Victory and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

Would he have approved of me calling my godfather a degenerate sonofabitch and then throwing him out of Uncle Willy’s—my—house?

  Martín added: “El Señor Nulder is now the director of security at the Secretariat of Labor and Retirement Plans.”

  “And this lying pervert is going to Germany with the diplomats why?” Frade said.

  Martín shrugged. “I have no idea, but that may be why they were so late getting here. They didn’t want anyone to see Nulder getting on the airplane, so they waited until it was dark.”

  “And you have no idea why this sterling character is going to Germany?” Frade pursued.

  Martín shook his head. “Not long ago, over drinks at the officers’ casino at Campo de Mayo, I had a chat with el Coronel Sánchez of General Ramírez’s staff. He just happened to mention that he’d had a conversation with el General in which el General mentioned that with so much on my plate, he was sure I was wasting my time and assets on investigating things at the Secretariat of Labor and Retirement Plans. ‘Perón and his people are perfectly able to take care of that sort of thing themselves.’”

  “You were told to back off?” Clete asked more than a little incredulously.

  Martín repeated: “I was told that it was General Ramírez who had mentioned he hoped I wasn’t wasting my time and assets on the Secretariat of Labor and Retirement Plans.”

  “You never happened to mention that to me.”

  Martín smiled. “I like you, Cletus. And I love my wife. But there are some things I never mention to either one of you.”

  “Taking pictures of this guy is backing off?” Clete said.

  “Don Cletus Frade, master of the indelicate observation,” Martín said with a smile.

  “And I don’t suppose you would be heartbroken if we kept an eye on him for you while we’re over there, would you?”

  “You know I’m always interested in anything you have to tell me.”

  “If this guy went to the Kriegsschule with my father . . .”

  “He probably knows a good number of senior German officers,” Martín finished for him. “Some of whom might wish to come here now that their services are no longer required.”

  “So this whole thing is an excuse to bring a planeload of Nazis here?” Clete wondered aloud.

  “Another planeload of Nazis, you mean?” Martín asked.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, mi general,” Clete said. “Unless you’re suggesting that some of the priests, brothers, and nuns who SAA has ferried here for the Vatican—and traveling on Vatican passports—weren’t who they claimed to be.”

  Martín said: “One thought that occurred to me is that if there was an important Nazi—or Nazis, plural—who wished to spare themselves a long and hazardous trip on a submarine to come here . . .”

  “They could come in the comfort that SAA offers to all its passengers?” Clete finished for him.

  “It’s a thought,” Martín said.

  “Bernardo, did you hear the rumor that Hitler did not kill himself and his wife, but was flown out of Berlin in a Fieseler Storch?”

  “Delgano mentioned that he’d heard that,” Martín said. “Do you believe it?”

  “No, I don’t. But this thought of yours makes sense.”

  “Are you going to try to see General Gehlen while you’re in Germany?” Martín asked, and then, before Clete could answer, went on: “Maybe he would have some thoughts on all this.”

  “No one seems to know where he is, but I’m going to try to find him.”

  “To what end?”

  “I’ll play that card when someone deals it,” Clete said. “We made a deal with him. Nobody’s told me the deal is off.”

  “Bring him here?”

  “If that’s the only option to keep him out of the hands of the Russians.”

  “He’d have a Vatican passport?”

  “The others traveled that way.”

  “Clete,” Delgano said, “Peralta just showed up; looks like he’s headed here.”

  Captain Mario Peralta was a member of the second crew. If he had had any questions about First Officers von Wachtstein and Boltitz replacing the SAA pilots originally scheduled for the flight, Clete hadn’t heard about them. That suggested to Clete that Peralta was taking his orders from Gonzalo Delgano both as an SAA pilot and as somebody else who also worked covertly for Martín.

  “It would appear that your mission of mercy and compassion is ready to go,” Martín said.

  “You told me one time you had a man in Berlin,” Frade said.

  Martín nodded.

  “José Ruiz,” he said. “We were at the Academy together.”

  “He’s the military attaché?”

  “The financial counselor,” Martín said.

  “And he’ll be coming back with us?”

  Martín nodded again.

  “He might be useful,” Frade said.

  “So I told Gonzalo,” Martín said. “Anything else I can do?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Frade said, and handed him the briefcase he’d gotten from Colonel Flowers. “I forgot to leave my wife her allowance. Would you get this to her, please?”

  Martín took the briefcase. It was much heavier than he expected.

  “What’s in here besides her allowance—bricks?”

  “Nothing. I’m probably more generous to my wife than you are to yours.”

  Martín looked at the briefcase suspiciously but didn’t reply.

  “Go on. Have a look. You were going to anyway, the first chance you had. If you look now, you can apologize for doubting me.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Martín lifted the flap of the briefcase and looked inside.

  “¡Madre de Dios!” he softly exclaimed a moment later.

  “Gotcha! Now you can apologize.”

  “What’s this for?” Martín asked.

  “El General Bernardo Martín, master of the outrageous personal question. One man should never ask another why he is giving his wife a little pocket change for her purse.”

  “Forgive me,” Martín said sarcastically.

  The two looked at each other and smiled.

  “Clete, be careful,” Martín said. “I don’t think the most dangerous part of this will be flying across the Atlantic Ocean.”

  “Great minds walk the same paths,” Frade said, then shook Martín’s hand and walked out of the Executive Suite of South American Airways.

  [THREE]

  Aboard Ciudad de Rosario Approaching Val de Cans Airfield Belém do Pará, Brazil 0135 17 May 1945

  Captain Cletus Frade had been at the controls of the Constellation Ciudad de Rosario as she took off from Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade, breaking ground at 1832. Mario Peralta was in the right seat.

  As soon as the aircraft reached cruising altitude, he had turned the plane over to Peralta and sent another SAA backup pilot to the cockpit. Then he crawled into one of the two crew bunks and closed his eyes.

  Three minutes later, Siggie Stein shook his shoulder.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger, Colonel. Your Collins is out.”

  A dozen Collins Radio Corporation Model 7.2 transceivers and SIGABA encryption systems had been acquired for Team Turtle at Stein’s suggestion—“Trust me, they’re six months ahead of state of the art”—from the Army Security Agency at Vint Hill Farms Station in Virginia. They were to provide secure communication with the ASA—and thus with the OSS—from anywhere in Argentina.

  They were “installation systems,” which translated to mean they were designed for use in a communications center, rather than “mobile,” which would have meant installation in a truck.

  One day at Estancia Don Guillermo, Clete had idly commented that he wished he could have the communications capability in the Red Lodestar.

  “If you want to take a chance on me really blowing one up, I can have a shot at it,” Stein had replied matter-of-factly. “Maybe el Jefe will have some ideas on how to do it.”

  Clete had r
emembered then—and only then, which embarrassed him—that Colonel Graham had told him that when being interviewed by OSS experts to see if he was qualified to be the radar man on Team Turtle, they had reported that Stein knew more about the transmission of radio waves than they did.

  And that Stein and former Chief Radioman Oscar Schultz, USN, had become instant buddies when they started talking about communications equipment in a cant only the two of them understood.

  Two weeks later, a SIGABA and Collins 7.2 were up and running in the Red Lodestar. Clete had not been surprised when a similar installation in SAA’s first Constellation had worked well in Argentina. But he had been surprised—perhaps awed—when the system had worked in the middle of the South Atlantic Ocean and later on the ground at Lisbon.

  Frade sat up in the crew bunk and said, “Siggie, I don’t want to go to Germany without it. I won’t go to Germany without it. What’s wrong with it? Belay that. I wouldn’t understand. Can you fix it, or are we going to have to go back to Buenos Aires for another one?”

  “I think I can fix it if you can get me into the radio shop at Belém. Your call. It’ll take me a couple of hours to get another system out of the warehouse at Jorge Frade.”

  “And to fix it at Belém?”

  “Thirty minutes, if I’m right about what’s wrong.”

  “Did Mother Superior teach you how to pray, Sergeant Stein?”

  “She didn’t have to. I’m a Jew. We pray a lot.”

  “Start now,” Frade ordered.

  He had then lain back down and closed his eyes.

  Ten minutes after that, he opened them again, sat up, pushed himself off the bunk, and went looking for Stein, Boltitz, and von Wachtstein. He found them sitting in the seats for the backup crew, trying to doze.

  He beckoned for them to follow him back into the sleeping section, motioned for the doors to the cockpit and the seating area to be closed, and then began, “We have a small problem. Belay that. We have a few small problems, plural.

  “The Collins 7.2 is out. We can’t do without it. Siggie thinks he can fix it if he can get into the Army Air Forces’ radio maintenance facility at Val de Cans. The problem there is they may not let him in. The only reason we’re going in there is because the Argentine Foreign Ministry leaned on somebody. The Collins 7.2 is a classified American radio, and they’re going to wonder what the hell SAA is doing with one.”

  “Show them the phony OSS credentials,” Stein suggested.

  “The problem there—the problems—are that they are phony and that after I used them to get Karl and Hansel out of Fort Hunt, there’s a good chance that the Army has spread the word to be prepared to arrest on sight Area Commander C. Frade of the OSS.”

  “So, what are you going to do?” von Wachtstein asked.

  “Hansel, when you were a little boy back in the Schloss, did you ever act in a play?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know, in a play, like Hansel und Gretel?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Try to remember what your teacher taught you. You’re going back on the stage when we get to Val de Cans. The play is called ‘Here come the mysterious, all-powerful heroes of the Office of Strategic Services.’ Starring Cletus Frade, All-American Boy. Now here’s how it’s going to work.”

  He told them.

  Karl Boltitz asked dubiously, “Cletus, do you really think that’s going to work?”

  “It’ll either work or we’ll add new meaning to the Army Air Corps’ song.”

  He then sang, “We live in fame or go down in flames, nothing can stop the OSS Air Corps . . .”

  Frade now was standing between the pilot and copilot seats. The lights of the huge Brazilian airfield were in sight.

  Mario Peralta had been in the pilot’s seat during the seven-hour flight from Buenos Aires, as Clete had instructed, and another SAA backup pilot was flying as copilot.

  “Give it to him, Mario,” Frade ordered, “and then let me sit there.”

  Peralta did as ordered, but it was obvious he had been looking forward to making the approach and landing himself.

  When Frade had strapped himself in and put on the headset, he gave another order, this time to the copilot: “I’ll take it. You go back and send von Wachtstein up here.”

  “Sí, señor,” the copilot said, his tone making it clear that he also had been looking forward to the approach and landing.

  I knew that was going to piss them off. So why did I do it?

  Because Peter needs more landing practice, and I’m the most qualified person to sit in the left seat to keep him out of trouble while he does it.

  So fuck the both of you.

  “Sit down, Hansel, and strap yourself in.”

  Von Wachtstein complied.

  “You feel qualified to land this?”

  Von Wachtstein considered the question and then nodded.

  “Got the checklist?”

  Von Wachtstein nodded again.

  Frade keyed the microphone.

  “Val de Cans tower, this is South American Airways Double Zero Nine. This is a Lockheed Constellation. I am ten miles south, at five thousand feet, indicating Two Nine Zero. Request approach and landing.”

  “SAA Double Zero Nine, I have you on radar. Descend on present course reporting when at three thousand feet.”

  “You have the aircraft, First Officer,” Clete said, and took his hands off the yoke.

  “He sounded like an American,” von Wachtstein said.

  “This is an American air base,” Frade replied. “One of our smaller ones.”

  After they touched down, von Wachtstein looked around in awe, and said, “One of your smaller airfields?”

  They were trailing a FOLLOW ME jeep down a taxiway lined on both sides as far as they could see with far-too-many-to-count four-engined Consolidated B-24 bombers parked wingtip to wingtip.

  “The larger ones are really crowded,” Clete replied.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “This base served two major roles,” Clete said. “One, as a home base for B-24s looking for submarines and German—or allegedly neutral—merchant vessels, and, two, as a jump-off point for aircraft headed for Europe via Sierra Leone in West Africa.”

  “There’s another Connie,” von Wachtstein said as they came close to the transient aircraft tarmac.

  The airplane bore the markings of the U.S. Army Air Forces.

  Frade thought: I wonder what the hell that’s doing here?

  Did Graham or Dulles—or even Donovan—come down here to see me?

  If that’s the case, the odds are I’m not going to like what they have to say.

  As ground handlers wanded the Ciudad de Rosario into a parking spot beside the other Connie, Frade picked up his microphone again.

  “Val de Cans tower, this is South American Airways Double Zero Nine. I’m sitting on the transient tarmac. Can you get a ladder out here to the cockpit door before, repeat before, you put a ladder up to the passenger door?”

  “No problem, South American Double Zero Nine. Where’d you get the American accent?”

  [FOUR]

  The flight-planning room was deserted except for an Air Forces lieutenant and a plump sergeant. They were sitting at sort of a counter. A weather map and a flight schedule chart were mounted on the wall behind them.

  “Sorry,” the sergeant greeted them, more or less courteously, “but this is for Americans only.”

  “Not a problem,” Frade said, then looked at the officer. “Are you the AOD, Lieutenant?”

  Frade was wearing the red-striped powder-blue trousers of an SAA captain, but had replaced the SAA tunic with a fur-collared leather jacket on which was a leather patch with Naval Aviator Wings and the legend FRADE, C H ILT, USMCR. He also had replaced the ornate, high-crowned SAA uniform cap with the Stetson hat his uncle Jim had been wearing when he dropped dead in the Midland Petroleum Club.

  The lieutenant, whose face showed his confusion at what
stood before him, shook his head and then asked, “You’re from that Argentine airliner?”

  “Figured that out, did you?” Clete said. “How about getting the AOD down here for me?”

  Clete, who had done many tours as an AOD—aerodrome officer of the day—understood that at a little after two in the morning most AODs would be curled up on a cot and would tend to be annoyed if awakened to deal with anything less than the field being attacked by Martians. And AODs were usually senior to the officer in charge of the flight-planning room.

  One of the stage directions Director Frade had issued to his cast was that when he issued an order, the reply would be in the same language used to issue the order. So, when he next said in German, “Hansel, you and Karl take a look at the weather map,” von Wachtstein replied, “Jawohl, Herr Oberst.” Then both headed for the weather map behind the counter.

  This tended to further confuse the lieutenant and the sergeant. But the former retained enough of his composure to proclaim, “Hey, you can’t go back there!”

  “Don’t be absurd, Sergeant,” Frade said.

  “The colonel told you to get the AOD down here, Lieutenant,” Siggie Stein snapped. “Do it.”

  “Easy, Siggie,” Frade said.

  Frade then extended to the lieutenant the credentials identifying him as an OSS area director.

  “Not only weren’t we here, but I didn’t show you that,” Frade said. “Understood, Lieutenant?”

  The lieutenant was clearly dazzled by the spurious credentials.

  “Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said. “Sergeant, go get Major Cronin.”

  Frade impatiently gestured for the lieutenant to return his credentials. The lieutenant hastily did so.

  Major Cronin, a nice-looking young officer wearing pilot’s wings, appeared two minutes later, looking somewhat sleepy eyed.

  “You’re off that Argentine Constellation, right?” he said.

  “Correct,” Frade said. He extended his credentials. “Take a quick look at that, please, Major, and then forget you ever saw it or us.”

  Major Cronin looked, then said, “Yes, sir. And what can Val de Cans do for the OSS?”