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

Clete said.

"We're supposed to leave them in the hotel in ... Where we going? Punta someplace?"

"Punta del Este. Fuck 'em. The first thing a Marine learns, Tony, is that when he puts his hands on a piece of equipment that works, he keeps it."

[FOUR]

La Posta de la Congrejo Hotel

Punta del Este, Uruguay

0005 10 December 1942

"You want to put the top down?" Lieutenant Frade inquired ofLieutenant Pelosi as they prepared to get in their rental car.

"Why not? We could see better."

The car was a 1937 Ford convertible sedan. They had a good deal of difficulty pulling the top down.

"The President probably has people who do this for him," Clete observed.

"What?"

"I said, Roosevelt probably has people who do this for him."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"President Roosevelt has a car just like this. I don't think he could put the top down himself; he probably has an official top-putter-upper-and-downer."

"He's crippled. Polio. How the hell can he drive a car?"

"It has levers on the steering wheel. You never saw it in the newsreels?"

"Yeah, now that you mention it."

"How far is this place?"

"A hundred and twenty-five miles," Clete said. "According to the map, the road's a highway. I figure we can make forty miles an hour; that's three hours to get there. We have an hour, an hour and a halfs, cushion."

"You figuring this in miles or kilometers?"

"Miles. You know how to convert?"

"Sure," Tony said.

Bullshit. You don't know, but don't want to admit it.

"To get miles from kilometers, you divide the kilometers by eight, then multiply by five. Two hundred kilometers divided by eight is twenty-five. Times five is one twenty-five."

"Yeah, right. You want me to drive?"

"I'll drive. You work the map. I wish to hell we had a flashlight. Flashlights, plural."

"I got one," Tony said. "In the bag with the walkie-talkies."

"Good for you! You bring it with you?"

"No. But when I figured we would need one, I went to that little store on the main drag and said, 'Se?ora, una linterna, por favor,' and she sold me one."

"You should have bought two."

"I did, Lieutenant, Sir. I knew I had to take care of you."

"Insolence does not become you, Lieutenant."

The first fifty miles were on a macadam road on which they met few cars but a large number of open-bodied trucks of all sizes. In the direction of Montevideo, most of these were heavily laden with everything from firewood to cattle; but they were mostly empty headed north. Clete was not surprised when they reached the city of Rocha to find an all-night truck stop. He pulled in, gassed the car, and then he and Tony ate brochettes of beef, peppers, and onions cooked on an open fire. The beef was so tender, it had to be filet mignon.

A few miles out of Rocha, the pavement stopped abruptly, and they found themselves on a gravel road.

Christ, I should have thought about that!Clete realized, angry with himself. This is Uruguay, not Louisiana.

His concern proved unnecessary. The gravel road was wide and smooth and well cared for. Twice, the headlights picked up Caterpillar Road Graders and tractors with grading blades parked by the side of the road, which explained it.

Forty miles farther along, they came to a small town called Castillos, dark except for the bright lights of another all-night truck stop. Thirty-five miles past that they came to a still-smaller town, La Corinilla. They were almost at their destination. Finding it proved far easier than Clete thought it would be. Nestor's map was right on the money.

Three point seven miles past La Corinilla's Abierto Las 24 Horas truck stop, they turned right, drove 2.1 miles down a slightly more narrow, but equally well cared for gravel road, and then .6 miles down that, turned right again onto another fairly narrow road, drove .3 miles, and stopped.

In front of the car, as far as the headlights permitted him to see, the road was straight and level. On either side of the road there appeared to be swamp, but Clete finally realized these were rice fields.

He made a note of the odometer reading so he could return to this spot. And then they drove down the road. He went exactly a mile and stopped. The road and the rice fields stretched on, apparently to infinity. He looked at his watch, the Hamilton chronograph. It was two forty-five—0245. Even stopping for the brochettes and gas, they'd made much better time than he thought they would. And they weren't supposed to start flashing the headlights until 0400. They had an hour and fifteen minutes.

He turned the Ford around and headed back toward La Corinilla.

"Where are we going?" Tony asked.

"We have more than an hour. I don't think it's a good idea to just sit here. It might make somebody curious."

Do I mean that, or do I want a beer at that all-night truck stop?

"Shit, there's nobody out here. We haven't seen a car—or a light, for that matter—since we left that village."

"OK. You wait here, and I'll go back to the truck stop for a beer."

"The hell I will."

"I've been thinking about those whores," Tony announced as a plump woman in a dirty apron poured from their second liter bottle of cerveza.

Three minutes after they had put the walkie-talkies away, there was a knock at their door in the casino. Two very attractive, well-dressed women stood outside, in the corridor. The taller of the two—she had luxuriant reddish-brown hair—wondered if they might be interested in some companionship, if they hadn't lost all their money in the casino. Clete replied that would be a delightful experience, but unfortunately, he was waiting for his wife.

"First of all, they weren't whores, they were prostitutes; there's a difference. And secondly, shame on you."

"You weren't interested?" Tony asked. "Christ, they were really good-looking!"

"Well, I have this problem, Tony. I have the honor of the Marine Corps to think of. Marine officers don't pay women; it's the other way around."

"Oh, shit," Tony groaned.

"There wasn't time, and I didn't think it was such a good idea," Clete explained.

Not for the sake of the efficient execution of my assigned mission,he thought, but because the dark and innocent eyes of the Virgin Princess seemed to be looking at me.

"Well, I don't mind telling you I was tempted. I haven't had any in a long time. You bastards didn't give me any time in New Orleans..."

"Webastards?"

"... and when I was on leave at home, my brothers insisted on showing me a good time; they never left me alone."

"Your brothers don't like women?"

"One of them is a priest."

"Oh. Tough luck. Well, you shouldn't have any trouble getting the wick dipped in B.A., Tony. There's women all over."

"I'm working on a little something," Tony said. He was think ing of the girl he had seen go in the Ristorante Napoli in La Boca.

I'm going back there and just hang around and look for her,he thought. That is, if we get back, and don't get stood against some wall and shot for trying to smuggle twenty pounds of molded Composition C4 and walkie-talkies into Argentina.

He picked up his beer glass.

"Isn't it about time we started back?"

"Jesus Christ, it's dark out here," Tony said. "There's not a goddamned light anywhere!"

"Shut up!" Clete ordered abruptly.

He thought he had heard the sound of an aircraft engine, a little one, probably a Lycoming. And then he was sure.

"Get on the horn," he ordered as he reached for the headlight switch.

"It's not 0400," Tony protested.

"Goddamn it, do what you're told."

"Mallard, Mallard," Tony complied. "This is Hunter, Hunter. Over."

There was an immediate reply.

"Hunter, Mallard," an American voice said. "How do you read? Over."