“Aft,” Schultz said, and Clete looked. Tony, dazed but smiling, was sitting in the rear cockpit of what looked to be a Chris-Craft speedboat.
“Did you see that sonofabitch blow?” Chief Schultz asked as he spun the wheel and pushed the throttle forward. “It blew pieces of that sonofabitch to Africa.”
[NINE]
Café Paris
Recoleta
Buenos Aires
1425 5 January 1943
Dorotea Mallín, wearing a pink cotton dress, removed her hand from that of First Lieutenant Cletus H. Frade, USMCR, and smiled over his shoulder.
“Hello, Señor Graham,” she said.
“Miss Mallín,” Graham said. “How nice to see you. Clete, you’re a hard man to find.”
“Not by accident,” Clete said.
“Miss Mallín, I have a few things to say to Clete before I leave.”
“I was afraid of that,” Clete interrupted.
“Do you suppose I could have a few minutes alone with Clete?” Graham concluded.
“Princess, would you take a walk around the park, please?”
“Of course,” she said, smiling and not liking it a bit.
“Beautiful girl,” Graham said, watching Dorotea walk away.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Well, there are some choices you have to make.”
“Such as?”
“What you do next.”
“I’m being given a choice?”
“On the one hand, the Marine Corps is perfectly willing to have you back—you’re a major, by the way, congratulations.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Well, you were promoted captain the day after we met in San Francisco. I didn’t tell you because it would have started you thinking about getting your own squadron.”
“Thanks a lot, Colonel. Are you saying I can go back to the Corps and get a squadron?”
“No, I’m not. You’re not listening. You can go back to the Corps, but they won’t give you a squadron because majors don’t command squadrons. You know that.”
“What’s this major business?”
“You were promoted major as of the day the President heard of the mysterious maritime incident in the Bay of Samborombón. For exceptionally meritorious leadership of an unspecified nature.”
“I almost believe you.”