In Danger's Path (81 page)

“You think that'll do it, Ed?”

“I really hope so. We really need to stay on the right side of this guy. The last thing we want to do is piss off the Chinese.”

“I have no intention of doing that,” Pickering said, adding a little ruefully, “more than I have already.”

“I'm talking about McCoy,” Banning said.

“I don't think I follow you,” Pickering confessed.

“When McCoy gets to Yümen—and he may be there already—I don't think he's going to walk into Headquarters of the Thirty-second Military District, either as Major MeeKoy of the Nationalist Army or Captain McCoy of the U.S. Marine Corps, ask to see the General, and tell him that he wants to sneak into the Gobi with one of their supply convoys.”

“I'm still a little confused,” Pickering said.

“I know how Ken operates well enough to know what he's going to do. As inconspicuously as possible—which means in his Chinese uniform—he's going to nose around Yümen until he finds the Chinese major or lieutenant colonel who actually runs the convoys. Then he'll bribe him to take him along. That was a good idea until this Chinese general, who is a second cousin once removed or something of the Generalissimo, turned up. He flies into Yümen with you, and says he wants to make sure Captain McCoy gets what he wants, and the General there says, ‘Captain who? I have seen no American captain.' Who authorized this American to put on the uniform of a major in the Nationalist Army? Et cetera, et cetera. This could get out of hand in a hurry.”

“God, I didn't even think about that.”

“Let's just hope we can convince General Sun that what McCoy was doing was necessary,” Banning said. “Have you got his telephone number?”

Pickering reached into his pocket and handed Banning the slip of paper with General Sun's number.

Banning picked up the EE-8 field telephone connected to the USMMCHI switchboard and cranked the generator on its side. He gave the extension he wanted to the operator in English, but the moment there was an answer began to speak Chinese, of which Pickering understood not a word.

What the hell am I doing here? Not being able to speak the language is a minor item on a long list of things that make me wholly unqualified to do what I'm doing
.

Banning was smiling a good ninety seconds later when he cranked the phone again and said, “Break it down.”

“Don't tell me. The General regrets?” Pickering said.

“The General would be delighted to accept the General's kind offer of dinner at half past seven,” Banning said. “Keep your fingers crossed. Maybe all isn't lost.”

General Sun arrived at precisely seven-thirty, accompanied by his enormous Mongolian aide-de-camp.

The meeting went well from the beginning.

“General, may I present my deputy, Lieutenant Colonel Banning?”

Sun smiled at him. “Major Kee tells me you speak Wu like a native, Colonel.”

Banning replied in Wu.

“And obviously you do,” General Sun said, still in English.

Kee, grinning broadly, shook Banning's hand, then handed him a package.

I don't care what Banning's doing around here, he's going to Yümen with me
, Pickering thought.

“I thought we might have a little wine with our dinner,” General Sun said.

“That's very kind of you, General,” Pickering said, taking the package from Banning.

It held two bottles of French wine—good French wine—causing Banning to wonder where Sun had gotten it in wartime Chungking, and then to wonder if there was some significance in a gift of expensive wine.

“This is very nice,” Sun said, looking around. “I didn't know about this house.”

“Captain McCoy only recently rented it. He's the officer I hope you can help get into the Gobi Desert as inconspicuously as possible.”

“I thought this might have something to do with the Gobi Desert,” Sun replied. “I couldn't imagine what other interest the OSS would have in that part of China.”

“I hope you understand why I was reluctant to talk about the operation earlier, General.”

“Completely, General,” Sun said. “Unfortunately, China is not in a position to adequately compensate its officers. That too often results in the selling of information, especially information about the actions of someone else. The Japanese would be very interested to hear about your interest in the Gobi, and would pay very well for the information.”

“I'm glad you understand,” Pickering said.

“I would have been disappointed if the Deputy Director for Pacific Operations of the OSS had been less prudent,” Sun said.

Either he's swallowed that whole, or he's decided to be gracious
.

“Why don't we try that fine-looking wine?” Pickering asked. “And I'll try to explain Operation Gobi to you.”

By the time the second bottle of wine was empty—before dinner—Pickering was able to hope that he had once again skirted a disaster by the skin of his teeth. Sun seemed to understand the necessity of getting McCoy and Zimmerman into the Gobi Desert as quietly as possible.

“It was rather clever of you, I think,” General Sun said, “not to mount this operation from within China. There is no way it could have been kept secret.”

“The truth of the matter is that wasn't a consideration. We just didn't think it could be done from inside China. Or actually, I didn't think it could. The OSS station chief in Chungking, on the other hand, doesn't think we can do it the way we plan to. He wants to send the station in by truck, guarded by two companies of soldiers.”

“That would attract a good deal of attention from the Japanese,” General Sun said. “It's probably not my position to say so, but if keeping the weather station secret is a major consideration, I think he's wrong.”

Pickering chuckled.

“Did I say something funny?”

“General, did you ever hear that the true test of another man's intelligence is how much he agrees with you?”

“No,” General Sun said, smiling. “But now that I have, I'll remember it.”

That left only the question of McCoy to deal with, and Pickering decided this was the time to do that. “There is one thing I've done,” he began, “or at least didn't stop—this was before I knew you were going to be involved—that you should know about. Captain McCoy felt the best way for him to move around was in the uniform of a Chinese officer.”

General Sun's smile faded. “The uniform of a Chinese officer?”

“A major. Both of my men have Chinese Army identification, and Nansen passports identifying them as White Russians.”

Sun frowned and shook his head, then spoke, in Chinese, to Major Kee, whose face showed both disbelief and disapproval.

“And we don't think Captain McCoy has made himself known to the Thirty-second Military District Headquarters,” Pickering continued. “Or if he's not yet there, will when he gets there,” he added.

“That may cause serious problems,” Sun said. “Let me think about that. If they are discovered and arrested…”

“Captain McCoy is very capable, General,” Banning said, “and knows China.”

“I respectfully disagree, Colonel,” General Sun said. “If he thinks he can successfully masquerade as a Chinese officer, he is
not
capable, and he does
not
know China.”

He forced a smile, and went on. “But as I said, let me think about it.”

[FIVE]
Headquarters, Marine Air Group 21
Ewa Marine Air Station
Oahu, Territory of Hawaii
1400 13 April 1943

When his attention was distracted by a Navy-gray Plymouth station wagon pulling up before his headquarters building, Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, USMCR, was sitting in his spartan office, in a flight suit, tilted back in his chair, his feet resting on an open drawer, working his way through the day's supply of directives from higher headquarters—ninety-five percent of them useless, in his judgment. A fleet of such vehicles was assigned to CINCPAC, allowing Navy chair-warmers in the grade of lieutenant commander and above to move about the island, spreading Naval bureaucratic nonsense in their wake.

Christ, that's the last thing I need!

But it was not a Navy officer but a Marine officer whom Dawkins knew personally, who stepped out of the passenger seat, walked to the rear of the station wagon, and withdrew two canvas suitcases. He started up the walk to the building.

The last time I saw him was on the ‘Canal, when I pinned the DFC onto his sweat-soaked khaki shirt
.

The officer was now wearing a splendidly tailored Marine Green uniform. His gold Naval Aviator's wings sat atop three lines of ribbons.

He's got his weight back. He looks good
.

Dawkins looked at the document in his lap. It directed him (and every other commanding officer of Navy and Marine units on Oahu) to personally encourage his officers and men to participate in religious-worship services of their choice on a weekly basis. He tossed the document into his wastebasket, rose from behind his desk, and walked out of his office.

The officer whom he had last seen on Guadalcanal was standing before the desk of Dawkins's sergeant major, who was reading the officer's orders.

“Well, I'll be damned,” Colonel Dawkins said. “Look what came in with the tide. How are you, Pickering? What brings you here?”

“Good afternoon, sir,” Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, said.

Dawkins went to his sergeant major and took the orders from his hand. “A word of warning, Sergeant Major,” Dawkins said. “Don't play poker with this officer.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant major said, smiling. He'd liked the looks of this Marine officer from the moment he walked in the door. Not only did he look like a Marine officer was supposed to look, but he had the DFC and the Purple Heart to prove he wasn't a candy-ass. The way he was greeted by Colonel Dawkins confirmed that judgment.

As Dawkins read Lieutenant Pickering's orders, he shook his head in what could have been either disbelief or disgust.

When he finished reading the orders, he exhaled audibly before handing them back to his sergeant major. He looked at Lieutenant Pickering and shook his head.

“When I got to Pearl Harbor, Colonel,” Pick said. “They sent me here to report to you.”

“Come in here, Pickering,” Dawkins said, pointing to his open office door. He added to his sergeant major, “Unless it's Admiral Nimitz, I'm unavailable at the moment and will get back to them.”