Death and Honor

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.