W.E.B. Griffin: Victory and Honor

“Aye, aye, sir.”

An MP captain, this one festooned with all the proper MP accoutrements, came into the office three minutes later. He saluted.

“Captain,” Graham said, almost cordially, “I’ll see to it that the prisoners get back to Fort Hunt. I can see no need for you to wait around here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s all, Captain,” Graham said. “You are dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain left and closed the door.

“That’s all, Colonel Frade,” Graham said. “You are dismissed.”

Clete stood, and, remembering what Graham had said about Naval custom proscribing the exchange of hand salutes indoors unless under arms, didn’t.

He met Graham’s eyes for a moment, then marched toward the door.

“Clete,” Graham called.

Frade turned.

“You were right, Clete. Wild Bill will throw one of his famous Irish fits when he hears about this, but that’ll be the end of it. We both know too much, and he is fully aware that we do.”

“I hope that’s the case, sir.”

“Please present my compliments to Kapitän Boltitz and Major von Wachtstein. And my best regards to Doña Dorotea.”

“I’ll do that, sir. Thank you.”

“Maybe we’ll see one another one day. Strange things happen in this business we’re in. Belay that. Were in.”

“ Were in, sir?”

“The reason Donovan’s parking spot was so conveniently open for you is that he’s over in the Pentagon begging General Marshall not to shut down the OSS this afternoon.”

“But if they shut down the OSS right now, what about . . .”

“All the ongoing projects? Several of which you’re running?”

“Yes, sir.”

“God only knows, Colonel Frade. Have a nice flight. Vaya con Dios .”

Washington National Airport Arlington, Virginia 1705 10 May 1945

The public address loudspeakers of South American Airways Constellation Ciudad de Córdoba blared in the passenger compartment: “Passenger von Wachtstein to the cockpit. Passenger von Wachtstein to the cockpit.”

Hans-Peter Baron von Wachtstein made his way up the aisle and entered the cockpit.

“Sit there, Hansel,” Frade said in German, pointing to a jump seat. “Don’t touch anything, and pay attention. You might learn something.”

Von Wachtstein sat down and strapped in.

“National,” Frade said in English into his microphone, “South American Double Zero Two rolling.”

Frade advanced the throttles to takeoff power.

“Gear up and locked. Flaps to zero,” Chief Pilot Gonzalo Delgano reported a few minutes later.

Frade pointed out the window, and von Wachstein looked, then nodded. They were passing over the White House.

Then Frade looked at von Wachtstein and said, “This ends your flight-deck familiarization of the Connie for now.”

As Peter unbuckled his harness, Clete gestured with his thumb toward the passenger compartment.

“Karl and Beth . . .”

“What about them?” von Wachtstein said.

“Go back there, Hansel, and throw ice water on Romeo and Juliet before they embarrass my aunt Martha and everybody else with a shameless exhibition of their mutual lust.”

“Ah,” von Wachtstein said. “Too late.”

Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade Morón, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1235 11 May 1945

Washington, D.C., was a long way—just over five thousand miles—from Buenos Aires. It had been necessary for South American Airways Double Zero Two Ciudad de Córdoba to refuel at Belém, Brazil, after a nine-hour flight from Washington. Refueling had taken two hours. Then it had been a just-over-eight-hour flight to Buenos Aires.

The Ciudad de Córdoba completed its landing roll and turned off the runway onto a taxiway. A tug—it had been surprisingly easy to convert John Deere tractors, ones fitted with enormous double tires for use in rice fields, into aircraft tugs powerful enough to move Constellations—painted in SAA’s powder blue and gold color scheme came down the taxiway toward the Constellation.

The Connie stopped, then shut down its engines as the ground crew backed up the tug to it and connected to the front landing gear.

The tug dragged the airplane to the tarmac, past three enormous hangars, and then pushed the Connie, tail first, into the center hangar.

“It would seem, Gonzalo,” the pilot said solemnly to his first officer, “that we have once again cheated death.”

“Cletus, you know damned well I don’t like it when you say that,” Delgano said as he unfastened his harness, stretched in his seat, and then stood.

“Well, you may be happy with near-empty tanks—maybe ten minutes left—but I’m always concerned.”

Delgano snapped his head around to examine the fuel gauges.

They showed there was considerably more fuel remaining than ten minutes.

“Gotcha!” Frade cried happily.

Delgano shook his head and left the cockpit.

Frade looked out the window. The Connie was the only airplane in the hangar, but there were a number of automobiles, most of them large and chauffeur-driven.

Frade waited until the REAR DOOR light glowed red and then he killed the MASTER POWER switch and left his seat.

By the time he walked through the passenger compartment he was the last person in it.

When he stood on the platform at the head of the ladder, the first thing he looked for was the couple he often in the past called—to their great annoyance— Hansel und Gretel .

When he found them, his throat tightened and his eyes teared.

Hansel—Hans-Peter Baron von Wachtstein—had his arms around Gretel—the former Alicia Carzino-Cormano—in a bear hug that suggested neither had the slightest intention of ever breaking the embrace in their lifetimes.

His thoughts were interrupted by a shrill whistle. He knew it well, including the time it had brought three taxis to a dead halt at once during rush hour on Avenida 9 de Julio. His wife made it by squeezing her tongue tip with two fingertips, then quickly exhaling. It was a skill Clete had never mastered, either as a Boy Scout when all the other members of Troop 36, Midland, Texas, could do it with ease, or after his marriage, when he had tried even harder to learn how.

He found her standing near the foot of the stairway.

Doña Dorotea Mallín de Frade, who had just turned twenty-two, was the image that came to mind when one heard the phrase “classic English beauty.” She was tall and lithe, blond, and had startlingly blue eyes and a marvelous milky smooth complexion.

Standing off to the right was Enrico Rodríguez and another man who looked very much like him. They both cradled Remington Model 11 twelve-gauge riot shotguns in their arms as they kept a wary eye on everybody in the hangar. The other man, former Sargento Rodolfo Gómez, had, like Rodríguez, retired from the Húsares de Pueyrredón. He now was rarely more than fifty feet from Doña Dorotea and her children—and usually closer.

Clete was not wearing his Marine Corps uniform, nor his SAA captain’s uniform. He was far less formally attired in khaki trousers, a yellow polo shirt, battered Western boots, and a wide-brimmed Stetson hat once the property of his late uncle James Fitzhugh Howell—who for almost all of Clete’s life was the only father Clete had known.

Frade went quickly down the stairs and embraced his wife.

Dorotea put her mouth close to his ear and whispered: “You done good, my darling. And do I have a reward for you in mind!”

“You mean maybe two empanadas and a beer?” he asked, teasing.