W E B Griffin - Corp 08 - In Dangers Path
Page 43
"Aye, aye, sir," McCoy said. "What's going on?"
"You've got the gold?" Banning asked.
McCoy tapped his waist. A money belt heavy with U.S. twenty-dollar gold coins was strapped around it.
"There's an OSS station here. Do you know anything about that?"
McCoy shook his head negatively. "First I've heard of it."
"The signal officer here has ordered me to order you to report there, to a Colonel Platt."
"What gives this Army Signal Corps officer the right to give you orders?"
"That's a very interesting question, Captain."
"Is that what you're doing? Ordering me to report to the OSS here?"
"You're detached," Banning said. "I am no longer authorized to give you orders."
"What went on in there?" McCoy asked. "What's going on?"
"I can't go into that, Ken," Banning said. "Sorry."
McCoy looked at him very thoughtfully.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, Captain, but I seem to recall that your last valid order from Brigadier General Pickering was, upon detachment from the team bringing personnel records here, to make preparations to move into the Gobi Desert."
"Yes, sir, that is correct."
"Having been detached, Captain, those orders remain valid unless countermanded by an officer senior to Brigadier General Pickering, such as the major general who is the signal officer here."
"I'm getting the message," McCoy said.
"I don't know what's going on around here, Ken, but whatever it is, you shouldn't be involved with it."
"Yes, sir," McCoy said, and put out his hand to Banning.
"Grab your gear, Ernie," he said. "We're leaving."
"Don't go into the desert, Ken, until Pickering tells you to."
"I'll be around," McCoy said, and motioned for Zimmerman to precede him out of the tunnel.
[FOUR]
U.S. Navy Hospital
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
1615 25 March 1943
"Well, look what's washed up on my beach again," Commander Jerome C. Kister, MC, USNR, greeted Captain James B. Weston, USMC, when he walked into his office and found Weston waiting for him. He touched Weston's shoulder.
"Good afternoon, sir."
"Come on in. Rest your weary bones. It's a long drive from West Virginia, isn't it? Even in your gas guzzler?"
"It's a long ride," Weston agreed.
During which I had a lot of time to think about what I'm going to do about Janice. And did not come up with any answer, except perhaps suicide.
"Sit," Dr. Kister said, indicating an upholstered chair facing his desk.
"Thank you, sir."
"And how was your recuperative leave? Are you appropriately grateful to the grateful taxpayers who picked up the tab for your month in the lap of luxury?"
"I wish they just gave me the money," Weston said.
"But-a little bird told me-you did find the time to work in a little romance. So all was not lost time, was it?"
"I also found time to go to Pensacola," Weston said. "I don't think I'm going to have to learn to fly all over again."
"I heard. Tubby Bolemann has been keeping me up to date."
Weston smiled. Although it made sense, it was the first time he had heard the corpulent psychiatrist called that. "He's a good guy," Weston said.
"Yeah. They offered him retirement-a hundred percent to start, and fifty percent guaranteed for the rest of his life-but he decided to stick around. Now he's trying to go back to sea."
"A good guy," Weston repeated.
"He's also made it official that you are no crazier than any other Marine Aviator. So what happens now is we run you though another quick physical, which I'll schedule for tomorrow morning. And then you can go back to full duty."
"A flight physical, I hope?"
"Since you're not on flight status, I'm not technically supposed to give you a flight physical. But-don't be shocked by this confession-I have made administrative errors before. I don't know if Pensacola will accept a flight physical from here, but you never know."
"Thank you."
"You can spend the rest of the day tomorrow putting your affairs in order- pay, that sort of thing-and then I'll discharge you from here as of the day after tomorrow. I think you get five days to drive to Pensacola."
"Fine," Weston said.
"It's one hell of a drive from here to Pensacola," Dr. Kister said. "I suppose you have been thinking about that."
"Sir?"
Dr. Kister didn't reply. He reached for his telephone and dialed a number.
"Ah, Lieutenant," he said to whoever answered the phone. "Just the Naval officer with whom I wished to communicate. And how are you this afternoon?"
He's scheduling my physical, Weston decided.
There was a reply, and then Kister said, "Yes, by a wild happenstance, he's sitting right here with me."
He handed the phone to Weston, who took it.
"Captain Weston."
"Hi," Janice said.
His heart jumped. "Hi, yourself."
"How was the drive?"
"Long."
"Listen, I have the duty until 2000."
"Damn!"
"Can you meet me in the Benjamin Franklin Hotel at eight-thirty?"
"Sure."
"You can find it all right?"
"I know where it is."
"Eight thirty at the bar," Janice said. "Don't drink too much."
"Yes, ma'am."
Janice hung up.
Weston put the handset in its cradle.
"Thank you," he said to Dr. Kister.
"Nice girl. If I had something like that waiting for me at the end of the long trail, I don't think I'd mind driving all the way up here from Pensacola myself."
"Yeah," Jim said thoughtfully.
"Okay, James," Kister said. "Get out of here. Spruce yourself up. Get a shave and a shower."
"Aye, aye, sir."
"I want to see you before you actually leave, Jim," Kister said.
"Yes, sir. And thanks. Commander."
"I think of myself as Cupid's Little Helper."' Kister said.
[FIVE]
The Lobby Bar
The Benjamin Franklin Hotel
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
2045 25 March 1943
"Hi, honey," Lieutenant (j.g.) Janice Hardison, NNC, USNR, said to Captain James B. Weston, USMC, as she slid onto the barstool beside him. She kissed him, chastely.
"My God, you're beautiful!"
"How many of those have you had?" she asked, nodding at the glass in his hand.
"This is the second," he said.
"Since 1600?" she challenged.
"I took in a movie," he said.
"What did you see?"
"Tyrone Power," he said. "A Yank in the Royal Air Force. He doesn't make a very convincing pilot."
She laughed. "But he is." she said. "You don't know?"
"Know what?"
"Tyrone Power is a pilot. He's a Marine Aviator."
"No shit?" Weston exclaimed, truly astonished. Then he heard what he had said. "Sorry."
"No shit," she confirmed, then blushed when she realized the approaching bartender had heard her.
God, she's adorable when she blushes.
"Nothing for me, thank you," Janice said to the bartender. "I won't be staying."
"I don't have to finish this," Weston offered. "Where are we going?"
"You're staying. I'm going," Janice said, then waited for the bartender to move down the bar before continuing. "I've got a present for you," she said. "Actually two."
"I didn't get you anything," he said.
She went into her purse and then pressed something into his hand. It was a hotel key.
"Jesus!" Jim said.
Janice blushed again.
"Stay here. Finish your drink slowly. Give me ten minutes."
"Yes, ma'am," he said.
"Nice to see you again, Captain," Janice said,
loudly enough so that the bartender could hear her. Then she slid off the stool and walked out of the bar into the lobby.
Weston watched her go, then turned back to the bar. The bartender was there.
"Very nice," the bartender said. "Sorry you struck out."
"The story of my life," Weston said.
"You want another one of those?"
"One more," Weston said. "And then I'll have to go."
"I liked the second present better than the first," Captain Weston said to Lieutenant Hardison. "But of course without the first, I wouldn't have gotten the second, would I?"
They were in one of the two single beds in Room 416. Weston's uniform and the white negligee Janice had been wearing when he came into the room were on the other bed.
"That wasn't a present." Janice said. "Except maybe from God. That's what two people do when they're in love."
"Sorry," he said. "You said 'two presents.' "
"You get the second present in about two weeks," Janice said.
"In two weeks, I will be in Pensacola, Florida," he said.
More than likely in bed with another nice beautiful young girl who thinks she's in love with me. And vice versa.
"And so will I be," Janice said.
"What?"
"Dr. Kister arranged it," she said. "The Navy Hospital at Pensacola had a requirement for a psychiatric nurse, and Dr. Kister got the billet for me."
"Wonderful!" Captain Weston said.
[SIX]
Naval Air Transport Command Terminal
Pearl Harbor, Oahu, Territory of Hawaii
1615 26 March 1943
The PBY-5A Catalina slowly and carefully approached the ramp until the pilot felt the wheels touch. Then, as the engines revved just slightly, the amphibious aircraft rose from the water and taxied onto the concrete parking area.
The area had been famous right after December 7, 1941, when photographs showing it littered with smashed and burning aircraft had been on the front pages of newspapers around the world. Many of the aircraft had been Catalinas.
There was still some evidence of that mess, Major Homer C. Dillon, USMC, had thought, waiting for this PBY-5A to arrive. The hangars were scarred where flames and smoke had reached them, and many of the windows in the hangars were still broken.
What did the Navy do with all the wrecked airplanes? he had wondered idly. Try to salvage what they could, maybe save the metal to be melted down? Or just load them onto a barge, take them offshore, and push them over the side?
A team of white hats under the supervision of a chief began to hose down the Catalina's fuselage and landing gear even before the crew climbed out of the airplane.
The first person off it was Chief Carpenter's Mate Peter T. McGuire, USNR, who was wearing a mussed khaki uniform with a white cap cover. Even Major Dillon recognized that that made him out of uniform.
Chief McGuire immediately saw Major Dillon standing alongside a gray Navy Plymouth staff car. Beside him was a tall, good-looking Navy officer in impeccable whites, with some kind of a gold rope hanging from his shoulder. McGuire wondered what the hell that was.
The driver of the staff car started toward him.
"Your gear, Chief?"
"Oh, God, I forgot about it," McGuire said. "It's on that goddamned airplane."
"I'll get it for you, Chief," the white hat said.
"No, I'll get it."
"I don't mind," the white hat said.
"I puked all over it," Chief McGuire said. "I'll get it."
He went back to the Catalina. As he reached it, a fellow chief, this one a chief aviation pilot with the wings of a Naval Aviator on his shirt, appeared in the fuselage bubble gingerly holding a canvas suitcase in his fingers.
"This what you're looking for, Chief?" he inquired with infinite disgust, then dropped it onto the tarmac.
"Hey, buddy, I'm really sorry," McGuire said, sounding as if he meant it. "It wasn't as if I was at the sauce or something. Every time I get in an airplane, I get sick."
"A word of wisdom, Chief," the chief aviation pilot said. "Don't get into airplanes."
McGuire picked up the well-stuffed canvas suitcase and, holding it at arm's length, walked to Dillon and the Navy officer.
"Welcome to beautiful Hawaii, Pete," Dillon said. "What's with the suitcase?"
Chief McGuire finally realized he was supposed to salute, dropped the bag to the tarmac, and saluted.
"I threw up on the airplane," McGuire said. "I threw up a lot on the airplane. A couple of times it didn't make the bucket they gave me." He paused a moment, then added: "Goddamn you, Jake, you know I can't fly!"
"Mr. Lewis, may I introduce Chief Petty Officer McGuire?" Jake said. "Peter, this is Lieutenant Chambers Lewis."
McGuire saluted again and put out his hand. "I used to say, 'any friend of Jake's,' but now I'm not so sure," he said. "I used to think the bastard was a friend of mine."
"The pleasure is all mine, Chief," Lewis said.
"Christ, I can smell the bag from here," Dillon said. "What are we going to do with it?"
"Paul," Lewis said to the driver, "is there a piece of line in the trunk? Or can you get one? Let's tie the chief's luggage to the bumper. Air it out on the way to Muku-Muku."
"I think the Admiral would like that, sir," the driver said, smiling, and went into the trunk.
Jake Dillon leaned forward toward Chief McGuire and sniffed.
"Him, too?" Lieutenant Lewis said. "I'm not sure he'd fit on the bumper."
"You're kidding, right?" Chief McGuire asked.
"Why don't you help him tie your bag to the bumper and then get in the front seat?" Jake ordered.
"Where the hell are we going, anyhow?" Chief McGuire asked.
"Muku-Muku," Jake replied.
"What is that, Hawaiian?" McGuire asked, fascinated.
"Yes it is," Dillon replied, straight-faced. "It means 'Place of Hot Waters.'You need a shower, Pete."
"Goddamn right I do," Chief McGuire agreed.
They drove up to Muku-Muku as Master Gunner Stefan Oblensky, USMC, was walking up the wide stairs to the verandah. He turned and went back down the stairs.
Although Jake was personally glad to see Big Steve, he was sorry he was there right now. Operation Gobi was classified, and Big Steve did not have the Need To Know.
Big Steve saluted, and Jake and Lewis returned the salute.
"What's with the suitcase?" Big Steve asked.
"We had a little airsickness," Jake said.
Chief McGuire stepped out of the front seat. "I threw up all the way from Espiritu Santo," he announced.
"I'm Steve Oblensky," Big Steve announced. "My wife's inside. She probably has something that'll help."
"Help what?" McGuire asked.
"She's a nurse," Big Steve said. "You're sick, right?"
"Not since I got off that fucking airplane I'm not."
As if on cue, Commander Florence Kocharski, NC, USN, attired in a billowing Muumuu, descended the steps from the veranda. "Watch your goddamn mouth around here, Chief!" she said firmly.
Chief McGuire looked at Commander Kocharski in confusion.
"Good afternoon, Commander," Dillon said. "I was just explaining to Mr. Oblensky that Chief McGuire has a little airsickness problem."
"Every time I get in one and they tilt it," McGuire confirmed, and demonstrated with his hand what he meant by tilt, "I get sick."
"They gave him a bucket on the Catalina, Commander," Lieutenant Lewis said. "But he apparently didn't always make the bucket, so to speak."
"I'm really embarrassed about that," McGuire said. "What I really should have done with my clothes was deep them."
"What?" Big Steve asked, confused.
"Deep them," McGuire repeated. "You know, just throw them in the water."
"I think the Chief means 'deep-six them,' " Chambers Lewis said, not unkindly, but smiling. "As in 'over the side.' "