Death and Honor полностью

Frade thought: This problem can be solved overnight by messaging Graham that FDR’s airline is about to be shot down by an English insurance company or by Juan Trippe—or by both.

But if the problem suddenly went away, how could that be explained?

That would cause the OSS’s head to pop out of the gopher hole.

Okay. So we get insurance from the same place Eastern Airlines and Transcontinental and Western Airways get theirs.

And where is that? I don’t have the foggiest fucking idea.

Has to be America—so the solution is we get American insurance.

And how to do that?

There’s nothing wrong with our airplanes. They’re brand-new Lockheeds.

We’re back to the pilots. Nobody is going to write insurance on us if they think our pilots are a bunch of wild Latinos who learned to fly last week.

And that brings us right back to getting ATRs for our pilots.

“Gonzo,” Frade said, “how much time do our pilots have?”

Perón and Duarte looked at him in curiosity.

“That would depend on the pilot, Don Cletus,” Delgano said.

“How many have a thousand hours of multiengine time?”

“Maybe a dozen, possibly a few more than that.”

“And how many of that dozen speak English?”

“Most of them have enough English to fly.”

“ ‘Enough English to fly’?” Perón parroted.

“Mi coronel, English is the language of air traffic control in Uruguay and, in large matter, Brazil and Chile, as well. We’ve all flown there.”

“Why is the language of air traffic control English?” Perón challenged, as if this offended him personally.

“I don’t really know, mi coronel,” Delgano replied as if this outrage was his fault.

“The solution to this little problem of ours,” Frade said, “is to get American insurance, and the way to do that is to get our pilots an American ATR rating.”

Now everyone, including Claudia, was looking at him as if he had lost his mind.

“Anyone got a better idea?” Frade asked.

“How are you going to get our pilots this rating?” Delgano asked. “Where?”

“At the Lockheed plant in Burbank.”

“Where?” Perón said.

“California. Burbank is in California.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Duarte asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“May I play the devil’s advocate?”

“Go ahead.”

“To do that, you of course would have to get our pilots to Burbank, California. ”

Frade nodded and motioned impatiently with his hand Get to the point.

“To get them to California,” Duarte went on, “they would need two things. First, a visa. And if the English—and, for that matter, Mr. Trippe—have the influence to get Lloyd’s of London not to insure us, isn’t it possible they have the influence to suggest to the U.S. government that giving visas to a dozen Argentine pilots is a bad idea—”

“I take your point, Humberto,” Frade interrupted, and thought, I didn’t think about that; you’re probably right.

“—inasmuch as the time and effort to train them could be better spent, for example, training their Brazilian allies,” Duarte went on to sink his point home.

And Graham could fix that, too, except that would see the OSS’s ugly head again popping out of the gopher hole.

Frade said, “What’s the other thing you think we would need to get our pilots to Burbank?”

“A means of getting them there,” Duarte said. “Do you think Mr. Trippe might suggest to the American Embassy in Rio de Janeiro—which issues the priorities necessary to get on any Pan American flight to the States—that there are more Americans or Brazilians deserving of a priority than some Argentines?”

Frade didn’t immediately reply because he couldn’t think of anything to say.

And again Duarte drove home his point: “And there is no other way but Trippe’s Pan American Airways to travel by air to the U.S., which means we’re talking of at least three weeks’ travel time by ship, and that’s presuming you could get the necessary visas . . .”

“Is that all that the devil’s advocate can think of?” Frade said.

“Isn’t that enough? I don’t like it, Cletus, but I’m following Juan Domingo’s idea that we should see things the way they are, rather than as we wish they were.”