In Danger's Path (38 page)

“Probably. But it wouldn't be the first aircraft to get lost out there. A friend of mine told me the pilots call it ‘the Aluminum Trail,' because you can navigate by the wrecks of planes that have gone down.”

“But wouldn't you say they would go looking for an airplane, the wreckage of an airplane, that didn't head for Kunming?”

“Flem, you're going to have to get used to the idea that you don't have many options,” McInerney said.

Lieutenant Sylvester appeared with four maps packed in cardboard tubes.

McInerney came from behind his desk, pulled the rolled-up maps from the tubes, and spread them out on the floor. He and Stecker dropped to their knees. Pickering stood behind them.

“Here it is,” McInerney said, pointing. “I was right. Sadiya, in the Brahmaputra Valley. From there over the mountains to Kunming.” He traced the route with his fingers, and then, using his little finger and thumb as a compass, compared the distance between Sadiya and Kunming and Sadiya and the center of the Gobi Desert.

“Like I thought,” he said, “about the same distance. Five hundred miles, maybe five-fifty. A C-46 could make it, one-way, without any trouble.”

“Does the Corps have any C-46s?” Pickering asked.

“The Corps has a few, reluctantly contributed by the Air Corps, and none of which I—speaking for the Corps—am willing to give to the OSS for a one-way mission.”

Pickering did not reply directly. “What about the R4D?” he asked.

“It has the range, but getting it over the mountains? Risky—damned risky—at best.”

“And you can't fly an R4-D through the mountains, or around them?”

McInerney shook his head. “You have to have the altitude to get over them. The R4-D just doesn't have it. There's always exceptions to everything, of course. But so far as I'm concerned, you'd better forget about using an R4-D.”

Pickering dropped to his knees and put his finger on the map.

“That, General,” McInerney said, “is the Yellow Sea.”

“Yeah, General, I know,” Pickering said. “I used to be a sailor.”

“What are you thinking, Flem?”

“Catalina,” Pickering said. “Maybe two Catalinas. From fifty miles offshore, they would have more than enough range.”

“Not by the time they reached a position fifty miles off the coast. Not from any base where they are now operating.”

“They would if they met a submarine and took on fuel from it,” Pickering said.

“A rendezvous at sea?” McInerney said, doubtfully but thoughtfully. “I don't know, Flem.”

“The Catalina has a range of twenty-three hundred miles,” Pickering said. “It cruises at a hundred sixty knots, or thereabouts. And it can carry two tons of bombs.”

“It carries the bombs under its wings,” McInerney said.

“But it can lift that much weight, right? Two tons is a lot of meteorological equipment.”

“I thought you came here for my expert advice about airplanes.”

“We did. And you came up with the same arguments against using India as a base for C-46s that Jack and I did. You ever hear the true test of an intelligent man is how much he agrees with you?”

“I'm not agreeing with you. I am having unpleasant mental images of what would happen if you could talk the Navy into giving you a submarine
or
a Catalina.”

“What kind of unpleasant images?”

“First of all, the Navy is not going to be thrilled about putting several thousand gallons of avgas in one of their boats,” McInerney said. “Avgas tends to explode. And then how would you get it into the tanks of the Catalina? I have visions of white hats trying—and failing—to get drums of gas over the side of a sub into a rubber boat. And then how would you get it from the rubber boat into the Catalina? The fuel receptacles are on the upper surface of a Catalina's wings. You plan to stand up in a rubber boat on the high seas and manhandle a fifty-five-gallon drum of avgas up onto the wing of a Catalina?”

“There has to be a way to do it,” Stecker said.

“Jesus, Jack!”

“We got avgas onto Guadalcanal by tossing fifty-five-gallon drums of avgas over the side of those old four-stacker War One destroyers and letting the tide float it ashore.”

“So?”

“Barrels of avgas float,” Pickering said. “That might be useful.”

“Flem, I can think of a hundred reasons this won't work!”

“That's why Jack and I came to see you, Mac,” Pickering said. “We figured you could come up with everything that could go wrong. And then the solutions to fix the problems.”

“You're presuming the Navy is going to give you a submarine, and Catalinas.”

“Or, if we decided we need it, an old four-stacker destroyer or two. And, for that matter, one or more of the Marine Corps' precious C-46s. Whatever we need, Mac.”

“What makes you believe that?”

“Because Admiral Leahy has ordered Admiral Nimitz to give us whatever we think we need, and Admiral Nimitz really wants this weather station.”

“You know, I was really happy when you two walked in here,” McInerney said. “I should have known better.”

“Can we buy you lunch, General?” Pickering asked.

“You have ruined my appetite for at least the next three days,” McInerney said. “I'm going to have to think long and hard about this, Flem.”

“Does that mean you don't want to have lunch with us?” Pickering asked.

“
Eat
with you? I would be happier if I never saw either of you again,” McInerney said. “How much time do I have?”

“Would yesterday morning be too soon?”

“Get the hell out of here,” McInerney said. “Call me tomorrow afternoon.”

“No, we'll come see you,” Pickering said. “I don't want to talk about this on the telephone.”

McInerney nodded, then thought of something else: “Who's going to fly this airplane?”

“Jack and I were really thinking we need two Catalinas.”

“Who's going to fly the
two
Catalinas?”

“We thought you might be helpful there, too, General,” Pickering said, and then turned serious. “I want Marine Corps pilots. I want to keep it in the family, so to speak.”

“But you're not in the family anymore, are you?” McInerney said, and immediately added, “Sorry, that slipped out. I shouldn't have said that.”

“What about ‘once a Marine, always a Marine'?” Pickering said. “You ever hear that?”

“I said I was sorry. I am.”

“Both of you, knock it off,” Stecker said.

They looked at Stecker, and then at each other.

“Okay,” McInerney said. “I'll even have lunch with you and your ugly jarhead friend. If he buys.”

“That's better,” Stecker said.

“Give me a minute to lay some errands on Tony,” McInerney said. “And then I'll be with you. You've got a car?”

“We have Senator Fowler's car,” Stecker said.

“Bring it around. This won't take me a minute.”

He walked with them into his outer office, then waited for them to leave before speaking with his aide.

“I'm going to lunch with them,” he said. “By the time I get back, whenever that is, I want the three most experienced Catalina pilots on the base sitting here waiting for me. And I also want, waiting for me on my desk, the draft of a teletype to be sent to every stateside air station soliciting twin-engine—preferably Catalina—qualified volunteers for a mission outside the United States involving great personal risk.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

McInerney saw the look in his eyes.

“Yeah, Tony, I am going to explain this to you. After lunch.”

“Yes, sir.”

[ONE]
Batten, Barton, Durstine & Osborne, Advertising
698 Madison Avenue
New York City, New York
1145 9 March 1943

“There's a
Colonel
Banning on the line for you, Miss Sage,” Darlene, the secretary, announced. Ernie shared Darlene with H. Oswald Tinner, the account executive for the American Personal Pharmaceuticals account. Then curiosity got the better of her: “Was he promoted?”

“Yes, Darlene, he was,” Ernie Sage replied, forcing herself to smile, as she punched the button for the internal line on her telephone.

When Ed Banning called, she always answered the telephone expecting the worst. Even when it was good news, it generally took her several minutes to calm down.

“Hello, Ed,” she said.

“Ernie, as a favor to me, when you see Ken will you do something about his clothing?”

“Excuse me?”

“You'll know what I mean when you see him,” Banning said.

“I'll see him late this afternoon,” she said. “I'm going to try to catch the 2:40 Congressional Limited. What about his clothes?”

“He's on his way to New York,” Banning said. “
We're
on our way to New York. I'm calling from the station. And I have to go, or I'll miss the train. Maybe we'll see you tonight. Do something, please, about his clothes. He'll pay attention to you.”

The line went dead, as the red light indicating a call on her private line lit up, and the bell began to ring. She pushed the red light.

“Hello?”

“Baby, I'm on my way to New York,” Captain Kenneth R. McCoy announced. “I'm at Union Station.”

Well, thank God. That means I won't have to catch the Congressional Limited again
.

“Can you spend the night?”

“Yeah. Where should I meet you?”

She thought that over quickly.
If he's catching the train now, that's three hours and something. Call it three and a half. That means he would get into Pennsylvania Station at 3:15. Twenty minutes to catch a cab and come here. Say quarter to four
.

“Come to the office, baby,” she said.

“To the office?”

From the tone of his voice, he didn't like that.

“I can't get out of here any earlier,” she said. “Come here.”

“Jesus, Ernie!” he started to protest. “Christ, I have to go.”

“Six ninety-eight Madison, twenty-second floor,” she said.

There was no reply.

And then she saw the green light flashing, indicating an incoming call on the interior line. She punched the button.

“Ernestine Sage.”

“Your private line was busy,” Mr. Ernest Sage announced somewhat indignantly, as if he considered that a personal affront.

“Hi, Daddy! I'm fine. How are you?”

“Since you have a lamentable tendency to miss appointments, I thought it would be a good idea to remind you that we have one this afternoon.”

Oh, shit!

“I said I would meet you if I could, Daddy,” she said. “That's not quite the same thing as an appointment.”

“I gather you cannot? Aren't you getting a little tired of commuting to Washington daily?”

“I consider it my contribution to the war effort,” she said, and was immediately sorry. “And I didn't say I wasn't going to meet you. I said we didn't have an appointment.”

“Well, may I infer from that that you will meet me?” he asked. He sounded pleased.

“Ken and I will meet you,” Ernie said.

“Splendid,” he said, considerably less pleased. “Jack and Charley's at five-thirty?”

“We'd better make it six, or even six-thirty,” Ernie said. “Ken's coming up by train, and you never know if they're going to be on time.”

“Six, then,” he said, and hung up.

At half past three, Miss Ernestine Sage was notified by the BBD&O receptionist that a Mr. McCoy was in the lobby.

“Mr.
McCoy”? Doesn't she recognize a Marine officer when she sees one?

BBD&O protocol dictated that when an executive-level employee had a visitor, the employee was to dispatch a secretary or other clerical employee from his or her office to the reception desk on the twentieth floor, to escort the visitor to the executive-level employee's office.

Miss Sage was well aware of this protocol, but decided to hell with it.

“I'll be right down,” she said, and hung up.

After a quick glance at her watch and her desk, she decided that doing any more work today was a lost cause, grabbed her hat and coat, and left the office.

“See you in the morning,” she said to Darlene.

“If someone calls?”

“Tell them I'll be in in the morning,” Ernie said, and went to the fire-exit stairwell. That was the quickest way down to the twentieth floor.

As soon as she pushed open the fire-exit stairwell door and entered the reception area, she saw Captain McCoy. What she saw immediately explained why the receptionist mistook him for a civilian and why Ed Banning asked her to do something about his clothes.

I love him anyway
, Ernie thought.
But my God! Where did he get those clothes? He looks like a coal miner all dressed up for a night out on payday
.

McCoy was wearing a two-tone sport jacket with a plaid body and blue sleeves. It had four pockets, with flaps, made of the same material as the sleeves. The open collar of a yellow shirt was neatly folded over the collar of the jacket. He had on a pair of light brown trousers, and was wearing his Marine Corps uniform shoes.

Ernie kissed him on the lips, not the cheek, which obviously made him uncomfortable.

“What are you doing dressed like that?” she asked.

“You don't like it, huh? Neither did Banning. I could see it on his face.”

“I meant, baby, what are you doing in civilian clothing?”

“It's sort of a long story,” he said. “Can we get out of here? I want to go to Brooks Brothers before they close.”

“You mean the clothing store?” she asked.

“Yeah. Sure. The clothing store.”

“You're going to buy some other clothes?”

“With you and Banning looking at me like I escaped from the circus, yes, I'm going to buy some other clothes.”

“Well, Brooks Brothers has nice things,” Ernie said. “That's a good idea.”

But, unless they're having a fire sale, nothing a Marine captain can afford. Doesn't he know that?

As if he had been reading her mind, he answered the question. “I finally paid off what I owed for my uniforms,” he said. “So I suppose my credit is good. And I've got a two-hundred-fifty-dollar civilian clothes allowance check.”

“You bought your uniforms at Brooks Brothers?” Ernie asked, as she led him onto the elevator.

“When Pick and I were about to graduate from OCS, he said the best place for us to buy officer's uniforms was Brooks Brothers,” McCoy said. “He didn't mention what they were going to charge for them.”

“Oh,” Ernie said.

Damn Pick! He should have known Ken couldn't afford Brooks Brothers!

“Anyway, I thought that since I don't know diddly-shit—Sorry, that slipped out…”

Ernie made a gesture meaning she wasn't offended by the vulgarity.

“…about civvies, Brooks Bróthers was the place to go for them.”

“Good idea,”

“Can you go with me?” he asked, almost shyly.

My God, he wants me to help him!

“Of course.”

“I thought you would know the right thing to buy.”

“We'll find something,” Ernie said. “Are you going to tell me why you need civilian clothing?”

“Well, I'm going to grow a beard,” he said. “I am ordered to grow a beard, and a Marine officer with a beard would make people ask questions.”

“I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you've been ordered to grow a beard?”

“I can't, honey,” McCoy said.

What the hell does that mean? Where are they going to send him now where he needs to have a beard? And/or wear civilian clothing? What's he going to be doing? When is he going?

I knew damned well when Darlene said Banning was on the phone that it was going to be bad news
.

“The first thing you're going to need is shoes,” Ernie said when they had pushed through the revolving door into Brooks Brothers.

“I suppose,” he said, looking down at his feet.

“Go in there and ask them to show you some loafers,” she said. “I'm going to the ladies' room. I'll meet you there.”

He nodded and headed toward the footwear department. She couldn't help but notice the look of amusement, surprise, and contempt one of the salesmen gave him as he walked past. Then she went looking for another salesman.

“I'd like to see the manager,” she told him.

“Perhaps I can help you, miss,” the salesman said.

“If I thought so, I wouldn't have asked for the manager,” Ernie snapped at him, and was immediately sorry.

He didn't look down his nose at Ken. The sonofabitch by the tie counter did
.

“May I help you, madam?” a middle-aged man asked a moment later.

“You're in charge?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I'm not sure if I have an account here or not. I know my father does.”

“Perhaps you have a family account.”

“My father's name is Ernest Sage. It's probably billed to him at American Personal Pharmaceuticals.”

“I know your father,” he said, now smiling warmly. “I've known him for years. How may I assist you? It is Miss Sage?”

“I'm Ernestine Sage,” she acknowledged.

“I'm very pleased to meet you, Miss Sage.”

“Thank you,” Ernie said. “I'm here with a gentleman friend. He needs some clothing, and he needs it right now. Which means you're going to have to put him at the head of the alteration line.”

“That may be difficult.”

“But not impossible, right?”

“We do try to take the best possible care of our good customers,” he said.

“By ten minutes to six, we'll need a sport coat and a pair of trousers altered.”

“I think we can handle that.”

“And by noon tomorrow, he will also need two business suits, probably two more jackets, and two or three pair of pants.”

“That may be difficult,” he said.

“We're back to ‘difficult but not impossible,' right?”

The manager smiled at her.

Ernestine Sage did not look at all like her father, but she was obviously a chip off the old block
.

“We will accommodate the gentleman, Miss Sage,” he said.

“Now we come to payment,” Ernie said. “My gentleman friend has an account here, and will sign for whatever he buys. But I don't want him to pay for what he buys, or to know, right now, that he won't be paying for it. It's sort of a surprise present.”

“I understand. And should I bill Mr. Sage?”

“No. I'm going to pay for this. You can either open an account for me—you can check my credit with Bergdorf Goodman, or the Park Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street branch of First National Bank—or I'll send a check down here by messenger.”

“So far as I am concerned, Miss Sage, you have just opened an account with us. And checking your credit won't be necessary. I happen to know you're employed.”

“How do you know that?” Ernie asked, surprised.

“Your father told me you're the creative director for APP at BBD&O. He's very proud of you.”

“I'll be damned,” Ernie said.

“Shall we go see what we can do for your gentleman friend?” the manager said.

When they arrived at the footwear department, they found Ken dubiously examining the loafers on his feet. The manager could not quite conceal his surprise when he saw how Ken was dressed.

“I'm going to need some real shoes, too, right, Ernie?” McCoy said.

“Oh, I don't think so, sir,” the manager said. “Slip-ons like those are now considered appropriate for wear with just about anything.”

McCoy looked at Ernie, who nodded in agreement.

“Okay,” McCoy said. “I'll take these.”