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“I don’t want to fly across Uruguay or Argentina to Jorge Frade. Nobody’s going to spot us if we fly fifty miles off the coast, then make a hard right to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo at Samborombón Bay.”

Delgano understood.

“And then go back out to sea, then up the River Plate to Jorge Frade, once we discharge our passenger?”

“You got it.”

“And you’re not going to call Jorge Frade with our ETA?”

Frade gestured at the instrument panel. “Our radios are out. Didn’t you notice that I couldn’t tell Canoas what our destination was when they asked?”

Delgano shook his head. He dug into his overnight bag and came out with an E6B flight computer, an unusual-looking slide rule.

“Where’d you get the Whiz Wheel?” Frade asked, surprised that Delgano had one.

“Courtesy of the Lockheed Aircraft Company. They gave everybody one.”

“Not me.”

“Well, they probably figured if Howard Hughes let you fly a Constellation, you probably already had one. Or they don’t like you. One or the other.”

“Compute time at three hundred twenty knots per hour to Punta del Este. I’ll come in close enough to see it. If you’re anywhere close, we can use that to plot where to turn for Samborombón Bay.”

Delgano had nodded his understanding.

Punta del Este, Uruguay, a point jutting into the Atlantic Ocean and marking the northern end of the 120-mile-wide mouth of the River Plate, became visible ninety seconds before Delgano’s calculations said it would.

And, about forty minutes later, so did Dolores, a village not far from the shore of Samborombón Bay. And, ten minutes after that, Frade made a pass over the runway at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.

There was now only one more problem, which Frade had first seriously thought of when taking off from Canoas. In the passenger compartment, in addition to Mr. Wilhelm Fischer and his two genuine if somewhat battered South African leather suitcases, there was an assortment of spare aircraft parts that included an engine and a propeller. It all brought the Lodestar to just about maximum gross takeoff weight.

The runway at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo had not been constructed with an aircraft as large as a Lodestar in mind. Landing there had not been a problem so far, but never before had he attempted to land in such a heavily laden Lodestar.

Or tried to take off in one.

The worst scenario was that the wheels would sink into the runway during the landing roll, causing a crash. More probably, if they were going to sink through the macadam, they would do so when the aircraft had stopped, which wouldn’t cause a crash but would keep him from getting the Lodestar back in the air until most of the weight was removed.

Whatever the risk, Frade had decided it had to be taken. The priority was to get Frogger safely off the airplane. He would have to deal with whatever happened after that had been done.

The direction of the windsock told Frade that the wind was from the south, which meant that he would have to land passing over the big house and end the landing roll at the southern end of the runway.

The landing itself went well, and if the weight was tearing up the runway, he couldn’t tell it by feel. He braked carefully, and when the Lodestar had slowed until it was just moving, he immediately began to turn the airplane around. If it was going to sink into the ground, better that it do so near the hangar and the house. He had no trouble turning, and as he taxied toward the hangar, he could see no evidence of damage to the runway.

Frade first saw that his red Lodestar was parked in the hangar—but only as far in as its wider-than-the-hangar-doorway wings would permit. Then he saw Señora Dorotea Mallín de Frade standing in front of the hangar and waving.

As he drew closer, he could see the expression on her face. It was not that of the loving bride and mother-to-be joyously greeting her husband’s return home.

Frade grew concerned.

Something’s gone wrong.

From the look on her face, something terrible.

Then Clete saw Oscar Schultz, in his gaucho costume and a Thompson submachine gun hanging from his shoulder. Standing just inside the hangar were Technical Sergeant William Ferris and Captain Madison R. Sawyer III. Ferris had a self-loading shotgun cradled in his arms, and Sawyer another Thompson, plus a Model 1911-A1 in a holster.

What the hell is going on?

“Shut it down, Gonzo,” Frade ordered. And then he changed his mind. “Leave Number Two running. We may have to get out of here.”