Part of the rationale to do this was that the Secret Service was to be transferred from the Treasury Department to the Department of Homeland Security anyway.
The Secret Service had some pilots but would need four more to fly the secretary’s new Citation. All the ts were crossed and the is dotted on the appropriate Civil Service Commission Application for Employment forms, of course, and the applications examined carefully and honestly, but no one was surprised when two about-to-retire Air Force colonels who had been flying the president were adjudged to be best qualified for appointment as Pilots, Aircraft, GS-15, Step 8, to fill two of the four newly established positions.
“Citation Thirty-Fifty-Five, be advised that two Hueys are moving to the threshold,” Hunter ground control announced just as the Citation X turned left onto the parallel.
“Roger that, we have them in sight,” the copilot said, and then added, “Jerry, remember to lock the brakes before you start your run-up.”
The Cessna pilot chuckled.
Through the windshield they could see two Army UH-1H helicopters slowly approaching the threshold of the runway about twenty feet off the ground.
The pilot touched the ANNOUNCE button.
“Mr. Secretary, we can see the choppers.”
“Me, too, Frank. Thank you,” Secretary Hall called back.
There were four passengers in the Citation today. Secretary Hall; Joel Isaacson, the supervisory Secret Service agent in charge of Hall’s security detail; Tom McGuire, another Secret Service bodyguard; and an Army major, today in civilian clothing, whose code name for Secret Service purposes was “Don Juan.”
The secretary’s code name was “Big Boy,” which more than likely made reference to his size and appearance.
Why the major was “Don Juan” wasn’t known for sure. It could have something to do with his Spanish- or Italian-sounding name, Castillo, or, Frank and Jack had privately joked, it could have to do with what the Secret Service secretly knew about him. At thirty-six, he was a great big guy—a little bigger than the secretary—good-looking, nice thick head of hair, blue-eyed, no wedding ring, and—considering the foregoing—he probably got laid a lot.
They had no idea what his function in the department was, or, for that matter, if he was even in the department. And, of course, they didn’t ask. If it was important for them to know more than his name, they would be told.
He accompanied the secretary often enough to have his own code name, and on the occasions when he did so in uniform he sported not only the usual merit badges—parachutist ’s wings, senior Army Aviators’ wings, a Combat Infantry Badge—but also a ring signifying that he had graduated from the United States Military Academy at West Point. They found it interesting that when he took off his uniform, he also took off the West Point ring. That offered the interesting possibility that he wasn’t a soldier at all but put on the uniform—and the West Point ring—as a disguise when that was required.
Their best guess, however, was that he was in fact an officer, probably a West Pointer, and more than likely some kind of liaison officer, probably between the department and the Army or the Defense Department.
The two UH-1Hs touched down on the grass just outside the threshold to the active runway as the Citation X rolled to a stop.
The Secret Service agents got out of their seats and opened the stair door and then went outside. The pilot of the closest Huey got out. She was slight and trim, with short blond hair. She tucked her flight helmet under her arm and walked toward the Citation X.
The secretary deplaned first, carrying a briefcase, and Don Juan got off last.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Secretary,” the pilot said, saluting.
“Good afternoon, Colonel,” the secretary said.
“Sir, I’m Lieutenant Colonel Messinger,” the pilot said. “I’ll be flying you to the island. I know you’re familiar with the aircraft, but I’ll have to ask this gentleman . . .”
“He’s familiar with it, Colonel,” the secretary said. “I think you’re probably both graduates of the same flying school.”
“You’re a Huey driver, sir?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am,” Don Juan said. “And you outrank me, Colonel.”
“Colonel,” the secretary said, visibly amused by the interchange, “this is Major Charley Castillo.”
“How do you do, Major?” Lieutenant Colonel Messinger said, offering her hand and a firm handshake. “The weather’s fine; it’s a short hop—about thirty-five miles—I already have the clearance to penetrate the P-49 area, so there won’t be Marine jets from Beaufort around, and anytime the secretary is ready we can go.”
She made a gesture toward the helicopters. Joel Isaacson and Tom McGuire walked to the more distant aircraft and got in.
Major Castillo knew the drill: The Huey with the Secret Service agents in it would wait until the one carrying the secretary took off and then follow it until they reached their destination. Then the Secret Service Huey would land first to make sure there were no problems and then radio the second helicopter that it could land.
He thought it was a little silly. They were going to the Carolina White House, and, if there was something wrong there, they would certainly have heard about it.
But it’s Standing Operating Procedure, which is like Holy Writ in the U.S. Army.