Survivors: A Novel of the Coming Collapse

24. Down in Hondo

More than two decades before the Crunch, Ian Doyle had a temporary duty (TDY) assignment to Honduras that changed his life.

The leader of the Hondo Expedition was Major Alan Brennan, a quiet man who was the son of a retired Air Force colonel. Brennan’s leadership was competent but very laid-back. He made it clear that he expected his squadron members to be punctual for all meetings, and completely sober before each scheduled mission. He summed up his guidance by stating simply, “We’ve got excellent maintenance NCOs, and the civilian techs know the gear inside and out. Stand back and let them do their jobs. Just be at the briefings and be on flight line on time. ‘Kick the tire, light the fire,’ and come home safe.”

Brennan, who had recently been married, was fascinated by pre-Columbian history and spent a lot of his time off in a rented jeep wandering around ancient ruins, taking pictures. Other than on his mission days, Doyle rarely saw him.

The Air Force terminated its tactical reconnaissance program for F-16s in 1993, with plans to shift most of those missions to UAVs. But as a follow-on, there was an interim program using the U.S. Navy-developed Tactical Aerial Reconnaissance Pod System (TARPS) mounted on F-16s. Doyle’s squadron was one of the two fighter squadrons that got tapped for this strap-on recon test program, which only lasted eighteen months. While technically a success, from an operational and logistics standpoint, the results were mixed. And since UAV technology was meanwhile maturing rapidly, the decision was made to mothball the TARPS pods and support gear. It was during the TARPS test program that Ian Doyle was part of the Hondo Expedition.

By the time that the USAF got involved, the TARPS pods were a well-matured technology. Most of the technical support was supplied by civilian contractors from Grumman, the company that had originally developed the system. The seventeen-foot, 1,850-pound pods were essentially a strap-on system, adaptable to many types of aircraft. They could be mounted on standard hard points. First developed for Navy F-14s and Marine Corps F/A-18s, the TARPS pods were, as one of the Grumman camera technicians put it, “foolproof and pilotproof, but then, I repeat myself.”

The expedition included four F-16s-two for missions and two for spares and side trips-four mission pilots, and a C-130 to shuttle the support crew and umpteen spare parts-both for the planes and for the TARPS pods. The TDY rotation was five months, making it just short of the six-month threshold for a PCS. This made the personnel paperwork easier and reduced the overall cost of the program.

All of the pilots were housed at the “White House” (La Casa Blanca), the guest quarters in Tegucigalpa that were run by the American embassy, in Colonia Loma Linda Norte district, on La Avenida FAO. The White House was a gathering place of myth and legend. It served as the catchall for visiting company-grade military officers, CIA types on temporary assignment, and assorted contractors on government business. The atmosphere was jovial and there were even some fraternity-style bashes on weekends. The CIA officers called it a safe house, but its presence was hardly clandestine. Even the local newspaper mentioned it from time to time, often by its nicknames, Rick’s Cafe Americain or Rick’s Place, in honor of the Humphrey Bogart movie Casablanca.

Junior officers at La Casa Blanca were expected to share rooms. Ian Doyle’s roommate was Bryson Pitcher, an Air Force intelligence first lieutenant, who was permanent party with the intel cell at the American embassy.

Shortly after meeting Pitcher, Ian Doyle summed up the Expedition to him: “It’s an intense assignment, but a good one. I’ll fly three, maybe four missions a week, all in daylight hours, and they are just six hours each. Other than some intel briefing dog and pony shows once every ten or twelve days either here or down at Soto Cano, I get all the rest of my days off to hike, swim, and see the sights. My only regret is that this is only a five-month TDY. I wish it were a couple of years, to really soak up the local culture.”

Bryson’s curiosity was piqued. “Well, what are you doing, exactly? This is the first time I’ve seen F-16s in Hondo. We haven’t heard squat about it, even in the intel shop.”

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to shoot you.”

Bryson snorted.

Ian grinned and said, “Just kidding. What’s your clearance?”

“TS-SBI, with a bunch of funny little letters after that, for SCI compartments that I can’t tell you about.”

“Well, what do you do here, Bryson, in a nutshell?”

“I task and receive reports from a bunch of overeducated NCOs, and we analyze them for liaison with the Honduran government and for an unspecified strategic mission.”

“Stuff from aircraft?” Doyle asked.

“Nope. Stuff from, ah… non-air-breathing platforms.”

“Ahhh, gotcha.” Hearing the euphemism for spy satellites made it clear to Doyle that he could ask no further questions.

“Okay, well, then, I guess I can certainly talk about the basics, even though you’re in the strategic world, while my bailiwick is mostly tactical. A little crossover, I suppose. You’ll probably get briefed in a week or two, anyway.”

Bryson nodded.

Ian looked up at the slowly rotating ceiling fan and asked, “Are you familiar with a system called TARPS?”

“Sure, it’s the Navy’s pod-mounted photo recon system. It’s pretty idiotproof, as long as they remember to hook up the external power and use a squirt of Windex before they take off.”

“That’s the one. Were going to be using F-16s with TARPS pods flying recon over Colombia, keeping track of the, ahem, ‘opposition’s’ troop movements. Meanwhile there are some Army intelligence guys, using a system called Guardrail, out of Panama, to monitor the FARC’s radio transmissions. You piece all that intel together, along with what you guys up in ‘Echelons Above Reality’ provide, and that gives a pretty complete picture for the theater command, most of which-after it’s properly sanitized-can get shared with the host country.”

Doyle sat up and turned to look at Pitcher, and continued: “It’s pretty straightforward stick-and-rudder stuff. I just follow the preprogrammed flight profiles: Fly to these coordinates, spiral down to this altitude and assume this heading and fly straight and level for x minutes until you’re at these coordinates, then turn to this heading and fly x minutes, then climb out, suck some gas at a tanker, and return to base.”

Pitcher chided, “Ha! One of the new UAVs could probably handle that-from a lot closer in than Hondo.”

“No kidding. I’ve been told that it was more political than anything else, to show support for the Colombian and Honduran governments-you know, show the flag. So they didn’t want just a ‘man in the loop’ but an actual ‘man on the stick.’ For reasons of physical security on the ground, they couldn’t base our planes in-country in Colombia, so they decided to base us at Tegucigalpa.”

“Wouldn’t it be safer for the planes to be at Soto Cano?”

“Yes, but El Presidente likes F-16s, so he insisted, since this is just a five-month gig, that we be here in the capital, rather than at Soto Cano. I think he’s hoping to get a ‘dollar ride’ in a D-model.”

“Do you have any two-seaters down here?”

“No, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see that magically get added to the scope of the mission.”

“So basing at Colombia was out, and the political fix was in for Tegucigalpa. Better for you, anyway. At Soto Cano, you’d be living in some corrugated steel hooch with no running water,” Bryson summarized.

“Yeah, it would be muy jodido to have some FARC dude blow up a couple of F-16s on the ramp. As I recall, Vipers were nineteen million dollars per copy, back when the last ones rolled off the assembly line. Now that production has shut down, the airframes are basically irreplaceable. It would be very bad PR if we lost one.”

“So you poor baby! You have three or four days a week on your hands for the next five months to chase skirts and to sip Port Royal beer. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you all the best places to go, and I have friends with cars that can take you there.”

“I’m not much of a skirt chaser. You see, I believe in courting ladies, not dating them. But I have been known to enjoy a good beer.”

“In moderation, no doubt.”

Doyle echoed, “Yes, exactly: in moderation.”

Bryson punched his shoulder. “I think you’re gonna have a blast here.”

Doyle’s plans for the next five months changed radically the next day when he heard what he later called the voice of an angel, as he came in for a landing approach after a forty-minute operational test flight with the newly fitted TARPS pod. The voice on the radio from the control tower sounded enchanting, obviously that of a young woman. Soon after hitting the tarmac, he asked the liaison crew chief about the voice. The master sergeant replied, “Oh, that’s Blanca Araneta. But I’ve gotta warn you: She’s single, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, and she’s an absolute doll. But she’s made of pure unobtanium. Many before you have tried and failed, young Jedi.”

Doyle immediately took that as a challenge. He got his first glimpse of the young woman as he loitered outside the control tower during the evening shift change. He spotted her just as she stepped into her car, a battered old Mercedes station wagon. Ian was surprised to see that, having heard she was from a wealthy family. She drove away before he had the chance to approach her and introduce himself. She was indeed a beautiful woman, with large, expressive eyes, a perfectly symmetrical face, and full lips. Her shoulder-length black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Ian Doyle was smitten.

He immediately started gathering intelligence and planning a strategy. He first learned that Blanca was indeed from a wealthy family that lived about an hour’s drive north of the air base. After much prying with other members of the control tower staff, Doyle found out that Blanca Araneta was a recent graduate of Universidad Nacional Autonoma de Honduras and was a licensed private pilot. To Ian this meant bonus points: finding a woman with whom he could talk aviation and not have her eyes glaze over. She still lived in an apartment near the university.

Further inquiries garnered the married name of her college roommate: Consuelo Dalgon, a linguistics major who now taught public school and lived near the airport. Blanca still had a close friendship with Dalgon. After buying a few more beers, he was given Dalgon’s phone number. That same evening, Ian phoned her, explaining that he was TDY and was looking for a Spanish tutor. Dalgon immediately answered affirmatively, explaining that she had married another recent graduate who was just getting started as a management trainee, so she could use the extra money.

Ian’s lessons began the next Saturday at the Dalgons’ apartment. Not only did he get a thorough immersion course in Spanish, but he also began to pick up tidbits about the mysterious Senorita Blanca Araneta.

He learned that Blanca’s father, Arturo Araneta y Vasquez, was a semiretired mining engineer and investor. He was also a former member of the Honduran Olympic tennis team.

Consuelo confided to Ian that Blanca had told her that she hated tennis. This was because she had been forced to take tennis lessons from an early age. Doyle learned that Blanca loved swimming and aerobatic flying. He was also told that Blanca read and wrote English much better than she spoke it.

At his next Spanish tutoring session, he found out that Blanca loved Almond Roca candy. She also liked modern flamenco music-what she called “that folky jazz sound.” She especially liked the Gipsy Kings, Armik, Paco de Lucia, and Ottmar Liebert. Curious, Doyle bought several CDs at the local record store and was instantly hooked. As he listened to this music, he often daydreamed about Blanca, picturing her dancing in a traditional flamenco dress.

Ian met Blanca for the first time at the Plaza San Martin Hotel in Tegucigalpa. Consuela and Blanca often went to the hotel to swim. They had started going while they were in college. Though the pool was ostensibly reserved for hotel guests, the hotel manager quietly let it be known that pretty college girls of good moral character were welcome to come swim at the pool as often as they liked, just to provide some eye candy for the visiting businessmen. To the girls, it was a perfect arrangement. The hotel provided a safe place to park and a safe place to swim. The only downside was that they often got to practice how to politely brush off the occasional lovelorn or just plain lusty business travelers. Only the Japanese ones took pictures.

During his third evening lesson with Consuelo, she and her husband, Pablo, invited Ian to come with them for a swim following the next Saturday lesson. Not wishing to be obvious, Ian didn’t ask if Blanca might be meeting them there, but he thought the chances were good.

At the Tegucigalpa Multiplaza, Ian picked out a new swimsuit-opting for the long “surfer suit” look-a dark beach towel, a lightweight Windbreaker, and a pair of the best-quality leather huarache sandals that they sold.

A half hour after their swim session began, Ian emerged from the pool after a set of laps. He was thrilled to see Blanca Araneta had arrived and was sitting on a lounge chair, chatting with Consuelo.

Toweling himself dry, he walked toward them, doing his best to look nonchalant. Consuelo introduced him to Blanca in Spanish. Senora Dalgon was, after all, a strict believer in true immersion Spanish.

Ignoring Consuelo’s cue, Blanca switched to English.

“A pleasure to be meeting you, Ian.”

Hearing the cute way she pronounced his name-more like “Eon” than “Ian”-was delightful to Doyle.

Avoiding the open chair next to Blanca, he sat down on the lounge that was beyond Consuelo’s and Pablo’s: he thought it best to talk to Blanca at first from a longer distance, rather than seem overly anxious or intrusive of her space.

Speaking to Blanca, over the top of Consuelo’s back, Ian said, “Senorita Araneta, I have heard your voice before, from the control tower. I usually fly ‘Viper 1-2-4,’ and you’ve probably heard my call sign, ‘Subgunner.’”

“Oh, yes, I know your call sign.”

Doyle replied, “Yes, that’s me. I always wanted to put a face to your name. I must say, you have a pretty voice, and a very pretty face to go with it.”

Blanca just smiled and laughed politely.

Again trying to seem nonchalant, Ian added, “Well, enjoy your swim,” and he reclined on an unoccupied lounge chair and put on his sunglasses. Lying there, he wondered if he had botched the introduction. His mind was racing. He felt very self-conscious, and oh, so pale-skinned among so many people with olive complexions. He dared not speak. Silently, he recited to himself Proverbs 17:28: “Even a fool is counted wise, when he holds his peace. When he shuts his lips he is considered perceptive.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Blanca stand up and whip off the ankle-length swimming skirt-wrap that she had been wearing. She tossed it on top of her flight bag. He noticed that she carried that bag everywhere. Beneath, she was wearing what by modern standards was a very conservative one-piece swimsuit with an integral skirt, but it couldn’t hide her traffic-stopping figure. Ian Doyle gulped and whispered to himself, “Ay, ay, ay.”

Blanca spent almost fifteen minutes in the pool, swimming lap after lap. After she got out and returned to her chair, Ian rose, smiled, and took his own turn in the pool, swimming in a medley of strokes for about ten minutes. He thought that at this stage it was best to seem slightly standoffish and more interested in swimming than in chatting her up.

After he climbed up the pool’s ladder, he could see that Consuelo and Blanca had turned on their chairs and were applying sunscreen to each other’s noses. Ian again toweled but just slightly, returned to his chaise, and put on his sunglasses.

Consuelo asked, “¿Bloqueador solar, Ian?”

He answered, “Si, muchas gracias por su amabilidad, senora,” and raised his hands as if ready to catch the bottle.

But instead of tossing the bottle, Consuelo pivoted to hand him the bottle directly. Leaning forward, she whispered, “She has been very curious about you.”

As Ian slathered the waterproof sunblock on, he explained, “With my skin, I don’t tan, I just burn. I’m feeling a little too white to fit in here. I’m just another ugly ghost-pale gringo.”

As Ian handed the bottle back to her, Consuelo said matter-of-factly, “You know, here in our country, many people would be jealous of your fair skin. The more fair, the more aristocratic.”

Doyle realized that he had lot to learn about Honduras.

Blanca eyed Doyle for a minute and, speaking over Consuelo’s back, asked, “Has Consuelo been talking about me to you?”

“A little.”

“So, what did she say?”

“Something about your father, tu papa, that he was un experto de jugar al tenis.”

“Not actually a champion. He was a bronze medaler-I mean medalist-in doubles of tennis.”

She cocked her head and asked with a hopeful lilt to her voice, “Do you like tennis?”

“I’ve played the game, but you know, I never really liked it. No me gusta el tenis. It is just a whole lot of sweating just to hit a ball back and forth, back and forth. And it’s kind of an aggravating game. I found it a little too competitive: even if you practice a lot and hit the ball just right, there is always someone who can hit it just a little bit better, or who is just a little bit faster, and they can ace you out. So, no offense, but it’s not for me. If I want to practice my hand-to-eye coordination, I’d rather be in a flight simulator or, better yet, up in the air, formation flying or doing aerobatics.”

Blanca smiled. “Aerobatics?”

“Oh, yeah. The F16 is built for it-well, with a big turning radius, that is. Lots of power, great handling. The controls are a dream. Incredibly responsive.”

“Ay, that sounds wonderful.”

Consuelo jumped in: “Ian, you should show Blanca those videos you shot from the backseat that you showed me and Pablo.”

“Si, senora, me encantaria… uh…” At a loss for the right words in Spanish, he finished: “… to do so.” After a moment he added, “That video may make you dizzy to watch, and there is not much narration, just me and the pilot grunting, you know, tightening our abdominal muscles, doing our best to pull the g’s.”

“No, it won’t make me dizzy!” Blanca said. She then just smiled, nodded dismissively, and lay back down, putting on sunglasses, and pulling her sun hat over her head. But Doyle noticed that she was looking in his direction.

With her large dark sunglasses, he couldn’t be sure if she was sleeping, or staring at him. He was having trouble reading her. Was she genuinely interested, or just being polite and properly social? He decided that it was best to just give her more of the “silence and sunbathing” treatment. He reached down and pulled out his Sony Discman portable CD player and put the headphones on. He closed his eyes and got lost in the music for a few minutes. Then he noticed something had shaded his face. He opened his eyes to see Blanca standing over him.

“Oh, hola, Senorita Araneta,” he said casually.

Gesturing to his CD player, she asked, “What are you playing on that thing?”

“Oh, this? Here, take a listen.” Blanca perched on the edge of Consuelo’s lounge chair and Ian handed her the Discman. He leaned forward to put the headphones on her head. It was the first time that he had ever touched Blanca. It gave him a tingle.

Blanca put on a huge grin the instant she heard the music.

“You like Ottmar Liebert? No way! This is his first album, Nouveau Flamenco. You really like it?”

“Yeah, I sure do. I’m a recent convert to that music. I’ve really gotten hooked on flamenco guitar since I came down here.”

She nodded. “Well, Ian, what is currently your favorite band?”

“I’d have to say the Gipsy Kings. It’s almost hypnotic. From the first time I heard them sing ‘Bamboleo,’ I just couldn’t get it out of my head.”

Blanca shook her head in disbelief, then smiled and said softly, “Wow, I really like them too.”

The next time that Ian met Blanca was at a weeknight dinner party, just three days later, hosted by Consuelo and Pablo. The evening before, in halting Spanish, Doyle asked Consuelo, “How should I dress for this?”

For the first time at one of his immersion class sessions, Consuelo lapsed into English: “Well, it is a dinner, you should wear a coat and a tie.”

“I’m just TDY down here and I don’t have a suit with me. The only thing I have with a tie is my service dress uniform.”

“That will be fine. Wear that.”

Ian arrived early carrying a clear plastic grocery bag with a bottle of Chilean white wine and a can of Almond Roca. In the crook of his other arm were two large bouquets of white orchids.

Inviting him in, Pablo Dalgon said, “You can relax, Ian. We’re speaking all English tonight. This is not a class night. Purely social.”

Ian was taken aback to see that Blanca was already there. Doyle handed the flowers to Consuelo, and said, “I brought a bunch for each of you.” Pablo exclaimed, jokingly, “Oh, how nice of you. Flowers for both of us.”

Consuelo gave Pablo a sharp look and elbowed him in the ribs, chiding, “He means flowers for both of the ladies.”

Pablo laughed and said, “I know. Just kidding.”

As Blanca and Consuelo each took their bouquets, Blanca glanced down to see what was in the bag. She recognized the pink can. Her jaw dropped a bit and she gave Doyle a quizzical look.

In rapid damage-control mode, Doyle explained, “I heard from Consuelo that you liked Almond Roca, so I bought a can. You know, to serve with dessert.”

As Consuelo began serving dinner, Blanca’s eyes locked onto the can of candy sitting on the sideboard. Then she stared at Ian.

Blanca started laughing. She pointed a scolding finger at Doyle and said, “Ian, I think you are trying to manipulate me.”

“Yes, I am, senorita. I freely admit that. But I’m doing so in a kind of nice, gentlemanly way.”

Through the rest of the dinner, the talk was mainly about aviation and differences between American and Honduran customs. It was a very pleasant evening. Pablo was quiet, as was his nature. Ian and Blanca made plenty of eye contact. Consuelo, clearly looking like a victorious matchmaker, steered the conversation. She often returned to topics in which she gave Ian and Blanca opportunities to ask each other questions and talk about their accomplishments.

After dinner, Consuelo served flan with a piece of Almond Roca topping each piece of the gelatinous dessert. She was quite the diplomatic hostess.

Pablo and Consuelo stepped out to clear the dishes. In phrasing that he had practiced several times with Consuelo’s coaching, Ian asked Blanca in Spanish: “Senorita Araneta, I wish to ask your permission to court you in the coming days, with completely honorable intentions, if you would be so kind as to have me in your presence.”

Her answer was immediate, “You may call me Blanca, and yes, you may court me, with your promise to be a gentleman.”

Their next meeting was a lunch the following day at the air base canteen. But just as their conversation was starting, it was cut short: one of Blanca’s coworkers rushed to their table and exclaimed that the tower boss had fallen ill with a flu and Blanca was needed back at the control tower. Then he turned and stepped away just as quickly as he had arrived.

Blanca stood, and said, “I’m now in a hurry here, so this as you say is the Reader’s Digest version: I like you a lot, Ian. I think you are fascinating. So now it is the time I should take you up to the estancia, so mi papa can give you the, uh, ‘third degree.’ You are seeming just way, way too good to be true… and my father, he is an expert at digging out the flaws of character in suitors. We’ll see if he can scare you off.” She raised her index finger and added, “He has scared off all the others, you know. I’ll schedule a dinner for next Saturday.”

Before he could answer, Blanca smiled, gave a little wave, and dashed away.

Ian sat dumbfounded at what he had just heard. Then he said a long, silent prayer and ate his lunch.

To meet Blanca’s father, Ian decided to wear a suit, instead of his service dress uniform. But borrowing a suit that would fit him well took some scrambling, as did finding cuff links and dress shoes. This turned into an evening-long scavenger hunt for many of the junior officers and GS-9s who lived on his floor of Rick’s Place. Knocking on doors up and down the hall, Bryson Pitcher led Doyle and a parade of suit beggars. This turned into a movable party, with plenty of alcohol served. Doyle heard repeatedly, “This deserves a toast!” The lovely Blanca Araneta was a legendarily unreachable enigma for anyone who worked in flight operations, so the reactions were a mix of envy and awe. The envy came mostly from the officers who were there on PCS assignments. They were miffed that a newly arrived TDY O-2 could break the ice with Blanca, and so quickly.

Blanca drove over from her apartment and picked Ian up at just after three p.m., for the hour-long drive to her family’s ninety-hectare estancia, which was about three miles outside of Talanga. Blanca wore a simple black dress with a very modest neckline and hemmed below the knee. She wore very little makeup. Her hair was combed out and worn loosely. This was the first time that Ian had seen it in anything but a simple ponytail. The only adornment she wore was a single large teardrop-shaped pearl on a gold chain. Ian thought she looked gorgeous. She definitely had the Grace Kelly vibe going. Understated, but stunning.

The drive north from Tegucigalpa was fairly quiet and revealed the nervousness they both felt. There were just a few comments on the scenery and a bit of travelogue from Blanca on the local history and age of certain buildings. Ian felt a new level of anxiety as she turned the car into the estancia’s long driveway. Even from a distance, Doyle could see that the house was huge and that it had stables off to one side.

Just before they stepped out of the Mercedes, Ian straightened his borrowed silk tie. Blanca whispered, “Bring your video camera. My papa will want to see pictures.” After the maid ushered them in, they met Blanca’s father on the screened patio.

As was customary, Blanca began the introductions: “Papa, este es mi amigo, Ian.”

Ian carried on haltingly, “Mucho gusto, Senor Araneta, su hija habla de usted con mucha admiracion, es un honor y un placer de conocer a usted.” (“I’m pleased to meet you sir, your daughter speaks with great admiration about you, it is an honor and a pleasure to meet you.”) Ian did this fairly well, since he had practiced it with Consuelo, but he was obviously nervous.

After shaking hands, Arturo Araneta asked, “So, Lieutenant Doyle, my daughter tells me you are a pilot of F-16 fighting planes.”

“That’s right, sir.” Pointing to the rucksack on his shoulder, he said, “I brought my camcorder with some movies of myself and some of my squadron mates flying F-16s, if you are interested.”

“Of, course, of course. Let’s go to the library.”

Arturo Araneta asked as they walked, “You have this movie in your video camera?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s watch it on my big screen. It is the latest from Japan.”

The dimly lit library was quite a contrast to the brightness of the patio. It took a while for Doyle’s eyes to adjust to the lighting.

As they were getting the camera’s cable hooked up to the television input jack, Arturo Araneta asked Ian, “So, where did you go to college?”

Without looking up, Ian said, “The University of Chicago.”

Arturo pointed to the jacks on the front of the television and said, “You may attach the cables here. And what did you study?”

“Engineering.”

Arturo looked at him and said, “There are many types of engineers.”

“I did a double major, in aeronautical engineering and industrial engineering. I also got minor degrees in English literature and military history.”

The elder gentleman looked impressed. “Engineering, engineering. Excellent! I am surprised that so many other young people waste their time in other trifling fields.” He again looked at Ian intently and asked, “That much work must have been difficult. How were your grades?”

Ian smiled. “It was a lot of work, but I enjoyed the material. I graduated cum laude.”

Arturo stood up, smiled slightly while nodding his head, and said, “Very good. Very, very good.” With a wave of his hand, the maid brought iced tea and they sipped it as they watched Ian’s videotape.

Doyle introduced it by just saying, “These clips you’ll see were all shot by me from the backseat of a D-model F-16-that’s the version with two seats.”

The first clip showed some tight-formation flying. The second showed takeoffs, landings, and touch-and-goes.

Just before the third segment, Ian voiced the caveat, “Now, this part coming up, it wasn’t me at the controls, and I had no warning that my friend was going to do this. I was just along for the ride and to preserve the events for posterity.” The video then showed the plane doing slow rolls high over San Francisco, passing through patchy clouds, and then diving to line up west of the city. It then flew under the Golden Gate Bridge and then under the San Francisco Bay Bridge with the pilot twice exclaiming “Yeee-haaaaaaw!”

Both of the Aranetas gasped and laughed. Ian then commented: “I found out later that Fred had the crew chief disable the plane’s transponder so there’d be no comebacks.”

Arturo chuckled and said, “Very clever. And I’m glad this was not you flying so illegally.”

The last segment of the video was several minutes of aerobatics shot over the pilot’s shoulder. In one corner of the screen, the plane’s altimeter could be seen winding down from thirty thousand feet, at an alarming rate. The significance of some of the maneuvers was lost on her father, but Blanca was clearly impressed. She kept saying “Wow” and “Double wow!”

As Ian disconnected his camcorder, Arturo exclaimed, “That was fantastic. Simply fantastic.”

Next the subject of tennis came up, as Blanca had warned it always did with her father. He started by saying, “You know, seeing San Francisco in that videotape reminds me…” He spent the next half hour in an animated description of how he had toured the United States playing tennis tournaments in the 1980s and how he had learned to disco dance. He ended by mentioning: “You know, when I was there, I became so fascinated with your basketball. Other than tennis, that is now the sport I watch the most, on the satellite television.”

“Really?” Ian asked. “What is your favorite American team?”

The Honduran replied, “Oh, the Detroit Pistons. Most definitely.”

Ian laughed. “Did Blanca mention that I was raised near Detroit?”

Arturo Araneta put on a huge grin.

Ian put in hesitantly, “Although I’ve gotta say, I’m just as much a Lakers fan as I am a fan of the Pistons.”

“The Lakers, they are a fine team, too, but sometimes, with all their physicality, they lack the, ah, finesse and control of the Pistons.”

Just when Doyle thought that he could not have hit it off more perfectly, Arturo asked: “So, what does a fighter jockey like you do, for hobbies?”

“I like to run, swim, and I do a lot of target shooting.”

Araneta chortled. “You are a shooter? Come with me, my boy, and I will show you my modest gun collection!”

As the three of them walked together toward the other wing of the house, Blanca laughed and whispered, “The lost-long son returns!”

As they walked, Ian glanced over his shoulder and noticed the maid following five paces back, dutifully carrying a tray with their drinks. He realized that this sort of life would take some getting used to.

They spent the next half hour chitchatting and admiring guns pulled out of a climate-controlled walk-in vault. Araneta had a huge collection of perhaps two hundred guns and fifty swords and sabers. Sitting on a large wooden stand in the center of the vault room was an exquisitely ornamented saddle with a saber and a pair of holstered horse pistols. The saddle was clearly the centerpiece of his collection. Arturo explained, “This saddle belonged to a lieutenant of Simon Bolivar. I bought it by private treaty from a collector before it could go to auction.”

Doyle noted that Arturo’s collection was eclectic, ranging from a sixteenth-century Chinese hand cannon to one of the latest Colt Anaconda revolvers. But the collection mostly emphasized muzzle loaders and horse pistols, representing four hundred years of development for the latter. In deference to the humid climate in Honduras, they all wore white cotton gloves as they handled the guns.

As they were examining his modern guns, Araneta asked, “What do you think of Blanca’s Glock 19?”

“You have a Glock?” Ian asked Blanca, surprised.

Blanca answered with a slight tone of condescension, “Yes, of course, the one I carry every day, in my flight bag. It’s got night sights on it. I’m a very good shot.”

“I had no idea that you packed.”

Blanca laughed and said, “You yanquis have no idea how many Hondurans carry guns every day of the week. We just make no big deal about it.

“Daddy bought me the Glock and also the Mercedes. The car is intentionally old and ugly on the outside, but it has a brand-new engine and transmission. Actually, the rust spots on the door panels are not really rust: they are just painted on. It’s the perfecto anti-kidnapping car. Not like anything anyone would expect me to drive. Even so, it is built like a tank and could knock most other cars off of the road!”

Ian stroked his chin and said, “The more I learn about you, senorita, the more there is to like about you. You’re the complete package: ‘She flies, she swims, she shoots, she dresses tastefully, she drives a stealth tank, she likes flamenco guitar… ’”

“You left out that I’m a great cook and an excellent dancer.”

All three of them laughed.

Finally, they sat down to a four-course dinner that was served by the cook and dutifully attended by the maid. The conversation over dinner ranged from flying, to shooting, to duck hunting, to Arturo’s recollections of what Blanca was like as a little girl, and, of course, to tennis.

Ian got to try out some of his new Spanish phrases. His fractured grammar and conjugational foul-ups earned him a lot of good-spirited laughter. Arturo was gracious, saying only: “You are learning quickly, my boy. And I’m glad to hear you use a good Castilian accent. So many Americans I meet, even scientists and engineers, are educated only in the gutter Spanish.”

After a long pause, Arturo glanced over the top of his glasses and asked gravely, “Are you Catholic?”

“Yes, sir. Born and raised, Irish-Catholic. I still attend Mass faithfully.” Realizing that he was taking a huge risk of offending his host, he added: “But additionally, I have come to more of a personal faith in Jesus Christ. Between him and me, I feel no need of a mediator. The pope and the priests are fine for ceremony, but I truly feel that I’m saved personally: by Jesus, by faith in him alone, by his grace, and with my sins paid for by his sacrifice on the cross. I love Jesus with all mi corazon.”

Arturo brightened and clasped his hand on Ian’s shoulder. “I feel the same way also. It is refreshing to hear that from a fellow member of the church.”

Everything continued to go well until it was time for cigars and brandy. Arturo was slightly miffed when Ian accepted a snifter but refused a cigar, saying, “Lo siento mucho, senor, but I don’t smoke. No fumo.”

As he trimmed and lit his cigar, Arturo tut-tutted and then said resignedly, “Oh, well, you pilots are such health nuts. You don’t know what you’re missing. Honduran cigars are just as good as los Cubanos. But I can say I now smoke only about one of these a month.”

Blanca joked, “You know, Daddy, I gave up cigars years ago, when I decided to follow in the steps of Amelia Earhart.”

As Blanca gave Ian a ride back to the base, she went on and on about how well Ian had gotten along with her father, mentioning how unprecedented that was. After a couple of minutes of driving on in silence, she said simply, “I think he really likes you, Ian.”

“I like him too.” Then he asked: “Where’d you get that pearl necklace?”

“Before they were married, my father and mother went on a trip to the Islas de la Bahia. Those are our Bay Islands on the east coast. They were snorkeling and Daddy dove to bring up an oyster. Inside of this oyster was this pearl. Later on that same day my father asked my mother to marry him. The pearl, it was too big and fragile for a ring, so it was placed on this necklace. Ever since then, my father nicknamed my mother conchita, which means ‘little oyster.’ And now he sometimes calls me that.”

After a long pause, she added, “My mother gave me this when she was dying of the cancer.”

“Lo siento mucho, Blanca.”

“It’s okay. That was a long time ago.”

“May I call you conchita?”

Blanca giggled, “Yes, Ian, you may, but not in public! You see, among the lower classes-especially in Argentina-conchita has a different, a very crude meaning; so please don’t you call me that around other people-or at least around anyone from Argentina.”

“Si, mi conchita.”

She drove on in silence, obviously deep in thought.

After passing through the formalities with the air base’s gate guards, Blanca turned to face Ian and said, “You know, Mr. Lieutenant Doyle, you were very clever, finding out all those things about me from Consuelo.”

“Yes, I must admit I do overplan things.”

“So, why did you do all that-the orchids and the Almond Roca? I think also the flamenco music.” Her voice grew sharp. “Why?”

Doyle coughed nervously. “Because I fell in love with your voice on the radio from the tower, even before I ever laid eyes on you. And when someone like me loves someone as much as I love you… well. I’m the kind of guy that will nearly warp space and time, just to make everything fall into place. I am absolutely head over heels, crazy in love with you, Blanca.”

Just then her car reached the driving circle in front of the White House.

“Perhaps I will see you again, Ian,” she said, ushering him out with a wave and a smile. He blew her a kiss. As her eyes lingered on him for a moment, he added, half shouting: “Encantado, Senorita!”

As he approached the front steps of the White House, Ian Doyle stopped in his tracks. He realized why Blanca had worn the pearl necklace. That pearl had been a key part of her father’s marriage proposal to her mother. Wearing it had been her way of telling her father: This man is bona fide marriage material.

The next few weeks were a blur. The squadron’s operational tempo increased, and Ian was flying a lot. Most of his contact with Blanca was by correspondence. Their love letters began cordially but became more familiar and gained a note of passion as time went on. Partly because two of the Hondo Expedition pilots had fallen ill with traveler’s tummy, Ian was flying as much as six days a week, a grueling pace.

Most of Ian’s missions were uneventful. The only real excitement came on a couple of flights when his plane’s radar warning receiver went off over hostile territory. These were mainly Gun Dish radars, part of Russian-built ZSU 23-4s-four-barrel 23mm antiaircraft cannons. The plane’s radar warning receiver (RWR) going off caused a bit of angst and prompted some lively discussion at the postflight debriefings.

On a Sunday forty days into his Honduras rotation, Blanca took Ian flying. Above his objection to split the cost, she treated him to a two-hour rental in her favorite plane, an Italian-built Pioneer P200. It was a very small, sleek, low-wing plane that had unusual dual sticks in a side-by-side cockpit.

As they approached the plane for their preflight, Doyle said, “I was expecting you to rent some zippy biplane with seats fore and aft.”

She grinned. “I think a side-by-side configuration like this is much more, ah, romantica, no?” Quickly changing subjects, she said, “The dry weight of this bird is only 260 kilos-light as a feather!”

“Oh, man, that is light! Did you know that an F-16 weighs about twelve thousand kilos fully fueled?”

Blanca was wearing a very attractive white flight suit with zippers everywhere. As they walked around the plane, checking the fuel tanks, wiggling the wings, and checking the flaps and rudder, Doyle’s eyes kept drifting back to Blanca. The flight suit certainly accentuated her trim figure.

They pulled the chocks and climbed aboard. Sitting in the plane’s left seat, he admired Blanca’s finesse as she worked the radio and rolled out to the taxi strip, craning her head to do repeated 360 eyeballs of both the plane’s control surfaces and her surroundings. She didn’t miss a beat. After getting takeoff clearance, she punched in the throttle and took off after a surprisingly short roll. Climbing out at seven hundred feet per minute, she took the plane up to ten thousand feet and headed west as they chatted about the plane’s characteristics.

“What’s this bird stressed for?” Ian asked.

“Four g’s pos, and two g’s negative.”

Doyle nodded approvingly.

Blanca continued, “It’s been upgraded to a 110-horsepower plant. She’ll do 145 miles per hour, at altitude. Redline is 5,600 rpms. Oh, and watch your sink rate if you pull more than a 60- degree bank. I think you’ll like flying it. It takes very light control forces. I love this plane because you don’t have to muscle the stick.”

Glancing at the GPS, she declared, “Okay, hombre, now we are outside of the TCA, and we can plaaay.” Banking sharply left and right to get a view under the plane’s wings and swiveling her head, she said, “I see empty skies.”

Doyle echoed, “Ditto, I confirm I see no traffic. Let’s play!”

Blanca snugged the straps on her X-harness and, with no cue needed, Doyle did likewise. Blanca then immediately launched into a series of aerobatics that would have made most other passengers puke. Doyle was whooping and laughing. She burned through seven thousand feet in less than a minute, doing rolls, loops, and spins. At one point Blanca’s flight bag levitated to the ceiling as they pulled negative g’s. Doyle snatched it and tucked it under his arm.

After climbing back up to ten thousand feet, Blanca put on a devilish grin. She launched into another series of maneuvers, even more violent. At one point Ian’s vision narrowed from the effect of pulling three g’s. Doyle never once felt tempted to take the controls, even when she intentionally put the plane into a flat spin. She deftly recovered and they both laughed. She climbed once again and put the plane through a pair of Immelmann turns and then a neat four-point roll.

“Now you show me something!” she said, making a show of throwing her hands up, off the stick.

Quickly drying his palms on his pant legs, Doyle grasped the other stick. He then took a couple of tentative turns, getting a feel for the aircraft. He throttled the engine up slightly and then adjusted the trim wheel to counteract the propeller’s torque. This took a couple of tries to get just right, since he was unfamiliar with the gradation of the wheel.

“Esta bien! You just showed me a very nice four-point roll. Now, this is an eight-pointer!” After completing the roll, he continued: “And this is a sixteen-pointer.”

After completing the second roll, he said, “Sorry, that was a little sloppy. I’m not used to a plane where I’m fighting prop torque like this. Flying jets spoils a man.” After a beat, he shouted, “Hands on stick!”

She obliged.

He then declared, “It’s your aircraft!” and dropped his hands.

She was quizzical. “What? That’s all you show me?”

As she resumed control, he explained, “Look, Blanca, I didn’t come up here to show off my fighter-jock stuff. I came to see you do your thing.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think you’re beautiful, and I think that your flying is just as beautiful. Muy bella.”

Blanca beamed and deftly banked to dive toward Lake Yojoa, visible in the distance. In the dive, their ground speed got above 160.

He truly was impressed by her flying ability. He recognized that she was a natural for stick and rudder as well as situational awareness. The thing that impressed him the most was her gracefulness in both right- and left-hand turns. Most pilots were good at only one or the other, depending on their handedness. He commented to her on this, and she explained, “Mi papa, he’s the tennis guy. Since I was a little girl, he insist that I learn everything ambidextrous-no, ambidextrously-even with the holding of a fork.”

“La tenedor,” Doyle reminded himself aloud, from a recent lesson.

“El tenedor,” she corrected.

“Sorry, I always get my masculines and feminines mixed up.”

She turned to give him another smile, “I think you are very masculine, Ian.”

With the aerobatic maneuvering over, they both loosened their harnesses. Back in level flight and approaching the lago, Blanca again pushed the stick forward to swoop down low over the water. The plane scared up a huge flock of ducks. Marveling at the size of the flock of multicolored brown and black birds, Ian asked: “What are those?”

“Here, we call them suiriri piquirrojo. In English they are called, I think, the black-bellied whistling duck.”

They flew well above the flock, safe from any bird strikes. Blanca repeatedly banked the plane to get a better view; then, after circling back, she pulled the throttle out, transitioning to slow flight to orbit the enormous flock. It looked like a veritable cloud of ducks. Ian snapped pictures with his camera. She then advanced the throttle to its mid-range and flew away from the lake, back toward Tegucigalpa.

Ian felt ecstatic. “Wow! That was an incredible sight, Blanca!”

Ian reached over to place his hand on Blanca’s shoulder. He realized that it was the second time he had ever touched her. He asked, “Will you marry me?”

She punched the throttle to the firewall and the acceleration threw Ian back against his seat. She looked straight ahead and then glanced down at the instruments. At first Ian thought that he had angered her. Then she turned and smiled. “Of course I will marry you, Ian. But I gotta land this plane first.”