I could see that, could see our little group getting a contract to provide long term support to a staging base. Might even be kind of fun.
Unlike most, Reilly hadn't come mostly out of boredom or mostly to find some adventure. Oh, he let on that he had, because that was what everyone else let on. In fact, his reasons were much stronger. God, I was so lonely, all these years. Nobody I cared about and nobody who gave a shit about me, either. And if Stauer can keep us together, I'll never be alone again. Not that I'm ever going to let anyone see that, of course.
The loudspeaker nearby boomed, 'Continental Flight One Seventy-eight for Houston-Hobby, now boarding.'
Reilly immediately stood, made the most cursory of nods, and said, 'Cazz, Miss Potter, see you at base.' With that he turned and pretty much marched down a dozen or so waiting areas, before taking his seat to wait for his own flight to Spokane.
'I'm not sorry to see him go off on his own,' Phillie said, once the plane had settled into smooth flight.
'Reilly? A lot of people feel that way,' Cazz said. His voice didn't sound as if he was one of them. Phillie said as much.
'He's pretty harsh,' Cazz said. 'But if it helps any he's at least as hard on himself as he is on everyone else. He's Athenian, so to speak.'
Phillie looked confused. 'Athenian? I thought he was Irish.'
'Oh, he is. And if you don't believe it pour a few drinks into him.' Cazz almost giggled, a most unMarine-like thing to do, and added, 'He does a pretty good rendition of Rising of the Moon, as a matter of fact. Along with any of about another thousand Irish rebel songs . . . and a fair smattering of American Civil War, Russian, German- heavy on the German, Italian . . .'
'He sings?'
'Pretty well, actually, but generally only when he's drunk.' That, or in training, or in action. When he's happy, in other words.
'Yes, well, ‘Athenian,' I believe you said.'
'Oh . . . he was born into the world ‘to take no rest himself, nor to give any to others.' That's why he's so harsh. He just can't understand for a moment that someone might slack off, take a break, miss something important. Worst workaholic I've ever known.'
'If you're telling me he's inhuman, I already knew that,' Phillie said.
Cazz frowned. 'He's human enough.' He then laughed. 'I'll admit, though, that he's pretty far out on the spectrum of ‘human.''
'Well, I think he's obnoxious.'
Cazz looked over at Phillie's face, then couldn't keep from a quick glance at her chest. He looked away and started to laugh.
'What's so funny?'
'Well . . . if you weren't Wes' girl, Reilly would have been very charming-he can be very charming, you know, when he has a reason to be-in the hope and not unreasonable expectation of getting you into bed. Since you are Wes' girl, hence untouchable, in perpetuity, he treats you like everyone else. Which is to say, like shit.'
Phillie looked shocked and a little insulted. 'Bu . . . bu . . . but he has a wedding ring on.'
Cazz lifted an eyebrow at her. 'Such innocence. What would that have to do with anything?'
Phillie, having a few secrets here and there in her past, didn't comment further.
'Frankly, he never talks about his wife. He might be divorced and bearing a torch, or he might be a widower. Dunno. Never thought it was my business to ask.'
D-90, Grant County International Airport (ex-Larson AFB),
Moses Lake, Washington
The senior of the CH-801 pilots, John McCaverty, met Reilly outside the main entrance to the old missile complex. This was no surprise; it certainly wouldn't have done to have one of the Mexicans standing guard. All kinds of issues with that.
McCaverty put out his hand as Reilly emerged from the rental car. 'Just call me ‘Cree,'' he said. 'All my friends do.'
'Cree, it is,' Reilly said, shaking the pilot's hand. They'd never met before. Cree was a bit taller than Reilly, intelligent looking, and fit. They were about of an age, though Cree's hairline had receded a bit more than had Reilly's. 'What did you fly in the Air Force?' Reilly asked.
'I didn't fly for the Air Force,' Cree answered. 'For them, I was a surgeon.'
Reilly looked confused for a moment. 'Then why-?'
'Never been in action, air or ground. If you don't count dustoffs. Want to be.'
Well that I can understand, Reilly thought. 'Fair enough. Your planes ready to go?'
'Ready, containerized, awaiting the trucks,' Cree replied. 'But there is a little issue.'
'Issue? What issue.'
'I want to take seventeen of the Mexicans with me, two per plane plus a chief.' Cree looked defensive. He explained, 'They're the best workers. Couple of ‘em speak fair English, too. Otherwise, we'd never have gotten the things assembled in time. We can't hope to keep these things in the air without these guys.'
'Have you asked Stauer or Cruz? Have you explained what the job involves to the Mexicans?' Reilly was being seriously disingenuous here. He'd prepared the manning table and already knew the Mexicans, some of them, were supposed to come along. Why this Cree hadn't gotten the word he didn't know. He saw no pressing need to rectify the error. Maybe Cruz was testing this man. So I'll play ignorant.
'I dropped a message to Cruz's email, but he hasn't given me an answer,' the pilot-surgeon said. 'And I don't know Stauer so I don't know what I can get away with. The ones I want to keep think we're going to smuggle drugs and have no problem with that, so I kind of doubt they'll have a problem with what we're really going to do. Whatever that is.
'I did have to promise their headman, Luis Acosta, that I'd personally sneak every one of them back into the United States if they had to leave here. He says it's expensive getting into the States.'
'Well,' said Reilly, 'I know Stauer. Stauer knows me. He'd be surprised, maybe dangerously so, if I didn't do something, at least, that fell into the category of ‘easier to obtain forgiveness' for. Show me the packaged planes and then let me talk to your Mexicans.'
'You speak Spanish?'
'Moderately well.'
'How will you get them down there?' McCaverty asked. 'Assuming you agree, of course.'
Reilly thought about that for all of five seconds. 'Ordinarily I'd go to one of the services that deal with passenger service on merchant vessels. That won't work in this case, since we want them to go with the planes they built. So . . . I suppose I'll have a chat with the ship's captain. Your Mexicans may be crammed in like rats, but some merchant ships have some open cabins for passage. Or we can simply put everyone in a couple of containers, and ship food with them. The captain most likely wouldn't object to a little under the table cash.' He thought some more. 'You've got a good relationship with these guys? They'll follow your orders?'
'Yes.'
'Then-assuming I can make the arrangements-you will be going with them on the ship while the rest of your pilots fly south to Guyana with me. It will probably suck.'
'Fuck,' McCaverty scowled.
'Possibly that, too. Your pilots up to this, Cree?'
McCaverty hesitated for a moment. 'We've all Army fixed wing and Air Force or Marine light plane pilots, except for me and one other guy. I'm least concerned about him, Smith, because he's our only honest to God carrier pilot. It's going to take some work and some practice getting the rest of us used to landing on a ship.'
