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

"It would be my pleasure, mi Capitan," 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 Capitan'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 Capitan," 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'spersonal."

"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 Capitan 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 didn'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, Mallin'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.