“No, I flew a single-engine Grumman Wildcat, the F4F.”
“Like the Lightning?”
Clete shook his head. “No. Single engine. Designed to be flown off aircraft carriers. Nice airplane.”
The Border Patrol major walked up to them.
“I was just telling Captain McNeil that everything seems to be in order now,” the major announced.
“Oh?” Frade said.
He saw the captain, who did not seem happy and was carefully avoiding looking at them, walk to the white Carryall and get in.
“Well, I’m sure it’s the same in your country,” the major explained. “From time to time, things don’t go as they’re supposed to. But it’s all cleared up now.”
Why do I think Colonel Graham had something to do with that?
“What we’re waiting for now,” the major went on, “is for Immigration Service officers to come here and issue the necessary visas. Then you’ll be free to get on with your business. I understand that people from the War Production Board and Lockheed are already waiting for you at Lockheed.”
Ten minutes later, the immigration officers appeared. It took just under half an hour for them to issue visas. When the SAA captains and Clete came out of the Loughead Aircraft Manufacturing Company building, a bus with LOCKHEED AIRCRAFT lettered on its sides was waiting for them.
The bus carried them to the far side of the airfield, past long, double lines of parked aircraft. There were more P-38s than Clete could count, at least two dozen PV-1 Venturas, which looked something like an armed version of the Lodestar, then another two dozen or more Lodestars. Six of the latter aircraft were painted in the South American Airways color scheme.
On seeing their aircraft, there was a sudden wave of pride felt among all the SAA pilots, including Clete—which suddenly was greatly diminished when they saw the four aircraft sitting near the end of the tarmac.
These four airplanes had their own row; they were too large to park one behind another like the others.
“Clete, is that the Constitution you told us about?” Delgano asked.
“Constellation,” he corrected without thinking.
I boasted about that airplane without ever having seen one.
Jesus Christ, she’s beautiful!
“Three tails?” one of the SAA pilots asked.
“Vertical stabilizers,” Clete again corrected without thinking. “The only way they could get enough vertical-stabilizer control surface and get the tail into a hangar was to have three vertical stabilizers instead of one great big one.”
“That’s an incredible airplane!” another of the pilots said.
Yeah, it is.
Makes that Kraut Condor look like . . . a Lodestar.
“Maybe we can get a closer look at one while we’re here,” Clete said.
Howard ought to be able to arrange that.
Send these guys back to Argentina dazzled with American aviation genius.
“Gentlemen,” a gray-haired man in a well-fitting suit said. “Welcome to the United States and to Lockheed Aircraft. I regret the confusion when you first arrived, but all the problems have, I think, been solved. Including . . . Which of you is Mr. Frade?”
Clete raised his hand.
“Including insurance,” the man went on, “which I understand has posed something of a problem for you. United States Fidelity and Guaranty—just before we walked in here just now—telephoned to say that they’ll be happy to insure South American Airways’ flight operations, and that a temporary policy has been issued covering your activities here, with the final policy to follow shortly, covering everything.”
“That’s excellent news,” Frade replied.