Both of the Aranetas gasped and laughed. Ian then commented: “I found out later that Fred had the crew chief disable the plane’s transponder so there’d be no comebacks.”
Arturo chuckled and said, “Very clever. And I’m glad this was not you flying so illegally.”
The last segment of the video was several minutes of aerobatics shot over the pilot’s shoulder. In one corner of the screen, the plane’s altimeter could be seen winding down from thirty thousand feet, at an alarming rate. The significance of some of the maneuvers was lost on her father, but Blanca was clearly impressed. She kept saying “Wow” and “Double wow!”
As Ian disconnected his camcorder, Arturo exclaimed, “That was fantastic. Simply fantastic.”
Next the subject of tennis came up, as Blanca had warned it always did with her father. He started by saying, “You know, seeing San Francisco in that videotape reminds me . . .” He spent the next half hour in an animated description of how he had toured the United States playing tennis tournaments in the 1980s and how he had learned to disco dance. He ended by mentioning: “You know, when I was there, I became so fascinated with your basketball. Other than tennis, that is now the sport I watch the most, on the satellite television.”
“Really?” Ian asked. “What is your favorite American team?”
The Honduran replied, “Oh, the Detroit Pistons. Most definitely.”
Ian laughed. “Did Blanca mention that I was raised near Detroit?”
Arturo Araneta put on a huge grin.
Ian put in hesitantly, “Although I’ve gotta say, I’m just as much a Lakers fan as I am a fan of the Pistons.”
“The Lakers, they are a fine team, too, but sometimes, with all their physicality, they lack the, ah, finesse and control of the Pistons.”
Just when Doyle thought that he could not have hit it off more perfectly, Arturo asked: “So, what does a fighter jockey like you do, for hobbies?”
“I like to run, swim, and I do a lot of target shooting.”
Araneta chortled. “You are a shooter? Come with me, my boy, and I will show you my modest gun collection!”
As the three of them walked together toward the other wing of the house, Blanca laughed and whispered, “The lost-long son returns!”
As they walked, Ian glanced over his shoulder and noticed the maid following five paces back, dutifully carrying a tray with their drinks. He realized that this sort of life would take some getting used to.
They spent the next half hour chitchatting and admiring guns pulled out of a climate-controlled walk-in vault. Araneta had a huge collection of perhaps two hundred guns and fifty swords and sabers. Sitting on a large wooden stand in the center of the vault room was an exquisitely ornamented saddle with a saber and a pair of holstered horse pistols. The saddle was clearly the centerpiece of his collection. Arturo explained, “This saddle belonged to a lieutenant of Simón Bolívar. I bought it by private treaty from a collector before it could go to auction.”
Doyle noted that Arturo’s collection was eclectic, ranging from a sixteenth-century Chinese hand cannon to one of the latest Colt Anaconda revolvers. But the collection mostly emphasized muzzle loaders and horse pistols, representing four hundred years of development for the latter. In deference to the humid climate in Honduras, they all wore white cotton gloves as they handled the guns.
As they were examining his modern guns, Araneta asked, “What do you think of Blanca’s Glock 19?”
“You have a Glock?” Ian asked Blanca, surprised.
Blanca answered with a slight tone of condescension, “Yes, of course, the one I carry every day, in my flight bag. It’s got night sights on it. I’m a very good shot.”
“I had no idea that you packed.”
Blanca laughed and said, “You yanquis have no idea how many Hondurans carry guns every day of the week. We just make no big deal about it.
“Daddy bought me the Glock and also the Mercedes. The car is intentionally old and ugly on the outside, but it has a brand-new engine and transmission. Actually, the rust spots on the door panels are not really rust: they are just painted on. It’s the perfecto anti-kidnapping car. Not like anything anyone would expect me to drive. Even so, it is built like a tank and could knock most other cars off of the road!”
Ian stroked his chin and said, “The more I learn about you, señorita, the more there is to like about you. You’re the complete package: ‘She flies, she swims, she shoots, she dresses tastefully, she drives a stealth tank, she likes flamenco guitar . . . ’”
“You left out that I’m a great cook and an excellent dancer.”
All three of them laughed.
Finally, they sat down to a four-course dinner that was served by the cook and dutifully attended by the maid. The conversation over dinner ranged from flying, to shooting, to duck hunting, to Arturo’s recollections of what Blanca was like as a little girl, and, of course, to tennis.
Ian got to try out some of his new Spanish phrases. His fractured grammar and conjugational foul-ups earned him a lot of good-spirited laughter. Arturo was gracious, saying only: “You are learning quickly, my boy. And I’m glad to hear you use a good Castilian accent. So many Americans I meet, even scientists and engineers, are educated only in the gutter Spanish.”
After a long pause, Arturo glanced over the top of his glasses and asked gravely, “Are you Catholic?”
“Yes, sir. Born and raised, Irish-Catholic. I still attend Mass faithfully.” Realizing that he was taking a huge risk of offending his host, he added: “But additionally, I have come to more of a personal faith in Jesus Christ. Between him and me, I feel no need of a mediator. The pope and the priests are fine for ceremony, but I truly feel that I’m saved personally: by Jesus, by faith in him alone, by his grace, and with my sins paid for by his sacrifice on the cross. I love Jesus with all mi corazón.”
Arturo brightened and clasped his hand on Ian’s shoulder. “I feel the same way also. It is refreshing to hear that from a fellow member of the church.”
Everything continued to go well until it was time for cigars and brandy. Arturo was slightly miffed when Ian accepted a snifter but refused a cigar, saying, “Lo siento mucho, señor, but I don’t smoke. No fumo.”
As he trimmed and lit his cigar, Arturo tut-tutted and then said resignedly, “Oh, well, you pilots are such health nuts. You don’t know what you’re missing. Honduran cigars are just as good as los Cubanos. But I can say I now smoke only about one of these a month.”
Blanca joked, “You know, Daddy, I gave up cigars years ago, when I decided to follow in the steps of Amelia Earhart.”
As Blanca gave Ian a ride back to the base, she went on and on about how well Ian had gotten along with her father, mentioning how unprecedented that was. After a couple of minutes of driving on in silence, she said simply, “I think he really likes you, Ian.”
“I like him too.” Then he asked: “Where’d you get that pearl necklace?”
“Before they were married, my father and mother went on a trip to the Islas de la Bahía. Those are our Bay Islands on the east coast. They were snorkeling and Daddy dove to bring up an oyster. Inside of this oyster was this pearl. Later on that same day my father asked my mother to marry him. The pearl, it was too big and fragile for a ring, so it was placed on this necklace. Ever since then, my father nicknamed my mother conchita, which means ‘little oyster.’ And now he sometimes calls me that.”
After a long pause, she added, “My mother gave me this when she was dying of the cancer.”
“Lo siento mucho, Blanca.”
“It’s okay. That was a long time ago.”
“May I call you conchita?”
Blanca giggled, “Yes, Ian, you may, but not in public! You see, among the lower classes—especially in Argentina—conchita has a different, a very crude meaning; so please
don’t you call me that around other people—or at least around anyone from Argentina.”
“Si, mi conchita.”
She drove on in silence, obviously deep in thought.
After passing through the formalities with the air base’s gate guards, Blanca turned to face Ian and said, “You know, Mr. Lieutenant Doyle, you were very clever, finding out all those things about me from Consuelo.”
“Yes, I must admit I do overplan things.”
“So, why did you do all that—the orchids and the Almond Roca? I think also the flamenco music.” Her voice grew sharp. “Why?”
Doyle coughed nervously. “Because I fell in love with your voice on the radio from the tower, even before I ever laid eyes on you. And when someone like me loves someone as much as I love you . . . well. I’m the kind of guy that will nearly warp space and time, just to make everything fall into place. I am absolutely head over heels, crazy in love with you, Blanca.”
Just then her car reached the driving circle in front of the White House.
“Perhaps I will see you again, Ian,” she said, ushering him out with a wave and a smile. He blew her a kiss. As her eyes lingered on him for a moment, he added, half shouting: “Encantado, Señorita!”
As he approached the front steps of the White House, Ian Doyle stopped in his tracks. He realized why Blanca had worn the pearl necklace. That pearl had been a key part of her father’s marriage proposal to her mother. Wearing it had been her way of telling her father: This man is bona fide marriage material.
The next few weeks were a blur. The squadron’s operational tempo increased, and Ian was flying a lot. Most of his contact with Blanca was by correspondence. Their love letters began cordially but became more familiar and gained a note of passion as time went on. Partly because two of the Hondo Expedition pilots had fallen ill with traveler’s tummy, Ian was flying as much as six days a week, a grueling pace.
Most of Ian’s missions were uneventful. The only real excitement came on a couple of flights when his plane’s radar warning receiver went off over hostile territory. These were mainly Gun Dish radars, part of Russian-built ZSU 23-4s—four-barrel 23mm antiaircraft cannons. The plane’s radar warning receiver (RWR) going off caused a bit of angst and prompted some lively discussion at the postflight debriefings.
On a Sunday forty days into his Honduras rotation, Blanca took Ian flying. Above his objection to split the cost, she treated him to a two-hour rental in her favorite plane, an Italian-built Pioneer P200. It was a very small, sleek, low-wing plane that had unusual dual sticks in a side-by-side cockpit.
As they approached the plane for their preflight, Doyle said, “I was expecting you to rent some zippy biplane with seats fore and aft.”
She grinned. “I think a side-by-side configuration like this is much more, ah, romántica, no?” Quickly changing subjects, she said, “The dry weight of this bird is only 260 kilos—light as a feather!”
“Oh, man, that is light! Did you know that an F-16 weighs about twelve thousand kilos fully fueled?”
Blanca was wearing a very attractive white flight suit with zippers everywhere. As they walked around the plane, checking the fuel tanks, wiggling the wings, and checking the flaps and rudder, Doyle’s eyes kept drifting back to Blanca. The flight suit certainly accentuated her trim figure.
They pulled the chocks and climbed aboard. Sitting in the plane’s left seat, he admired Blanca’s finesse as she worked the radio and rolled out to the taxi strip, craning her head to do repeated 360 eyeballs of both the plane’s control surfaces and her surroundings. She didn’t miss a beat. After getting takeoff clearance, she punched in the throttle and took off after a surprisingly short roll. Climbing out at seven hundred feet per minute, she took the plane up to ten thousand feet and headed west as they chatted about the plane’s characteristics.
“What’s this bird stressed for?” Ian asked.
“Four g’s pos, and two g’s negative.”
Doyle nodded approvingly.
Blanca continued, “It’s been upgraded to a 110-horsepower plant. She’ll do 145 miles per hour, at altitude. Redline is 5,600 rpms. Oh, and watch your sink rate if you pull more than a 60- degree bank. I think you’ll like flying it. It takes very light control forces. I love this plane because you don’t have to muscle the stick.”
Glancing at the GPS, she declared, “Okay, hombre, now we are outside of the TCA, and we can plaaay.” Banking sharply left and right to get a view under the plane’s wings and swiveling her head, she said, “I see empty skies.”
Doyle echoed, “Ditto, I confirm I see no traffic. Let’s play!”
Blanca snugged the straps on her X-harness and, with no cue needed, Doyle did likewise. Blanca then immediately launched into a series of aerobatics that would have made most other passengers puke. Doyle was whooping and laughing. She burned through seven thousand feet in less than a minute, doing rolls, loops, and spins. At one point Blanca’s flight bag levitated to the ceiling as they pulled negative g’s. Doyle snatched it and tucked it under his arm.
After climbing back up to ten thousand feet, Blanca put on a devilish grin. She launched into another series of maneuvers, even more violent. At one point Ian’s vision narrowed from the effect of pulling three g’s. Doyle never once felt tempted to take the controls, even when she intentionally put the plane into a flat spin. She deftly recovered and they both laughed. She climbed once again and put the plane through a pair of Immelmann turns and then a neat four-point roll.
“Now you show me something!” she said, making a show of throwing her hands up, off the stick.
Quickly drying his palms on his pant legs, Doyle grasped the other stick. He then took a couple of tentative turns, getting a feel for the aircraft. He throttled the engine up slightly and then adjusted the trim wheel to counteract the propeller’s torque. This took a couple of tries to get just right, since he was unfamiliar with the gradation of the wheel.
“Está bien! You just showed me a very nice four-point roll. Now, this is an eight-pointer!” After completing the roll, he continued: “And this is a sixteen-pointer.”
After completing the second roll, he said, “Sorry, that was a little sloppy. I’m not used to a plane where I’m fighting prop torque like this. Flying jets spoils a man.” After a beat, he shouted, “Hands on stick!”
She obliged.
He then declared, “It’s your aircraft!” and dropped his hands.
She was quizzical. “What? That’s all you show me?”
As she resumed control, he explained, “Look, Blanca, I didn’t come up here to show off my fighter-jock stuff. I came to see you do your thing.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think you’re beautiful, and I think that your flying is just as beautiful. Muy bella.”
Blanca beamed and deftly banked to dive toward Lake Yojoa, visible in the distance. In the dive, their ground speed got above 160.
He truly was impressed by her flying ability. He recognized that she was a natural for stick and rudder as well as situational awareness. The thing that impressed him the most was her gracefulness in both right- and left-hand turns. Most pilots were good at only one or the other, depending on their handedness. He commented to her on this, and she explained, “Mi papá, he’s the tennis guy. Since I was a little girl, he insist that I learn everything ambidextrous—no, ambidextrously—even with the holding of a fork.”
“La tenedor,” Doyle reminded himself aloud, from a recent lesson.
“El tenedor,” she corrected.
“Sorry, I always get my masculines and feminines mixed up.”
She turned to give him another smile, “I think you are very masculine, Ian.”
With the aerobatic maneuvering over, they both loosened their harnesses. Back in level flight and approaching the lago, Blanca again pushed the s
tick forward to swoop down low over the water. The plane scared up a huge flock of ducks. Marveling at the size of the flock of multicolored brown and black birds, Ian asked: “What are those?”
“Here, we call them suirirí piquirrojo. In English they are called, I think, the black-bellied whistling duck.”
They flew well above the flock, safe from any bird strikes. Blanca repeatedly banked the plane to get a better view; then, after circling back, she pulled the throttle out, transitioning to slow flight to orbit the enormous flock. It looked like a veritable cloud of ducks. Ian snapped pictures with his camera. She then advanced the throttle to its mid-range and flew away from the lake, back toward Tegucigalpa.
Ian felt ecstatic. “Wow! That was an incredible sight, Blanca!”
Ian reached over to place his hand on Blanca’s shoulder. He realized that it was the second time he had ever touched her. He asked, “Will you marry me?”
She punched the throttle to the firewall and the acceleration threw Ian back against his seat. She looked straight ahead and then glanced down at the instruments. At first Ian thought that he had angered her. Then she turned and smiled. “Of course I will marry you, Ian. But I gotta land this plane first.”
25
A Tight Spot
“Anyone who clings to the historically untrue—and thoroughly immoral—doctrine that ‘violence never solves anything’ I would advise to conjure up the ghosts of Napoleon Bonaparte and of the Duke of Wellington and let them debate it. The ghost of Hitler could referee, and the jury might well be the Dodo, the Great Auk, and the Passenger Pigeon. Violence, naked force, has settled more issues in history than has any other factor, and the contrary opinion is wishful thinking at its worst. Breeds that forget this basic truth have always paid for it with their lives and freedoms.”
—Robert A. Heinlein, Starship Troopers
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