In Danger's Path (68 page)

He now knew this to be absolutely untrue.

The facts spoke for themselves.

He was a despicable sonofabitch, period.

He had reached this conclusion while driving from Philadelphia to Pensacola. The long drive had given him plenty of time to think, but the thinking had not produced any solution to his problem.

Suicide had even been considered.

But if he did what probably was the gentlemanly thing to do, and put a bullet through his warped and perverse and frankly disgusting brain, both Janice and Martha would show up at his funeral and each would blame themselves for what he had done to himself.…He had had a mental image of them, both dressed in black, wearing little hats with black veils, meeting at his casket.

Neither was capable of understanding what a despicable prick had entered their lives.

Despite the fact that he had been wholly uninterested in getting to Pensacola quickly—in fact, at all—Weston had been twice stopped for violating the wartime speed limit of thirty-five miles per hour while traveling from Philadelphia to Pensacola.

Weston knew why he had been speeding when he was in no hurry whatsoever to get to Pensacola. He had not been paying any but the absolute minimum attention to driving. His mind had been occupied with what was going to happen to him once he got to Pensacola.

The truth of the matter was that he had never been much of a success with the opposite gender. In high school and college, and in the Corps, he'd known several men who were. And indeed, he had been awed by those lady-killers who seemed to have their choice of desirable females—often two or more of them at the same time. Frankly, that had made him more than a little jealous.

What must it be like to have two beautiful women in love with you at the same time? he had asked himself more than once.

Now he knew.

Before the San Carlos Hotel billboard had appeared in the headlights of the Buick, he had resolved to settle the situation once and for all. It was the decent thing to do, and he would do it, whatever the cost.

There was a slight problem with that. He didn't have any idea how to settle the situation once and for all.

And—as if he needed it—the sight of the San Carlos Hotel billboard brought with it further confirmation of what kind of a prick he was. His first thought was getting Martha into a bed in the San Carlos Hotel. And/or getting drunk.

He made a new resolution. He would
not
get a room in the San Carlos Hotel; he would
not
go anywhere
near
the San Carlos Hotel. He would go directly to the Pensacola Naval Air Station, sign in, and get a room in the Bachelor Officers' Quarters.

Ten minutes later, he turned off U.S. Highway 98 in Pensacola and onto Navy Boulevard. Navy Boulevard, as the name suggested, led to the U.S. Naval Air Station, Pensacola. The San Carlos Hotel was on Navy Boulevard. On it was a neon sign, a flashing red arrow above the words
COCKTAIL LOUNGE
.

In what he recognized as his first victory over temptation in a long, long time, Captain Weston drove past the San Carlos without stopping.

“Captain,” the white-hat clerk on duty at Billeting said, looking up from a copy of Weston's orders. “According to your orders, you don't have to sign in until 2359 tomorrow.”

“Is that so?”

“Captain, there's a good hotel in town, the San Carlos.”

“Will you just give me the key to a BOQ room, please?” Weston said, just a little sharply. He immediately regretted it. “The truth is, I lost more than I could afford playing poker.”

The white hat smiled understandingly.

God, I have become an accomplished, automatic liar. I don't even think about whether I'm lying or not. I just
automatically say what I think people want to hear, and truth isn't even in the equation
.

The frame, two story BOQ building was just what he expected—in fact, hoped for. There was a charge of quarters downstairs, a chubby petty officer. There was a sign on the wall:
NO FEMALE GUESTS PAST THIS POINT
.

Even if I weaken and telephone Martha, she would not pass that point. She is, after all, the Admiral's daughter
.

Tonight, I will be celibate
.

I will not even go to the club for a couple of drinks, because I know what an amoral prick I am. I would use alcohol as my excuse for calling Martha
.

Christ, I promised Janice I would call her the minute I got here!

But I also promised Janice I would not drive straight through, which I did, breaking my word again. But since she thinks I lived up to my promise and stopped somewhere to get at least eight hours' sleep, she won't expect that call until sometime tomorrow
.

And Martha probably doesn't expect me to be here until tomorrow, either. So I have at least ten hours to find a solution
.

Which I will try very hard to do, sober, in my celibate bed
.

He took his luggage from the Buick, carried it up to the second floor of the BOQ, and then down a long, narrow corridor smelling of new linoleum and disinfectant.

His room was all he thought, and hoped, it would be. Sort of a monastic cell. A single bed, a chest of drawers, one armchair, and a desk with a folding chair before it and a lamp that didn't work sitting on it.

He had just hung his Val-Pak in the closet when a knock came at the door.

It can't be for me. Nobody knows I'm here
.

“Captain Weston?” the charge of quarters called.

“Yes?”

My God
—
she is an admiral's daughter and knows how things work around here
—
Martha has found me!

“Telephone for you, sir.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

The telephone was on a small table halfway down the hall. It had no dial. He remembered that from flight school. If you wanted to make an off-base or long-distance call, you had to find a pay station and feed it coins.

Weston picked up the telephone. “Captain Weston.”

“You're here, obviously,” the voice said. It took a moment for Weston to recognize Major Avery R. Williamson, USMC.

“Yes, sir.”

“You drove straight through, apparently?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought you might. I left word with Billeting they were to call me the minute you got here…if you came here. But they didn't. It's a damned good thing I called.”

“Yes, sir.”

Weston could tell that Major Williamson was upset about something.

“Something has come up. I need to see you right away.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know where I live?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you a pencil and sheet of paper?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, get one, Weston!”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Weston laid the telephone on the table and ran down the corridor and the stairs to the charge of quarters' desk. He took a pencil and a pad, then picked up the telephone on the CQ's desk.

“Ready, sir.”

Major Williamson gave him directions from the BOQ to his quarters.

Major Williamson opened the door to his quarters, an attractive, obviously prewar bungalow not far off Pensacola Bay, and motioned Weston inside.

His wife and two kids, a boy and a girl, were sitting on a couch in the living room. All of them looked unhappy. When Weston was introduced to them, they were polite—the wife even offered him a cup of coffee—but Weston sensed that he was somehow intruding. He declined the coffee.

“I'm glad you came in early,” Major Williamson said. “I won't be here in the morning, and I wanted to see you before I left.”

“Where are you going, sir?” Weston blurted, and immediately sensed he should not have asked the question.

“Hawaii,” Williamson said. “You remember that temporary job over there we discussed? I told you it was one of General McInerney's little projects?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” Weston said.

Christ, he's talking about that request for volunteers to fly the Catalina
. Weston remembered the wording: “a classified mission involving great personal risk in a combat area.”

“Well, I was allowed to apply for it,” Williamson said. “And apparently, I was the best-qualified applicant.”

Applicant, my ass
, Weston thought.
You didn't volunteer. General McInerney apparently didn't get the eight volunteers he was looking for, and you were volunteered
.

“How long will you be gone, sir?”

“Not long. Ninety days at the most. Probably a lot less than that.”

God, I would kill to get out of here for ninety days, to go someplace where I'd have time to figure out what the hell to do about Martha and Janice!

“You're going first thing in the morning, sir?”

“I'm going in about an hour,” Williamson said. “That's what I wanted to see you about. This sort of fouls up the training schedule I was laying on for you.”

“Sir, I wonder if I could speak to you privately for a moment?” Weston asked.

“I really don't have the time for your personal problems, Weston,” Williamson said, annoyance in his voice.

“I would consider it a great personal favor, sir,” Weston said. “It won't take but a minute or two.”

Williamson looked at him coldly for a moment, then gestured at the front door.

“With the understanding that I am really out of time, Weston.”

“Yes, sir, I fully understand,” Weston said.

They walked onto the small porch of the bungalow. Major Williamson closed the door. “Make it quick,” he ordered.

“Sir, we're talking about the classified Catalina mission?”

“General McInerney—who got his second star, by the way—flew in here in a Corsair, told me he had gotten zero volunteers, and under the circumstances thought that I might wish to consider the opportunity again.”

“You were volunteered?”

“Me and several other people, one of whom doesn't know it yet. I'm out of here in a twin Beech in an hour bound for NAS New Orleans, where I will pick up another, quote, volunteer, unquote, and then head for San Diego. That poor bastard just came back from the Pacific.”

“General McInerney must think this project is important,” Weston said.

Major Williamson didn't reply.

“What's your personal problem, Weston? Try to explain it in thirty seconds or less.”

“Sir, I'd like to volunteer.”

“Are you out of your mind, Weston? Christ, you're just out of the hospital.”

“Sir, with respect, I have twelve hundred hours as pilot-in-command of a Catalina.”

“That's right, isn't it?” Williamson said thoughtfully.

“Sir, I'm a Marine officer. Apparently one with the special qualifications needed for General McInerney's project.”

“I thought you wanted to be a fighter pilot?”

“Sir, I am a fighter pilot. Captain Galloway checked me out in the Corsair. I would just be wasting my time, and the Corps' time, to go through the training again here.”

“And maybe you're thinking that if you did this job for General McInerney you wouldn't have to do the training again.”

“That thought did occur to me, sir, but it's not the reason I am volunteering.”

“I know,” Williamson said.

“Sir?”

“You're volunteering for the same reason I did,” Williamson said emotionally. “Because, goddammit, you're a Marine and you want to serve where you can do the most good for the Corps.”

“That's not really it, sir.”

“You're sure about this, Weston?”

“I'm sure, sir.”

“One more time, I put the question to you. Warning you beforehand that I have orders to appear at San Diego as soon as I can get there, with any qualified Marine Aviator I choose to take with me. As you have pointed out, you have the necessary qualifications.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You want to go, is that it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long will it take you to get packed? To say good-bye to Martha?”

“I'm already packed, sir, and as far as Martha goes, I think I would rather call her from San Diego and tell her my orders have been changed. I don't feel up to facing her with this.”