“But Willis claims he didn’t actually steal the car,” Orr said. “The keys were passed to him through the safe deposit box.”
The DA replied, “Can we prove that?”
When no one had a response, Peters continued, “Third, let’s talk about that safe deposit box. The key does, in fact, open a box in the bank specified in Sergeant Willis’ statement. Bank records indicate it’s being rented to a Canadian national named John Arthur Mills, who supposedly resides in Vancouver, British Columbia. The phone number listed in the bank records is non-working at the moment. We’ve asked the Canadian authorities for their help in locating the man. They got back to us this morning with this information: there are over five thousand people on the Canadian tax rolls with that name. None of them reside at the address listed on the bank records, which is a commercial building in Vancouver. No one by that name has an office or is employed there.”
Orr said, “The Whitelaws could’ve used a pseudonym and phony passport to rent the safety deposit box.”
“That could very well be, Sergeant. But again I must ask, can you prove it?”
“Isn’t that your job?”
“Only if I choose it to be,” Peters replied.
Orr protested, “But Willis had the damn key…”
“Willis is a known thief. He could’ve stolen the key,” the DA replied.
“That’d be kind of curious, wouldn’t it?” the sergeant asked.
“Curious? Yes. Solid evidence against Mrs. Whitelaw? Not at present. Again, any first-year law student…”
They all settled into their chairs in frustrated silence. DA Peters finally broke it, saying, “For the foreseeable future, the only case I have is against Riddle for criminal acts against Mrs. Miles—trespassing, making terroristic threats, and assault with a deadly weapon. He’s remained silent since his arrest, so his motives are still known only to him. Even though Willis claims to be Riddle’s accomplice, I’m not sure I could present evidence to even get him indicted for that crime, let alone convicted. We only have his word, and he’ll probably recant that confession of his the minute a public defender gets ahold of him.”
He paused, steeling himself to deliver the summation. “So, to repeat…as far as implicating General or Mrs. Whitelaw in a conspiracy to harm Mrs. Miles, I have nothing that I’d feel confident taking into court. If I can’t present solid evidence of a conspiracy, I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I’m sorry, Mrs. Miles. Truly, I am.”
Dick Molloy said, “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Peters. If we could ask one favor, could we have some privacy for a few minutes?”
“Certainly, General. Use the room for as long as you need to.” He closed the door behind him as he left.
“Well, what do you think?” Sergeant Orr asked. “Is the DA under the Whitelaw woman’s thumb, too?”
Molloy had been asking himself that same question. Jarvis Whitelaw’s blunt statement—that his wife’s family was among the people who owned California—kept echoing in his head. He replied, “It’s crossed my mind, Sergeant.”
Pitney dismissed the notion with a shake of his head. “I don’t buy it. I get the runaround from prosecutors all the time, and it doesn’t look like this when it happens. The fact that he agreed to meet us on such short notice tells me he’s on the level. And, unfortunately, I have to agree with his analysis of the evidence Willis provided. It’s useless, at least for now.”
Jillian asked, “So what’s my next move? Or do I even have one?”
“Yes, you do, Mrs. Miles,” Pitney replied. “Two moves, actually. We can still implicate Guidon-Pacific—the corporation run by Kenneth Kerns, Mrs. Whitelaw’s brother—as the instigator of the deportation case. She sits on the board of that corporation. We have Kenneth Kerns himself on record saying it was his patriotic duty to report Mrs. Miles for the visa violation. Of course, all this happened immediately after your company—Forbes-Weipa—trounced Guidon in that real estate deal. That’s very curious…and very vindictive.”
Jillian said, “True, but the judge bloody well knows I initiated that real estate deal. How else would my company have known to get involved?”
“Also true,” Pitney replied, “but it’s your company that purchased the property, not you personally. Your name or signature doesn’t appear on any of the contracts.”
Jillian shook her head. “I didn’t get the impression the judge cared a whit about the difference, Mark. To him, I violated the terms of my spousal visa, plain and simple, by conducting company business while in the United States.”
“Ah, but I think he can be made to care. Our Judge Riggs is a hard case, but he’s a little gun-shy at the moment. Some senators in Washington got in a lather about a case he was about to rule on last week. A Swedish steel tycoon looking to set up a business in the States entered the country on a six-month tourist visa, which would prevent him from conducting business or seeking employment. He wasn’t here a week when he closed a deal purchasing some industrial properties.”
Jillian asked, “How’d the authorities find out about the visa violation?”
“A competitor snitched on him.”
“That doesn’t sound any different from my case,” she said.
“It’s different because he actually signed contracts in California, a clear violation of his tourist visa.”
“Why didn’t he just get a business visa in the first place?” Jillian asked.
“Because the opportunity presented itself suddenly, and getting a business visa can be a long, slow process, with lots of red tape. Time was of the essence, as the saying goes, and a tourist visa could be obtained fairly quickly. He wasn’t worried about the technicalities, because he knew he had friends in high places to smooth out any problems.”
Molloy asked, “Friends in high places…you mean the senators?”
“Exactly. Some of their constituents were very interested in seeing that deal go through, apparently. Our Judge Riggs was all set to issue the deportation order…and then the senators began to make his life—and his supervising justice’s life—miserable, suggesting they might be out of jobs if they didn’t toe the line. I’m guessing he doesn’t want to go through that again…and your case just might present that possibility.”
“But I don’t have any senator friends, Mark.”
Dick Molloy smiled. “But I might, Jillian.”
Chapter Sixteen
Theo Papadakis and Patchett had a bet: Captain Pop’s money was on finding the Chinese artillery within one day of patrolling, returning the same day he departed. Patchett placed his wager on a two-day patrol.
“You got too much walking to do, too much distance to cover, for a one-day out and back, Captain,” Patchett said. “And bundled up like you gotta be, you ain’t gonna be moving fast, neither.”
“We’ll see, Top,” Papadakis replied. “We’ll see.”
What Patchett didn’t know was that Pop had another deal going, as well. He’d called in a favor granted to a helicopter pilot who’d lost big to him at the Christmas night poker game, temporarily letting that pilot off the hook for the payout. The pilot would pick up the captain and his eight-man patrol at the village of Wondang-ni an hour before sunset, saving them a night in the icebox. Successful accomplishment meant that his gambling debt would be forgiven.
“If I can’t find the chink guns in an afternoon,” Papadakis told the pilot, “I’d better turn in my bars.”
The pilot asked, “But what happens to you guys if I can’t get to you for some reason?”
“Then we unroll our sleeping bags and spend a very cold night in some Korean pigsty. And you still owe me two hundred bucks, pal.”
As the pilot walked away, Captain Pop told himself, If this works out, it’s a hell of an expensive way to win a sawbuck off Top, ain’t it?
*****
As darkness fell, the dull, distant boom of Chinese artillery signaled its nightly appearance. The gunners proved no more accurate this night than any before it; their rounds
were falling short of the regiment’s perimeter.
Last night, they were long, Papadakis thought. Give them a week and they might actually start dropping some right on us.
But when it came time to sleep, he’d do it in the deep, covered bunker the men of his company had dug for him.
Can’t be too careful, you know? Those chinks could get lucky tonight.
He made one more stop before turning in for the night: the tank park. There he’d pick up the handle Sean Moon and his mechanics had fabricated for the patrol; it made lugging the .30-caliber air-cooled machine gun a less exhausting job. Made from a section of broom handle and some thin steel tubing, the handle was lightweight and allowed the gunner an additional firing position: from the hip.
“You used one of these handles before, Captain?” Sean asked.
“Hell, yeah. I’m gonna do the same damn thing with it that I did in the jungle—give it to the shortest son of a bitch in my patrol so when he’s running and shooting in a panic, we get that nice, knee-high grazing fire that no chink can crawl under.”
“Outstanding, Captain,” Sean replied. “Hey…what borough you from, anyway?”
“Queens, Rego Park…and I figure you for Brooklyn, right?”
“Damn straight, sir. Sheepshead Bay. Us New York bastards can smell each other a mile away, right?”
“Fucking A, Sergeant.”
*****
Papadakis had handpicked five of his eight-man patrol: the machine gunner and his assistant gunner, two riflemen, and an RTO. The other three men were assigned to him and comprised the artillery FO team: a lieutenant named Dorman, a recon sergeant named Carsey, and their RTO.
“Do we really need two RTOs, Captain?” Sergeant Carsey complained over breakfast at 0430 hours. “Couldn’t we replace that extra radio with a BAR or something? You know…a little more firepower?”
Pop snarled, “Why don’t I just bring a fucking tank along, too, Sergeant? Now hear me good: I want the second radio for backup. If we only got one—and it craps out—we’re stuck in the woods with our dicks in our hands. You read me?”
Carsey figured it might be better not to ask any more questions.
But Lieutenant Dorman, the FO, had one: “Are we really going behind Pukhan-san, sir?”
“That’s the plan, Lieutenant. Colonel Miles figures the reason we can’t get a bead on those chink guns is their flash is masked by that mountain. You looked at the map, right?”
“Yes, sir. I did.”
“Then you see that the valley north of Pukhan-san looks to be a pretty likely place to hide artillery batteries. And your own target acquisition people say the incoming rounds are at a pretty high trajectory, so they’re probably firing over something, right?”
“Yes, of course, sir.”
“So do you have any more questions, Lieutenant?”
Hesitantly, Dorman asked, “Well, sir…you do realize that once we’ve gone that far, we’ll be out of range of the one-oh-five batteries?”
“That’s why I asked for the one-five-fives to support us, Lieutenant. They’ll reach.”
“Very good, sir,” Dorman replied, “but you realize the rate of fire for the one-five-fives will be about half of what the one-oh-fives can shoot?”
“Kind of a moot point if we’re outta their range, ain’t it, Lieutenant?”
Dorman figured maybe it was time for him to stop asking questions, too. Captain Pop seemed to know exactly what he wanted from his artillerymen, to include what weapons they’d carry. Eyeing the lieutenant’s carbine, Pop said, “Get rid of that piece of shit M2. Same for your men, if they’re carrying one. Those things’ll let you down in the cold.” Patting the Thompson by his side, he added, “Carry a Tommy Gun. And if you can’t trade for one of them, get an M1. At least it’ll keep working.”
The order flustered Dorman for a few moments. Before he could recover, Papadakis piled on with, “You did range check your radio, right?”
“Ah…no, sir. I’m not sure how to go about it, considering we’re supposed to keep radio chatter to a minimum.”
“Commo checks ain’t chatter, Lieutenant. And they’re real simple. Just get on the command net and ask Third Battalion CP for a signal report. They’re at least two miles from here. If you’re banging in loud and clear with them, your radio’s working fine.”
Intent on these new directives, Dorman began to dash away, leaving his breakfast unfinished. Captain Pop stopped him and said, “You’d better eat that chow first. You’re gonna need the energy. It’ll be nothing but the C rations we carry once we move out.”
*****
As the rising sun began to backlight the eastern mountains, Captain Pop’s patrol set out on foot to begin their recon by fire mission. They’d parallel Highway 3, walking north in the semi-concealment of a treed ridgeline just west of the highway. Pop figured they’d reach the first waypoint—the village of Munemi, where a secondary road branched off to the north-northwest—in about ninety minutes.
He was only off by a little; it took one hundred minutes to get there. The village was deserted.
They began to follow the secondary road, still staying in the concealment of the woods off to the west. Carsey, the artillery sergeant, complained, “I don’t see why the hell we can’t stay on the roadway, sir. We’d make much better time.”
Papadakis replied, “And every chink up in the hills will be able to lay eyes on us. This is a recon mission, remember? The point is to not be seen…and to not get into fights with anyone.”
“I don’t know, sir,” Carsey said. “This still seems like a long walk to nowhere.”
“You’re right, Sergeant. It is a long walk, so save your breath. You’re gonna need it.”
In two more hours, they’d reach Wondang-ni, where Pop had arranged for the helicopter pickup later that afternoon. If there was still no visible trace of the CCF artillery once they were beyond that village, the recon by fire would begin along the valley separating Pukhan-san from the next mountain about four miles farther north.
If those guns are anywhere, it’s there, Papadakis told himself. I’d put money on it.
Oh, wait…I already did. I’m gonna take that ten bucks off Top tonight.
*****
Wondang-ni seemed deserted, too. Captain Pop called a halt so his men could rest and eat. He told Lieutenant Dorman, “Set up a perimeter while I go scout this place out. Don’t let any of these shacks ruin your fields of fire.”
Dorman asked, “Where are you going, sir?” He didn’t seem comfortable being placed in charge so suddenly.
“I’m gonna find that eggbeater a good place to land so we don’t have to go looking for one later. It looks a little congested around here. I don’t want to give that flyboy an excuse to abort the mission.” When that didn’t seem to comfort the lieutenant, Papadakis added, “Don’t worry. Just keep your eyes and ears open and you’ll do fine.”
He reached inside his parka, pulled out a candy bar, and handed it to Dorman. “Eat more chocolate,” Pop said. “You’ll feel better.”
On the west side of the village, Pop found a clearing with more than enough area for a helicopter to land. He found something else, too: Two sets of track marks, chiseled into the frozen ground, sitting parallel to each other…just like what two self-propelled artillery pieces would make if they’d been set up to fire from here.
He followed those track marks as they skirted Wondang-ni through the woods and joined the road just north of the village.
Top was right. These guns are moving around, he told himself.
And we must be getting pretty damn close to them now.
*****
By noon, beneath a lowering sky that threatened to unleash a fresh carpet of snow, Captain Pop’s patrol was three miles north of Wondang-ni. Looking down on the valley road from a low ridge, they could see the tell-tale remnants of vehicle tracks leading into the woods on the far side of the pavement. Someone had done a poor job trying to obliterate them.
; But if the Chinese gun carriages were still in those woods, they were perfectly concealed.
“They may be under camo nets or something,” Pop told Lieutenant Dorman. “That’d explain why the recon planes never see them. Everything on this terrain looks white or gray. How hard is that to blend into?”
Papadakis scanned the woods with binoculars once more, hoping for some clue of what might be hidden within. But he could see nothing, just dense stands of skeletal trees and snow.
“Lieutenant, it’s time to crank up the fire mission,” he told Dorman. “You know where we are, right?”
The FO pointed to a spot on the map. “We’re here…I think.”
“You think? Or you know?”
“I’m not exactly certain, sir. I don’t want to—”
“Hey, an FO’s supposed to be the navigator, Lieutenant…my navigator. So what’s it gonna be? Is that the spot or not?”
Dorman glanced at the map one more time, hoping, perhaps, that the answer would jump up and smack him between the eyes. But it remained just a piece of paper full of uncertainties. He thought about how it had been back in training, when map reading was just a simple game.
Out here, though, it could be a deadly one.
But he had to make a decision. Sucking his courage up, he drove his finger into the map again and replied, “Yes, sir. This is where we are.”
“I’m glad you think so, Lieutenant, because I agree with you. Now give me a round one hundred yards into that tree line.”
“They’ll impact pretty close to us, won’t they, sir?”
“Not if you’re right about where we are, Lieutenant. Just call the fucking mission.”
Combat- Parallel Lines Page 17