The Outlaws (Presidential Agent 6)

“I don’t know about you, but I think of myself as a prematurely retired young fart,” Castillo said.

“And there is a welcoming delegation,” Torine said.

“Why don’t you go deal with them while I finish shutting this thing down?”

The Navy delegation consisted of the officer of the deck, a chief petty officer, and two petty officers, one of them the master-at-arms and the other a medic.

They quite naturally had decided that

the senior person aboard the helicopter with Mexican police markings would be riding with his staff in the passenger compartment, and lined up accordingly.

The first person—more accurately, the first living thing—to exit the helicopter was an enormous black dog, closely followed by a redheaded woman in battle dress who was screaming angrily at the dog in what sounded like Russian. Close on her heels came a man holding a camera who began to snap pictures of the Navy delegation, the helicopters on the deck, and the dog, who was now wetting down the front right wheel of the helicopter.

The co-pilot’s door opened and, for a moment, decorum returned as Colonel Jake Torine, USAF (Retired), came out, popped to rigid attention, faced aft, and crisply saluted the national ensign.

Then he did a crisp left-face movement, raised his hand to his temple, and holding the salute, politely announced, “I request permission to come aboard, sir, in compliance with orders.”

“Very well,” the officer of the deck said, returning the salute. Then he said, “Sir, the captain’s compliments. The captain requests the senior officer and such members of his staff as he may wish attend him ...”

At that point, protocol broke down.

The Army pilots who had been standing next to the island came trotting across the deck, including the one that the officer of the deck knew to be a full colonel.

“I’ll be a sonofabitch if Charley didn’t steal another one,” one of the Night Stalkers shouted.

“This time from the Mexican cops,” another of them clarified.

“Zip your lips,” Colonel Kingsolving snapped. He then turned to the officer of the deck. “Mister, I need a word with Colonel Castillo before he attends the captain on the bridge.”

“Colonel, when the captain requests—”

“This time he’s just going to have to wait,” Kingsolving said, and then turned to Castillo, who, having exited the helicopter, was now exchanging hugs, pats on the back, and vulgar comments with the pilots.

“Colonel Castillo,” Colonel Kingsolving called sternly. “I need a word with you right now.”

Castillo freed himself, marched up to Kingsolving, came to attention, and saluted.

“Follow me, Colonel,” Kingsolving ordered, and marched down the deck until they were alone.

“Face away from the island,” Kingsolving ordered.

Castillo turned his back to the ship’s superstructure.

“All McNab told me,” Kingsolving said, “was to send the Black Hawks out here via Key West. ‘The op commander will meet your senior pilot on the Bataan.’ Your name wasn’t mentioned.”

“You didn’t hear I was retired?”

“Yeah, and when we have time, I want to ask you about that.”

“‘Senior pilot’?” Castillo asked.

“I’m not supposed to be here, Charley. The first time I talked to him, McNab told me I was not to go. And then he called me back and said if I was thinking of having a case of selective deafness, the brigadier’s selection board is sitting right now, and if this op gets out—even if it goes as planned—I can forget a star.”

“You’re here,” Castillo said. “You don’t want to be a general?”

“Two reasons, Charley. I’m one of those old-time soldiers who doesn’t send his people anywhere he won’t go himself.”

“McNab was right. Even if I can carry this off, I think there’s going to be serious political implications.”