Empire and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  “How in the world did you hear about that?” Father Welner blurted.

  “I didn’t tell him,” Martín said, directing the comment to Perón.

  Frade glared at Martín. “But you are the one who’s always making those unsupported allegations that I’m an intelligence officer, right, Bernardo?” He turned to Perón. “Are you really going to deny any knowledge of this?”

  “I’ve heard some rumors,” Perón said.

  “Jesus! You’re unbelievable, Tío Juan.”

  Perón glared at him.

  “Even if the rumors are true,” he pronounced, “a peaceable demonstration of the shirtless ones to protest the wholly unjustified arrest of the Labor minister—whom they know to be a friend—is not the sort of thing that would start a civil war.”

  “It’s enough to get your old friend el Coronel Lopez and the other malcontents off their asses and on the road to kill you. And when everybody hears what’s probably going to happen here, a civil war seems to me to be a sure thing.”

  “And what do you think is going to happen here?”

  “What I would like to see happen here is what Father Welner and General Martín—and now that I think about it, what General Farrell—want to happen here, which is that nothing happens. Not a shot is fired by anybody.

  “Just as soon as you and I and General Martín take off, the Patricios get back on their boats and go back where they came from . . .”

  “Tigre,” Father Welner furnished.

  “. . . taking the Good Father with them, as he won’t fit in the airplane,” Clete continued, ignoring him.

  The priest was not going to be ignored.

  “I thought the plan was that I would meet the Horse Rifles when they arrived and reason with them.”

  “That was your plan, Padre. Mine’s better. Think about it. When the Horse Rifles get here and find nobody here but the officer—what is he, a captain?—normally in charge . . .”

  “He’s a major,” Martín finished, nodding toward one of the officers standing beside Perón.

  “. . . of this bucolic outpost to greet them—in other words, no Patricios and most important, no el Coronel Perón, to stand against a wall—they are going to feel—especially if they conduct a thorough search of the island and don’t find him—more than just a little foolish. They will then do one of two things.”

  “What?” Martín asked.

  “They will get back on their boats and go back where they came from, or they will stay here thinking that el Coronel Perón may come back. In either event, no shooting, no dead people, no starting a civil war.”

  “Cletus is right, Father,” General Martín said. “It would be best if the Horse Rifles saw for themselves that there’s nothing on this island that shouldn’t be.”

  “And what, if I may be so bold as to inquire,” Perón asked, thickly sarcastic, “do my captors plan to do with me?”

  “We fly you to Jorge Frade,” Martín said. “I have arranged for a platoon of the Patricios to be there. They will provide all the protection you’ll need as we take you to the Military Hospital.”

  Now he sounds like a general.

  But where has that confident tone of command been up to now?

  “No matter how anxious they are to shoot you,” Frade said, “none of the malcontents is going to try to get at you in the Military Hospital. The barracks of the Patricios is right next door.”

  “I can see no reason that I have to fly off the island,” Perón said. “I can return to the mainland the way I came. By boat.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Clete exploded. “Are you really that stupid? How did you get to be a colonel?”

  “Cletus,” Father Welner said, “you cannot talk to your godfather that way. He deserves your respect!”

  Clete turned angrily to him.

  “What the hell has he ever done to earn my respect, Padre? I’m trying to keep him alive, and you’re not only of no goddamn help, but getting in the way. So shut the hell up!”

  He turned to Perón.

  “Tell me, Tío Juan,” he said sarcastically, “in your long military career didn’t someone, somewhere, sometime try to teach you that knowing what the enemy is likely to do is at least as important as knowing what you want to do?”

  “Your father, Cletus, would have slapped your face for talking to a man of God that way,” Perón said. “Or, for that matter, to me.”

  “Answer the goddamn question!”

  “Then you tell me ‘what the enemy is likely to do,’” Perón said icily.

  “I think they’re likely to have a platoon,” Clete said, “maybe a company of the Horse Rifles in Tigre waiting to see if you show up there. Can you admit that remote possibility?”

  Perón’s face showed that the remote possibility had not occurred to him.

  “Now, unless you want to get shot on the dock in Tigre, or against a wall here, get in the goddamned airplane!”

  “El Coronel,” Martín said, “you have no other option.”

  “You’ll be with me in the airplane?” Perón asked.

  Martín nodded.

  “Very well then,” Perón said.

  Jesus Christ! He acts like he’s doing us a favor!

  [THREE]

  There were a number of problems with flying off from the Isla Martín García town square, problems Clete elected not to share with either of his passengers.

  For one thing, with three people aboard, the Storch was overloaded. That of course had been true at Jorge Frade Airfield when they had taken off from there, but there he had had the luxury of several thousand meters of runway.

  Here he had no more than 150 meters of what would have to more or less pass as a runway. The Storch was capable of taking off within forty-five meters, but that meant a Storch not exceeding maximum takeoff weight. And he’d never actually tried to take off after a forty-five-meter takeoff roll.

  Another problem was that it had grown dark. The landing light only barely illuminated the “runway.” He knew that the town square was ringed with trees, which meant that he would not only have to get off the ground but gain enough elevation to miss the trees.

  And, presuming he did get into the air, he again faced the problems of navigation he had when flying to the island—except now they were exacerbated by the darkness.

  And the fuel gauges indicated he had less than half-full tanks.

  In other words, in the darkness over the River Plate, he not only would have to navigate by the seat of his pants but would not know if he had enough fuel to get where he was going, wherever that was.

  “Attention, passengers,” he said over the intercom. “Extinguish all smoking materials, put your seats in the full upright position, and fasten your seat belts. Thank you for flying with us today.”

  Then stepping as hard as he could on the brakes, he moved the throttle forward to full takeoff power. The 237-horsepower Argus As 10C-3 engine then attempted to move the aircraft forward. With the brakes firmly locked, this resulted in the aircraft bouncing and shuddering in place.

  When the needle on the tachometer seemed to have moved upward as high as it was ever going to go, he turned on the landing light and released the brakes.

  The Reverend Kurt Welner, S.J., was now in view at the end of the runway, his hand raised as he invoked the blessing of the Deity on the flight.

  The Storch sort of jerked into motion.

  In the instant Clete got his feet off the brakes and put them on the rudder pedals, he felt life come into the controls. He pushed the nose forward to get the tail-dragger wheel off the ground, then eased back on the stick. He felt the Storch grow light on the landing gear, and then the rumble of the wheels stopped.

  I’ll be a sonofabitch! We’re flying!

  Thank you, God!

  —

  Navigation, if not fuel remaining, ceased to be a problem thirty seconds into the flight as he reached two hundred meters.

  There was a yellowish glow on the horizon to his right.
/>   That has to be coming from the Paris of South America. Or at least the outskirts thereof. Maybe Tigre on the right?

  And if that’s Tigre, I’m not lost and I’m not going to run out of gas. Tigre’s only twenty miles, give or take, from that island.

  He moved the nose of the Storch so that it was pointing at the right of the glow on the horizon.

  Five minutes later, he could see the floodlights on the wharves of Tigre.

  “Bernardo,” he ordered, “look ahead to your right. That’s the wharves in Tigre. Did you leave some of the Patricios there?”

  “No. But there’s Army trucks down there.”

  “I noticed. Give Tío Juan the headset.”

  —

  “Hello, hello, can you hear me?” Perón’s voice demanded.

  “Not if you’re talking, Tío Juan. Shut your mouth and look down and to the right. Those are the trucks of the Horse Rifles I told you would probably be waiting for you.”

  Perón did not reply. Clete hadn’t expected him to.

  He made a low pass over the wharf, then picked up the nose and went to an altitude of 250 meters. Ninety seconds later, he saw below him a steady line of headlights moving in both directions.

  He turned to the left and flew south, parallel to what he thought had to be National Route 8.

  “Give General Martín the headset,” Clete ordered.

  Perón didn’t reply, but a moment later Martín’s voice came over the headset: “I have the earphones on.”

  “On our left is Route 8,” he said. “Don’t tell him, but we’re going to have a look at Avenida 9 Julio and see how many shirtless ones his girlfriend and his pal Nulder were able to muster.”

  —

  Ten minutes later, now at two hundred meters, they were flying up what someone had once told Frade—and he had no reason not to believe—was the widest avenue in the world.

  Avenida 9 Julio, named for Argentina’s Independence Day, was usually crowded, but not like now.

  Lines of automobiles, trucks, and buses were running up and down the various lanes, but they were now sharing the avenue with hordes of people.

  Clete came to the Obelisk near the Colón Opera House. He thought of it as a miniature version of the Washington Monument in Washington.

  The area around it and the streets leading from Avenida 9 Julio to the Casa Rosada were jammed with people, as was the avenue from the Obelisk to the Labor Ministry Building.

  “It looks like my Tío Juan’s girlfriend has really roused the rabble,” Clete said. “There must be a hundred thousand people down there.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Martín said, and then, as they approached the Ministry of Labor building, asked, “What do we do now?”

  “Get the rest of the bad news,” Clete said, as he switched to the radio function.

  —

  “Jorge Frade, SAA One.”

  He had to call three times before he got a reply.

  “SAA One, Jorge Frade.”

  “SAA One is ten kilometers to the south.”

  Clete switched back to intercom mode.

  “Bernardo, please tell me you recognize that voice, and that he works for you.”

  “Is that Muñoz?” Martín asked.

  “Ask again, after I switch to radio,” Clete said, moved the switch, then made a thumbs-up gesture.

  “Is that Muñoz?” Martín repeated.

  “A sus órdenes, mi General.”

  Clete switched back to intercom.

  “Okay. He knows it’s you. Ask him if he’s alone, and if he says yes, ask him if Rodríguez is with him.”

  He switched back to radio and made another thumbs-up.

  “Muñoz,” Martín asked. “Are you alone?”

  “Suboficial Rodríguez is with me, mi General.”

  “No one else?”

  “There was a lieutenant from the Horse Rifles, mi General, but at the moment he’s taking a . . . he’s in the toilet.”

  “There are no Patricios there? The ones I sent out there?”

  “Shortly after you left, mi General, a platoon of the Patricios arrived. Ten minutes after that, a company of the Horse Rifles arrived. The Horse Rifles put the men from the Patricios into Hangar Two, mi General.”

  “The Patricios went willingly?”

  “No, mi General.”

  “Were shots fired?”

  “No, sir. But there was a company of the Horse Rifles, and the Patricios had no choice.”

  “Have the Patricios been disarmed?”

  “The lieutenant in charge of the Patricios gave his parole to the captain in charge of the Horse Rifles.”

  “I’ll have him shot!” Martín declared furiously.

  That’s right, General. Remain calm.

  Never lose your temper.

  “Enrico?” Clete called.

  “Sí, Don Cletus?”

  “Listen carefully. I want you to go out on the tarmac right now—without anyone seeing you. Go to the line of Lodestars. Go to the Lodestar nearest the runway. Untie the airplane and remove the wheel chocks. Then open the door.”

  “Sí, Don Cletus.”

  “What I’m going to do is land. Have Muñoz turn on the runway lights in five minutes—that should give you enough time to get out to the Lodestar. As soon as I’m on the ground, I’m going to taxi to the Lodestar and get out. I’ll have el Coronel Perón with me. General Martín will then slowly taxi the Storch to the terminal. El Coronel and I will get in the Lodestar and take off. Got it?”

  “Where are we going, Don Cletus?”

  “Mendoza.”

  “Sí, Don Cletus.”

  Clete switched to intercom.

  “You heard all that, Bernardo? Including the part about taxiing slowly to the terminal? I’m going to need all the time I can get.”

  “I understand.”

  “Give the headset to el Coronel.”

  —

  “What’s going on, Cletus?” Perón demanded thirty seconds later.

  “There’s a company of Horse Soldiers at the airfield looking for you.”

  “What about the Patricios? Martín said the Patricios would be here to protect me.”

  “When the Horse Soldiers came, they put the Patricios in Hangar Two.”

  “So where are you going to take me now? Campo de Mayo? Or Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo? Your men there—they’re all ex–Húsares de Pueyrredón troopers—can protect me.”

  Tío Juan, why do I think it’s finally sunk in that people are trying to kill you?

  “I don’t have enough fuel to fly to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.”

  “My God, what are you going to do?”

  “I may be able to keep all three of us alive if you do exactly what I tell you and do it when I tell you to do it—not after you think it over. Agreed?”

  That started out as bullshit, but now that I think about it, it’s right on the money.

  Martín and I are no longer spectators. El Coronel Whatsisname—Lopez, Fernando Lopez—of the Horse Rifles is a good deal more competent than I would have thought.

  Not only did he get the whole Shoot Perón Show actually under way, but he seems to know just what he’s doing.

  Like covering his flanks.

  He had to know that General Farrell was sending Martín and Father Welner to get me to fly Tío Juan off that island. Which means somebody told him. And since that wasn’t General Farrell, it had to be someone in Farrell’s inner circle.

  The proof of that is the company of Horse Rifles showed up at the airfield twenty minutes or so after we took off for the island.

  Even if Lopez had somebody here who called him the minute we had taken off, there’s no way he could have gotten a company of the Horse Rifles here in twenty minutes unless they were already formed somewhere close awaiting the order to get on the trucks and head for the airfield.

  And where is Lopez?

  You should have thought of this before, Stupid!

  He’s p
robably on one of the boats about to land on the island.

  Because he’s commanding the operation.

  And because if he expects to shoot my Tío Juan, he’s going to try to do it by the book, not just murder him. By the book means the convening of a summary court-martial, having the court find him guilty of treason, and then, and only then, standing him against a wall facing a firing squad.

  And what is Lopez going to do when he learns that Tío Juan is not on the island?

  There has to be a Plan B—maybe even Plans B, C, D, and E. So far Lopez has had a plan for everything.

  And once he got on those boats and headed for the island, he knew he was committed. There was no going back.

  So what’s Plan B?

  Jesus Christ! You should have thought of this a long time ago, Super Spy!

  “If el Coronel Perón is not on Isla Martín García, or for some other reason manages to escape arrest and thus avoid court-martial, then he will be shot to death whenever or wherever he is located.”

  The one thing Lopez can’t allow to happen, now that he’s actually started this operation, is have Tío Juan get away.

  Lopez knows that failure means Lopez gets the firing squad. He’s going to do whatever he can to stay alive. If that means killing Perón—and whoever’s with him—out of hand, then so be it. . . .

  Frade’s chain of thought was interrupted when he heard Perón’s voice in his headset.

  “What are you thinking of doing, Cletus?”

  “As soon as I land, while we’re still on the runway, you and I are going to get out of the Storch as quickly as possible. You and I will lie in the grass by the side of the runway. Martín will then taxi toward the terminal. When he’s out of our sight, we’ll run to the nearest Lodestar and get in it and fly to Mendoza. Got it?”

  “Don’t you need a second pilot to fly a Lodestar?” Perón protested.

  “I don’t. Now give the headset to General Martín.”

  “Yes?” Martín then said.

  “Change of plans, Bernardo. We’re all going to get in the Lodestar.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think that the Horse Rifles are going to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  Martín didn’t reply.

  “What I’m going to do is leave the runway and taxi to the first Lodestar. I’ll get out and get Perón out and drag him to the Lodestar—”