W.E.B. Griffin - Victory and Honor

“And fresh,” the chef said approvingly.

“Mere hours ago, they were swimming. Into your capable hands, my friend, I entrust them.”

“I usually bake the whole fish,” the chef said.

“Indulge me,” Frade said. “I am Argentine, and the whole world knows we’re crazy. For now, I want you to dribble a little olive oil on the fillets, lay some lemon slices on top, and grill them. Serve them with some fried potatoes and a small salad. Can do?”

The chef nodded. “Can do.”

“After first selecting the best-looking fillets,” Frade then ordered, “which you will serve to us just as soon as you can, serve the leftovers to the diplomats traveling with South American Airways with the compliments of Chief Pilot Delgano.”

The chef nodded again.

Then Frade said: “They will taste much better if you drink a little Altano Douro as you grill them. Put a bottle for the chef on Señor Aragão’s bill, Señor Barman.”

Ambassador de Hernández’s face showed that he believed Frade was either crazy or drunk. Or both.

The chef smiled, picked up the burlap sack, and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

Frade looked at de Hernández. “You were looking for me, Mr. Ambassador? Why?”

“The overfly permission has come, Señor Frade. But only as far as Frankfurt am Main.”

“We are supposed to go to Berlin,” Frade challenged.

“I know,” the ambassador said more than a little lamely.

“What does Buenos Aires have to say about this?”

“About this specifically, nothing.”

“And about things in general?” Frade pursued. “What about the assurance of either the Foreign Ministry or the President that no attempt will be made to smuggle Nazis to Argentina on SAA’s airplane?”

“There has been no response to that specifically, Señor Frade.”

“Then we’re not going,” Frade said.

“There was a message from el Coronel Perón, routed via the embassy, to Señor Nulder, which Señor Nulder shared with me.”

“And are you going to tell me what it said?”

“It said that the Foreign Minister was doing everything he can to get the necessary overfly permissions, as the president is very anxious to relieve the diplomatic contingent in Berlin as soon as possible.”

“We already knew that, didn’t we?” Frade said.

Frade then took an appreciative sip of the Altano Douro, sighed audibly, and announced: “Well, if the secretary of Labor and Retirement Plans tells us that General Farrell is anxious to relieve the diplomatic contingent in Berlin as soon as possible, I don’t see that we, as patriotic Argentines, have any choice. Have the passengers at the airfield no later than five-thirty tomorrow morning, Mr. Ambassador.”

“That early, Señor Frade?”

“We have already lost more than a full day, haven’t we, Mr. Ambassador, waiting for you to come up with the flyover permissions? I don’t want to lose any more time.”

“I’ll pass that to Señor Nulder right away,” Ambassador de Hernández said. He then stood and excused himself.

When the ambassador had gone, Delgano softly asked, “Half past five in the morning, Cletus?”

“I didn’t say we would be there at that unholy hour. I think we should try to get off the ground at, say, nine.”

Aboard Ciudad de Rosario Approaching Frankfurt am Main, Germany 1235 19 May 1945

When Clete Frade had announced that Peter von Wachtstein would fly Ciudad de Rosario from Lisbon to Frankfurt am Main in the left seat, and that he would fly as copilot, the faces of the three SAA pilots showed they didn’t like it at all.

Frade remembered what he had learned in the Marine Corps: When there is dissension in the ranks, try explaining your reasons.

He told them: “Von Wachtstein has flown all over Spain, France, and Germany. None of us has. And we don’t have reliable charts. We’re going to have to fly by the seat of our pants, looking out the window to see where we are. And Peter is the only one of us who’ll know what the hell he’s looking at.”

“But, Cletus,” Gonzalo Delgano protested, “von Wachtstein has less time at the controls of a Constellation than anybody else.”

Rule Two: If reasoning doesn’t work, apply a two-by-four with great force to the temples of the dissenters.

“Actually, Gonzalo, there’s an even more important reason von Wachtstein will fly in the left seat.”

“Which is?”

“I said so. Any further questions?”

Delgano’s face reddened, but he didn’t argue further.

Once they were in the cockpit, von Wachtstein suggested that while crossing Spain they take advantage of the Constellation’s capabilities to become inconspicuous. The Connie could cruise at twenty thousand feet at better than three hundred miles per hour. At that altitude they would be hard to see from the ground, and even if there were contrails, the natural presumption would be that they were an Allied bomber. Further, von Wachtstein said, the Spanish had no aircraft capable of climbing that high to investigate, and even if they tried, any Spanish aircraft would have trouble catching up with the Connie.

“What the Spaniards have are Luftwaffe rejects,” von Wachtstein said. “Nothing as fast as the Connie.”

You just lucked out again, Cletus Frade.

You put Hansel in the left seat impulsively. And he just showed you it was the right thing to do.

“Let’s do it,” Frade ordered.

On takeoff, they navigated by dead reckoning, flying southeast across Portugal toward Spain while climbing to an altitude of twenty-two thousand feet. The weather was clear, and there were only a few isolated clouds.

They had been airborne just about an hour when von Wachtstein said, “Take a look at three o’clock, Clete. That’s Madrid. Now, let’s see if we can find the Pyrenees.”

“Clete,” von Wachtstein said, “did you ever see pictures, or maybe a newsreel, of crazy Spaniards running away from bulls down a narrow street?”

Clete thought a moment, then said, “Yeah.”

“They do that in Pamplona,” he said, and pointed. “Which means that we’re about to fly over the Pyrenees. The last time I was here, I was flying an Me-210 and the oxygen wasn’t working. So, I had to fly through them. Very interesting experience.”

“Welcome to France,” von Wachtstein announced, pointing downward at the snowcapped Pyrenees mountains. “Now, let’s see if we can find Lyon.”

“God, I hope that isn’t what I think it is,” von Wachtstein said.

“What do you hope it isn’t?”

“Köln. You know, where the aftershave lotion comes from.”

“You mean Cologne.”

“That’s what I said,” von Wachtstein said. “If it is Köln, we’re too far north.” He shoved the yoke forward. “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

“Please keep in mind this aircraft is not a fighter plane. Try not to tear the wings off.”

“That’s Köln, all right. That’s the cathedral. Christ, the whole city is destroyed!”

“My God!” Clete said, looking at square miles of utter destruction.

“Welcome to the Thousand-Year Reich, Herr Oberstleutnant,” von Wachtstein said.

“It’s hard to believe,” Clete said.

“Well, now that we’ve found the Rhine, I suppose we better go the rest of the way close to the ground.”

“Well, there’s what’s left of Frankfurt am Main,” Peter announced.

“The airport is to the south.”

“That looks as bad as Cologne,” Clete said. “Jesus, there’s hardly a building left standing.” He paused. “There’s one. A great big building.”