“Yes, sir. Sir, where is he?”
“I don’t think you have the need to know that.”
“Sir, knowing General McNab as I do, I’m guessing he’s as close to the Gray Fox operation at Abéché as he can get.”
“I’d love to know how you heard about Abéché,” General Gonzalez said. “Most of the people at Bragg who know about it are in the backseat.”
“Sir, the operation was to confirm intel I developed.”
“And?”
“If you’re asking, sir, was it confirmed? Yes, sir, it was. The missing airplane was there but has gone.”
“Okay. If you know that much, you’re in the loop. General McNab is in Menara, Morocco, with some more Gray Fox people standing by with a C-17 in case anything goes wrong with the extraction, which is scheduled for first light. As soon as he hears it’s wheels-up, he and the backup team will return here in their C-17. It’s about a five-hour flight.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The problem I have right now is, what to do with you.”
“Sir?”
“Until I talked to General Naylor twenty minutes ago, I expected some civilian VIP. The lights in the windows of the VIP guesthouse are burning for you, Major Castillo.”
“How about dropping me at a Smoke Bomb Hill BOQ, sir?”
“No. The last thing we need is another Chinese fire drill when you can’t produce an ID card. We’ll take you to the VIP guesthouse. Just don’t tell anyone you’re a major.”
“Yes, sir.”
The general drove through Fort Bragg for several minutes before saying anything else; then he said, “There are a lot of lousy jobs in the Army, but right at the head of the list has to be aide-de-camp to Scotty McNab. That’s probably even worse than being his deputy commander.”
“I tried to think of it as an educational experience, sir.” General Gonzalez laughed.
“Harry, did you hear that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Write it down.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Harry, I want you to stay with Major Castillo. Give him a drink and then send him to bed. He looks worn-out and I suspect tomorrow is going to be very ‘educational.’ ”
“Yes, sir.”
XIV
[ONE]
Fort Bragg, North Carolina 2250 9 June 2005
The VIP suite into which Castillo was installed had a bedroom, a sitting room with a small dining room table at one side, a small office, and a kitchenette. It was about two-thirds the size of his apartment in the Mayflower.
It also came with a young sergeant in a crisply pressed desert camouflage battle dress uniform.
“Can I have the sergeant fix you something to drink, sir?” General Gonzalez’s aide-de-camp asked.
He was a captain. His name tag said BREWSTER. He had a CIB and senior parachutist’s wings sewn above his pocket. And there was a Ranger tab sewn to his sleeve above the XVIII Airborne Corps shoulder insignia. But his beret was black—as General Gonzalez’s beret had been, Castillo remembered —so neither Captain Brewster nor General Gonzalez was Special Forces. Green Beanies wore green berets, of which they were justifiably proud.