"Buenos Aires," the young man replied, and then, when he saw the look of surprise in the Captain's eyes, added, "Probably with you. Panagra 171?"
"Right," the Captain replied. "What's it look like?"
"Not a cloud in the sky," the young man said. "Which probably means we'll run into a hurricane thirty minutes out of here."
"Let's hope not," the Captain said, and added, "See you aboard," which ended the conversation.
The Captain, as was his custom, checked the passenger manifest with the steward before takeoff. It was often useful to know who was aboard, whether some Latin American big shot, or some exalted member of the Pan American hierarchy. The Captain had once carried Colonel Charles A. Lindbergh in the back, the man who had not only been the first to cross the Atlantic alone, but had laid out many-maybe most-of PAA's routes to South America. If he had not checked the passenger manifest that day, he would never have known "Lucky Lindy" was aboard, and would have kicked himself the rest of his life for blowing the chance to actually shake the hero's hand and offer him the cour-tesy of the cockpit.
The steward reported that there was nobody special aboard 171 that day, just the usual gaggle of diplomats and Latins of one nationality or another. No Americans this trip. The captain wondered what had happened to the ex-Marine who said he was going to Buenos Aires.
When he took his ritual walk through the cabin, he saw him.
"I thought you were an ex-Marine," the Captain said, stopping by the Ma-rine's seat. "The steward said we're not carrying any Americans."
"You don't have to be an American to be a Marine," the Marine said. "I'm an Argentine citizen. Going home."
The Captain was curious about that, but to ask any questions would be close to calling him a liar. And he knew Customs and Immigration carefully checked all passengers.
"Well, we'll try to get you home quickly and in one piece," the Captain said, and then his curiosity got the better of him. "Not as fast as-what did you fly in the Marine Corps?"
"Wildcats, F4F's," the young man said, and then, as if he sensed the Cap-tain's suspicions, added, "with VMF-221 on Guadalcanal."
"These boats aren't as fast as a Wildcat," the Captain said with a smile, now convinced the young man was what he said he was. "But a hell of a lot more comfortable."
Because he had made the flight before and was thus really aware of how long it took to fly from Miami to Buenos Aires, Clete Frade had stocked up on reading matter in Miami.
He hadn't bought enough. When the steward came down the aisle to softly inform him that the Captain requested his presence in the cockpit, he was read-ing the April 1, 1943, edition of Time magazine for the third time.
It reported that the American First Armored Division was almost at the Tebaga Gap-whatever the hell that was-in Tunisia; that the Red Army had retaken Anastasyevsk, in the Kuban, north of Novorossiysk-wherever the hell that was; maybe near the Russian oil fields the old man had talked about?-and that 180 Japanese bomber and fighter aircraft operating off aircraft carriers and from the Japanese base at Rabaul had attacked Guadalcanal and Tulagi in the Solomon Islands, and that further attacks were anticipated.
He knew damned well where Guadalcanal and Tulagi were.
There was something unreal about sitting here in a leather-upholstered chair drinking champagne when people he knew-unless they'd all been killed by now-were climbing into battered, shot-up Grumman Wildcats to go up and try to keep the Nips from dumping their bomb loads on, or strafing, Henderson Field, Fighter One, and the ammo and fuel dumps on the 'Canal.
He drained his glass of champagne, unfastened his seat belt, stood up, and made his way forward to the cockpit.
"I thought you would be interested in that," the Captain said, jabbing his finger in the direction of the Condor making its parallel approach.
Clete Howell stared.
"Jesus," he said. "What is that?"
"I think it's a Condor," the Captain said, and then, attracting the engineer's attention, he called, "Charley, isn't there a pair of binoculars back there some-where?"
"Yes, Sir," the engineer replied, and pulled open a drawer in his console, rummaged through it, and came up with Zeiss 7 x 57 binoculars. He stood up and handed them to the Captain, who handed them to Clete.
"Nice-looking bird," Clete said a minute or so later, taking the binoculars from his eyes. "I wonder where it came from."
"We were just talking about that," the Captain said. "Probably from Portu-gal, then from somewhere in Africa, and then across the drink to French Guiana. Wherever he came from, with the fuel he would have to have aboard, he can't be carrying much."
"That's the first German airplane I've ever seen," Clete said.
"They used to have regularly scheduled service before the war," the Cap-tain said. "And I think I remember hearing that they sold Brazil a couple of those. Aerolineas Brasilia, or something like that. But that's the first one I've ever seen, too, and I've been coming down here for a long time."
"It would be almost a shame to shoot down something that pretty, wouldn't it?" Clete said, thinking aloud.
The Captain chuckled.