“I can’t imagine what he’s talking about.”
“If his information is correct, you are about to use your father’s airplane to make a bombing run on a neutral ship in the Bay of Samborombón, with the hope of igniting her fuel tanks with homemade incendiary bombs.”
Shit, if Oberst Whatsisname knows, they’ll be waiting for us.
That miserable sonofabitch Delgano!
What is this “homemade incendiary bomb” bullshit?
Christ, they mean the flares. Which means they haven’t thought of a submarine!
“I think your Oberst Whatsisname has been at the schnapps,” Clete said.
“Oberst Grüner went on to say that the ship, the Reine de la Mer, is armed with two dual forty-millimeter Bofors and some heavy machine guns. It will have no trouble at all shooting you down.”
Clete met Peter’s eyes but said nothing.
“Now I personally felt that the Oberst’s information was wrong,” Peter went on. “For one thing, a pilot with your experience would know that if the pilot on such a mission were actually lucky enough to hit the ship with an incendiary bomb, the only thing the bomb would do is lie around on thick steel plates and burn itself out.”
“I never gave the subject much thought,” Clete said. “But now that you mention it, I think you’re right.”
“I did not offer my opinion on the subject to Oberst Grüner,” Peter said. “I suppose that I should have. And I daresay in some quarters that my failure to do so would constitute treason.”
“Why are you telling me all this, Peter?” Clete asked.
“Treason is a subject I’ve given a good deal of thought to, lately,” Peter said.
“Where are we going with this conversation?” Clete asked.
“That remains to be seen,” Peter said. “Did you mean what you said?”
“Said about what?”
“You said, if memory serves, that I have ‘a blank check’ with you.”
“As long as it has nothing to do with the…idiotic notion your Oberst Whatsisname has, you do.”
“I need your help.”
“Anything I can do, you’ve got it.”
“When I give you this, I’m putting my father’s and several other people’s lives in your hands,” Peter said. He took his father’s letter from his pocket and handed it to him.
Clete glanced at it.
“I don’t speak German, Peter. You’re going to have to translate this.”
“Yes, of course, I didn’t think about that,” Peter said, and took the letter back and read it aloud, translating it with some effort into Spanish.
Toward the end, through eyes themselves bleared with tears, Clete saw that Peter’s eyes, too, were teary. And his voice was breaking.
“I think I need a little more champagne,” Clete said, picking up the bottle and filling their glasses.
“Can you help me?” Peter asked.
“I can’t help you,” Clete said. “I’ll have to go to my father. He’ll have to hear what this letter says.”
Peter nodded.