He thinks he can just order me around like I'm one of his Marines.
And he thinks there is absolutely nothing I can do about it, because he's the senior Office of Management Analysis officer e even if my assimilated rank is equal to his.
Well, we'll see about that! Fleming Pickering won't let hint get away with this, once he hears about it!
Room 6 of Mason's Hotel turned out to be a small, more or less square room on the upper floor of a fifty-year-old, wood-framed, tin-roofed, two-story building.
There was a bed with a visibly sagging mattress; a chest of drawers; a mirror which had lost at least half of its silver backing; a table against a wall; a straight-backed chair-, a bedside table with a 25-watt lamp on it; and a bare 100-watt bulb hanging from the ceding. There was a sink; and behind a curtain there was a tin-walled cubicle with a shower head and concrete floor. The toilet was down the corridor.
Mrs. Ellen Feller moved the 25-watt lamp from the bedside table to the table against the wall, pulled the chair up to it, and spent the next two hours composing a message to Brigadier General Fleming Pickering. It would go out that very night over the MAGIC channel, she decided, even if that meant she would have to pay for a taxi all the way out to the Supreme Headquarters, SWPOA building, spend thirty minutes in Pluto Hon's damned damp dungeon, and then either beg a ride back here from the staff duty officer or pay for another damned taxi.
Putting her thoughts on paper, however, turned out to be much more difficult than she initially imagined. Her first draft, quickly balled up and tossed on the floor, sounded like whining. And that wouldn't do. To win her point, she had to paint herself as a member of the team who had been unjustly excluded from team activities.
Neither was Fleming Pickering going to be automatically sympathetic to her eviction from Water Lily Cottage, she realized. Banning would just tell him that John Moore's nurses needed her room.
Maybe Johnny Moore really has malaria.
And then, slowly, as her fury waned, she saw other problems.
For instance, she wasn't entirely sure that Fleming Pickering would even get her carefully worded message. It would have to pass over Rickabee's desk. And Colonel Rickabee and that bastard Banning were not only brother Marine officers, but personally close. Even if she sent it EYES ONLY PICKERING, Rickabee would see it. He would be prepared to argue Banning's case by the time he handed it to Pickering.
And she couldn't send it EYES ONLY PICKERING and still look like a member of the team registering a justified complaint.
Rickabee was Banning's immediate superior, not Pickering.
Any complaints should be directed to him.
And finally, of course, that rude bastard Dillon just might have been telling the truth. Pickering himself just might have told him to keep Ellen Feller out of whatever it was they were doing.
Finally, she gave up. She retrieved all the crumpled-up balls of paper and put a match to them.
There were more than two ways to skin a cat.
General Willoughby was proud and sensitive about his role as MacArthur's intelligence officer. He would not be at all pleased to learn that a clandestine intelligence operation, directed from Washington, was being conducted right under his nose.
Let Willoughby send an EYES ONLY to Washington either on his own or at MacArthur's direction.
It wouldn't be hard for Willoughby to "find out." She'd go to the dungeon in the morning, and she would personally carry to General Willoughby the first MAGIC that came through.
Willoughby almost always wanted to chat a little. He'd offer her a cup of coffee and she'd accept it, of course.
She would, she decided, wear the white cotton see-through blouse Willoughby always seemed to find so fascinating.
On that happy note, Mrs. Ellen Feller (Assimilated Grade: Lieutenant Commander) took off her clothing, climbed into the bed with the sagging mattress, and went to sleep.
[Three]
At half past nine, Lieutenant (J.G.) Joanne Miller, NNC, came back into the living room. Second Lieutenant John Marston Moore, USMCR, was regally established there in a high-backed armchair, his feet on its matching footstool. He was wearing a hospital bathrobe, pajamas, and slippers. A card table had been arranged so that Joanne could sit on one side and Lieutenant (J.G.) Barbara Cotter on the other. The three of them had been playing gin rummy.
Joanne had gone into the kitchen to make a fresh pot of tea and to get Lieutenant Moore's Atabrine. She had refused his request for another beer, and he had somewhat surprised her by not giving her an argument. Usually, when he asked for a beer and she turned him down, he gave her an argument. And that was beginning to get to her. But then he began to annoy her in a different way. Every time she glanced at him, she saw that he was looking at her.
He's just a kid, a horny kid, she thought. If I ignore him, he'll stop.
He swallowed the Atabrine, washing it down with a swallow of Coca-Cola.
"How old are you?" she heard herself asking.
"Twenty-two," he said.
"You don't look it." She saw the strange look on Barbara's face.
"Did I do something wrong, or what?" Moore asked.
I'm twenty-four. What right have I got to think of him as a kid. "That just slipped out. Sorry."
"I thought you were going to tell me it was past my bedtime or something," he said.
"It is."
He looked at his watch.
"Please, Mommy," he said. "It's only half past nine. Can't I stay up till ten?"
"I said I was sorry," she said. "I really don't give a damn if you stay up all night. I'm going to bed."
Barbara flashed her another what's-wrong-with-you? look.
"Just a couple more hands, John," Barbara said. "It's been a long day for me, too."
Joanne went into the bedroom recently vacated by Ellen Feller and started to prepare for bed. She had just emerged from the shower when she heard the telephone ring. A minute later Barbara called her name.
Joanne put on her bathrobe and went into the living room in time to see John Moore walking awkwardly across the room to the couch. He picked up his cane and then went into his bedroom.
"He says he has to go out," Barbara said, and gestured toward the telephone.
"Like hell he's going out!" She pushed the door to his bedroom open.
Moore was pulling his pajama top over his head.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"I've got to go to the dungeon," he said. "I'd be grateful if one of you would drive me."
"You're not going anywhere."
"Hey," he said, almost nastily, "enough of this `me Mommy and you Little Boy' bullshit. I have to go to the dungeon. They called. I'm going."
"What the hell is the dungeon?"
He didn't answer her. He found a T-shirt and pulled it over his head. After he stuck his arms in the sleeves of a shirt, he looked at her.
"The dungeon is what they call the cryptographic room. It's in the SWPOA basement. A message there has to be decoded."
"And they don't have a cryptographic officer on duty? Why do you have to go?"
Again, he didn't reply. He turned his back to her and dropped his pajama trousers. She could see the scars on his legs. He almost fell over putting his undershorts on.
When he reached for his trousers, she went to him.
"Let me help you," she said, much more fiercely than she intended. "I don't want you breaking your leg."
He sat on the bed. She dropped to her knees, picked up his pants, and worked them up his calves. When she looked up at him, she saw him staring down the front of her bathrobe.
She flushed and angrily put her hand to the opening, closed the robe, quickly got to her feet, and turned around.
"I hope you got an eyeful!" she snapped.
She could see him in the mirror over the chest of drawers.
He pushed himself off the bed, stood up, and pulled his trousers up. He had an erection. It stood there defiantly until he had tucked his
shirt in and buttoned his waistband. As he pushed himself inside his fly and zipped himself up, he said, "If you didn't want me to look, why did you come in here dressed like that?"
A wave of anger swept through her. She spun around and slapped him as hard as she could, so hard that he fell backward onto the bed.
"You bastard!" she hissed.
And then, as quickly as it came, the anger passed and she realized what she had done.
"Jesus!" he said, shaking his head.
Joanne fled the bedroom, crossed the living room without looking at Barbara, went into their bedroom, and slammed the door.
She leaned against the bedroom door, breathing heavily.
A moment later she heard him ask, "Where's the keys to the Studebaker?"
"You shouldn't be going out," Barbara said.
"Give me the damned keys!" he said.
"I'll drive you," Joanne heard Barbara say. She heard the front door close. After that, the engine started, and then the headlights swept across the window curtains.
She pushed herself off the wall and went and sat on the edge of her bed.
"It's all right, I'm awake," Joanne said when Barbara came into their room without turning on the light. They had been gone two hours.
Barbara turned the lights on and started to get undressed.
"Is he all right?"
"I just gave him his eleven-thirty Atabrine," Barbara said.
"What was that all about?" Joanne asked. "Did you get to see the dungeon?"
"No. They wouldn't let me in there. Whatever it is, it's in the basement of the SWPOA headquarters building. But I did get to see General MacArthur."
"MacArthur? Really?"
"Yeah. In the flesh. First we went down in the basement. They made me wait outside-"
"Who made you wait?"
"A couple of sergeants with submachine guns made me wait outside a steel door. John went inside, he was in there I guess almost an hour, and then he came back out. Then we got back on the elevator, and he said, `Now you'll get a chance to see how the other half lives,' and we rode up to the seventh floor. More sergeants with submachine guns.
"One of them said, `The Supreme Commander is expecting you, Lieutenant.'
"Really?"
"And the sergeant opened a door, and John said, `I'll be right out,' and went in. MacArthur was standing right inside, walking around with a cup of coffee."
"And?"
"John said, `Good evening, General." And MacArthur said, `Where's Pluto?" and John said, `He had to go to Townsville, Sir,' and handed him a folder with a TOP SECRET cover sheet. MacArthur read it and grunted. Then he asked, `Has General Willoughby seen this?" and John said, `No, Sir. I just decoded it,' and MacArthur said, `I'll see that he gets it." And then he said, `Have I met you before, Lieutenant?" and John said, `I was stationed here before, Sir, as a sergeant." And MacArthur said, `Yes, of course, you're the fellow they sent to Guadalcanal by mistake. I'm glad to see you're recovered."
"Recovered, in a pig's eye!" Joanne interrupted.
"You want to hear what happened or not?" Barbara asked.
"Go on."
"So then MacArthur laid his hand on John's shoulder, sort of patted him, and said, `I'm sorry you had to come here this late at night. When did you say Pluto will be back?" and John said, `Probably tomorrow, Sir,' and MacArthur grunted and walked him to the door. `Good night, son. Thank you,' he said, and then he saw me and smiled and nodded. What do you think about that?"
"I hope you're not making it all up," Joanne said.
"Well, you can go to hell!" Barbara said. She went into the bathroom.
"I'll give him his one-thirty," Joanne called after her, then rolled on her side and stretched her arm out for the alarm clock so she could set it.
Joanne pushed open the door to John Marston Moore's room and walked to the side of his bed, using her flashlight.
"Pill time," she said. "Shield your eyes, I'm going to turn the light on."
"I'm not asleep. Turn it on." She turned the bedside table lamp on. He pushed himself up against the headboard.
"Trouble sleeping?" she asked.
She dumped two Atabrine pills from the bottle, handed them to him, and then handed him a glass of water.
"Yeah," he said after he swallowed the Atabrine.
She sat down on the bed, stuck a thermometer in his mouth, and started to take his pulse.
He smelled of soap. She remembered hearing the sound of running water half an hour after Barbara finished her shower and climbed in bed. She almost got up then to make sure he didn't fall down and hurt himself. But it occurred to her that he had been managing showers by himself with no trouble before Joanne Miller, RN, started taking a professional interest in his physical welfare. She realized he didn't need her help now.
That kept her from making a fool of herself. She did not get out of bed. She lay there, with a clear image of him in the shower. The scars on his leg. His legs. His chest. His rear end.
What he had to tuck in his pants just before she slapped him for looking down her robe at her breasts. As a nurse, that word-for what he stuck inside his pants-meant nothing much to her. As a nurse, she used it easily, professionally. But now was something else...
`What's the matter?" she asked. "Why can't you sleep?"
"You are," he mumbled around the thermometer.
"Ssssh," she said. She wondered if her face was really flushed, or whether it just felt that way.
There was nothing wrong with his heartbeat. And when she took the thermometer from his mouth, she saw that his temperature was only slightly elevated.
"Your temperature has dropped," she said.
"That's surprising," he said.
She gave him a professional smile and then looked at his eyes to see if the pupils were dilated.
That was a mistake. I didn't assess the diameter of his pupils. I fell in.
"I'd like to apologize for... before. I shouldn't have slapped you."
His hand is on my cheek. Why don't I push it away? Or get up?
"Jesus, you're beautiful!"
"You shouldn't be doing that," Joanne said. "I shouldn't let you do that."
"Look at me again," he said.
"No!"
"Look at me again!"
I knew if I did that, this would happen! Joanne thought as she felt his hands on her back, pulling her to him.
She felt her heart jump when their lips touched. And she felt a weakness in her middle. And she barely had the strength to push away from him.
"This is absolutely insane!"
"Yeah, isn't it?"
His lips were now on her neck.
"We have to stop!"
"Why?"
He's pushing my robe open!
"Barbara! She'll hear us."
He touched her nipple with his tongue, and then looked up at her and smiled.
"She's probably asleep," John said.
Oh, God, I hope she is, Joanne thought as she reached down and pushed John's head back where it had been.
[Four]
FERDINAND SIX
BUKA, SOLOMON ISLANDS
1 OCTOBER 1942
It's either hotter than usual, Sergeant Steve Koffler thought, or Ian Bruce is getting sick or something, because he's really wheezing as he pumps the pedals of the generator.
FRD6. KCY. FRD6. KCY AK. KCY CLR.
Detachment A of Special Marine Corps Detachment 14, this is the United States Pacific Fleet Radio. Receipt of your transmission is acknowledged. Our exchange of messages is concluded.
Steve did not follow the prescribed procedure, which was to tap out FRD6 CLR before shutting down. It was a waste of goddamned time, and Ian Bruce looked worn out.
He reached for the ON/OFF switch and then stopped.
FRD6, FRD1. FRD6,FRD1. SB CODE.
Detachment A of Special Marine Corps Detachment 14, this is Coastwatcher Radio. Stand by to receive an encoded message.
What the fuck do they want?
&nb
sp;
W E B Griffin - Corp 05 - Line of Fire Page 44