"Yes, sir."
"But on the other hand. Captain, when a lowly major is asked by a rear admiral-one of the good rear admirals-if he is willing to render a service, what is one to do?"
"Sir, I had nothing to do with this," Weston said.
"Yeah, I know, Weston," Williamson said. "And I owe Charley Galloway a couple of big ones. So we will make the most of this unfortunate situation. After I visit the gentlemen's rest facility, you will buy me a cup of coffee and tell me how much you know about PBY-5A aircraft."
"Yes, sir."
"It was put to me-not in so many words, of course-that the Admiral would not be displeased if you acquired some bootleg time at the controls of that ugly beast."
"I've got about twelve hundred hours in one, sir," Weston said.
"In the left seat?" Williamson asked dubiously. The pilot sat in the left cockpit seat, the copilot in the right.
"Most of it, sir," Weston answered. "I was rated as an instructor pilot in it, sir."
"I didn't know that," Williamson said. "Where are your flight records?"
"They went up in smoke on December seventh, sir."
"If I were you, Weston, and you still want to fly fighters, I'd keep the twelve hundred hours and IP rating in the Catalina to myself. They just put out a high-priority call for experienced Cat drivers for some classified mission, and most of us are scurrying for cover."
"Thank you, sir," Weston said. "I want to fly the Corsair."
"Don't go so far as dumping the bird on our way back to Pensacola, but on the other hand, don't mention to anyone that you've got IP status and that much time in one."
"What kind of a classified mission?" Weston asked in simple curiosity.
"They didn't say, and I didn't ask," Williamson said.
The copilot, a Navy lieutenant, and the crew chief, a chief aviation mechanic, climbed out of the Catalina. Weston recognized the copilot. He was Admiral Sayre's aide-de-camp.
Weston wondered how the two of them had planned to spend Saturday before Admiral Sayre "asked" them to fly up to Asshole, West Virginia, in the Catalina.
"While it is true, of course, that any landing you can walk away from is a good landing," Major Williamson said, as Weston applied the brakes and prepared to turn off the runway at Pensacola, "that wasn't too bad, Captain Weston."
It was the eighth landing he had made in the Cat between Charleston and Pensacola. The others were touch-and-goes at an Army Air Corps training base near Midland City, Alabama, a little over one hundred miles from Pensacola.
"Thank you, sir."
"So far as I'm concerned, you've just passed your flight check for recertification as pilot-in command of, and instructor pilot for, PBY-5A aircraft."
"Thank you, sir."
"Unfortunately for you, I'm going to have to make a record of that. I'll try to see if I can't get Flight Records to lose it for a while-there's a Marine sergeant who works there who owes me a couple of favors-at least until after General Mclnerney finds the eight unfortunate volunteers he's looking for."
"Thank you," Weston said, meaning it.
Admiral Sayre's aide drove him to Quarters Number One.
Mrs. Sayre and Martha-who was wearing white shorts and a T-shirt-came out to the drive to welcome him. Very warmly.
He was very careful to kiss Martha with slightly less passion and intimacy than he kissed Mrs. Sayre.
"You got here just in time," Mrs. Sayre said. "We're having a few people over for shrimp and hamburgers, and when we heard you had to make a precautionary stop at Midland City, I was afraid we were going to have to drive up there to get you."
"Major Williamson let me shoot some touch-and-goes," Jim said.
"That's what Daddy said they were probably doing when he told you not to worry," Martha said, and turned to smile dazzlingly at Weston. "How did you do?"
"Okay, I guess," Jim said. "Everybody was able to walk away from the airplane."
Martha and Mrs. Sayre laughed dutifully.
"Major and Mrs. Williamson will be here," Mrs. Sayre said. "Together with some other people the Admiral wants you to meet before you actually report for duty."
"That's very kind of you," Jim said.
"Don't be silly. You're like family."
"Like family" is one step shy of "family" he thought, which I strongly suspect is next on everybody's agenda. I have been adjudged to be a suitable replacement for Greg Culhane.
Why am I surprised?
Admiral and Mrs. Sayre are intelligent, perceptive people, and if Martha is telling the truth that until me she hasn't been interested in any man since Greg got killed-and I think she is-they've seen this and have naturally been concerned about it.
And here comes Greg's best friend, back from the dead, delivered right into their laps, and Martha comes back from the dead herself.
How the hell am I going to get out of this?
The first step on what may turn out to be a very long journey is to keep my hands off her, and my pecker firmly tucked in my pocket.
"Martha will show you your room, and then come out on the patio," Mrs. Sayre said. "Where you can admiringly watch the Admiral make his world-famous grilled shrimp."
"Even funnier than that," Martha said, "is watching people pretend to like them."
"You should be ashamed of yourself!" Mrs. Sayre said.
Martha led him inside and to one of the bedrooms. "Remember this?" she asked.
He shook his head, "no."
"This is the room where Daddy puts people he likes," she said. "It has its own bath." She walked to the bathroom door and opened it. "Everybody else gets a guest room with the bathroom down the hall."
"I'm flattered," he said.
"Are you going to kiss me, or what?" Martha asked. "I thought Mother made it perfectly clear we were to have a minute or two alone."
"Of course," he said.
I will kiss her as a friend. No passion whatever. Maybe I can send her a subtle message.
That noble intention lasted until he felt the pressure of her breasts against his abdomen and her tongue against his lips.
The next thing he knew, she was pushing him away. They were both breathing heavily. Martha leaned against the wall and pulled her brassiere back in position over her breasts.
"For a moment, I was afraid you weren't glad to see me," she said.
"Don't be silly!"
"I don't know what we're going to do," Martha said. "But I'll think of something. Now go wash the lipstick off your face."
"Yes, ma'am," he said.
"And as much as I hate to say this, I think it would be a good idea if you closed your fly."
[FOUR]
United States Submarine Sunfish
159ø 33" East Longitude 25ø 42" North Latitude
Pacific Ocean
0705 20 March 1943
There were four officers in the tiny wardroom of the Sunfish when the chief of the boat, Chief Boatswain's Mate Patrick J. Buchanan, pushed the curtain aside and wordlessly, with raised eyebrows, asked permission to enter.
"Come on in, Chief," said Lieutenant Commander Warren T. Houser, USN, the Sunfish's skipper. Houser was a stocky man in his late thirties who wore his blond hair in a crew-cut.
Buchanan, a wiry thirty-seven-year-old with twenty years in the Navy, fifteen of them in the Silent Service, nodded at the other officers and slid into an empty chair at the tiny table.
Lieutenant Amos P. Youngman, USNR, the executive officer of the Sunfish, pushed a silver coffeepot and a heavy china mug across the table to him. He was tall, thin, balding, and wore glasses, which gave him an intellectual look.
Before helping himself to coffee, Chief Buchanan made three gestures toward the skipper with his right hand. He balled his fist with the index finger extended upward. Then he turned his balled fist downward and described a circle. Finally, he balled his fist with the thumb extended upward.
Houser correctly interpreted the gestures to mean that the Sunfish was on position, maki
ng wide circles on battery power a hundred feet below the surface of the Pacific Ocean, and that everything was hunky-dory.
Commander Buchanan returned the thumbs-up gesture.
"You may be wondering why I have asked you in for this little chat, Chief," Houser said.
Buchanan smiled at the one officer who was not a submariner. His name was Major Homer C. "Jake" Dillon, USMCR.
"I'm afraid to ask," he said. "Where is the Marine Corps taking us this time?"
The Sunfish's last three combat patrols had all been to Mindanao. They had gone like clockwork, but Chief Buchanan was a devout believer in odds. The more times you did anything, the greater the odds that something would go seriously wrong.
"All we're going to do is run around in a circle," Major Dillon said. "We should be back at Pearl Harbor before it gets dark."
"As I recall, the Marines are pretty good at running around in circles," Chief Buchanan said.
This prompted another hand gesture, this one from Major Dillon. He held his balled fist upward with the center finger extended.
Captain Houser chuckled.
"In ten minutes, Chief," he said, sliding a sheet of typewriter paper stamped top secret across the table to Buchanan, "at 0715, we're going to take the boat to periscope depth. Then, presuming we don't find ourselves in the middle of a Japanese fleet, we are going to surface and Sparks will transmit the following identifier-Code Group One-on that frequency, for a period of five minutes. He will simultaneously monitor the specified frequency, listening for the phrase specified. If within five minutes he receives the phrase specified, he will transmit what is described on that as 'Code Group Two.' "
Chief Buchanan took the sheet of typewriter paper and read it carefully before looking at the skipper for further orders.
"Copy the data," Captain Houser ordered. "That Top Secret goes right back in the safe."
"Aye, aye, sir," Buchanan said, took a small, wire-spiral notebook and pencil from the pocket of his khaki shirt, and wrote down the radio frequencies and code groups.
"I think, Major Dillon," Captain Houser said, "that your obscene gesture to Chief Buchanan has so intimidated him-he is, of course, such a gentle person- that he's not even going to ask what this is all about."
"The hell I'm not," Buchanan said.
"With a little bit of luck, Chief," the third submariner in the wardroom said, "a Catalina somewhere within a hundred miles of our position will be able to get a radio fix on us, and there will be a rendezvous at sea."
The third submariner was Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis III, USN, a tall, good-looking member of the Naval Academy's class of 1940, and now aide-decamp to Rear Admiral Daniel J. Wagam, one of the more powerful members of the staff of Admiral Chester W Nimitz, Commander in Chief, Pacific. Lewis was on Chief Buchanan's very short list of very good officers. Before he had become Admiral Wagam's aide, he had served aboard the submarine Remora. Among other hairy patrols, Remora had three times run the Japanese blockade of the Philippines to Corregidor, taking in desperately needed medicine and evacuating the Philippine gold reserves as well as nurses and blinded soldiers and Marines. He had also been on the Sunfish on her first trip to Mindanao, had gone ashore with the Marines, and stayed with them until evacuated later by the Sunfish.
"We're practicing personnel movement?" Buchanan asked, sounding a little surprised.
The Sunfish had twice met with seaplanes on the high sea, transferring to them people evacuated from the Philippines.
"That, too," Lieutenant Lewis said, waited for that to sink in, and then went on. "Following is Top Secret, Chief, to be shared with no one without my, or Major Dillon's, specific permission in each case."
Buchanan nodded his understanding, but Chambers waited for him to say, after a long moment, "Aye, aye, sir," before going on.
"The plan is that the Sunfish will rendezvous with two Catalinas in the Yellow Sea, a hundred miles northeast of Tientsin, China. She will then refuel these aircraft so they may complete their mission."
"Where are they going?" Buchanan asked without thinking.
"That's. right now, Chief, you don't have the need to know," Captain Houser said.
"The Gobi Desert, Chief," Major Dillon said. "They are going to set up a weather station in the Gobi Desert."
"Jesus Christ!"
"My sentiments exactly," Dillon said. "But that's what we're going to do. Some Marines from the Peking Legation, guys retired from the Yangtze River patrol, the 4th Marines, the 15th Infantry stayed in China, roaming around the desert. We're trying to get some people into them now. With radios."
"Jesus Christ!" Buchanan repeated.
"I decided you had the Need To Know, Chief," Dillon said. "We're really not running around in circles. This is damned important."
"I meant no offense, what I said before, Major."
"I know," Dillon said. "I didn't take any. Let me get back to the keeping this a secret business. This operation has to be kept quiet, no matter if this rendezvous/refueling works or not, and not just for the next six months. And it's the sort of thing the men are going to want to talk about. If the Captain gives them a speech, that-no offense, Captain-just makes it a better story. So you're going to have to keep the cork in the bottle, Chief."
"Yeah," Buchanan said thoughtfully, and then remembered to say, "Aye, aye, sir."
The order is understood and will be obeyed.
"How do you plan to refuel the airplanes?" Buchanan asked.
"We haven't figured that out yet," Dillon said. "All suggestions will be gratefully accepted."
"That's going to be a bitch," Buchanan said.
"According to Lieutenant Lewis, you submariners can do anything," Dillon said.
"Captain," Lieutenant Youngman said, "it's 0712."
"Thank you, Mr. Youngman," Captain Houser said. He reached behind him and pressed a lever on a communications box.
"This is the Captain speaking," he announced. "Bring her to periscope depth."
Four men were in the conning tower: Captain Houser, Major Dillon, Lieutenant Lewis, and a sailor serving as lookout and talker. All had large Navy binoculars hanging from their necks. Chambers Lewis had an electrically powered bullhorn in his hand, and Jake Dillon had a clipboard. The clean, fresh, early-morning air was very welcome, although they had been running underwater for only eight hours.
The Sunfish was making a slow, wide circle across the calm, deep-blue Pacific.
"This would be as good as it gets, Jake," Captain Houser said. "It's winter in the Yellow Sea. It's not going to be nearly as calm as this."
"Yeah," Dillon said, as much a grunt as a word.
"Captain," the lookout said. "Aircraft dead astern."
Everyone turned to face the stern, binoculars to their eyes. A Catalina, at perhaps 2,000 feet, was making a slow descent toward the water.
"Chief of the boat to the conning tower," Captain Houser ordered.
"Chief of the boat to the conning tower, aye," the talker parroted into the microphone strapped to his chest.
Buchanan appeared through the hatch less than a minute later. He looked dubiously at Lewis's bullhorn, which he was seeing for the first time.
"The fewer radio transmissions, the better," Lewis said, answering Buchanan's unspoken question.
"Are they going to be able to hear you? Over the sound of their engines?" Buchanan asked.
"That's one of the things we're going to find out," Dillon said. "Option Two is running a telephone line out to the airplane in a rubber boat."
"What rubber boat?"
"Today, the one on the plane. If we do this-"
"When we do this," Lewis corrected him.
"When we do this, there will be rubber boats aboard the Sunfish'' Dillon finished.
Buchanan had a thought as the Catalina approached the surface of the sea. "Give me the mike," he said to the talker. "And go below."
The talker's face showed he didn't like the order, but he raised the microphone over his head and
gave it to Buchanan, who lowered it in place on his chest.
"What you say when you go below and they ask you what's going on up here," Buchanan ordered, "is 'I don't have a clue.' And I want you to keep your guesses to yourself. Understood?"
The talker nodded his head.
"That's what they call an order, sailor," Buchanan said firmly, but not unkindly.
W E B Griffin - Corp 08 - In Dangers Path Page 39