And now Delgano doesn’t want to subject Fischer to the “rigors and danger” of flying on Varig?
What the hell?
Get him to install the radios, then arrest him?
“I think we should not say unkind things about our competition, Gonzalo,” Frade said. “No matter how tempting that may be.”
“What I was thinking, Don Cletus, is that we should fly to Canoas in Zero One, taking these gentlemen with us”—he nodded at the pilots—“which would give them more time at the controls. You could serve as the instructor pilot on the way back here in Zero Zero Two.”
Thank you very much, Chief Pilot.
It didn’t take you long to forget who taught you to fly a Lodestar, did it?
“Otherwise,” Frade said, “Zero One would just be sitting here until you and I got back and no one would get any cockpit time. Right?”
Delgano nodded.
“Can we do that?” Delgano said. “I mean will they let us land there? I had the feeling that the American general doesn’t like you very much.”
“We’ll just have to find out,” Clete said. “I think that’s a hell of a good idea.”
“I thought you would agree,” Delgano said, smiling, and pointed to a fuel truck that had just rolled up beside Zero Zero One, one he’d clearly arranged for before bouncing his idea off Frade.
“Gonzo, I’d like to make sure nothing happens to the Collins while we’re gone. We turned it off, but . . .”
“I think the control tower should be manned around the clock starting right now,” Delgano said. “We know the runways are not yet usable, but a Varig pilot just might hear our RDF signal and think that they are. I will have operators there within the hour.”
Thirty minutes later, they took off for Canoas. Frade rode in the back, the first time he had ever been in a Lodestar passenger seat.
Once Frade felt the aircraft break ground and heard the hydraulic whine as its landing gear retracted, he heaved a mental sigh of relief. He had succeeded in getting Len Fischer—and equally important, perhaps even more important, the two cassettes of 35mm film—out of Argentina. In about two hours and thirty minutes, the Lodestar—and the film—would touch down at the U.S. Army Air Forces field at Canoas.
That left only one problem—that of protecting the Froggers—on what hours before had become The List of Things That Might—Probably Would— Go Wrong.
That remained a serious problem—Boltitz had told him that von Deitzberg had ordered their assassination when and where found—but that too looked as if it might go away.
When he had gone to Enrico to discuss that question with him, the old sergeant major told him he had already dispatched a dozen workers of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo—all retirees of the Húsares de Pueyrredón Cavalry Regiment—to Casa Chica.
“They will know what to do, Don Cletus,” Enrico had said confidently.
Frade had asked for an explanation.
“If the same kind of people who tried to kill you and who killed El Coronel and my sister—may they be resting in peace with all the angels—come to Casa Chica, they will be left on the pampas for the birds to eat.”
“And if it is the army or the police?”
“Then the Nazis will be taken onto the pampas. I know how to deal with this, Don Cletus.”
“I don’t want the Froggers killed unless it’s absolutely necessary—”
“So you have said, Don Cletus.”
“And when I have Fischer out of Argentina, we will have to find some other place to keep them.”
“There are places, Don Cletus. I will think on it.”
Frade now thought: I could very well be pissing in the wind, but this just might work out okay.
He took a cigar from a leather case and bit off a piece of its closed end.
“You don’t happen to have another of those, do you?” Len Fischer asked from his seat across the aisle.
Frade offered him the case and said, “I didn’t know you smoked cigars.”
"This will be my first ever,” Fischer said. “But I feel like celebrating, and a cigar ...”
[THREE]
Canoas Air Base Pôrto Alegre, Brazil 1305 22 July 1943
Captain Gonzalo Delgano, who was in the co-pilot seat of the Lodestar, consulted his chart, the needle of the radio direction finder, and looked out the side window of the cockpit. Then he looked over his shoulder at the managing director of South American Airways standing behind him, pointed at the chart, the ground, and then the RDF indicator.
Frade nodded his understanding of what he had been shown, then said, “I think it would be better if I worked the radio.”
Smiling at Captain Francisco Sánchez, who was in the pilot seat, Frade said, “Can I get in there, please, Captain?”
“Yes, of course, señor,” Sánchez said, then unfastened his harness, stood up, and squeezed past Frade.
“It might be best, Captain,” Frade said, his tone very serious, “if you went in the back and strapped yourself in. Captain Delgano will be landing the aircraft, and more often than not that is both a frightening and bumpy experience.”
“Mother of God!” Delgano said in disbelief, shaking his head.
Captain Sánchez tried but failed to restrain a smile.
Frade fastened his harness, then keyed the microphone.
“Canoas, this is South American Airways Zero Zero One,” he said in English, “thirty miles south of your station at five thousand feet, indicating one eight zero knots. Request approach and landing.”
The reply did not come immediately. When it did, it was an American voice.
“Aircraft calling Canoas, be advised that Canoas is a Brazilian air base closed to civilian traffic.”
Frade looked at Delgano, said, “I thought that might happen,” then pressed the mike button.
“Canoas, South American Airways Zero Zero One has aboard aircrews to pick up a Lodestar that you have on your field. If you have any questions, please contact General Wallace. Tell him the pilot in command is Señor Frade.”
“South American Zero Zero One, Canoas. Stand by.”
“South American Zero Zero One, Canoas.”
“Zero One.”
“Zero One, state your type of aircraft and position.”
“We’re a Lodestar a couple of miles south, passing through two thousand feet, indicating one five zero knots. I have the field in sight.”
“Canoas has you in sight, Zero One. Canoas clears Zero Zero One for a straight-in approach to Runway Three-Five. Be advised that a Follow-Me will meet you at the end of your landing roll.”
“Understand straight in to Three-Five. Thank you.”
[FOUR]
Office of the Commanding General U.S. Army Air Forces Establishment Canoas Air Base Pôrto Alegre, Brazil 1400 22 July 1943
“Yes, sir,” a portly, middle-aged USAAF master sergeant wearing aircrew wings said to his intercom box, then looked somewhat disapprovingly at Frade. “The general will see you now, Señor Frade.”
“Thank you,” Frade said, and, motioning Fischer to come with him, walked through the door to the office of Brigadier General J. B. Wallace, U.S. Army Air Forces.
Wallace was sitting behind a highly polished desk. It held a leather-bound green blotter, a telephone, a pen holder, a sign reading Brig Gen Wallace, and nothing else.
“Thank you for seeing me, General,” Frade said politely.
Wallace nodded but did not reply.
“General, I’m going to need some assistance,” Frade said.
“Is that so?” General Wallace asked in his somewhat nasal tone.
“Yes, sir. The first thing—”
“Forgive me, Señor Frade,” Wallace interrupted, “but what gives you the authority to demand anything of me?”