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

I don't really need a controller. I can get by with a couple of six-volt dry-cell batteries; Christ knows I've done that often enough. So what I'm doing here is looking for wire and a half-dozen dry-cell batteries. Big fucking deal.

What I really need is a magnet, a great big fucking magnet, so I can make something like the thing Lieutenant Greene, Chief Norton, and Bo'sun Leech showed me at the shipyard in Mississippi.

That device really impressed Tony. It was designed to pierce armored steel, like on a tank; and it was improvised from a limpet mine the Navy had gotten from the English, Chief Norton told him. It was constructed of magnetized steel. Its bottom was flat and was attached to the steel of a ship's hull. The top was of much thicker steel, and dome-shaped. The explosive went inside the dome; but the dome also served as a damper, directing the explosive force inward. Even better, the charge itself was molded—Chief Norton called it a "shaped charge"—so that it really directed all the force inward.

Tony could think of a lot of uses for shaped charges in the business. Blowing concrete-sheathed structural steel, for example. And if you put a bunch of small shaped charges around the base of a smokestack, you could really drop the sonofabitch in on itself.

The only thing Tony found wrong with the limpets was that you could hardly put a couple of them in your luggage and board the airplane in Miami.

He didn't think now that he would be able to lay his hands on a dome-shaped piece of steel, even make one himself. But he could probably weld together a box—thin steel on the bottom, heavier on the sides and top—which would be maybe nearly as good as a dome. He would have to figure out some way to magnetize it. And he would try to mold some explosive himself into a shaped charge. If he could do that—he thought he could, with a big pot of boiling water—then he would have something just about as good as what the Navy showed him.

The one thing Tony could absolutely not figure out—with people around like Lieutenant Greene, Chief Norton, and Bo'sun Leech, who knew all about explosives and ships—was why they weren't down here, instead of a Gyrene fly-boy, Ettinger, and him. When Ettinger came to his apartment, he talked to him about that. Ettinger thought it was probably because Frade had connections in Argentina, and he and Ettinger spoke Spanish.

That was true, maybe. But Ettinger was supposed to be the communications sergeant of the team, and so far they didn't even have a telephone, much less a radio. .

This is really one fucked-up operation!

He walked to the edge of the water and bought an ice cream and a Coke from a street vendor. The ice cream was all right, but the Coke was room temperature. And the bottle was in shitty shape. When Tony was in the eighth grade at St. Teresa's, they took them on a tour of the Coke place. Half a dozen women there did nothing all day but sit at a conveyor belt and push off bottles that had chipped tops, or just looked bad. He wondered then what they did with all the bad bottles.

Now I know. They load them on ships and bring them down here.

He found an old-timey ship—it had both masts for sails and a smokestack—tied up at the stone wharf. Tony could read enough of the sign on the wharf to find out that the ship had sailed to Antarctica. He gave in to the impulse and bought a ticket and went on board.

A guy in what looked like some kind of Navy uniform guided him around. Tony scarcely understood what he was saying; but the map he pointed out showed that the boat had gone to the Antarctic not once, but half a dozen times.

Whoever sailed down there on this little thing really had balls. But what the hell, so did Columbus.

The guy kept talking too fast for Tony to understand much of what he said; but Tony nodded and shook his head and said "s?" a lot, and he had the idea when the tour was finished that the guy really didn't suspect that he was an American.

He gave him some money, and from the way the guy beamed, suspected he had given him way too much.

Well, fuck it! Lieutenant Frade gave me two hundred bucks for miscellaneous expenses. This is a miscellaneous expense. I'm looking at ships.

When he went back on the wharf, he was tempted to have another ice cream, but remembering the room-temperature Coke, decided that wasn't such a hot idea.

Maybe I can find a restaurant with some Italian food, and something cold to drink. Then I will go buy some fucking wire. If they ask me what I want it for, I'll tell them I'm putting in a telephone extension.

He found what he was looking for: Ristorante Napoli. It was three blocks down a narrow cobblestone street, on the ground floor of a run-down building with light-blue shutters. The shutters were painted with what looked like watercolor paint that didn't cover the wood underneath all the way.

Every other Italian restaurant in Chicago is called Ristorante Napoli.

Inside, it was a dump. A small room and eight rickety tables covered with oilcloth. He walked in and looked down at one of the tables, not pleased with the cheap tableware and the battered glass, into which was rolled a thin paper napkin. But then the smell of basil, garlic, and fennel came to his nostrils, and he sat down.

A waiter, or maybe the owner, a none-too-clean white apron around his waist, walked into the room.

"Buenas tardes, Se?or."

"Parli Italiano?"

"Of course. You are Italian?"

"Yes."

"From the North," the man said, and then tapped his ear. "I myself am from Napoli, but I can hear the North."

Actually, I'm from Cicero, Illinois. I don't think I should tell you that, so if you think I am from the North of Italy, fine.

"Where?"

Shit! I know as much about Italy as I do about Argentina. Zero. Zilch.

"Far north. Up by the border."

"Perhaps near Santa del Moreno?"

"Not far," Tony said. He tapped his ear. "You have a fine ear, Se?or."

"It is something like a hobby for me," the man said. "I am told that I am very good at it."

"You're amazing."

"And how may I help you, Se?or?"

"I would like something cold to drink, and then I would like to eat."

"We have the Coca-Cola, and agua con gas."

"Coca-Cola."

"And have you considered what you would like to eat?"

Tony heard his father's voice in his ear:

"This only works in a little restaurant,"he said. "But if the guy running it is pushing something, take it. It's one of two things: He personally made it and he's proud of it. Or they made it yesterday and he's trying to get rid of it. You can always send it back.''

"You surprise me," Tony said.

"I will try to please. And a wine.'"

"You surprise me."

The first thing that appeared was the Coke and the wine. The Coke was cold, and Tony drained it and burped.

“Excuse me."

"It is nothing."

There was a whole bottle of wine. All I wanted was a glass, but what the hell. The man went through the wine-tasting ritual.

In a joint like this? But what the hell, he's trying.

"Very nice," Tony said. The man beamed and filled Tony's glass.

"What do you call it?"

"Vino tinto Rincon Famoso. It is Argentine. I would not want my mother to hear me say this, but I prefer it to the Italian."

"Very nice," Tony said, meaning it, even if it wasn't the Chianti he had hoped for.

Next came prosciutto— damned good prosciutto—on a plate with french fries.

"What do you call this in Spanish?" "Jamon cocido con papas fritas."

"Jamon cocido con papas fritas," Tony repeated. "Jamon cocido con papas fritas."

"Fine," the man said. "In no time you will learn Spanish. It is not that different from Italian."

“I hope," Tony said.

Yeah, it won't be long. I'll speak Spanish in a couple of months. If I'm still alive in a couple of months.