"Fuck you, Ken!" Pick flared, but then immediately: "Shit. I'm sorry. You're right, of course."
"Look, he's sick, but in a couple of weeks, a month, he's going to be all right, OK?"
"That's the straight poop?"
"That's straight."
"You going to see him?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Tell him... You know what to tell him."
"Yeah. Sure. You'll tell your mother?"
"I'll tell her and she'll come."
"He won't like that."
"Yes, he will, and besides, there's nothing he can do about "OK."
"Thanks for... everything, I guess, Ken."
"Take care of yourself, pal."
"You, too." The line went dead.
Pick held the phone in his hand for a long moment before dropping it into the cradle. Then he raised his eyes and found his grandfather's eyes on him.
"That was Ken McCoy. We went to OCS at Quantico together." The old man nodded.
"You understood what that was all about?"
"Some of it."
"Dad's in Walter Reed Hospital with malaria. He's apparently pretty sick, but in no danger."
"I gather we should see about getting your mother on an airplane?"
"Just Mother. It was just pointed out to me that I do not have time to go to see him."
"I will take your mother to see him and tell him why you couldn't be there. Is there anything else I can do, Pick?" Pick raised both hands helplessly.
"What?" he asked.
[Two]
TEMPORARY BUILDING T-2032
THE MALL WASHINGTON, D.C.
1630 HOURS 9 SEPTEMBER 1942
When First Lieutenant Kenneth R. McCoy pushed open the outer door of the two-story frame building, he noticed a new sign, USMC OFFICE OF MANAGEMENT ANALYSIS, nailed to the side of the building. Previously, there had been no sign at all. Since that made Building T-2032 even more anonymous among the other identical "temporary" frame buildings-they had been there since the First World War-he wondered why Colonel Rickabee had decided to hang a sign.
As he took the stairs to the second floor two at a time, he decided that some brass hat with nothing better to do had probably issued an edict that all buildings would be properly labeled.
It had probably occupied the better part of his time for a month, McCoy mused, first coming up with the idea, and then deciding in precise detail the size of the sign, and of its lettering, and its color.
As he reached the second floor, he remembered that a bird colonel and his entourage had been sharing the building.
He was charged with coordinating enlisted morale projects with the Army and Navy, or some such bullshit. I wonder why he doesn't have a sign?
At the top of the stairwell was a small foyer. Access to the rest of the building was barred by a counter; wire mesh went in the countertop to the ceiling.
McCoy recognized one of the two staff noncoms behind the barrier.
"Open up, Rutterman," he said.
Technical Sergeant Harry Rutterman, who had first come to know Lieutenant McCoy as a just-graduated-from-Quantico second lieutenant, threw up his hands in horror.
"Sir, these are classified premises," he said. "Will you please state the nature of your business and show me your identification?"
"You're kidding."
"Not at all, Sir. Less than an hour ago, our beloved commanding officer passed through these portals without challenge, and then ate my ass out for letting him in."
"Really?"
"I think you are next on his menu, Lieutenant, if you don't mind my saying so," Rutterman said. "He left word that he wants to see you as soon as you came in." McCoy extended his identification, a leather folder holding a badge and a photo identification card.
"Pass, friend," Rutterman said, as he pushed a button which operated a solenoid that unlocked a wire mesh door. "And good luck!"
"If I wasn't an officer and a gentleman, Harry, I'd tell you to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut,"
McCoy said as he walked past him.
Colonel F. L. Rickabee's office was at the corner of the far end of the building. Its door was closed.
McCoy knocked and said, "McCoy, Sir."
"Come!" McCoy opened the door, marched in, and stood to attention before Rickabee's desk, even though Rickabee was in civilian clothing.
"Moore?" Rickabee asked.
"He's all right, Sir. It was exhaustion more than anything else."
"Taking him out of the hospital was stupid, McCoy."
"Yes, Sir. No excuse, Sir."
"Sessions told me that General Pickering ordered you to get in touch with his wife." It was a question more than a statement.
"Yes, Sir. I was unable to reach Mrs. Pickering, but I spoke with his son, Sir."
"That's right, you know him, don't you?"
"We were in OCS together, Sir."
"Where's this man Hart?"
"At the hotel, Sir. I didn't know what to do with him. I was going to ask if you wanted to see him."
"I'll have to go on what Sessions and you feel," Rickabee said "I'll want to see him when he comes back."
"Sir?" Rickabee handed him a large manila envelope. McCoy opened it. It contained airline tickets and a sheaf of mimeographed orders.
HEADQUARTERS
UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS
WASHINGTON, D.C.
9 September 1942
LETTER ORDERS:
To: SGT Hart, George F 386751, USMCR
Company "A"
Marine Barracks
Washington, DC
1. You will proceed this date to San Francisco, Cal., St. Louis, Mo., and such other destinations as may be necessary in carrying out the mission assigned to you by the Office of Management Analysis, Hq USMC.
2. Travel by government and civilian rail, motor and air transportation is authorized.
Priority AAA.
3. A five (5) day delay en route leave is authorized in connection with these orders.
BY DIRECTION OF BRIG GEN F. PICKERING:
F. L. Rickabee, Col, USMC
Executive Officer, Office of Management Analysis
I'll be damned He's sending Hart out there to tell Pick his father'll be all right, McCoy thought.
He blurted what popped into his mind: "That was very nice of you, Sir."
" `Nice' is not one of my character traits, McCoy," Colonel Rickabee said. "One: I think it important that your man Hart understand just who he will be working for. His initial introduction to the General was something less than inspiring. Seeing what he did in civilian life, who he was, will be instructional. Two: I think it is important that General Pickering knows that we think of him as one of our own. Three: Sergeant Hart is entitled to an end of boot-camp leave; and he won't be needed around here anyway for ten days, possibly more."
Bullshit-that was nice of you!
"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. I know that, Sir."
"I would hate to think you were being sarcastic, McCoy."
"Not me, Sir."
"Sessions tells me you told him Mrs. Pickering will be coming to Washington."
"Yes, Sir. I think she will."
"Keep me advised of her schedule. I'd like to meet her plane, or train, whatever."
"Yes, Sir."
"General Pickering, McCoy, can be very valuable to us around here. It thus behooves us to do whatever we can for him."
Bullshit again, Colonel. You like Pickering. You're two of a kind "Yes, Sir."
"Get out of here, McCoy."
"Yes, Sir."
[Three]
MUNICIPAL AIRPORT
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
1530 HOURS II SEPTEMBER 1942
When Hart entered the terminal after leaving the Transcontinental and Western (TWA) DC-3 that brought him from Chicago, with a stop at Salt Lake City, two shore patrolmen were standing in the middle of the airport aisle. One was a sailor armed with a billy club, and the other was a Marine sergeant, wearing
a.45 suspended from a white web belt.
Neither of them looks like much of a cop, former Detective George Hart decided, and then dismissed them from his mind as he headed for a row of telephone booths.
Lieutenant McCoy had given him four telephone numbers for Lieutenant Pickering: the Pickering home, in Marin County; the offices of Pacific & Far East Shipping, in San Francisco; the San Francisco apartment of Mrs. Fleming Pickering; and the Andrew Foster Hotel. If he called the last number, he was instructed to ask for Mr. Andrew Foster, stating he was a friend of Lieutenant Pickering.
His orders were to tell Lieutenant Pickering, without any bullshit, General Pickering's condition when they went into the bedroom of the Foster Lafayette Hotel, and then to tell him that the prognosis was good and that his coming to Washington would have only embarrassed his father.
"Tell Lieutenant Pickering he's doing the right thing by not coming," Lieutenant McCoy said. "And, if you have to, that I wouldn't lie to him. And tell him to call me just before he gets on his plane, and I'll give him the latest poop." Hart had just taken the list of telephone numbers from his pocket and was about to drop a nickel in the pay phone slot, when there was a sharp rap on the telephone booth window.
It was the sailor shore patrolman. He made a sign with his index finger for Hart to come out of the booth.
"What can I do for you?" Hart asked.
"For one thing, you can show us your orders," the Marine sergeant said.
Hart produced a copy of the orders from the breast pocket of his tunic and handed them over.
The MP read them and showed them to the sailor.
"Anybody with a mimeograph machine could have made these up," he said.
"There's no stamp or seal or nothing."
"That thought occurred to me on the way out here," Hart said.
"Where did you get that haircut, Sergeant?" the Marine asked.
"Parris Island."
"Boots' hair usually grows back in before they make sergeant material ," the Marine said. "I think, Sergeant, that you better e with us until we can check out these orders." I was wrong. This guy's not as dumb as he looks. He picked up on the Parris Island haircut.
"How about this, Sergeant?" Hart said, and handed him the leather folder holding the badge identifying him as a Special Agent of the Office of Naval Intelligence and the accompanying photo identification card.
"I'll be damned," the sergeant said. "Sorry."
"No problem. It was the haircut, right?"
"Yeah, and there's two inspection stickers hanging out on the back of your jacket," the Marine said. "So I checked."
"I understand."
"Could I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"How do you get a billet like that? It would sure be better than standing around an airport all day looking for AWOLs and drunks."
"I really don't know," Hart replied. "That's where they sent me when I got out of Parris Island. I used to be a cop. But I didn't apply for it or anything like that."
"It would sure beat standing around this fucking airport," the Marine repeated, and then smiled and walked off.
Hart went back into the telephone booth and struck out with the first three numbers. After three intermediate people came on the line, the fourth call was finally answered: "Andrew Foster." Jesus, I'm actually talking to the guy who owns all those hotels!
"Mr. Foster, my name is Sergeant Hart. I'm trying to locate Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering."
"Perhaps I could help you."
"Sir, I really would like to speak to Lieutenant Pickering. It's about his father."
"Is this bad news, Sergeant?"
"No, Sir. The opposite. I was with General Pickering when... just before we took him to the hospital. I've been asked to tell Lieutenant Pickering about that. And how the General is doing now."
"I'd be very much interested in hearing what you have to say, Sergeant," Andrew Foster said, "if that's possible. General Pickering is my son-in-law."
After a moment's hesitation, Hart delivered a slightly laundered report of the events in the hotel room, and then the prognosis the doctors at Walter Reed had offered complete recovery after three to six weeks of rest in the hospital.
"I'm sure my grandson will be delighted to hear this, Sergeant. He's been climbing the walls around here the last couple of days. The problem would seem to be getting you together. Where are you?"
"At the airport, Sir."
"At the passenger terminal?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Across the field from the passenger terminal is Hangar 103," Andrew Foster said. "It says `Lewis Flying Services' on it. My grandson should be there. He should be somewhere around my airplane. If he is not, call me back here. I'll either know where he is by then, or we can launch a manhunt together."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you very much."
"Sergeant, am I permitted to ask your connection with General Pickering?" After a brief hesitation, Hart decided to answer this question, too.
"Sir, I've been assigned to look after General Pickering."
"Somehow I don't think that means you're his valet, or orderly, or whatever they call it."
"No, Sir."
"If my grandson's not there, call me, Sergeant."
"Yes, Sir." There was little activity inside Hangar 103, and no one in Marine uniform. But a young man with a bored look was leaning against the hangar wall next to a battery charger. He was wearing oil-stained khaki trousers and an oil-stained T-shirt under a cotton zipper jacket. His tan and his haircut suggested he was no stranger to military service.
Me and Sherlock Holmes in the airport.
"Excuse me, Sir," Hart said. "I'm looking for Lieutenant Pickering."
"You found him," Pick said.
Hart saluted. "Sergeant Hart, Sir. I work for Lieutenant McCoy, Sir."
Pick did not return the salute.
"OK," he said, his voice even but tense. "No beating around the bush. Let's have it."
"Your father will be all right. They will keep him in the hospital for three to six weeks of rest and treatment. From what I have seen of your father, I'd bet on three weeks."
"Jesus Christ, that's a relief. When you said McCoy had sent you, I was really worried."
"My orders, Sir, are to tell you exactly what happened."
"Go ahead." When he had finished, Pick said, "Thank you, Sergeant." There was a moment's silence, and then Pick asked, "They sent you all the way out here to tell me this?"
"Yes, Sir."
"What's your connection with my father?"
"I work for him, Sir."
"Doing what?"
"Whatever he tells me to do, Sir."
"In other words you're not going to tell me. But since you have told me you work for McCoy, it wouldn't be unreasonable for me to assume, would it, that you're also involved-suitably draped in a cape-in all those mysterious things McCoy does but won't talk about?" Hart didn't reply. When it was evident to Pick that he wasn't going to reply, he went on, "I'll rephrase, Sergeant. Would it be unreasonable of me to assume that you are not my father's orderly?"
"I'm not your father's orderly, Sir."
"OK, we'll leave it at that. So what are you going to do now?"
"I have a plane reservation for tomorrow afternoon, Sir."
"Nothing to do right now? How about a hotel reservation?"
"No, Sir."
"Well, we can take care of that, the hotel, I mean."
"That's not necessary, Sir."
"I'll make you a deal, Sergeant. You do two things for me, and I will take care of the hotel and throw in dinner and all the booze you can handle."
"My orders are to do whatever you ask me to do, Sir."
"Great. The first thing is, stop calling mèSir." The second thing is, help me get this heavy fucking battery back in the airplane. I almost ruptured myself taking it out." Hart knew very little about airplanes, but when he had walked across the hangar floor to meet Lieutenant Pickering, he noticed a single-engi
ne biplane he recognized as a Stagger Wing Beechcraft. A compartment hatch in the fuselage was open.
Obviously, the battery Pickering was now disconnecting from the battery charger had come out of it.
"Why did you take the battery out?"
Pickering looked at him with amusement in his eyes. "It was dead, Sergeant," he said. "One recharges dead batteries. It resurrects them, so to speak."
"I meant, why recharge it, Sir."
"You've agreed not to call me Sir," Pick said. "Which brings us to what do I call you?"
"My name is George."
"Well, George, the reason I am recharging the battery is that this is my grandpa's airplane. Most light civilian aircraft like this one have been taken over by the armed forces, for reasons I can't imagine. This one, however, Grandpa got to keep because it was essential to his business. Or at least he got our Senator to tell the Air Corps it was essential to his business. He and our Senator, by happy coincidence, are old pals. By the time they had gone through all this, the pilots had gone into the Army Air Corps. You following all this?"
"More or less," Hart said, smiling.
"More or less, Pick, " Pick corrected him. "You will call me Pick. That is an order."
"Yes, Pick."
"Which left the airplane here unattended, so to speak. Airplanes which are left uncared for tend to deteriorate. The batteries, for example, go dead, and the tires go flat, et cetera.
Still with me, George?"
"Yes, Pick," Hart said.
"Better. So Grandpa, who is a master, by the way, of getting people to do things for him, remembered that the U.S. Navy, at enormous expense, had turned his grandchild into a Naval Aviator. Naval Aviators, Grandpa reasoned, know something about airplanes."
"And he said, `Go check on my airplane,' right?"
"Right. And so I pumped up the tires and took the water that had condensed in the fuel tanks out of the fuel tanks, and pulled the engine around to remove the oil that had accumulated in the cylinders. It was my intention to run up the engine, you see. Running up the engine is something one does when one's airplane has been sitting around."
"And the battery was dead," Hart said.
"And the battery was dead. George, you are a clever fellow, indeed."
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