By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

“Okay, Charley. I know how close you and the Old Fart are, so this probably isn’t necessary, but I left a lieutenant colonel named Fortinot minding the store; you better find him and bring him up to speed on this.”

“Yes, sir, I will.”

“Okay. I’ll be in touch. I have to get wheels-up now. Snoopy-Six out.”

The captain said, “Secure voice gone to standby.”

D’Alessandro asked, incredulously, “These rag-head bastards are going to try to crash this airplane into the Liberty Bell? What the fuck is that all about?”

“I don’t know, Vic,” Castillo admitted.

His cell phone tinkled and he pulled it from his pocket.

“Yeah?”

“My toy, against my better judgment, will be wheels-up in about ninety seconds,” Fernando Lopez announced.

“Thank you.”

“Maria’s really pissed,” Fernando said. “And I mean really pissed.”

“I’m sorry,” Castillo said.

The line went dead.

“I guess you missed the sign on your way in, Charley,” D’Alessandro said.

“What?”

“The sign that says, ‘THE USE, OR POSSESSION, OF PERSONAL CELLULAR TELEPHONES ANYWHERE IN THE COMPOUND IS ABSOLUTELY FORBIDDEN.’ ”

“I can’t do without it,” Charley said. “That was word that my airplane is on the way. I’ve got to make—and expect— other calls.”

“Sometimes, we just smash the phones,” D’Alessandro said. “Other times, we castrate the offender.”

“I have to have it, Vic,” Castillo said.

D’Alessandro locked eyes with him for a moment, then finally shrugged.

“There’s always an exception to every rule,” he said, finally. “General Bruce J. McNab himself once told me that personally.”

“It’s about twelve hundred miles from San Antonio here,” Castillo said. “That’s about two hours and fifteen minutes flight time. That means we have that much time to find the radios, find three communicators, get them into civilian clothes, have them check out the radios, check me out on them, and get from here to Pope.”

D’Alessandro looked at the captain.

“Can do?”

“I’m not only a green beanie, Vic, I’m a Delta Force guy in good standing. I can do fucking anything.” He turned to Castillo. “It’ll be cutting it close, sir, but it can be done.”

[FOUR]

Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina 0025 10 June 2005

Sergeant Dwayne G. Lefler, USAF, who had sincerely believed the civilian who’d gotten off the Citation with no ID had been sent by Air Force counterintelligence to catch him with his security pants down, was still on duty at Pope Base Operations when Castillo led the three Delta Force communicators and Captain Brewster into the building.

Sergeant Lefler eyed with some suspicion Major C. G. Castillo, now attired in the Class A uniform prescribed for field-grade officers.

“Sorry about the confusion before, Sergeant,” Castillo said, going to him and offering his Army ID card. “It couldn’t be helped.”