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Cletus Frade was alone in his office with, of course, the ever-present Enrico Rodríguez. He was waiting impatiently for the crew of his grandfather’s Constellation to show up. Sparing no expense, the old man had put them up in the Alvear Palace.

That was in keeping with Cletus Marcus Howell’s philosophy of treating employees, which Clete had heard perhaps a hundred times since he was a child: “Find the best people, pay them one hundred twenty-five perce

nt of what they would be making anywhere else, and stay out of their way when they’re doing what you’ve told them to do.”

In this case he didn’t have to find the best people. When Howard Hughes sent the Connie to New Orleans, it was a given that the crew was first class. All the old man had to do was offer them a twenty-five percent pay increase to get them to change employers.

When he thought about that, Clete decided Howard, knowing what the old man was likely to do now that he owned the Connie and needed a crew for it, had sent him a good—but not necessarily the best—crew.

It didn’t matter. The crew was first class. As good as, and almost certainly more experienced than, any SAA crew.

When the crew finally showed up and filed into his office, Clete was glad that he was not wearing his SAA captain’s uniform.

Jimmy was right, he thought, the SAA uniform does make me look like a Mexican bus driver.

I would have given these guys a laugh, and that’s the last thing I can afford to do with them.

The men who came into his office were wearing, not surprisingly, American-style flight crew uniforms. That was to say, they all had blue tunics with gold wings pinned to them. There were two captains, one taller and one older, each wearing four gold stripes on their cuffs. And there were four first officers, with three stripes on their sleeves. One or two of the first officers, Clete guessed, were the flight engineers. It was wise to have flight engineers who were qualified pilots.

And there were four men with a single gold stripe. One of them—the one wearing wings, Clete guessed—was the radio operator. That meant the other three, who were not wearing pilot’s wings, were stewards.

“My name is Cletus Frade,” he began. “I guess you’ve heard Mr. Howell is my grandfather. I’m with South American Airways. I’m sorry to get you out here on such short notice, but it couldn’t be helped. I’ll tell you as much as I can—which won’t be much—starting with the fact that we need my grandfather’s airplane. I can’t tell you why, but I can tell you that you would not want to be involved. And you won’t be.

“As soon as you leave here, a Lodestar will fly you all to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, where you have first-class reservations at a hotel—I don’t know which one, but it’ll be a good one—until we can get you on one of Juan Trippe’s Panagra flying boats. . . .”

He became aware that both of the captains and one of the first officers were smiling ear to ear.

“Did I say something funny?” Clete demanded. “Or is there a piece of spinach stuck in my teeth? My fly open? What?”

“Sir,” the older of the captains said, “could Captain Ford and myself have a moment of your time in private? I think that would probably make things a little easier all around.”

Frade nodded. “Would the rest of your crew mind stepping into the outer office for a moment?”

“Outside, please, people,” Captain Ford ordered. “This probably won’t take long.”

Everybody but the two captains filed out of the office. Captain Ford closed the door after them.

“Okay,” Clete said. “What’s on your mind?”

Captain Ford took a small envelope from his tunic pocket and handed it to Frade, who opened it and read it.

* * *

The White House

Washington, D.C.

12 October 1945

To Whom It May Concern:

Commander Anthony C. Armstrong, USN, and Commander Richard W. Ford, USN, are engaged in carrying out a confidential mission for me which they are not at liberty to discuss.

All U.S. Government installations and activities are directed to provide them with any and all support they deem necessary to carry out their mission.

Harry S Truman

* * *