In Danger's Path (24 page)

“Good morning, sir,” the Major said, saluting. “I'm Major Robinson, sir, of the Commandant's staff.”

“Good morning, Major,” Pickering said. “Do you know where I can find Colonel Stecker?”

“Yes, sir. The Colonel is also on the Commandant's staff. Specifically, he's a Special Assistant to the Commandant, sir. If I may get in the General's car, sir, I will show you where you can park, and then I'll take you to Colonel Stecker.”

“
Special Assistant” to the Commandant? That means they don't know what the hell to do with him
.

“Thank you very much,” Pickering said.

After the major had slipped in the front seat next to Fred, they drove into the compound, and he showed Fred where to park behind a redbrick building.

They stepped out of the car.

“I don't believe I've had the privilege of previously meeting the General, sir,” Major Robinson said.

“No, I don't believe we've met,” Pickering said. “My name is Pickering, and this is my aide, Lieutenant Hart.”

Major Robinson shook Pickering's offered hand and nodded at Hart.

“Right this way, sir,” Major Robinson said. “Colonel Stecker's office is in the basement.”

In the basement, and it's probably a broom closet. That will change when General Vandegrift gets back
.

Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker's office was a little larger than a broom closet, but not much. There was room for a desk and two chairs and not much else. Stecker was a tall, muscular, tanned man in his early forties. When he saw Pickering, he looked up in surprise. The four rows of ribbons on his tunic were not topped by the whitestarred blue ribbon indicating he had been awarded the Medal of Honor.

He's not embarrassed by it. He just doesn't want to hide behind it
.

“General Pickering to see you, Colonel,” Major Robinson announced.

“Good morning, General,” Stecker said.

“Good morning, Colonel Stecker,” Pickering said, and turned to Major Robinson. “Thank you, Major. That will be all.”

“Sir, the Commandant is not aboard at the moment,” Robinson said. “But the chief of staff…”

“Please present my compliments to the chief of staff, Major, and tell him I will not waste his valuable time by making my manners. I have no business with him; I'm here to see Colonel Stecker.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Close the door after the major, will you, please, George?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Pickering waited until the door was closed, and then smiled at Stecker.

“Hello, you ugly old bastard,” he said. “How the hell are you?”

“What the hell are you up to?”

“Well, I heard they'd put you in a broom closet in the basement, and I came to cheer you up.”

“They don't know what the hell to do with me,” Stecker said.

“Nobody's even suspected that you're going to be the éminence grise behind the incoming commandant?”

“The only one who knows who his replacement will be is the Commandant, and he told me he wants to keep it that way.”

“But you are looking forward to the day when General Vandegrift shows up and rescues you from the basement?”

“I'm looking forward to the day when I can make a contribution,” Stecker said.

“Well, I have a few little things you can do for me,” Pickering said.

“Hello, George,” Stecker said, offering his hand to Hart. “I wasn't trying to ignore you. But the last person I expected to see down here this morning is your boss.”

“Good to see you again, sir.”

“You're aware, of course, that you are looking at the new Deputy Director, Pacific, of the Office of Strategic Services?” Pickering asked.

“I saw it in the
Washington Post
. What's that all about?”

“According to the Special Channel I got from the President—I got it on Espíritu Santo, a couple of hours after McCoy and the others flew in from Mindanao—the idea of giving me the job came, as a divine revelation, while he was having dinner with Dick Fowler. He said he needed somebody who enjoyed the trust of El Supremo and Admiral Nimitz, and lo and behold, there I was.”

“Sounds like you were sandbagged. Everybody was sandbagged.”

“Oddly enough, both MacArthur and Nimitz seemed pleased. I stopped to pay my manners to Nimitz at Pearl on the way home, and he told me he'd already arranged—through Admiral Leahy—my first OSS assignment. That's where you come in, old buddy.”

“I don't think I'm going to like this.”

“I want someone with the ear of the Commandant—by that I mean General Vandegrift, when he takes over—who knows what we're doing, so that when we ask the Corps for something, we have a friend in the right place.”

“Flem, not only don't I know what you're going to be doing, but I very seriously doubt that I am cleared to know,” Stecker said.

“I thought about that,” Pickering said seriously. “And I decided that the authority that came with my appointment includes the authority to decide the need-to-know of anybody I decide needs to know.”

Stecker shook his head. “It doesn't work that way, Flem,” he said.

“In your case,
Colonel Stecker
,” Pickering went on. “You are not, repeat not, authorized to bring anyone but General Vandegrift in on anything you hear from me.”

Stecker threw his hands helplessly in the air.

“Did you understand that, Jack?” Pickering said, now obviously very serious.

“Understood, sir,” Stecker said after a moment.

“Okay. The mission that Nimitz, who has more confidence in me than I have, arranged for Leahy to get me is to (a) find a group of Americans, mostly retired Marines, soldiers, and Yangtze River patrol sailors, who are wandering around somewhere in the Gobi Desert; and then (b) somehow use them to set up a weather station, which means also a radio station. The Air Corps is going to need it whenever they get their new B-29 superbomber operational, and the Navy wants it now.”

He watched Stecker carefully for his reaction. It wasn't what he expected.

“That seems right down McCoy's alley,” Stecker said. “And Banning's.”

“You don't seem surprised,” Pickering said, thinking out loud.

“There's been a need for a weather station in that area for years. As a matter of fact, I think Banning tried to get permission to reconnoiter the Gobi in…1939, 1940.”

“And?”

“The Navy was all for it. The State Department said no, it would antagonize the Japanese. So I don't think it happened. If Banning did something on his own…”

“Speaking of Banning,” Pickering said. “He's on a list of people, Marines, I'm taking into the OSS with me.”

“The way that works, Flem, is that you
request
that the Corps detail to you people you want. Then, considering the needs of the Corps, the
Corps
decides whether or not you can have them.”

“The President says I can have anybody I want. I think I can take him at his word. I expect resentment, and foot-dragging. What I want from you is to reduce the foot-dragging.”

“I don't have any influence around here,” Stecker said.

“Right now, Jack, the subject of conversation in the Commandant's office is what does the Brigadier General want with Colonel Stecker? The Brigadier General who arrived in Senator's Fowler's car and works for Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox. You're wrong. You have influence around here, negative influence. None of these chair warmers will dare to cross you.”

Stecker's face showed that he didn't like to hear that.

“I don't like it any more than you do, Jack,” Pickering said, “but as Fowler told me this morning, I'm learning the rules of the game as it's played around here.”

Stecker shrugged and exhaled audibly.

“Okay. Give me your list of people,” he said. “At least it will give me something to do besides read the newspapers.”

“Give Colonel Stecker the list, George,” Pickering said. “I'm going from here to see Fritz Rickabee. Then we're all going to have lunch at the Army-Navy Club. Any reason we can't pick you up here at quarter to twelve?”

“Oh, Flem, I don't know.”

“Rickabee won't like it any more than you do,” Pickering said. “Think of it as your sacrifice of the day to the war effort.”

“What?”

“If any of the Marine brass missed hearing about your influential visitor here, they'll see us all at the Army-Navy Club.”

“I should have shot you when I had the chance,” Stecker said.

“Quarter to twelve, Colonel. Thank you for your valuable time. I know how busy you are.”

Stecker shook his head in resignation.

[THREE]
Office of the Director
The Office of Strategic Services
Washington, D.C.
1425 25 February 1943

The guard who brought them from the lobby was armed, and he had a badge on the chest of his blue, police-type uniform. Pickering—who was idly curious about him, and the OSS security system generally—wasn't sure if he was some sort of a cop, a member of a separate OSS security force, or maybe hired from one of the commercial security outfits like Brink's, or more likely Pinkerton. Pinkerton's Washington/governmental activities went back to the Civil War when they'd worked for Abraham Lincoln.

Whoever was providing security was doing a good job. When he and George Hart arrived in the lobby and announced he had an appointment with Mr. Donovan, it was first determined that he did in fact have an appointment. Then permission to admit Second Lieutenant George Hart had to be obtained, since his name was not on the list of expected visitors. Next, they were asked to provide identification. Once that was carefully examined and accepted, they were asked to sign two forms on clipboards. The first acknowledged their receipt of yellow-bordered badges reading “VISITOR 5th Floor Only.” One of the guards—this one wearing a gold badge and a lieutenant's bar—alligator-clipped these to the flap of the right chest pocket of their tunics. The second listed their names, the date and time, the person they wished to see, and the purpose of the visit.

After a moment's thought, Pickering wrote “W. Donovan” and “social call” in the appropriate blocks.

They were then turned over to a guard, who led them to the bank of elevators, rode with them to the fifth floor, then led them down a corridor to a door with an “Office of the Director” sign hanging over it. He pushed open the door, stepped inside, then held the door for Pickering and Hart and said, “General Pickering, to see the Director.”

A plump, gray-haired, middle-aged woman moved her lips in a pro forma welcoming smile, then pushed a lever on her intercom box. “General Pickering is here,” she announced.

Pickering noticed that she wore an identification badge with her photograph on it; it had diagonal blue lines running through it.

“Send him in,” a metallic voice responded.

“Through the door, please, General.”

Pickering pushed the door open and walked through, thinking he was about to face the lion in his den.

He found himself instead looking at a tall man in a well-cut suit. A bronze plate on his desk identified him as the Deputy Director (Administration). The identification badge pinned to his jacket pocket showed his photograph and had diagonal red lines running through it.

“I'm Fleming Pickering.”

“The Director was expecting you at twelve-thirty, General.”

“Yes, I know,” Pickering said. “I was delayed.”

“The Director doesn't like to be kept waiting.”

“Does anyone?” Pickering asked.

Well, I'm off on the wrong foot with this character, aren't I? Well, screw him. I am not going to start off on the right foot, if that means I have to set the precedent of explaining my actions to this guy. Or did he really expect me to apologize to him?

After looking at Pickering long enough to understand Pickering was not going to offer an explanation for being late, the Deputy Director (Administration) picked up a red, dial-less telephone on his desk.

“General Pickering is here, sir,” he announced. After a brief pause while Donovan replied, he added, “Yes, sir,” and hung up.

He stood up and gestured to an unmarked door. “This way, please, General. If you wish, your aide may wait here.”

“George goes everywhere I go,” Pickering said. “Come with me, George.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Colonel Donovan was not alone in his office. Another well-tailored man in his fifties was with him, sitting slumped, his legs extended, his feet crossed, in one of two green leather armchairs arranged to face Donovan's desk. He rose to his feet when Pickering and Hart entered the room and looked at Pickering carefully.