W E B Griffin - Corp 05 - Line of Fire

by Line Of Fire(Lit)

  There were tears in her eyes again.

  "He's gone. He won't be back."

  "Would you just put your arms around me again?" Beth asked softly, looking into his eyes. "And just hold me?" He held his arms open and she took the few steps to him.

  When he put his arms around her, she started to cry again. He ran his hands over her back and against her hair and made soothing noises.

  And then the warmth of her legs and the softness of her breasts got to him again; and the erection returned. When he tried to pull away from her, she followed him. And then she tilted her head back again and looked into his eyes for a moment. And then her mouth was on his, hungrily, and she dragged him backward onto the bed.

  [Four]

  WALTER REED ARMY GENERAL HOSPITAL

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  1145 HOURS 22 SEPTEMBER 1942

  At quarter past ten, Technical Sergeant Harry N. Rutterman put his head in Colonel F. L. Rickabee's office and told him that General Pickering was on the line.

  The conversation was a short one: "There's something we have to talk about, Rickabee," General Pickering said. "Is there some reason you can't come over here, say at quarter to twelve?"

  "No, Sir," he said, though he was not telling the precise truth when he said it. His work schedule was a god-awful mess. Adding a meeting with The General would only make it worse. On the other hand, a general's wish was a colonel's command.... I "Thank you,' Pickering said, and hung up.

  When Colonel F. L. Rickabee, at precisely the appointed hour, walked into the sitting room of Brigadier General Fleming Pickering's VIP suite, he found a table set for two. And The General was dressed in uniform -or part of one-and not in a bathrobe and pajamas. Though he wasn't wearing his blouse a field scarf, there was a silver star on the collar points of his khaki shirt. Rickabee decided that Pickering had a purpose when he pinned on the insignia of his rank.

  Otherwise why bother? He's not going anyplace. On the other hand, maybe someone's coming to see him-maybe General Forrest-and he's putting his uniform on for that. And wants some advice from me before he meets him?

  "Good morning, General."

  "Sorry to drag you away from your office, but I suspect I would have made waves if I had come to you."

  "My time is your time, General," Rickabee said. "And I thought you would be interested in this, Sir. It was delivered by messenger yesterday afternoon." He took a sheet of paper from his inside pocket and handed it to Pickering.

  INTEROFFICE MEMORANDUM

  DATE: 21 September 1942

  FROM: Assistant Chief of Staff, Personnel

  TO: Director Public Affairs Office Hq, USMC

  HAND CARRY

  SUBJECT: Office of Management Analysis Hq, USMC

  1. Effective immediately, no, repeat no, public relations activity of any kind will

  involve the Of f ice of management Analysis, or any personnel assigned thereto.

  2. The Public Affairs Office is forbidden to contact the office of Management Analysis for

  any purpose without the specific permission of the undersigned.

  3. Discussion of this policy, or requests for waivers thereto, is not desired.

  BY DIRECTION OF THE COMMANDANT:

  Alfred J. Kennedy

  Major General, USMC

  Assistant Chief of Staff, G-1

  Pickering read it and snorted, then handed it back.

  "I suppose that will keep them off our backs. Being a general officer does seem to carry with it the means to get things done, doesn't it?"

  "Yes, Sir, it does seem to, General.

  "I thought we could save time by having lunch," Pickering said. "I asked them to serve at twelve."

  "Very kind of you, Sir."

  "You better hold the thanks until you see what they give us.

  Now that I think of it, I should have ordered some emergency rations."

  "Sir?"

  "I sometimes have the hotel send over a platter of hors d'oeuvres against the likelihood that lunch or dinner will be inedible."

  "I see."

  "I am medically restricted to four drinks a day," Pickering said. "I am about to have my second. Would you care to join me?"

  You are medically restricted to no more than two drinks a day, General, not four. And somehow I suspect that the drink you are about to have is going to be Number Three or Number Four, not Number Two.

  "Yes, Sir. I would. Thank you."

  "Scotch all right?"

  "Scotch is fine, Sir." Pickering went into the small room between the sitting room and the bedroom. He returned in a moment with a nearly empty bottle of Famous Grouse.

  "My supply of this is running a little low," he said.

  "No problem, Sir, I don't have to have scotch."

  "Oh, no. There's a couple of bottles left here, and if Hart and Moore haven't been at them, several more in the hotel. But the stock is running low. I have a hell of a stock, however, a hundred cases or more, in San Francisco. Most of it came off my Pacific Princess when I chartered her to the Navy."

  "Well, they have a rule, no liquor aboard Navy vessels."

  What the hell is this all about?

  "We have people running back and forth between the West Coast and here all the time, don't we, Rickabee?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Do you suppose it would be possible for one of them to bring a couple of cases of this back here for me?"

  "Certainly, Sir. No problem at all, Sir. Captain Lee is at Mare Island right now, Sir. I'll just call him and that'll take care of it. He's leaving tonight, that should get him in here the day after tomorrow."

  "One of the little privileges that goes with being a general right? Being able to get a Marine officer to haul a couple of cases of booze cross country for you?" Jesus, I don't like this. What the hell is he leading up to?

  "If you will call your people in San Francisco, General, and tell them Captain Lee will be coming by?" The question was directed to Pickering's back. He had turned and walked out of the room again, and he didn't reply.

  He returned in a moment with two glasses dark with whiskey. He handed one to Rickabee.

  "Here you are, Rickabee."

  "Thank you, Sir."

  "Who shall we drink to?"

  "How about The Corps, Sir?"

  "How about those two Marines on Buka?" Pickering said.

  "The Marines on Buka," Rickabee said, raising his glass.

  "They have names," Pickering said. "Lieutenant Joe Howard and Sergeant Steve Koffler." He's really pissed about something. Or is he drunk?

  "Lieutenant Howard and Sergeant Koffler," Rickabee said.

  "Joe and Steve," Pickering said, and took a healthy swallow from his drink. "Did you know, Rickabee, that I made Koffler a buck sergeant?"

  "No, Sir, I did not."

  "He's only a kid. A long way from being old enough to vote.

  But I figured that any Marine who volunteers to do what he is doing should be at least a buck sergeant. So I told Banning to arrange it."

  "I didn't know that, General."

  "Joe Howard's a Mustang," Pickering said. "An old pal of mine, a Marine I served with in France-he was a sergeant and I was a corporal, fellow named Jack (NMI) Stecker-thought that Sergeant Howard would make a pretty good officer and got him a direct commission."

  "Yes, Sir. I know Major Stecker, Sir. I knew him when he was a master gunny at Quantico."

  "One hell of a Marine, Jack (NMI) Stecker," Rickabee said.

  "Yes, Sir, he is." He is drunk. Otherwise why, this trip down Marine Corps Memory Lane?

  Further evidence of that came when General Pickering went back into the small room, returned with the bottle of Famous Grouse, and killed it freshening their glasses.

  "No problem, I just checked. There's two more bottles where that came from. And then, of course, as a courtesy to a Marine General, Captain Lee is going to bring me some more, isn't he?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Sergeant Hart had two copies o
f Dillon's movies made," Pickering said.

  "Did you know that, Rickabee?"

  "Yes, Sir. Lieutenant Moore told me."

  "Clever fellow, that Hart."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "There's more to Moore than you might judge the first time you met him," Pickering said.

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Dillon's movies were very interesting, weren't they, Rickabee?"

  "Yes, Sir. They were."

  "Perhaps `disturbing' would be a more accurate word."

  "Disturbing and interesting, General."

  "I lay awake a long time thinking about those movies," Pickering said. "And this morning, when Moore brought me the second copy Hart had made, I had the hospital send the projector back and watched them again. The projectionist got sick to his stomach."

  "Really?"

  "Well, what the hell do you expect, Rickabee? He was only a soldier, and we're Marines, right?"

  Jesus Christ, he is about to get out of hand!

  "That's when I called you," Pickering went on, "and asked you to come over here... when the soldier was being sick."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Those movies triggered a lot of thoughts in my mind, Rickabee. When I saw the shots of Henderson Field, it occurred to me that my son and Jack (NMI) Stecker's son are soon to he among the pilots there... if they're not there already."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "And then I went back a long time, to when Jack and I were going through Parris Island. You go through Parris Island, Rickabee?"

  "No, Sir. I came into The Corps as an officer."

  "You know, a lot of people think that everybody in The Corps should go through Parris Island. I mean officers. too."

  "it would probably be a good idea, General."

  "Banning didn't go through Parris Island, either, did he""

  "No, Sir. I believe Major Banning came into The Corps as an officer, Sir."

  "Good man, Banning," Pickering said.

  "Yes, Sir."

  "You know what they teach you as a boot at Parris Island, Rickabee? What they taught me, and Jack Stecker?"

  "I don't take The General's point, Sir."

  "They taught Jack and me that one of the things that makes Marines special, makes them different, better, than soldiers is that Marines don't leave their wounded, or their dead, on the battlefield."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Do you think they still teach that, Rickabee? Or was that something just from the olden days of World War One?"

  "No, Sir. I don't think it is."

  "You think they taught that to Lieutenant Moore and Sergeant Hart, for example, when they went through Parris Island?"

  "Yes, Sir. I'm sure they did."

  "And they went back for Moore, didn't they, on Guadalcanal, when he was hit? A couple of Marines with balls went out there and got Moore and the Marines with him because they knew they were either dead or wounded, and Marines don't leave their dead or wounded, right?"

  Where the hell is this conversation going?

  "Yes, Sir. That's probably just what happened." There was a knock at the door and two Army medics pushed a rolling cart into the room.

  I hope the food sobers hint up.

  Lunch was vegetable soup, fried chicken, macaroni and noodles, a slice of bread, a banana custard, and a pot of tea.

  "Please bring me some coffee," General Pickering said, and then changed his mind. "No. Belay that. I don't want any coffee. Thank you very much." He took instead another swallow of Famous Grouse. Then he carefully cut a piece of chicken from the breast on his plate and put it in his mouth.

  I hope that tastes terrible and he will divert the anger that's inside him to eating out the mess officer.

  "Well, the mess sergeant must be drunk," General Pickering said. "That's really good."

  "I'm pleased, Sir."

  "I wonder what Joe Howard and Steve Koffler are eating on Buka?"

  "I'm afraid they're not eating this well, General."

  "More to the point, Rickabee," General Pickering asked conversationally, "when did we kick them out of The Corps)"

  What the hell does that mean?

  "Sir?"

  "Well, I would call their physical condition pretty much the same as being wounded, and that's presuming they're still alive.

  If they were Marines, we'd go get them, wouldn't we? Marines don't get left on their battlefield when they're wounded. Or dead. So that means they're not Marines, right?"

  "General, if Major Banning could relieve them, he would."

  "Wrong. Major Banning has written them off. You were here when Dillon told me that. As far as Banning is concerned, as far as anybody is concerned, they're dead."

  "I'm afraid that's true, Sir. There's absolutely nothing that can be done, given the circumstances."

  "I'm going to tell you something, Colonel Rickabee," General Pickering said, just this side of nastily. "This Marine is `going to try."

  "I'm not sure I take The General's meaning, Sir."

  "You can knock off that `The General this' and `The General that' crap, Rickabee. And you know damned well what I mean.

  You just don't want to hear it."

  "May I speak bluntly, Sir?"

  "You better. Bullshit time is over."

  "There's nothing you can do, Sir."

  "Maybe not. But I am damned sure going to try. If I have the power to have some captain deliver overnight two cases of booze to me from the West Coast, I ought to be able to divert a little of it to getting those two kids off of Buka."

  "Trying to reinforce them would endanger their safety."

  "What safety, for Christ's sake? Feldt and Banning are sitting around in Townsville with their thumbs up their ass waiting to hear they're dead."

  "I'm sorry to hear that you have lost your confidence in Major Banning."

  "I was sorry to lose it. What's happened is that he's forgotten he's a Marine and fallen under Feldt's goddamned British philosophy that no sacrifice is too great for King and Country."

  "I can't believe that Ed Banning is capable of forgetting he's a Marine," Rickabee said, aware that he was on the edge of losing his temper.

  "Then why is he sitting around waiting for those two kids to get killed?"

  I'll be a sonofabitch. Touch‚, General

  "General, I wouldn't know where to start. I'm exceedingly reluctant to sit here in Washington and second-guess what Banning is doing, the decisions he is forced to make."

  "I'm not," Pickering said simply. "And, for a place to start, I want to see McCoy."

  "McCoy?"

  "Is there some reason that's impossible?"

  "Sir, there is an operation in the planning stages-"

  "What kind of an operation?"

  "We're going to set up a weather observation station in Mongolia, General. The mission was laid on The Corps by the Joint Chiefs. The station will be required later in the war for long-range bombing raids. McCoy is singularly well qualified to take a major role."

  "Mongolia?" Pickering asked dubiously, and then: "When does this operation get under way?"

  "In about four months, Sir. They're trying to decide the best way to get the people into Mongolia."

  "I'm planning to get Howard and Koffler off Buka in the next month, Rickabee. Send for McCoy. I have the feeling there's a very good reason they call him `Killer." And in any event, he's a simple ex-enlisted man like me who believes that Marines don't leave their dead and wounded on the battlefield."

  "There are a number of professional officers, General, including this one, who don't think so either.

  "I've angered you, Rickabee, haven't I?"

  What you've done is make me a little ashamed of myself.

  "No, Sir. Not at all, Sir. I'll have McCoy here in the morning, and I'll give this some thought."

  [Five]

  THE FOSTER LAFAYETTE HOTEL

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  1910 HOURS 22 SEPTEMBER 1942

  "May I help you, Miss?" the desk clerk said to the s
triking young woman with jet-black, pageboy-cut hair.