“How are you, Scotty?” Potter said.
“I recognize that unpleasant nasal voice. How are you, George? More important, how many other people are eavesdropping on this fascinating conversation?”
“That’s it, Scotty,” Naylor replied. “Generals McFadden and Potter, Wes Suggins, and me.”
“Good. I’m a devout believer in the theory that the more people who know a secret, the sooner the secret is compromised. ”
“On that subject, General,” Naylor said, “the CIA is not privy to this operation and are not to be made privy to it.”
“Jesus, I must have done something right! Thank you for sharing that with me, General.”
General Naylor glanced at Command Sergeant Major Suggins and Lieutenant General Potter, both of whom were trying and failing to suppress smiles.
“How soon can you get started on this, Scotty?” Naylor asked.
“We shoot for wheels up in sixty minutes and generally shave a chunk off that.”
“Okay,” Naylor said. “Get the operation going, General McNab.”
“Yes, sir.”
[TWO]
Royal Air Force Base Menara, Mor
occo 0930 9 June 2005
Among other modifications made to USAF C-22 tail number 6404 was provision for removable fuel bladders. When installed, they gave the aircraft transoceanic range. When 6404 landed—after a six-hour ten-minute flight from Pope Air Force Base—at Menara, which is 120 miles south of Casablanca, it had 2.4 hours of fuel remaining in its main tanks.
Enough, for example, so that it could have diverted to any number of U.S. airbases in Europe, from Spain to Germany, had that been necessary. Diversion was not necessary. At 0805 local time—an hour off the Moroccan coast—the Casablanca control operator cleared U.S. Air Force 6404 to make a refueling stop at Menara.
It touched down smoothly at 0925 and, five minutes later, it had been tugged into a hangar, whereupon the hangar doors had closed.
Royal Moroccan Air Force technicians quickly plugged in power and air-conditioning ducts. The rear door of the aircraft —under the tail—extended from the fuselage, and two men came quickly down the stairs, both wearing khaki pants and white T-shirts.
A slight man in a light brown flight suit stood at the foot of the stairs. A leather patch on the chest of the flight suit identified him as a colonel—and pilot—of the Royal Moroccan Air Force. Behind him stood another pilot colonel in a flight suit. He was older, much stockier, and had a thick, British-style mustache.
Both Moroccan officers saluted and both Americans returned them.
“Good morning, General,” the slight man said in only faintly accented English.
“Good morning, Your Royal Highness,” Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab, USA, replied as he returned the salute. “I am deeply honored that Your Royal Highness has found time in his busy schedule for me.”
“I always have time for you, General,” the colonel said. “And not only because I’m fond of you.”
“Let me guess,” McNab said, “a member of your family has questions.”
“ ‘I need a favor’ covers a lot of ground, General, even between friends.”
“You remember Colonel Thomas, don’t you, Your Royal Highness?”
“Of course,” the colonel said. “It’s good to see you again, Tommy.”
“Always a pleasure, sir,” Lieutenant Colonel H. Alexander Thomas said.
“And how are you, Colonel?” McNab asked.
“Very well, General,” the man with the mustache said.