"Who would it take to get you released from that?"
"Sir, what I could do is contact certain people and ask for permission to tell you what I know about the genocide. I'm sure they would take into consideration who you are, General McNab."
"We're not talking about the CIA, are we, Colonel?"
"No, sir. We are not. Or any of the alphabet agencies, so called."
"I will be damned," McNab said.
Castillo was surprised McNab had not lost his temper.
"Sir, the way it works: I call a certain number in New York City and tell them I need to talk. They call back, often immediately, always within an hour or so, and direct me to a secure telephone. Would you like me to commence that process, sir?"
McNab gave the subject twenty seconds of thought.
"You are a serving officer, correct?"
"Yes, sir, I am. Actually, I'm Class of '83 at the Academy, General."
"Well, then as soon as we can find the time, you and me and Barefoot Boy there can get together and sing 'Army Blue.' But right now what you're going to do, Colonel, is listen to what I have to say to these people.
"Understand, this is simply to bring you up to speed on what's going on here. You are specifically forbidden to relay any of this to these mysterious people you seem to be associated with. I want you to have what you hear in your mind when you get them on the horn. Clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then please sit down, have a doughnut and a cup of coffee, and pay close attention."
"Yes, sir."
"Surprising me not at all, ladies and gentlemen," McNab then announced, "as the increased flood of blood to my brain derived from my morning jog caused that organ to shift out of low gear, I realized that there were certain solutions to our problems that had not occurred to me last night.
"The problem of getting Colonel Castillo and the Barlows to the sandy beaches of Cozumel past the vigilant eyes of the FBI and the Border Patrol no longer exists, as there is no good reason, thanks to the blessed Aloysius Francis Casey's generosity, for them to go there. Colonel Castillo, if I'm wrong thinking that you can control this operation from anywhere--say, your farm in Midland--please be good enough to explain why I err."
"I could control it from there, sir. I'd prefer, though--"
"I didn't ask what you would prefer," McNab cut him off. "Now, since Major Porter has confirmed that your Gulfstream is in fact being surveilled by what we strongly suspect are minions of the FBI, the question then becomes: 'How do we get Barefoot and his Friends to the farm in Texas without the FBI knowing?' as they would if we used the Gulfstream or commercial aircraft.
"And again, as I jogged happily down the beach while others unnamed enjoyed a leisurely morning repast, the answer came to me. Then, the moment I came out of the shower, I communicated--using the AFC, of course--with Colonel Jacob Torine."
McNab looked at Colonel Hamilton. "We consider Colonel Torine, although he is USAF, as one of us."
Hamilton nodded.
McNab went on: "Colonel Torine, as he frequently does, agreed with both my analysis of a problem and the solution thereof. As we speak, Colonel Torine is either at, or will soon be at, Baltimore/Washington International Airport, where he will sign the dry lease for a month of a Learjet aircraft from Signature Flight Support, Inc., to the Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund, of which he is a director.
"As soon as that is done, the Lear will be flown here to the Pensacola Regional Airport by Captain Richard M. Sparkman, USAF--and parked. While, technically, two pilots are required to fly the Lear, it can be flown by one good pilot.
"Captain Sparkman, if I had to say this, will be in civilian clothing and flying as a civilian pilot. He will go to the passenger lounge, where he will be met by Major Dick Miller, who will also be in civilian clothing, and Mr. and Mrs. Jack Britton. Sparkman will file a flight plan to the Northeast Airport in the City of Brotherly Love for the Gulfstream. The Gulfstream requires two pilots, hence Miller.
"It is possible that this may elude the attention of the FBI. But in the event it does not, their investigation will cleverly learn that shortly after a pilot appeared with an authorization from the Lorimer Charitable and Benevolent Fund to take possession of their G-III aircraft, three black people, one of them a pilot, having earlier arrived by taxicab from the Hilton Garden Inn--which is right down the beach from here--then got in the G-III and took off on a flight plan to Philadelphia.
"Having cleverly deduced that the object of their 'locate but do not detain' order was not among the trio who boarded the G-III--Colonel Castillo would've had to acquire one helluva dark tan during his short visit to the beach--they then will theorize that he either sneaked aboard the airplane while they weren't looking, or that he left the area by other means, such as an automobile.
"They will probably cover all their bases by having co-workers waiting at the airport in Philly. What those people will see will be Mr. and Mrs. Britton getting off the airplane and being met by Philadelphia police officers. Mr. and Mrs. Britton then will be taken to the Four Seasons Hotel--their home is hors de combat, Colonel Harrison; and so their accommodations will be benevolently covered as long as necessary by the Lorimer Fund--but the FBI won't notice this, as Mr. Britton will have told his former law-enforcement buddies 'lose the Feds,' or words to the effect, a suggestion with which, there being little love lost between the Philadelphia police and the FBI, they will happily comply.
"The Gulfstream will then fly to BWI, where it will be turned over to Signature Flight Support, Inc., for necessary maintenance.
"The more astute among you will have noticed that this series of events leaves Mr. Britton in Philadelphia, where he will see what he can learn from the African-American Lunatics about the chemical laboratory in the Congo. And it leaves Captain Sparkman and Major Miller in Washington, where Miller can take over for Colonel Torine, who will be traveling."