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Like those metal ducks in a carnival shooting gallery.

Even if they didn’t shoot, I don’t know if the beach sand will support the weight of the Storch—either when landing or when I stop.

If the gear sinks into the sand, I’ll never be able to take off.

That leaves the town square.

—

When he flew over the town square—right at stalling speed—he saw that there would be several problems if he tried to land there.

For one, it looked like a postage stamp.

For another, about twenty soldiers of the Patricios were taking aim at the airplane with their 7mm Mauser rifles.

Frade had a sudden inspiration.

“Bernardo,” he ordered. “Pass me your cover.”

“My what?”

The Ejército Argentino does not refer to their uniform caps as covers, Stupid!

“Pass me your goddamned hat!”

“Why?”

“I’m going to throw up in it and I don’t want to dirty the airplane.”

General Martín, with great reluctance, passed his uniform cap, an ornate, tall, crowned leather-brimmed item of uniform decorated with all the gold braid appropriate for a general de brigada.

Frade raised the Storch’s side window and then made another pass over the town square. When he was almost directly over it, he threw the hat out.

He made another 180-degree turn, came in low over the square, and landed.

The airplane was immediately surrounded by troops of the Patricios. Most of them had their Mausers aimed at the airplane. But three of them—all officers, Clete saw—Thank you, God!—were examining the general officer’s headgear that had just floated down to them.

And one of those officers, Clete saw, as he quickly turned around the Storch, thinking he might have to try to take off in a hurry, was el Coronel Juan Domingo Perón.

“Bernardo,” Clete said to his microphone, “why don’t you get out and see if el Coronel Perón will give you back your hat?”

When Martín, immediately followed by Father Welner, climbed out of the Storch, Clete saw that the officers with Perón immediately recognized Martín and saluted. That caused the soldiers with the Mausers to lower their weapons.

He saw, too, that a moment later surprise came to Perón’s face when he saw the Jesuit. Perón’s eyes then widened even farther when he recognized the Storch pilot.

When Martín walked up to Perón—who should have saluted Martín but didn’t—Perón almost absentmindedly handed Martín his uniform hat. The crown had been crushed when the hat met terra firma, and Martín immediately started trying to carefully mold it back in place.

Why not? With all that gold braid on it, it probably cost him a month’s pay.

Frade climbed out of the airplane in time to hear Perón demand, “What’s going on here?”

“What we feared would happen, el Coronel, has happened,” Martín announced.

“What are you talking about?” Perón demanded.

“What he means, Tío Juan,” Clete said, not very pleasantly, “is that General Necochea’s own Horse Rifles are on their way here to shoot you.”

Perón considered that for a moment. “Cletus, that’s nonsense. El Coronel Lopez commands the Horse Rifles. He’s an old friend of mine.”