By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

“You think I should ask General Naylor,” Castillo said.

“Charley, I know you love him and I do, too, but Allan Naylor is not a special operator. He likes to—I guess has to—do things by the book.”

“What are you thinking? Mount them up and send them to Hurlburt?”

Hurlburt Field, in the Florida panhandle near the Gulf Coast beach resort of Destin, is the home of the USAF Special Operations Command.

McNab nodded.

“You can get to anywhere in South or Central America from Hurlburt a lot faster than you can from here. Or Fort Campbell.”

“Without asking General Naylor?”

“Without asking anybody,” McNab said. “If the special assistant to the secretary of homeland security—sent here, according to National Security Advisor Dr. Cohen, at the personal order of the president—were to suggest to me that prepositioning a Gray Fox team at Hurlburt—from which it could easily be stood down—was a good idea, I think I’d have to go along.”

Castillo didn’t say anything for a long moment.

“That’s a hell of a decision for a major to make,” he said, finally. “When he finds out—and he will—Naylor is going to be furious.”

“Yeah, he will,” McNab agreed. “With both of us.” He paused and then went on: “What separates really good officers from all the others, Charley, is their willingness to order done what they know should be done and fuck the consequences. Your call, Charley.”

After a moment’s pause, Castillo said, “Do it.”

McNab nodded.

“Anything else you need here?”

“I’d like a C-22 pilot to come with me. I need an expert.”

McNab nodded again, went to the door, opened it, and called, “Colonel Torine, will you come in here, please?”

Torine came into the office and closed the door.

“I think it would be a good idea if you went to sunny Cozumel with Charley. He needs a C-22 expert.”

“From the look on his face, I don’t think he thinks that’s such a good idea,” Torine said.

“Sir, with all respect, you’re a colonel . . .”

“Who’s an old Air Commando, which will be handy when you’re dealing with the friendly folks at Hurlburt,” McNab said.

“. . . and I’m a major,” Castillo finished.

“An old special operator,” McNab said, evenly, “knows the guy in charge is the guy in charge.”

“I don’t see rank as a problem,” Colonel Torine agreed. “You’re the guy in charge.”

“You’ve got civvies in your bag, right?” McNab asked. Torine nodded. “You better send somebody for it. The sooner you get on your way to Cozumel, the better.”

“I already sent for it; from what you told me about the worst aide-de-camp in the Army, I didn’t think I’d be going back to Charleston anytime soon.”

“Okay, that’s it,” McNab said. “You two remember to duck.” He walked to the office door. “Will you come in now, please, gentlemen?”

As they walked up to the Lear, Fernando asked, “Would you like to ride in the right seat, Colonel?”

“I was hoping you’d ask,” Colonel Torine said.

Four minutes later: