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“As soon as we leave here,” Clete said. “Would it hurt your Navy ego if I flew in the right seat of the Brothel in case you have trouble finding Mendoza?”

“Not if you promise not to touch any of the switches, levers, or the yoke.”

“You have my Naval Aviator’s word of honor, Commander, and we both know how much that’s worth.”

“Well, then, I guess we can get started. After you answer two questions.”

“Shoot.”

“Who is the gentleman sitting by the door with the riot gun?”

“He is my friend Enrico Rodríguez. You may call him suboficial mayor—that means sergeant major.”

“And what does he do with the riot gun?”

“When someone says something unkind or disrespectful to me, he puts a round in the chamber. That is a warning not to do it again. I give a pass the first time. The second time, however, Bang!”

“Fascinating. Second question: You don’t happen to have a third baby sister, do you? She doesn’t have to be anything special since Ford is still a bachelor at twenty-nine and can’t afford to be choosy.”

Very softly, Clete ordered, “Ponga un cartucho en la recámara, Enrico.”

It was Spanish for “Put a round in the chamber, Enrico.”

Enrico did so.

The chambering of a round in a Remington Model 10 shotgun was accomplished by pushing a metal button that was on the side of the receiver. This caused the spring-loaded bolt to slam forward, pushing the shotgun shell into the chamber. This caused a distinct—some would say menacing—metallic Clunk!

“Nice try, jarhead, but no brass ring,” Commander Armstrong said, then switched to perfect Spanish: “You wouldn’t shoot a nice old sailor like me, would you, Suboficial Mayor?”

Enrico smiled and shook his head.

“I only shoot people who don’t like Don Cletus, señor. I can tell you like him and he likes you.”

Frade grunted—but he was smiling.

“Shall we get our little show on the road, Colonel Don Cletus?” Armstrong asked.

[THREE]

When they came down the stairway from the second floor of the passenger terminal, Cletus Marcus Howell was waiting for them outside the VIP Lounge.

“I’d like a word with you, Captain Armstrong, and you, too, Captain Ford, if you’d be so kind,” the old man said, waving them into the VIP Lounge.

The two captains and Clete marched into the room. The old man followed, then closed the door.

“Captain Ford, I think you’d better show him the letter—” Clete began.

“My God, Cletus, I haven’t even opened my mouth and you’re interrupting me.”

“Sorry, Grandfather.”

“Believe it or not, gentlemen,” the old man said, “my son raised Cletus to show more respect to his elders than he’s showing now.”

“Yes, sir,” Armstrong said.

“By now I presume that he’s told you we’re going to need the Flying Brothel for purposes we cannot share with you, that your services will not be required for that, and that we’re going to fly you to Rio de Janeiro on the first leg of your trip to New Orleans.”

No one said a word.