Line of Fire

by W. E. B Griffin

  "That child's code isn't going to be as easy to break as you think," Howard said. "It'll take them a couple of days... when they start on it. And then they have to guess the meaning."

  "Submarine," Steve Koffler said. "They could send people in by submarine."

  "I don't think so, Steve," Howard said. "I think we should start looking for an airplane, and parachutes.

  Even, if they could talk the Navy out of a submarine, and they managed to land somebody safely, how could he get here? Especially carrying replacement radios and equipment?"

  "He's from here," Steve said. "This Nathaniel is."

  "Nathaniel is very intelligent," Miss Patience Witherspoon said. "And very strong."

  [Five]

  ROYAL AUSTRALIAN NAVY COASTWATCHER ESTABLISHMENT

  TOWNSVILLE, QUEENSLAND

  1 OCTOBER 1942

  "We'll get into specific details later," Major Edward F. Banning said to open the first briefing session for Operation PICKLE, "so please don't start asking questions until I'm finished." Just over twenty people were sitting around the tables of the mess hall, Australians of the Coastwatcher Establishment and Marines of Special Detachment 14. Some were drinking coffee and eating doughnuts. The majority were drinking beer.

  "The RAN is going to provide us with a submarine, HMAS Pelican. It will take a replacement team to this beach...." He turned and pointed to a map of Buka with an eighteen-inch ruler.

  "... According to Chief Wallace, it's approximately fifty yards wide at low tide and has a relatively gradual slope. And again according to Chief Wallace, it is a twenty-four- to thirty-six-hour march from Ferdinand Six, which is about here. I asked him to err on the side of caution. Carrying that equipment in that terrain is going to be a bitch.

  "Getting it ashore in rubber boats is going to be a bitch, too.

  The shallow slope of the beach results in pretty heavy surf under most conditions. We won't know what those conditions are until we get there."

  "We?" Sergeant George Hart thought, somewhat unkindly.

  What's this we crap? We're not going. These guys are going.

  "At that time-when the Pelican surfaces-a decision will have to be made," Banning went on, "whether to try to land the entire team and all the equipment. If the surf or other conditions make that too risky, then we'll put just Chief Wallace and three other men ashore.

  "That decision will be made by Lieutenant McCoy. Lieutenant McCoy's something of an expert on rubber-boat landings.

  The last one he made was on Makin Island with the Marine Raiders." Heads turned to look at Lieutenant K. R. McCoy.

  That was probably necessary, George Hart decided, to impress these people. But McCoy sure didn't like it.

  "If it turns out we can only put four men ashore safely, two will immediately start out for Ferdinand Six.

  Two will remain on the beach. The two on the beach will have two missions. The first is to conduct tests of the beach, to see if the sand there will support the weight of an airplane. That information will be sent to the submarine and then relayed here. After that the submarine will immediately depart the area; it will return the following day. Their second mission will be to tell the submarine, after its return, whether or not it is safe to land the full team.

  "Repeated attempts to land the replacement team and its equipment will be made until they are successful or the tests have indicated that the beach will take an aircraft.

  "If that proves to be the case, then the aircraft will land there with the second replacement team and its equipment. That will of course solve both the insertion and extraction problems, since the aircraft will take the present team out with it, as well as the two people we insert onto the beach.

  "The problem-at least in my judgment-is that the aircraft plan is not likely to work. If it doesn't, then the insertion of the replacement team and the extraction of the people now operating Ferdinand Six will be by submarine."

  He looked around the room. "OK, questions?"

  "Do I understand, Sir," a young Australian Sub-Lieutenant asked, "that I would be inserted regardless of surf conditions?"

  "No," Lieutenant Commander Eric Feldt answered for Banning. "We will land either the entire team or none of it. Except, of course, for Chief Wallace."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Question, Sir?" a buck sergeant of USMC Special Detachment 14 asked.

  "Shoot."

  "In case of bad surf conditions, no radios will go ashore, right?"

  "Right. I just said that. The whole team goes in or none of it."

  "How will the two people onshore communicate with the sub?"

  "The Navy-our Navy," Lieutenant McCoy answered, "has a portable, battery-powered radio. A voice radio. Two of them are being flown in here. It has enough range to reach from the beach to the sub. And about two hours' battery life. If we can't land the whole team, I'll take one of them and a spare set of batteries with me in the rubber boat."

  "Yes, Sir. But what about the airplane?"

  "What about the airplane?"

  "How are you going to communicate with it?"

  "Shit!" Lieutenant McCoy said furiously.

  "I mean, Sir, if we get it."

  "I know what you mean," McCoy said. "Goddamn it, I didn't think about that!"

  "Lieutenant," Chief Signalman Nathaniel Wallace, Royal Australian Navy Volunteer Reserve, asked, pronouncing it Lef-tenant, "I think we could probably modify the Navy radio so it would net with the aircraft radios. When did you say they are coming?"

  "As soon as they can fly them in. Probably today," McCoy replied.

  "I may be wrong, of course, but those types of short-range radios often radiate in the same general area of the frequency spectrum as aircraft radios. I rather suspect that we could make it work."

  "Jesus Christ, I hope so."

  Chief Signalman Wallace was the ugliest single human being Sergeant George Hart, USMC, could ever remember seeing.

  He was also the only Navy man he had ever seen wearing a skirt.

  But it wasn't possible to dismiss him as some quaint and ignorant savage out of the pages of National Geographic magazine. Hart had already long since realized that his bushy head of hair and blue-black teeth, his scars and tattoos, were not all of him. On the other side of all that was a mind at least as sharp as his own.

  For one thing, Nathaniel spoke fluent English-English English, like the announcers on the British Broadcasting Corporation's International Service. For another, of the dozen or more radio technicians (including three Marines) who ran the Coastwatcher Establishment's radio station, he probably knew the most about radios, inside and out.

  Above the waist, Chief Wallace wore the prescribed uniform for Chief Petty Officers of the RAN. Just as in the American Navy, the senior enlisted rank of the RAN wore officer-type uniforms: Instead of the traditional bell-bottom trousers and a blouse with a black kerchief and flap hanging down the back, they wore a double-breasted business suit with brass buttons, and a shirt and tie. And instead of those cute little sailor hats (as George and most other Marines thought of them), Chief Petty Officers wore brimmed caps with a special Chief Petty Officer insignia pinned on them.

  The white crown of Chief Wallace's brimmed cap was not quite as wide as the mass of black, crinkly hair it rode on. It was centered with almost mathematical precision at least three inches over his skull. A neatly tied black necktie was pulled with precision into the collar of his immaculate white shirt. The brass buttons of his jacket glistened, as did his black Oxford shoes. Between the jacket and the shoes he wore a skirt, of blue denim, and knee-high immaculate white stockings. This served to expose incredibly ugly knees and skinny upper legs matted with crinkly hair.

  "If we can't get the radio to communicate with the aircraft, McCoy, we could work out some sort of landing panel signals," Banning said.

  "With respect, Sir," Chief Signalman Wallace said, "I don't think it will be a problem."

  "Any other questions?" Major Banning asked.

/>   "What are these beach tests, Sir?" a USMC Special Detachment 14 corporal asked.

  "As I understand it," Major Banning said, "Sergeant Hart has a steel cone he pounds into the sand with a ten-pound weight. He then reads the markings on the cone. The theory is that it can be determined how much weight the sand will support."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "I'll say it again. Don't count on the airplane."

  "Yes, Sir."

  What that sonofabitch just said, Sergeant George Hart realized in shock, was that I'm going to be in one of those rubber boats!

  [Six]

  HEADQUARTERS, MAG-25

  ESPIRITU SANTO

  0730 HOURS 2 OCTOBER 1942

  "Come on in, Jack," Lieutenant Colonel Stanley N. Holliman, USMC, Executive Officer of MAG-25, said, waving his hand at Major Jack Finch, USMC.

  Major Finch entered the office. He was wearing a wash-faded Suit, Flying, Cotton, Tropical Areas, and he was armed with a.45 Colt automatic in a shoulder holster.

  "Stan, I was on the threshold-" he began to complain, and then stopped. There was a stranger in Holliman's office, a non-aviator Marine in a rear-echelon uniform. "Good morning, Sir. You wished to see me?"

  "This won't take long," Colonel Holliman said. "Dillon, this is Major Jack Finch. Jack, this is Major Homer Dillon."

  "People call me Jake," Dillon said, putting out his hand.

  "I think we'd save some time, Dillon," Holliman said, "if you would show Finch what you showed me."

  Dillon took a stiff piece of plastic from the right bellows pocket of his jacket and extended it to Finch. He read it and then looked at Colonel Holliman.

  "Read both sides, Jack," Holliman said.

  "I'm impressed," Finch said. "I guess that's the idea, huh?"

  "MAG-25., naturally, is going to do whatever it can for Major Dillon and the Chief of Staff to the President," Holliman said.

  "Yes, Sir."

  "He wants a few things from you, Jack."

  "Yes, Sir?"

  "Starting with the best R4D you have. It will not be available for anything else until further notice."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "I've told him you can install auxiliary fuel tanks in a couple of hours. Is that correct?"

  "Yes, Sir. The fuel lines are already installed. All that has to be done is to reload the tanks and hook them up."

  "Major Dillon has also brought with him some special equipment that will have to be installed," Holliman said.

  "What kind of special equipment?"

  "They're something like skis," Dillon said. "They're supposed to make it possible to land an R4D on sand."

  "On sand?" Finch asked incredulously.

  "Certain kinds of sand," Dillon said. "We don't know yet if our sand is the right kind; but in case it is, we want to be ready."

  "I don't suppose you're going to tell me where this sand is?" Finch asked.

  "You understand that all this is classified?" Dillon asked.

  "I thought maybe it would be," Finch said, tempering the sarcasm with a smile.

  "Just for the record, I'm telling you the classification is TOP SECRET," Jake said. "The sand is on a beach on an island called Buka."

  "That's way the hell up by Rabaul!"

  "Right. And there is a Japanese fighter base on Buka."

  "I know," Finch said. "I've seen the maps."

  "There is also a Coastwatcher station on Buka. Their equipment is about shot, and we have every reason to believe that the people are in pretty bad physical shape. What we're going to do is extract them, and replace them."

  "Well, I'll be goddamned!" Finch said softly. Then he added, "I guess it's that important, isn't it?" And then he had a second thought. "Just among three Marines, how did The Corps get stuck with this mission?"

  "Two of the three people to be extracted are Marines," Dillon said.

  "I didn't know we had Marines with the Coast watchers, Holliman said.

  "We have these people, and there are two more on the replacement team," Dillon said.

  "I'll be damned," Finch said.

  "Major Dillon also wants from you the name of the best R4D pilot you know who would be willing to volunteer for this mission."

  "That's easy. Finch, John James, Major."

  "See if you can come up with some other names, Jack," Holliman said. "I need you as squadron commander."

  "Sir, I'm the best R4D pilot. I can't really think... of anyone with more experience."

  "You hesitated," Dillon challenged.

  "I'm the most experienced R4D pilot in MAG-25," Finch said flatly.

  "Who were you thinking of, Major?" Dillon pursued.

  "Tell him, Jack," Holliman ordered.

  "Charley Galloway, Sir," Finch said with obvious reluctance. He looked at Dillon. "Galloway's a captain.

  He's commanding VMF-229 on Henderson Field on Guadalcanal."

  "You said you needed a volunteer, volunteers," Holliman said. "I'm not sure Galloway would. Not because he doesn't have the balls, but because he would honestly figure he is more valuable to The Corps as a squadron commander than doing something... like this."

  "Something idiotic, maybe suicidal, like this?" Dillon asked.

  "Your words, Major, not mine."

  "The question is, is Galloway the pilot who could most likely carry this off"

  "He was my IP," Finch said. "He's as good as there is. I don't want to sound like I'm trying to sell him for the job, but Galloway was in on the acceptance tests of the R4D before the war. He even went through the Air Corps program on dropping parachutists,"

  "Then in your judgment you and Captain Galloway are the two best pilots for this. Is that what you're saying?"

  "Yes, that's what I'm saying."

  "Colonel, would you agree with that?"

  "I could lie, I suppose," Holliman said. "Maybe I should. But I won't. Yeah, they're the best."

  "Well then, the next step, obviously, is to ask Captain Galloway if he'd be willing to volunteer."

  "I'm going up there this morning," Finch said. "I was about to take off when I was told to come here. I'll ask him."

  "If you don't mind I'll ride along with you. I'd like to see him myself. Charley's an old friend of mine." That announcement seemed to surprise both Holliman and Finch, but they didn't say anything.

  "That would mean bumping a passenger already on my plane. Or two hundred pounds of cargo," Finch said.

  "You can send whoever or whatever I bump up there on the R4D you're going to install the fuel tanks and skis on," Dillon replied. "I want that ready to go from Henderson as soon as possible."

  Chapter Fifteen

  [One]

  WATER LILY COTTAGE

  MANCHESTER AVENUE

  BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA

  1030 HOURS 2 OCTOBER 1942

  There is a smell of pain, Lieutenant (J.G.) Joanne Miller, NNC, thought. He's sweating because of the pain I'm causing him, and the sweat smells of pain.

  "Am I hurting you?" she asked as she bent his lower leg back until it would flex no more. She pressed harder, raising his hips off the bed.

  "I'm all right," John said.

  "Don't be a goddamn hero," Lieutenant Colonel M. J. Godofski, MC, USA, said. "You're not going to impress Joanne with some manly bullshit about not feeling pain. If it hurts, say so."

  Godofski was leaning against the bedroom wall, puffing on a cigar.

  "OK, Colonel, it hurts," John said.

  "Good," Godofski said. "It should hurt a little. Not to the point where you can't stand it. We're trying to make your blood vessels down there take more blood than they're used to taking. They have to be trained to replace the ones you lost. Understand?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  Joanne counted thirteen, fourteen, fifteen and stopped.

  "That's fifteen, Doctor."

  "Can you take five more, son?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  Colonel Godofski nodded.

  Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, ninetetn, twenty.
r />   Honey, I'm sorry!

  "Twenty, Doctor."

  Godofski went to the bed and probed John's muscles with his fingers.

  "Just give him fifteen on the other leg," he said. "It was damaged more than the other one. We don't want to overdo it."

  "Yes, Doctor."

  "I'll see you tomorrow, son," Godofski said. He looked at Joanne. "I think he's out of the woods with the malaria. No sweats. No diarrhea. His temperatures seem constant. We'll leave him on the Atabrine regimen for a couple more days and see what happens."

  "Yes, Doctor."

  "They called up from Melbourne about you yesterday. Wanted to know when they can have you back.

  You must be a pretty good gas passer."

  Joanne nodded.

  "They're getting in a bunch of wounded from New Guinea," Godofski said.

  "I didn't ask for this assignment," Joanne said.

  "I didn't ask for mine, either," he said and walked out of the room.

  "But are you sorry you came?" John asked as he picked up his ankle. "That's what it sounded like."

  "Shut up," Joanne said.

  One, she began to count, two.

  She saw the sweat suddenly pop out on his forehead.

  Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.

  "Jesus!" John said.

  Oh, honey, I'm sorry.

  She sat on the bed beside him and wiped the sweat from his face and neck.

  "I like that," he said, then caught her hand and kissed it.

  She slapped him on the buttocks and stood up.

  "Go take a bath, you stink."

  "I like that, too," he said.

  "Will you stop? Barbara will hear you."

  "You don't think she doesn't know?" John asked.

  The doorbell went off, it was an old-fashioned Turn-to-ring device.

  "That's probably the Colonel," John said. "He's had second thoughts. He wants you to give me twenty."

  He rolled onto his back. She put her hand on his cheek.

  He caught it and used it for support as he pulled himself to a sitting position. Next he swung his legs out of bed; the movement made him wince.

  "You're all right? You're not going to fall down in there?"

  "No," he said as he made his way into the bathroom.