Death and Honor

The passenger door of the lead truck, the white one, opened. A stocky man in a light brown military-type uniform, complete to Sam Browne belt and a holstered Colt .45 ACP revolver, got out. The epaulets on his uniform carried the twin silver bars of a captain. The patch on his shoulder was stitched: UNITED STATES OF AMERICA BORDER PATROL.

“Okay, gentlemen,” the Border Patrol captain said as he folded down the back of the front seat, “here we are.”

Cletus H. Frade got out first. He was unshaven and he otherwise showed the effects of having spent most of the previous ninety-six hours flying across the South American continent, over Central America, and finally from Sonora to Burbank.

Frade looked around the dark and cool brick parking area. “And where is here? What is here?”

“This is where you’ll be staying until we get your status cleared up,” the captain said.

“That sounds like we’re under arrest,” Clete challenged.

“You’re being detained,” the captain said. “I told you that at the field. There’s a difference.”

“What is it?”

Delgano and two other pilots climbed out of the back of the Carryall.

“If you leave the hotel grounds,” the Border Patrol captain explained, “you’ll be arrested and taken to the Los Angeles County Jail. It’s not nearly as comfortable as the Chateau Marmont.”

“Chateau Marmont”? Frade thought.

Christ, this is a high-dollar Hollywood starlet hotel.

And either it’s my ears still ringing from the flight, or he mispronounced its name.

He said it like it was that yellow-bellied groundhog, the marmot.

But it’s built like a French manor, and pronounced, Chateau Mah-MO.

What in hell are we doing here?

Frade said, “What exactly has to be cleared up?”

“I told you that, too, Mr. Frade. For these gentlemen, why they have no visas.”

“And I told you, they’re aircrew, they don’t need visas.”

“And you were told, Mr. Frade,” the Border Patrol captain went on, his voice suggesting he was about to lose his patience, “that for our purposes, aircrew are people actually involved in flying the airplane. Being able to fly the airplane doesn’t count.” He paused. “And in your case, Mr. Frade, you have to clear up why you don’t have a draft card, or a certificate of discharge from the Armed Forces, and why your passport doesn’t show when you left the United States. For all we know, you could have sneaked out of the U.S., probably via Mexico, and gone to Argentina to dodge the draft.”

“Wait a damn minute . . .” Frade began, then stopped himself.

I’m screwed. . . .

I didn’t get my American passport stamped because I went down there on my Argentine passport.

But I can’t tell you that because that would open the dual-citizenship can of worms.

And I don’t have a draft card or a discharge because I am a serving officer of the U.S. Marine Corps.

But I can’t tell you that, either, because Delgano and the other SAA pilots would hear me. And even if I did say it, you’d probably never look past this long-haired Argentine haircut that my wife so loves—and the last damn thing a Marine would have.

And then there’s my OSS area commander’s badge. I can’t show you it because (a) you probably wouldn’t know what the hell it was and (b) I don’t want Delgano or anyone else to see it.

So, all things considered, Clete ol’ boy, what you should do is just keep your mouth shut until you can get on a telephone and call Colonel Graham.

If you weren’t so goddamned tired, you would have thought of that before you got into an argument with this guy.

The Border Patrol captain looked at Frade, waiting for him to go on.

“Do whatever it is you were about to do,” Frade said.