The odds of the crew of the aircraft surviving the encounter intact were somewhat less. For a number of reasons: The crew would not have parachutes, for instance. Nor would they have life belts that Clete had any confidence in. After an extensive search, he found the ones they were using in a warehouse at the estancia. They looked as if they had floated off the Lusitania when she sank and were dry-rotting away ever since.
While there was an element of risk in actually dropping the flares, that operation was simplicity itself. A chute had been constructed of wood. This fit in the door of the aircraft, and was long enough to hold six flare assemblies in a row. There was room for two rows, for a total of a dozen flares.
On the command “Get Ready,” the flare dropper—Pelosi—would elevate the interior end of the chute by propping it up with legs mounted to its sides. He would then remove a board at the exterior end of the chute, which held the rows of flares in place.
On the command “Go,” the flare dropper would simultaneously activate two detonators, each with a five-second delay, and immediately shove all twelve flares off the chute using a built-in pusher.
Five seconds later, approximately two to three seconds after leaving the aircraft, the detonators would function, in turn igniting a length of primercord (which bound the six-flare bundles together) and the detonators which would ignite the magnesium. Once freed of bundling, the flare assemblies would separate, and their parachutes would deploy, a second or two before the magnesium in each reached full burn.
It sounded like a Mickey Mouse rig, especially to Chief Daniels, but to Clete and Graham as well (especially since the primercord was locally manufactured by Lieutenant Pelosi). But it worked from the first test, and they tested it twice.
According to the plan, the flare dropper would then reload the chute with a second dozen flare assemblies and stand by for the “Get Ready” and “Go” orders in case a second run over the Reine de la Mer proved necessary.
The odds that a second run over the Reine de la Mer would not be necessary were, in Lieutenant Frade’s judgment, approximately one hundred to one.
His reasoning was that even with the Reine de la Mer in plain sight, permitting a perfect overtarget run, he would have absolutely no idea, when they began their descent, how the slipstream and other factors like winds aloft would affect the flares’ position in relation to the Reine de la Mer, and thus how they were illuminating it.
The illumination pattern could of course be perfect for the torpedo aimer in the submarine. This was highly unlikely, but possible.
At this point, there entered another messy question: Would the submarine be in position to fire its torpedoes once the target was bathed in the light of the magnesium flares?
Submarines firing torpedoes are not like warships firing their cannon, or hunters shooting ducks. Cannons can be traversed, moved from side to side, just as a hunter can turn to move his shotgun. But torpedoes fire in a straight line in the direction the submarine is pointed. While it is possible to adjust the course of a torpedo—turning it left or right off a dead-ahead course—that can only be adjusted so much.
Presuming the submarine got a good look at the Reine de la Mer in the light of the first flare run, it was very probable that it would be necessary to move the direction of her bow ten, twenty, maybe thirty degrees to the right or left.
But when the flare run began, the Devil Fish would not be moving. Or if it was moving, it would only be just fast enough to maintain steering way. Turning would take time, more time than the duration of the flare burn.
And after the first flare run, meanwhile, the crew of the Reine de la Mer would not only be alerted but would have time to man the heavy machine guns and the Bofors cannon—if they weren’t already manned.
And there would be enough light from the first-run flares to illuminate the Beechcraft. When the second flare run started, the Reine de la Mer would be prepared for it.
It was unpleasant enough to dwell upon what heavy machine bullets would do to the fuselage, wings, and gas tanks of the Beechcraft without considering what would happen inside the aircraft if 40-mm exploding projectiles struck it and sympathetically detonated Tony’s homemade (quarter-inch cotton rope impregnated with nitroglycerine) primercord, and thus set off a dozen flares.
“Well, what the hell, Clete,” Tony said. “It will be a spectacular way to go.”
[FIVE]
Maria-Teresa’s father almost ran to greet Tony when he stepped inside the Ristorante Napoli; and he treated Tony like royalty when he bowed and scraped him to a table.
“I’m profoundly sorry, Señor Pelosi, that Maria-Teresa is away at the moment,” Señor Alberghoni announced in a rush to Tony, once he was seated. “She certainly would have been here for you if she had known you were coming. But she has gone to confession at the Church of San Juan Evangelista. That’s not far away, as you know. She’ll certainly return shortly, and she’ll be delighted to see you. And remorseful that she was not here when you were kind enough to call at the restaurant.
“In the meantime, would Señor Pelosi like a glass of wine and a little something to eat?”
The “Señor Pelosi” business made Tony uncomfortable, and so did the bowing and the scraping, but that wasn’t as bad as when Maria-Teresa’s father wept and kissed his hands after Maria-Teresa gave him the paid-off mortgage.
“Grazie,” Tony said. “I’d like a glass of wine.”
Half a bottle of vino tinto and a huge platter of vermicelli with a mushroom-tomato sauce later, Maria-Teresa still hadn’t shown up. So Tony decided to walk over to San Juan Evangelista and wait for her. He didn’t want to say what he had to say to her with her father hanging over him anyway. Maybe he would meet her on the street.
But he didn’t meet her on the street. And when he went inside the baroque church, he didn’t see her there either. Maybe she took a back alley or something on her way back to the ristorante.
A priest was sitting outside one of the confession stalls. It wasn’t that way at home. When you went to confession there, you couldn’t see the priest. Maybe you could recognize his voice, or he could recognize yours; but you couldn’t see him and he couldn’t see you.
What the hell, he doesn’t know who I am.
He entered the confession stall and dropped to his knees.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”