In Danger's Path (18 page)

McCoy opened the folder. It contained a badge and a card sealed in plastic identifying McCoy, Kenneth R., as a Special Agent of the Office of Naval Intelligence.

“I'll have to have the old one back,” Sessions said.

“I don't have them.”

“Ken, they're not supposed to leave your person,” Sessions said.

“I didn't think I'd need them in the Philippines, so I left them in the safe in Water Lily Cottage in Brisbane. And forgot about them.”

“The Colonel will be thrilled to hear that,” Sessions said.

“I don't think it makes any difference,” McCoy said. “Maybe you better keep these.”

“Meaning what?”

“After he showed me that Special Channel from the President, the first thing General Pickering said was ‘welcome to the OSS, Captain McCoy.' I don't think I belong to Colonel Rickabee anymore.”

“Did the General say anything about taking Management Analysis into the OSS lock, stock, and barrel?”

“No,” McCoy said. “I don't think that's going to happen, though. I think he would have said something.”

“Rickabee's worried about that,” Sessions said. “The guy who runs the OSS has been trying to get us all along. Or shut us down.”

“I don't think that will happen.”

“I hope you're right, Ken. God knows, I don't…”

“…want to go in the OSS?” McCoy finished. “Well, maybe
you'll
get lucky.”

“What have you got against the OSS?” Sessions said.

“The only nice thing I can think of about being in the OSS is that probably, now, I won't get parachuted into the Gobi Desert…which is what you bastards had in mind for me.”

“The last scuttlebutt I heard about that was that the Army Air Corps got to Admiral Leahy, and he told the Navy, which means Management Analysis, to butt out. The Air Corps's going to set up a weather station in Russia.”

“Good luck to them!” McCoy said.

“Pickering didn't tell you what you'll be doing?”

“I don't think he knows. I don't think he knows what
he'll
be doing.”

Sessions grunted but said nothing. He went back into the briefcase and came out with a stuffed business-size envelope.

“And this little jewel contains your partial pay. One thousand bucks.”

“I drew a partial in Pearl Harbor,” McCoy said. “But as you pointed out, I will be spending some time with Ernie, which means I'm going to need this. Thank you.”

“That's about it,” Sessions said. “I think you better keep those credentials.”

“Whatever you say.”

“How do you feel about lying to me?”

“Not good. About what?”

“You could tell me you destroyed your credentials before going into the Philippines. Or while you were there. And then I'll send a Special Channel to Pluto, and tell him to go in the safe, find your credentials, and burn them. It would keep you out of hot water with the Colonel.”

“What's he going to do? Send me to the OSS?”

Sessions chuckled, then detected an odd tone in the way McCoy was looking at him.

“What, Ken?”

“You've been in Washington too long, Ed. You're learning to lie like the rest of the bastards around here.”

“I was just trying to be helpful,” Sessions said.

“Yeah, I know you were,” McCoy said. He held up his nearly empty glass. “You got any more of this stuff?”

“Absolutely,” Sessions said, and went to fix fresh drinks.

[ONE]
Muku-Muku
Oahu, Territory of Hawaii
1345 17 February 1943

When Second Lieutenant George F. Hart, USMCR, saw Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, walk onto the patio at Muku-Muku wearing a terry-cloth bathrobe, he quickly slid out of the inner tube he had been floating in, swam to the side of the pool, and hoisted himself out. He almost lost his borrowed, too-large swimming trunks in the process.

“You manage to get some sleep, sir?” he asked, as he pulled the trunks up.

“Not a goddamn wink, thank you just the same,” Pickering said. “Every time I closed my eyes, there was Wild Bill Donovan leering at me from the fires of hell.”

Hart chuckled. “Now what, sir?”

“You get on the horn, George, call the flag secretary at CINCPAC and ask if Admiral Nimitz can give me ten or fifteen minutes to make my manners. And then we'll have some lunch. Or did you eat?”

“I thought I'd wait for you, sir.”

“Did you check on our flight?”

“Yes, sir, it's laid on for 1945.”

“You better tell the flag secretary that time,” Pickering said.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Pickering nodded, slipped out of the terry-cloth robe, and took a running dive into the pool. He swam the length of the large pool in a smooth breaststroke, turned, swam back, and repeated the process. He hauled himself out of the pool, put the terry-cloth robe back on, and looked at Hart, who pointed at the telephone.

“I'm waiting for it to…” Hart began. The telephone rang. Hart picked it up. “General Pickering's quarters, Lieutenant Hart speaking, sir.” He listened a moment. “I'm sure the General will find that convenient, sir. Thank you very much.” He replaced the telephone in its cradle.

“What time will he see me, George?”

“‘If General Pickering does not find this inconvenient, CINCPAC and Admiral Wagam will call on him at 1600,'” Hart quoted.

“You made it clear, I hope, George, that I wanted to go into Pearl Harbor?”

“Yes, sir. The flag secretary told me he would speak with Admiral Nimitz and see what could be arranged. And call me back. He just did.”

“I wonder what they want?”

“They probably want an excuse to get out of CINCPAC for an hour or so,” Hart said.

Pickering walked to the wall beside the glass doors leading into the house and pushed a button mounted on it.

Denny Williamson appeared almost immediately. “Ready for a little lunch, Captain?” he asked.

“Denny, I done told you two times already,” Hart said, smiling. “I ain't gonna tell you no more. It's
General
Pickering.”

“Maybe to you, young man,” the elderly black man said. “Not to me.”

“Admirals Nimitz and Wagam will be here at four, Denny,” Pickering said. “I don't know how long they'll stay, but be prepared for a light supper. Hart and I have to be at Pearl Harbor by quarter to seven.”

“What you should do, you know, is not be at Pearl Harbor tonight, and not tomorrow night, either. You need a couple of days off,” Denny said.

“You sound like my wife.”

“I got my orders from Mrs. Pickering. You show up here, I'm supposed to keep you for a couple of days.”

“I really wish I could stay a couple of days, Denny.”

“We'll lose the whole war if you do, right?”

“Absolutely,” Pickering said. “Could you broil a piece of fish for lunch, Denny? Maybe with a salad?”

“Yes, sir, Captain. Anything special for you, young man?”

“That sounds good to me, Denny.”

[TWO]

Admirals Nimitz and Wagam arrived in separate cars at almost precisely four
P.M.
Nimitz was riding in a black 1939 Cadillac sedan, from the front fender of which flew a blue flag with four stars. Wagam was in a Navy, gray Plymouth, which carried a blue plate with two stars where a license plate would normally go.

A portly captain Pickering did not recognize was in the Cadillac with Nimitz. Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis III, whom Pickering and Hart had last seen in Brisbane, was in the backseat of the Plymouth with Wagam.

Pickering, who had been waiting on the mansion's wide verandah, walked down the shallow flight of stairs in time to meet Nimitz's Cadillac when it stopped. Nimitz stepped out, Pickering saluted, and Nimitz returned it, then offered his hand.

“Thank you for finding time for me, Admiral,” Pickering said.

“I'm a little embarrassed about inviting myself out here, Fleming,” Nimitz said, “but I've learned that the only way to keep people from interrupting a conversation is not to let them know where I am.”

“You're always welcome here, sir,” Pickering said.

“I don't think you know Groscher, do you, Fleming?” Nimitz said, indicating the captain.

I know that name from somewhere
, Pickering thought,
but I have never seen this fellow before
.

“How do you do, General?” Captain Groscher said.

By then Admiral Wagam and Lieutenant Lewis were out of their car.

“Good to see you again, Admiral,” Pickering said, offering his hand, and smiled at Lewis. “Back on the gossip-and-canapé circuit, I see, Chambers.”

“No thanks to you, Fleming,” Wagam said, smiling. “He quickly let me know he'd rather have stayed on Mindanao.”

“Come on in the house, and we'll see if Denny can't find us something to drink,” Pickering said.

“I was hoping you might have something like that in mind,” Nimitz said.

They walked through the house to the patio in the rear, where Denny had set up a bar.

Nimitz accepted a Famous Grouse with a little water and no ice, stirred it, and took a sip. Then he looked at Pickering and smiled. “How is Mrs. Pickering?” he asked politely. “Well, I trust?”

“She's doing such a hell of a job running Pacific and Far East, I may not be able to get my job back when the war's over. I tried to call her when I got here.”

Patricia Pickering had taken over the management of the Pacific & Far East Shipping Corporation when her husband entered the service. In her husband's judgment—quickly proven—she was the best-qualified person to do so.

“And couldn't get through? I know what the commercial phone service is these days. I think we could bend the rules a little and give you a couple of minutes on one of my lines.”

“That's very kind of you, sir,” Pickering said. “But P & FE has a dedicated line from the Honolulu office to San Francisco. The switchboard patched me through on it from here.”

“And she was delighted to hear you're coming home?”

“They weren't sure whether she's in Boston or Savannah, but they promised to do their best to get the word to her.”

Nimitz chuckled. “Remember that song from the First War, Fleming? ‘How are you going to keep them down on the farm, after they've seen Paree'?”

“Sure.”

“How are we going to get our ladies back in the kitchen after they've proved they can do anything we do at least as well as we can?”

“It may take whips and chains,” Pickering said.

“You've heard there are now lady Marines?” Nimitz asked.

Pickering nodded.

“And how do you feel about that?”

“I decline to answer the question on the grounds that it may incriminate me,” Pickering replied.

Nimitz chuckled, and then something in his manner told Pickering the small-talk period was over. “Following the hoary tradition that the best way to know what a junior officer is really thinking is to make him speak first, Fleming, what's on your mind?” Nimitz asked.

“Sir, I wanted to pay my respects,” Pickering said. “And to thank you for providing the
Sunfish
.”

The submarine
Sunfish
had carried McCoy and his team into Mindanao, and then it had brought him and the others out.

“Thank you for understanding why I didn't want to give you the
Narwhal
,” Nimitz said. “I was under orders to give you anything you thought you needed.”

“The
Sunfish
worked out well, Admiral,” Pickering said.

“I had the idea you might have wanted to talk about your new appointment,” Nimitz said.

“I'd hoped we could talk about that, too, sir,” Pickering said.

“Good, because that's the reason I wanted to see you. I have an ax to grind, Fleming.”

“Sir?”

“What time's your flight to San Diego?”

“Nineteen forty-five, sir,” Pickering said.

“Chambers,” Nimitz ordered, “get on the horn to Flight Operations at Pearl, and tell them…No. Just get me the duty officer at Flight Operations.”

Lieutenant Lewis walked to the telephone, dialed a number from memory, then carried the telephone to Nimitz.

“Commander, this is Admiral Nimitz,” CINCPAC announced. “General Pickering and his aide may be a little late arriving at Pearl Harbor. Make sure the
Coronado
flight scheduled for nineteen forty-five doesn't leave without them.”

He handed the telephone back to Lieutenant Lewis.

“Doing that is probably spinning wheels; but I like to err on the side of caution,” Nimitz said. He turned to the portly captain. “Okay, Groscher, here's your chance to make your pitch to the OSS's Director of Pacific Operations.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Groscher said. “General, I'm sure that you're aware that timely weather information is of great value to the Navy.”

“You can skip that, Groscher. General Pickering has spent as much time on the bridge of a ship as I have,” Nimitz interrupted. “He knows how important weather forecasting is.”

“Yes, sir,” Groscher said, flushing. It took him a moment to collect his thoughts, and then he decided his duty required him to disagree with the Commander in Chief, Pacific. “Admiral, with respect, I'd be more comfortable if I took General Pickering through this step by step.”

Nimitz looked at him coldly for a moment.

“Fleming, intelligence officers are like lawyers,” he said finally. “You either take their advice or you get yourself another one. Go ahead, Groscher.”

Intelligence officer?
Pickering wondered.
I thought he was Nimitz's aide
.

“General,” Groscher began again, “the movement of arctic air masses across Russia through Mongolia and China into the Pacific…”

My God, he's talking about that Gobi Desert weather station operation. I thought I was through with that!

That quick suspicion proved correct. For nearly ten minutes, Captain Groscher, speaking entirely from memory, explained in great detail why the Navy was now handicapped, and would be even more handicapped in the future, by a lack of accurate and timely weather information from the area around the Russia-Mongolia border. Throughout the briefing, Pickering was impressed with Admiral Nimitz's detailed knowledge of the situation. The pertinent questions CINCPAC asked indicated how important Nimitz considered the establishment of a weather-transmitting radio station.

Groscher introduced a number of factors Pickering had previously either not known or not given much thought to. The strength and direction of winds aloft was enormously important to Naval Aviation operations at sea now, and would become more important when—as seemed very likely—the time came for the Navy to strike the enemy home islands from carriers. And even more important when the Army Air Corps began strategic bombing of the Japanese home islands with heavy bombers, including the new B-29.

It had never occurred to Pickering, either, that weather information was a critical factor in the direction of fire from the enormous naval cannon on battleships and cruisers.

Groscher also spoke of geopolitical considerations. Pickering remembered hearing—but not particularly caring—that the Japanese had taken the last emperor of China from his palace in Tientsin (where, stripped of power, he had been in something like house arrest) to Manchuria. There they had installed him as Emperor of Manchuko. Manchuko (formerly Manchuria) was the first nation to join with the Japanese in their Greater Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere. The Emperor of Manchuko, Captain Groscher related, had invited his new Japanese allies to station troops in his domain, and they had done so, which meant that the United States could not use Manchuko/Manchuria—which would have been ideal for the purpose—as a base for a weather station.

That left either the Soviet Union or the Gobi Desert within Mongolia as the only place where such a weather station could be—
had
to be—established. So far as Captain Groscher was concerned, the chances were nonexistent that the Soviet Union would permit the establishment of a weather station/radio station on their territory.