“You don’t owe me a goddamn thing,” Porter Craig said. “You’re family, Jean-Philippe.”
“If someone will hand us the bottle,” Lowell said, “Lieutenant Craig and myself will drink to that.”
[THREE]
Over the River Plate
(Argentine-Uruguayan Border)
2245 2 February 1965
“Buenos Aires approach control,” WOJG Enrico de la Santiago said into his microphone, “this is U.S. Army Eight-seven-seven, a Beechcraft Twin Bonanza, at 7,000 over the River Plate with Buenos Aires in sight. Request approach and landing at Ezeiza, please.”
"U.S. Army Eight-seven-seven, contact Campo de Mayo approach control on 122.9.”
“Buenos Aires, Army Eight-seven-seven, be advised that we are international. IFR from Pôrto Alegre, Brazil. We have been instructed to request Customs and Immigration services at Ezeiza.”
"U.S. Army Eight-seven-seven, you have been diverted to Campo de Mayo. Contact Campo de Mayo approach control on 122.9.”
“Understand 122.9,” de la Santiago said. “Thank you.”
He began to tune his radio.
“What the hell is that all about?” Jack Portet asked.
“More important, where is Campo de Mayo?” de la Santiago said.
“Johnny,” Jack called, “we have been diverted to Campo de Mayo.”
Oliver got out of his seat and knelt between the pilot’s and copilot’s seats as Jack searched for an approach chart to Campo de Mayo.
“There it is,” Oliver said, pointing to a Jeppesen Aerial Chart.
“Right in the middle of a restricted zone, and clearly marked closed to all but ArgMil traffic,” Jack added.
“Mayo approach control, U.S. Army Eight-seven-seven.”
“Ocho-siete-siete aqui, Campo de Mayo, ¿cual es su posición? ”
“Dos mil metros sobre el Río de la Plata Creo que diviso Jorge Newbery.”
“Roger, Ocho-siete-siete. Lo tengo en el radar. Asuma curso 310 grados, y descienda a 1000 metros en este momento.”
“Enrico, what’s going on?”
“I told him where we were—that I was over the river at 6,000; that I thought I had Jorge Newbery, the city airport, in sight. He said he has us on radar and we are to descend to 3,000 feet on a course of 310 degrees.”
The plane was in a gentle bank to the right. The compass needle was pointing almost to 310 degrees.
“Call him and tell him our chart shows a restricted zone,” Oliver ordered.
“Campo de Mayo, conteste . . . conteste . . .” de la Santiago said into his microphone, “Campo de Mayo, aqui U.S. Army Ocho-siete -siete. Mi mapa muestra que su campo está en una zona restringida. Éste es un avión del Ejército de los Estados Unidos.”
“Roger, Ocho-siete-siete. Éste es un aeropuerto restringido. Lo tengo a 2,000 metros en un curso de 310. Está aproximadamente a ocho kilometros de esta estación. Empiece su descenso ahora por una recta de aproximacion a la pista de aterrizaje 31. El altimetro es dos nueve nueve. Los vientos son insignificantes. Informe cuando tiene la pista de aterrizaje a la vista.”
“What was all that?” Oliver asked.
“Yes,” de la Santiago reported, chuckling, “this is a restricted airfield. We have you on radar. You are cleared for a straight-in to Runway 31.”
“What the hell is going on?” Oliver asked, chuckling.
“We’re about to find out,” Jack said. “I suspect those lights dead ahead are Runway 31.”
“Gear down, flaps twenty,” de la Santiago ordered.
Jack reached for the controls.
“Mayo, Ocho-siete-siete,” de la Santiago said to his microphone. “Tengo pista de aterrizaje treinta y uno a la vista.”
“Gear down and locked,” Jack reported. “You have twenty degrees of flaps. Johnny, go back and strap yourself in.”
“Ocho-siete-siete, tiene permiso para aterrizar. Tome la primera calle de aproximacion conveniente a su izquierda. Dirijase a la base de operaciones, debajo de la torre de Control, donde se estacionará.”
“I really have to take a piss,” Jack announced.
“Mayo, Ocho-siete-siete, en tierra a cinco minutos de la hora. Somos IFR Internacional de Puerto Allegre. ¿Puede cerrar nuestro plan de vuelo?”
“Ocho-siete-siete, Su plan de vuelo ha sido cerrado. Bienvenidos a Campo de Mayo.”
“The tower says welcome to Campo de Mayo,” de la Santiago reported.
“My mother was right,” Oliver said. “I should have paid more attention to Spanish in high school.”
Uniformed ground crewmen appeared with wands and directed de la Santiago in parking the airplane.
“Shut the sonofabitch down,” Jack said. “I really need to take a leak.”
“Here comes somebody. Here come a lot of people,” de la Santiago said.
A large man in a blue sport coat and an open-collared yellow polo shirt walked across the tarmac toward the L-23. Four steps behind him came four men, two in what looked like Air Force uniforms, and two in what suggested they were Customs or Immigration officers.
“I believe you’re senior, Captain,” Jack said. “You deal with the natives.”