Kapitans Koshkov and Blatov then snapped to attention again and raised their arms in a salute.
“Well, what have we here?” Tom Barlow asked, offering his hand. “A veterans’ convention?”
“It is good to see you again, Polkovnik Berezovsky,” Blatov said. And then quickly added, as Sweaty came off the stairs, “And you, Podpolkovnik Alekseeva.”
Sweaty extended her hand. Koshkov and Blatov bent over it and kissed it.
“How did you get out?” Sweaty asked.
“It was only a question of time, Podpolkovnik Alekseeva, until they got around to deciding we were involved in the La Orchila Island disaster.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“We are Spetsnaz, Podpolkovnik Alekseeva,” Koshkov replied. “We can do anything.”
Castillo pushed back a grin as he thought:
He took another, closer look at Captains Koshkov and Blatov and decided, presuming they could speak English, they’d fit right in in the Stockade.
“Either of you speak English?” Castillo asked in English.
“About as well, Colonel,” Koshkov answered in English, “as you speak Russian.”
“I once studied to be a poet in Saint Petersburg,” Castillo said. Both smiled broadly.
“So, I understand, did Vladimir Vladimirovich,” Blatov said. “That’s the word going around.”
“What are you doing here?” Koussevitzky asked.
“We’re going to take you to Casa en el Bosque,” Koshkov said.
“In those?” Castillo asked, indicating the Bells.
Koshkov nodded.
“They’re really very nice little helicopters,” he said.
“How much time do you have in them, Captain?” Castillo asked.
Koshkov thought a minute, shrugged, then said, “About ten hours.”
Max interrupted his thought by walking up to Koshkov, sitting on his haunches, and offering his paw.
Koshkov stiffened; his face showed fear.
He confirmed this by announcing, “I’m not a friend of dogs.”
“Well, you better shake that one’s paw, or he’ll eat you,” Castillo said.
With great reluctance, Koshkov stooped and took Max’s paw.
“Get in the chopper, Max,” Castillo ordered, gesturing.
Max dutifully trotted to the closest helicopter and jumped inside. Koshkov was visibly relieved.
When Castillo got to the Bell, there was a man in the co-pilot’s seat. A good pilot-say, one with a hundred hours under a good instructor-could fly a Super Ranger by himself, but a co-pilot, even one presumably with less than ten hours in the bird, was a nice thing to have.
“May I sit there, please?” Castillo asked politely.
The co-pilot didn’t like that, but Koshkov signaled for him to give up his seat, and he did so.
Once he was seated in the co-pilot’s position, a quick look at the interior of the Bell-especially at the panel- told Castillo that it was brand-new. The forward and side-looking radar screens, the GPS screen, and the radar altimeter bore the logos of the AFC Corporation, and that translated as “damn the cost, get the best.”
He strapped himself in and put on the helmet that the co-pilot had reluctantly turned over to him.
“Test, test,” he said through the throat microphone.
“Loud and clear,” Koshkov reported. “Ready?”
“One thing, Captain Koshkov,” Castillo said. “If at any time during this flight I put my hands on the controls and say, ‘I’ve got it!’ and you don’t instantly take your hands off the controls, I will order Max to pull you out of your seat by sinking his teeth into your throat, and then, when we get on the ground, I will tell him to eat you, starting with your penis and testicles.”
It did not produce the reaction he expected.
Koshkov smiled at him and said, “If at any time during our flight the co-pilot desires to take control of the aircraft, the pilot will be honored to turn it over to the author of
“Where the hell did you see that?”
“By Major C. G. Castillo, Chief Flight Examiner, 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment,” Koshkov finished. “I used it to teach the subject when I was at the Spetsnaz aviation school.”
“I will be damned.”
“When we land, you can tell me how I did,” Koshkov said. “Picking it up now.”
The Bell lifted gently off. Koshkov lowered the nose, and then made a running takeoff.
VII
ONE
Casa en el Bosque San Carlos de Bariloche Rio Negro Province, Argentina 2105 17 April 2007
At just about the moment the AFC GPS showed that they were over the estate, floodlights came on, illuminating the polo field, which was, Castillo judged, about 500 meters from the mansion.
As Koshkov brought the Super Ranger in for a smooth touchdown, with the second chopper following, Castillo saw there was a welcoming party.
Standing in front of the stable-which also served as a hangar-was a large welcoming party: Aleksandr Pevsner; his wife, Anna; and their three children, Elena, Sergei, and Aleksandr. Elena held one of Max’s pups in her arms.
Janos, Pevsner’s huge Hungarian bodyguard, stood where Castillo expected him to be, three feet behind Pevsner.
Standing three feet away was Berezovsky’s wife, Lora, and their daughter, Sof’ya, who was holding another fruit of Max’s loins in her arms. And to one side stood four women, three with small children in their arms, who had to be the wives of the pilots.
“How’d I do?” Koshkov asked as he braked the rotors.
“Not bad for someone who obviously has no natural flying talent at all,” Castillo said.
Koshkov smiled and shook his head.
Max, seeing his pups, was first off the Super Ranger. With some trepidation, first Elena and then Sof’ya put their now-squirming pups on the ground. In attack mode, the dogs raced toward their father. Together, they weighed about half as much as Max.
