Griffin W.E.B. - Honor Bound 01 - Honor Bound

Tony looked distressed.

"Something else on your mind?" Clete asked. "Don't tell me you've had second thoughts about your lady friend?"

"No," Tony said quickly. "Nothing like that. Jesus! She's really a nice girl, Clete."

"But?"

"Lieutenant, I've been thinking," Tony said uncomfortably.

"Lieutenant"? We're back to "Lieutenant"?

"Second Lieutenants are not expected to think, Lieutenant," Clete said. "I thought you knew that."

"I don't want to sound like a wiseass."

"Out with it, Tony."

"I don't think your idea of making that fucking ship turn on its searchlights by shooting at it with a .30-caliber Browning makes a whole lot of sense, Lieutenant, is what I've been thinking."

Clete made a "come, let's have it" gesture with his hands.

"For one thing, you're going to have to get pretty close to it to hit it, and I don't know how the hell you plan to mount a machine gun in that little airplane, but it's not going to be easy."

That problem is actually Number Two, or maybe even Number One, on my list of Problems to Be Resolved.

"And you said the Reine de la Mer has .50s, and probably twenty-millimeter Bofors. All you're going to do is make a goddamned target out of us."

That thought, Lieutenant Pelosi, has run through my mind once or twice.

"Us?" Clete asked.

"I figured I'd be working the machine gun," Tony said.

Actually, I was thinking Enrico would.

Clete said that aloud: "Tony, I thought I'd take Enrico with me. I haven't figured out how to mount a machine gun in the Beechcraft. The .30 Browning may not work. We may have to use a BAR"—a Browning Automatic Rifle, a fully automatic shoulder weapon. "Enrico's a BAR expert; they've had in them in the Argentinean Army for years."

"And what am I supposed to do," Tony asked indignantly, "sit around somewhere with my thumb up my ass while you're off in the airplane?"

"I was thinking you could back up Dave," Clete said, aware that it was a lame reply. "You were going to tell me what you were thinking, Tony."

"Why do we have to fuck around making the ship illuminate herself? Why don't we illuminate the sonofabitch ourselves?"

"How?"

"I don't know. But I figured I'd ask the Chief here. Maybe they've got something like an illuminating round."

"How would we fire it?" Clete asked. "You need a cannon to fire an illuminating round."

"We have Very pistols," Chief Schultz said, turning from the table to join the conversation. Clete was surprised. He'd thought Schultz was deep in technical conversation with Ettinger.

"They're signaling devices," Clete argued. "Flares. The submarine'll need more than that kind of light."

"The five-inch rifles have an illuminating round," Chief Schultz said.

"How does it work?" Tony asked.

"Time fuse. You set it. You fire the round. So many seconds later, a charge in the projectile detonates, shattering the shell casing. That releases the flare, which is on a parachute. I don't know if the timing fuse sets off the magnesium, or what."

"Can you take one of the rounds apart?" Tony asked. "Just get me the parachute and the magnesium flare?''

"I don't see why not," Chief Schultz said. "But you would need something to light the magnesium. You're thinking of throwing it out of the airplane?"

Tony nodded.

"You'd have to figure out some way to ignite the magnesium," Chief Schultz said. “Some kind of a detonator. And it would be touchy. If a magnesium flare went off inside the airplane, you'd really be in the deep shit."

"I know about detonators," Tony said. "What I need to know is whether the temperature and duration of burn of the detonators I have would be enough to set off the magnesium. Or maybe I could somehow rig the Navy detonator, the one inside the shell ... or maybe set that off with one of my detonators."

"When I finish with Dave here," Chief Schultz said, "coming up with a list of what we need for the transmitter site, I'm going back aboard the Thomas. I could ask the Chief Ordnanceman."

"It would be better if Tony talked to him, Chief," Clete said. He looked at Enrico and switched to Spanish. "Without the clowns knowing of it, we'll either have to take el Teniente Pelosi onto and then off the American destroyer, or bring one of Chief Schultz's friends from the destroyer here and then back to the destroyer. Can you do that?"

“S?, mi Teniente."

[FIVE]

Centro Naval

Avenida Florida y Avenida Cordoba

Buenos Aires

1415 26 December 1942

Clete had to impatiently circle the block twice before he found a place to park the Buick. As he was putting the roof up, he saw the car which had followed him from Avenida Libertador drive up on the sidewalk at the next intersection. A furious policeman stalked over to it, and didn't seem to be very appeased by the documents the driver showed him.

I wonder if they will follow me into the officers' club, or just hang around outside?

He walked quickly through the entrance of the Centro Naval, then took the wide marble stairs to the second-floor dining room two at a time.

Peter von Wachtstein, Alicia Carzino-Cormano, and Dorotea Mallin were at a table at the far side of the room. Peter rose and waved his hand when he saw Clete.

The Virgin Princess smiled at him. His heart jumped.

"Ah, Se?or Frade," von Wachtstein said. "We were growing concerned."

"Sorry to be late, mi Comandante. I had trouble finding a place to park."

"Cletus, we were worried," Dorotea said.

"Nothing to worry about, Princess."

"Princess?" Alicia Carzino-Cormano said. "How sweet!"

No longer the Virgin Princess, but still the Princess,Clete thought as he kissed Dorotea's extended cheek. He walked around the table, kissed Alicia's extended cheek, then sat down beside Dorotea. Her knee immediately found his.

"I took the liberty of ordering champagne," von Wachtstein said. "But perhaps you would prefer corn whiskey?"

"Champagne will be fine, mi Comandante," Clete said.

"I heard Americans prefer corn whiskey to everything else," Peter said.

"And I heard that Germans preferred peppermint schnapps to all else," Clete replied with an equally broad smile.

"You are, I hope, fully recovered from your injuries?" Peter asked. But before Clete could reply, a waiter appeared with a bottle of champagne in a cooler.

"I was not aware that Germans drink champagne in the middle of the day," Clete said. "I would have thought beer."

"Only fighter pilots," Peter said. "Bomber pilots and other lesser mortals drink beer. Or peppermint schnapps."

"Ah ha!"

"I have the feeling that you two are about to say something rude to each other that will ruin our lunch," Alicia said.

"You have no cause for concern, my dear Alicia," Peter said. "I am here under orders to be charming to Se?or Frade."

"Under orders, did you say, mi Comandante?" Clete asked.

"The orders of my superior, el Coronel Gr?ner, the Military Attache1, Se?or Frade."

"How extraordinary!" Clete replied as the waiter finished pouring the wine. "I can't imagine why he would do that, mi Comandante."

"I think he wants to make the point that we Germans had nothing to do with the unfortunate business at your home," Peter said.

Clete felt a shoe push against his. He moved his foot. A moment later he felt Dorotea's leg pressing against the back of his calf. He looked at her, then decided that he did not want to look at her.

"Apparently, your Colonel has not read Shakespeare, mi Comandante."

"Shakespeare?"

" 'Methinks thy Colonel dost protest too much,' " Clete quoted.

"There is another line, Se?or Frade," Peter said. "I don't know who wrote it, some Englishman probably. It had to do with the charge of the light brigade at Balaclava: 'Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to ride...' et cetera."