Death and Honor

[FOUR]

El Palomar Airfield Campo de Mayo Military Base Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1115 19 July 1943

“El Palomar, South American Airways Zero Zero One,” South American Airways Chief Pilot Gonzalo Delgano said into his microphone.

His co-pilot, Señor Cletus Frade, restrained a smile.

I am learning. If I hadn’t let him sit in the left seat for this, he never would have forgiven me.

“South American Zero Zero One, Palomar.”

“Palomar, South American Zero Zero One is at two thousand meters, twenty-five kilometers from your station, indicating three hundred forty kph.”

“Zero Zero One, Palomar. What is your airspeed?”

“Palomar, I repeat. Indicated airspeed is three four zero kilometers per hour. I repeat, three four zero kilometers per hour. Request approach and landing instructions. ”

If you said “three four zero” one more time, Gonzalo, you would have popped the buttons on your shirt.

“Gear is down and locked, Captain,” co-pilot Frade reported. “You have twenty-degrees of flap. We are indicating one hundred twenty-five kph.”

“That was a very fine landing, Captain,” the co-pilot said. “If I may be permitted to say so. What we call a greaser.”

“Actually, for an aircraft of this size, it’s not at all that hard to fly, is it, Cletus?”

“It’s not an easy one to fly, Gonzalo,” Frade said seriously.

Captain Delgano beamed.

I have made a friend for life.

But how that will, of course, affect our professional relationship in the other profession we practice—but don’t talk about—remains to be seen.

Frade’s good feeling disappeared sixty seconds later when he looked out the cockpit window and saw the welcoming party waiting for them. It included— in addition to Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodríguez, Retired, the Horch, and a Ford ton-and-a-half stake-bodied truck with ESTANCIA SAN PEDRO Y SAN PABLO painted on the doors—two Argentine officers, El Coronel Juan D. Perón and El Teniente Coronel Alejandro Martín.

How the hell did they know we were coming?

And what the hell do they want?

They knew we were coming, Stupid, because your new friend for life called the Argentine embassy in Rio de Janeiro—

Or maybe there’s an Argentine consulate in Pôrto Alegre—

Or maybe Martín has one of his guys in Pôrto Alegre and my pal for life Gonzalo just happened to run into him in the lobby of the hotel.

—and told him, them—somebody—when we were leaving and when we expected to arrive.

And what our welcoming party wants—or at least Martín wants—is to see what interesting things I’m smuggling into Argentina.

And then, to cover his ass—or perhaps he wanted a witness when he caught me smuggling something into Argentina—Martín called Perón, and Tío Juan called the estancia and told Enrico.

The radios I can explain.

But how do I explain the SIGABA device?

Frade waved cheerfully out the window to Perón and Martín as Delgano taxied the Lodestar up to the hangar South American Airways had rented until the hangars—and the runways—being built in Morón were completed.

Frade was first out the door.

“Where’s the brass band?” he called as he walked to Perón and Martín. “You two are all we get? No crescendo of trumpets, no roll of drums?”

The intended humor failed. Both Martín and Perón looked confused.

He kissed Tío Juan, then—what the hell!—Martín.

“A pleasant flight, Cletus?” Perón asked.

Delgano answered for him.

“Two hours and sixteen minutes from Pôrto Alegre, mi coronel,” he proclaimed. “At an average speed of three hundred forty!”

“That fast? You were trying to set a record?”

“No, actually, we didn’t try to do anything but get here safely,” Frade said.

“It is a beautiful machine,” Perón said.

“Would you like to see the inside, mi coronel?” Delgano said.

“I would, thank you,” Martín said.

Len Fischer came down the stairs.

“This is Mr. Fischer, of the Collins Radio Corporation,” Frade said. “He’s here to set up our base station radios.”

Perón smiled politely. Martín didn’t seem to be surprised to see him.

“We might as well unload them, Fischer,” Frade said. “They’ll have to pass through customs.”

Two customs officers were standing not far away.

That was your cue, Tío Juan, to say, “Oh, that won’t be necessary.”

“I’d like to see those myself,” Martín said.

Okay. A communications radio is a radio. Radios look like radios. And I made sure I told Delgano we were bringing in two radios.

But the SIGABA? How the hell am I going to be able to explain that?

“Can we get some help?” Frade asked.

Tío Juan snapped his fingers, and the older of the customs officers quickly walked to him.

“Be so good as to help this gentleman remove some cargo,” Perón said.

Two minutes later, six large wooden crates and a smaller one sat on the tarmac.

The crates had latches. Opening the first of the large ones was simple and quick.

“And there’s five more,” Fischer said, pointing at the others.

“What’s that?” Martín inquired politely, pointing at the smaller crate.

“What is that, Mr. Fischer?” Frade asked in English.

“That’s the tape repeater, Mr. Frade,” Fischer replied in English.

Frade made the translation.

“What does it do?” El Teniente Coronel Martín asked in Spanish.

“The colonel would like to know what it does,” Frade said.

“I’ll show you,” Fischer said. “You’ll have to translate.”

“Okay,” Frade said, and switched to Spanish. “He’s going to show you, and I will translate.”

“Muy amable,” El Teniente Coronel Martín replied.

“It works with the communications transceivers, in the larger crates,” Fischer said, “in the radio-direction-finder function.”

Frade made the translation as Fischer took from the crate what looked very much like a typewriter mounted to a metal box.

“The crew of the aircraft, when they are some distance from the field,” Fischer explained, “listen for a Morse code signal being transmitted by the transceiver. ”

Frade made the translation.

“They can then head for the source of that signal,” Fischer went on. “Radio propagation is sometimes directional.”

Frade translated.

“But of course they have to be listening to the right signal, which means it has to be identified,” Fischer went on. “That means sending a message. Now, supposing the airfield here is looking for South American Airways Zero Zero One”—he gestured—“this aircraft.”

Frade translated.

“In that case, the message would be ‘South American Airways Zero Zero One.’ ”

Frade translated.

I now have Tío Juan’s and Martín’s fascinated attention.

Where is Fischer getting this bullshit?

“Which would normally be transmitted, over and over, by a radio operator sitting at a desk and tapping his key.”

Frade translated.

Fischer said, “Dit dit dit dot dit dot dot dit dit.”

Tío Juan and Martín signaled that that required no translation by nodding their understanding.

“He would do this, over and over, for an hour. Or even longer,” Fischer said.

Frade translated.

“But with the Model SIGABA here,” Fischer said, patting the device much as if it were a beloved family puppy, “all we have to do is type the message once.”

He mimed typing.

Frade translated.

“And the SIGABA produces a perforated tape, like this.”

He held up a three-foot-long strip of brown paper tape and handed it to Frade.

Frade translated as they examined it. He saw that it was perforated along its length with small holes. Over each grouping of holes was a letter. In this case, it spelled out PLAY IT AGAIN SAM.

He handed the tape to Martín, who examined it. Tío Juan moved in for a closer look, took the tape from Martín, then looked at Fischer for a further explanation.

“Then all we have to do is feed the tape back into a Model 7.2 transceiver,” Fischer went on, “and throw a switch, and the Model 7.2 will broadcast the message on the tape over and over, perfectly, until it is turned off.”

Frade translated.

“Very clever,” Martín said.

“Brilliant!” Tío Juan said enthusiastically.

“When we have it set up, I’ll be happy to demonstrate it,” Fischer said.

Frade translated.

“I’d like to see that,” Tío Juan said.

“Well, as soon as we get it set up, Tío Juan, at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, I’ll arrange a demonstration for you and El Coronel Martín.”

“Please,” Perón said.

“Captain Delgano,” Frade said, “would you be good enough to show these gentlemen around Zero Zero One?”

“It would be my honor, Don Cletus.”

“Jesus, Fischer,” Frade said when the others were inside the Lodestar, “where did all that tape repeater yarn come from?”

“I spent most of the trip down here wondering what I was going to do if somebody asked me what the SIGABA was. I didn’t want to have to pull the D-ring.”

“What D-ring?”

“The one that sets off the thermite grenades. There’s two of them in the crate, in boxes labeled ‘Perforatable Tape.’ ”