In Danger's Path

by W. E. B Griffin

  “About six hundred hours pilot-in-command. He flew antisubmarine patrols on the East Coast.”

  “Before or after he got in trouble?”

  “When they kicked him out of a fighter squadron, they sent him to the Cats. When he got in trouble there, they sent him to VMF-229, the Alcatraz of Marine Aviation,” Galloway said. “So I guess you could say, while he was getting in trouble.”

  “On the record, Charley. There’s no one in the Corps who could have done what you’ve done with that collection of misfits and ne’er-do-wells.”

  “And off the record?” Galloway asked, trying to make a joke of the compliment.

  “Off the record, Charley,” Dawkins said seriously, “there’s no one in the Corps who could have done what you’ve done with that collection of misfits and ne’er-do-wells.”

  Galloway was now visibly embarrassed. He tried to change the subject: “Can I tell him I asked and you’re thinking about it?”

  “You can tell him to come see me,” Dawkins said, then plunged on. “I got a back channel from Mclnerney, on that special communications system that Dillon has somehow managed to latch on to. There have been damned few volunteers. General Mac is down to volunteering people. He said he wants Marines to fly the Cats. By using the term loosely, your pal Stevenson can be considered to be a Marine.”

  “I wouldn’t volunteer for something like this, myself,” Galloway said. “I’m not surprised.”

  “We do have one volunteer,” Dawkins said. “He came in right after lunch. I sent him over to Muku-Muku.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Another pretty good fighter pilot who couldn’t behave and was offered the choice between a court-martial and volunteering to become a legendary Marine hero, flying a Cat in harm’s way.”

  “I’m surprised they didn’t send him to me,” Galloway said. “How did he fuck up?”

  “The usual things young fighter pilots do. Drunk driving. Speeding. Out of uniform. And he was sleeping with a lady who is joined in holy matrimony to somebody else, and the somebody else happens to be acquainted with the flag officer commanding Naval Air Station, Memphis.”

  “Hell, that’s called upholding the reputation of Marine Aviators,” Galloway said.

  “This guy was setting a lousy example for the young Marine Aviators he was supposed to be training,” Dawkins said flatly.

  “Yeah, I suppose,” Galloway said, and then thought he was changing the subject again. “Young Pickering is at NAS Memphis. He’s Billy Dunn’s executive officer.”

  “Young Pickering is by now at Muku-Muku,” Dawkins said. “Under a direct order not to tell you how come he’s no longer in Memphis.”

  Galloway looked at Dawkins as if surprised that he would make such a lousy joke. Dawkins nodded, and Galloway realized he wasn’t kidding at all. “Give him to me, Skipper,” Galloway said after taking a moment to collect his thoughts. “I can straighten him out.”

  “Sorry, Charley, forget it. I don’t have the authority to do that, and I don’t think I would if I did.”

  “Skipper, he doesn’t have much time in a Catalina—if any, come to think of it.”

  “He’s qualified as pilot-in-command,” Dawkins said. “That’s all it takes.”

  “I was feeling pretty good when I came in here,” Galloway said.

  “I was feeling pretty good when I saw Pick get out of the station wagon,” Dawkins said. “Would another drink make you feel any better?”

  “No, sir,” Galloway replied. “Thank you just the same.”

  “In that case, good afternoon, Captain Galloway.”

  “Thank you for seeing me, sir.”

  Captain Charles M. Galloway came to attention, executed an about-face maneuver, and marched out of Dawkins’s office.

  [SEVEN]

  Headquarters, Marine Air Group 21

  Ewa Marine Air Station

  Oahu, Territory of Hawaii

  1915 13 April 1943

  The charge of quarters knocked at Dawkins’s office door and opened it wide enough to put his head in the crack. “Colonel, there’s a Major Williamson out here, says if you’re not tied up he’d like to make his manners.”

  Dawkins had not finished going through the directives he’d started on after lunch and thrown into the wastebasket. His sergeant major had gone through the wastebasket, salvaged the directives that needed Colonel Dawkins’s attention, and put them back in his In basket.

  “Aviator type?”

  “Yes, sir. Captain Weston is with him.”

  “A Captain Weston, Andy, or our Captain Weston?”

  “Ours, sir.”

  Like most everybody else in MAG-21, Sergeant Ward had been impressed with the Marine Aviator who had spent a year as a guerrilla in the Philippines.

  “Well, damn, Andy, send them in.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Major Avery R. Williamson and Captain James B. Weston came through Dawkins’s door a moment later.

  “What brings you two to this tropical paradise?” Dawkins greeted them, as he came from behind his desk with his hand extended.

  “Apparently,” Williamson replied, “there’s nobody over here who knows how to drive a Cat. We have leapt to fill the breach.”

  Dawkins’s smile faded. “Weston, tell Sergeant Ward to get you a cup of coffee,” he said.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Weston said, left the room, and, sensing that he was being dismissed, closed the door behind him.

  “What the hell’s going on, Dick?” Dawkins demanded.

  “General Mac came to see me at Pensacola,” Williamson said. “He told me that not enough people had volunteered for this Catalina mission of his; that he considered it a damned important operation; and stood there with the Marine Corps flag in one hand and the colors in the other and waved them at me until I finally—a long couple of minutes later—saw it as my duty to sign on the dotted line.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Dawkins said. “Do you know what it is?”

  Williamson shook his head, “no.”

  “It has been decided that we can’t win this war without a weather station in the middle of the Gobi Desert. And apparently the only way we can get one in there is to fly it in—a one-way flight, by the way—on a couple of Catalinas which will be refueled by a submarine a hundred miles off the China Coast in the Yellow Sea.”

  “Jesus!”

  “We have modified two Catalinas—and two others are in the process of being modified—by fairing over the turrets and the bubbles and installing auxiliary fuel tanks. Somebody apparently thinks that refueling a Cat from a sub on the high seas in the Yellow Sea this time of year may not work so well, and spares may be required.”

  “Jesus!” Williamson repeated.

  “If I was running this operation, I would go over to VMF-229 and select the worst four of Charley Galloway’s ne’er-do-wells and send them,” Dawkins said. “There are better things for you to do, Dick. And Weston, too.” He paused, then went on, “General Mclnerney actually waved the flag at Weston, too? I would have thought he would be entitled to a pass on something like this.”

  “That’s a fine young man, Dawk,” Williamson said. “A damned good Marine.”

  “If not too bright,” Dawkins said, “to volunteer for something like this.”

  “He’s a Catalina IP. I rechecked him out myself. He can drive one better than I can. And like I said, he’s a damned good Marine. He had everything going for him. But he saw this as his duty, when I told him I had been volunteered.”

  “He’s out of his mind,” Dawkins said. “No one can accuse that kid of being a shirker.”

  “You know Admiral Sayre?” Williamson asked. “His daughter?”

  “The one who married Culhane? Who we lost at Wake?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Until Weston—he was the best man at their wedding—showed up at P’Cola, they called Martha Culhane ‘the Ice Princess.’ One look at Weston and she melted. And the Admiral thinks Jim is the answer to his pr
ayers for the Ice Princess, too.”

  “Really?”

  “He told me to give him a Cat check-ride, and since I was already going to do that, why didn’t I do it by flying up to the Greenbrier—You know about the Greenbrier?”

  Dawkins nodded.

  “—and give him the check-ride while flying back and forth to P’Cola?”

  “Then he really is a goddamn fool!” Dawkins said angrily.

  “No, Dawk,” Williamson said. “What he is is a damned good Marine. Duty first.”

  Dawkins looked at Williamson for a long moment. “Just because you’re right, Dick,” he said, “doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  “No, but you have to admire him,” Williamson insisted.

  “I admired him already,” Dawkins said sadly, and then raised his voice: “Captain Weston!”

  Weston came back into the office.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Captain Weston,” Dawkins said, “on behalf of the Commander in Chief, Pacific, permit me to thank you for volunteering for this mission. Your selfless dedication to duty is in keeping with the highest traditions of the officer corps of the Marine Corps. That’s official. Off the record, Jim, I think you’re a goddamned fool, and if you give me the word, I’ll do my damndest to get you out of this.”

  “With respect, sir, I’d like to fly the operation.”

  “You don’t even know what it is, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Sir, I know the operation needs experienced Catalina pilots. I have a good deal of experience in the Cat.”

  “So Major Williamson informs me,” Dawkins said. “Okay, Jim. Your decision.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’m going to send you two over to Muku-Muku…”

  “I think you’ll like Muku-Muku, Major,” Weston said, smiling.

  “…where you will find another heroic Marine who volunteered to fly this operation, immediately after he was offered his choice of doing so or being court-martialed.”

  “Really?” Williamson asked, amused. “For what?”

  “It’s not funny. I know this officer. Seven kills, DFC, flying Wildcats for Charley Galloway on Guadalcanal. Fine pilot. Lousy officer. Did you ever meet General Pickering’s son, Jim?”

  “No, sir. But I heard about him,” Weston said. “That’s who you’re talking about?”

  Dawkins nodded.

  “How did he fuck up, sir?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, by failing to do his duty. He was at Memphis, where he was supposed to be training Corsair pilots. The best way to train is by example. The example this Marine ace with the DFC set for the people he was supposed to be training was that it’s all right to be grossly irresponsible. But the straw that broke the back, that almost got him court-martialed, was his personal life, his love life.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He was having an affair with the wrong female. For all I know, more than one. But I do know about one. A prima facie case of Conduct Unbecoming An Officer And A Gentleman.” Dawkins let that sink in a minute. “I believe in a clean sheet,” Dawkins went on. “This is not known to anyone involved with this operation, and I don’t want you to let him know I told you about it.”

  “I understand, sir,” Weston said.

  “Okay,” Major Williamson said.

  “The only reason I’m telling you this is because he doesn’t have much time in a Catalina—I think thirty hours, something like that. The admiral commanding Memphis got him a quick qualification course just before throwing him off the base. So he’s going to need some more Catalina time, as much as we can get him, and you two are the obvious people to give it to him.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “And there may be one more student for you,” Dawkins went on. “One of Charley Galloway’s fuckups, according to Charley, has decided to salvage his fucked-up career by volunteering for this idiotic operation. That’s not for sure; I’ll make up my mind in the morning, after he comes to see me. But you might as well plan on it.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Williamson and Weston said almost in unison.

  “This ‘gentleman’s’ name is Stevenson. First Lieutenant. I had a look at his record again this afternoon. Another sex maniac, apparently, who regards screwing any female—without regard to the consequences—as a sport. This sonofabitch, believe it or not, was screwing two women at the same time, both of whom he promised to marry.”

  “Well, there are some guys like that,” Major Williamson said. “They just don’t know when to keep their trousers buttoned. And we joke about it, but it’s not funny.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Colonel Dawkins said.

  Captain Weston did not comment.

  XXII

  [ONE]

  Headquarters, 32nd Military District

  Yümen, China

  1730 13 April 1943

  The aircraft provided by the United States 14th Air Force to transport Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, Brigadier General Sun Chi Lon, Nationalist Army, and their entourages from Chungking to Yümen was a well-worn Douglas C-47. That morning it had been equipped with four airline-type seats, to accommodate the general officers, Colonel Banning, and Major Kee. They were mounted behind the bulkhead that separated the cockpit from the rest of the cabin. The entourages, General Sun’s two orderlies, Second Lieutenant George F. Hart, USMCR, and Captain Jerry Sampson, USA, were obviously expected to make themselves as comfortable as they could on aluminum pipe and canvas seats that folded down from the bare walls of the fuselage.

  Captain Sampson had been a last-minute and not entirely welcome addition to the party. When General Pickering had told Lieutenant Colonel Platt that he was headed for Yümen to see if he could assist McCoy, Platt took Pickering by surprise and immediately offered to send Sampson with them. “He might prove helpful.”

  Pickering was unable to immediately think of a good reason Sampson shouldn’t go—he’d already told Platt that Stillwell had arranged for the airplane to take him to Yümen and back—so he smiled and said, “Thank you.” Pickering had no doubt that Sampson might indeed “prove helpful,” but he was equally certain that the primary reason Platt had so generously offered the Captain’s services was to make sure he learned what Pickering was up to in Yümen.

  Pickering was not exactly eager at the moment to make that information available. Because McCoy and Zimmerman were running around Yümen in Chinese uniforms, Pickering was very much afraid that the whole mission was likely to go down the toilet.

  General Sun, Major Kee, their two orderlies, and a dozen pieces of luggage were waiting for them at the Chungking airfield when they arrived—Pickering, Banning, and Hart had one piece each. Sun greeted Pickering courteously but did not mention the McCoy problem, and Pickering decided this was not the time to bring it up.

  It turned out to be a long flight.

  Before they took off, the pilot explained to Pickering that while Yümen was within the C-47’s range, flying directly there was unwise. If the field was socked in—very possible this time of year—there was no alternative airfield they could reach with the remaining fuel aboard.

  So they flew to Lanchou, a six-hundred-mile leg that took them almost four hours, refueled there, and then taken off for Yümen, which was a slightly shorter leg.

  Twenty minutes out of Lanchou, General Sun turned to Pickering and offered him a cigarette from a gold case.

  “No, thank you,” Pickering said. “I’m a cigar smoker.”

  “I have been giving some thought to our problem with your Captain McCoy,” Sun said, tapping a Chesterfield on the case.

  Pickering nodded and waited for him to go on.

  “The most difficult situation will be if he has been discovered,” Sun said. “That’s also the most likely. I don’t really think he can successfully masquerade as a White Russian officer. And, because of its location, the counterintelligence services in the Thirty-second Military District are very thorough.”

  “If they have been
discovered, what will that mean?”

  “That there is no chance they will be allowed to accompany a supply convoy into the desert. Or, in the remote chance that they were, someone would be sent along to report on their activities, and I doubt very much if they would be permitted to leave the convoy.”

  “Yeah,” Pickering agreed.

  “I could have arranged all this, had I known about it in time,” Sun said. “What we are doing now is reacting, not taking action, and we don’t know to what we are reacting.”

  “I understand,” Pickering said.

  “It is entirely possible that they will have been subjected to a rather intensive interrogation,” Sun said.

  I don’t even want to think what’s behind that euphemism.

  “In that case, it seems to me inevitable that they would disclose their purpose. That would make it even more difficult for them to go into the desert—even after their story is verified by me.” He caught Pickering’s eye. “Still, I don’t think the commanding general would conduct an authorized execution without making his superiors aware of the situation. He would want them to know his counterintelligence was working. We’ll have to wait until we arrive to see what the situation is.”

  “Yeah,” Pickering grunted. “Would they tell you of an incident like this?”

  “I think so. They would regard it as a worthy accomplishment,” Sun said. “But let’s look at the other side. Defying the odds, your men have somehow managed to reach Yümen and have not been arrested. I suggest in that case that I immediately inform General Chow that they are in his area, dressed in the uniform of Chinese officers—”

  “We have another expression,” Pickering interrupted. “Never look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  “I know that one,” General Sun. “But how does it apply here? I’m the gift horse? And you disagree with me?”

  “If you tell General—Chow, you said?”

  “Major General Chow Song-chek,” Sun furnished.

  “If you tell General Chow, he will very likely be annoyed that he wasn’t previously advised that a pair of American agents are working in his area of responsibility. And even if he’s sympathetic, I think we would lose any chance of keeping this operation quiet.”