The Outlaws (Presidential Agent 6)

La Orchila Island

Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela

0502 13 February 2007

It was just getting light as the three UH-60s approached the island.

Castillo estimated he would be on the ground in three minutes, give or take.

One of the 160th’s Black Hawks following him would laser-target the commo building and report when it had done so, but would not fire until Castillo gave the order.

The other would hover over the airfield to the left of the hangar. It would be prepared to clear the tarmac in front of the hangar with its GAU-19 .50 caliber Gatling guns if the Spetsnaz guarding them offered significant resistance.

Castillo had spent a good thirty minutes trying to impress on its pilots that a disaster beyond comprehension would occur if the fire from their weapons struck—which would virtually atomize—the blue barrels they had come to seize. He thought he had succeeded—the chief warrant officers flying the gunship were both veteran special operators, not excitable young men, and both wore the wings of Master Army Aviators.

“I wonder what General Buckner—or his father—would think of this?” Colonel Kingsolving said.

“Of what?” Castillo asked.

“Our assault on the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela. ‘Bolivarian’ makes reference of course to General Simón Bolívar, the great Liberator.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“General Simon Bolivar Buckner, Senior, West Point Class of ’44—Class of 1844—was a Confederate general. He was forced to surrender Fort Donelson, Kentucky, to his classmate, General Ulysses Grant. Buckner gave Grant his parole, and was later exchanged. I thought about that when you told me about General Naylor giving you his parole.”

“Thanks for sharing that with me, Colonel.”

“His son,” Kingsolving went on, “General Simon Bolivar Buckner, Junior, Hudson High Class of ’08, was the most senior officer killed in combat in the Pacific during World War Two. He was commanding the Tenth Army on Okinawa when struck by Japanese artillery.”

Over their headsets suddenly came: “Keystone Kop, Kidnapper One. I have my laser on the target, acknowledge.”

“Kidnapper One, Keystone Kop acknowledges you have target acquisition,” Castillo answered.

“They are both, I believe, buried at West Point,” Kingsolving went on.

“Well, maybe they’ll bury us there.”

“Keystone Kop, Kidnapper Two has a visual on armed and moving possible belligerents.”

“Kidnapper Two, Keystone Kop acknowledges you have visual on possible belligerents. Hold fire until I clear. Acknowledge.”

“Kidnapper Two acknowledges hold fire.”

Kingsolving said, “I’d rather thought you’d prefer interment beside your father in the National Cemetery in San Antonio.”

“If those Spetsnaz waving those Kalashnikovs at us start shooting them, we’re both probably going to be buried right here,” Castillo said, and then, remembering what Sweaty had said the night before, added: “After we’re displayed on a table, like Hugo Chávez’s hero, Che Guevara.”

He waited another two seconds, then said, “Kidnapper One, engage, engage.”

He then switched to the intercom to alert Berezovsky and his four ex-Spetsnaz waiting in the back of the UH-60 with Mexican federal police markings.

“Dmitri, we’ll be on the ground in three seconds. Ve con Dios.”

He heard what he had said, and thought: I’ll be goddamned—I meant that!

Go with God, Dmitri!

Jesus H. Christ! Are Sweaty and her brother turning me into a believer?