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“Where is the Húsares captain now?” von Dattenberg asked.

“He said he was going to try to convince

the navy commander—he’s a corvette captain—that by the authority vested in him by the Húsares de Pueyrredón colonel, he is authorized to requisition the fuel for our aircraft.”

“And if this fellow says no?”

“That’s a problem, Willi,” von Wachtstein admitted.

“We have the weapons,” Cronley reasoned.

“But we don’t want to use them,” von Wachtstein countered. “You don’t want Perón to ask ‘What exactly was your little brother doing in Trelew, Cletus, when he declared war on the Armada Argentina?’ And sooner or later, probably sooner, one of these navy guys is going to realize nobody’s watching him—and we don’t have enough people to watch all of them all of the time—and go over the fence, go into the town of Trelew, and get on the telephone.”

Cronley nodded.

Von Wachtstein went on: “And, for the sake of argument, let’s say that you can put that Lodestar on the ground tomorrow—”

“On the ice, you mean?” Cronley interrupted.

Von Wachtstein nodded.

“On that subject, where is all this ice and snow I keep hearing about? There’s none here.”

“It starts about one hundred kilometers south of here,” von Dattenberg offered. “And from that point southward, that’s all there is.”

“How do you know that?” Cronley challenged.

“That’s what the charts I had on U-405 showed,” von Dattenberg answered.

“If I may continue, gentlemen?” von Wachtstein said. “If you can land that Lodestar on the ice and snow at Estancia Condor tomorrow . . .”

“That presumes we can find Estancia Condor,” Cronley said.

Von Wachtstein ignored him. “. . . without either bending it, or having it sink through the ice cap. And that presuming you and Willi Grüner can find U-234, and that the crew of U-234 gives you the uranium oxide because they like your smile, and that you can somehow get it from where you find the U-234 back to where you have parked your Lodestar, which has miraculously not broken through the ice cap, and that you manage to take off, you will have only enough fuel to make it back here. Not enough to fly to Mendoza to meet Señor Howell’s Constellation.”

He let that sink in, then finished with: “In other words, we are going to need more cooperation from the navy than we’re liable to get by pointing guns at them.”

Cronley didn’t say anything for a moment, then said, “You didn’t mention how I’m supposed to find my way back here with only a magnetic compass, but it’s not important. I’m a second lieutenant, after all, and thus able to easily deal with those minor problems.”

“Unless your modesty gets in your way,” von Wachtstein said.

“But the . . . diplomatic problems of dealing with the navy is something else. Let me give it a moment’s thought.”

A long moment later, he said, “Eureka!”

“Eureka?” von Wachtstein said.

“That means ‘the sudden, unexpected realization of the solution to a problem,’” Cronley said. “You might want to write that down.”

“After I hear what it is, I might do just that,” von Wachtstein replied.

“What General Martín did to convince that Tenth Mountain captain that he was on the wrong side of this was show him the picture on the front page of La Nacíon of Cletus standing next to Perón on the balcony of the Casa Rosada.”

“So?”

“We tell the corvette captain we are on a confidential mission that Clete is running for Perón, and the proof of that is you’re flying Clete’s personal red Lodestar.”

After a moment, von Wachtstein grinned and nodded.