W E B Griffin - Corp 09 - Under Fire

by Under Fire(Lit)

  Had been different on a ship, he corrected himself. Pas-senger ships, ocean liners, were as obsolete as buggy whips. There once had been fourteen passenger ships in the Pacific & Far East fleet. Now there was one.

  Pickering nodded politely at the horse's ass in the win-dow seat, sat down beside him, and fastened his seat belt.

  "Up front, were you?" the horse's ass inquired. "I didn't know they let passengers go in the cockpit."

  "My son is the pilot," Pickering said.

  "And I guess if you're the pilot, you can break the rules for your old man, right?"

  "And I work for the airline," Pickering said.

  "No kidding? What do you do?"

  "I'm in administration," Pickering said.

  That was not the whole truth. Trans-Global Airways was a wholly owned subsidiary of the Pacific & Far East Shipping Corporation. When the Wall Street Journal, in a story about Trans-Global, mentioned P&FE, it used the phrase "pri-vately held." The Pickering family owned P&FE, and Flem-ing Pickering, pater familias, was chairman of the board.

  "So you're on a business trip?" the horse's ass asked.

  "That's right," Pickering said, smiling with an effort.

  That wasn't exactly true, either.

  While it was true that he was going to Tokyo to participate in a conference between a dozen shipping companies-both air and what now had become "surface"-serving the Far East, it was also true that he was going to spend as little time as possible actually conferring with anyone. He was instead going to spend some time with a young couple-a Marine captain and his wife-who were stationed in Tokyo. He had never told either of them, but he regarded both of them as his children, although there was no blood connection.

  When Pickering had been a young man, being groomed to take over P&FE from his father, Captain Richard Picker-ing, his father had told him over and over the basic rule of success as a mariner or a businessman: Find capable sub-ordinates, give them a clear mission, and then get out of their way and let them do their jobs.

  Fleming Pickering had capable subordinates who knew what he expected of them. And-very likely, he thought, because he did not get in their way and let them do then-jobs-they did their jobs very well; in his opinion, far bet-ter than their peers elsewhere in the shipping business.

  They would do the conferring in Tokyo, and he would not get in their way.

  What had happened was, the previous Wednesday, Chairman of the Board Pickering had, as was his custom, arrived at his San Francisco office at precisely 9 a.m.

  It was an impressive office, occupying the southwest quarter of the upper (tenth) story of the P&FE Building. In some ways, it was museumlike:

  There were four glass cases. Two of the four held pre-cisely crafted models of each of the ninety-one vessels of the P&FE fleet, all built to the same scale, and each about two feet in length. There were tankers, bulk-carriers, freighters, and one passenger liner.

  The other two glass cases held far larger models. In one was a six-foot-long, exquisitely detailed model of the clip-per ship Pacific Princess (Richard Pickering, Master), which had set-and still held-the San Francisco-Shanghai speed record for sailing vessels. The other glass case held a thirteen-foot-long model of the 51,000-ton SS Pacific Princess (Fleming Pickering, Master), a sleek passenger ship that had set-and still held-the San Francisco-Shang-hai speed record on her maiden voyage in 1941.

  Hanging on nearly invisible wires above the clipper's glass case was a model of a Chance Vought Corsair F4U fighter aircraft. It had been built by the same firm of crafts-men who had built the ship models, and, like them, was correct in every detail. The legend "MARINES" was painted in large letters on the fuselage. Below it was let-tered VMF-229, and below the cockpit window was the legend "M.S. Pickering, Major, USMCR" and nine small representations of the Japanese battle flag, each signifying an enemy aircraft downed by Major Pickering.

  Suspended above the glass case holding the model of the SS Pacific Princess, there was a model of the Trans-Global Airways Lockheed Model L049 Constellation San Francisco, a four-engined triple-tailed airliner, in which TGA Chief Pilot Captain Malcolm S. Pickering had set two world's records, one for fastest commercial aviation flight between San Francisco and Honolulu, and the other for fastest commercial aviation flight time between Hon-olulu and Shanghai. The latter record was probably going to be on the books for some time, because the Chinese Communists were now in Shanghai, and American air-lines were no longer welcome to land.

  Behind the chairman's huge, antique mahogany desk, the huge wheel of the clipper ship Pacific Princess and her quarterdeck compass stood guarding an eight-by-twelve-foot map of the world

  Every morning, at 6 a.m., just before the night opera-tions manager went off duty, he came up from the third floor, laid a copy of the more important overnight commu-nications-"the overnights"-on the chairman's desk, and then went to the map and moved ninety-one small ship models, on magnetic mounts, from one position to another on the map to correspond with their last reported position.

  The previous Wednesday morning, at 9:01 a.m., Chair-man of the Board Pickering had taken a look at the map, read the overnights, poured himself a cup of coffee, and with that out of the way was, at 9:09 a.m., where he had been the day before at 9:09 a.m., and would almost cer-tainly be tomorrow at 9:09 a.m.

  That is to say, bored stiff and without a goddamned thing to do for the rest of the day.

  Unless one counted the Second Wednesday Luncheon of the Quarterback Club of the Greater San Francisco United Charities, Inc., and he hadn't even wanted to think about that.

  Captain Richard Pickering had been right on the money about that sort of thing, too. "Flem," his father had coun-seled, "the trouble with giving people something is that, since they get it for nothing, they tend to consider it worth-less."

  Fleming Pickering had long ago painfully come to conclude that what Greater San Francisco United Charities-and at least six other do-gooding or social or-ganizations-wanted of him was his name on the letter-head and his signature on substantial checks, and in exchange they were willing to listen politely to his sug-gestions at meetings, while reserving and invariably exer-cising their option to ignore them.

  At 9:11 A.M., Mrs. Helen Florian, his secretary for more than two decades, had announced over the intercom, "Boss, Pick's on line three."

  Pickering, who had been sitting with his feet on the windowsill, watching the activity-there hadn't been much-in San Francisco Bay, spun around, and grabbed the telephone. I am, he had realized, in one of my "Boy, do I feel sorry for Poor 0l' Flem Pickering " moods, and I don't want Pick picking up on that.

  "Good morning," he said cheerfully. "What's up?" "Mom still in New York?" Pick asked. "I think today's Saint Louis," Pickering replied. "You know your mother."

  A picture of his wife of thirty years-a tall, shapely, silver-haired woman with startlingly blue eyes-flashed through his mind. He missed her terribly, and not only be-cause she made him feel as if he were still twenty-one.

  When Fleming Pickering had heard the sound of trum-pets and rushed off to the sound of musketry in World War II, Mrs. Patricia Foster Pickering had "temporarily" taken over for her husband as chairman of the P&FE board. Sur-prising everybody but her husband, she had not only imme-diately gathered the reins of authority in her delicate fingers, but pulled on them with consummate skill and artistry.

  When he'd come home, there had been some talk of the both of them working at P&FE, but Patricia had known from the start that, if their marriage was to endure, she would have to find something to do other than share the control of P&FE with her husband.

  The temporary chairman of the board of P&FE had be-come the chairman of the board of Foster Hotels, Inc., in part because she was the only daughter of Andrew Foster, majority stockholder of the forty-two-hotel chain, and partly because her father-who had wanted to retire-had made the cold business decision that she was the best-qualified person he could find to run the company.

  While Patrici
a Foster Pickering shared her husband's- and her father's-belief that the best way to run an organi-zation was to select the best possible subordinates and then get out of their way, she also shared her father's belief that the best way to make sure your subordinates were doing what you wanted them to do was to "drop in unannounced and make sure there are no dust balls under the beds and that the liquid in the liquor bottles isn't colored water."

  Which meant that she was on the road a good deal, most often from Tuesday morning until Friday evening. Which meant that her husband was most often free to rattle around-alone-in either their penthouse apartment in the Foster San Franciscan or their home on the Pacific Ocean near Carmel from Tuesday morning until Friday evening.

  While he frequently reminded himself that he really had nothing to complain about-that in addition to his consid-erable material possessions, he had a wife who loved him, a son who loved him and of whom he was immensely proud, and his health-the truth was that every once in a while, say once a month, he slipped into one of his "Boy, do I feel sorry for Poor Ol' Flem Pickering" moods and, logic aside, he really felt sorry for Poor 01' Flem Pickering.

  "Let's go to Tokyo," Pick said.

  "Why should I go to Tokyo?"

  "Because your alternative is watching the waves go up and down in San Francisco Bay until Mom gets home," Pick went on. "Come on, Pop. Let her wait for you for once."

  It probably makes me a terrible husband, Fleming Pick-ering thought, but there would be a certain justice in having Patti rattle around the apartment waiting for me for once.

  He had another thought:

  "I thought it was decided you weren't going to Tokyo," he said.

  He hadn't ordered Pick not to go to the conference, but he had happened to mention what Pick's grandfather had had to say about picking competent subordinates and then getting out of their way.

  "Bartram Stevens of Pacific Cathay is going to be there. Charley Ansley called me from Hong Kong last night and told me. Charley doesn't want him pulling rank and taking over the conference; he asked me to go."

  Bartram Stevens was president of Pacific Cathay Air-ways, which was to Trans-Pacific Shipping what Trans-Global was to P&FE. J. Charles Ansley, who had been with P&FE longer than Pick was old, was general manager of Trans-Global.

  Charley didn't call me. There's no reason he should have, I suppose; he was asking/telling Pick to go, and that would be Pick's decision, not mine.

  But if I needed one more proof that I am now as useless as teats on a boar hog around here, voila!

  "And if I showed up over there, wouldn't that be raising the stakes?" Fleming Pickering thought aloud.

  "With all possible respect, General, sir, what I had in mind-and Charley agrees-is to stash you quietly in the Imperial, but let the word get out that you're there. In case, for example, Commodore Ford just happened to be in the neighborhood."

  Commodore Hiram Ford was chairman of the board of Trans-Pacific Shipping.

  And that sonofabitch is entirely capable of showing up there and trying to take over the conference.

  "This your idea or Charley's?"

  "Mine, Pop," Pick said. "Come on! What the hell! You could see the Killer and Ernie. And I'll have you back by next Thursday."

  "If you and Charley agree that I should."

  "We do," Pick said, firmly.

  What the hell. The alternative is watching the waves go up and down in San Francisco Bay until Patti gets home. And it'll do her good to have to wait for me for once.

  "I'm with the State Department, myself," the asshole in the window seat announced.

  Why doesn't that surprise me?

  "Are you really?"

  "I've just been assigned to General MacArthur's staff."

  "That should be an interesting assignment," Pickering said, politely.

  "I'm to be his advisor on psychological warfare."

  "Really?"

  "I'm looking forward to working with him," the asshole said. "From what I understand, he's an incredible man."

  "Yes, I would say he is," Pickering agreed.

  And the first thing you're going to have to learn, you sim-pleton, is that no one works with El Supremo, they work for him.

  And the second is that the only advice Douglas MacArthur listens to is that advice that completely agrees with his posi-tions in every minute detail.

  [TWO]

  HANEDA AIRFIELD

  TOKYO, JAPAN

  1155 1 JUNE 1950

  Fleming Pickering politely shook the hand of the State De-partment asshole in the window seat-who actually thought Douglas MacArthur would be grateful for his ad-vice-and wished him good luck in his new assignment.

  Then he walked forward to the cockpit and stood and waited while Pick went through the paperwork associated with the end of a Trans-Global flight. Then he followed

  Pick and the rest of the crew down the ladder pushed up to the cockpit door.

  Pick waited for him at the bottom of the ladder, touched his arm, and nodded across the tarmac toward two nattily dressed military policemen who stood guard over a well-polished Douglas C-54 that bore the bar-and-star insignia of an American military aircraft, and had "Bataan" lettered on either side of its nose.

  "That's MacArthur's, right?" Pick asked. "It says `Bataan' on the nose," Pickering replied, gently sarcastic. "I think that's a fair assumption."

  "Doesn't look like there's much wrong with it, does there?" Pick asked.

  "I think that's probably the best-maintained airplane in the Orient," Pickering said. "What are you driving at?"

  "Just before we came over here," Pick said, "I had a call from Lockheed. The military laid a priority on them for a new 1049, to replace the war-weary C-54 of your pal MacArthur. So Lockheed's going to give him the next one off the line, which was supposed to be mine, and which I need."

  "He is the Supreme Commander, Allied Powers," Pick-ering said. "And you're just a lousy civilian."

  "Spoken like a true general," Pick said, with a smile.

  "Yes, indeed, and why aren't you standing at attention in my presence?"

  Pick laughed and waved his father ahead of him toward

  the door in the terminal marked customs air crews only.

  Trans-Global's Tokyo station chief was waiting for them outside customs. Pickering didn't know him, but the man obviously knew who he was.

  I suppose, as MacArthur is El Supremo of Japan, I am El Supremo of Pacific & Far East. But what does this guy think I'm going to do to him? Eat him alive?

  "I'm Fleming Pickering," he said, offering his hand with a smile.

  "Yes, sir, I know. Welcome to Tokyo. How was your

  flight, sir?"

  "Very nice," Pickering said. "Did you get the word about how little time it took us?"

  "Yes, sir," the man said. "And we should have official confirmation within the hour." He turned to Pick. "Con-gratulations, Captain."

  "Let's hold off on that until we get confirmation," Pick said. "But thanks anyway."

  "Captain, Mr. Ansley asks that you come to base opera-tions. Apparently, there's some paperwork connected with certification...."

  "I figured there would be," Pick said. "Dad, there's no reason why you have to wait around here for God knows how long." He turned to the station chief. "We have wheels to take my father to the hotel, right?"

  "Right outside," the station chief confirmed.

  "I'll see you at the hotel," Pick said.

  The wheels turned out to be a 1941 Cadillac limousine. Pickering wasn't pleased with that, but realized that saying anything to the station chief would make him sound un-grateful.

  "Charley Ansley's told me what a fine job you've been doing here," Pickering said, offering his hand to the station chief.

  That wasn't exactly true. It was an inference: If this fel-low wasn't doing a hell of a good job, Charley Ansley would have canned him long ago.

  "That's very kind of Mr. Ansley, sir," the station chief- whose name had never come up-replied,
almost blushing with pleasure.

  Pickering got into the backseat of the limousine. The station chief waited at the curb until the limousine was out of sight.

  This is not the first time I've been driven from an airfield into Tokyo in a limousine. The circumstances were different the last time. The last time, Japanese soldiers and police and ordinary civilians lined the streets, bowing their heads toward the cars of their American conquerors.

  I was involved in that goddamn war, literally from the first shots until the last act.

  But that was a long time ago. General, and incidentally, General, you're not a general anymore.