In Danger's Path (89 page)

McCoy finally saw the same thing, as the man and the pony suddenly came to life and trotted off into the distance. They were lost to sight within seconds because of the glare.

“What the hell was that?” Sampson said.

“He was probably as surprised to see us as we were to see him,” McCoy said. “What was he, an outrider?”

“If he was, he saw us, that's for sure.”

McCoy put the weapons carrier in gear again and resumed moving. As he stopped to let the ambulance catch up, the pony and its rider came into sight again. Not moving, just watching.

The ambulance began to move.

“What do we do now?” Sampson asked.

“Wait,” McCoy said.

The ambulance caught up with them two minutes or so later.

The rider on the pony moved toward them.

“He's not afraid of us, obviously,” Sampson said. “Is that good or bad?”

“He's got a rifle slung over his shoulder,” McCoy said.

He suddenly pushed himself out of the seat and started to climb over the windshield.

“Let them see that we have soldiers with rifles,” he ordered. “But for God's sake, don't point a rifle at him. If he unslings his rifle, be prepared to kill him.”

McCoy climbed onto the hood, then slid forward and climbed down to the ground over the jerry cans and burlap sacks tied to the bumper.

He held his hands away from his body to show that he wasn't holding a weapon, and walked toward the man on the pony.

The man on the pony started to unsling his rifle, then changed his mind. He waited for McCoy to approach.

The man on the pony had a full beard, and in the moment it occurred to McCoy that few Chinese had luxuriant beards, it occurred to the man on the pony that the Chinese officer approaching him with the flaps of his cap tied under his chin had a white man's skin.

“Major,” the man on the pony said in Cantonese, “do you speak English?”

“Who are you?” McCoy replied in Cantonese.

The man didn't reply.

“Do you speak English?” McCoy asked in English.

“Yes.”

“Are you American?” McCoy asked.

“Yes. Are those American Army vehicles?”

“Actually, they're Marine Corps vehicles,” McCoy said. “Does the name Sweatley mean anything to you?”

“Sergeant Sweatley?”

“Sergeant James R. Sweatley,” McCoy amplified.

“He's the tactical officer,” the man on the pony said.

“What does that mean?” McCoy asked, and then, without giving the man on the pony a chance to reply, “Where is Sweatley?”

The man on the pony gestured over his shoulder. “We're not moving,” he said. “Waiting for the snow to blow away.”

“Let's go to see Sergeant Sweatley,” McCoy said. “How many of there are you?”

“You
are
an American, right?” the man on the pony asked.

“I'm an American,” McCoy said. “Get going.”

He waved at the weapons carrier to come after him.

The man on the pony turned the animal and started moving off. The weapons carrier and the ambulance followed him.

Twenty minutes later, they came to a circle of wagons covered with snow. Smoke and steam rose from inside some of the wagons.

If we had passed this five hundred yards to either side, we never would have seen it
.

The man on the pony kicked it in the ribs, and it moved a little more quickly toward the circle of wagons.

“Americans!” the man shouted. “Americans!”

Then he rode the pony inside the circled wagons. Several people appeared, some peering out of the tarpaulins covering the wagons, some brave enough to come out of the circled wagons to stare as the two vehicles drove up. Some of these had weapons, but no one brandished them threateningly.

McCoy dropped off the weapons carrier and walked up to them.

“I'm looking for Sergeant James R. Sweatley, formerly of the Marine detachment in Peking,” McCoy said to an older man who looked as if he might be in charge.

“Go get Sweatley,” the man ordered. “I'm Chief Frederick Brewer. I transferred to the Fleet Reserve off the
Panay
. Who are you?”

“My name is McCoy,” McCoy said, and was interrupted by a tall, dark-haired woman.

“Oh, my God!” she said.

McCoy knew who she was.

“Corporal McCoy,” she said. “Do you remember me? I was Mrs. Edward J. Banning. My husband was a captain in the Fourth Marines. You once came to our apartment.”

“It's Lieutenant Colonel Banning now, Milla,” McCoy said. “You're still Mrs. Banning. It's good to see you, Milla.”

“Oh, my God! Ed is alive?”

“Yes, ma'am. He's alive. Is Zimmerman's wife here? Their kids?”

Milla nodded, unable to find her voice.

“Ernie,” McCoy called, raising his voice. “Mae Su and the kids are here!”

Zimmerman came out of the ambulance and ran toward the circle of wagons.

“I'll be a sonofabitch,” Sergeant James R. Sweatley, USMC, said, walking up as he shrugged into an ankle-length sheepskin coat.

“Hello, Sweatley,” McCoy said, offering his hand. “Good to see you.”

“Killer fucking McCoy in the fucking flesh!” Sweatley said. “What the
fuck
are you doing here, Killer?”

McCoy pulled his hand back. “It's Captain McCoy to you, Sergeant,” he said icily. “And my first order to you is to watch your mouth in the presence of a lady. And don't you ever call me Killer again.” He stared Sweatley down and turned to Chief Brewer. “Are you in charge here, Chief?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let's go find someplace to talk out of the cold,” McCoy said. “We've got a lot to do.” He turned to Sergeant Sweatley. “There's an Army officer getting a radio out of the back of the ambulance,” he said. “Make yourself useful to him.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

[SEVEN]
Naval Communications Facility
U.S. Naval Base, Pearl Harbor
Oahu, Territory of Hawaii
0530 Local Time 1 May 1943

“Flag officer on the deck!” the radioman first class called, as he rose to his feet from behind his desk in the foyer of the building.

“As you were,” Rear Admiral Daniel J. Wagam, USN, said quickly, and then asked, “Commander Toner?”

“Right here, Admiral,” Commander Lewis B. Toner, USN, said. “Good morning, sir.”

Admiral Wagam needed a shave, and when he removed his gold-heavy uniform cap, his short hair was uncombed. Commander Toner also suspected that Admiral Wagam's white uniform was the one he had worn the day before.

“Good morning,” Wagam said. “What have you got?”

“Contact, sir. Not much more than that. If you'll come with me, sir?”

He pointed to a steel door that had a large
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT
sign on it.

Wagam looked at the radioman first class. “A Major Dillon of the Marines is on his way here. See that he gets to wherever I'm going.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

He followed Commander Toner through the steel door and down a corridor. They came to a Marine PFC armed with a Thompson guarding a second door.

“Open it,” Commander Toner ordered.

The Marine pushed the lever of an intercom. “Passing the duty officer and an admiral,” he announced.

Bolts were slid open, and then the door was pushed inward. Toner waved Admiral Wagam into a large room. There was the peculiar odor of high voltage. A dozen sailors sat before communications radios, some working telegraph keys, others pounding typewriters. Two radio Teletype machines clattered against the wall.

Toner led Wagam to a glass-walled office with a sign reading
DUTY OFFICER
. Inside was a desk, two chairs, a chief petty officer, and a seaman first class who looked about seventeen years old and very nervous.

The chief put a china mug quickly on the desk.

“Good morning, Chief,” Wagam said. “I'd kill for a cup of coffee.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the chief said, stepped to the door, and ordered, “Coffee, now!”

“Good morning, son,” Wagam said to the young sailor.

“Epstein, sir,” the kid said. “Lester J. Seaman, First Class.”

“What have you got for me, Epstein?” Admiral Wagam asked.

Seaman Epstein thrust at Admiral Wagam a sixteen-inch-long sheet of yellow paper, obviously torn from the roll of paper that had been fed into his typewriter.

The chief handed Admiral Wagam a cup of coffee. “We didn't have much time, sir, to clean that up for you, sir,” he said. “Can you read his handwriting? The material he took from the Signal Operating Instruction? What he sent to them?”

“I can read it just fine, Chief,” Admiral Wagam said. He smiled at Seaman Epstein. “Well done, son.”

Seaman Epstein flushed. “Can I ask a question, Admiral?” he asked, which earned him a withering glare from the chief.

“Sure,” Admiral Wagam said.

“Who are these gypsies?”

“Mostly, son, they're a group of old sailors and soldiers and Marines who didn't like the idea of surrendering to the Japanese. And until they talked to you, I suspect many of them were beginning to wonder if the Navy had forgotten about them.”

Which raises an entirely new question
, Admiral Wagam thought.
How the hell are we going to get thirty-three women and children—not to mention the men—out of the Gobi Desert?

“May I have this?” Admiral Wagam asked, holding up the sheet of yellow paper.

Commander Toner looked uncomfortable.

“I'll get it back to you,” Admiral Wagam said. “I think Admiral Nimitz will want to have a look at it.”

“Of course, sir.”

“When Major Dillon shows up, send him over to my office.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Commander Toner said.

“Keep up the good work, son,” Admiral Wagam said to Seaman Epstein. “Thank you for the coffee, Chief.”

Jake Dillon drove up in a civilian Ford station wagon as Admiral Wagam was about to get into a staff car.

He looks, damn him, despite the hour
, Admiral Wagam thought,
as if he's about to go on parade
.

“Follow me to my quarters, Dillon, and you can read what we have. Admiral Nimitz said to let him know immediately of developments, whatever the hour; but he's going to have to wait until I have a shave and get into a decent uniform.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Dillon said. “Good news or bad, Admiral?”

“I suppose that would depend, Major, on whether or not you are a pilot who's about to be ordered to find a submarine in the Yellow Sea and then somebody in the Gobi Desert.”