Or do I like it mostly because Nestor thinks it is a bad idea?
Nestor was probably right when he said that the OSS brass decided against taking out the Reine de la Mer with a torpedo-carrying airplane…just as they must have turned down the idea of taking it out with a B-17 from Brazil.
The problem with the B-17 is that it has a lousy record against shipping. And the TBF idea was rejected, in all probability, because it does not have the range to make it from wherever they are operating in Brazil to the Reine de la Mer in Samborombón Bay.
It doesn’t. And since Uruguay is neutral, the brass obviously concluded that a TBF could not file a flight plan to an en route airport, where the pilot could sit down and tell the ground crew to top off the tanks, and then ask for the weather between there and Samborombón Bay. And the brass also understandably decided that it could not sit down on a dirt road somewhere in the middle of nowhere and get refueled. The landing gear of a TBF was designed for use on the paved runways of an airfield, or else on the deck of an aircraft carrier.
But what it was designed for is not the same thing as what it is capable of doing. That was proved at Henderson Field on Guadalcanal. Henderson was a hell of a lot rougher than the dirt road where the guy put down his Piper Cub—especially after the Japanese spent all night shelling it, and the holes were quickly and not too neatly filled in by Marine bulldozers.
But the Cactus Air Force—including yours truly, on occasion—operated TBFs out of there just about every day. Even with a torpedo in its belly, I could sit a TBF down on that dirt road. Nice, long, slow approach to grease it in. And I only have to make that one landing.
Or why not? Maybe two. After I put the torpedo into the Reine de la Mer, I could go back to the dirt strip, take on some more fuel, and fly back to Brazil. The second landing would be easier; the torpedo would be gone. God knows that would be better than jumping out over the estancia. I really don’t want to do that. Tony may think that parachute jumping is the next-greatest thing to sex, but it scared the hell out of me when I bailed out.
Could I hit the Reine de la Mer? Why not? All you have to do is fly close enough so there’s no chance to miss. You’ve been shot at before; you just don’t pay attention to it. And I don’t think that people on the Bofors and the machine guns will have had much experience. A low-flying airplane has a much better chance against them than against Japanese gunners.
I think I could reason with Colonel Graham about this, tell him I know what I’m talking about, and convince him that my idea stands a much better chance of working than anything else I can think of.
The question then becomes, how do I get in touch with Colonel Graham? I can’t use commercial, Mackay or RCA, to send him a cable. Argentine Intelligence certainly reads commercial cables. And Nestor won’t let me use the Embassy’s communications or codes.
That leaves the destroyer. “Good afternoon, Captain. I’m Lieutenant Frade of the Marine Corps down here on a classified mission, and I need your radios to complain about my orders.”
Hell, just tell him the truth. Let him see the message to Colonel Graham. He may understand it and send it for me. Or he may think I’m some kind of lunatic and throw me off his destroyer. In which case, I’d be no worse off than I am now.
The Alfred Thomas gets here Christmas Eve. I’ll be waiting for her. That’s the only real option I have, convincing her captain to let me get in touch with Colonel Graham.
Do I really have the balls to fly close enough to her
to make absolutely sure the torpedo strikes? Into all that antiaircraft? Watching the TBF guys do that, I was perfectly willing to admit they had much bigger balls than I do.
I don’t have any choice; that’s the only way…
“This is the son of el Coronel Frade,” he heard Enrico indignantly announce to the plainclothes policeman who wouldn’t let him in. “He does not need an invitation!”
Enrico led him into the reception hall, where an honor guard of the Husares de Pueyrredón stood guard at the corners of the casket.
His father and his aunt and uncle were nowhere in sight. They were probably in the library. He decided against trying to find them. Uncle Humberto’s “why Jorge and not you” look made him very uncomfortable.
A hand touched his arm.
“Cletus!” Dorotea Mallín said.
He turned to her. She kissed his cheek, really kissed it, not the air kiss American women give to casual acquaintances. As she came close to him, her breast pressed against his arm.
Jesus Christ, don’t do that! Even if you don’t know what you’re doing.
He next accepted a kiss from Señora Mallín, then a kiss from the Mallín boy, Enrico—an Argentinean custom that bothered him a little. And he finally shook hands with Señor Mallín himself. Mallín smiled broadly, but Clete had a strange feeling that he was not nearly as delighted to see him as he claimed he was.
“On our way here, we saw a Buick convertible,” Dorotea said. “A beautiful machine. Was that yours, Cletus?”
“If it was parked three blocks away, it probably was.”
“But you promised to take me for a ride just as soon as it arrived,” she pouted.
“Soon, Princess,” he said.
To judge by the look in his eyes, Big Ernie considers calling her “Princess” about on a par with calling her a Miña.
“Tomorrow?” the Virgin Princess pursued.