Empire and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

Or are they?

  Hansel told me that in the Spanish Civil War priests were what the Marine Corps calls Targets of Opportunity.

  A lot of them were shot on sight. By both sides.

  But maybe he can talk them into going back to La Plata.

  Blessed are the peacemakers, as it says in the Good Book.

  And Operation Ost cannot work in the middle of a civil war, and that’s your priority, Colonel Frade.

  So, unless you have a better idea, Master Spy . . . ?

  “Two things,” Clete said. “One, I’m going to have to tell Peter von Wachtstein what’s going on. He’ll want to know why I’m not going to Germany, and he’ll have to be told how to handle the Vatican passport people in Berlin and Frankfurt.

  “Second, how am I going to explain my sudden disappearance from here?”

  “I’ll have Captain Garcia get von Wachtstein out here,” Martín said.

  “And how do we satisfy Claudia’s curiosity?” Clete asked. “And my wife’s? And Peter’s?”

  Martín and Welner were still thinking about that when the answer came to Clete.

  “You go in there, Your Eminence,” he said, “and tell the ladies that both Peter and I are, under your wise guidance, doing their Christian duty, and that you will explain things later, but not now.”

  The priest considered that for a moment. “That’ll work.”

  Then he walked out of the small office.

  VII

  [ONE]

  Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade

  Morón, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

  1645 16 October 1945

  The platoon of infantrymen from the Patricios Regiment that General Martín said he had ordered the regimental commander to send for the protection of el Coronel Perón were not at the airport when Clete Frade, General Martín, and Father Welner arrived.

  This made Frade uneasy.

  It was his professional opinion that the Patricios were not needed. The SAA security guards at the airfield were all former members of the Húsares de Pueyrredón. Thus, they were capable of guarding Perón—probably more so than the Patricios, because, most important, Frade’s Private Army was as loyal to Clete as they had been to his father.

  Which brought up what really made him uneasy.

  Frade wondered if Martín had considered the possibility that the Patricios’ commander would not really have his heart in protecting Perón. Frade thought it was just as likely the commander was one of the malcontents, one of those officers deeply offended by Perón’s relationships with Señorita Evita Duarte, the disgraced former Teniente Coronel Rodolfo Nulder, and the Nazis.

  And—adding to Frade’s unease—since Martín obviously had ordered the troops to be sent before he had gone looking for Frade and finally finding him at the Jockey Club, there had been plenty of time for the Patricios to get to the airfield before the three of them had arrived there from the Hipódromo.

  So why the hell aren’t they here?

  Frade reminded himself that Martín usually knew what he was doing, and kept his mouth shut.

  He did, however, take Enrico Rodríguez aside and told him to order whoever was in charge of the SAA security guards to avoid confronting the Patricios if and when they showed up. He also told the old soldier to get into a security guard uniform and to go to the control tower and wait there to see how the rescue operation played out.

  It was also Frade’s professional opinion that the scenario to rescue el Coronel Perón had several problems. He chose not to share this with his fellow rescuers. He didn’t think they would understand what the hell he was talking about.

  The biggest problem was that there were no maps of the island showing a suitable place where he could land—even in a Storch that could land damn near anywhere—or where he could take off.

  The maps Frade did have showed where the island was—a few miles off the coast of Uruguay—which only gave him two options. He could either fly along the shore of the River Plate estuary and try finding it that way, or fly there directly.

  The first option would require a flight at least twice as far as the second, adding problems of time and fuel consumption. The second option would require dead reckoning navigation over water, which carried with it the strong possibility of getting lost and not being able to find the goddamn island at all.

  It would also be useful if he knew where General Necochea’s Own Horse Rifles—“the invasion force,” so to speak—was floating around on the River Plate Estuary. Martín knew only that they had left from La Plata. Martín did not know when they’d left and of course had no idea what kind of speed the invasion fleet was capable of making.

  As Frade lifted off in the Storch from the Jorge Frade airfield—with Martín and Welner aboard—he had a poetic thought, one based on the work of Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

  Patricios to the left,

  Horse Rifles to the right,

  Forward the light airplane,

  Onto the island of death

  Flew the Three Stooges!

  Clete picked up enough altitude so that the Storch wouldn’t attract attention and then flew over and just beyond Buenos Aires, far enough out over the River Plate so that he would be out of sight of anyone on the shore.

  This thinking, he reasoned, would also be in the mind of whoever was commanding the Horse Rifles invasion force—stay close enough to the shore so as not to get lost sailing up the estuary, and yet far enough offshore to avoid detection.

  [TWO]

  En route to Isla Martín García

  River Plate Estuary, Argentina

  1655 16 October 1945

  “I think we have found the invasion fleet,” Cletus Frade announced over the intercom. He pointed downward to the right.

  There was no response from his passengers.

  Six “river” boats, each maybe fifty feet long, were moving up north in a rough double “V” formation. That seemed unnatural for anything but an invasion fleet.

  He pushed the nose of the Storch sharply down to get a closer look.

  “Why else would those boats be moving in a formation like that?” he wondered aloud over the intercom.

  And again there was no response from his passengers.

  He looked over his shoulder at Father Welner and General Martín. They were crammed in the backseat. Neither of them wore the rear headset.

  Well, that explains their silence, especially after that dive.

  He had two thoughts as he mimed for them to put on the headset.

  Both look terrified—as if they are going to piss their pants.

  I wonder if Otto Skorzeny and Benito Mussolini looked like that when another heroic Storch pilot such as myself on a rescue mission such as this flew them off that mountaintop in Italy?

  Then he had another thought: Will Tío Juan’s fate follow Il Duce’s violent end?

  Father Welner got the headset on first.

  “What are we doing?” he asked, with great concern—or maybe terror—in his voice. “Is something wrong with the airplane?”

  Why does it surprise me that he got the headset on before Martín?

  By now I should have learned to never underestimate the wily Jesuit.

  With great effort Clete resisted the temptation to solemnly advise the priest to prepare to meet Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates.

  “I think we have found the invasion fleet,” he repeated.

  Thinking, The last time I did this was in an L-4 Piper Cub off Tulagi in the Solomons looking for Japanese barges, he dropped to two hundred feet above the water and then flew over the boats twice, once approaching them from the front, and a second time from the rear.

  These boats are really getting tossed around. Why is that?

  Because, Stupid, when the water in the River Plate estuary, always shallow, is affected by the tide and the winds, it can get really choppy.

  And these boats are not intended for rough water.

  He saw that the soldiers were sitting on the flat deck behind the whe
elhouses, rifles held between their knees, getting drenched by water coming in over both the bow and the sides.

  At first he thought the Horse Rifles had not brought their horses. Then he saw that every boat carried at least one horse and several had two.

  Of course. Officers ride into battle. Waving the troops on with their sabers.

  How are they going to get the horses off the boats? Make them jump?

  Then he saw that each of the boats had a World War I Maxim heavy machine gun mounted on a wheeled carriage.

  He picked up altitude and took up a course—he hoped—that would take him on a direct vector to Isla Martín García.

  “Ask Bernardo,” he said into the intercom microphone, “if the Patricios have Browning automatic rifles.”

  “Two BARs . . .” Martín replied.

  Well, guess who finally remembered he’s the general in charge of this operation and took the headset away from the priest?

  “. . . and two air-cooled Browning .30 caliber machine guns. Why do you ask?”

  Does he really have to ask?

  “Bad news, Bernardo. Two BARs and two .30-cal Brownings firing from shore can chew those boats up pretty easily. And, bobbing around the way those boats are, the Horse Soldiers won’t be able to effectively return the fire. Unless we can keep both sides from shooting, there’s going to a lot of dead Horse Soldiers.”

  “Well, maybe Father Welner can do that.”

  “The power of prayer, right?”

  “Have you any better ideas?”

  “If I think of something, I’ll tell you when I land on your goddamn island. Presuming I can find it.”

  —

  The island appeared, dead ahead, twenty minutes later. He did the math in his head. He was making, give or take, a hundred knots. Divided by three, that meant the invasion fleet was thirty-three miles behind him. Getting tossed around by the choppy water the way it was, the fleet was making no more than, say, fifteen knots. That meant they would reach the island in a little more than two hours.

  Two hours to land, load Tío Juan aboard, and take off seems like plenty of time.

  Presuming the Patricios don’t use their BARs and light Brownings to shoot us out of the sky.

  Or, more likely, shoot us dead the moment we land.

  If we can land.

  It took him five minutes to reach the island, and another ten minutes to fly back and forth looking for some adequate place to set down the Storch.

  He saw that he again had two options: to land on the beach or in the tiny square in the center of the island. There were problems with the beach. The Patricios had set up their Brownings to cover the beach, the only place the invaders could land.

  If I try to land on the beach, I’ll be presenting the Patricios with a nice, easy moving target.

  Like those metal ducks in a carnival shooting gallery.

  Even if they didn’t shoot, I don’t know if the beach sand will support the weight of the Storch—either when landing or when I stop.

  If the gear sinks into the sand, I’ll never be able to take off.

  That leaves the town square.

  —

  When he flew over the town square—right at stalling speed—he saw that there would be several problems if he tried to land there.

  For one, it looked like a postage stamp.

  For another, about twenty soldiers of the Patricios were taking aim at the airplane with their 7mm Mauser rifles.

  Frade had a sudden inspiration.

  “Bernardo,” he ordered. “Pass me your cover.”

  “My what?”

  The Ejército Argentino does not refer to their uniform caps as covers, Stupid!

  “Pass me your goddamned hat!”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to throw up in it and I don’t want to dirty the airplane.”

  General Martín, with great reluctance, passed his uniform cap, an ornate, tall, crowned leather-brimmed item of uniform decorated with all the gold braid appropriate for a general de brigada.

  Frade raised the Storch’s side window and then made another pass over the town square. When he was almost directly over it, he threw the hat out.

  He made another 180-degree turn, came in low over the square, and landed.

  The airplane was immediately surrounded by troops of the Patricios. Most of them had their Mausers aimed at the airplane. But three of them—all officers, Clete saw—Thank you, God!—were examining the general officer’s headgear that had just floated down to them.

  And one of those officers, Clete saw, as he quickly turned around the Storch, thinking he might have to try to take off in a hurry, was el Coronel Juan Domingo Perón.

  “Bernardo,” Clete said to his microphone, “why don’t you get out and see if el Coronel Perón will give you back your hat?”

  When Martín, immediately followed by Father Welner, climbed out of the Storch, Clete saw that the officers with Perón immediately recognized Martín and saluted. That caused the soldiers with the Mausers to lower their weapons.

  He saw, too, that a moment later surprise came to Perón’s face when he saw the Jesuit. Perón’s eyes then widened even farther when he recognized the Storch pilot.

  When Martín walked up to Perón—who should have saluted Martín but didn’t—Perón almost absentmindedly handed Martín his uniform hat. The crown had been crushed when the hat met terra firma, and Martín immediately started trying to carefully mold it back in place.

  Why not? With all that gold braid on it, it probably cost him a month’s pay.

  Frade climbed out of the airplane in time to hear Perón demand, “What’s going on here?”

  “What we feared would happen, el Coronel, has happened,” Martín announced.

  “What are you talking about?” Perón demanded.

  “What he means, Tío Juan,” Clete said, not very pleasantly, “is that General Necochea’s own Horse Rifles are on their way here to shoot you.”

  Perón considered that for a moment. “Cletus, that’s nonsense. El Coronel Lopez commands the Horse Rifles. He’s an old friend of mine.”

  “Cletus speaks the truth, Juan Domingo,” Father Welner said.

  Perón looked at Martín.

  “You’re telling me Fernando Lopez is one of the malcontents?”

  “It would appear so, el Coronel,” Martín said.

  Perón considered that a moment, then said, “I refuse to believe el Presidente would permit any serious attempt by anyone in that handful of malcontents, including Lopez, to try to do something like trying to assassinate me. I am vice president of the Argentine Republic. It would be treason.”

  “Then why do you suppose,” Frade said, “that Farrell sent us to get you off this island before your old friend Lopez gets here?”

  That the question surprised Perón was visible on his face.

  “General Farrell sent you?”

  “There I was, minding my own business, having a pleasant lunch at the Jockey Club,” Clete said, “when these two showed up and said, ‘The president asks that you get your Tío Juan off that island before he gets shot.’ Or words to that effect. Father Welner told me it was my Christian duty to do so. So here we are.”

  “I find that hard—impossible—to believe!” Perón said.

  “What Cletus just said is the truth, Juan Domingo,” the priest said.

  “You don’t really expect to fly me off the island in that?” Perón asked, pointing at the Storch. “I’m not going anywhere in that little airplane.”

  “Well, you could swim to Uruguay, I suppose. That’s the only other option I can see you have,” Clete said.

  “You seem to think this is funny, Cletus,” Perón snapped.

  “I do see elements of humor in it. Mussolini was damned glad to see the Storch that flew onto that mountaintop to rescue him from a firing squad. The last thing I expected to hear was that you would be afraid to get in my Storch.”

  Perón didn’t reply to that, but Clete saw on h
is face that he knew about how Otto Skorzeny, of the Waffen-SS, had rescued the Italian dictator from Italian troops who—waiting for orders to shoot him—held Il Duce prisoner at the Campo Imperatore Hotel high in the Apennine Mountains.

  “Afraid? You dare to accuse me of cowardice?”

  “That’s what it sounds like, Tío Juan.”

  “Cletus!” Father Welner said warningly.

  “What did you expect to hear?” Perón snapped.

  “Something along the lines of ‘Thank you, godson, for interrupting your lunch and risking your life to come here not only so I wouldn’t get shot, but to keep Argentina from having a civil war.’ You can say that in your own way, of course.”

  “Civil war? What are you talking about?”

  Frade met Perón’s eyes for a long moment, then shook his head disgustedly.

  “You pompous fool! Stopping a civil war from getting started is what Farrell is concerned about! Not you. He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about keeping you alive any more than I do!”

  “Cletus, you know you don’t mean that!” the priest said.

  Frade ignored him.

  “Tío Juan,” Frade challenged, “are you going to stand there with a straight face and try to tell me you don’t know what your girlfriend and your old pal, former Teniente Coronel Rodolfo Nulder, are up to?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Perón said arrogantly.

  “Then pay goddamn attention! It’s probably the reason your old friend el Coronel Lopez and the other malcontents have finally decided to stop their wishful thinking and get on with shooting you.”

  “I advise you, Cletus,” Perón said evenly, wagging his right index finger in Frade’s face, “to be very careful what you say. There is a limit to my patience.”

  “And I have passed my limit,” Frade snapped. “The lady—and I use the term loosely—and Nulder have been in the slums organizing the workers—she calls them ‘the shirtless ones.’ They are going to march—have begun to march—on Buenos Aires, up Avenida 9 Julio to the Ministry of Labor Building, and then over to the Casa Rosada, to protest your arrest.”