There was a moment's hesitation, then the caller asked, "Is that you, Pick?"
"How the hell are you, you ugly bastard?"
"Pick, I'm calling from Walter Reed. Your dad's in here."
"Jesus, now what?"
"He's going to be all right. I waited until they gave him a... Colonel Rickabee just got the word from the doctors."
"Who's he?"
"He works for your father."
"So what's going on?"
"Your father has malaria. I went to his room in the hotel this morning and found him too weak to even sit up. He's been treating himself with scotch and aspirin. But he's going to be all right. He made me promise to call your mother and see what I could do to calm her down. I called all over, and finally somebody at your house-Talbot, something like that-gave me this number."
"Mother's butler," Pick said. "It's my grandfather's number. That was him on the phone before."
"OK. So what I know is this: He has malaria. There's two kinds, intestinal, and-I forget what they call it, in the brain.
That's really bad news. He has intestinal. That's not as bad.
What it does is give you chills and fever, and you lose control of your bowels, and you throw up a lot."
"That's not bad, huh?"
"It dehydrates you. He was in pretty bad shape when we found him. But we got him in the hospital, and they're giving him stuff to kill the malaria, and they're putting fluid in him.
He's going to be all right."
"Define `all right,' " Pick said.
"He's sick. He's weak, and embarrassed."
"What do you mean, embarrassed? What the hell's he got to be embarrassed about?"
"He... shit his bed. We had to wash him like a baby."
"God!"
"He said I was to tell your mother there was no need for her to do anything foolish, like come to Washington."
"Which means she will be on the next plane. We will be on the first plane."
"You better think about that," McCoy said. "You're supposed to be at Mare Island on the thirteenth."
"How do you know that?"
"I checked. Actually, you're supposed to be in Pensacola. What was that all about?"
"I had originally... " Pick said, and stopped. "What the hell does it matter?"
"I called all over Pensacola for you. I finally got some Admiral's wife on the phone, and she told me you were on your way to San Francisco." The Admiral's wife was Mrs. Richard B. Sayre, mother Mrs. Martha Sayre Culhane. Upon learning that Lieutenant Pickering was headed for the Pacific, Martha had been even more determined than ever not to marry him. Martha had said it so often he had no choice but to believe her.
She could not go through again what she'd already gone through. She couldn't wait around for the inevitable telegram from the Secretary of the Navy expressing his deep regret that her husband had been lost in aerial combat against the forces of the Empire of Japan.
"There's no way you could come here and get back out there by the thirteenth," McCoy said.
"I could get an emergency leave," Pick said.
"Yeah, you probably could," McCoy said. There was a hint of disgust in his voice.
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning you're a Marine officer, and you have your orders. There's nothing you could do for your father here except embarrass him by showing up."
"Fuck you, Ken!" Pick flared, but then immediately: "Shit. I'm sorry. You're right, of course."
"Look, he's sick, but in a couple of weeks, a month, he's going to be all right, OK?"
"That's the straight poop?"
"That's straight."
"You going to see him?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Tell him... You know what to tell him."
"Yeah. Sure. You'll tell your mother?"
"I'll tell her and she'll come."
"He won't like that."
"Yes, he will, and besides, there's nothing he can do about "OK."
"Thanks for... everything, I guess, Ken."
"Take care of yourself, pal."
"You, too." The line went dead.
Pick held the phone in his hand for a long moment before dropping it into the cradle. Then he raised his eyes and found his grandfather's eyes on him.
"That was Ken McCoy. We went to OCS at Quantico together." The old man nodded.
"You understood what that was all about?"
"Some of it."
"Dad's in Walter Reed Hospital with malaria. He's apparently pretty sick, but in no danger."
"I gather we should see about getting your mother on an airplane?"
"Just Mother. It was just pointed out to me that I do not have time to go to see him."
"I will take your mother to see him and tell him why you couldn't be there. Is there anything else I can do, Pick?" Pick raised both hands helplessly.
"What?" he asked.
[Two]
TEMPORARY BUILDING T-2032
THE MALL WASHINGTON, D.C.
1630 HOURS 9 SEPTEMBER 1942
When First Lieutenant Kenneth R. McCoy pushed open the outer door of the two-story frame building, he noticed a new sign, USMC OFFICE OF MANAGEMENT ANALYSIS, nailed to the side of the building. Previously, there had been no sign at all. Since that made Building T-2032 even more anonymous among the other identical "temporary" frame buildings-they had been there since the First World War-he wondered why Colonel Rickabee had decided to hang a sign.
As he took the stairs to the second floor two at a time, he decided that some brass hat with nothing better to do had probably issued an edict that all buildings would be properly labeled.
It had probably occupied the better part of his time for a month, McCoy mused, first coming up with the idea, and then deciding in precise detail the size of the sign, and of its lettering, and its color.
As he reached the second floor, he remembered that a bird colonel and his entourage had been sharing the building.
He was charged with coordinating enlisted morale projects with the Army and Navy, or some such bullshit. I wonder why he doesn't have a sign?
At the top of the stairwell was a small foyer. Access to the rest of the building was barred by a counter; wire mesh went in the countertop to the ceiling.
McCoy recognized one of the two staff noncoms behind the barrier.
"Open up, Rutterman," he said.
Technical Sergeant Harry Rutterman, who had first come to know Lieutenant McCoy as a just-graduated-from-Quantico second lieutenant, threw up his hands in horror.
"Sir, these are classified premises," he said. "Will you please state the nature of your business and show me your identification?"
"You're kidding."
"Not at all, Sir. Less than an hour ago, our beloved commanding officer passed through these portals without challenge, and then ate my ass out for letting him in."
"Really?"
"I think you are next on his menu, Lieutenant, if you don't mind my saying so," Rutterman said. "He left word that he wants to see you as soon as you came in." McCoy extended his identification, a leather folder holding a badge and a photo identification card.
"Pass, friend," Rutterman said, as he pushed a button which operated a solenoid that unlocked a wire mesh door. "And good luck!"
"If I wasn't an officer and a gentleman, Harry, I'd tell you to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut," McCoy said as he walked past him.
Colonel F. L. Rickabee's office was at the corner of the far end of the building. Its door was closed. McCoy knocked and said, "McCoy, Sir."
"Come!" McCoy opened the door, marched in, and stood to attention before Rickabee's desk, even though Rickabee was in civilian clothing.
"Moore?" Rickabee asked.
"He's all right, Sir. It was exhaustion more than anything else."
"Taking him out of the hospital was stupid, McCoy."
"Yes, Sir. No excuse, Sir."
"Sessions told me that General Pickering ordered you to get in touch with his wife." It w
as a question more than a statement.
"Yes, Sir. I was unable to reach Mrs. Pickering, but I spoke with his son, Sir."
"That's right, you know him, don't you?"
"We were in OCS together, Sir."
"Where's this man Hart?"
"At the hotel, Sir. I didn't know what to do with him. I was going to ask if you wanted to see him."
"I'll have to go on what Sessions and you feel," Rickabee said "I'll want to see him when he comes back."
"Sir?" Rickabee handed him a large manila envelope. McCoy opened it. It contained airline tickets and a sheaf of mimeographed orders.
HEADQUARTERS
UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS
WASHINGTON, D.C.
9 September 1942
LETTER ORDERS:
To: SGT Hart, George F 386751, USMCR
Company "A"
Marine Barracks
Washington, DC
1. You will proceed this date to San Francisco, Cal., St. Louis, Mo., and such other
destinations as may be necessary in carrying out the mission assigned to you by the Office of Management Analysis, Hq USMC.
2. Travel by government and civilian rail, motor and air transportation is authorized.
Priority AAA.
3. A five (5) day delay en route leave is authorized in connection with these orders.
BY DIRECTION OF BRIG GEN F. PICKERING:
F. L. Rickabee, Col, USMC
Executive Officer, Office of Management Analysis
I'll be damned He's sending Hart out there to tell Pick his father'll be all right, McCoy thought.
He blurted what popped into his mind: "That was very nice of you, Sir."
" `Nice' is not one of my character traits, McCoy," Colonel Rickabee said. "One: I think it important that your man Hart understand just who he will be working for. His initial introduction to the General was something less than inspiring. Seeing what he did in civilian life, who he was, will be instructional. Two: I think it is important that General Pickering knows that we think of him as one of our own. Three: Sergeant Hart is entitled to an end of boot-camp leave; and he won't be needed around here anyway for ten days, possibly more."
Bullshit-that was nice of you!
"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. I know that, Sir."
"I would hate to think you were being sarcastic, McCoy."
"Not me, Sir."
"Sessions tells me you told him Mrs. Pickering will be coming to Washington."
"Yes, Sir. I think she will."
"Keep me advised of her schedule. I'd like to meet her plane, or train, whatever."
"Yes, Sir."
"General Pickering, McCoy, can be very valuable to us around here. It thus behooves us to do whatever we can for him."
Bullshit again, Colonel. You like Pickering. You're two of a kind "Yes, Sir."
"Get out of here, McCoy."
"Yes, Sir."
[Three]
MUNICIPAL AIRPORT
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
1530 HOURS II SEPTEMBER 1942
When Hart entered the terminal after leaving the Transcontinental and Western (TWA) DC-3 that brought him from Chicago, with a stop at Salt Lake City, two shore patrolmen were standing in the middle of the airport aisle. One was a sailor armed with a billy club, and the other was a Marine sergeant, wearing a.45 suspended from a white web belt.
Neither of them looks like much of a cop, former Detective George Hart decided, and then dismissed them from his mind as he headed for a row of telephone booths.
Lieutenant McCoy had given him four telephone numbers for Lieutenant Pickering: the Pickering home, in Marin County; the offices of Pacific & Far East Shipping, in San Francisco; the San Francisco apartment of Mrs. Fleming Pickering; and the Andrew Foster Hotel. If he called the last number, he was instructed to ask for Mr. Andrew Foster, stating he was a friend of Lieutenant Pickering.
His orders were to tell Lieutenant Pickering, without any bullshit, General Pickering's condition when they went into the bedroom of the Foster Lafayette Hotel, and then to tell him that the prognosis was good and that his coming to Washington would have only embarrassed his father.
"Tell Lieutenant Pickering he's doing the right thing by not coming," Lieutenant McCoy said. "And, if you have to, that I wouldn't lie to him. And tell him to call me just before he gets on his plane, and I'll give him the latest poop." Hart had just taken the list of telephone numbers from his pocket and was about to drop a nickel in the pay phone slot, when there was a sharp rap on the telephone booth window.
It was the sailor shore patrolman. He made a sign with his index finger for Hart to come out of the booth.
"What can I do for you?" Hart asked.
"For one thing, you can show us your orders," the Marine sergeant said.
Hart produced a copy of the orders from the breast pocket of his tunic and handed them over.
The MP read them and showed them to the sailor.
"Anybody with a mimeograph machine could have made these up," he said.
"There's no stamp or seal or nothing."
"That thought occurred to me on the way out here," Hart said.
"Where did you get that haircut, Sergeant?" the Marine asked.
"Parris Island."
"Boots' hair usually grows back in before they make sergeant material ," the Marine said. "I think, Sergeant, that you better e with us until we can check out these orders." I was wrong. This guy's not as dumb as he looks. He picked up on the Parris Island haircut.
"How about this, Sergeant?" Hart said, and handed him the leather folder holding the badge identifying him as a Special Agent of the Office of Naval Intelligence and the accompanying photo identification card.
"I'll be damned," the sergeant said. "Sorry."
"No problem. It was the haircut, right?"
"Yeah, and there's two inspection stickers hanging out on the back of your jacket," the Marine said. "So I checked."
"I understand."
"Could I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"How do you get a billet like that? It would sure be better than standing around an airport all day looking for AWOLs and drunks."
"I really don't know," Hart replied. "That's where they sent me when I got out of Parris Island. I used to be a cop. But I didn't apply for it or anything like that."
"It would sure beat standing around this fucking airport," the Marine repeated, and then smiled and walked off.
Hart went back into the telephone booth and struck out with the first three numbers. After three intermediate people came on the line, the fourth call was finally answered: "Andrew Foster." Jesus, I'm actually talking to the guy who owns all those hotels!
"Mr. Foster, my name is Sergeant Hart. I'm trying to locate Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering."
"Perhaps I could help you."
"Sir, I really would like to speak to Lieutenant Pickering. It's about his father."
"Is this bad news, Sergeant?"
"No, Sir. The opposite. I was with General Pickering when... just before we took him to the hospital. I've been asked to tell Lieutenant Pickering about that. And how the General is doing now."
"I'd be very much interested in hearing what you have to say, Sergeant," Andrew Foster said, "if that's possible. General Pickering is my son-in-law."
After a moment's hesitation, Hart delivered a slightly laundered report of the events in the hotel room, and then the prognosis the doctors at Walter Reed had offered complete recovery after three to six weeks of rest in the hospital.
"I'm sure my grandson will be delighted to hear this, Sergeant. He's been climbing the walls around here the last couple of days. The problem would seem to be getting you together. Where are you?"
"At the airport, Sir."
"At the passenger terminal?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Across the field from the passenger terminal is Hangar 103," Andrew Foster said. "It says `Lewis Flying Services' on it. My grandson should be
there. He should be somewhere around my airplane. If he is not, call me back here. I'll either know where he is by then, or we can launch a manhunt together."
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