In Danger's Path (74 page)

Pickering handed it to Colonel Waterson.

“Pass it around, please, Jack,” he said, “when you've finished.”

“To Colonel Platt, too, sir?”

“Uh-huh,” Pickering said. “Platt, that message deals with refueling a Catalina at sea, from a submarine. Did Washington get into that with you?”

“Only in a general sense, sir.”

“Well, until we come up with a better idea, that's how we're going to go. This was good news. The first dry run they had, with a submarine, was a disaster. They've apparently got it working now. Jake Dillon recruited a Seabee chief petty officer he knew in the movie business to help, and he's apparently fixed the problems.”

Colonel Richard C. Platt looked mystified at the reference to a Seabee and the movie business.

Banning chuckled.

“I don't believe, General,” he said, “that Colonel Platt knows Major Dillon.”

“Of course, he doesn't,” Pickering said. “How could he? Well, I'll leave that to you, Ed. I'm too bushed to tell Jake Dillon stories tonight, much less to get into the implications of that Special Channel, or listening to Platt's ideas on Operation Gobi. We can have all of it first thing in the morning. What I need now is some sleep.”

He got up and walked to the door. Everyone stood up.

Pickering turned.

“Make sure Colonel Platt has a good idea of everything, Ed.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Colonel Platt looked pleased.

As if
, Pickering thought,
he was just told he can play with the big boys after all
.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Pickering said and, with Hart trailing him, left the bar.

[TWO]
OSS Station
Chungking, China
0715 8 April 1943

Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, lay in his bed and wondered if he was about to become sick. He would not be at all surprised. He was wide awake—had been for fifteen minutes—but did not seem able to muster enough energy to sit up and drag himself out of the bed. Simply being awake was itself surprising. He'd barely been able to keep his eyes open before he went to bed, and would have bet he'd sleep for at least twelve hours.

“There are obviously
some
drawbacks to the miracle of faster-than-a-speeding-bullet transoceanic flights,” he said aloud, and then added, “Okay, stop feeling sorry for yourself, you old bastard, haul your ass out of bed and get to work.”

“Sir?” Second Lieutenant George F. Hart, USMCR, asked. A moment later, his face appeared from behind a screen in one corner of the room.

I didn't know that he was in there
.

“I was talking to myself, George, something that old men tend to do,” Pickering said. “Sorry to wake you.”

“I thought I'd sleep into next week when I went to bed last night,” Hart said. “But I've been wide awake for thirty minutes.” He walked into the room, wearing his uniform, except for the tunic.

Pickering pushed himself up and swung his legs out of the bed. Then he pushed himself to his feet and reached for his trousers. “And you are presumably bursting with energy, eager to face the challenges of the new day?” he asked.

“Actually, sir, my ass is really dragging. I really didn't want to get out of bed.”

“I'm glad to hear you say that, George,” Pickering said. “I feel exactly the same way. I thought maybe I was getting sick.”

“We spent a lot of time on those airplanes, General.”

“Where did you sleep, George?”

“There's a little alcove behind the screen, General. I had them get me a cot.”

“Have we got a phone number for Banning?” Pickering asked. “I want to know if he's located McCoy.”

“We do, sir,” Hart said. “But he said, last night, that he would be here about seven. He's probably on his way by now.”

“I want to talk to Albright, too,” Pickering said, as much to himself as to Hart. “Let's find ourselves some breakfast. I need a cup of coffee. Give me a minute to finish dressing.”

“Yes, sir.”

Captain Jerry Sampson, the one who'd been at Harvard with “Malcolm,” was standing by a double sliding door off the foyer of the house. He was wearing what Pickering thought of as “a white hunter's jacket.”

He came to attention. “Good morning, General,” he said.

“Good morning,” Pickering said, smiling at him.

“Ah-ten-HUT!” Sampson bellowed in Pickering's ear, startling him.

There was the sound of scraping chairs and six officers sitting around a large table got to their feet and came to attention.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Pickering said. “Please take your seats.” He turned to Sampson. “That was very nice, Captain, but we'll dispense with that in the future. And we will also dispense with anybody waiting for me to show up to eat.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Sampson said.

The table was set for breakfast. There was even a rack of toast before an empty place—where Pickering knew he was expected to sit—at the head of the table. Colonel John J. Waterson remained standing at the position to the right, Lieutenant Colonel Richard C. Platt remained standing to the left.

“May I introduce my officers, sir?” Platt asked.

“Of course,” Pickering said.

Platt led him around the table and introduced him to the officers of OSS station Chungking.

They all look like they were stamped from the same mold as Sampson
, Pickering thought.
Nice-looking, intelligent-looking, young men
.

“I'll gratefully eat whatever is put before me,” Pickering announced when he had taken his seat.

Lieutenant Colonel Platt rang a small silver bell, and a line of houseboys marched into the room and began serving breakfast.

Lieutenant Colonel Ed Banning came through the door, noticing as he did an empty place beside Colonel Waterson. He wondered if it was left empty by coincidence or was reserved for him. He slipped into it. “Good morning, General,” he said.

“Any word on McCoy, Ed?” Pickering asked.

Banning, looking uncomfortable, shook his head, “no.” “I did talk to the B-17 pilot, sir. He'd like to take off at four, if that fits in with Colonel Waterson's schedule.”

“You have any problem with that, Jack?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay, Ed, confirm that.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Banning said. “And there's been another Special Channel for you.” He reached into his tunic pocket and handed Pickering a sealed envelope.

“‘Special Channel'?” Captain Sampson quoted curiously. “May I ask—”

“No, you may not,” Colonel Platt said.

Well, at least Platt learns quick
, Pickering thought, suppressing a smile at the look on Captain Sampson's face. He tore open the envelope and read the Special Channel.

Pickering handed the message to Colonel Platt. “Give this to Colonel Waterson when you've read it,” Pickering ordered. “Then it goes to Hart.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ed, several questions. Are you familiar with Platt's proposed Opplan?”

“Yes, sir. General Albright showed it to me.”

There was a look of surprise on Platt's face.

“Among Ed's other responsibilities, Colonel,” Pickering said, “is keeping me up to speed on whatever's going on. To do that, he gets to read everything.”

“Yes, sir, of course,” Platt said.

“Same thing applies to Hart,” Pickering said.

“Yes, sir.”

Pickering turned back to Banning. “Was Moore up all night, Ed?”

“No, sir, the Easterbunny had the duty.”

“General Stillwell wants to talk to you before you talk to Generals Dempsey and Newley. What I'm thinking of doing is sending you there with last night's Special Channel and this one—and Lieutenant Moore.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I don't want General Stillwell to get the idea we're not showing him everything he has every right to know,” Pickering said. “And I want him to meet Moore and to know what Moore's function is. That make sense to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That ‘yes, sir,' Platt,” Pickering said, “was not an automatic reflex on Banning's part. If he doesn't agree with me, he says so. I want you to do the same thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It's not hard, Colonel,” Banning said. “The boss is usually right.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Colonel Banning,” Pickering said. “And while you're with General Stillwell, Platt will show me his Opplan.”

“Makes sense, sir,” Banning said.

“And when you have finished with General Stillwell, Ed, you go find McCoy.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Banning said. “I'll try, sir.”

“I'm really getting concerned, Ed.”

“I don't think he would take off without telling me,” Banning said.

“The operative words in that sentence, Ed, are ‘I don't think.'”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have any ideas on that subject, Platt?” Pickering asked.

“Chungking is a large city, General,” Platt said. “If someone wants to make himself scarce here, it's not hard.”

“Even for two Westerners with beards?” Pickering asked.

“He's right, General,” Banning began. “I'll look—”

“If the plane is leaving at four,” Pickering interrupted him. “That means Colonel Waterson will have to leave here at three. Be back here by then, Ed. Whatever you learn from Dempsey and Newley I'll want Waterson to know so that he can tell MacArthur the minute he gets to Australia.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

[THREE]
OSS Station
Chungking, China
1450 8 April 1943

After breakfast, Pickering and Hart followed Platt to his office, which had been set up for a briefing. On either side of a blackboard, there were two easels, supporting maps covered with a sheet of canvas. Four armchairs faced the easels and blackboard.

“Sir,” Lieutenant Colonel Platt said to Pickering a little uneasily, “I'm aware, sir, of what you said about no more information about Operation Gobi being made available to my people without your permission…”

“But?”

“Captain Sampson has spent a good deal of time with my proposed Opplan. He knows details about it I don't.”

“And you would like him in on this?”

“The truth is, he can give you a better briefing than I can.”