"Barbara got her orders today," Ernie said evenly. "Joe doesn’t know."
"Oh, Christ!" McCoy said. He hoisted himself into the boat. Then he turned and gave his hand to Joe Howard and hauled him aboard.
Joe stood there, dripping water onto the deck.
"Which of these two goes in first?" he asked.
"Barbara got her orders today," Ernie said.
"Oh, Jesus!" Joe said. "When?"
"I start processing Monday," Barbara said softly.
"When did you find out?"
"Just before I met you."
He took a couple of steps toward her, and then, remembering he was soaking wet, stopped.
And then she took several steps to him and threw herself in his arms.
(Four)
Pensacola Naval Air Station
Pensacola, Florida
1525 Hours 28 February 1942
The pilot of the Army Air Corps twin-engine "Mitchell" bomber was slight and balding. There were the silver leaves of a lieutenant colonel on his collar points. He picked up his microphone, then put it back in its hanger, adjusted the frequency of his transceiver, and then picked up the microphone again.
"Pensacola, Army Six-Four-Two, a B-25 aircraft, twenty miles east of your station, for approach and landing."
"Army Six-Four-Two, Pensacola, say again?"
"Six-Four-Two, a B-25 aircraft, twenty miles east of your station, for approach and landing."
"Army Six-Four-Two, be advised that Pensacola is closed to transient traffic without prior approval. Suggest you try Eglin Army Air Corps Field."
"Pensacola, Six-Four-Two has a Navy captain aboard who wishes to deplane at Pensacola. We will require no ground services."
"Army Six-Four-Two, advise Naval officer’s name and purpose of his visit to Pensacola."
"Pensacola, the Navy Captain’s Pickering. I spell: Peter Item Charley King Easy Roger Item Nan George. Be advised that any questions regarding him are to be directed to the Office of the Secretary of the Navy."
"Army Six-Four-Two, stand by."
There was a ninety-second pause.
"Army Six-Four-Two, Pensacola. You are cleared for a straight-in approach to runway two-seven. The winds are from the west at fifteen. The altimeter is two-nine-niner-eight. The time is two-five past the hour. Report over Pensacola Bay."
"Army Six-Four-Two, Pensacola. Thank you very much."
As the B-25 Mitchell, a light bomber, dropped low over Pensacola Bay, a telephone call was placed from the office of Base Commander, Pensacola Naval Air Station, to the office of the Secretary of the Navy:
"Office of the Secretary, Captain Haughton."
"Captain, this is Captain Summers. At Pensacola. I’m calling for the Admiral."
"What can I do for you?"
"Does the name Pickering mean anything to you, Captain?"
"Is Captain Pickering at Pensacola?"
"He’s about to land here."
"Great! The Secretary’s been wondering where he was. Would you ask him to call me just as soon as he can, please, Captain?"
"Yes, of course. Be glad to. Captain, we could probably be of greater usefulness to Captain Pickering if we knew what it is he’s after at Pensacola."
Captain Haughton chuckled.
"I have no idea, I’m afraid, but I’m sure he’ll tell you when he lands. When did you say that will be?"
"He should be landing right now. I’ll relay the message."
Captain Summers first called the Officer of the Day.
"I don’t know who this captain the B-2S wants to drop off- Pickering-is, Jack," Captain Summers said, "or what he wants. But pass the word to him to call Captain Haughton in the Secretary of the Navy’s office, as soon as he can. And then ask what we can do for him."
He then called Rear Admiral Richard B. Sayre, who stood third in the chain of command at Pensacola, and was, at the moment, the senior officer aboard. He reported what little he knew about Captain Pickering, and what steps he had taken. Admiral Sayre grunted, and then told Summers to keep him posted.
Less than a minute later, Admiral Sayre called back.
"Pickering, you said? The VIP from Washington?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Present my compliments to Captain Pickering, please, and inform him I would be pleased to receive him at my office at his earliest convenience."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
Captain Fleming Pickering was driven directly to Admiral Sayre’s office from the airfield. The Admiral’s aide was waiting on the sidewalk when the staff car pulled up, and escorted him directly to the Admiral’s office.
"Welcome to Pensacola, Captain," Admiral Sayre said. "May I offer you a cup of coffee, or something a little stronger?"
"Admiral, I feel like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar," Fleming Pickering said. "I’m not here officially . . ."
"You did get the message to call Captain Haughton?"
"Yes, Sir. I did. Thank you. Sir, I was about to say that I’m not here officially, and that what I hoped to do was get off and back on the base with no one noticing."
"Oh?"
"Sir, I’ve been over at Eglin Field on duty. I’ve got a seat on the courier plane to Washington from here tomorrow morning. I have some personal business in Pensacola."
"I thought that might be it," Admiral Sayre said.
"Sir?" Pickering asked, surprised.
"He’s a nice boy, according to both my wife and Doc Mclnerney," the Admiral said. "And actually, he’s the reason I asked you to come to see me."
Pickering’s surprise was evident on his face.
"Doc and I went through flight school here together," Admiral Sayre said. "We’re still pretty close. When your boy was sent here, Doc called me and told me about him. And you. I frankly found it comforting."
"Sir?"
"He spoke highly of your boy-Pick, they call him, don’t they?"
"Yes, Sir."
"And he said that the only favor you asked of him was that the Marine Corps didn’t make him a club officer. I thought that spoke well of you, Captain. And, as I said, I found that rather comforting."
"Comforting, Sir?"
"Your son is in hot pursuit of my daughter," Admiral Sayre said. "I’m not supposed to know that, but I do."
Pickering didn’t reply.
"You don’t seem surprised to hear that," the Admiral said. Pickering knew more than his son thought he knew about the boy’s romantic affairs. There had been an astonishing number of them, and they could more accurately be described as "carnal" than "romantic."
"Pick is attracted to the ladies, Admiral," Pickering replied. "And vice versa. Actually, from what I’ve seen, more the latter than the former. I can only presume your daughter is not only extraordinarily good looking, but something special. Pick is seldom reported ‘in pursuit’; usually the phrase is ‘in flight from.’" The Admiral chuckled.
"I have seen him," he said. "Good-looking young Marine officers driving Cadillac convertible automobiles do seem to attract the ladies, don’t they?"
"I’ve noticed," Pickering said, chuckling.
"Once Martha told him, rather forcefully, that she’s not interested, I would have thought that he would have looked elsewhere."
What is this? Did he call me in here to tell me to keep my son away from his precious daughter?
"Pick’s not her type? Has he been making an ass of himself?"
"No. He’s been a perfect gentleman," Admiral Sayre said. "And I have the feeling that Martha is more attracted to him than she’s willing to admit to herself or anyone else."
"Admiral-"
"My daughter’s a widow," Admiral Sayre interrupted. "Her husband, Admiral Culhane’s boy, an aviator, was killed at Wake Island."
"Oh," Fleming Pickering said, and then added, "I’m sorry to hear that."
"He was a really nice kid," Admiral Sayre said. "It’s a damned shame."
"Are you saying this . . . relationship . . . between Pick and your dau
ghter is serious?" Pickering asked.
Hell, of course it’s serious. Chasing after a widow, especially a widow whose husband has been dead only a couple of months, and especially after she told him to get lost, is simply not Pick’s style.
"I don’t know," Admiral Sayre said. "But since Colonel Doolittle was kind enough to drop you in my lap, I thought I should introduce myself and mention it."
"Colonel Doolittle?" Pickering asked, trying to sound confused.
"Oh, come on, Pickering. Doc and Jimmy and I used to race airplanes together. And I thought that, doing what you’re doing, you would have learned by now that whenever two people know something, it’s no longer a secret. I know what’s going on at Eglin, and my Officer of the Day recognizes Jimmy Doolittle when he sees him in a cockpit window."
"I think, Admiral, if that invitation is still open, I will have a drink."
(Five)
The San Carlos Hotel
Pensacola, Florida
1725 Hours 28 February 1942
"Good afternoon, Sir," Second Lieutenant Richard J. Stecker, USMC, said to the Navy Captain. "May I help you, Sir?" The Captain was in the act of hanging up the telephone in the penthouse suite of the San Carlos Hotel.
Dick Stecker, a good-looking, trim young man wearing a fur-collared leather jacket over a flight suit, was torn between surprise, anger, and alarm at finding a fucking four-striper nosing around the suite. But he was a graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point and a regular officer of the United States Marine Corps, and West Pointers and regular Marine officers do not demand of U.S. Navy captains, Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing in my hotel room?
"You must be Lieutenant Stecker," Captain Pickering said.
"Yes, Sir."
"It has been reported to me that these quarters are not only infested with females of notorious reputation, but awash, as well, in cheap whiskey," Pickering said sternly.
Lieutenant Stecker looked stunned.
Another Marine second lieutenant, similarly dressed, stepped around Lieutenant Stecker to see what the hell was going on, and then yelped in delight:
"Dad! God, am I glad to see you! What are you doing here?"
He ran across the room and wrapped his father in a bear hug.
"I’m catching a plane out of here in the morning," Pickering said.
"You’ve been on the base?" Pick asked uneasily.
He does not want anyone to know that his father is a Navy captain. Good boy!
"Just to get off an airplane," Pickering said. "I was hoping I could bunk with you tonight."
"Hell, yes! But what are you doing down here?"
"I was over with the Army Air Corps at Eglin Air Force Base," Pickering said. "It’s right down the coast."
"Doing what?"
"None of your business, Lieutenant."
"You’re involved with the B-25s," Pick Pickering challenged.
"What B-25s?" Pickering asked innocently.
"As if you didn’t know," Pick said. "They’ve got an airfield over there with the dimensions of an aircraft-carrier deck painted on it. And they’re trying to get B-25s off it."
"I have no idea what you’re talking about," Pickering said. "But if I were you, I’d watch my mouth. You haven’t seen those posters, ‘Loose Lips Sink Ships’?"
Pick’s look was both hurt and wary.
"That sounded pretty official," he said after a moment. "You’re my father, for Christ’s sake!"
"Pick, you and I are officers," Pickering said.
"See, wiseass?" Dick Stecker said. "Learn to keep your mouth shut."
"I’d still like to know what the hell they think they’re doing over there," Pick Pickering said.
"You keep wondering out loud about it, you can read all about it in the newspapers. In your cell at Portsmouth. I’m serious, Pick."
Their eyes met.
"I didn’t mean to put you on the spot, Dad," he said. "Sorry."
"Forget it," Pickering said.
"Don’tforget it," Dick Stecker said. "Write it on your goddamned forehead."
"Well, the both of you can go to hell," Pick said cheerfully. "You can stand here and feel self-righteous. I need a shower."
"Can I make you a drink, Captain Pickering?" Dick Stecker asked. "You name it, we’ve got it."
"At least one of the occupants of this rooftop brothel is an officer and a gentleman," Pickering said. "Scotch, please. With soda, if you have it."
"Yes, Sir. Coming right up."
"I saw your dad a while back. In San Diego."
"Yes, Sir. Dad wrote me that he’d seen you; that you were in the Corps in War One together."
"Is that what you call it now? ‘War One’?"
"Yes, Sir. Isn’t that what it was, the First World War?"
"At the time, it was called ‘the war to end all wars,’ " Pickering said.
Dick Stecker handed him a drink.
"Thank you," Pickering said. "Is my being here going to interfere with any serious romantic plans you two had for tonight?"
"No, Sir. Not at all."
"When I had them let me in here, I was a little surprised not to find an assortment of local lovelies," Pickering said.
"Yes, Sir," Stecker said uncomfortably, then blurted, "You’re asking about Martha Culhane, aren’t you, Captain?"
"I am. But I would rather Pick didn’t know I knew about her. Something about her. If this puts you on a spot, the subject never came up."
Dick Stecker made a circling motion with his index finger at his temple.
"He’s nuts about her," he said. "She’s a widow. Did you know?"
Pickering nodded.
"He’s really got it bad for her. And she won’t give him the time of day."
"You think that’s maybe what it is? That she’s not interested? That his Don Juan ego is involved?"
"No. I wish it was."
"What do you think of her?"
"I don’t know what to think," Stecker said. "Maybe it’ll pass when we graduate and get the hell out of here. But I don’t know."
"OK. Thank you. Subject closed."
They ate in the hotel dining room, which was crowded with men in Navy and Marine Corps uniforms.
Over their shrimp cocktail, Fleming Pickering told them he was headed, via Washington and the West Coast, for Hawaii.
"When are you coming back?"
"I don’t know," Pickering said. "Captains, like second lieutenants, go when and where they’re told to go."
That was not true. Although he was still traveling on the vague orders that Captain Jack NMI Stecker had described as "awesome," permitting him to go where and when he pleased, no questions asked, he now had specific orders from the Secretary of the Navy:
Stay at Pearl Harbor as long as you want, Flem; learn what you can. But the President is going to order MacArthur out of the Philippines and to Australia. I want you there when he gets there. I want to know what he’s up to. Haughton will message you wherever you are when Roosevelt orders him to leave, if you‘re not already in Australia by then.
Lieutenants Pickering and Stecker laughed dutifully.
There was a stir in the room while they were eating their broiled flounder. Pickering followed the point of attention to the door. Rear Admiral Richard Sayre, a woman almost certainly his wife, and a beautiful young blond woman almost certainly the widowed daughter, followed the headwaiter to a table across the room. Moments later, a Marine captain, a Naval Aviator, walked quickly to join them.
"That’s Admiral Sayre, Captain," Dick Stecker said. "He’s number three at Pensacola. And his wife and daughter."
Fleming Pickering was aware that his son was looking intently, perhaps angrily, at Stecker.
"And Captain Mustache," Stecker added.
"Captain ‘Mustache’?" Pickering asked.
"He’s one of our IPs . . . Instructor Pilots," Pick said.
"Oh," Pickering said.
"And like a lot of people around here, he�
�s got a crush on the Admiral’s daughter," Stecker said.
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