Chief Pilot Delgano, as was probably to be expected, had five golden stripes on his tunic sleeves and the band around his brimmed cap was of gold cloth.
To a man, they looked at him askance.
I think I just failed inspection, Frade thought.
What did they expect, that I would be wearing a SAA uniform?
And what the hell are they doing in those ridiculous uniforms, anyway?
I don’t think it’s coincidental. Somebody told them to wear them.
Let’s find out who and why. . . .
He said, “I see that everyone is properly—I should say ‘splendidly’—turned out. Your idea, Captain Delgano?”
“I thought it would be appropriate, Señor Frade,” Delgano replied seriously.
“And so it is,” Frade said.
“I’m so glad you could find time for us in your busy schedule, Mr. Frade,” the Immigration Service captain said somewhat sarcastically.
“Well, I always try to be properly turned out myself, and that takes time.” He smiled triumphantly, then said, “So, what happens now?”
“That will be explained to you later. Shall we get in the Carryalls?”
“We are completely in your hands, Captain,” Frade said.
[THREE]
Lockheed Air Terminal Burbank, California 0935 5 August 1943
They were taken to an unimpressive two-story masonry building that was just inside the fence and perhaps three hundred yards from the gate. It was not the same building to which they had been taken the night before.
As they were getting out of the Carryalls, a Border Patrol officer with major’s insignia on his epaulets came out of the building and signaled to the captain that he wanted a word with him out of hearing of the others.
“Wait here, please, gentlemen,” the Border Patrol captain ordered more than a little arrogantly.
At the last moment, Frade resisted the temptation to pop to attention, salute, and bellow, “Aye, aye, sir!” Instead, he gave the captain a thumbs-up signal, which he was pleased to find seemed to annoy the captain.
Clete took a closer look at the building.
A legend had been cast into the concrete over the door:
LOUGHEAD AIRCRAFT MANUFACTURING COMPANY
“Loughead”?
Can’t they spell?
How do you pronounce that? “Lewg-head”? “Log-head”?
Maybe that was the original name and Howard changed it. He said he changed Trans-continental and Western Airways to Trans-World Airlines.
There came the sound of multiple powerful aircraft engines on takeoff power. Everyone quickly looked for the source—and then found it. There was a runway running parallel to the building and the fence.
Coming down the runway was a brand-new P-38 glistening in the early-morning California sun. By the time the twin-engine, twin-tail Lightning reached them, it was airborne, its landing gear nearly retracted. The pilot apparently had pulled back on the stick the moment he had gotten a green gear-up-and-locked light, because the nose of the fighter lifted as he made a steep climbing turn to the right.
Clete heard himself grunt.
That’s what the hell I should be doing, flying something like that.
I’m a fighter pilot, not a damn fly-gently-so-as-to-not-disturb-the-passengers aerial bus driver.
As the Lightning rapidly grew smaller as it climbed, there came the sound again of powerful engines at takeoff power, and another P-38 roared down the runway. This one also had its gear retracted by the time it reached them and had begun a steep climbing turn in the direction of the first fighter. Sixty seconds after that second Lightning passed them, there again came the sounds of engines on takeoff power, and a third P-38 took off.
Clete watched the third plane until it vanished from sight, then looked at the SAA captains. He saw from their faces there was no question that they were awed.
Well, why not? The hottest planes in the Argentine air force are the Curtiss P-36 Hawks. They were obsolete even before we sold them to Argentina before the war.
“Those were the P-38 Lightning, were they not, Cletus?” Delgano asked.
“Yes, they were.”
“Is that what you flew when you were in the Corps of Marines?”
“No, I flew a single-engine Grumman Wildcat, the F4F.”
“Like the Lightning?”
Clete shook his head. “No. Single engine. Designed to be flown off aircraft carriers. Nice airplane.”
The Border Patrol major walked up to them.
“I was just telling Captain McNeil that everything seems to be in order now,” the major announced.
“Oh?” Frade said.
He saw the captain, who did not seem happy and was carefully avoiding looking at them, walk to the white Carryall and get in.
“Well, I’m sure it’s the same in your country,” the major explained. “From time to time, things don’t go as they’re supposed to. But it’s all cleared up now.”
Why do I think Colonel Graham had something to do with that?
“What we’re waiting for now,” the major went on, “is for Immigration Service officers to come here and issue the necessary visas. Then you’ll be free to get on with your business. I understand that people from the War Production Board and Lockheed are already waiting for you at Lockheed.”
Ten minutes later, the immigration officers appeared. It took just under half an hour for them to issue visas. When the SAA captains and Clete came out of the Loughead Aircraft Manufacturing Company building, a bus with LOCKHEED AIRCRAFT lettered on its sides was waiting for them.
The bus carried them to the far side of the airfield, past long, double lines of parked aircraft. There were more P-38s than Clete could count, at least two dozen PV-1 Venturas, which looked something like an armed version of the Lodestar, then another two dozen or more Lodestars. Six of the latter aircraft were painted in the South American Airways color scheme.
On seeing their aircraft, there was a sudden wave of pride felt among all the SAA pilots, including Clete—which suddenly was greatly diminished when they saw the four aircraft sitting near the end of the tarmac.
These four airplanes had their own row; they were too large to park one behind another like the others.
“Clete, is that the Constitution you told us about?” Delgano asked.
“Constellation,” he corrected without thinking.
I boasted about that airplane without ever having seen one.
Jesus Christ, she’s beautiful!
“Three tails?” one of the SAA pilots asked.
“Vertical stabilizers,” Clete again corrected without thinking. “The only way they could get enough vertical-stabilizer control surface and get the tail into a hangar was to have three vertical stabilizers instead of one great big one.”
“That’s an incredible airplane!” another of the pilots said.
Yeah, it is.
Makes that Kraut Condor look like . . . a Lodestar.
“Maybe we can get a closer look at one while we’re here,” Clete said.
Howard ought to be able to arrange that.
Send these guys back to Argentina dazzled with American aviation genius.
“Gentlemen,” a gray-haired man in a well-fitting suit said. “Welcome to the United States and to Lockheed Aircraft. I regret the confusion when you first arrived, but all the problems have, I think, been solved. Including . . . Which of you is Mr. Frade?”
Clete raised his hand.
“Including insurance,” the man went on, “which I understand has posed something of a problem for you. United States Fidelity and Guaranty—just before we walked in here just now—telephoned to say that they’ll be happy to insure South American Airways’ flight operations, and that a temporary policy has been issued covering your activities here, with the final policy to follow shortly, covering everything.”
“That’s excellent news,” Frade replied.
The man nodded. “Presuming, of course, we can get
your pilots their ATRs. Importantly, you will be insured while operating your Lodestar aircraft here so that your pilots not only can use them for training and qualification but also can fly them to Argentina once they’re rated.
“So let’s turn to that. The Federal Aviation Administration has informed me that—for the purposes of meeting the flight-time prerequisites, et cetera, for the Air Transport Rating—they will recognize your records as maintained by the government of Argentina. Which means they will require your flight records to be here, which means that you’re going to have to get them authenticated by the U.S. consulate in Argentina and then get them up here from Buenos Aires, then authenticated by the Argentine consulate in San Francisco. Is that going to pose a problem, Mr. Frade?”
“No. I’ll send a radiogram down there, and have the records flown to Rio de Janeiro and put on the Panagra flight to Miami.”
“I’ll leave that in your hands, Mr. Frade, as you will have more time on your hands than these gentlemen. I have been led to believe that you have been an Army pilot?”
“A Naval Aviator,” Frade corrected him firmly. “I was a Marine.”
“My mistake. No offense intended. The FAA will be able to get your flight records from the Navy, and you won’t have to go through the basic training and examinations that these gentlemen will.”
Clete nodded his understanding.
“In your case, purely as a formality, you’ll have to take a cross-country check ride to make you current in multiengine aircraft.”
“Fine,” Frade said.
“And with that in mind—aware as we are how anxious everyone is to get through this as soon as possible—we’ve arranged for you to make that flight immediately. ”
“Immediately?”
“There’s a Follow-Me truck outside which will take you to what we call the Used Car Lot—”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what we call the parking tarmac,” the man said. “As you know, Mr. Howard Hughes—you know who I mean, of course?”
“I know who he is,” Frade said.
“Mr. Hughes has both a certain influence around here and what some think is a fey sense of humor. Our engineering facility is known as the Skunk Works.”
Frade chuckled and nodded.
The pilots of South American Airways, to a man, frowned as people are prone to do when not understanding what has been said.
“When you return,” the man went on, “which should not take more than a couple of days, these gentlemen will be well on their way to their ATRs.”
“Good,” Frade said. “Now, what about the Follow-Me?”
The man motioned for the door.
“Right outside. As I said, it’ll take you to the Used Car Lot, where an aircraft and your instructor pilot are waiting. Is that all right with you?”
Frade nodded agreeably. “It’s fine with me. Thank you.”
The Follow-Me—a 1941 Chevrolet pickup truck painted in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern and bearing large checkerboard flags flying from the front bumper and the rear of the bed—drove Frade to the end of the Used Car Lot.
“Here we are,” the driver said.
Clete saw the SAA Lodestars, got out of the truck—which then immediately drove away—and walked toward the Lodestars. There was no sign of activity, no ground auxiliary power equipment, no fire extinguishers, no instructor pilot, nothing.
Somewhat annoyed—that sonofabitch just dropped me at the wrong place— Clete put his hands on his hips and looked around.
There was a Constellation sitting alone. The three others were a hundred yards farther away.
The lone Connie bore military markings, and around it was activity. There were a fire truck and crew, a pickup-mounted auxiliary power unit humming smoothly, and half a dozen ground handlers, one of whom had wands in his hands. There was also a pickup truck with a ladder leading to the aircraft’s rear door.
It took Frade almost ten seconds to decide that he would really piss off people if he went up that ladder and had himself a good long look at the insides of that big, beautiful sonofabitch, thus delaying its imminent takeoff, and that unless he trotted over there, it would take off before he could do so.
He was surprised that no one stopped him when he went quickly up the ladder and ducked through the doorway and entered the fuselage.
He was even more surprised when a large man in a white jacket immediately stepped to the doorway, signaled for the stair truck to back away from the door, and began to close the door.
Then the large man gestured for Frade to walk toward the cockpit.
The guy who this guy expected to get aboard is really going to be pissed when he gets here and sees the Connie taxiing away.
“Good morning, Major Frade,” a familiar voice said. “I’m so glad you finally could join us.”
Frade looked at him but didn’t reply.
“Why don’t you go in there,” Colonel A. J. Graham said, pointing toward the cockpit, “and make your manners to the pilot?”
Well, I guess that check-ride to make me current in multiengines story was bullshit for the benefit of the SAA pilots.
We’re on our way to Mississippi.
Clete walked to the front of the passenger compartment and went through the door.
To his left, an Air Force master sergeant sat at the radio console. A Collins Model 7.2 transceiver had been bolted on rubber mounts to the floor. To his right, closer to the pilots’ seats, a man in civilian clothes—obviously the flight engineer—sat before an impressive array of dials and switches and levers.
Clete took the last eight steps and found himself standing between the pilot’s and co-pilot’s seats, the latter empty.
The pilot turned to look at him.
“Why, hello there, Little Cletus,” Howard Hughes said.
Clete gave him the finger.
“If you sit down there, Little Cletus,” Hughes went on, ignoring the vulgar gesture and pointing to the co-pilot’s seat, “and fasten the straps and put your earphones on, Uncle Howard will let you play with his new toy.”
Clete sat down.
The instant he had the earphones in place, Hughes’s voice came over them.
“See if you can wind it up, Ken.”
“Yes, Mr. Hughes,” the engineer replied, then began working his control panel. “Starting Number Three . . .”
There was the whine of the starters and then the sound of an engine— somewhat reluctantly—coming to life. The aircraft trembled with the vibration of a 2,200-horsepower Wright R-3350-34 engine running a little rough.
“Starting Number Two.”
The second engine started more easily.
“I show Two and Three running and moving into the green,” Hughes’s voice said.
“Confirmed, Mr. Hughes.”
“Disconnect auxiliary power.”
“Yes, Mr. Hughes.”
“I see auxiliary power disconnected,” Hughes said after a moment, “and Two and Three in the green.”
“Confirmed, Mr. Hughes.”
“Lockheed,” Hughes announced. “Three Four Three at the Used Car Lot. Request taxi and takeoff.”
Howard Hughes turned to Clete Frade.
“Pay attention, Little Cletus,” Hughes’s voice came over the earphones, “and try to learn something.”
Three minutes later:
“What the nice man just said, Little Cletus, is that we’re cleared for takeoff. Now, the way we do that is you put your hand on those levers and push them to where it says ‘Takeoff Power.’ Then you steer down the runway. The controls will come to life at about forty knots. It will just about take itself off at about ninety. When I call ‘one hundred,’ ease back on the yoke.”
“Yes, sir,” Clete said, and put his hand on the throttle quadrant.
[FOUR]
Jackson Army Air Base Jackson, Mississippi 1745 5 August 1943
“Do you think you can put it down there, Clete?” Howard Hughes asked.
; They were flying over a small airfield at an altitude of two thousand feet as slow as Clete dared to fly the Constellation. He had his hand on the throttles, ready to firewall them the moment he suspected they were close to a stall.
Howard’s now serious; otherwise he’d have said “Little Cletus.”
When in doubt, tell the truth.
“I don’t know, Howard. It would be helpful if I knew how long that runway is, and what the Constellation needs.”
“I like you so much better when you are cautious and modest,” Hughes said.
Clete flashed him a dirty look.
“Let me put it this way,” Hughes said. “I could get us in there . . .”
“You want to land it, go ahead. I have a total of five hours thirty in this airplane, one takeoff, zero landings. I really don’t know how to fly it.”
“At the risk of repeating myself,” Hughes said, “I like you so much better when you are cautious and modest. What I was going to say is: I would come in low and slow, full flaps, lots of power. I would try to touch down as close to the threshold as I could, and I would chop the power the moment before I heard the chirp. I would then judiciously apply the brakes, so as not to burn them out, and then, when I was halfway down the runway, I would decide whether I had enough runway and brakes left or should firewall the throttles.”
Clete didn’t reply.
Hughes then said, “It occurs to me that if you were to steer and work the brakes, and I worked the throttles and flaps, this would be educational for you. Do you want to have a whack at trying that?”
He wouldn’t make the offer unless he thought I could handle it.
"What about me shooting a touch-and-go—a couple of touch-and-goes— first ?”
“I was about to make that very suggestion,” Hughes said. He picked up the microphone: “Jackson, this is Army Three Four Three. As you may have noticed, we’ve been flying around your field. The reason for this is there is a student pilot at the controls who has been gathering his courage to shoot a couple of touch-and-goes. He has found the courage, but considering his youth, lack of experience, and all-around flying ineptness, you might want to wake up the fire truck drivers and have an ambulance on standby.”
Death and Honor Page 49