“Got it. Thank you.”
“Why do I think you’d rather go to a penal battalion?” Dieter asked.
“Because you’re perceptive?”
Von und zu Aschenburg laughed and then put his hand on the bandage on his side.
“Goddamn it! I told you to stop!”
“And I said everybody out!” Mother Superior snapped.
[THREE]
El Plumerillo Airfield
Mendoza, Mendoza Province, Argentina
1105 22 October 1945
Three station wagons drove onto the tarmac and stopped between the red and shot-up SAA Lodestars.
Willi von Dattenberg got out of the middle station wagon. And so did Elsa von Wachtstein.
Well, I guess the new girlfriend came to see him off, Clete thought.
If you think about it, it’s sort of nice—her being a widow and all, and a friend of the family—that they’ve hit it off like that.
Von Dattenberg went to the rear of the station wagon and started to pull out the heavy case holding the Admiral Byrd cold-weather gear. Security guards rushed to help him load it into the SAA Lodestar.
And then Martha Howell got out of the station wagon.
And I guess she came to see Jimmy off.
Well, why not? He’s always been like another son to her.
And then Miss Marjorie Howell got out of the station wagon.
What the hell is she doing here?
“Squirt,” Clete called. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”
“What the hell does it look like, you sonofabitch?” Marjie replied.
She quickly scanned the tarmac and found Jimmy Cronley, who had just about finished his walk-around inspection of the SAA Lodestar.
She went up to him.
“You sonofabitch! You really were going to leave without saying good-bye.”
She kicked him in the shin and, when he bent over, she slapped his face.
Clete stood with Martha Howell, watching the scene.
“What is that, true love?” he said.
“Shut up, Cletus,” Martha Howell replied.
After a moment, she then said, “Well, I’d say that’s what it looks like, wouldn’t you?”
Marjie and Jimmy were now clutching each other tightly.
“I’ll be a sonofabitch,” Clete said.
“Yes, and you do that so well,” Martha said.
Marjie and Jimmy broke apart, kissed, then he limped to the rear door of the SAA Lodestar, climbed aboard, and the door swung shut behind him.
—
When Jimmy got to the cockpit, von Dattenberg was strapping himself into the co-pilot’s seat.
“Cletus said I should sit here,” he announced. “To be of what help I can.”
“That’s known as the blind leading the blind,” Jimmy said as he got into the pilot’s seat. “Don’t touch anything!”
—
When Jimmy’s face appeared in the cockpit window, Clete ran to where Marjie stood in front of the left engine nacelle. He led her back to Martha.
They watched as the whine of the engine starter came and the left engine began to turn, emitting smoke and a burst of flame before finally smoothing down.
Hans-Peter had the red Lodestar already taxiing off the tarmac.
As Jimmy hurried to follow, he started the right engine of the SAA Lodestar.
—
The red Lodestar turned onto the runway from the taxiway and immediately made its takeoff roll. The SAA Lodestar then turned onto the runway—and stopped.
As Jimmy stood on the brakes and ran up the throttles, he looked at von Dattenberg.
“See that lever with the wheel?” he said, pointing as the aircraft began vibrating heavily. “When we’re in the air and I call out ‘gear,’ pull back on it, and then when that green light lights up, tell me. Got it?”
“Got it,” von Dattenberg said, nodding and giving him a thumbs-up gesture.
Jimmy looked out the windscreen and saw the red Lodestar getting smaller as the aircraft quickly gained altitude.
He quietly wondered aloud, “What the fuck am I doing?”
Then he shoved the throttles to TAKEOFF POWER and released the brakes.
—
Marjie shrugged out of her mother’s embrace and watched as the airplanes took off.
She turned to Clete.
“Jimmy’s airplane is full of bullet holes!” she accused. “There’s even plywood over one of the windows!”
Clete nodded. “And there’s no navigation equipment except a magnetic compass. But it’s airworthy. We flew it yesterday. Jimmy, too. He’ll be all right, Squirt.”
She threw herself into his arms and sobbed.
“Oh, Clete, I love him so much!”
“Really? I never would have guessed anything like that.”
She pushed herself away from him and looked up at his face.
Then she laughed.
“Would you, Martha?” Clete added.
“I would never have guessed. I thought she was smoking those funny cigarettes.”
“Well, now I know where not to go when I need a little sympathy,” Marjie said, but she was smiling.
Clete put his arm around her shoulder and led her to the station wagon.
[FOUR]
Almirante Marcos A. Zar Airfield
Trelew, Chubut Province (Patagonia), Argentina
1725 22 October 1945
Cronley shot three touch-and-gos on the Trelew runway, practicing what Dieter von und zu Aschenburg had told him was the trick to land on snow and ice. There was neither snow nor ice on the Trelew airfield, which made Cronley curious.
The fourth time he touched down, he completed the landing roll and turned onto a taxiway. When he’d reached the terminal tarmac, he stopped the SAA Lodestar beside the red Lodestar, and shut it down.
“Well, Kapitän von Dattenberg,” he said, in German, “it looks as if I have once again cheated death.”
Von Dattenberg’s face showed surprise, even shock, at the remark, but didn’t respond.
“As Cletus Frade taught me when he taught me how to fly, ‘Any landing you can walk away from is a good one.’”
“I thought those were very good landings,” von Dattenberg said.
“You don’t have much of a sense of humor, do you?”
“I suppose I don’t.”
Hans-Peter von Wachtstein, accompanied by two men in army uniforms, Thompsons slung from their shoulders, approached the airplane.
“I hope those guys are the Húsares de Pueyrredón who Oberst Habanzo left here,” Jimmy said. “And that Hansel is not under arrest. Otherwise, we’re going to find ourselves in a cell somewhere, or standing against a wall.”
The joke went right past von Dattenberg.
“Who else could they be?” von Dattenberg asked, and then, after realization came, said, “Elsa—Frau von Wachtstein—told me you have a strange sense of humor.”
“Did she really?”
And what else did Elsa the Great tell you about me?
Jimmy unfastened his shoulder harness and got out of the pilot’s seat.
“Well, if we’re going to get shot, let’s get it over.”
—
When Jimmy Cronley opened the door, Hans-Peter von Wachtstein was standing beside the two Húsares.
“The sergeant here,” von Wachtstein said in German, “was so glad to see the Húsares de Pueyrredón captain on my plane that I thought he was going to cry.”
“How so?” Cronley said.
“There’s seven Húsares, including him, and about fifty Armada Argentina people. He was sure it was only a matter of time until the navy people remembered where they had put the ammo for their weapons and retook the base.”
“‘Remembered where they had put their ammo?’” Cronley parroted.
“No kidding. When the Húsares sergeant disarmed the guards, only the commanding officer had a loaded gun, a pistol. None of the sailors had ammo in thei
r rifles—”
“Where is the Húsares captain now?” von Dattenberg asked.
“He said he was going to try to convince the navy commander—he’s a corvette captain—that by the authority vested in him by the Húsares de Pueyrredón colonel, he is authorized to requisition the fuel for our aircraft.”
“And if this fellow says no?”
“That’s a problem, Willi,” von Wachtstein admitted.
“We have the weapons,” Cronley reasoned.
“But we don’t want to use them,” von Wachtstein countered. “You don’t want Perón to ask ‘What exactly was your little brother doing in Trelew, Cletus, when he declared war on the Armada Argentina?’ And sooner or later, probably sooner, one of these navy guys is going to realize nobody’s watching him—and we don’t have enough people to watch all of them all of the time—and go over the fence, go into the town of Trelew, and get on the telephone.”
Cronley nodded.
Von Wachtstein went on: “And, for the sake of argument, let’s say that you can put that Lodestar on the ground tomorrow—”
“On the ice, you mean?” Cronley interrupted.
Von Wachtstein nodded.
“On that subject, where is all this ice and snow I keep hearing about? There’s none here.”
“It starts about one hundred kilometers south of here,” von Dattenberg offered. “And from that point southward, that’s all there is.”
“How do you know that?” Cronley challenged.
“That’s what the charts I had on U-405 showed,” von Dattenberg answered.
“If I may continue, gentlemen?” von Wachtstein said. “If you can land that Lodestar on the ice and snow at Estancia Condor tomorrow . . .”
“That presumes we can find Estancia Condor,” Cronley said.
Von Wachtstein ignored him. “. . . without either bending it, or having it sink through the ice cap. And that presuming you and Willi Grüner can find U-234, and that the crew of U-234 gives you the uranium oxide because they like your smile, and that you can somehow get it from where you find the U-234 back to where you have parked your Lodestar, which has miraculously not broken through the ice cap, and that you manage to take off, you will have only enough fuel to make it back here. Not enough to fly to Mendoza to meet Señor Howell’s Constellation.”
He let that sink in, then finished with: “In other words, we are going to need more cooperation from the navy than we’re liable to get by pointing guns at them.”
Cronley didn’t say anything for a moment, then said, “You didn’t mention how I’m supposed to find my way back here with only a magnetic compass, but it’s not important. I’m a second lieutenant, after all, and thus able to easily deal with those minor problems.”
“Unless your modesty gets in your way,” von Wachtstein said.
“But the . . . diplomatic problems of dealing with the navy is something else. Let me give it a moment’s thought.”
A long moment later, he said, “Eureka!”
“Eureka?” von Wachtstein said.
“That means ‘the sudden, unexpected realization of the solution to a problem,’” Cronley said. “You might want to write that down.”
“After I hear what it is, I might do just that,” von Wachtstein replied.
“What General Martín did to convince that Tenth Mountain captain that he was on the wrong side of this was show him the picture on the front page of La Nacíon of Cletus standing next to Perón on the balcony of the Casa Rosada.”
“So?”
“We tell the corvette captain we are on a confidential mission that Clete is running for Perón, and the proof of that is you’re flying Clete’s personal red Lodestar.”
After a moment, von Wachtstein grinned and nodded.
“That might be just crazy enough to work. And you just happen to have a copy of La Nacíon, right?”
“No. But I wouldn’t be surprised if there was one in the air force officers’ club.”
“And if there’s not?”
“Then you’re going to have to think of something else. That was my best shot at a solution to this dilemma.”
After a moment, von Wachtstein said, thoughtfully, “You know, that’s really not such a bad idea. And in the absence of anything else, I think we should try it.”
—
When they got to the Officers’ Club, the Húsares de Pueyrredón captain and the navy corvette captain were sharing a bottle of wine.
“Gentlemen,” the Húsares de Pueyrredón captain announced, “may I introduce my cousin, Corvette Captain Raphael Aguirre? Rafe, this is Captain von Wachtstein of South American Airways, and Señores von Dattenberg and Cronley, who are on the staff of Don Cletus Frade.”
“An honor, gentlemen,” Corvette Captain Aguirre said, offering each of them his hand. “José has been telling me about your mission.”
“I hope he hasn’t told you things he should not have told you,” von Wachtstein said sternly.
“Captain,” Aguirre said, “my lips are sealed.”
Von Wachtstein met his eyes for a long moment, then said, “Because he has told you whatever he has, and because you and José are family, I will tell you—with the understanding that it will go no further—what I can.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Did José tell you that an attempt was made to assassinate el Coronel Perón?” von Wachtstein asked.
“No, sir. José said there were difficulties, difficulties he could not share with me.”
Cronley thought: That’s twice this guy has called Hansel “sir.”
That’s a good sign . . .
“There was also an attempt on the life of General de Brigada Martín of BIS,” von Wachtstein went on. “Both attempts failed, but unfortunately el Coronel Perón and General Martín were wounded, General Martín rather seriously.”
“Who did it?” Aguirre asked.
“We have reason to believe that certain members of the Tenth Mountain are attempting a coup d’état.”
“Do you know who?”
“No. We won’t know until we catch them. When they realized that Martín and Perón were still alive, they ran.”
“And you’re chasing them?” he asked, but it was more of a statement than a question.
Von Wachtstein nodded.
“The delicate thing here, Captain, is that President Farrell and el Coronel Perón don’t want the story to get out. They believe that it would be best for the country if this thing were dealt with quietly. Now, we know, or we think we know, where these traitors are headed.”
“And you’re going there to arrest them?”
Again, his question came out as a statement.
“You’ve noticed, I’m sure, that we’re flying Don Cletus’s personal airplane and an SAA aircraft. We took that from the maintenance hangar still bearing the bullet holes that were put in it during the assassination attempt. We wanted to get it out of Buenos Aires before the press saw it and started asking questions. And of course the whereabouts of Don Cletus’s airplane is no one’s business but Don Cletus’s.”
“Sir, how can I help?” Aguirre asked.
“In two ways, Captain, both equally important. First of course is refueling our aircraft now and when we return. Second, make absolutely sure that none of your men do anything that would tip these people that we’re here. Our plan is to be where they’re going when they get there.”
“Where is that?”
“We absolutely cannot take the risk of them hearing there are people here headed where they’re headed. I’m sure you understand.”
“Perfectly.”
“You can keep all of your men on the base until this is all over?”
“Absolutely. You have my word of honor, sir.”
Von Wachtstein solemnly shook Corvette Captain Aguirre’s hand.
Okay, Cronley thought. He’s swallowed everything Hansel told him.
For now.
But what’s he going to think in ten minutes, in an hou
r, when he’s had time to think it over?
The answer came ten minutes later, when von Dattenberg turned up a copy of La Nacíon and announced, “Oh, here’s a picture of Don Cletus with el Coronel Perón on the balcony of the Casa Rosada.”
As Corvette Captain Aguirre examined the photograph, he said, “I had the privilege of meeting Don Cletus’s father, el Coronel Jorge Frade, when my father and I visited José at the regiment, shortly after José had joined the Húsares de Pueyrredón as a subteniente. My father was a great admirer of el Coronel Frade; he was hoping he would become president.”
Well, Cronley thought, we seem to have Corvette Captain Raphael Aguirre—and thus the whole situation here—under control.
What is that?
“God rewards the virtuous” or “God takes care of fools and drunks”?
Whichever, let’s hope it holds.
Odds are that any moment this mission will turn into a colossal clusterfuck . . .
[FIVE]
Almirante Marcos A. Zar Airfield
Trelew, Chubut Province (Patagonia), Argentina
0650 23 October 1945
The red Lodestar was at the end of the runway, with the SAA Lodestar on the taxiway next to it, when the engines of the red Lodestar stopped.
“Oh, shit!” Jimmy Cronley said.
He thought, And so the colossal clusterfuck has begun . . .
“What’s going on?” Willi von Dattenberg asked.
“Whatever it is, it’s not good.”
When the door of the red Lodestar opened a moment later, von Wachtstein came through it and headed for the SAA Lodestar.
Cronley shut down his engines. Then he started to undo the harness of the pilot’s seat. Before he could stand up, von Wachtstein appeared in the cockpit.
“I can’t pick up the signal from the Collins 7.2,” von Wachstein said.
“What does that mean?” von Dattenberg asked.
“The plan is for us to home in on a signal from Estancia Condor,” von Wachtstein explained. “We told them to start transmitting at six-thirty.”
“How did you do that?”
“There’s a Collins in Clete’s airplane.”
“But now you can’t hear them?”
“No. It’s a different kind of a signal, a directional signal, different frequency, intended to work with the RDF—Radio Direction Finder system.”
Empire and Honor Page 52
