, and, as I said, sir, I have acted accordingly."

Naylor threw his hands up in outrage and disgust and looked around the room. The officers and civilians at the conference table were looking anywhere but at him. Sergeant Major Suggins was standing just inside the Phone Booth making signs with his hands, moving them between a gesture of prayer and a gesture meaning cool off.

Naylor tried to collect himself, thinking, When you are angry, you make bad decisions in direct proportion to the level of your anger.

You cannot afford to make a decision now you will regret later.

That sonofabitch! I'll nail his and Charleys balls to the wall when this is over!

"General McNab," General Naylor ordered. "Maintain your readiness to place this operation in action on my order. And only on my order."

"Yes, sir."

"And when this is over, you, Major Castillo, and I have a good deal to talk over."

"Yes, sir."

Naylor looked around the table.

"Does anyone else have anything for General McNab?" Naylor asked.

"General McNab," General McFadden asked. "Is Colonel Torine readily available?"

"No, sir, he's not."

"He went back to Charleston?"

"No, sir."

"Do you know where he is?"

Yes, sir.

"And are you going to tell me?"

"Yes, sir. He should be in Cozumel about now."

"Cozumel? The island off the Yucatan Peninsula?"

"Yes, sir."

"You don't happen to know what he's doing on a Caribbean island, do you?"

"He went there with Mr. Castillo, sir. Mr. Castillo said he needed an expert in 727 series aircraft and Colonel Torine volunteered to go with him."

"I'll be a sonofabitch!" General McFadden said. "Thank you, General McNab."

"Yes, sir."

"We'll be in touch, General McNab," General Naylor said. "Is there any part of my orders, which you are to stand ready to implement this operation at my orders and only at my orders, that you don't completely understand?"

"No, sir."

"Naylor out," General Naylor said.

"When you have your talk with General McNab and this Castillo fellow, General, I'd like to be there," General McFadden said. "What the hell did he take Torine to Cozumel for? Why the hell did Torine go?"

Naylor threw up his hands in a sign of frustration. "There is a strong element of lunacy in special operators, General, and it's highly contagious," Naylor offered, resignedly. He looked at Lieutenant General Potter, who was his J-5 (Special Operations) officer.

"I was about to say, 'No offense,' " Naylor said. "But, goddammit, George, why should I apologize for stating the obvious?"

"No offense was taken, General," General Potter said.

[THREE]

Cozumel International Airport

Cozumel, Mexico

0940 10 June 2005

The preparations to get through Mexican customs without having to explain Sherman's radio and their small arms turned out to be unnecessary. As the Lear trailed a follow me jeep down a taxiway at the small but grandly named Cozumel International Airport, Castillo saw an off-brown Mexican customs Ford F-150 pickup truck and three white Yukon XLs-with heavily tinted windows-parked where they were apparently being directed. A tall, dark-haired man wearing powder blue slacks and a yellow short-sleeved shirt-dressed for the golf course-was sitting on the hood of one of the Yukons.

Aleksandr Pevsner had come to the field himself to meet them. Castillo didn't see Howard Kennedy or any of Pevsner's bodyguards anywhere.

But they're almost certainly in the Yukons.

"That's Pevsner," Charley said. "But the odds are, he's not calling himself that now. Play along with me."

Two Mexican customs officers, armed with chrome-plated. 45 ACP semiautomatic pistols, approached the Lear as the engines wound down and Charley opened the door.

"Welcome to Cozumel," one of them said in Spanish. "May we come aboard?"

"Of course," Charley said in Spanish.

Customs and Immigration lasted no longer than it took for the customs officers to rubber-stamp Fernando's certificate of permission for unlimited, frequent, unscheduled entry into Mexican airspace. They didn't even look very closely at anyone in the cabin.

Castillo waited until they had driven off in the pickup before getting out of the airplane.

Pevsner, smiling, waved at him.

"Welcome to Cozumel," he called in Spanish.

"Thank you, senor," Charley replied in Spanish as he walked to the Yukon and Pevsner slid nimbly off the hood. They shook hands.

"I'm afraid I've forgotten your name, senor," Charley said.

"Why not call me Dondiemo, Alex Dondiemo?" Pevsner said. "What's in a name?"

"Roberto's cousin, perhaps?"

Pevsner smiled at him. "Something like that," he said, and asked, "And who are you, today?"

"An American golfer named Charley Castillo, Senor Dondiemo."

"Funny, I would have thought a snorkler," Pevsner said, switching to English. "Snorklers are usually busy looking for something. Anyway, Charley, it's good to see you again. And who did you bring with you?"