In Danger's Path

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Do I report in here? Or check in here?” Weston asked.

  The petty officer was not amused.

  “You got orders, Captain? Or dependents?”

  Weston handed over his orders.

  “You’re to report to Commander Bolemann,” the petty officer said. “Up the stairs, take the right corridor, sign over the door says ‘Commander Bolemann.’”

  The name rang a bell. Dr. Kister had told him about Bolemann in the Officers’ Club bar, with Janice.

  And Kister also said Bolemann enjoys his reputation as one mean sonofabitch.

  “Wonderful!”

  Commander Bolemann wasn’t in his office. A pharmacist’s mate first class told Weston that “the doctor’s in the dining room” and that he was sure he would like Weston to go there.

  “You’ll have no trouble finding him, Captain. Chubby fellow with a cane.”

  Weston had no trouble finding Commander Bolemann. The Commander with the Medical Corps insignia on his sleeves was sitting alone at a table by the door to the bar. For him, chubby was an understatement. And the cane was equally easy to spot. The handle was brass, cast in the shape of a naked lady.

  Commander Bolemann spoke first.

  “You must be Weston,” he said as Jim approached the table.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Kister said I should look for a guy who looks like a recruiting poster,” Bolemann said. “Are you a drinking man, Weston?”

  “I have been known to take a wee nip from time to time, sir.”

  “What I had in mind was a martini,” Bolemann said, pointed to a chair, and added: “Sit.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  A waiter appeared.

  “Two martinis,” Bolemann ordered. “Give the check to this gentleman.”

  Weston chuckled. There was a row of ribbons on Bolemann’s jacket, among them the Silver Star. He wondered how the doctor had come by that.

  “Ordinarily, I give Naval Aviators a wide berth. They’re dangerous,” Bolemann said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “The reason I am not standing at the bar in there,” Bolemann said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bar, “is a Naval Aviator.”

  “How is that, sir?”

  “First this idiot proved that he shouldn’t have been allowed to fly airplanes in the first place by running his Wildcat into the island on the Enterprise. Then he just sat there, wondering what to do next. When I went up on the wing root to suggest he exit the airplane, its fuel tanks chose that moment to explode. I spent a year learning to walk with a stiff leg, most of it where you just came from.”

  “I saw the…cane,” Weston replied, deciding just in time that Bolemann would prefer that to a reference to his Silver Star.

  “I need that to beat off all the women with uncontrollable urges for my body,” Bolemann said. “Anyway, when I was in Philadelphia, I got to be pals with Kister. I started out as one of his lunatics, of course, but finally he recognized me as a fellow psychiatrist. When they finally turned me loose, they sent me here. Any other questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And Kister told me all about you, and I mean all about you, including the unwarranted—or did he say ‘unwanted’?—attention you have been paying his favorite nurse, so we won’t have to waste any time on that. Unless you want to tell me about your heroic service in the Philippines?”

  “We ate a lot of pineapples,” Weston said. “That what you have in mind?”

  “Ah, here’s the booze,” Bolemann said as the waiter approached the table.

  After the waiter had left their drinks on the table, Bolemann lifted his glass. “Welcome to the Greenbrier, Weston.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  They touched glasses and Weston took a sip. Almost immediately, he could feel the alcohol. “Very nice,” he said.

  “What did you drink in the Philippines?”

  “We made our own beer. It was pretty bad, but not as bad as the rum we made.”

  “And did all the pineapples, the bad beer, and the even worse rum cause you to have nightmares, then or since you came home?”

  Weston suddenly understood that the question was not idle or bantering.

  “No,” he said seriously. “Over there, I used to dream about food. But no nightmares. There or here.”

  “They’re nothing to be embarrassed about,” Bolemann said. “I’ve been blown off the wing root of that goddamned Wildcat at least a hundred times, sometimes twice a night.”

  “Nothing like that, sir,” Weston said.

  Bolemann looked at him intently for a long moment.

  “While you are here, you will be counseled, once a week,” he said. “You just had Counseling Session Number One. Your other duties will consist of eating and availing yourself of healthy recreational activities. These run the gamut from A to B, but do not include trying to make out with either the waitresses or the wives of your fellow returned heroes. The food is free. So are the golf, swimming, hiking, et cetera. The booze you have to pay for yourself.”

  “What’s the pass system?”

  “Where do you want to go?” Bolemann asked, and then, before Weston had time to reply, went on: “You’ve got it bad for Kister’s nurse, do you?”

  “That sums it up nicely, sir.”

  “We can probably work something out,” Commander Bolemann said, and raised his martini glass again. “To love, Captain Weston.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Jim Weston said.

  [FOUR]

  The Foster Lafayette Hotel

  Washington, D.C.

  1945 24 February 1943

  In Washington, Senator Richardson K. Fowler (R.-Cal.) made his residence in a six-room corner suite on the eighth floor of the Foster Lafayette Hotel, half of whose windows offered an unimpeded view of the White House across Pennsylvania Avenue.

  Living in the Foster Lafayette provided benefits he wasn’t aware of before he moved in. Twenty-four-hour-a-day room service, for one thing. Sneaking people into the suite for confidential chats, for another.

  Thus, when the Foster Lafayette’s doorman alerted Fred, Fowler’s butler, that the Director of the Office of Strategic Services had arrived downstairs, Fred had the door to Senator Fowler’s apartment open when Donovan stepped off the elevator.

  Fred had also been instructed by Senator Fowler to serve the liquor at a glacially slow pace.

  “Good evening, Mr. Donovan,” Fred said. “Won’t you please come in, sir? The Senator and the General are in the library.” He took Donovan’s hat and topcoat and, carrying them in his arm, led Donovan to the library.

  Both Senator Fowler and General Pickering stood up when Fred opened the door. Pickering was in civilian clothing, an impeccably tailored double-breasted pinstriped suit.

  “Hello, Bill,” Fowler said, approaching him with his hand extended.

  “Senator,” Donovan said, and looked at Pickering. “General,” he said.

  Well, so much for my not embarrassing Colonel Wild Bill by not rubbing my general’s stars in his face.

  “Good to see you, Bill,” Pickering said, and walked to him to shake hands.

  “What can I fix you, Bill?” Fowler asked.

  “A glass of sparkling water, with a little lime, if you have it, please,” Donovan said.

  Is that because he doesn’t want a drink, or to set the stage for our sober confrontation?

  “Coming right up, sir,” Fred said.

  “We are at the bottomless well of Flem’s supply of Famous Grouse,” Fowler said. “He made sure the liquor stocks were sent ashore before he turned his passenger ships over to the Navy.”

  “I can also make you a deal on the silver from the firstclass dining rooms,” Pickering said.

  Donovan laughed dutifully.

  “You kept the merchant ships, didn’t you?” Donovan said. “What was that all about? Not that it’s any of my business.”

  “There will always be a need for merchantmen,�
�� Pickering said. “But when I came back from Hawaii, right after Pearl Harbor, we made port in Seattle, and I had a chance to see all the B-17s lined up at the Boeing plant. They can fly to Hawaii in hours. It seemed to me that after the war, people are not going to be willing to spend weeks on a ship—no matter how comfortable—when they can get where they have to go in hours.”

  “In other words, buy Boeing stock?”

  “I have. And Lockheed, after I saw drawings of a fourengine transport Howard Hughes wants to make that will carry fifty people across oceans at three hundred miles an hour.”

  “And what do you think of his wooden airplane? That will carry two hundred and fifty people? Or is it three fifty? Or so he says.”

  “I heard about that,” Pickering said. “I haven’t seen it, but my gut reaction would be to bet on Howard Hughes. I would be surprised if it doesn’t work as promised. But to answer your question, I was delighted to sell the government my passenger ships. I kept the merchantmen because I thought P & FE could operate them more efficiently than the Navy could.”

  “And you’re probably right,” Donovan said, then switched over to the real point of the meeting. “I have something to say to you, Pickering. And not because of the circumstances. I was wrong when I didn’t offer you an assistant directorship when you came to see me.”

  “We were not mutual admirers,” Pickering said. “If the shoe had been on my foot—”

  “The matter is now out of our hands, isn’t it?” Donovan said.

  “It would seem that way,” Pickering said.

  “Is this the appropriate time for me to say ‘welcome’? Or maybe, if an old soldier can get away with saying this, ‘welcome aboard’?”

  “Thank you very much, sir,” Pickering said, and offered his hand again.

  “You see?” Fowler said. “It’s like going to the dentist. Once you sit down in the chair and open your mouth, it’s not nearly as bad as you imagined.”

  “Jesus, Dick!” Pickering said, but smiled.

  “How’s your health?” Donovan asked.

  “Fine,” Pickering said. “I was pretty tired when I got off the airplane in San Diego, but then I spent four days at home, lifting nothing heavier than a fork.”

  “You’re ready to go to work?”

  “Yes,” Pickering said simply.

  “Good. There are things for you to do,” Donovan said. “But before I get into that, let me give you the lay of the land.”

  Pickering nodded.

  “Am I supposed to be privy to any of this?” Senator Fowler asked.

  “Legally, no,” Donovan said. “But on the other hand…”

  “I’m a United States senator?”

  “You were there, Dick, having dinner with the President, when he had—what was it he said? his ‘divine revelation’—about naming Pickering OSS Deputy Director for Pacific Operations. I don’t think that was a coincidence; he wanted you involved. It’s difficult knowing what Roosevelt is really thinking about anything, but maybe he’s hoping that if—when—Pickering becomes unhappy with something at the OSS, he’d rather have him talk it over with you before he takes it to him. I think it would be valuable if you heard this.”

  He calls Fowler “Dick” and me “Pickering.” Did that just happen? Or is it to remind me that he’s the boss?

  Fowler nodded.

  “Let’s clear the air about that,” Pickering said to Donovan. “I take my orders from you. If I decide that I cannot in good conscience obey my orders, I will tell you why, and resign.”

  Donovan looked into Pickering’s eyes. “Fair enough,” he said. “Then my orders to you are this: If you find yourself thinking of resignation, talk it over with the Senator before you come to me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pickering said.

  “And I will ask you, Senator, not to share anything with your colleagues.”

  “Of course, not,” Fowler said.

  “There is an organizational chart at the OSS,” Donovan said. “And like most organizational charts, it’s primarily eyewash. The basic setup is this: the Deputy Director, Administration, functions as my chief of staff. If you don’t like what you hear from him, come to me.”

  Pickering nodded.

  “There is a Deputy Director, Operations, and Deputy Directors, European, Western Hemisphere, and now Pacific…you. While you and the other area Deputy Directors are not subordinate to the Deputy Director, Administration, when he speaks, he’s almost always speaking for me.”

  Pickering nodded again. “Okay,” he said.

  “Come by the office tomorrow. I’ll introduce you to everybody.”

  “Fine. What time?”

  “Nine?”

  “Fine.”

  “How much do you know about the people—the Americans—who are supposed to be in the Gobi Desert?”

  “One of Admiral Nimitz’s intelligence officers briefed me in Pearl Harbor….”

  “Nimitz had you briefed on the Gobi Desert operation?” Donovan asked.

  To judge by his eyes, Pickering decided, he doesn’t like that.

  “Yes, he did,” Pickering replied evenly.

  “Did he give any reason for bringing you in on that problem?”

  My conversation with Admiral Nimitz was obviously confidential. So what do I do? Break that confidence? Or start off my armistice with Donovan by lying to him?

  If I did that, he would sooner or later find out anyway.

  And by now he probably has heard what Nimitz asked Admiral Leahy to do.

  “He told me that he had recommended to Admiral Leahy that the OSS be given the responsibility for establishing contact with the people in the Gobi, and that it was his recommendation that I be given responsibility for the operation.”

  Donovan looked at Pickering for a long moment without speaking.

  The sonofabitch is trying to make up his mind whether I’m lying or telling the truth!

  “The Joint Chiefs,” Donovan said finally, “which of course means Admiral Leahy, gave the OSS the mission of establishing contact with these people. Nothing was said about you.”

  “Then you didn’t know about Admiral Nimitz’s recommendation?” Pickering asked, surprised.

  “No, but I did know that Nimitz is one of your admirers, and that he knew all about your Philippine operation—and, of course, your appointment to the OSS—so I was a little surprised that your name didn’t come up in Phase One.”

  “Phase One?” Pickering asked, not understanding.

  “Phase One was a little preliminary work in the OSS, pending my return to Washington. My Deputy Director, Administration, had a memo waiting for me recommending that you be given the operation, giving as his reasons your successful Philippine operation and your position as Deputy Director, Pacific.”

  “One doesn’t ordinarily consider the Gobi Desert to be in the Pacific,” Pickering said.

  Donovan didn’t respond to the comment.

  “My Deputy Director, Operations, sent me a memo stating that should your name come up in connection with the Gobi operation, he wanted to go on record early on as being opposed to it. He offered three reasons: First, the point you just made—one doesn’t think of the Gobi as being in the Pacific. Second, it would be unfair to you, inasmuch as you have little knowledge of the OSS. And finally, in his view, applying your knowledge of the Pacific Ocean and of shipping generally could be put to more important use in the OSS than running what will be a commando/parachutist covert operation.”

  “You understand, Bill…”

  Donovan held up his hand to cut him off.

  “Phase Two occurred last night, across the street,” Donovan said, gesturing through the window toward the White House. “Where I was honored to break bread with the Commander in Chief and his Chief of Staff. Shortly before the apple cobbler, Roosevelt looked at me, and said—in words to this effect, ‘In addition to other things he might be doing for you, Admiral Leahy thinks that Fleming Pickering should command the operation to get a radio station op
erating in the Gobi Desert. Do you have any problem with that?’ Or, as I said, words to that effect.”

  “And what did you reply to the Commander in Chief?” Senator Fowler asked, chuckling.

  “I said the idea had already been proposed to me by one of my deputy directors, and I was delighted General Pickering’s appointment would please Admiral Leahy.”

  “Franklin does that so well.” Fowler chuckled. “Makes a suggestion that is impossible to refuse.”

  “You didn’t say what you had decided to do before the President made his ‘suggestion,’” Pickering said.

  “No. I guess I didn’t,” Donovan said. “Water under the dam anyway, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Pickering said.

  “Tell me about your briefing from Admiral Nimitz,” Donovan said.

  “His intelligence officer, or at least one of them—”

  “Groscher? Captain Groscher?” Donovan interrupted.

  “Yeah.”

  “Groscher knows as much about the Americans in the Gobi as anybody,” Donovan said. “What did he have to say?”

  “Nothing I would suppose that you don’t know. Much of it was new to me. There doesn’t seem to be any question about whether the weather station is needed, just who will get it up and running.”

  “And now we know, don’t we?”

  “It’s none of my business, but I think Nimitz and Leahy are right. Flem has a way of getting things done,” Senator Fowler said.

  Pickering had the feeling Donovan could have happily done without Fowler’s comment.

  “We’ll talk about this tomorrow at the office,” he said.

  “Okay,” Pickering said.

  “The President gave you authority to bring anybody you want along with you, in addition to your people already in Australia. Have you given that any thought?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to have the Office of Management Analysis,” Donovan said. “Lock, stock, and barrel. Have you considered that?”

  “Frank Knox would not stand still for that,” Senator Fowler said, thinking out loud.

  “The President gives the orders,” Donovan said. “Except, of course, to senators.”

  It didn’t take long before we came to serious disagreement, did it? Pickering thought. Well, to hell with being polite. Get it on the table.