Secret Honor (Honor Bound 3)

Enrico carefully lowered the hammer, then ejected the magazine and refilled it before replacing it.

“Now march the Colonel over there,” Clete said, pointing to the end of the runway threshold. “When I have the other engine running, leave him there and get on the airplane. If he does anything suspicious, you can shoot him in the foot, but you are not to kill him. Understand?”

“Sí, Señor.”

“Ashton, you want to ride up front with me and work the controls?”

“Yes, sir.”

Clete climbed into the Lodestar, followed by Ashton and Pelosi. It took him less than a minute to strap himself in and restart the left engine. Sixty seconds later, Enrico climbed aboard and closed the door. Thirty seconds after that, the Lodestar reached takeoff velocity and Clete lifted it into the air. “Wheels up,” he ordered.

“Wheels up and locked,” Ashton reported twenty seconds later.

On the ground, Lieutenant Colonel Richard J. Almond, U.S. Army Air Corps, watched in disbelief as the Lodestar climbed smoothly out over the bright blue waters of Lake Nahuel Huapí.

Christ, I don’t even know where that village is!

And then, surprising himself, he was suddenly very nauseous.

[TWO]

El Palomar Airfield

Buenos Aires

1905 29 May 1943

When Cletus Frade turned the Lodestar on final, he saw that the runway lights had not only been turned on but that he was going to need them. “Shit!” he said, then ordered, “Gear down.”

There came the sound of laboring hydraulics, then Captain Maxwell Ashton’s voice came metallically over the intercom: “Gear down and locked,” he said. “Why ‘shit’? Have we reason for me to soil my undies?”

“What happened to your blind faith in my flying skill?” Clete asked as he lined up with the runway lights.

“I fear that was a fleeting blind faith,” Ashton said. “Answer the fucking question, Cletus!”

“I’m not going to be able to fly this thing to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo tonight,” he said.

The wheels chirped as the Lodestar touched down. Clete smoothly slowed the aircraft down.

“God, may I reconsider my rash promise never to sin again if I ever made it safely back to earth?” Ashton asked. “I was under a certain strain when I made the offer.”

Clete picked up the microphone. “El Palomar. Lockheed Zebra Eight Four Three on the deck at five past the hour. I will need parking instructions to remain overnight and fuel service, please.”

“Eight Four Three, take taxiway Two Right, make a right turn on the tarmac, and park your aircraft in front of the terminal.”

“Taxiway Two Right, right on the tarmac to the terminal.”

“Correct, Eight Four Three.”

“Muchos gracias, amigo,” Clete said, and hung up the microphone.

Ground handlers were waiting in front of the terminal to help him park the Lodestar. He shut it down and climbed out of the pilot’s seat. “Permit me to say, Captain Ashton, that in all of my vast experience flying Lodestar aircraft, I have never met someone who could handle the flaps and gear controls with such skill and élan as you showed,” Clete said.

“I hate to remember that I was a passenger the first time you flew this great big sonofabitch,” Ashton said.

“I think it was the second time I flew it, not the first,” Clete said, and walked into the cabin. “Enrico, find a phone someplace, call the house on Avenida Coronel Díaz, and have someone drive a car out here. Is Señora Dorotéa’s Buick there?”

“Sí, Señor Clete.”