By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

“You’re a second lieutenant,” Casey said. It was an accusation.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

Casey examined him intently for a moment, shrugged, and took the headset and examined it with visible disdain.

“Okay,” Casey said, “Smoke Bomb Hill first and then Mackall. Okay?”

“Whatever you’d like, sir.”

Casey put the headset on.

“Okay, let’s go. Maybe Fayetteville, too. The train station, the bus station, and the airport.”

At five minutes to one, after an aerial tour of Fort Bragg, Camp Mackall, and the Fayetteville rail and bus stations and the airport, Castillo set the Huey down on the helipad by the main officers’ club.

Casey was already out of the helicopter by the time Castillo could make it to the fuselage door.

“I guess we cheated death again, right?” Casey inquired.

“Yes, sir, I guess we did.”

“Where’s Colon . . . General McNab?”

“I’m sure he’s waiting for you inside, sir.”

Casey marched toward the main door of the Officers’ Open Mess, with Castillo trotting after him. Once inside the lobby, Casey turned and looked at Castillo with an “Okay, where now?” expression on his face.

“I believe the general will be in the main dining room, sir,” Castillo said, pointing.

Brigadier General Bruce J. McNab rose when he saw the wiry Irishman in the baggy suit headed toward his table, with Castillo on his heels.

“Mr. Casey?” he said, offering his hand. “My name is McNab.”

“I know who you are, General,” Casey said.

“May I offer you a cocktail, sir?”

“You drinking?”

“It’s duty hours, Mr. Casey. I generally . . .”

“I’ll have a Schlitz, please,” Casey said. “There was everything on the airplane but beer.”

McNab signaled to a waitress and ordered a bottle of Schlitz and then changed his mind.

“Make that three,” he said. “I think a beer is a very good idea.”

“I’ll wait for you outside, sir,”

Castillo said.

“You stay,” Casey ordered.

McNab looked at him but said nothing.

“Lieutenant Castillo—what is that, Italian?”

“Tex-Mex, sir.”