“Thank you, sir,” Fernando replied, in Spanish.
“I assume, Castillo,” General Gonzalez said, switching to English, “that you have considered the question of giving Mr. Lopez access to classified material.”
Well, fuck you, General!
“I have the authority, General,” Castillo said, coldly, “to tell my cousin, or anyone else, what I think they have to know about this situation.”
He spoke not only in Spanish but in the Texican patois peculiar to the San Antonio area.
Fernando picked up on his tone of voice, gave Charley a surprised look, and said to Gonzalez, in Spanish, “I don’t know if this is pertinent or not, sir, but I’m a captain in the reserve and hold a top secret clearance.”
Gonzalez grunted but did not reply.
When they got to the hangar at the airfield, Vic D’Alessandro was there, and so was another general officer, a major general, and his aide-de-camp, a captain. Both wore desert pattern BDUs and green berets.
“You’re Castillo, I presume?” the two-star said, offering his hand to Fernando. “I’m General Chancey. I command the Special Warfare Center.”
“No, sir,” Fernando said and pointed at Charley. “He is.”
“Sorry,” General Chancey said, now offering his hand to Castillo.
“That’s Fernando Lopez, General,” Castillo said. “He’s working with me on this.”
General Chancey nodded and came up with a very faint smile.
Not another word was exchanged until D’Alessandro, after answering a wall-mounted telephone, announced, “The Globemaster’s on the ground.”
As Castillo watched from inside the hangar, the huge C-17 rolled slowly down the taxiway. The driver of the tug sitting just inside the hangar door started his engine.
The ground handler on the taxiway waved his wands for the aircraft to stop and cut its engines. The airplane stopped, but the two engines the pilot had not turned off continued to run. A door in the side of the fuselage opened and two men got out.
One was Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab, wearing a desert camouflage battle dress uniform—and a green beret, Castillo noticed. The second man was wearing an Air Force flight suit. He went to the ground handler with the wands and spoke briefly to him. The man with the wands tucked them under his arm and gestured to the driver of the tug, who revved his engine and drove out of the hangar.
When the tug reached the ground handler, the ground handler climbed onto the tug, sat down on the back of it— facing the Globemaster—took out his wands, and made the prescribed “come ahead” gesture with them. The tug started to move down the taxiway, with the enormous Globemaster following it.
The Air Force officer trotted after General McNab and caught up with him just as he reached the hangar.
Castillo saluted. McNab returned it.
“Forgive me for mentioning this,” McNab said, “but you’re not supposed to do that, you know. I’ve just finished telling Colonel Torine how honored we are to have such a high-ranking civilian, the personal representative of the president, here to guide us in the accomplishment of our assigned tasks.”
Castillo felt like a fool for saluting—it had been a Pavlovian reaction—but, on the other hand, sensed there was something in McNab’s tone of voice that gave meaning —other than sarcasm—to what he’d said.
“Welcome home, sir,” Castillo said.
“Goddamn, two senior civilians here to meet us,” McNab said, spotting Vic D’Alessandro. “I didn’t know you got out of bed this early these days, Mister D’Alessandro.”
“Good morning, General.”
“You got a secure place for us, Vic?” McNab asked.
D’Alessandro pointed to the door of the hangar’s interior office.
“Last swept half an hour ago, General.”
“Okay, let’s go swap war stories,” McNab said. “D’ALESSANDRO, Torine, the generals, and, of course, Mr. Castillo.”
Fernando looked at Charley, wordlessly.<