In Danger's Path

by W. E. B Griffin

  “I want to see you before you actually leave, Jim,” Kister said.

  “Yes, sir. And thanks, Commander.”

  “I think of myself as Cupid’s Little Helper,” Kister said.

  [FIVE]

  The Lobby Bar

  The Benjamin Franklin Hotel

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  0845 25 March 1943

  “Hi, honey,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Janice Hardison, NNC, USNR, said to Captain James B. Weston, USMC, as she slid onto the barstool beside him. She kissed him, chastely.

  “My God, you’re beautiful!”

  “How many of those have you had?” she asked, nodding at the glass in his hand.

  “This is the second,” he said.

  “Since 1600?” she challenged.

  “I took in a movie,” he said.

  “What did you see?”

  “Tyrone Power,” he said. “A Yank in the Royal Air Force. He doesn’t make a very convincing pilot.”

  She laughed. “But he is,” she said. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Tyrone Power is a pilot. He’s a Marine Aviator.”

  “No shit?” Weston exclaimed, truly astonished. Then he heard what he had said. “Sorry.”

  “No shit,” she confirmed, then blushed when she realized the approaching bartender had heard her.

  God, she’s adorable when she blushes.

  “Nothing for me, thank you,” Janice said to the bartender. “I won’t be staying.”

  “I don’t have to finish this,” Weston offered. “Where are we going?”

  “You’re staying. I’m going,” Janice said, then waited for the bartender to move down the bar before continuing. “I’ve got a present for you,” she said. “Actually two.”

  “I didn’t get you anything,” he said.

  She went into her purse and then pressed something into his hand. It was a hotel key.

  “Jesus!” Jim said.

  Janice blushed again.

  “Stay here. Finish your drink slowly. Give me ten minutes.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “Nice to see you again, Captain,” Janice said, loudly enough so that the bartender could hear her. Then she slid off the stool and walked out of the bar into the lobby.

  Weston watched her go, then turned back to the bar. The bartender was there.

  “Very nice,” the bartender said. “Sorry you struck out.”

  “The story of my life,” Weston said.

  “You want another one of those?”

  “One more,” Weston said. “And then I’ll have to go.”

  “I liked the second present better than the first,” Captain Weston said to Lieutenant Hardison. “But of course without the first, I wouldn’t have gotten the second, would I?”

  They were in one of the two single beds in Room 416. Weston’s uniform and the white negligee Janice had been wearing when he came into the room were on the other bed.

  “That wasn’t a present,” Janice said. “Except maybe from God. That’s what two people do when they’re in love.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “You said ‘two presents.’”

  “You get the second present in about two weeks,” Janice said.

  “In two weeks, I will be in Pensacola, Florida,” he said.

  More than likely in bed with another nice beautiful young girl who thinks she’s in love with me. And vice versa.

  “And so will I be,” Janice said.

  “What?”

  “Dr. Kister arranged it,” she said. “The Navy Hospital at Pensacola had a requirement for a psychiatric nurse, and Dr. Kister got the billet for me.”

  “Wonderful!” Captain Weston said.

  [SIX]

  Naval Air Transport Command Terminal

  Pearl Harbor, Oahu, Territory of Hawaii

  1615 26 March 1943

  The PBY-5A Catalina slowly and carefully approached the ramp until the pilot felt the wheels touch. Then, as the engines revved just slightly, the amphibious aircraft rose from the water and taxied onto the concrete parking area.

  The area had been famous right after December 7, 1941, when photographs showing it littered with smashed and burning aircraft had been on the front pages of newspapers around the world. Many of the aircraft had been Catalinas.

  There was still some evidence of that mess, Major Homer C. Dillon, USMC, had thought, waiting for this PBY5A to arrive. The hangars were scarred where flames and smoke had reached them, and many of the windows in the hangars were still broken.

  What did the Navy do with all the wrecked airplanes? he had wondered idly. Try to salvage what they could, maybe save the metal to be melted down? Or just load them onto a barge, take them offshore, and push them over the side?

  A team of white hats under the supervision of a chief began to hose down the Catalina’s fuselage and landing gear even before the crew climbed out of the airplane.

  The first person off it was Chief Carpenter’s Mate Peter T. McGuire, USNR, who was wearing a mussed khaki uniform with a white cap cover. Even Major Dillon recognized that that made him out of uniform.

  Chief McGuire immediately saw Major Dillon standing alongside a gray Navy Plymouth staff car. Beside him was a tall, good-looking Navy officer in impeccable whites, with some kind of a gold rope hanging from his shoulder. McGuire wondered what the hell that was.

  The driver of the staff car started toward him.

  “Your gear, Chief?”

  “Oh, God, I forgot about it,” McGuire said. “It’s on that goddamned airplane.”

  “I’ll get it for you, Chief,” the white hat said.

  “No, I’ll get it.”

  “I don’t mind,” the white hat said.

  “I puked all over it,” Chief McGuire said. “I’ll get it.”

  He went back to the Catalina. As he reached it, a fellow chief, this one a chief aviation pilot with the wings of a Naval Aviator on his shirt, appeared in the fuselage bubble gingerly holding a canvas suitcase in his fingers.

  “This what you’re looking for, Chief?” he inquired with infinite disgust, then dropped it onto the tarmac.

  “Hey, buddy, I’m really sorry,” McGuire said, sounding as if he meant it. “It wasn’t as if I was at the sauce or something. Every time I get in an airplane, I get sick.”

  “A word of wisdom, Chief,” the chief aviation pilot said. “Don’t get into airplanes.”

  McGuire picked up the well-stuffed canvas suitcase and, holding it at arm’s length, walked to Dillon and the Navy officer.

  “Welcome to beautiful Hawaii, Pete,” Dillon said. “What’s with the suitcase?”

  Chief McGuire finally realized he was supposed to salute, dropped the bag to the tarmac, and saluted.

  “I threw up on the airplane,” McGuire said. “I threw up a lot on the airplane. A couple of times it didn’t make the bucket they gave me.” He paused a moment, then added: “Goddamn you, Jake, you know I can’t fly!”

  “Mr. Lewis, may I introduce Chief Petty Officer McGuire?” Jake said. “Peter, this is Lieutenant Chambers Lewis.”

  McGuire saluted again and put out his hand. “I used to say, ‘any friend of Jake’s,’ but now I’m not so sure,” he said. “I used to think the bastard was a friend of mine.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Chief,” Lewis said.

  “Christ, I can smell the bag from here,” Dillon said. “What are we going to do with it?”

  “Paul,” Lewis said to the driver, “is there a piece of line in the trunk? Or can you get one? Let’s tie the chief’s luggage to the bumper. Air it out on the way to Muku-Muku.”

  “I think the Admiral would like that, sir,” the driver said, smiling, and went into the trunk.

  Jake Dillon leaned forward toward Chief McGuire and sniffed.

  “Him, too?” Lieutenant Lewis said. “I’m not sure he’d fit on the bumper.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Chief McGuire asked.

  “Why don’
t you help him tie your bag to the bumper and then get in the front seat?” Jake ordered.

  “Where the hell are we going, anyhow?” Chief McGuire asked.

  “Muku-Muku,” Jake replied.

  “What is that, Hawaiian?” McGuire asked, fascinated.

  “Yes it is,” Dillon replied, straight-faced. “It means ‘Place of Hot Waters.’ You need a shower, Pete.”

  “Goddamn right I do,” Chief McGuire agreed.

  They drove up to Muku-Muku as Master Gunner Stefan Oblensky, USMC, was walking up the wide stairs to the verandah. He turned and went back down the stairs.

  Although Jake was personally glad to see Big Steve, he was sorry he was there right now. Operation Gobi was classified, and Big Steve did not have the Need To Know.

  Big Steve saluted, and Jake and Lewis returned the salute.

  “What’s with the suitcase?” Big Steve asked.

  “We had a little airsickness,” Jake said.

  Chief McGuire stepped out of the front seat. “I threw up all the way from Espíritu Santo,” he announced.

  “I’m Steve Oblensky,” Big Steve announced. “My wife’s inside. She probably has something that’ll help.”

  “Help what?” McGuire asked.

  “She’s a nurse,” Big Steve said. “You’re sick, right?”

  “Not since I got off that fucking airplane I’m not.”

  As if on cue, Commander Florence Kocharski, NC, USN, attired in a billowing Muumuu, descended the steps from the veranda. “Watch your goddamn mouth around here, Chief!” she said firmly.

  Chief McGuire looked at Commander Kocharski in confusion.

  “Good afternoon, Commander,” Dillon said. “I was just explaining to Mr. Oblensky that Chief McGuire has a little airsickness problem.”

  “Every time I get in one and they tilt it,” McGuire confirmed, and demonstrated with his hand what he meant by tilt, “I get sick.”

  “They gave him a bucket on the Catalina, Commander,” Lieutenant Lewis said. “But he apparently didn’t always make the bucket, so to speak.”

  “I’m really embarrassed about that,” McGuire said. “What I really should have done with my clothes was deep them.”

  “What?” Big Steve asked, confused.

  “Deep them,” McGuire repeated. “You know, just throw them in the water.”

  “I think the Chief means ‘deep-six them,’” Chambers Lewis said, not unkindly, but smiling. “As in ‘over the side.’”

  “I guess,” McGuire said agreeably.

  “Chief, why don’t you tell Commander Kocharski and Mr. Oblensky how long you have been in the Navy?” Dillon suggested.

  McGuire thought carefully before replying: “It will be nine months the first of April.”

  “Nine months? How the hell did you get to be a chief in nine months?” Commander Kocharski asked in disbelief.

  “I signed up as a chief,” McGuire said. “Why do they call you ‘Commander’?”

  “Because I happen to be a commander,” Flo said.

  “I’ll be damned!” McGuire said wonderingly.

  “How many times in the last eight hours have you been nauseous?” Flo asked.

  “Jesus, I don’t know,” McGuire said. “Eight, ten times. Maybe more. I didn’t count.”

  “You’re probably dehydrated,” Flo said. “We’ll get some liquid into you.” She turned to the other men. “You may think this is funny, but it’s not. Get those goddamned smirks off your faces.”

  Chief McGuire looked at Commander Kocharski through eyes filled with gratitude.

  Forty-five minutes later, Captain Charles M. Galloway, USMCR, arrived at Muku-Muku. By then Chief Petty Officer Peter McGuire, USNR, was well along on the road to rehydration: At Commander Kocharski’s order, he had consumed over a quart of freshly prepared pineapple juice, mixed three-to-one with soda water to prevent further upsetting his stomach, and he was now working on his second bottle of beer. He had also had a shower and was wearing a clean khaki uniform, which Commander Kocharski had provided for him from her husband’s closet.

  “Charley,” Commander Kocharski made the introductions, “Chief Peter McGuire, a friend of Jake’s. Pete, Captain Charles Galloway, skipper of VMF-229, and Big Steve’s boss man.”

  Galloway was in his late twenties, slim, deeply tanned, and lanky. His light brown hair was just long enough to part. The two men shook hands, then Charley collapsed into one of the upholstered rattan chairs on the patio and helped himself to a bottle of beer from an ice-filled bucket. “What kind of a chief, Chief?” he inquired politely.

  “Carpenter’s mate.”

  “That make you a Seabee?” Galloway asked.

  “With nine months in the Navy,” Big Steve volunteered, which earned him a dirty look not only from Commander Kocharski but from Galloway himself.

  “Yes, sir,” Pete replied.

  “Well, that’s two brownie points,” Galloway said. “A Seabee and a friend of Jake’s. Welcome to Muku-Muku.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Just passing through Pearl?” Galloway asked.

  “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, Captain,” McGuire said.

  “Really?” Charley replied, chuckling.

  “I was minding my own business on Espíritu Santo—”

  “You’re with the Third Seabees?” Charley interrupted.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know anything about Auxiliary Field Two? How long is it going to be out of operation?”

  “That’s what I was doing, Captain. That’s what I still would be doing if this so-called friend of mine hadn’t sent for me.” McGuire pointed at Jake Dillon.

  “Really?” Galloway asked.

  “I’d just finished pulling the pierced steel planking,” McGuire explained, “when some admiral shows up and asks if I know Jake Dillon. I should have said no.”

  “But you said yes, right?” Galloway asked, smiling.

  “And the next thing I know, I’m on a goddamned airplane here—sick every goddamned mile of the way.”

  “Pete is unusually sensitive to change of attitude,” Commander Kocharski said. “Possibly it has to do with his inner ear, but there are other—”

  “Which means what, Flo?” Charley interrupted.

  “He gets sick on airplanes,” Big Steve said.

  “And stays sick,” McGuire confirmed.

  “I knew a sergeant major at Quantico like that,” Galloway said. “He used to get sick before we finished the climb-out. Isn’t there anything that can be done?”

  Commander Kocharski hesitated, just perceptibly.

  “Yes, there is,” she said. “There’s a pill. A little yellow pill. I’ll get some at the hospital tomorrow.”

  “That’s very nice of you, Commander,” Chief McGuire said. “But don’t bother. I am never ever again going to get on an airplane. Alive.”

  “So tell me, Jake,” Galloway asked, smiling, “Why did the chief have to leave Espíritu Santo, where he was doing something useful, and come here? Fly here?”

  Major Dillon and Lieutenant Lewis exchanged looks.

  “Yeah, Jake, what the hell is going on?” McGuire asked.

  “It’s classified,” Jake said.

  “What the hell does that mean? ‘Classified’?” McGuire asked.

  “‘Classified’?” Galloway parroted.

  “We’re doing a job for Flem Pickering,” Dillon said.

  “I don’t understand that either,” McGuire said.

  “A job involving a submarine and a Catalina rendezvousing at sea?” Galloway asked.

  “Where did you hear that, Charley?” Lieutenant Lewis asked.

  “At the O Club bar at Ewa,” Charley said.

  “Tell me exactly, Charley,” Lewis said softly.

  There was something in Lewis’s voice that told Galloway he had touched a nerve. He shrugged and provided the detail. “A Catalina sat down with radio trouble. He couldn’t talk to the tower at Pearl, so he landed at Ewa be
cause there’s less traffic. And then Big Steve told him we couldn’t fix the radios until the next day. So he went to the club, had a couple of drinks, and told everybody, including me, what a lousy day he had had. First he had to take off before zero dark hundred and fly out over the ocean. Then he landed and met a submarine, and after fucking—excuse me, Flo—fiddling around for an hour or so, which included one of his Airedales falling off the wing into the sea, the morons on the submarine—one of them an admiral’s aide and the other a Marine major—finally realized what he could have told them all along, that you have a hell of a lot of trouble running a half-inch fuel line across the high seas from a submarine to a Catalina.”

  “Oh, shit,” Jake Dillon said.

  “I’ll have his ass,” Lewis said furiously. “Excuse me, Flo.”

  Commander Kocharski made a gesture with her hand showing the apology was readily accepted.

  “I don’t want to get that pilot in trouble,” Galloway said.

  “He was told what we were doing was secret and to keep his mouth shut. He’s in trouble and he deserves to be,” Lewis said coldly. “Damn it!”

  “I don’t know what anybody’s talking about,” Chief McGuire complained.

  “You’re not supposed to, Pete,” Commander Kocharski said. “That’s what ‘classified’ means. We don’t have the Need To Know.”

  Major Dillon and Lieutenant Lewis exchanged another look, this one a lot longer than the first.

  “My decision, Lieutenant Lewis,” Jake said formally. “In case anyone asks.”

  “For the record, I concur in your decision,” Lewis said. “And let the record show it came after it came to our attention that the Sunfish/Catalina operation had already been compromised by a Naval Aviator with a big mouth.”

  Dillon nodded.

  “The following is Top Secret,” Jake said, looking first at Charley Galloway and then at Chief McGuire. “Understood?”

  Galloway nodded his understanding. After a moment, McGuire said, “Okay, Jake.”

  “Would you like me to take a walk, Jake?” Commander Kocharski asked.

  “As far as I’m concerned, Flo, you’re the only one I really trust to keep her mouth shut.”

  “I don’t mind,” Flo said.

  “Stay,” Jake said. “Okay, what we’re doing,” he began, “what Flem Pickering is doing, with the blessing of CINCPAC—is sending a weather team into the Gobi Desert.”