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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 pic-tu-ers.” After the maid ushered them in, they met Blanca’s father on the screened patio.  Haltingly, Ian made a formal introduction in Spanish. He did this fairly well, since he had practiced it with Consuela, but he was obviously nervous.

After shaking hands, Aurturo 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-16 Falcons, 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 the television input jack, Aurturo Araneta quizzed Doyle about his education.  Ian answered:  “I did a double major, in Aeronautical Engineering and Industrial Engineering. I also got minor degrees in English Literature and Military History. I did all that course work in just five years, cum laude.”

“Not suma? Ah, well, to do all that in just five years, you must have been studying around the clock.  So graduating just cum laude is understandable.”  After taking an audible breath, he added:  “Engineering, engineering. Excellent! I am surprised that so many other young people waste their time in other trifling fields.”

With a wave of Arturo’s hand, the maid brought iced tea and they sipped it as they watched Ian’s video tape.  Doyle introduced it by just saying: “ These clips you’ll see were all shot by me from the back seat of a D-model F-16—that’s the version with two seats.”

The first clip showed some tight formation flying. The second showed take-offs, landings and touch-n-go’s.

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 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.”

Aurturo 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 30,000 feet, at an alarming rate. The significance of some of the maneuvers were lost on her father, but Blanca was clearly impressed.  She kept saying “Wow” and “Double wow!”

As Ian disconnected his camcorder, Aurturo 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 video tape 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 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 joe-key like you do, for hobbies?”

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

Araneta chortled. “You are a shoo-ter?  Come with me, my boy and I will show you my little gun collection!”
        
As the three of them walked together toward the other wing of the house, Blanca laughed and muttered, “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 chit-chatting and admiring guns pulled out of a climate-controlled walk-in-vault. Araneta had a huge collection of perhaps 200 guns and 50 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. Aurturo explained: “This saddle belonged to a lieutenant of Simon de 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 16th Century Chinese hand cannon, to one of the latest Colt Anaconda revolvers. But the collection mostly emphasized muzzleloaders and horse pistols, representing 400 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 said with scorn: “Yes, 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 no really rust-they are jus’ painted on. It’s the perfecto anti-kidnapping car. Not like anything anyone would expect me to drive. Even then, 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, señorita, 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 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 and to Arturo’s recollections of what Blanca was like, as a little girl. And of course, 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 of Mexico. They are such, as you say, ‘hicks’,”

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 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.  Aurturo was slightly miffed when Ian accepted a snifter, but refused a cigar, saying, “Lo siento mucho, señor, but I don’t smoke. Yo no fumo.”

As he trimmed and lit his cigar, Arturo tutt-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 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 goose-steps of Amelia Earhart.”

o  o  o

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 E-an.”

“Yeah, pretty scary, isn’t it?”  Then he asked:  “Where’d you get that pearl necklace?”

“Before they were married, my father and mother went on a trip to 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 thees 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 suffixed: “My mother gave me this, when she was dying of the cancer.”

“Lo siento mucho, Blanca.”

“Ees okay.  That was a long time ago.”

“May I call you conchita?”

Blanca giggled,  “Yes E-an, you may, but not in public! You see, among the lower classes, conchita has a different—a very crude–meaning, so please don’t you call me that around other people—or at least around any other people who speak Spanish.”

“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 and her face to Ian and said: “You know, Meester Lieutenant Doyle, you were very clever, finding out all those theengs about me, from Consuela.”

“Yes, I must admit I do over-plan things.”

“So, why did you do all that–the orchids and the Almond Roca? I theenk 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.

She gave a coy smile.  “Perhaps I will see you again, E-an.”  She ushered 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, Señorita!”  Her chin dropped and she put on a smile as she drove away.

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 the pearl 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 fell 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 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 20 millimeter anti-aircraft cannons.  This caused a bit of angst for Ian and some lively discussion at the post-flight debriefings.

o o o

On a Sunday 40 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 pre-flight, 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, romantico, no? “ Quickly changing subjects, she said, “The dry weight of thees 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 tandem 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 700 feet per minute, she took the plane up to 10,000 feet and headed west, as they chatted about the plane’s characteristics.

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

“Four gees pos and two gees neg-a-teev.”

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 ara-pee-emms. Oh and watch your sink rate if you pull more than a 60 degrees bank. I theenk you’ll like flying it. It takes very light control forces. I love thees 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 7,000 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 gees.  Doyle snatched it and tucked it under his arm.

After climbing back up to 10,000 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 gees. Doyle never once felt tempted to take the controls, even when she intentionally put the plane into flat spin.  She deftly recovered and they both laughed. She climbed once again and put the plane through a pair of Immelman turns and then a neat four-point roll.

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

Quickly drying his palms on his pant legs, he grasped the other stick. Doyle 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.

 “¡Vale!  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: “Its 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 you theenk?”

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

Blanca beamed a toothy smile 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, ambidexterous-leee, even with the holding of a fork.”

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

“El tenadore”, 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, E-an.”

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 ducks, Ian asked:  “What are those?”

“Here, we call them Suirirí Piquirrojo. In English they are called, I theenk 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 and 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, E-an. But I gotta land thees plane first.”

—

[Author’s Note: Copyright 2010. All Rights Reserved by James Wesley, Rawles. This material is not available for re-posting at other web sites. The novel is scheduled to be released by the Atria Books Division of Simon & Schuster in early 2011. Deo volente, my next contracted sequel novel will follow, in 2012. I’d appreciate your comments and suggestions via e-mail for improvement of this draft chapter.]

Chapter 24:  Down In Hondo

“We are steadily asked about the age at which to teach young people to shoot. The answer to this obviously depends upon the particular individual; not only his physical maturity but his desire. Apart from these considerations, however, I think it important to understand that it is the duty of the father to teach the son to shoot. Before the young man leaves home, there are certain things he should know and certain skills he should acquire, apart from any state-sponsored activity. Certainly the youngster should be taught to swim, strongly and safely, at distance. And young people of either sex should be taught to drive a motor vehicle, and if at all possible, how to fly a light airplane. I believe a youngster should be taught the rudiments of hand-to-hand combat, unarmed, together with basic survival skills. The list is long, but it is a parent’s duty to make sure that the child does not go forth into the world helpless in the face of its perils. Shooting, of course, is our business, and shooting should not be left up to the state.” – The Late Col. Jeff Cooper

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 there was an interim program using US 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 18 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 17-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: “fool proof and pilot proof, but then, I repeat myself.”

The expedition included four F-16s–two for missions, and two as spares—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 which was 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 catch-all 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 Café Américain” 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 10 or 12 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 it’s only a five month TDY.  I wish it were a couple of years, to really soak up the local culture.”

Bryson has his curiosity piqued.  He asked: “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 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 over-educated NCOs, and we analyze them for liaison with the Honduran government, and for an un-specified strategic mission.”

“Stuff from aircraft?,”  Doyle asked.

“Nope.  Stuff from ahh… Non-air breathing platforms.”

“Ahhh, gotcha.”  Hearing the euphemism for spy satellites made in 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 cross-over, I suppose.  You’ll probably get brief 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 idiot-proof, as long as they remember to hook up the external power and use a squirt of Windex before they takeoff.”

“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, flying 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 its 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 pre-programmed 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 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 that since this is just a five month gig that we be here in the capitol, 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 scope of the mission.”

Bryson summarized: “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.”

“Yeah, It would be muy malo  to have some FARC dude blow up a couple of F-16s on the ramp. Falcons were $19 million 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 P.R. 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 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 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 angel”, as he came in for a landing approach after a 40 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 who the voice belonged to. The E-7 replied:  “Oh, that’s Blanca Araneta. But I’ve gotta warn you: She’s single, maybe 21 or 22, and she’s a 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 Blanca Araneta 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 expressive large eyes, a beautifully symmetrical face, and full lips. Her shoulder-length black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Seeing her, Ian Doyle was smitten.

Ian immediately starting gathering intelligence, and planning a strategy. He first learned that Blanca was from a wealthy family that lived about an hour’s drive north of the air base, and that her father was a prominent mining engineer and investor. After much prying with other members of the control tower staff, Doyle found out that Blanca Araneta was a recent graduate of Universidad Nacional Autónoma 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: Consuela Dalgon, a linguistics major who now taught public school, living not too far from 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 Señorita Blanca Araneta.

He learned that Blanca was from a wealthy family in Talanga.  Her father, Arturo Araneta y Vasquez, was a semi-retired mining engineer, and a former member of the Honduran Olympic tennis team.

Consuela 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 was also told 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  normally 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’d like, 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 Consuela, 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 swim suit—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.

o  o  o

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 Consuela.

Toweling himself dry, he walked toward them, doing his best to look nonchalant.  Consuela introduced him to Blanca, in Spanish. Señora Dalgon was, after all, strict believer in true Immersion Spanish.

Ignoring Consuela’s cue, Blanca switched to English.

“A pleasure to be meeting you, E-an.”

Hearing the cute way she pronounced his name—more like “Eon” than “Ian”–made him just melt.

Avoiding the open chair next to Blanca, he sat down on the lounge that was beyond Consuela’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 Consuela’s back, Ian said: “Señorita Araneta, I have heard your voice before, from the control tower.  I usually fly ‘Falcon 1-2-4’, and you’ve probably heard my callsign, ‘Subgunner’.”

“Oh, yes, I know your callsign.”

Doyle replied: “Yes, that 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. Laying 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 dare 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 15 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 10 minutes.  He thought that at this stage, it was best to seem slightly stand-offish and more interested in swimming than in chatting her up.

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

Consuela asked, “Bloqueador de sol, Ian?”

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

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

Ian slathered the waterproof sun-block on, explaining: “With my skin, I don’t tan, I just burn. I’m feeling a little too white to fit in here.”

As Ian handed the bottle back to Consuela, Blanca 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 nodded, and said simply, “Oh.”  He realized that he had lot to learn about Honduras.

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

“A little.”  Disarmingly, he added, “I also told her about my college roommate.”

“So what did she say?”

“Something about your father, su papa, that he was un experto de tenis’.”

“Not actually a champion.  He was an 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 le gusto 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 F-16 is built for it—well, with a big turning radius that is.  Lot’s of power, great handling.  The controls are a dream.  Incredibly responsive.”

“Ay, that sounds wonderful.”

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

“Si, señora, yo estoy feliz… 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 gees.”

“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 theeng?”

“Oh, this? Here, take a listen.”  Blanca perched on the edge of Consuela’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 Flamneco’. 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, E-an, then what is current-ally 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 smiled and said softly, “Wow, I really like them too.”  Then she shook her head in disbelief, smiling. 

o  o  o

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

For the first time at one of his immersion class sessions, Consuela 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. Pure-ely social.”

Ian was taken aback to see that Blanca was already there, having arrived even earlier than Ian.  Doyle handed the flowers to Consuela, and said “ I brought a bunch for each of you.”  Pablo, who heretofore had hardly spoken to Ian, exclaimed, jokingly, “Oh how nice of you.  Flowers for both of us.”

Consuela 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. Jus’ kidding.”

As Blanca and Consuela 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 Consuela that you liked Almond Roca, so I bought a can. You know, to serve with dessert.”

As Consuela 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 with a scolding finger at Doyle, and said, “E-an, I theenk you are trying to manip-o-late me.”

“Yes, I am, señorita. 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. Consuela, clearly looking like a victorious matchmaker, steered the conversation. She often returned to topics where she gave Ian and Blanca opportunities to ask each other questions and talk about their accomplishments.

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

Pablo and Consuela stepped out, to clear the dishes. In phrasing that he had practiced several times with Consuela’s coaching, Ian asked Blanca in Spanish:  “Señorita 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.”

                                                      o  o  o

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 co-workers rushed to their table, and exclaimed that the tower boss had fallen ill with a flu, and that 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, E-an.  I theenk 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 suit-ors.  We’ll see if he can scare you off.”  She raised her index finger and added: “He has, 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.

                                               o  o  o

To go 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 cufflinks and dress shoes. This turned into an evening-long scavenger hunt for many of the junior officers and GS-9s that 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 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 that worked in flight operations, so the reactions were a mix of envy and awe.  The envy came mostly from the officers that were there on PCS assignments. They were miffed that a newly-arrived TDY O-2 could break the ice with Blanca, so quickly.

Blanca drove over from her apartment and picked Ian up at just after 3 p.m., for the hour-long drive to her family’s 90 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 the age of certain buildings. Ian Doyle felt a new level of anxiety as she turned the car in 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.

[Author’s Note: The remainder of this sample chapter will be posted tomorrow. Copyright 2010. All Rights Reserved by James Wesley, Rawles. This material is not available for re-posting at other web sites. The novel is scheduled to be released by the Atria Division of Simon & Schuster in early 2011.]