Hazardous Duty pa-8 Read online

  “He also asked, ‘How soon can we get him in here?’” Castillo said. “That sounds hazardous to me.”

  “Cutting to the chase, Charley,” D’Alessandro said, “all you have to do is stall until the President gets tired of this nutty idea and moves on to the next one.”

  “If ‘stall’ means ignore him, I’ve already figured that out myself,” Castillo said.

  “Ignoring him won’t work. I said, ‘stall.’”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Tomorrow, Allan sends an Urgent message through the proper channels to POTUS—”

  “POTUS?” His Eminence parroted.

  “President of the United States, Your Eminence,” D’Alessandro explained. “And we send it through the military attaché at the embassy in Buenos Aires; that should slow it down three or four hours, maybe longer.”

  “I don’t understand,” the archbishop said. “It sounds as if you intentionally wish to slow down what you just said was an urgent message.”

  “Precisely,” D’Alessandro said. “An Urgent message, big ‘U,’ is the second-highest priority message. Operational Immediate is the highest. That’s reserved for ‘White House Nuked’ and things like that.

  “So, what happens here is that Allan sends a message to the people who sent him down here. I mean the secretary of State, the CIA director, the director of National Intelligence, and of course, his daddy.

  “The message says something like, ‘Located Castillo. Hope to establish contact with him within twenty-four hours.’

  “That message goes from the embassy to the State Department. It will have to be encrypted in Buenos Aires and then decrypted at the State Department, and then forwarded to the Defense Department, the director of National Intelligence, and of course his daddy.

  “That process will buy us probably three or four hours.

  “Finally, Allan’s daddy — or maybe Natalie Cohen, that makes more sense — gets on the telephone to the White House and hopes the President is not available. But eventually the President will get the message and learn that his orders are being carried out.

  “And then, twenty-four hours after the first message we send another, ‘Meeting with Castillo delayed for twenty-four hours.’ And we start that process all over. Getting the picture, Hotshot?”

  “Vic,” Castillo said, “you know I never agreed with everyone who said you were a nice guy but a little slow and with no imagination.”

  “I’m curious,” the archbishop said. “If you really had to communicate as quickly as possible with the President, or Colonel Naylor’s father in a hurry, urgently, how would you do that?”

  D’Alessandro held out his CaseyBerry.

  “If I push this button,” he said, “I’m connected with the White House switchboard. It will tell the operator I’m calling from Fort Bragg. If I push this button, the telephone on General Naylor’s desk will ring. The caller ID function will tell him I’m calling from Las Vegas, confirming General Naylor’s belief that I spend my time gambling and chasing scantily clad women.”

  “Fascinating,” the archbishop said.

  “But speaking of Vegas — with your kind permission, Colonel Castillo, sir, I’m going to call Aloysius and ask him to send Peg-Leg and your faithful bodyguard down here, just as soon as they can go wheels up in Aloysius’s Gulfstream.”

  “Why Peg-Leg?” Castillo asked.

  “Peg-Leg?” His Eminence repeated. “Bodyguard?”

  “First Lieutenant Edmund Lorimer, Retired,” D’Alessandro answered most of both questions at once, “after losing his leg — hence the somewhat cruel if apt appellation — became expert in what might be called obfuscatory paper shuffling.

  “I think we have to go with the worst scenario — that our beloved Commander in Chief will cling to this nutty idea of his for a long time — Peg-Leg can prepare the reports of your progress we’re going to have to send him from various tourist destinations around the world.”

  “Yeah,” Castillo agreed.

  “Bodyguard?” His Eminence asked. “You have a bodyguard, Carlos?”

  Aleksandr Pevsner answered that question.

  “To whom, Your Eminence, I owe my life,” he said. “He looks like he belongs in high school, but he’s very good at what he does.”

  “Think the opposite of Aleksandr’s Janos, Your Eminence,” Sweaty chimed in. “Lester looks like a choirboy, and he is not going to stay in Las Vegas if Peg-Leg comes down here.”

  The archbishop’s curiosity was not satisfied.

  “‘Tourist destinations’?” he asked.

  “Mogadishu, Somalia, comes immediately to mind,” D’Alessandro said. “Because of the pirates. And of course Mexico because of the drug problem Charley’s going to solve there. And a grand tour of Europe, probably starting with Budapest. But I would suggest that we start with Mexico, until the colonel is up to speed again. And then probably Fort Bragg, while he forms his team. Or maybe Fort Rucker, Charley. That would give you a chance to see your son.”

  “His son?” His Eminence asked. “I was asked if Carlos had ever been married and told he had not.”

  “There is one little problem with this scenario,” Charley said.

  “Your hitherto undisclosed marriage, you mean?” His Eminence asked. “That opens a number of windows through which we must look before you can be married.”

  “It’s not a problem, Your Eminence,” Sweaty said. “My Carlos has never been married.”

  “The problem is,” Castillo said, “that I’m not going along with this tour of the world. I’m not going anywhere. Sweaty’s right: it would be committing suicide.”

  “Don’t be silly, my darling,” Sweaty said. “Of course you are. You heard what His Eminence said about how important answering the call of duty is. You’re going, and I’m going with you.”

  “‘And Ruth said,’” the archimandrite quoted approvingly, “‘Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go…. ’”

  “First Ruth, sixteen,” the archbishop amplified.

  “Vic, call Aloysius,” Sweaty ordered.

  A moment later, Vic D’Alessandro said, “Hey, Aloysius, how’s things in Sin City?”

  As that conversation began, His Eminence said, “Carlos, my son, tell me about your son.”

  Charley said, “Jake, hand me that bottle of cognac.”

  [THREE]

  Embassy of the United States

  Avenida Colombia 4300

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  1705 7 June 2007

  Former Major Kiril Koshkov, the onetime chief instructor pilot of the Spetsnaz Aviation School, flew Lieutenant Colonel Allan Naylor, Junior, to Buenos Aires’ Jorge Newbery International Airport in the Cessna Mustang twin-engine jet that Sweaty had given Charley for his birthday.

  There they were met by a Mercedes SUV driven by another former member of Spetsnaz. He had been sent from Aleksandr Pevsner’s home in Pilar—“the World Capital of Polo,” forty kilometers from downtown — to take them to the embassy.

  This took place during the Buenos Aires rush hour — actually hours, as the period started at half past four and did not slack off until eight, or thereabouts. They arrived at five past five. When Colonel Naylor presented himself at the embassy gate and said he wanted to see the Defense attaché, the Argentine Rent-A-Cop on duty announced that that official was gone for the day and he would have to return tomorrow.

  Allan considered that information, and then decided that while a certain delay was what they were after, delaying fourteen hours was a bit too much of a good thing.

  “In that case, I wish to speak to the duty officer,” Colonel Naylor announced.

  To get through to the duty officer, Allan first had to deal with a Marine sergeant of the Embassy Guard, but finally an Air Force captain appeared. The captain was extremely reluctant to contact the Defense attaché at his residence without very good reason.

  “What’s your business with th
e colonel, Colonel?”

  Colonel Naylor had been around the military service all his life, and he knew that if he did tell the captain that he wished to send a highly classified message, the captain would almost certainly not have the authority to permit him to do so without checking with his superior, and that superior would not be the Defense attaché himself, but rather an officer, probably a major, immediately superior to the captain. And then the whole sequence would start again with the major’s superior, probably a lieutenant colonel. Et cetera.

  Thus causing too much of a delay.

  “Captain,” Naylor said, “you are not cleared for any knowledge of the nature of my business. Contact the Defense attaché immediately and inform him that an officer acting VOCICCENCOM demands to see him personally and now. That is an order, not a suggestion.”

  The captain wasn’t sure he recognized what the acronym stood for, but did recognize an order when he heard one, and said, “Yes, sir. If the colonel will have a seat there, I will telephone Colonel Freedman.”

  The captain pointed to a row of attached vinyl-upholstered chrome chairs against the wall.

  Naylor did so. After five or six minutes he looked up at the wall and saw large photographs of President Joshua Ezekiel Clendennen, Vice President Charles W. Montvale, and Secretary of State Natalie Cohen smiling down at him.

  He took out his CaseyBerry and punched a button.

  “Yeah, Junior?” CIA Director A. Franklin Lammelle’s voice answered, after bouncing off a satellite floating twenty-seven thousand miles above the earth’s surface.

  “Sir! Sir!” the Marine Guard sergeant called excitedly from behind the bulletproof glass of his station. “You can’t do that!”

  “In the embassy, waiting for the attaché,” Naylor said.

  “Good man! I’ll alert Natalie.”

  Naylor put the CaseyBerry back in his shirt pocket.

  “I can’t do what, Sergeant?”

  “Use a cell phone in here.”

  “This one worked just fine.”

  “Sir, you’re not allowed to have a cell phone in here!”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re not a member of the embassy staff. I’ll have to ask you for your cell phone.”

  “No.”

  “Sir, I’ll have to insist.”

  “Sergeant, the last I heard, sergeants can’t insist that lieutenant colonels do anything; it’s the other way around.”

  “Sir, I’ll have to insist.”

  “You already said that. The only way you’re going to get my cell phone, Sergeant, is to pry it from my cold dead fingers.”

  As the sergeant considered that option, the situation was put on hold when the door to the plaza outside burst open and a spectacularly dressed officer entered.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.

  Naylor decided there was likely to be just one officer in the embassy who would be wearing the mess dress uniform of a full colonel of the USAF, and consequently this man had to be Colonel Freedman, the Defense attaché.

  “Colonel, he has a cell phone and won’t give it up!” the Marine sergeant announced righteously.

  “Who the hell are you?” Colonel Freedman demanded.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Allan B. Naylor, Junior, sir. Are you the Defense attaché, sir?”

  Naylor saw in Colonel Freedman’s eyes that the Air Force officer was aware that there was an Allan B. Naylor, Senior, and of the latter’s place in the military hierarchy.

  “I’m Anthony Freedman, the Defense attaché. What can I do for you, Colonel?”

  Freedman put out his hand and Naylor took it.

  “Sir, I need the embassy’s communications facilities to send a Top Secret Message to Washington.”

  Freedman considered that, nodded, and said, “Well, we can take care of that for you, Colonel. But just to dot all the ‘i’s… may I see your ID and your orders?”

  Naylor handed him his identity card. Freedman examined it, handed it back, and then asked, “And your orders, Colonel?”

  “I’m acting VOCICCENCOM, sir,” Naylor said.

  That was the acronym — pronounced “Voe-Sik-Sen-Com”—for Verbal Order, Commander in Chief, Central Command. While it was in common usage around Central Command, and the Pentagon, the Office of the Defense Attaché in Buenos Aires is pretty near the foot of the military hierarchal totem pole and it was obvious from the look on Colonel Freedman’s face that he had no idea what it meant.

  And equally obvious that he wasn’t going to admit that he didn’t to an Army lieutenant colonel.

  “Yes, of course you are. But in the absence of written orders, Colonel, how can I know that?”

  “Sir, may I suggest you call CICCENCOM at Combined Base MacDill for verification?”

  CICCENCOM, pronounced Sik-Sen-Com, is the acronym for Commander in Chief, Central Command.

  “Right,” Colonel Freedman said. “Sergeant, call what he said.”

  “The extension is six-six-one,” Naylor said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Two minutes later the sergeant reported, “Sir, they say the Sik-Sen-Sen… Sik-Sen-Com… is not available.”

  “Try extension seven-seven-one, Sergeant,” Naylor suggested. “That’s the DEPCICCENCOM.”

  DEPCICCENCOM, pronounced Dep-Sik-Sen-Com, is the acronym for Deputy Commander in Chief, Central Command.

  Two minutes later, the sergeant reported, “I have General Albert McFadden on the line, sir. He wants to know who’s calling and how you got his personal number.”

  Colonel Freedman’s face, as he reached for the telephone, which the sergeant was passing through an opening in the bulletproof glass, showed that he knew very well who the four-star Air Force general he was about to talk to was.

  “Sir, this is Colonel Anthony Freedman, the Defense attaché…

  “I was given this number by Lieutenant Colonel Naylor, who says you can verify he’s here acting… What the hell was it, Naylor?”

  “VOCICCENCOM, sir.”

  “Vok-Ick… Vodka-Ick…

  “Yes, sir, General, Voe-Sik-Sen-Com. That’s it, sir.

  “No, sir. Now that I think about it, I can’t imagine why a fine officer like Colonel Naylor would say something like that if it wasn’t the case.”

  Colonel Freedman held out the phone to Naylor.

  “The general wants to talk to you, Colonel.”

  Naylor took the phone.

  “Good afternoon, sir.

  “Not a problem, sir. I spoke to the sheriff and the district attorney and they both assured me no one will be arrested just so long as we use chips and there’s no cash on the tables.

  “Sir, I can only suggest the chaplain got carried away when he said we’re all going to go to jail.

  “I really hope to be there, sir, but there’s no telling how long this job will take.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. My regards to Mrs. McFadden.”

  Naylor handed the telephone back through the opening in the bulletproof glass. Then he saw the look on Colonel Freedman’s face and took pity on him.

  “General McFadden’s wife,” he explained, “is raising money for the Parent — Teacher’s Association by running Las Vegas Night at the VFW Hall in Tampa. In addition to my other duties, I’m the de facto president of the school board. The chaplain, who thinks gambling is a sin, even for a good cause, has been giving us trouble, and the general was a little worried. I was able to put his concerns to rest.”

  “Yes, of course you were,” Colonel Freedman said. “Now, about this Top Secret Message you want to transmit?”

  “I’d prefer to get into that, sir, in a secure environment, sir.”

  “Yes, of course you would. I can’t imagine what I was thinking,” Colonel Freedman said. “Sergeant, unlock the door.”

  “Colonel, he’s still got his cell phone.”

  “What cell phone?”

  “The one in his pocket, sir. The one he said I’d have to pry from his cold dead finge
rs.”

  “Just push the button and unlock the damned door, damn it!”

  There was a buzz, and the door to the interior of the building swung open. Freedman led Naylor to an elevator, which took them to the top story of the building. The commo center was behind two locked steel doors that were about in the middle of the corridor.

  There was an American man on duty, visibly surprised to see the Defense attaché there after duty hours and wearing his spectacular mess dress uniform.

  “The colonel has a message to send—”

  “Encrypt and send,” Naylor corrected him. “And if you don’t mind, I’ll operate the equipment myself. Just get me on the State Department circuit.”

  Naylor sat down at the table, and as he waited for the technician to connect him with the State Department took a sheet of paper from his pocket and laid it next to the encryption device keyboard.

  When he became aware that Colonel Freedman was trying desperately to sneak a look at the message, Naylor considered laying his hand on it, or turning it over, but in the end handed it to the Defense attaché.

  “You’re onto State,” the technician announced.

  Naylor waited until Freedman had finished reading, then laid the sheet of paper next to the keyboard again, tripped the ENCRYPT/TRANSMIT lever, and began to type. It didn’t take long.

  TOP SECRET

  URGENT

  DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN

  TO: POTUS

  SUBJECT: CGC

  VIA SECRETARY OF STATE

  MAKE AVAILABLE (EYES ONLY) TO:

  DIRECTOR, CIA

  SECRETARY OF DEFENSE

  DIRECTOR OF NATIONAL INTELLIGENCE

  C IN C CENTRAL COMMAND

  SITREP #1

  US EMBASSY BUENOS AIRES 2020 ZULU 7 JUNE 2007

  1-TELEPHONE CONTACT ESTABLISHED WITH CGC 0600 ZULU 7 JUNE

  2-FACE TO FACE MEETING PROBABLE WITHIN TWENTY-FOUR TO THIRTY-SIX HOURS AT TO BE DETERMINED LOCATION