In Danger's Path (58 page)

“Just wait here, please, Colonel,” Donovan said.

“I feel like Diogenes,” Donovan said when he walked into the transcription room. “I've just found an honest—read, ethical—man.”

“In the Navy, they call that loyalty upward. It's commendable,” Admiral Leahy said. “But is this the exception that proves the rule?”

“The question is,” Pickering said, “did Albright know about the heads-up? If he did and didn't report it, he's wrong. If he didn't, the question is what would he have done if he did know about it.”

“Do you think he knew, Pickering?” Leahy asked.

“No, I don't,” Pickering said thoughtfully, and only then remembered to add, “Sir.”

Leahy pointed at Second Lieutenant Hart.

“I should have asked that question of you first, son,” he said. “So your answer would not be colored by hearing what General Pickering said.”

“He would have told somebody, sir,” Hart replied. “He guards
MAGIC
like a lioness guards her cubs. And he was almost like one of us, sir. That message could have fucked up McCoy and Zimmerman. Whatever it cost him, he'd have done whatever he had to do to keep that from happening.”

“General Rickabee?”

My God, I forgot he's here
, Pickering thought, actually surprised to see him, and even more surprised to realize that he had been there all the time.

And he has never opened his mouth
.

Does that mean he was cowed by Donovan and Leahy?

Or that he had nothing to say? With the implication he approved of the way Donovan has conducted the questioning?

“Admiral, I'd bet on Albright,” Rickabee replied. “He knows when to keep his mouth shut.”

So much for my theory that Fritz is cowed by Admiral Leahy
.

“Colonel Donovan?” Leahy asked.

“If I had to bet on it, sir—and that's what we're doing, isn't it? Taking a chance with other people's lives?—I don't think Albright knew, and I think if he knew, he would have done whatever had to be done.”

“That makes it unanimous, gentlemen,” Admiral Leahy said.

“So what do we do now?” Pickering asked. “The way I read Colonel Banning's back channel, anything we send over the Special Channel to Chungking will be read by Dempsey and/or his deputy.”

“Can we get something to your station chief in Chungking, Donovan, with any assurance that it won't be read by anyone else?” Leahy asked.

“I know very little about the Chungking Station, or how it operates,” Pickering said coldly. “The first time I heard we have—more correctly, that
I
have—an OSS station in Chungking was in Banning's Special Channel.”

“You have station chiefs all over the Pacific, General,” Donovan said. “Including one in Chungking. You were supposed to be briefed on that. I presumed that you had been.”

“Who was supposed to brief me, your Deputy Director (Administration)?” Pickering asked sarcastically.

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Well, goddamn it, I wasn't,” Pickering said. “Now I'm starting to wonder what else I should know that I haven't been told.”

“Your position, Colonel Donovan,” Leahy asked, “is that General Pickering's—what shall I say, ‘inadequate briefing'?—was another failure on the part of your Director for Administration, and that until just now, you knew nothing about it?”

“It's a failure on my part, Admiral,” Donovan said sincerely. “It was my responsibility to make sure that
my
DDA did what he was supposed to do. And I just didn't do it.”

“What's the damage assessment?” Leahy asked, looking at Pickering.

“Reading between the lines of Colonel Banning's back-channel, Admiral, what he's done is told McCoy and Zimmerman to make themselves scarce while he waits to see what I'm going to be able to do for them.”

“There was supposed be a message to the Chungking station chief giving him a heads-up that Banning and the others were coming,” Donovan said.

“By
name?
” Admiral Leahy asked softly. But there was enormous menace in his voice.

“No, sir,” Donovan said. “The standard phraseology would be ‘you will be contacted by an officer whose orders will be self-explanatory,' or words to that effect.”

“Was this message sent?” Leahy asked.

“What difference would that make?” Pickering snapped. “Banning wasn't told about an OSS station chief.”

Leahy gave him a dirty look.

Donovan picked up a telephone and dialed a three digit number. “I'm in the transcription room,” he ordered. “I want a copy of every message sent to Chungking since we became involved with Operation Gobi, and I want them right now.”

“Has this officer, whose name I still don't know, been made aware that I was appointed Deputy Director (Pacific)?” Pickering asked sarcastically.

“General, make a very serious attempt to put your anger under control,” Admiral Leahy said, almost conversationally, but the enormous menace was again present.

“I beg the Admiral's pardon,” Pickering said.

“My original question, which started all this, was ‘Can we communicate with the OSS station chief in Chungking without the U.S. MilMission to China signal officer reading it?”

“If I may answer General Pickering first, sir,” Donovan said, and then went on without giving Leahy a chance to stop him: “Of course. He's at your orders.”

Pickering said nothing.

“To answer your question, Admiral,” Donovan went on. “Sir, since the U.S. MilMissionChi signal officer has ordered Banning to route everything through him, I would say, that we cannot communicate with any degree of security, vis-à-vis the signal officer, with the Chungking station chief.”

Pickering thought:
I can raise further hell about Donovan hiding this station chief, and presumably some sort of in-place organization—and goddamn it, it was wrong—and not only look like a petulant child—the sonofabitch is the Director, and can do what he wants—or for once in my life I can keep my mouth shut
.

“I suggest we Special Channel Colonel Waterson in Brisbane,” Pickering began.

“Who is he?” Leahy asked.

“The OSS station chief. He works for me,” Donovan said, then corrected himself. “He works for Pickering.”

“We know the Special Channel there is secure,” Pickering went on, “and if Colonel Waterson has not yet been cleared for
MAGIC
…”

“He has been cleared,” Leahy said.

And, Christ, I did the same thing Adamson did
, Pickering thought.
I told him before the fact
.

“We can Special Channel Waterson with whatever orders you're going to give the commanding general of the military mission to China, plus what orders I'm going to give him, and have him carry them physically to Chungking.”

“This is a JCS matter,” Leahy said. “I'll be giving the orders, Pickering.”

“You'll have to forgive me, Admiral. I don't really know how the system works. But if you're sending orders, sir, I respectfully request that you tell this General Dempsey to keep his hands off my men.”

“You may consider that added to the orders I will send to Chungking,” Leahy said. “I also consider it important that someone get to Chungking as quickly as possible to see that my orders are carried out. Right now, Pickering, you're the logical choice to do that.”

“Am I qualified to do that, sir?”

“If I didn't think so, I wouldn't send you.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“What I'm asking, Pickering, considering the President gave Donovan, me, and you the responsibility to deal with this affair, is whether you are satisfied that Donovan and I can handle it from here on.”

Pickering thought that over a moment before replying. Then he looked at Donovan. “I have no doubt whatever, Admiral, that with Colonel Donovan here, I am not needed.”

“How soon can you be in Chungking?” Leahy asked.

“I'd planned to stop in Australia on the way, sir,” Pickering replied. “But under the circumstances, I could skip that.”

“Is there any reason you couldn't go to Chungking the way Banning and the devices went?” Donovan asked. “Via Europe? It would be quicker.”

“I'm taking the meteorologists and their equipment with me to Pearl Harbor. I don't want them shunted aside en route because they're enlisted men. And I'd like to see how they're coming with the submarine.”

“Do what you think is best,” Leahy said, putting out his hand. “But get to Chungking as quickly as you can.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Pickering looked around the small room for Hart. “Let's go, George.”

“For what it's worth, Fleming,” Donovan said, as Pickering reached the door. Pickering turned to face him. “I've changed my mind again. The former Deputy Director (Administration) of the OSS will enter St. Elizabeth's within the hour.”

“What good will that do?”

“It'll make me feel better, and it might be educational for others,” Donovan said. The two men locked eyes. Finally, Pickering shrugged and followed Lieutenant Hart into the corridor.

[ONE]
Base Operations
Anacostia Naval Air Station
Washington, D.C.
1730 28 March 1943

One of the petty officers behind the counter at base operations spotted General Pickering as he passed through the door. He came to attention and loudly announced, “General officer on deck!”

Ten people were in the room. All of them popped to attention. Pickering saw that two of them—a chief and a third-class—wore the sleeve insignia of weathermen and presumed they were the meteorologists who had volunteered for the Gobi Desert operation. He smiled at them and waved his hand, ordering them to sit down again.

“As you were,” Pickering said, as he walked to the counter. “My name is Pickering. There's supposed to be an airplane—”

“Yes, sir. General McInerney is expecting the general, sir,” a chief petty officer said, quickly rising from his desk and walking to the counter. “If the general will please follow me, sir?”

“What did you say about General McInerney, Chief?”

“Sir, General McInerney has been waiting for the general, sir. He asked me to bring you into Flight Planning.”

“In a moment,” Pickering said, and walked to the two sailors, who rose to their feet.

Pickering put out his hand.

“Chief, I'm General Pickering,” he said.

“Chief Spectowski, sir,” the chief said. “This is Weatherman Third Damon.”

Pickering shook Damon's hand.

“I can tell you this much,” Pickering said. “Our ultimate destination, right now, is Pearl Harbor. We're going to spend the night in Memphis, fly on to Chicago in the morning to pick up three more people, and then fly to San Diego. From San Diego, we'll go Naval Air Transport Command to Pearl. I'm sorry, but that's all I can tell you. Except that what you'll be doing will be damned important.”

“Yes, sir,” Weatherman Third Damon said.

Chief Spectowski nodded but didn't speak.

“When we get to Pearl, I'll probably be able to tell you some more,” Pickering said. “But for now, that's it.”

“I understand, sir,” the chief said.

“I don't know exactly what's happening here, but as soon as I find out, I'll let you know,” Pickering said.

“Yes, sir,” the two of them said, almost in unison.

Pickering turned, and with Hart on his heels, followed the base operations chief through a door bearing a large sign,
AIR CREWS ONLY
, into a room whose walls, and a large table in the center, were covered with aerial charts.

McInerney and First Lieutenant Anthony I. Sylvester, his aide-de-camp, were standing in front of one of the aerial charts on the wall.

“Hello, Mac,” Pickering said.

McInerney turned to look at him.

“Another ten minutes, General, and you would have walked to Memphis,” McInerney said. “Where the hell have you been?”

“It's a long and painful story,” Pickering said, smiling at his old friend. “Not that I'm not glad to see you, but what the hell are you doing here?”

“Before we get into that, General, you don't notice anything different about me?”

Pickering studied him, then shook his head, “no.”

“I never thought you were very bright, but I did think you were capable of counting as high as two,” McInerney said.

Pickering now understood. There were two stars on each of McInerney's collar points, and on each epaulet. McInerney was now a major general.

“Well, when did that happen? Damn, Mac, it's long overdue!”

“This morning,” McInerney said. “Loudly complaining that the Corps is going to hell, the Commandant pinned them on himself.”

“Well, congratulations!”

“Thank you, Flem,” McInerney said. “Who would have believed, at Château-Thierry?”

“I would have,” Pickering joked. “Anyone as ugly as you was sure to get to be a major general, if he stuck around long enough, and didn't get shot by a jealous husband first.”

“You can go to hell, General.”

“When I come back, we'll have a party,” Pickering said.

“That's what we're going to do tonight,” McInerney said.

“I'm on my way to Pearl Harbor.”

“You're on your way to Memphis,” McInerney corrected him. “And I'm driving the pumpkin, Cinderella. Unless, Flem, you wanted to be alone with your boy?”

“Don't be silly,” Pickering replied automatically, and then thought it through, and added: “Actually, Mac, I'm delighted. You can keep the grand farewell from getting maudlin.”

“You're sure?”

“Absolutely. But let me call ahead and make sure we have a hotel room for you.”

“Something wrong with the visiting Flag Officers' Quarters?” McInerney asked.

“Pick's living in a hotel in Memphis.…”

“I should have guessed,” McInerney said.

“And what was that I heard about wise officers keeping their indiscretions as far from the flagpole as possible?”

“It's ‘a hundred miles from the flagpole,' actually,” McInerney said. “But you're right. A hotel would be better.”

“George,” Pickering ordered, “call the Peabody in Memphis and get a suite for General McInerney and me. You and Sylvester can bunk with Pick and Dunn.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“And while Hart's doing that, Tony, you get our passengers loaded.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“You learned how to fly, I seem to recall?”

Pickering nodded. “P & FE has a Staggerwing Beech,” he said. “I've got a couple of hundred hours in that.”

“You think you could get the wheels up on a Gooney Bird? And then back down again? If so, you can ride up in front with me.”

“I think I might be able to do that,” Pickering said. “But are you sure it will be all right?”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn't know the Corps let old men like you fly by themselves,” Pickering said, straight-faced.

“You sonofabitch,” McInerney said. “If memory serves, and mine always does, you're eight months older than I am.”

The Douglas R4-D was parked right outside base operations. A ground crew of Navy white-hats was standing by. Several of them manned a fire extinguisher on wheels. One of them had been stationed in the cockpit. The moment he saw General McInerney his responsibility was to stick his arm out the pilot's side window and place a small red flag with the two stars of a major general in a holder.

When McInerney saw Pickering staring at the flag, he said, “That's the Navy. I have passed the word in the Corps that any Marine AOD found hanging a flag on any airplane I'm flying will have to wash the airplane.”

“You've earned the prerogatives, Mac,” Pickering said, meaning it. “Enjoy them.”

McInerney waved him onto the airplane. A number of packages were strapped to the deck of the cabin. “That's your weather station gear,” McInerney said. “No package weighs more than sixty-five pounds, most of them no more than fifty.”

“You're not going all the way with us, are you, Mac?”

“No. Sylvester is. We're going to draft a copilot for him at Memphis. I'm taking one of the Memphis MAG's Corsairs back here in the morning.”

“You can fly a Corsair?” Pickering asked, genuinely surprised.

“Don't start that crap again, Hem,” McInerney said.

“Sorry,” Pickering said.

Spectowski and Damon were already strapped into BuAir versions of airline seats. Pickering smiled at them as he followed McInerney into the cockpit. A moment after he sat down in the copilot's seat and strapped himself in, McInerney handed him the major general's flag.

“Stick this in your ear, or some other suitable bodily orifice, General,” McInerney said.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Pickering said. He took the flag and found a place for it behind his seat.

Lieutenant Sylvester stuck his head in the cockpit door.

“Anytime you're ready, General,” he said.

“Okay, Tony. Find yourself a seat,” McInerney said, and reached for the plastic-coated checklist. “Ordinarily, the guy in the right seat reads this off for the pilot,” he said. “But I realize that the eyes of an old fart like you can't handle the small print.”

Three minutes later, Anacostia Departure Control cleared Marine Oh Oh Six for immediate take off on Runway Two Six, and McInerney reached for the throttle quadrant and advanced the throttles to takeoff power.

He was about to reach for his microphone when he heard Pickering's voice in his earphones: “Anacostia, Marine Double Oh Six, rolling.”

Thirty seconds later, McInerney eased back on the wheel and the rumble of the wheels stopped.

“Wheels up,” he ordered.

“Wheels up,” Pickering parroted, and then a few seconds later added, “Wheels up and locked.”

McInerney looked at him. “Well, maybe I'm wrong,” he said. “Maybe you're not as useless as teats on a boar hog.”

When they had reached cruising altitude and McInerney had trimmed the Gooney Bird up, he turned to Pickering. “What do you want first, the good news or the bad?”

“Let's start with the good,” Pickering said. “I haven't had much of that lately.”

“For once, the phones worked, and I got through to Dawkins at Ewa. You know the Dawk, don't you?”

“He had the MAG on Guadalcanal,” Pickering said. “Very good guy.”

“Yeah. Well, I had an idea. Big Steve Oblensky has forgotten more about Catalinas than most people ever learn. Before his heart went bad, he picked up a lot of time flying them. And he's one hell of a mechanic, too. Airframe
and
engine. So I asked the Dawk if he would mind lending him to this project of yours. For the first of the bad news, Dawkins seemed to know a lot about it. One of the Navy's pilots involved in the first refueling attempt ran off at the mouth.”

“There seems to be an epidemic of that,” Pickering said.

McInerney looked at him curiously but didn't pursue it. “Anyway, Dawk told me that Big Steve is already working on the Catalinas with your pal Jake Dillon.”

“Thank you,” Pickering said. “I should have thought of that.”

“Then the Dawk asked me a question, which brings us to Part Two of the bad news. He wanted to know if I was thinking of volunteering Charley Galloway to fly the mission. He obviously hoped I would say no firmly, which I did.”

“I didn't even think that Charley would volunteer.”

“You know how many volunteers we did get?”

Pickering shook his head, “no.”

“Two,” McInerney said.

“
Two?
” Pickering parroted incredulously.

“One of them is up on charges for writing rubber checks all over the West Coast, and the other is facing a Flight Evaluation Board. According to his commanding officer, the Board is almost certain to take his wings for gross incompetence.”

“I'm surprised,” Pickering confessed. “Only two.”

“Almost nobody wants to fly a Catalina in the first place,” McInerney said. “And most of the people who are flying them want to get out of Cats. Long-over-water flights are (a) dangerous and (b) boring, and that's what you do when you fly Catalinas, day after day. If I was flying fighters, I damned sure wouldn't volunteer to fly Catalinas. I wasn't all that surprised, but I did think we'd get maybe six, maybe more, volunteers.”

“And what do we do now?”

“The night you almost got blown away in France, do you remember volunteering to go take out that machine gun?”

Pickering didn't reply.

“The way I recall it,” McInerney said, “Lieutenant Davis said, ‘Pickering, go take out that machine gun. And take McInerney and'—what the hell was his name? He got about thirty feet out of the trench.”

“Blumenson,” Pickering said softly, remembering an entirely different war a long time ago. “Private Aaron Blumenson. He was from Cicero, Illinois. A sniper got him. In the throat.”

“…and
Blumenson
with you.'” McInerney went on. “In other words, realizing (a) that Sergeant Pickering, Corporal McInerney, and Private Blumenson were not about to volunteer to do something dangerous and (b) that unless somebody took that Maxim away from Fritz, a lot of Marines were going to have holes in them, Lieutenant Davis did what he had to do. He volunteered us to do what had to be done.”

“Is that what you're going to do?” Pickering asked, and then, before McInerney had a chance to reply, added: “I volunteered McCoy to go into the Gobi and see if he can find those people. It has to be done, and he was the guy to do it.”