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“Cletus,” Father Welner said, “you cannot talk to your godfather that way. He deserves your respect!”
Clete turned angrily to him.
“What the hell has he ever done to earn my respect, Padre? I’m trying to keep him alive, and you’re not only of no goddamn help, but getting in the way. So shut the hell up!”
He turned to Perón.
“Tell me, Tío Juan,” he said sarcastically, “in your long military career didn’t someone, somewhere, sometime try to teach you that knowing what the enemy is likely to do is at least as important as knowing what you want to do?”
“Your father, Cletus, would have slapped your face for talking to a man of God that way,” Perón said. “Or, for that matter, to me.”
“Answer the goddamn question!”
“Then you tell me ‘what the enemy is likely to do,’” Perón said icily.
“I think they’re likely to have a platoon,” Clete said, “maybe a company of the Horse Rifles in Tigre waiting to see if you show up there. Can you admit that remote possibility?”
Perón’s face showed that the remote possibility had not occurred to him.
“Now, unless you want to get shot on the dock in Tigre, or against a wall here, get in the goddamned airplane!”
“El Coronel,” Martín said, “you have no other option.”
“You’ll be with me in the airplane?” Perón asked.
Martín nodded.
“Very well then,” Perón said.
Jesus Christ! He acts like he’s doing us a favor!
[THREE]
There were a number of problems with flying off from the Isla Martín García town square, problems Clete elected not to share with either of his passengers.
For one thing, with three people aboard, the Storch was overloaded. That of course had been true at Jorge Frade Airfield when they had taken off from there, but there he had had the luxury of several thousand meters of runway.
Here he had no more than 150 meters of what would have to more or less pass as a runway. The Storch was capable of taking off within forty-five meters, but that meant a Storch not exceeding maximum takeoff weight. And he’d never actually tried to take off after a forty-five-meter takeoff roll.
Another problem was that it had grown dark. The landing light only barely illuminated the “runway.” He knew that the town square was ringed with trees, which meant that he would not only have to get off the ground but gain enough elevation to miss the trees.
And, presuming he did get into the air, he again faced the problems of navigation he had when flying to the island—except now they were exacerbated by the darkness.
And the fuel gauges indicated he had less than half-full tanks.
In other words, in the darkness over the River Plate, he not only would have to navigate by the seat of his pants but would not know if he had enough fuel to get where he was going, wherever that was.
“Attention, passengers,” he said over the intercom. “Extinguish all smoking materials, put your seats in the full upright position, and fasten your seat belts. Thank you for flying with us today.”
Then stepping as hard as he could on the brakes, he moved the throttle forward to full takeoff power. The 237-horsepower Argus As 10C-3 engine then attempted to move the aircraft forward. With the brakes firmly locked, this resulted in the aircraft bouncing and shuddering in place.
When the needle on the tachometer seemed to have moved upward as high as it was ever going to go, he turned on the landing light and released the brakes.
The Reverend Kurt Welner, S.J., was now in view at the end of the runway, his hand raised as he invoked the blessing of the Deity on the flight.
The Storch sort of jerked into motion.
In the instant Clete got his feet off the brakes and put them on the rudder pedals, he felt life come into the controls. He pushed the nose forward to get the tail-dragger wheel off the ground, then eased back on the stick. He felt the Storch grow light on the landing gear, and then the rumble of the wheels stopped.
