“Mi Coronel,” Clete said. “Mi Papá, el Coronel…”
“I heard, and I don’t think you’re amusing either. What’s this dinner all about?”
“He’s having the Mallíns to dinner, to thank them for putting me up when I first got here.”
“Mallín, as in Sociedad Mercantil de Importación de Productos Petrolíferos?”
Clete nodded.
“I should have gone to see Mallín, and I didn’t,” Graham said. “There might be questions about that. Do you think your father thought of that?”
“I think Papá wants to know what’s been going on out here.”
“That, too, certainly. Well, I suggest we finish our lunch, then go see Chief Schultz, tell him we’re going into town, and then go.”
“Dinner isn’t until nine-thirty.”
“I will pay a call on Señor Mallín before I meet him socially tonight,” Graham said.
“Schultz is at the transmitter site. We’ll have to drive a Model T out there—the Buick would get stuck—and then come back here for the Buick.”
“OK,” Graham said. “I just want to make sure that Schultz is on schedule.”
Chief Radioman Oscar J. Schultz walked up to the Model T sedan at the transmitter site. He was wearing the familiar strained smile of a Chief who knows what he’s doing when he sees the brass, who cannot find their asses with both hands, coming to inspect his work.
As they bounced over the pampas in the Model T, it was difficult to pick him out from among the twenty-odd gauchos working in the area. He was dressed as they were, in a flowing shirt, billowing black trousers drawn together at the tops of his boots, a wide leather belt around his waist (complete to a menacing-looking knife with a foot-long blade), and a large, floppy beret on his head.
“You really ought to learn how to ride, Chief,” Graham said. “You’re already in uniform.”
“The Colonel, Sir, is dressed as if he and Mr. Frade are going somewhere,” Schultz replied, not amused.
He and Chief Daniels had arrived at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo in their dress-white uniforms. The gauchos’ clothing was the only solution to the clothing problem. Chief Schultz didn’t mind much—Clete observed him examining himself in a mirror with approval. But Chief Daniels was uncomfortable in the gaucho costume; he was in fact heard mentioning to Chief Schultz that they both looked like Mexican pimps.
On the other hand, while there were only a few actions that Chief Radioman Oscar J. Schultz, USN, was unwilling to undertake in the service of his country, high on that short list was approaching closer to large animals—such as horses or cattle—than was absolutely necessary. That he might actually climb on a horse and use it as a means of transportation was absolutely out of the question.
Enrico solved that problem by obtaining for him the keys to one of the estancia’s dozen or so ancient, but perfectly maintained Model T pickups from the estancia manager. They were nearly as good off-the-road, or through-the-mud, as a jeep.
“We’re going into Buenos Aires for dinner, Chief,” Graham said to Schultz. “We’ll be back in the morning. You have things under control here? You need anything from the city?”
“I’m going to hang the antennae in the morning,” Schultz answered. “We’ve got everything we need. Maybe, with a little luck, we can get on the air tomorrow afternoon. What’s going on in Buenos Aires?”
“I think Mr. Frade’s father wants to know what we’re doing out here,” Graham said.
“With you two gone, that’ll mean only Ettinger and me are left who speak Spanish,” Chief Schultz said.
“That’ll pose a problem?”
“It will if Enrico goes with you.”
“He and Mr. Frade are like Siamese twins, but if you think it’s important, Chief…”
“He’s the only guy around here who knows how to make these people jump, Colonel.”
Ten minutes later, a visibly reluctant Suboficial Mayor Rodríguez—having been convinced that he could contribute to killing Germans by remaining at the estancia to help Chiefs Daniels and Schultz and Staff Sergeant Ettinger—handed his Remington Model 11 to Colonel A. F. Graham.
“With respect, mi Coronel, be very alert.”
“You have my word of honor, Suboficial Mayor,” Graham replied solemnly.
“I will pray for God to protect you.”
When they returned to the ranch house to pick up the Buick, el Capitán Delgano, attired in a natty suit, was waiting for them on the verandah with a suitcase. So was Second Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi, wearing a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His seersucker jacket was lying on the verandah rail.
Delgano walked off the verandah and was approaching the Buick when Clete got there.
“Señor Cletus,” he said. “I overheard the housekeeper say you and Señor Graham are going to Buenos Aires. I wondered if I could join you.”
“It would be my pleasure, mi Capitán,” Clete said.
Delgano turned and started quickly toward the verandah to retrieve his bag. Tony picked up his coat and walked to the car.
“I wonder,” Graham said softly, “what el Capitán’s plans are in Buenos Aires.”
“I couldn’t tell him no, could I?”
Graham shook his head.
“Lieutenant,” Tony said. “I checked with Daniels. He’ll have twenty-four flares and a couple of spares in an hour or so. Is there any reason I couldn’t go into Buenos Aires with you?”
“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, Pelosi,” Graham said.
“The condemned man wants a last meal—a last Italian meal? Peppers and sausage, maybe?” Clete replied.
“I was thinking of maybe some veal parmigiana,” Tony said, smiling shyly.
After a long moment, Graham shrugged.
“I left that damned shotgun in the Model T,” he remembered. “What do I do with it?”
“I think you better bring it with you, mi Coronel,” Clete said. “I wouldn’t want to be you if Enrico came here and found it.”
Delgano came up with his suitcase.
“Put it in the trunk, mi Capitán,” Clete said. “Get in, Tony.”
[FOUR]
Ristorante Napoli
La Boca, Buenos Aires
1815 29 December 1942
“They serve pretty good food in there, Tony?” First Lieutenant Cletus H. Frade, USMCR, asked of Second Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi as Tony crawled out of the backseat of the Buick.
“As a matter of fact, it’s pretty good,” Tony replied.
“Well, eat a lot. And don’t complain about the prices. I want them to be successful. They owe me money.”
“They don’t owe you the money, I owe you the money,” Tony said, and then changed the subject. “How are we going to get together?”
“If you think you’ll be through dinner by then, I’ll pick you up at your apartment at eight in the morning.”
“Very funny,” Tony said, nodded at Graham, and walked into the restaurant.
“What’s that all about?” Graham asked as Clete pulled away from the curb.
“True love. Tony met a girl. An Italian girl. Her father owns that restaurant.”
“And the crack about the money?”
“That’s personal.”
“It would have been better if you weren’t so considerate of his love life,” Graham said. “I don’t think Internal Security is going to pick you up—or me—and take us someplace to work us over with a rubber hose, but I’m not so sure about Pelosi.”
Clete looked at him but didn’t reply.
“At least we got rid of el Capitán Delgano before we dropped him off. Unless, of course, they already know about his girlfriend.”
“They meaning Internal Security?”
“He’s either headed right for Internal Security or to someone else who’ll be grateful for a report on the interesting things we’ve been doing on your father’s estancia. I thought about blowing the sonofabitch away on the drive here. Now I’m sorry I did
n’t.”
“It would have gotten blood all over my nice leather seats,” Clete said, not willing to accept that Graham was serious.
“Disposing of the body would have been the problem, and I didn’t know how you two would react.”
My God, he’s serious.
“My father doesn’t seem worried about Delgano.”
“I am,” Graham said simply.
“Well, what the hell, Colonel. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow…or a day or two later…we probably die.”
“Good God!” Graham said, his voice falling into a groan.
“Do you want me to take you to your hotel? Or the Edificio Kavanagh?”
“What’s that? Oh, Mallín’s office?”
Clete nodded.
“I better go there,” Graham said.
There was a large, sharp-pointed grain of truth in Clete’s flippant remark.
Based on his professional experience as a Naval Aviator while operating from Henderson Field on Guadalcanal, First Lieutenant Cletus H. Frade, USMCR, was possessed of knowledge that he did not elect to share with anyone but Second Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi, CE, AUS.
While he was confident that their system to illuminate the Reine de la Mer by means of parachute flares would probably illuminate the Reine de la Mer enough to permit whoever was firing the torpedoes from the submarine to see the sonofabitch well enough to aim accurately, the chances of the aircraft coming out of the encounter intact were practically nonexistent.
The odds of the crew of the aircraft surviving the encounter intact were somewhat less. For a number of reasons: The crew would not have parachutes, for instance. Nor would they have life belts that Clete had any confidence in. After an extensive search, he found the ones they were using in a warehouse at the estancia. They looked as if they had floated off the Lusitania when she sank and were dry-rotting away ever since.
While there was an element of risk in actually dropping the flares, that operation was simplicity itself. A chute had been constructed of wood. This fit in the door of the aircraft, and was long enough to hold six flare assemblies in a row. There was room for two rows, for a total of a dozen flares.
On the command “Get Ready,” the flare dropper—Pelosi—would elevate the interior end of the chute by propping it up with legs mounted to its sides. He would then remove a board at the exterior end of the chute, which held the rows of flares in place.
On the command “Go,” the flare dropper would simultaneously activate two detonators, each with a five-second delay, and immediately shove all twelve flares off the chute using a built-in pusher.
Five seconds later, approximately two to three seconds after leaving the aircraft, the detonators would function, in turn igniting a length of primercord (which bound the six-flare bundles together) and the detonators which would ignite the magnesium. Once freed of bundling, the flare assemblies would separate, and their parachutes would deploy, a second or two before the magnesium in each reached full burn.
It sounded like a Mickey Mouse rig, especially to Chief Daniels, but to Clete and Graham as well (especially since the primercord was locally manufactured by Lieutenant Pelosi). But it worked from the first test, and they tested it twice.
According to the plan, the flare dropper would then reload the chute with a second dozen flare assemblies and stand by for the “Get Ready” and “Go” orders in case a second run over the Reine de la Mer proved necessary.
The odds that a second run over the Reine de la Mer would not be necessary were, in Lieutenant Frade’s judgment, approximately one hundred to one.
His reasoning was that even with the Reine de la Mer in plain sight, permitting a perfect overtarget run, he would have absolutely no idea, when they began their descent, how the slipstream and other factors like winds aloft would affect the flares’ position in relation to the Reine de la Mer, and thus how they were illuminating it.
The illumination pattern could of course be perfect for the torpedo aimer in the submarine. This was highly unlikely, but possible.
At this point, there entered another messy question: Would the submarine be in position to fire its torpedoes once the target was bathed in the light of the magnesium flares?
Submarines firing torpedoes are not like warships firing their cannon, or hunters shooting ducks. Cannons can be traversed, moved from side to side, just as a hunter can turn to move his shotgun. But torpedoes fire in a straight line in the direction the submarine is pointed. While it is possible to adjust the course of a torpedo—turning it left or right off a dead-ahead course—that can only be adjusted so much.
Presuming the submarine got a good look at the Reine de la Mer in the light of the first flare run, it was very probable that it would be necessary to move the direction of her bow ten, twenty, maybe thirty degrees to the right or left.
But when the flare run began, the Devil Fish would not be moving. Or if it was moving, it would only be just fast enough to maintain steering way. Turning would take time, more time than the duration of the flare burn.
And after the first flare run, meanwhile, the crew of the Reine de la Mer would not only be alerted but would have time to man the heavy machine guns and the Bofors cannon—if they weren’t already manned.
And there would be enough light from the first-run flares to illuminate the Beechcraft. When the second flare run started, the Reine de la Mer would be prepared for it.
It was unpleasant enough to dwell upon what heavy machine bullets would do to the fuselage, wings, and gas tanks of the Beechcraft without considering what would happen inside the aircraft if 40-mm exploding projectiles struck it and sympathetically detonated Tony’s homemade (quarter-inch cotton rope impregnated with nitroglycerine) primercord, and thus set off a dozen flares.
“Well, what the hell, Clete,” Tony said. “It will be a spectacular way to go.”
[FIVE]
Maria-Teresa’s father almost ran to greet Tony when he stepped inside the Ristorante Napoli; and he treated Tony like royalty when he bowed and scraped him to a table.
“I’m profoundly sorry, Señor Pelosi, that Maria-Teresa is away at the moment,” Señor Alberghoni announced in a rush to Tony, once he was seated. “She certainly would have been here for you if she had known you were coming. But she has gone to confession at the Church of San Juan Evangelista. That’s not far away, as you know. She’ll certainly return shortly, and she’ll be delighted to see you. And remorseful that she was not here when you were kind enough to call at the restaurant.
“In the meantime, would Señor Pelosi like a glass of wine and a little something to eat?”
The “Señor Pelosi” business made Tony uncomfortable, and so did the bowing and the scraping, but that wasn’t as bad as when Maria-Teresa’s father wept and kissed his hands after Maria-Teresa gave him the paid-off mortgage.
“Grazie,” Tony said. “I’d like a glass of wine.”
Half a bottle of vino tinto and a huge platter of vermicelli with a mushroom-tomato sauce later, Maria-Teresa still hadn’t shown up. So Tony decided to walk over to San Juan Evangelista and wait for her. He didn’t want to say what he had to say to her with her father hanging over him anyway. Maybe he would meet her on the street.
But he didn’t meet her on the street. And when he went inside the baroque church, he didn’t see her there either. Maybe she took a back alley or something on her way back to the ristorante.
A priest was sitting outside one of the confession stalls. It wasn’t that way at home. When you went to confession there, you couldn’t see the priest. Maybe you could recognize his voice, or he could recognize yours; but you couldn’t see him and he couldn’t see you.
What the hell, he doesn’t know who I am.
He entered the confession stall and dropped to his knees.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Habla español? Italiano?”
Tony switched to Italian.
Aside from not going to mass, the only sin he co
uld think of was one that had been troubling him since he was thirteen years old.
“Father, I have been having impure thoughts. About a specific girl.”
Priestly interrogation brought out that he had also been guilty of the sin of Onanism in connection with his impure thoughts about the specific girl. He received a brief lecture on forcing impure thoughts from his mind and the harm that self-abuse inflicts on the body and the soul; and then he was given absolution and a relatively minor penance.
He left the confession stall and dropped to his knees before a larger than life-size statue of Saint John the Baptist, lit a votive candle, and asked God to make it easy for his mother and his father and his brothers to understand if he didn’t come through the business with the Reine de la Mer. And he asked Him not to let them mourn so badly. And then he stood up.
When he turned around, he saw Maria-Teresa standing by one of the enormous pillars. Her head was covered with a shawl.
Jesus Christ, she’s beautiful!
“I saw you come in,” she said.
“I was looking for you.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I told you, I was looking for you. Then I went to confession.”
“I thought you would come,” Maria-Teresa said. “But not here.”
“Excuse me?”
“What do you want, Anthony?”
“I want to talk to you for a minute. Can we go get a cup of coffee or something?”
“To the ristorante?”
“Not to the ristorante.”
“There is a café near here.”
He took her arm on the street. She didn’t shrug it away, but she didn’t seem to like it much, either.
They took a tiny table in a small, crowded café, and a waiter came and took their order. Tony was going to order coffee, but changed his mind and asked for a glass of vino tinto. He asked Maria-Teresa if she wanted a cake or a dish of ice cream or something, but she said no thank you, all she wanted was coffee.
“Do you want me to come with you, Anthony?” Maria-Teresa asked.
“Come with me where?”
She shrugged. He understood.
Honor Bound Page 60
