Death and Honor

[ONE]

Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade Morón, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 0915 22 July 1943

Clete Frade pointed out to the left to show Len Fischer that they were almost at the airfield. Fischer, his arms wrapped around his small suitcase, nodded and smiled somewhat wanly.

Frade had learned only that morning—just before they boarded the Piper Cub—that Fischer had about as much experience with light aircraft as he had with horses—none—and it was a toss-up which of the two made him more uncomfortable.

Frade now made gestures with his hand to show—if not warn—Fischer what he intended to do with the aircraft, which was make at least one low pass over the field to make sure that it would be safe to land.

Not on the runways. These were cluttered with heavy machinery, tractors, graders, dump trucks, and cement mixers. Instead, Frade planned to land— presuming he found nothing parked or dumped there—on the grass of what had only recently been a cattle-feeding lot.

He made two passes to ensure his intended “runway” was clear, then turned to signal Fischer that he was about to set down the airplane.

From the look on Fischer’s face, it was obvious that, until this moment, Fischer had never considered the possibility that they would not be landing on a wide and smoothly paved runway.

His concern—terror—was evident.

Frade felt sorry for him, but they had to land. Otherwise, none of the items on what Clete thought of as “the list” were going to be addressed.

And there were a number of critical items on the list, ones that Frade had been unable to neatly categorize as Priority One, Priority Two, and so on, because they were all interrelated with one another.

For example, they had to make sure they got electrical power run to the control tower, then make sure the Collins transceiver there worked, then use the Collins to call Delgano aboard SAA Zero Zero One.

Also high on the list: getting Second Lieutenant Len Fischer safely out of Argentina.

There had of course been the temptation to get Fischer out of the country immediately, but there were problems with that. One of them was that it would be suspicious if he left before the Collins transceivers were set up and operating at the field at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo and at what was now Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade.

Setting up the radios was what Fischer was supposed to be doing in Argentina. If he seemed to be fleeing, Martín would certainly wonder why—If someone warned him, who?—and that finger would point at Delgano.

Delgano was a card Frade was unwilling to play, because he simply didn’t know how far Delgano was willing to go to close his eyes to things Martín would (a) certainly want to know and (b) expect to hear from Delgano.

Delgano hadn’t told Martín what the SIGABA device was. But there was no guarantee he would do the same sort of thing ever again.

And, for that matter, it was possible—not likely, but possible—that Delgano had told Martín about the SIGABA device, and the two of them were in the clever process of lulling Señor Frade into thinking he had no problems.

What Clete had decided to do was keep Fischer around until the Collins radios were functioning—but only at the estancia and here, in the control tower of what he in aviator shorthand had already begun to think of as “Jorge Frade.”

The problem with that was there was no electrical power at the terminal building. In fact, the terminal building itself was nowhere near finished, and when it was electrical power would be about the last thing installed. And no power in the terminal meant no power in the tower.

Frade thought—indeed had been told—that he had solved the no-power problem by calling the electrical contractor and applying a West Texas business tactic: Clete had offered him a bonus if there was power to the unfinished control tower by quitting time—six p.m.—yesterday.

It was the same technique he had earlier used to get all the contractors working almost feverishly. And he’d done it over the objections of the SAA board of directors—“Cletus, things are just not done that way in Argentina” was the way Humberto Valdez Duarte, financial director of South American Airways, had put it.

As they were about to let the contracts, Frade had insisted that the contracts include bonus and penalty clauses. And so, there were generous bonuses provided for completion of the various aspects of the construction ahead of schedule, and increasingly heavy penalties if the work was not completed when it was promised.

Frade landed the Cub without incident—neither from the aircraft nor from his squeamish passenger—and taxied to the terminal building behind one of the three hangars under construction. This one was almost done. Workmen were hanging the sliding doors. More important, there was a gasoline-powered generator at the base of the still-unfinished control tower, with a cable snaking up the tower and through an opening that would eventually hold a window.

“Greed triumphs, Len,” Frade said after he had shut down the engine.

“What?”

“Never mind.” He pointed to the tower. “Let’s climb up there and see if the Collins will work.”

Thirty minutes later, with a pleased smile, Second Lieutenant Leonard Fischer, Signal Corps, USA, handed Major Cletus Frade, USMCR, a headset.

“Your cans, sir,” Fischer said.

Frade put them on and heard a distinct metallic sound: dit dah dah dah, dah dat dit, dit dit dah dit.

He smiled.

There was a pause, then his smile broadened as dit dah dah dah, dah dat dit, dit dit dah dit came again.

And, after another pause, the Morse code for JGF sounded again. And again. And again.

“If you weren’t so ugly, Lieutenant, I think I’d kiss you.”

Fischer smiled, handed Frade a microphone, and threw a switch.

“That’s ready, too?” Frade asked, surprised.

Fischer nodded.

Frade pressed the TALK button on the microphone.

“South American Airways Zero Zero One,” he said in Spanish, “this is Jorge Frade.”

There was no reply. Over the next few minutes, Frade made the call again, and again, and again. Still, no reply. He shook his head and shrugged, and started to take the earphones from his head.

“Jorge Frade, this is South American Zero Zero One. Go ahead.”

Frade recognized Delgano’s voice.

“Zero One. What is your position?”

“Jorge Frade, Zero One is fifteen kilometers north of El Palomar at two thousand meters, indicating three hundred kph.”

“Zero One, Jorge Frade, report reception of our RDF signal.”

“Frade, Stand by.”

There was a minute’s silence as Delgano tuned his radio direction finder.

“Frade, Zero One. Receiving RDF signal loud and clear.”

“Zero One, using RDF signal as navigation device, proceed to Frade, descending to one thousand meters, report when field is in sight.”

“Zero One understands proceed Frade using RDF, descend to one thousand meters, report when in sight of field.”

“Zero One, Frade. That is correct.”

“Frade, Zero One has field in sight.”

“South American Airways Zero Zero One, you are cleared to make a low-level east-west pass over Jorge Frade at an altitude of your choice.”

Frade expected Delgano to make the pass at a minimum of fifteen hundred feet above ground level. Thirty seconds later, South American Zero Zero One flashed along the east-west runway of Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade at no more than five hundred feet AGL—her engines roaring, the throttles apparently against their stops.

Fischer watched in amazement as startled ground workers on and near the runway raced for cover.

Frade watched the aircraft roar past, then dramatically pull up and bank.

As her tail disappeared into the distance, he thought, Goddamn, that’s one pretty airplane!

It was a moment before Frade trusted his voice. Then he said, “South American Zero Zero One, proceed to El Palomar and terminate your flight.”