Secret Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  Almond followed Pelosi and Frade into the cabin and to the rear door. Captain Maxwell Ashton III, Signal Corps, Army of the United States, and Frade’s bodyguard, or whatever he was, the Argentine who followed him around like a puppy, carrying a shotgun, started to unfasten their seat belts as they passed.

  This was the third time Almond had provided Frade with flight instruction in the Lodestar. The first two sessions, they had been alone (except for Frade’s shadow) and the instruction had really been in basic aircraft handling. Loss of an engine immediately after takeoff, that sort of thing. They had used the El Palomar field for that, and had made perhaps thirty touch-and-go landings.

  Frade was an apt pilot and had been a quick student. All he had needed was a little instruction.

  For their third session, Frade asked for a cross-country flight. Almond had readily agreed. It would give him a chance to see the country from the air, something he didn’t know how else he would manage. And when Frade suggested they take Ashton and Pelosi, to give them a chance to see the country from the air, he agreed to that, too, and left notes for them in the boxes at the embassy, telling them to arrange their schedules so they would have two days free starting that Friday evening.

  Pelosi had the door open by the time Frade reached it, and one by one everyone in the plane jumped to the ground.

  It was piss-call time.

  Frade tucked himself into his trousers and turned to smile at Almond. “Tell me, teacher, if that was an official check ride, would you have passed me?”

  “Yes, Clete, I think I would,” Almond said.

  “In other words, you think I’m qualified to fly that bird all by my lonesome?”

  “Well, I would recommend, of course, that you have a copilot; but sure, you’re qualified to be pilot-in-command.”

  “When you get back to the States, make sure you tell Colonel Graham that,” Clete said.

  “Excuse me? Who?”

  Clete didn’t respond.

  “Let me have your .45, Enrico,” he said.

  Enrico Rodríguez reached around, took what looked to Almond like a Colt Model 1911A1 .45 ACP pistol from the small of his back, and handed it butt-first to Clete.

  What the hell is he doing?

  Clete ejected the clip from the pistol, examined it, and put it back in place.

  He was counting cartridges to make sure there wasn’t one in the chamber and the pistol was safe. I wonder why he did that?

  Colonel Almond erred. Clete had counted the cartridges remaining in the magazine—six—to be sure that the seventh was chambered in the pistol.

  He pulled the hammer back, then looked around. He pointed to the side of the runway, where, twenty-five yards away, there was a makeshift runway marker, a large tin can painted yellow.

  He raised the pistol and fired.

  Even with the muted roar of the left engine, the unexpected sound was shocking. Almond’s ears rang.

  What the hell was that all about?

  “My God, Clete!” Almond exclaimed.

  The can came to rest. Clete fired again and the can jumped into the air again. It landed again, and Clete fired a third time, sending the can another ten yards across the field.

  “That’s all,” Clete said. “My uncle Jim was always saying, ‘Quit while you’re ahead, Clete, quit while you’re ahead!’”

  Holding the pistol to his side, he looked at Almond and went on: “That’s sound advice for you, you sonofabitch,” he said. “I hope you’re smart enough to take it.”

  “Excuse me? What the hell is going on here? If this is some sort of joke, I don’t like it.”

  “When you get back to the States, Almond, you will tell Colonel Graham, won’t you, that you checked me out in this aircraft?”

  “Who the hell is Colonel Graham?”

  “This would be a very bad time for you to try to be clever with me, Almond,” Clete said.

  “Would you please move that pistol away from me?” Almond said.

  “I’m not pointing it at you,” Clete said. “My uncle Jim taught me never to point a pistol at anyone I didn’t intend to shoot. And I haven’t really made up my mind whether I’m going to shoot you or not, or let you go to the States and have a little chat with Colonel Graham.”

  “I have no goddamn idea what you’re talking about!” Almond said, aware that his voice sounded a little hysterical. “I never heard of a Colonel Graham!”

  “Bullshit!” Lieutenant Pelosi said.

  “He may be telling the truth,” Clete said. “What the hell, it doesn’t matter if he does or not. You, Captain Ashton, in your next communication with Colonel Graham, will report that both you and Lieutenant Pelosi were present when Colonel Almond informed me that I was now qualified to fly the Lodestar.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Ashton said.

  “But I think you should tell him that conversation took place at El Palomar, not here. That’s not the truth, but we’re in the intelligence business, and we can be cut a little slack.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Ashton repeated.

  “Who do you work for, Almond?” Clete asked. “And remember that you’re an officer and a gentleman, and officers and gentlemen don’t lie.”

  “I’m assigned to the Office of the Assistant Chief of Staff for Intelligence, G-2, in the War Department.”

  “And they sent you down here to ask questions about Galahad?”

  Almond didn’t reply.

  “Yes or no, Colonel,” Clete said. “And I think you should understand that if I think you’re lying to me, I probably will decide to shoot you.”

  “Yes,” Almond said faintly, and added: “Yes, that is one of my missions.”

  “Thank you,” Clete said. “I really don’t like to kill people unless I have to.”

  “You were pretty dumb, Colonel, to ask Ashton and me about Galahad, and really stupid to ask Coronel Martín,” Tony Pelosi said.

  “The thing is, Almond, Galahad is critical to an operation I’m running here,” Clete said. “I don’t want his identity known to G-2, or the Bureau of Internal Security, or anyone else.”

  “Those were my orders, Major Frade,” Almond said. “You can hardly fault me for trying to carry them out.”

  “When they interfere with my operation, I can,” Clete said. “Nothing personal.”

  “I’m glad you understand,” Almond said. “Frade, we could have talked about this. You didn’t have to go through that melodramatic business with the pistol.”

  Clete raised the pistol slightly and fired again. The bullet struck a rock two feet to Almond’s side and went into a screaming ricochet.

  “Mother of God!” Almond almost shrieked. “You’re crazy!”

  “Do I have your attention now, Colonel?” Clete asked.

  Almond stared at him, wide-eyed.

  “Here’s the rules. You stop asking questions about Galahad. If you do, I will find out, and I will either kill you myself or have you killed.”

  “Do you realize what you’re saying, Major?”

  “Yes, I do. If you ever appear anywhere near my estancia, or my homes in Buenos Aires, you will be shot on sight. Or, anyway, killed. People here like to use knives.”

  “Well, then, you better kill me right here and now,” Almond said. “Because if you don’t, I intend to make a full report of this incident.”

  “I expect you to,” Clete said. “But you’d better consider—and you will have time to think it over in the next couple of days—what you’re going to say in your report.”

  “What I would do, Almond,” Ashton said, “if I were in your shoes, would be one of two things. I would report that you compromised your mission here—that you blew it, in other words—and that not only do you feel you can do no more good here, but that you have received death threats
—”

  “You heard those death threats, Captain, if I have to remind you of that!”

  “I didn’t hear any death threats,” Ashton said. “Did you hear any death threats, Lieutenant Pelosi?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “If I may continue, Colonel,” Ashton said. “Or you can stay here, enjoy the good life, and forget you ever heard ‘Galahad.’”

  “I think you should shoot him, Señor Clete,” Enrico Rodríguez said. “Or let me. I don’t trust him.”

  “You can shoot him the first time you see him near Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, or anywhere near the houses in Buenos Aires,” Clete said. “I really don’t want to kill him unless I have to.”

  He turned to Almond. “I really don’t want to kill you, but I will if I have to. And for something else to think about in the next couple of days: If I have to, the Argentine government will consider that I’ve done them a favor.”

  “What is this ‘next couple of days’ business? Is that some sort of ultimatum?”

  “I think it will take you at least a couple of days to get back to Buenos Aires,” Clete said. “Would you give me your wallet, please?”

  “What?”

  “Your wallet, Almond,” Clete said. “It’ll be returned to you in Buenos Aires.”

  “You’re not going to leave me here!”

  “Yes, I am,” Clete said. “Enrico, get his wallet. And make sure he has no other identification on him.”

  “Sí, Señor.”

  “When we get home, mail his stuff to him at the embassy,” Clete ordered.

  “Sir,” Ashton said. “I could just leave it on his desk at the embassy.”

  “Better yet,” Clete said.

  Enrico professionally searched Almond, and took his money, his diplomatic carnet, his diplomatic passport, and his keys.

  “Give them to Captain Ashton, please,” Clete said.

  “Sí, Senor.”

  When he had finished, Clete handed him the pistol. “Careful, there’s still one in the chamber,” he said.

  Enrico carefully lowered the hammer, then ejected the magazine and refilled it before replacing it.

  “Now march the Colonel over there,” Clete said, pointing to the end of the runway threshold. “When I have the other engine running, leave him there and get on the airplane. If he does anything suspicious, you can shoot him in the foot, but you are not to kill him. Understand?”

  “Sí, Señor.”

  “Ashton, you want to ride up front with me and work the controls?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Clete climbed into the Lodestar, followed by Ashton and Pelosi. It took him less than a minute to strap himself in and restart the left engine. Sixty seconds later, Enrico climbed aboard and closed the door. Thirty seconds after that, the Lodestar reached takeoff velocity and Clete lifted it into the air. “Wheels up,” he ordered.

  “Wheels up and locked,” Ashton reported twenty seconds later.

  On the ground, Lieutenant Colonel Richard J. Almond, U.S. Army Air Corps, watched in disbelief as the Lodestar climbed smoothly out over the bright blue waters of Lake Nahuel Huapí.

  Christ, I don’t even know where that village is!

  And then, surprising himself, he was suddenly very nauseous.

  [TWO]

  El Palomar Airfield

  Buenos Aires

  1905 29 May 1943

  When Cletus Frade turned the Lodestar on final, he saw that the runway lights had not only been turned on but that he was going to need them. “Shit!” he said, then ordered, “Gear down.”

  There came the sound of laboring hydraulics, then Captain Maxwell Ashton’s voice came metallically over the intercom: “Gear down and locked,” he said. “Why ‘shit’? Have we reason for me to soil my undies?”

  “What happened to your blind faith in my flying skill?” Clete asked as he lined up with the runway lights.

  “I fear that was a fleeting blind faith,” Ashton said. “Answer the fucking question, Cletus!”

  “I’m not going to be able to fly this thing to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo tonight,” he said.

  The wheels chirped as the Lodestar touched down. Clete smoothly slowed the aircraft down.

  “God, may I reconsider my rash promise never to sin again if I ever made it safely back to earth?” Ashton asked. “I was under a certain strain when I made the offer.”

  Clete picked up the microphone. “El Palomar. Lockheed Zebra Eight Four Three on the deck at five past the hour. I will need parking instructions to remain overnight and fuel service, please.”

  “Eight Four Three, take taxiway Two Right, make a right turn on the tarmac, and park your aircraft in front of the terminal.”

  “Taxiway Two Right, right on the tarmac to the terminal.”

  “Correct, Eight Four Three.”

  “Muchos gracias, amigo,” Clete said, and hung up the microphone.

  Ground handlers were waiting in front of the terminal to help him park the Lodestar. He shut it down and climbed out of the pilot’s seat. “Permit me to say, Captain Ashton, that in all of my vast experience flying Lodestar aircraft, I have never met someone who could handle the flaps and gear controls with such skill and élan as you showed,” Clete said.

  “I hate to remember that I was a passenger the first time you flew this great big sonofabitch,” Ashton said.

  “I think it was the second time I flew it, not the first,” Clete said, and walked into the cabin. “Enrico, find a phone someplace, call the house on Avenida Coronel Díaz, and have someone drive a car out here. Is Señora Dorotéa’s Buick there?”

  “Sí, Señor Clete.”

  “Then have them bring the Buick.”

  “Clete, I can drive you into town, my car’s here,” Tony Pelosi said.

  “I want to go around town, not into it,” Clete said. “But thank you.”

  “Are we going to do an after-action, boss?” Ashton asked.

  “You mean did our theatrics properly impress Almond?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think so. It went well, I think. I thought he was going to piss his pants when I shot next to him.”

  “A completely understandable reaction, I would say,” Ashton said.

  “I hope it went well,” Clete said thoughtfully. “I really don’t want to have to kill him.”

  “Are you prepared to?” Ashton asked, very seriously.

  Clete met his eyes, then nodded.

  “Sometimes, despite the unkind things Colonel Graham said to you, I think you really are suited for this line of work,” Ashton said.

  “I’m almost sorry Almond doesn’t know Graham,” Clete said, not responding to the comment. “And I agree with Tony, I don’t think he’s even heard his name. I thought it would be sort of funny if Almond told him he had checked me out in the Lodestar.”

  He walked the rest of the way down the aisle, opened the door, and jumped to the ground.

  “Welcome to Buenos Aires, my friend,” Coronel Bernardo Martín said, stepping out of the shadows. “I was getting a little worried about you.”

  “I’m touched, but why should you be worried?”

  “You left Posadas Airfield at half past eleven this morning, and no one’s seen you since.”

  “Well, it’s a long way from Missiones Province, mi Coronel.”

  Ashton jumped to the ground, then Pelosi.

  “You remember these gentlemen, I’m sure,” Clete said.

  Martín saluted, and Ashton and Tony returned it somewhat awkwardly.

  “We don’t salute when we’re in civilian clothing,” Clete said.

  “Really? I wonder why not? I don’t think that people stop being officers when they put on civilian clothing, do you?”

>   Enrico jumped to the ground, saw Martín, and saluted.

  “You see?” Martín asked, chuckling. “Enrico understands.”

  “Unless you’d rather stand around here chewing the fat with Coronel Martín, why don’t you guys take off?” Clete said. “Call me when you hear something.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Tony said.

  “I see Lieutenant Pelosi isn’t the only one who can’t seem to remember you’re no longer an officer,” Martín said.

  “For which I will order him tarred and feathered,” Clete said.

  “You’re not going into town with them?” Martín asked.

  “I have to tie the airplane down, and then see that it’s fueled,” Clete said. “That’ll take thirty minutes. There’s no point in them waiting around.”

  “Then good evening, gentlemen,” Martín said. “It’s always a pleasure to encounter members of our diplomatic corps, and I’m glad that my fears about your welfare were groundless.”

  “They were probably intuitive, mi Coronel,” Ashton said. “After flying with Señor Frade, I am always tempted to kiss the ground when we finally get back on it.”

  Martín laughed dutifully, and offered his hand to each of them.

  “Go find a phone, Enrico,” Clete ordered when they had gone.

  “May I ask why?” Martín asked.

  “To get us a car to drive to the estancia,” Clete said. “My wife’s car is at the Coronel Díaz house.”

  “I’ll be happy to drive you to Coronel Díaz. My car is here.”

  “Thank you, but no thank you,” Clete said. “I wouldn’t want you to waste your valuable time waiting for me here.”

  “I insist, my friend,” Martín said, smiling.

  Clete met his eyes and then shrugged.

  “In that case, how would you like to help me tie down the airplane?”

  “I would be delighted,” Martín said.

  “Manuel, this is Señor Frade, and the gentleman sitting beside you is Suboficial Mayor Rodríguez, Retired,” Martín said when they were in the blue Dodge.

  “I’m happy to meet you, Manuel,” Clete said. “Even if I suspect that you’re more than el Coronel’s driver.”