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

"Yes, of course, mi Coronel."

Chapter Fourteen

[ONE]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

1115 15 December 1942

Two gauchos, sprawled on the wide steps to the verandah, were waiting for them when they returned from their ride. As they approached, Clete's horse, a magnificent sorrel, shied at something and, with a shrill whinny, reared. Despite the strange saddle, Clete managed to keep his seat and to control the animal, and more than a little smugly noticed both surprise and approval on the faces of the gauchos.

The Norteamericano did not get his ass thrown. Sorry about that, guys!

The gauchos took the reins of the horses and led them away. And Clete followed his father and Claudia Carzino-Cormano onto the verandah. The more he saw this woman, the more he liked her. If she and Aunt Martha met, they would form an instant mutual admiration society. Like Martha, Claudia was a first-class horsewoman; and like Martha, she said what was in her mind, rather than what she thought a lady should say. And, like Martha, she ran a ranch. An estancia almost, but not quite, as large as San Pedro y San Pablo.

He was touched and amused at his father's blustering attempts to paint her as just a platonic acquaintance who happened to drop by now and again. The servants obeyed her orders the way they'd obey the mistress of the place. And last night, when his father suggested, "Since it's late, Claudia, why don't you spend the night? I'll have one of the guest rooms set up for you," she winked at Clete and smiled.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Jorge," she said.

And when he got up the next morning and went looking for something to eat, Claudia was already up too, wearing a white blouse and baggy trousers, and soft, black, tight-over-the-calf leather boots, obviously a gentle lady's riding costume—which his father apparently expected him to believe just "happened" to be in the house.

"Your father is insufferable until he has had his second cup of coffee," she greeted him. "It is best to ignore him, or anything he says."

Clete had ridden hornless saddles before—at Texas AandM, the ROTC horses had Army-issue McClellan cavalry saddles—and after a few minutes, he became accustomed to the Argentine saddle. It was called a recado, Claudia told him. Although everyone else in the area had been using "English" saddles since the turn of the century, his father insisted on keeping them, because he was too cheap to throw anything away.

When Clete's father overheard her tell Clete that, he flared up at her: "I am not cheap, my dear. I am frugal, and I respect our traditions. Since they have been properly cared for, they have not worn out." She rode close to him then, murmured, "Precioso, I'm sorry," and leaned out of her recado to kiss him.

Acting as if the kiss—which calmed him down immediately— never happened, Clete's father then delivered a lecture on the history of their saddles. A brilliant saddler made them on the estancia during the tenure of Clete's great-grandfather. The shape of the seat, he went on to say, together with estribando largo — long stirrups—permit the rider to sit in an almost vertical position, the merits of which for herding cattle over long hours do not have to be explained. Except perhaps to a woman.

"S?, mi jefe," Claudia replied, laughing.

When they came onto the verandah, Se?ora Pellano was supervising the arrangement of a little "after the morning canter" refreshment. There were two bottles of champagne in coolers, and an array of sweets and cold cuts.

"I would suggest, Cletus," Frade said, "that you pass up the champagne."

"Why?" Claudia demanded.

"I am reliably informed that it is not wise to fly an aircraft under the influence of alcohol."

"Is he going flying?"

"I thought—it is a lovely day—that we would return you to your home in the Beechcraft. I will arrange for your car to be delivered there."

"And Cletus will fly the airplane?"

"Certainly. Why not? He is an experienced military pilot. He probably knows more about flying than el Capitan Delgano."

"Cletus?" Claudia asked, a hint of doubt in her voice.

"After flying the Wildcat fighter, Claudia," his father persisted, "as he did in Guadalcanal, flying the Beechcraft will be like riding a tame old mare."

"I'm sure I can fly it," Clete said. "But I'd like to solo it an hour or so before I carry passengers."

"Solo it?"

"Fly it alone for an hour."

"Not only experienced, but cautious," Frade said. "It is settled. We will have our sandwiches, and he will have coffee. And afterwards he will solo for an hour, and then we will fly you home. I'm sure your daughters will like to meet him. Perhaps he can take them for a ride. You might wish to call to make sure they are at home."

"Precioso," Claudia said, laughing, "if it is your intention to marry him off to one of the girls, as I suspect it is, you are going about it in exactly the wrong way. Young people never like the young people their parents consider suitable for them."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade said.

"El Teniente Frade is a fine pilot, mi Coronel," el Capitan Gonzalo Delgano, Air Service, Argentine Army, Retired, reported. The two of them had just taken the stagger-wing Beechcraft on a thirty-minute orientation flight, with half a dozen touch-and-go landings. "As fine a pilot as I know."

Don't let it go to your head, Cletus, my boy. Unless you had dumped that airplane, it was the only thing he could say about the boss's son's piloting skills.

He also doesn't like it a bit that I'm flying what he thought of as his personal airplane. But there's nothing he can do about that, either, except smile.

"Then we can go?" el Coronel asked. "I will send for Se?ora Carzino-Cormano.''

"Not yet," Clete said. "I'd like to solo it first." His father looked disappointed and a little annoyed, but finally said, "Whatever you think is best, Cletus."

"I won't be long," Clete said, and walked back to the airplane. The pilot in him now took over. He had no doubt that he could fly the airplane, but that presumed nothing would go wrong. A lot of things could go wrong: The checkout had been really inadequate, and there was no civilian equivalent of a Navy BuAir Dash One, "Pilot's Instruction Manual," to study for the CAUTION notices, which warned pilots what they should not do.

But I have to fly it. And not just to take Se?ora Carzino-Cormano safely home.

While he was looking the plane over earlier, he noticed a low-level chart in a compartment on the door, an Argentine Army Air Service map of the area. He examined this with great interest. In addition to pointing out the few available navigation aids, a dozen or so civilian airstrips—one was at the Estancia Santa Catharina, Se?ora Carzino-Cormano's ranch—and a military air base ninety kilometers to the south, the chart showed the entire mouth of the Rio de la Plata, including all of Samboromb6n Bay and a couple of miles of the coastline of Uruguay.

Within a day or two,he thought with sudden excitement— presuming she's not already here — theReine de la Mer will be anchored out there, waiting to replenish German submarines. I'm supposed to find her and blow her up. I didn't come here with the idea of finding her myself, but I can't pass up the opportunity to see if I can.

He strapped himself in and looked out the window for el Capital Delgano. When they first fired up the stagger-wing, Clete stood by the fire extinguisher for Delgano. And he expected Delgano to do the same for him; but Delgano was nowhere in sight. Clete pushed himself out of the leather-upholstered pilot's seat, went back through the cabin, and opened the door.

"Something is wrong?" his father asked.

"I need the fire extinguisher, Dad," Clete said. "I'm about to start it up. What happened to el Capitan Delgano?"