“But it is flyable?”
“The mechanics say so, but there’s been no pilots to give it a test hop, so the answer to your question is ‘probably.’”
“Well, there’s one way to find out,” Frade said. “Get a tractor to drag it outside and call for the fuel truck.”
Frade turned to von und zu Aschenburg and asked, “Do you say ‘kill two birds with one stone’ in German? As in ‘combine test flight with touch-and-goes’?”
“Zwei Fliegen mit einer Klappe schlagen,” Dieter said.
“The German phrase that comes to my mind,” Jimmy said, “is drei Piloten mit einem Flugzeug schlagen.”
“‘Kill three pilots with one airplane’?” Dieter translated. “I like that.”
“For Christ’s sake, Dieter, don’t encourage him,” Frade said, laughing.
—
After the tractor had pulled the Lodestar from the hangar, and it had its tanks topped off, Clete conducted the walk-around while Jimmy and Dieter got to see the bullet holes in the fuselage close up.
When they boarded, Jimmy got to see the holes again as he followed Clete and Dieter up the aisle toward the cockpit. And he saw where the shot-out window had been. It now was covered with a plywood patch. He also saw that the upholstery on the seat and the carpet under the seat were stained, and wondered what that was.
And then understood that he was looking at a bloodstain.
That’s where Perón was sitting.
If he lost that much blood, he damn near died.
And when they were talking about General Martín getting shot, they said it was possible, even likely, that he had been hit by the same machine gun that had “shot up Clete in the Lodestar.”
And then he had another epiphany, a frightening one.
They really are trying to kill people around here.
And I am one of the people that someone is going to try to kill.
Why didn’t I understand that before?
Did I think the Thompson on the seat of the station wagon just now—or, for that matter, the one Clete keeps in his wardrobe back in Buenos Aires—was there to shoot beer bottles?
And everybody here—except Mrs. Howell, Marjie, and Beth—has been shot at before.
What are you going to do, Jimmy Cronley, when someone takes a shot at you—which is probably going to happen in the next forty-eight hours?
You know you’re a coward. Otherwise you would have followed Clete into the Marine Corps. Dieter was just being a nice guy when he said trying to stay alive isn’t cowardice.
So, what the hell are you going to do?
“Get your ass up here,” Clete shouted from the cockpit. “I don’t want to have to do this cockpit orientation twice.”
Jimmy hurried up the aisle and sat on the jump seat behind the pilot’s and co-pilot’s seats. When Frade had finished explaining the functions of all the switches and levers, he said, “And this is how we start the engines. Pay attention.”
I will pay attention because I’m here and have no choice.
But it will be a cold day in hell before I start the engines on this airplane alone.
Or any other airplane.
—