W E B Griffin - Corp 08 - In Dangers Path

by In Dangers Path(Lit)

  "I guess," McGuire said agreeably.

  "Chief, why don't you tell Commander Kocharski and Mr. Oblensky how long you have been in the Navy?" Dillon suggested.

  McGuire thought carefully before replying: "It will be nine months the first of April."

  "Nine months? How the hell did you get to be a chief in nine months?" Commander Kocharski asked in disbelief.

  "I signed up as a chief," McGuire said. "Why do they call you 'Commander'?"

  "Because I happen to be a commander," Flo said.

  "I'll be damned!" McGuire said wonderingly.

  "How many times in the last eight hours have you been nauseous?" Flo asked.

  "Jesus, I don't know," McGuire said. "Eight, ten times. Maybe more. I didn't count."

  "You're probably dehydrated," Flo said. "We'll get some liquid into you." She turned to the other men. "You may think this is funny, but it's not. Get those goddamned smirks off your faces."

  Chief McGuire looked at Commander Kocharski through eyes filled with gratitude.

  Forty-five minutes later, Captain Charles M. Galloway, USMCR, arrived at Muku-Muku. By then Chief Petty Officer Peter McGuire, USNR, was well along on the road to rehydration: At Commander Kocharski's order, he had consumed over a quart of freshly prepared pineapple juice, mixed three-to-one with soda water to prevent further upsetting his stomach, and he was now working on his second bottle of beer. He had also had a shower and was wearing a clean khaki uniform, which Commander Kocharski had provided for him from her husband's closet.

  "Charley," Commander Kocharski made the introductions, "Chief Peter McGuire, a friend of Jake's. Pete, Captain Charles Galloway, skipper of VMF-229, and Big Steve's boss man."

  Galloway was in his late twenties, slim, deeply tanned, and lanky. His light brown hair was just long enough to part. The two men shook hands, then Charley collapsed into one of the upholstered rattan chairs on the patio and helped himself to a bottle of beer from an ice-filled bucket. "What kind of a chief, Chief?" he inquired politely.

  "Carpenter's mate."

  "That make you a Seabee?" Galloway asked.

  "With nine months in the Navy," Big Steve volunteered, which earned him a dirty look not only from Commander Kocharski but from Galloway himself.

  "Yes, sir," Pete replied.

  "Well, that's two brownie points," Galloway said. "A Seabee and a friend of Jake's. Welcome to Muku-Muku."

  "Thank you."

  "Just passing through Pearl?" Galloway asked.

  "I don't know what the hell I'm doing here, Captain," McGuire said.

  "Really?" Charley replied, chuckling.

  "I was minding my own business on Espiritu Santo-"

  "You're with the Third Seabees?" Charley interrupted.

  "Yes, sir."

  "You know anything about Auxiliary Field Two? How long is it going to be out of operation?"

  "That's what I was doing, Captain. That's what I still would be doing if this so-called friend of mine hadn't sent for me." McGuire pointed at Jake Dillon.

  "Really?" Galloway asked.

  "I'd just finished pulling the pierced steel planking," McGuire explained, "when some admiral shows up and asks if I know Jake Dillon. I should have said no."

  "But you said yes, right?" Galloway asked, smiling.

  "And the next thing I know, I'm on a goddamned airplane here-sick every goddamned mile of the way."

  "Pete is unusually sensitive to change of attitude." Commander Kocharski said. "Possibly it has to do with his inner ear, but there are other-"

  "Which means what, Flo?" Charley interrupted.

  "He gets sick on airplanes," Big Steve said.

  "And stays sick," McGuire confirmed.

  "I knew a sergeant major at Quantico like that," Galloway said. "He used to get sick before we finished the climb-out. Isn't there anything that can be done?"

  Commander Kocharski hesitated, just perceptibly.

  "Yes, there is," she said. "There's a pill. A little yellow pill. I'll get some at the hospital tomorrow."

  "That's very nice of you, Commander," Chief McGuire said. "But don't bother. I am never ever again going to get on an airplane. Alive."

  "So tell me, Jake," Galloway asked, smiling, "Why did the chief have to leave Espiritu Santo, where he was doing something useful, and come here? Fly here?"

  Major Dillon and Lieutenant Lewis exchanged looks.

  "Yeah, Jake, what the hell is going on?" McGuire asked.

  "It's classified," Jake said.

  "What the hell does that mean? 'Classified'?" McGuire asked.

  " 'Classified'?" Galloway parroted.

  "We're doing a job for Flem Pickering," Dillon said.

  "I don't understand that either," McGuire said.

  "A job involving a submarine and a Catalina rendezvousing at sea?" Galloway asked.

  "Where did you hear that, Charley?" Lieutenant Lewis asked.

  "At the O Club bar at Ewa," Charley said.

  "Tell me exactly, Charley," Lewis said softly.

  There was something in Lewis's voice that told Galloway he had touched a nerve. He shrugged and provided the detail. "A Catalina sat down with radio trouble. He couldn't talk to the tower at Pearl, so he landed at Ewa because there's less traffic. And then Big Steve told him we couldn't fix the radios until the next day. So he went to the club, had a couple of drinks, and told everybody, including me, what a lousy day he had had. First he had to take off before zero dark hundred and fly out over the ocean. Then he landed and met a submarine, and after fucking-excuse me, Flo-fiddling around for an hour or so, which included one of his Airedales falling off the wing into the sea, the morons on the submarine-one of them an admiral's aide and the other a Marine major- finally realized what he could have told them all along, that you have a hell of a lot of trouble running a half-inch fuel line across the high seas from a submarine to a Catalina."

  "Oh, shit," Jake Dillon said.

  "I'll have his ass," Lewis said furiously. "Excuse me, Flo."

  Commander Kocharski made a gesture with her hand showing the apology was readily accepted.

  "I don't want to get that pilot in trouble," Galloway said.

  "He was told what we were doing was secret and to keep his mouth shut. He's in trouble and he deserves to be," Lewis said coldly. "Damn it!"

  "I don't know what anybody's talking about," Chief McGuire complained.

  "You're not supposed to, Pete," Commander Kocharski said. "That's what 'classified' means. We don't have the Need To Know."

  Major Dillon and Lieutenant Lewis exchanged another look, this one a lot longer than the first.

  "My decision, Lieutenant Lewis," Jake said formally. "In case anyone asks."

  "For the record, I concur in your decision," Lewis said. "And let the record show it came after it came to our attention that the Sunfish/Catalina operation had already been compromised by a Naval Aviator with a big mouth."

  Dillon nodded.

  "The following is Top Secret," Jake said, looking first at Charley Galloway and then at Chief McGuire. "Understood?"

  Galloway nodded his understanding. After a moment, McGuire said, "Okay, Jake."

  "Would you like me to take a walk, Jake?" Commander Kocharski asked.

  "As far as I'm concerned, Flo, you're the only one I really trust to keep her mouth shut."

  "I don't mind," Flo said.

  "Stay," Jake said. "Okay, what we're doing," he began, "what Flem Pickering is doing, with the blessing of CINCPAC-is sending a weather team into the Gobi Desert."

  It took him five minutes to explain exactly what they had been doing aboard the Sunfish when it met the Catalina at sea. Lewis was impressed. Jake's briefing was just as good a briefing as any given to CINCPAC by senior officers with years of experience.

  If not as formal.

  "The pilot with the big mouth was right," he said. "Getting fuel aboard a Catalina from a submarine on the high seas is going to be a bitch. It may not be possible at all, which is r
eally going to fu-foul-things up by the numbers. I've seen Pete find answers to problems when nobody else had a clue, so I sent for him."

  "Jake, not only do I hate airplanes, but I don't know the first goddamned thing about them," Chief McGuire said. "Or submarines. So why send for me?"

  "Like I said, Pete, I'm desperate. And I've seen you solve problems when no one else had a clue. I thought it was worth a shot."

  "Can I ask a question?" McGuire asked.

  "Shoot."

  "Let me be sure I've got this straight," McGuire said. "What you want to do is load people and equipment on an airplane-"

  "Airplanes. Two airplanes," Dillon interrupted. "Catalinas. The same kind of airplane that you flew on here."

  "Thanks to you, you bastard," McGuire said. "Then you're going to land on the ocean, meet a submarine, and refuel the airplanes. Right?"

  "Right."

  "And the problem is refueling the airplanes from the sub, right?"

  "Right."

  "Okay. I don't know from zilch about airplanes, so I'll ask what will probably sound like dumb questions."

  "Shoot," Jake said.

  "How much of a problem would it be to move the people and the equipment from the submarine to the airplanes in rubber boats?" Chief McGuire asked.

  "A lot less of a problem," Lewis said, and then understood the implications. "Damn it!"

  "I say something wrong?" Chief McGuire said.

  "Steve," Dillon said. "Tell me about auxiliary fuel tanks carried inside a Catalina."

  "It's been a long time since I flew a Cat, or had anything to do with one," Big Steve said. "But the last I heard, there aren't any designed for the Cat."

  "Damn," Jake said.

  "But you could build them without much trouble," Big Steve said. "BuAir would have a fit. It would be an unauthorized modification; but it could be done."

  "You're saying you could build such tanks?"

  "If I had the stuff, aluminum, aluminum stringers, something to seal them. Sure."

  "And that fuel could be pumped up into the wing tanks?" Lewis asked.

  "It could, sure. Or you could add pumps and valves to feed the engines directly."

  "You could do that, Steve?" Dillon asked softly.

  Big Steve nodded.

  Lieutenant Lewis pushed himself out of his chair and walked to the low wall that bordered the flagstone patio. He sat on the wall and dialed a number.

  "Let me speak to the AAOD, please," he said, referring to the Air (or Aviation) Officer of the Day. After a short delay, Lewis went on. "Sir, this is Lieutenant C. D. Lewis, aide-de-camp to Admiral Wagam, and speaking at his direction. There are two Catalina aircraft at Pearl reserved for a mission of the Admiral's. Both of them are to be at the Ewa Marine Air Station at the earliest possible time tomorrow morning. And please arrange ground transportation to return their crews to Pearl Harbor. And, sir, you may consider this an order from Admiral Wagam: the crews are to be informed that they will not, under penalty of court-martial, tell anyone where they took the Catalinas." There was another pause, and then Lewis said, "Thank you very much, sir," and hung up.

  "It would have been nice, Lieutenant Lewis," Galloway said, "if you had asked me for the services of Mr. Oblensky."

  "I knew in my heart, Captain Galloway, that you would readily volunteer anything you could to this noble purpose of ours."

  "Screw you."

  "You can fly Catalinas, right?" Dillon asked.

  "I can, but I'm hoping nobody remembers that I can," Galloway said.

  "Why?"

  "You don't know about Mclnerney's little TWX? Seeking volunteers with Catalina pilot-in-command time for a classified mission involving great personal risk?"

  "Oh, yeah," Dillon said.

  "Jake, I like what I'm doing. I don't want to fly a Catalina into the Gobi Desert," Galloway said.

  "Mclnerney's asking for volunteers. Don't volunteer."

  "If Mclnerney doesn't get the volunteers he needs, he'll go looking."

  "Charley, you're safe. When I saw Mclnerney, he told me you're the only man in the Corps who could command your squadron of bums."

  Galloway looked at Dillon long enough to be assured that he was hearing the truth.

  "I'll feel safe when I see the Cats take off for the Gobi with somebody else flying them," he said.

  "Chief," Big Steve asked, "you got any experience working with aluminum?"

  "Not much," McGuire said. "I've made car bodies out of it. Stuff like that. And once a motorboat. With a V-8 Cadillac in it."

  "For Clark Gable, right?" Dillon said, remembering.

  "Yeah. I owed him a big one."

  "Jake, do I get to use the chief?" Big Steve asked.

  "He's yours," Jake said.

  "I want one thing understood from right now," Chief McGuire said. "I am not going to get in another goddamned airplane. Not now. Not ever."

  "I will take your desires under consideration, Chief McGuire," Major Dillon said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  [ONE]

  The Gentleman's Bar

  The Country Club

  Memphis, Tennessee

  1730 27 March 1943

  "I have a matter of some delicacy to discuss with you, Jesse," Braxton V. Lipscomb, President of the Planter's Bank & Trust Company of Memphis, announced to Rear Admiral Jesse R. Ball, USN, Flag Officer Commanding Naval Air Station, Memphis. The two men were in golf clothing, sitting in leather-upholstered captain's chairs at one of the dozen or so tables in the paneled barroom. It had been chilly on the links, and they had decided to have a little taste before taking a shower.

  "I didn't think you invited me out here just to give me your money," Admiral Ball replied. At five dollars a point, their scores had been 85 for the Admiral and 97 for the banker, who just couldn't seem to get out of the sand trap on the fourteenth hole. "What's on your mind, Braxton?"

  "Let me set the stage," Lipscomb said. "Identify the players, so to speak."

  Admiral Ball nodded, took a sip of his Jack Daniel's, and waited for the banker to proceed.

  "The first vice president of Planter's Bank and Trust is a fellow named Quincy T. Megham, Jr. They call him 'Quincy Junior.' I don't suppose you know him?"

  Admiral Ball shook his head, "no."

  "The main reason they call him Quincy Junior is that his father, the president before I took over, was naturally Quincy Senior."

  "Makes sense," Admiral Ball said.

  "The main reason Quincy Senior was president was that he and his family are the largest stockholders in the bank." He clarified: "Not the majority, but the largest."

  "That makes sense too."

  "Now, Quincy Senior was a banker," Lipscomb said. "He taught me just about everything I know about banking."

  Admiral Ball nodded again, and waited somewhat impatiently for the banker to go on. Admiral Ball was a Yankee. He had been appointed to the Naval Academy from Rhode Island, and his assignment to command the Memphis NAS had been the first time he had ever been stationed in the South. It had taken him two weeks to decide that civilian Rebels were just like the Rebels he had known in the Navy. They never got to the point without looking for at least two bushes to beat around.

  "Well, he apparently did a good job," Admiral Ball said.

  "Quincy Junior is not really a chip off the old block, unfortunately. He was not prepared to take over the bank when his daddy went to his reward."

  "But he still owned a good deal of stock in the bank?"

  "So we named him first vice president," Braxton Lipscomb said. "And I stepped into his daddy's shoes. The arrangement works. Quincy Junior is not really all that interested in the bank. But he has a title and an office, and it's something for him to do, somewhere for him to go, when he wakes up in the morning."

  "I see."

  "He does 'public relations' work, I guess you'd call it. He's a good-looking fellow, and he gives a pretty good speech, and the bank needs something like that."

  "I u
nderstand."

  "About a year ago, when the Tennessee Bankers Association needed someone to head up the Governmental Relations Committee, everybody agreed that Quincy Junior was just the man to head it up. Like I said, he gives a good speech, and he is the first vice president of Planter's Bank and Trust."