Death and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Would you like to see the inside, mi coronel?” Delgano said.

  “I would, thank you,” Martín said.

  Len Fischer came down the stairs.

  “This is Mr. Fischer, of the Collins Radio Corporation,” Frade said. “He’s here to set up our base station radios.”

  Perón smiled politely. Martín didn’t seem to be surprised to see him.

  “We might as well unload them, Fischer,” Frade said. “They’ll have to pass through customs.”

  Two customs officers were standing not far away.

  That was your cue, Tío Juan, to say, “Oh, that won’t be necessary.”

  “I’d like to see those myself,” Martín said.

  Okay. A communications radio is a radio. Radios look like radios. And I made sure I told Delgano we were bringing in two radios.

  But the SIGABA? How the hell am I going to be able to explain that?

  “Can we get some help?” Frade asked.

  Tío Juan snapped his fingers, and the older of the customs officers quickly walked to him.

  “Be so good as to help this gentleman remove some cargo,” Perón said.

  Two minutes later, six large wooden crates and a smaller one sat on the tarmac.

  The crates had latches. Opening the first of the large ones was simple and quick.

  “And there’s five more,” Fischer said, pointing at the others.

  “What’s that?” Martín inquired politely, pointing at the smaller crate.

  “What is that, Mr. Fischer?” Frade asked in English.

  “That’s the tape repeater, Mr. Frade,” Fischer replied in English.

  Frade made the translation.

  “What does it do?” El Teniente Coronel Martín asked in Spanish.

  “The colonel would like to know what it does,” Frade said.

  “I’ll show you,” Fischer said. “You’ll have to translate.”

  “Okay,” Frade said, and switched to Spanish. “He’s going to show you, and I will translate.”

  “Muy amable,” El Teniente Coronel Martín replied.

  “It works with the communications transceivers, in the larger crates,” Fischer said, “in the radio-direction-finder function.”

  Frade made the translation as Fischer took from the crate what looked very much like a typewriter mounted to a metal box.

  “The crew of the aircraft, when they are some distance from the field,” Fischer explained, “listen for a Morse code signal being transmitted by the transceiver. ”

  Frade made the translation.

  “They can then head for the source of that signal,” Fischer went on. “Radio propagation is sometimes directional.”

  Frade translated.

  “But of course they have to be listening to the right signal, which means it has to be identified,” Fischer went on. “That means sending a message. Now, supposing the airfield here is looking for South American Airways Zero Zero One”—he gestured—“this aircraft.”

  Frade translated.

  “In that case, the message would be ‘South American Airways Zero Zero One.’ ”

  Frade translated.

  I now have Tío Juan’s and Martín’s fascinated attention.

  Where is Fischer getting this bullshit?

  “Which would normally be transmitted, over and over, by a radio operator sitting at a desk and tapping his key.”

  Frade translated.

  Fischer said, “Dit dit dit dot dit dot dot dit dit.”

  Tío Juan and Martín signaled that that required no translation by nodding their understanding.

  “He would do this, over and over, for an hour. Or even longer,” Fischer said.

  Frade translated.

  “But with the Model SIGABA here,” Fischer said, patting the device much as if it were a beloved family puppy, “all we have to do is type the message once.”

  He mimed typing.

  Frade translated.

  “And the SIGABA produces a perforated tape, like this.”

  He held up a three-foot-long strip of brown paper tape and handed it to Frade.

  Frade translated as they examined it. He saw that it was perforated along its length with small holes. Over each grouping of holes was a letter. In this case, it spelled out PLAY IT AGAIN SAM.

  He handed the tape to Martín, who examined it. Tío Juan moved in for a closer look, took the tape from Martín, then looked at Fischer for a further explanation.

  “Then all we have to do is feed the tape back into a Model 7.2 transceiver,” Fischer went on, “and throw a switch, and the Model 7.2 will broadcast the message on the tape over and over, perfectly, until it is turned off.”

  Frade translated.

  “Very clever,” Martín said.

  “Brilliant!” Tío Juan said enthusiastically.

  “When we have it set up, I’ll be happy to demonstrate it,” Fischer said.

  Frade translated.

  “I’d like to see that,” Tío Juan said.

  “Well, as soon as we get it set up, Tío Juan, at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, I’ll arrange a demonstration for you and El Coronel Martín.”

  “Please,” Perón said.

  “Captain Delgano,” Frade said, “would you be good enough to show these gentlemen around Zero Zero One?”

  “It would be my honor, Don Cletus.”

  “Jesus, Fischer,” Frade said when the others were inside the Lodestar, “where did all that tape repeater yarn come from?”

  “I spent most of the trip down here wondering what I was going to do if somebody asked me what the SIGABA was. I didn’t want to have to pull the D-ring.”

  “What D-ring?”

  “The one that sets off the thermite grenades. There’s two of them in the crate, in boxes labeled ‘Perforatable Tape.’ ”

  IX

  [ONE]

  Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1730 19 July 1943

  Second Lieutenant Leonard Fischer, Signal Corps, U.S. Army, looked with interest as a native Argentine cowboy—called a gaucho, he had learned from a magazine photo essay—pushed himself off the tailgate of a Ford Model A pickup and walked toward the Horch that had carried them from the airfield to what Major Frade had described as “my farm.”

  The gaucho looks just like the ones in the pictures in National Geographic: He’s got the wide leather belt decorated with silver, the big knife slipped in the belt at the back, the billowing breeches tucked into leather boots—everything.

  But what’s a gaucho doing here? This place looks more like the campus of a boarding school for rich kids than a farm.

  And take a look at that! Jesus, that’s a good-looking dame!

  I thought all these people would look like Chiquita Banana—dark skin, black hair, a whatchamacallit tied over their heads—not a long-haired blonde in a blouse and a horse riding skirt.

  The blonde kissed Major Frade in a manner that was both respectable and interesting, then put her hand out to Fischer.

  “Welcome to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo,” she said. “I’m Dorotea Frade.”

  “Thank you. My name is Fischer.”

  Frade said, “Second Lieutenant Leonard Fischer, Signal Corps, this is my communications officer, Lieutenant Oscar Schultz, USN. And that is the last time we will use our ranks.”

  Both Fischer and Schultz had personal thoughts before they shook hands.

  Fischer wondered, Frade’s not talking about the gaucho—is he?

  Schultz thought, This kid is supposed to be expert on the Collins Model 7.2 transceivers and the SIGABA?

  “How do you do, sir?” Fischer said politely.

  “And kill the ‘sir’ business, too,” Frade added.

  “What do you say, Fischer?” Schultz said.

  “What do I call you?”

  “We call him El Jefe,” Dorotea said. “It means ‘the chief.’ ”

  Fischer nodded his agreement.

  “Well, come in the house and w
e’ll have tea,” Dorotea said.

  “Can I pass on that, Dorotea?” Schultz said. “I want to look at what they brought. I figured we’d do that in the hangar?”

  “So would Carlos like to have a look at what we brought,” Frade said, then explained Carlos to Fischer. “He’s my mechanic, hired at the strong recommendation of Delgano, which means he works for El Coronel Martín.”

  “Carlos went into town yesterday,” Schultz said. “I thought he’d be back today, but he’s not here. I checked on that when I heard you’d come onto the estancia.”

  “So would I like to see what you brought home,” Dorotea said. “So tea will be served in the hangar. There also will be beer, Mr. Fischer, a very nice merlot, and bourbon, as that’s what my husband drinks. But we have about anything else you might want.”

  “Beer will be fine, ma’am,” Fischer said. “Ma’am, do you have a vacuum cleaner?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Could I borrow it, please? One with a hose would be just what I need.”

  “One vacuum cleaner with a hose coming up,” Dorotea said.

  “What’s with the vacuum cleaner?” Schultz asked.

  “I packed the transceivers and the . . . electric typewriter . . . with popcorn,” Fischer said.

  “You did what?”

  “I used popcorn as a cushioning material,” Fischer explained.

  “I’ll be goddamned!” Schultz blurted.

  “Quite probably,” Dorotea said, “if you keep taking His name in vain.”

  “Well, I’ll be a sonofabitch,” Chief Schultz said in awe, then winced. “Sorry again, Dorotea.”

  They were in the hangar, looking into the innards of the SIGABA device, the cover of which had been carefully removed. There was not much to see, other than an odd wire rising from a sea of popcorn kernels.

  “You did that to the Model Seven-Twos, too?” Schultz asked.

  “Yeah. It really works.”

  “You’ve moved one of these before?” Schultz asked doubtfully.

  “I’ve moved a bunch of them,” Fischer said.

  Fischer turned to Enrico Rodríguez, who was somewhat awkwardly, if not comically, holding his shotgun in one hand and an upright vacuum cleaner by its handle in his other. Fischer took the vacuum from him and found a power outlet.

  There was a thin, foot-long hollow wand attached to the vacuum cleaner hose. Fischer pulled it off, then turned on the vacuum and carefully lowered the now-large, open end of the hose into the SIGABA.

  There was a rattling in the hose as the machine sucked up the popcorn. It didn’t take long to get most of it out, and then Fischer put the wand back on the hose and used that to suck out what was left from among the vacuum tubes and rat nests of wiring in the cavity.

  “I’ll be a sonofabitch,” Schultz said again. This time he didn’t apologize.

  “Now let’s see what happens when we plug it in,” Fischer said.

  Dorotea handed him a power cord.

  “One-ten or two-twenty?” Fischer asked.

  “Two hundred twenty volts,” Schultz answered for her.

  Fischer threw the voltage-selector switch on the side of the SIGABA device, then made the connection.

  “You better stand back, Chief. Sometimes there’s a flash fire,” Fischer said seriously.

  Schultz looked at him in disbelief but took a step back.

  Fischer pushed the main power switch.

  There was a hum, but no fire.

  Fischer smiled at Schultz, who, smiling, shook his head.

  A row of dials slowly came to life.

  Both Fischer and Schultz examined them carefully.

  “Jesus, better than I thought,” Fischer said thoughtfully.

  “You don’t have any juice on the DC feed to the secondary oscillator,” Schultz said.

  “Oh, hell!” Fischer said, then added, “But no problem. I’ll just say the magic words!”

  “The what?”

  “Mumbo jumbo, fish boom bah,” Fischer intoned, and with his index finger tapped the dial that showed no indication of power. The indicator needle leapt to life and indicated twelve volts DC.

  “If that didn’t work, I would have kicked it. That usually works,” Fischer said. “But sometimes I have to use a hammer.”

  “You’re a real wiseass, aren’t you?” Schultz said, smiling.

  Fischer shrugged. “I’m a Signal Corps second lieutenant. It goes without saying.”

  “It’s working?” Frade asked.

  “If I hadn’t watched it myself, I wouldn’t believe it,” Schultz said. “Okay, Fischer. Fair’s fair. If that popcorn is your idea, you’re one clever sonofabitch.”

  “Call me ‘Len,’ ” Fischer said.

  Frade said, “Talk about clever: You should have heard the line of bull he fed Martín and Tío Juan about this thing. Which they swallowed whole. Tell the chief, Fischer.”

  Fischer related the story.

  “And they believed that?” Schultz then said.

  “Swallowed it hook, line, and sinker,” Frade confirmed.

  “Well, then, they must not know a hell of a lot about the way RDF works.”

  “What do you mean?” Frade asked.

  “There’s no long message like that—‘South American Airways Zero Zero One’—what he said. What the field RDF transmitter sends is a couple of letters. Like P-A-L for Palomar. That’s all. You don’t know that?”

  “I do,” Frade replied. “But so what? Martín and Perón don’t.”

  Then he had a thought that chilled him, almost making him sick to his stomach.

  Oh, shit!

  Delgano was there when Fischer was handing that bullshit story to Perón and Martín!

  He’s a pilot. He knows about RDF call signs as well as I do! Every time he goes into Palomar, he homes in on PAL.

  He looked at Fischer.

  Fischer looked embarrassed.

  “I know about radios,” he said. “I don’t know much about airplanes.”

  “Obviously,” Frade said, somewhat sharply. And was immediately sorry.

  This is my fault, not his.

  So why didn’t Delgano say anything?

  Was he waiting until we were gone, and was going to tell Martín then?

  That doesn’t make any sense.

  If he was going to tell Martín, he would have told him when he was showing him and Perón around the airplane.

  And if he had told Martín, Martín wouldn’t have been so obliging about us loading the SIGABA and the Collins transceivers on the truck and bringing them out here.

  At the very least, Martín would have “suggested” we leave everything in the hangar at Palomar.

  “Something you ate, darling?” Dorotea asked. “You look as if you’re about to be sick.”

  “We didn’t fool Delgano with that story,” Clete said. “He’s a pilot.”

  “Oh, shit!” Schultz said.

  After a moment, Dorotea asked very softly, “You think he told Martín?”

  “I think if he had, the SIGABA device now would be in Martín’s office, being examined by his technicians, and I would be explaining to Tío Juan why I was smuggling a cryptographic device into Argentina. Or I’d be in a cell.”

  “Delgano’s a good guy, Clete,” Schultz said. “I know you don’t like him, but . . .”

  “But what? The sonofabitch spied on my father for years.”

  “That was his job,” Schultz argued. “His duty. That don’t mean he didn’t like your father. Or that he liked spying on him.”

  “Meaning?”

  “And he’s not stupid.”

  “No, he’s not. But what does that mean?”

  “I don’t think he liked what the Krauts did to your father. Either personally, or as an Argentine officer. And then you proved you’re not exactly Argentina’s Public Enemy Number One by taking this”—he pointed to the nose of the Lodestar, which was just inside the hangar—“to Campo de Mayo and flying General Whatsisname . . .”


  “Rawson,” Dorotea furnished.

  “. . . around in their Piper Cub—”

  “I know where you’re going, Chief,” Clete interrupted. “But I don’t share your optimism. I have a somewhat darker view.”

  “Such as?” Dorotea asked.

  “Arresting me—or even Fischer here—as a spy is something that’s not going to happen without General Rawson’s permission. They’re not going to just say, ‘Gotcha. Up against the wall!’ ”

  “If you think you’re being clever and funny, you’re not,” Dorotea said.

  “I’m obviously not clever, sweetheart, and this is not at all funny. So I think we have to consider the very real possibility that, any minute now, Rawson having given his permission, reluctantly or otherwise, the gauchos will report that a small convoy of Ejército Argentino vehicles have come onto the estancia . . .”

  Dorotea inhaled audibly and put her hand to her mouth.

  “. . . to arrest me. And, of course, Fischer. And to grab the SIGABA.”

  “You don’t know that,” Schultz said.

  “No. But I always look for the dark lining of the dark cloud,” Clete said. “The question then becomes what do we do with Fischer.”

  “We take him out in the boonies,” Schultz said.

  “No,” Frade said. “We fire up the Lodestar and take him to Uruguay. He heads for the Brazilian border, then home. I wait there until I hear from somebody here . . . you, sweetheart . . . what the Ejército Argentino did when they learned we were gone.”

  “Or if they came here at all,” Dorotea said.

  Clete nodded. “And based on that information, I decide what to do next.”

  “Or if they came here at all,” Dorotea repeated.

  Clete looked at her.

  She added, “You’re assuming a lot has happened and will happen that may not have happened or will not happen at all.”

  “Honey, I just can’t cross my fingers and hope for the best,” Clete said. “Okay. Get the tractor, Chief, and we’ll drag the Lodestar out of here.”

  “I’m going with you,” Dorotea said.

  “No, you’re not. If you did that, you would be an accomplice. Right now, you’re just a wife who had no idea what her crazy American husband was up to. They’re not going to bother you. And we’ll get you to Uruguay or Brazil or wherever later.”