In Danger's Path

by W. E. B Griffin

  Colonel Albright was not at all surprised to pick up his telephone and hear ol’ Cover My Ass Adamson’s familiar voice on the line.

  “Can you step in here a minute, Augie? I think we need to talk about China Clipper.”

  “Be right there, sir.”

  “Bring the China Clipper Opplan with you, please, Augie.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Two minutes later, Colonel Albright walked into General Adamson’s office and saluted. “Good morning, sir,” he said.

  “Help yourself to some coffee,” the General said, holding up his own mug to show that he already had his, “and then tell me how it’s going.”

  Colonel Albright laid Opplan China Clipper on General Adamson’s desk, then helped himself to a cup of coffee.

  “Where would you like me to start, General?”

  “At the beginning. I want every t crossed, and every i dotted.”

  “Opplan China Clipper is sort of a carbon copy of Opplan London Fog,” Albright began, “suitably modified.”

  Adamson nodded. London Fog, the plan to transport two of the MAGIC devices to London, had gone off without any problems.

  “I had people come up from Monmouth,” Colonel Albright went on. “They checked out two of the devices in the vault. When they were finished, I checked them out personally. They are now in crates marked “Personnel Records, Not To Be Opened Without The Specific Written Permission of the Adjutant General.”

  “And the thermite grenades?”

  “They will be put in place once the crates are loaded aboard the C-46 at Newark Airport. Same system that we used to send the devices to London, except that the airplane will be a C-46 instead of a B-17.”

  “By whom?”

  “I offered General Pickering four CIC agents to handle that.” The Counterintelligence Corps. “They’d go all the way to Chungking with the devices. Though Pickering initially seemed willing to go along with that, Colonel Banning thought that would unnecessarily complicate things, and Pickering went along with him.”

  “Colonel Banning’s giving you trouble?”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that, sir.”

  Albright really liked Ed Banning. For one thing, he was a professional, just as Albright was. For another, he had checked Banning out when his name had been ordered onto the MAGIC list. According to Fritz Rickabee, Banning was as good as they came, and Hon Song Do in Australia had said the same thing.

  He had been happy to be of service to Banning when Rickabee had called to tell him that Banning was going to Monmouth to find suitable shortwave radios for his current operation and to ask if he had anyone there who could help Banning with that. He himself had arranged to be at Monmouth when Banning got there.

  “That’s what it sounds like, Augie,” General Adamson said. “What does Banning have against CIC agents?”

  “Sir, Colonel Banning made the point that you don’t have to be a CIC agent to pull the pin on a thermite grenade, and I couldn’t argue with that.”

  “I want CIC agents to put the devices aboard the airplane at Newark,” General Adamson said. “Pickering can sign for them there.”

  “General Pickering’s not going with the devices,” Albright said. “He’s going the long way around, via Pearl Harbor and Brisbane.”

  “He tell you why?”

  Albright shook his head, “no.”

  “Who will sign for the devices?”

  “Colonel Banning, sir. And he will have responsibility for them in Chungking.”

  “Then Banning can sign for the devices after the CIC puts them on the airplane.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your Opplan, Augie…” General Adamson opened the Opplan and found the applicable paragraph before proceeding. “…says that the devices, when not in a secure vault, will never be out of the sight of at least one person with a MAGIC clearance. Colonel Banning apparently enjoys the confidence of General Pickering, but what about these other two? Lieutenant Easterbrook and Master Gunner Rutterman?”

  Meaning, of course, that you have learned that you don’t want to fuck with Pickering. You may outrank him, but the President doesn’t call you by your first name.

  “I’m sure they also enjoy General Pickering’s confidence, sir.”

  “That’s not what I mean, Augie. For one thing, I happen to know that until very recently, Rutterman was an enlisted man who guarded the door at Colonel Rickabee’s place of business.”

  “He comes highly recommended by General Rickabee, sir, and he’s been an alternate MAGIC cryptographer for some time.”

  General Adamson grunted. “I happened to be out at the OSS training with the OSS Deputy Director for Administration, Augie, and he pointed out Lieutenant Easterbrook to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve seen him, of course?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then wouldn’t you agree that he’s about nineteen years old, and looks like he belongs in high school?”

  “Yes, sir, he looks very young. But on the other hand, he won the Silver Star on Bloody Ridge on Guadalcanal with the Second Raider Battalion.”

  “That sort of service really doesn’t have much relevance, wouldn’t you say, Augie, with protection of a MAGIC device?”

  “I suppose not, sir. But may I point out, sir, there is nothing we can do about it?”

  “I’d really like to know where the hell Pickering got Lieutenant Easterbrook,” General Adamson said. “Presumably, he has been satisfactorily trained in MAGIC device operation?”

  “I checked him out myself, sir.”

  And he’s a nice, really bright, kid. Unfortunately, ol’ Cover My Ass is right. He is just a kid.

  “Colonel Banning told me, sir, that General Pickering is flying another man, Lieutenant Moore, John M., who is a MAGIC cryptographer slash analyst, from Australia to Chungking. I am not concerned, sir, about operation of the Special Channel once it’s in place.”

  “The operative words in that sentence, Augie, are ‘once it’s in place.’ Our responsibility, your responsibility, is transporting the MAGIC devices to Chungking.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  General Adamson checked the Opplan again.

  “Frankly, I’m concerned about these two,” he said, pointing to a list of names. “Captain McCoy, Kenneth R., and Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman, Ernest W. What do we know about them?”

  “They both enjoy the confidence of General Pickering and Colonel Banning, sir, and neither of them has a MAGIC clearance.”

  “The Deputy Director tells me that McCoy was commissioned from the ranks, where he was known as ‘Killer McCoy’ for his proclivity for stabbing people in drunken brawls. And the sergeant has a room-temperature IQ.”

  He also speaks four or five languages, including two kinds of Chinese and Russian, but I don’t think you want to hear about that.

  “They’re an interesting pair, sir,” Albright said.

  “In other words, you would judge that, if necessary, either of them could pull the pin on a thermite grenade?”

  And if it was a dud, Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman could chew both devices up and spit out tacks.

  “Yes, sir,” Albright said.

  General Adamson paused thoughtfully before asking, “What are you going to tell them about the ‘personnel records’ crates?”

  “Nothing, sir, of course.”

  “You don’t think they’ll be curious?”

  Frankly, I would be surprised if McCoy doesn’t have a damned good idea of what’s in them. He’s very tight with Banning, and he’s a very bright young fellow.

  “No, sir.”

  “You don’t think Colonel Banning has told them?” General Adamson asked. “Or perhaps even General Pickering?”

  “I think that is highly unlikely, sir.”

  “I have a reason for asking this question, Augie,” General Adamson said. “So let me paraphrase. You think it over before answering. If it should come to pass that Captain McCoy or Sergeant Zimmerman we
re to fall into the hands of the enemy, do you think either of them knows, or has guessed, enough about MAGIC to compromise it?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Albright said. “But I think it’s highly unlikely.”

  That’s not true. McCoy probably knows damned well what’s in those crates, and if he does, Zimmerman probably does, too. But what he’s after from me is some reason he can get either McCoy or Zimmerman kicked off this operation. I don’t know what that’s all about, but I’ll have no part of it.

  Am I endangering MAGIC because of my contempt for this man? I hope not. I don’t think so. What I do know is if I could have anybody I wanted to guard the devices, I’d pick this Marine mustang captain and his “room-temperature-IQ” sergeant.

  General Adamson grunted, and thought the matter over for a full thirty seconds before going on: “I’m sure Pickering and Banning have asked themselves the same question,” he said, “and decided that they don’t know enough about MAGIC to pose a risk to it in case of capture. But I don’t want you, Augie, to even hint about what those crates contain.”

  “No, sir,” Colonel Albright replied, very formally. “Is there any reason, in the General’s opinion, why I should know why the General raised that question?”

  General Adamson thought the question over before deciding to tell him, finally concluding that he might as well, because he was going to find out anyway. Albright spent a good deal of time in the Navy Communications facility where the MAGIC device was in operation. No one there would—or should—question his right to read anything being encrypted or decrypted, including Special Channel material that would be coming to and from General Pickering. Albright might not have paid attention to it before, but now that he was curious about this whole business, he would be looking for something, and would find it.

  “As you know, I’ve become rather friendly with the Deputy Director for Administration at the OSS,” General Adamson said.

  Colonel Albright had first met the OSS Deputy Director (Administration)—whom he had immediately disliked—when he had been ordered to make MAGIC material available to OSS Director Donovan. He had dealt with him again—and learned to like him even less—when he had been ordered to provide a MAGIC device, for training purposes, to the OSS training camp in Maryland.

  The MAGIC device at the Congressional Country Club had nothing to do with MAGIC material being exchanged between Hawaii, Brisbane, and Washington. It was instead shown to OSS agents who were to be sent into Europe. If they came across such a device, they all had orders to make every effort to steal it. The order had come from Admiral Leahy, but it had originated with Albright, who thought it entirely likely the Germans had come up with improvements to their devices that he wanted to know about.

  That figures, Colonel Albright thought. You’re two of a kind. Two asshole paper pushers, highly skilled in protecting your own asses.

  “You know what I’m talking about, Augie. He hears things, and passes them on to me, and I hear things….”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This is one of those times when it is easier to go along than to say no, according to my friend. Admiral Leahy didn’t want to say no to Admiral Nimitz; the President didn’t want to say no to Admiral Leahy; and OSS Director Donovan, of course, couldn’t say no to either the President or Admiral Leahy.”

  “No about what, sir?”

  “General Pickering has been charged with setting up a Navy weather station in the Gobi Desert.”

  I suppose it’s dishonest of me not to tell him that Banning told me all about Operation Gobi when he went to Monmouth to pick radios for the operation.

  But then, Banning wasn’t simply running off at themouth. He needed my help to get radios and decided (a) that if Fritz Rickabee trusts me, he could trust me; and (b) authority or not, I had a bona fide Need To Know. I’m not going to get him in trouble because of that.

  “In the Gobi Desert?”

  “From what I’ve heard about this operation, it’s really out of left field. Your two Marines are going to try to make their way to the Gobi Desert…masquerading as members of a camel caravan! The idea is to establish contact with a group of Americans supposedly wandering around in there, to be followed by the flying in of a weather station.”

  “That sounds like a tough operation, sir.”

  “My friend tells me his personal assessment of the chances of success range from one in a thousand to none.”

  “It sounds pretty—”

  “It sounds suicidal to me,” General Adamson said. “Not to mention the waste of assets that could better be expended elsewhere. General Pickering’s reason for taking the long way around to Chungking is to stop off at Pearl Harbor to discuss getting a submarine for Operation Gobi. The submarine is to rendezvous in the Yellow Sea a hundred miles off the China coast with a couple of Catalinas. After being refueled by the submarine, the airplanes will then fly across China and land in the Gobi Desert. They will not fly out again, of course. The distances are too great.”

  “It does sound more than a little risky, sir.”

  “Risky’s not the word for it. Insanity would be more accurate.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So it behooves you and me, Augie, in case Operation Gobi is not successful, to make sure no one can point a finger at us and say that we somehow dropped the ball.”

  You don’t give a damn about McCoy and Zimmerman, or the people who will fly the airplanes on a one-way mission, or the sailors trying to refuel airplanes on the high seas in the middle of winter. All you’re worried about is covering your own ass.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Every t crossed, Augie, a dot over every i.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  General Adamson dropped his eyes to Opplan China Clipper.

  “Your Opplan states that the devices will be guarded by individuals who have qualified within the last six months with the weapon with which they will be armed. I presume you checked that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “That paragraph came from London Fog. I found out that two of the CIC agents we used there were ex-cops who had gone directly into the CIC. I learned too late to do anything about it that neither of them had ever fired a Thompson submachine gun.”

  “What’s that got to do with this?”

  “All of these people, including Colonel Banning, are (a) Marines and (b) have seen combat at least once. They know all about weapons.”

  “Indulge me, Augie. When you go out there today, make sure they qualify with whatever weapons they are going to have with them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have another copy of this?” General Adamson asked, tapping Opplan China Clipper with his fingers.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Leave this one with me, then, please, Augie. I’ll take a close look at it, and if I come up with something, I’ll give you a ring out there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  [TWO]

  The Congressional Country Club

  Bethesda, Maryland

  0905 15 March 1943

  Captain Kenneth R. McCoy was wearing a white button-down-collar shirt, no necktie, a gray V-necked woolen sweater, gray flannel slacks, and a week’s growth of beard when he opened the door of his room and found Harry W. Rutterman, USMC—closely shaven, and immaculately attired in a new uniform—standing in the corridor.

  “Hey, Harry,” McCoy said. “Come on in. What’s up?”

  “Banning just called. He’s on his way out here with Colonel Albright, and he told me to make sure everybody was in the billiards room at ten. Where’s the gunny?”

  “In the armory,” McCoy replied. “Banning say what’s going on?”

  “No,” Rutterman said simply. He looked around the room and asked: “What the hell are you doing?”

  The sitting room of the two room suite was furnished with a library table and a desk. Both were covered with books and maps.

  “You mean you can’t tell?” McCoy said.
“I’m studying for sophomore geography. What do you want to know about Mongolia?” He leaned over the library table and read, “‘The average elevation is fifty-one hundred feet.’ How about that? You want to know what goes on there? ‘They’—they being the Khalkha Mongols, who speak a language called Khalkha Mongolian—‘spend their time grazing sheep, goats, cattle, horses, yaks’—what the hell a yak is, I have no idea—‘and of course, camels.’”

  “Fascinating!” Rutterman said. “Can I have some of that coffee?”

  “Help yourself,” McCoy said. “How’s the Easterbunny doing?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Learning how to operate that machine I’m not supposed to know about. How’s he doing?”

  “Come on, McCoy, you know I can’t talk about that.”

  “Okay. Sorry. Changing the subject: The only camel I have ever seen up close was in a circus in Philadelphia when I was a kid. The sonofabitch looked me right in the eye and spit in my face.”

  “No shit?” Rutterman chuckled.

  “Would I lie to you, Harry?”

  “Yes, you would, McCoy,” Rutterman said, and held up a coffee cup. “You want some of this?”

  “Please,” McCoy said. “I shit you not, Harry. That goddamned animal leaned down to me—I thought he wanted me to pet him, or rub his ears—and when he was about five feet away, he hit me with a goober that was probably a quart.”

  Rutterman laughed. “What did you do?”

  “What do you mean, what did I do? Nothing. I was twelve years old. What the hell could I do? But I’ll tell you this, I have never smoked Camel cigarettes.”

  Rutterman chuckled, then asked, “What’s Zimmerman doing in the armory?”

  “He went nosing around and found they’ve got all sorts of weapons. He found some Chinese copies of Mauser Broomhandle machine pistols—they fire that Luger nine-millimeter Parabellum cartridge—and he’s working them over to make sure they shoot.”

  “What’s that all about?”

  “Zimmerman says that’s what the camel drivers carry, and he wants to look like a camel driver.”

  At ten minutes to ten, Gunnery Sergeant Ernest W. Zimmerman, USMC, walked into the billiards room of the Congressional Country Club. He was wearing a brown sport coat, brown gabardine trousers, and a yellow shirt with a polka dot (white on blue) necktie. He smelled of bore cleaner and Hoppe’s #9. “I was going to test-fire them Broomhandles,” he announced somewhat indignantly.