The Corps 03 - Counterattack

by W. E. B Griffin

  "Jake Dillon told me ‘he got so carried away with his role that he got run over by the camera,’ " Pickering said, chuckling.

  "Jake Dillon? The press agent?"

  "Yeah. He’s a major in the Corps."

  "I didn’t know, and I didn’t know you knew him."

  "Oh, sure. Jake shoots skeet with Bob Stack. That’s how I met him. Interesting man. He stayed at the house in ‘39, he and the Stacks, when we had the state championships in San Francisco. Anyway, Jake was sort of running the burial ceremony. Newsreel cameras, three buglers, an honor guard of Marine parachutists, a firing squad, and a cast of thousands. Look for me at your local movie. I will be the handsome Naval person saluting solemnly as I stand there up to my ass in snow."

  "I thought you said this man committed suicide?"

  "No. Not the way that sounded. What Jake said was that when he found out Life wasn’t going to take his picture, he flipped. He figured if he was the first man out of the airplane when they jumped, they’d have to take his picture. So he pushed the kid who was supposed to be first out of the way, and jumped himself. The wind, or the prop blast, caught him the wrong way and threw him into the horizontal stabilizer. The autopsy showed that hitting the horizontal stabilizer killed him. Not the sudden stop when he hit the ground."

  "You sound pretty goddamned coldblooded, Flem, do you realize that?" Senator Fowler said.

  Pickering, who was pulling on his trousers, didn’t reply until he had the braces in place, the shirttail tucked in, and the zipper closed.

  "Before I went out to Arlington," he said in an even voice, "I was reading a pretty reliable report that the Japs just executed two-hundred-odd American civilians-the labor force we took out to Wake Island to fortify it and then permitted to get captured when we didn’t reinforce Wake. They shot them out of hand. I find it a trifle difficult to get worked up over a light colonel here who did it to himself."

  "Jesus Christ!" Fowler said, shocked.

  "And an hour before that," Pickering went on dryly, "I had a telephone call from my wife, who is finding it difficult to understand why I didn’t telephone her when I was on the West Coast. I was seen having lunch at the Coronado Beach Hotel, but I didn’t have time for her. . . ."

  "Tell me about the civilians on Wake."

  "No. I shouldn’t have said that much."

  "Why not?"

  "Senator, you just don’t have the right to know," Pickering said.

  "The operative word in that sentence, Flem, is ‘Senator,’" Fowler said flatly.

  Pickering looked at him with his eyebrows raised.

  "As in ‘United States Senator, representing the people,’" Fowler went on. "If a United States Senator doesn’t have ‘the right to know,’ who does?"

  "Interesting point," Pickering said. "Fortunately, I am not at what is known as the policy-making level, and don’t have to make judgments like that. I just do what I’m told."

  "How much do you know that I don’t?" Fowler asked.

  "Probably a hell of a lot," Pickering said.

  "I want to know about the civilians on Wake Island," Fowler said. "I won’t let anyone know where I got it, if that’s bothering you."

  "About ten people, including the cryptographers, know about it. If Frank Knox finds out you know about it, he’ll know damned well where you got it."

  "You wouldn’t be a captain in the Navy, Flem, working for Knox, if I hadn’t brought him here," Fowler said. "And it seems to me that the American people have a right to know if the Japanese are committing atrocities against civilian prisoners."

  "They do, but they can’t be told," Pickering said.

  "Why not?"

  "Because ... do you realize what a goddamned spot you’re putting me on, you sonofabitch?"

  "Yes, I do," Fowler said.

  "Oh, goddamn it!"

  "I am rapidly getting the idea that you don’t think I can be trusted with something like this," Senator Fowler said. "I can tolerate your contempt for Congress, generally. But this is getting personal. I don’t think you question my patriotism, so it has to be my judgment you question."

  "Shit!" Pickering said in frustration. He picked up and drained the brandy-laced cup of coffee, then turned to face Fowler. "We have broken the Japanese naval code. The information about the Japs shooting the civilians came from what they call an ‘intercept.’ If the Japanese find out we know about them shooting the civilians, they’ll know we broke their code. And I can’t tell you how valuable reading their radio traffic is to us."

  "Thank you," Fowler said, seriously. "That will, of course, go no further than these walls."

  Pickering nodded.

  "Unless, of course, Mrs. Feller, in her role as oh-so-efficient secretary, has been eavesdropping at the door," Fowler added.

  "I don’t think she has," Pickering said. "But she knows."

  "They really shot two hundred civilians?"

  "Made them dig their graves, twenty at a time, and then shot them. Too much trouble to feed, you understand."

  "Goddamnthem!"

  "I wonder what Frank’ll do with me now?" Pickering said, as he pulled fresh stockings on his feet. "Let me out of the Navy, in which case I could go back to running Pacific and Far East, or send me to Iceland, someplace like that, as an example?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Obviously, I’m going to have to tell Knox that I told you about what happened on Wake. And about our having broken the Japanese code."

  "Why?" Fowler asked.

  "I realize the concept is seldom mentioned around Washington, but, ethically, I have to. He made me privy to this-"

  "Flem," Fowler interrupted him. "Christ, you’re naive!"

  "I haven’t been accused of that in a long time."

  "I know Frank Knox pretty well, too, you know," Fowler said. "Much better than you do, as a matter of fact. And he knows that we’re very good friends. It hasn’t occurred to you that he told you about Wake, and probably about some other things, pretty sure that you would tell me? Hoping you would?"

  Pickering raised his eyes to Fowler. After a moment he said, "I am having trouble following that convoluted line of reasoning."

  "I think Frank Knox wants me to know about Wake Island. And about a lot of other things the Secretary of the Navy cannot conveniently-or maybe even legally-tell the Junior Senator from California. And now I do, and Frank can lay his hand on a Bible and swear he didn’t tell me."

  "You really believe that?" Pickering asked doubtfully.

  "Yeah, Flem, I do. And if you rush over there crying, ‘Father, I cannot tell a lie. I chopped down the cherry tree,’ you’ll put the system out of kilter. It would not, Flem, be in the best interests of the country."

  "My God!"

  "Welcome to the real world, Captain Fleming," Fowler said dryly.

  "You’re suggesting that’s the reason he got me this commission," Pickering said.

  "It’s certainly one of them. I’m on his side, Flem. He knows that. I really should know what the hell is really going on."

  "Then why doesn’t he just call you in and tell you? Brief you, as they say?"

  "The Senate is full of monstrous egos. If he briefed me, he would have to brief a dozen other people. Two dozen. Some of whom, I’m sorry to say, should not be trusted with this kind of information."

  "You’re right, I’m naive. Until just now, I thought what I was doing was lending my shipping expertise."

  "That too," Fowler said. "But think about it. What does this Wake Island atrocity have to do with that? You don’t really have that ‘need to know’ you threw in my face."

  Pickering put on a fresh pair of shoes, tied them, and stood up, holding the wet pair in his hand.

  "I think I’m going to have a stiff drink," he said. "Interested?"

  "Fascinated," Fowler said, touching his arm. "But one final comment, Flem. Knox has paid you one hell of a compliment. Since he can’t tell anyone what material should be passed to me, he had to have som
eone in whose intelligence and judgment he felt safe. He picked you."

  "You didn’t get into that?"

  "No. For obvious reasons."

  "I feel like Alice must have felt when she walked through the looking glass," Pickering said.

  He went back into the sitting room, opened the door to the corridor, and put the wet shoes outside. Then he went to the bar and poured an inch of Scotch into a large-mouthed glass.

  "I would have made that for you," Ellen Feller said.

  "Ellen, would you get Secretary Knox on the phone for me?" Pickering said.

  "What are you doing, Flem?" Fowler asked, concern in his voice.

  "Why don’t you just listen? And see if everybody has guessed right about my judgment and intelligence?"

  He walked to where Ellen was dialing a telephone on a small, narrow table against the wall.

  "Captain Pickering for Secretary Knox," she said when someone answered the phone. Pickering wondered how she knew where Knox would be at this time of day.

  Knox came on the line. "Yes, Pickering?"

  "I thought I had best report on the funeral of Colonel Neville, Sir."

  "Well, thank you. But it wasn’t really necessary. I trust you."

  "It went well, Sir."

  "Good."

  "If you have nothing more for me tonight, Sir, I think I’m going to just get in bed. I got chilled out at Arlington."

  "Well, we can’t have you coming down with a cold. I need you. But why don’t you put off actually going to bed for a while? I ran into Senator Fowler, and he said he was going to drop in on you for a drink. We can’t afford to disappoint him. We have very few Republican friends on the Hill, you know."

  "I understand, Sir."

  "Yes," Knox said. "Good night, Captain."

  Pickering hung the telephone up and turned to look at Fowler, who met his eyes.

  "Ellen," Pickering said, "you might as well run along. Senator Fowler and I are going to sit here and communicate with John Barleycorn. I’ll see you in the morning."

  "There are some things in here you should read, Captain," she said.

  "Leave them. I’ll read them when I get up in the morning."

  "There’s a couple of ‘eyes only’ in there," she said, nodding toward a leather briefcase, "which should go back in the vault. I could either wait, or arrange for a courier."

  "I’ll call for a courier when I’m through with them," Pickering said. "Thank you, Ellen."

  "Yes, Sir."

  When she had gone, Fowler said, "Very nice. Speaking of naive, does Patricia know about her?"

  "What the hell do you mean by that?"

  "Now I know that Patricia has the understanding of a saint, but there are some women whose active imaginations would jump into high gear if they learned their husbands were spending a lot of time in a hotel suite with an attractive-very attractive- female like that."

  "Dick... Jesus! A, I don’t run around on Patricia, never have, and you know it. B, she’s some kind of a missionary."

  "Oh, a missionary! I forgot. Missionaries are neutered when they take their vows. They don’t have whoopee urges. The reason your missionary lady looks at you the way she does is because she sees in you a saint who would never even think of slipping it to her."

  "You’re a dirty old man, Dick," Pickering said. He walked to the briefcase, picked it up, worked the combination lock, and opened it. He spent a full minute looking at the folders it contained without removing them, and then he handed the briefcase to Senator Fowler.

  "In for a penny, in for a pound," he said. "Read what’s in there, and then I’ll answer any questions."

  Fowler handed the briefcase back to him.

  "You still don’t understand the rules of the game, do you?" he said.

  "I guess not."

  "Right now I can put my hand on the Bible and swear that you never showed me one classified document, and you can swear that you never showed me one. I want to keep it that way."

  "So what do you want?"

  "I want a briefing," Fowler said. "I want your opinion of what’s going on."

  "With a map and a pointer?" Pickering asked sarcastically.

  "A map would be nice," Senator Fowler said. "You probably won’t need a pointer. Have you got a map?"

  Pickering saw that Fowler was serious.

  "Yeah," he said. "I’ve got a map. It’s in the safe. I had a safe installed in here to make sure people who don’t have the need to know don’t get to look at my map."

  "Why don’t you get it, Flem?" Senator Fowler said, ignoring the sarcasm. "Maybe thumbtack it to the wall?"

  Fleming went into his bedroom, and returned a moment later with several maps.

  "I don’t have any thumbtacks," he said seriously. "I’ll lay these on the floor."

  "Fine."

  "OK, what do you want to know?"

  "I know a little bit about what’s going on in Europe," Fowler said. "And your area of expertise is the Pacific. So let’s start with that."

  I have a counterpart, maybe in the Army, who’s doing this for him for Europe. I’ll be damned!

  "Where should I start?"

  "December seventh," Fowler said. "I know you’re not prepared for this, Flem. Would it help if you went on the premise that I know nothing about it?"

  "OK," Pickering said, getting on his knees beside the large map. "Here’s the way the pieces were on the board on December seventh. The U.S. Pacific Fleet was here, at Oahu, in the Hawaiian Islands. That’s about three thousand nautical miles from San Francisco, and four thousand from Tokyo. It’s as far from San Francisco to Hawaii as it is to New York. And it’s about as far from San Francisco to Hawaii as it is from New York to London.

  "Wake Island is here, 2,200 miles from Tokyo and 2,500 from Pearl Harbor. Guam, here, is two thousand miles from Tokyo, and four thousand from Pearl, and it’s about two thousand miles from Tokyo to Luzon, in the Philippines, and 8,500 from the West Coast to Luzon."

  Pickering sat back and rested on his heels.

  "So, Factor One is that distances in the Pacific favor the Japanese."

  "Obviously," Fowler said.

  "Factor Two is protection of the sea lanes. We lost most of our battleships at Pearl Harbor. How well they could have protected the sea lanes is a moot point, but they’re gone. And, obviously, their loss had a large part to do with the decision to pull back Task Force 14 to Pearl, and not to reinforce Wake Island."

  "Should we have taken the chance with the aircraft carriers and reinforced Wake?" Fowler asked.

  "I think so. We could, in any event, have made taking it far more costly. The Japanese do not have a really good capability to land on a hostile beach. They managed it at Wake because there was not an effective array of artillery on Wake. They only had one working rangefinder, for one thing. And not much ammunition. And no planes. All were aboard Task Force 14. I think they should have been put ashore."

  Fowler grunted.

  "Again, now a moot point, Wake is gone. So is Guam. On December tenth, the Japanese landed two divisions on Luzon. Three weeks later they were in Manila. We are now being pushed down the Bataan Peninsula. It will fall, and eventually so will Corregidor."

  "It can’t be reinforced?"

  "There is a shortage of materiel to load on ships; a shortage of ships; and the Japanese have been doing a very creditable job of interdicting our shipping."

  "And how much damage are we doing to them?"

  "MacArthur has slowed down their advance. From our intercepts, we know that the Japanese General-Homma is his name; interesting guy, went to school in California, speaks fluent English, and did not, did not, want to start this war-anyway, Homma is under a lot of pressure to end resistance in the Philippines. It’s a tough nut to crack. After they finally get rid of Luzon and Corregidor, they have to take Mindanao, the island to the south. We have about thirty thousand troops there, and supplies, under a general named Sharp."

  "Why don’t they use his forces to reinfor
ce Luzon?"

  "Transportation. If they put out to sea, the Japanese have superiority: submarines, other vessels. It would be a slaughter."

  "And what are we doing to the Japanese?"

  "Very little. They’re naturally husbanding what’s left of the fleet: aircraft carriers, cruisers. . . ."

  "What about our submarines?"