Secret Honor (Honor Bound 3)

They were now ready to take off.

But instead of reaching for the throttle quadrant, Frade shut the left engine down, put the right on LOW IDLE, and applied the parking break.

“Get out of the aisle, Tony,” Clete said as he unfastened his shoulder and lap harness.

“Yes, sir,” Pelosi said.

Pelosi politely and respectfully says “Yes, sir” to Frade, and “Go fuck yourself” to me? That will cost you, Lieutenant, just as soon as we get back to Buenos Aires. Who the hell do you think you are?

Almond had a second thought: Well, that just may give me the reason to get rid of him. He’s entirely too close to Frade. Remove a small problem before it causes large trouble.

All I have to do is report that obscene insubordination and say that he is obviously unsuitable for service here. And Frade can’t protect him; it would be his word against mine.

Almond followed Pelosi and Frade into the cabin and to the rear door. Captain Maxwell Ashton III, Signal Corps, Army of the United States, and Frade’s bodyguard, or whatever he was, the Argentine who followed him around like a puppy, carrying a shotgun, started to unfasten their seat belts as they passed.

This was the third time Almond had provided Frade with flight instruction in the Lodestar. The first two sessions, they had been alone (except for Frade’s shadow) and the instruction had really been in basic aircraft handling. Loss of an engine immediately after takeoff, that sort of thing. They had used the El Palomar field for that, and had made perhaps thirty touch-and-go landings.

Frade was an apt pilot and had been a quick student. All he had needed was a little instruction.

For their third session, Frade asked for a cross-country flight. Almond had readily agreed. It would give him a chance to see the country from the air, something he didn’t know how else he would manage. And when Frade suggested they take Ashton and Pelosi, to give them a chance to see the country from the air, he agreed to that, too, and left notes for them in the boxes at the embassy, telling them to arrange their schedules so they would have two days free starting that Friday evening.

Pelosi had the door open by the time Frade reached it, and one by one everyone in the plane jumped to the ground.

It was piss-call time.

Frade tucked himself into his trousers and turned to smile at Almond. “Tell me, teacher, if that was an official check ride, would you have passed me?”

“Yes, Clete, I think I would,” Almond said.

“In other words, you think I’m qualified to fly that bird all by my lonesome?”

“Well, I would recommend, of course, that you have a copilot; but sure, you’re qualified to be pilot-in-command.”

“When you get back to the States, make sure you tell Colonel Graham that,” Clete said.

“Excuse me? Who?”

Clete didn’t respond.

“Let me have your .45, Enrico,” he said.

Enrico Rodríguez reached around, took what looked to Almond like a Colt Model 1911A1 .45 ACP pistol from the small of his back, and handed it butt-first to Clete.

What the hell is he doing?

Clete ejected the clip from the pistol, examined it, and put it back in place.

He was counting cartridges to make sure there wasn’t one in the chamber and the pistol was safe. I wonder why he did that?

Colonel Almond erred. Clete had counted the cartridges remaining in the magazine—six—to be sure that the seventh was chambered in the pistol.

He pulled the hammer back, then looked around. He pointed to the side of the runway, where, twenty-five yards away, there was a makeshift runway marker, a large tin can painted yellow.

He raised the pistol and fired.

Even with the muted roar of the left engine, the unexpected sound was shocking. Almond’s ears rang.

What the hell was that all about?