The white-hat came back out of the guard shack as Pickering walked up. The white-hat saluted him.
Stecker found nothing wrong with the return salute Pickering rendered.
He returns salutes just fine. What gets him in trouble are those vague gestures supposed to be salutes that he gives those senior to him in the military hierarchy.
"Gentlemen," the AMMM1st said, "the senior naval representative aboard would like a word with you. If you'll come with me I have transport." The transport turned out to be a Chevrolet pickup truck painted Navy gray. When they had all crowded into the cab Stecker said, "I wonder why I have this feeling that we're in trouble?"
"May I speak freely, Sir?"
"Please do."
"Where the fuck have you two been? They've been looking for you since yesterday afternoon."
"Who is `they'?"
"First it was Lieutenant Commander Harris. Then, when you didn't show up last night, Commander Schneebelly. He's the senior naval representative, and he's been shitting a brick."
"Do you have any idea what it's all about?"
"I know there was a message from the Navy Department. I don't know what was in it. Where the hell have you been Night on the town? I hope she was worth it."
"This officer was carousing and consorting with loose women," Pickering said piously. "I myself went to bed early and of course, alone. I should have known that if I associate with him, he would sooner or later get me in trouble."
"Why don't I believe that, Lieutenant?" the petty office asked.
"That he would get me in trouble?"
"That you went to bed early and alone. You could ha come out here and done that."
"I have to keep an eye on him. He tends to run amok."
"This may not be as funny as you seem to think it is" Stecker said. "Did you do anything at Pee-cola I don't know about?"
"Can't think of a thing," Pick said truthfully.
The pickup pulled up before the Operations Building, Quonset hut.
"Here we are," the petty officer said. "Good luck. Commander Schneebelly sometimes gets a little excited." They stepped out of the truck and walked into the Quonset hut.
A chief petty officer was leaning on a counter. He stood erect he saw them.
"Good morning, Chief," Stecker said.
"Mr.... ?"
"Stecker, and this is Mr. Pickering."
"Commander Schneebelly will see you now, gentlemen," the chief said, pointing to a closed door.
Motioning Pickering to follow him, Stecker walked to the door and knocked.
"Come!"
"Stand at attention when we get in there and keep your mouth shut," Stecker said softly, and then opened the door and marched in.
He came to attention before Commander Schneebelly's desk.
"Sir, Lieutenants Stecker and Pickering reporting as ordered, Sir." Commander Schneebelly was short and plump; he wore both a pencil-line mustache and aviator's wings.
He pursed his lips.
"Stand at ease, gentlemen," he said softly, and then far less softly, "Where the hell have you two been?"
"Sir, our orders statènot later than zero six-thirty' this morning," Stecker said. "Sir, with respect, it's zero five fifty-five."
"That's not what I asked, Mister!" Commander Schneebelly snapped. "And I can tell time, thank you.
Don't tell me what your orders say. I asked you, where have you been?"
"Permission to speak, Sir?" Pickering said, and Stecker winced.
"Speak!"
"Sir, this is all my fault. We spent the night at my grandfather's house. Lieutenant Stecker wanted to come right out here, but I talked him out of it." Commander Schneebelly considered that for a moment.
"Goddamn it, Mister, don't you have the brains you were born with? Doesn't your grandfather have a telephone? Is there some reason you couldn't have called out here and said that you would report in this morning?"
"No excuse, Sir," Pickering said.
"Goddamn it, son, you're an officer in the Naval Service.
You've got to learn to think."
"Yes, Sir." Commander Schneebelly glowered at both of them for another thirty seconds. But it seemed longer. He then handed Pickering a sheet of teletype paper.
URGENT
NAVY DEPT WASH DC 1530 31AUG42
TO: FLAG OFFICER COMMANDING
NAS PENSACOLA FLA
SENIOR NAVAL REPRESENTATIVE
GRUMMAN AIRCRAFT CORPORATION
BETHPAGE LI NY
1. THIS MESSAGE CONFIRMS VARIOUS TELEPHONE CONVERSATIONS OF THIS DATE
BETWEEN CAPT D.W.
GOBLE, AND COMM F.L. TAYLOR, NAS PENSACOLA; COMM J.W. SCHNEEBELLY AND
LTCOM B.T. HARRIS, OFFICE OF NAVAL REPRESENTATIVE, GRUMMAN AIRCRAFT
CORP BETHPAGE LI NY AND CAPT J. T. HAUGH- TON, OFFICE OF SECNAV.
2. THE SECRETARY OF THE NAVY DESIRES THE PRESENCE OF 2ND LT M.S.
PICKERING, USMCR AND 2ND
LT RICHARD J. STECKER, USMC IN WASHINGTON, D.C.
NOT LATER THAN 1600 1 SEPTEMBER 1942.
3. SENIOR NAVREP GRUMMAN WILL AT THE EARLIEST POSSIBLE TIME DIRECT
SUBJECT OFFICERS TO
SCHEDULE AN INTERMEDIATE STOP AT ANACOSTIA NAS ARRIVING THERE AT NOT
LATER THAN 1600 HOURS DURING FERRY FLIGHT BETHPAGE DASH PENSACOLA AND
BE PREPARED TO SPEND NOT MORE THAN TWENTY- FOUR HOURS IN WASHINGTON.
4. SENIOR NAVREP GRUMMAN WILL BY THE MOST EXPEDITIOUS MEANS,
PREFERABLY TELEPHONE, INFORM
OFFICE SECNAVOF (A) TRANSMITTALTOSUBJECTOFFICERS OF ORDERS IN 2. AND 3.
ABOVE; (B) OF DEPARTURE OF SUBJECT OFFICERS FROM BETHPAGE AND ESTIMATED
TIME OF ARRIVAL AT ANACOSTIA.
By DIRECTION:
HAUGHTON, CAPT, USN, ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICER TO SECNAV
Pick read it and then looked at Commander Schneebelly.
"May I show this to Mr. Stecker, Sir?" Schneebelly made an impatient gesture signifying that he might.
What the hell is this? Stecker wondered.
"What the hell is this all about?" Commander Schneebelly asked. "Do you know?"
"No, Sir," Stecker said.
"No, Sir," Pickering parroted.
"I have been just a little curious," Schneebelly said, "and so I am sure, have people at Pensacola. What possible interest could the Secretary of the Navy have in two second lieutenants?" Neither Stecker nor Pickering replied.
"All right. Now let me tell you what's going to happen. I have personally drawn up a flight plan for you. It is approximately 230 air miles between here and Anacostia, passing over Lakehurst NAS. At a cruising speed of 280 knots, that indicates an approximate flight time of forty-eight minutes. We will figure on one hour, just to be safe. We will also schedule your arrival time at Anacostia for 1500 hours, rather than 1600.
That means you will take off from here precisely at 1400 hours.
Between now and 1400, you will ensure that your uniforms are shipshape, and get yourselves haircuts.
You will not leave the plant grounds, and you will keep me, and/or the chief, advised of your location at all times. Clear? Any questions?"
"Sir, what about test-flying the airplanes?" Stecker asked.
"The airplanes will have been test-flown before you sign for them. I'll do it myself, as a matter of fact,"
"Sir, with respect, I'd prefer to do that myself."
"No one particularly cares what you would prefer to do, Mister."
"Sir, with respect, that's called for by regulations."
"You really are a wise guy, aren't you, Mister?"
"I don't mean to be, Sir."
"Very well, Mister, you will conduct the pre-ferry test flight."
"Thank you, Sir."
"Chief" Commander Schneebelly called, raising his voice.
The door opened and the chief stuck his head in.
"Chief, these officers are going to conduct pre-ferry test flights of their aircraft and then they are
going to get haircuts and have their uniforms pressed. Would you please go with them and see that they have every possible assistance?"
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"Don't let them out of your sight, Chief."
(Four)
THE FOSTER LAFAYETTE HOTEL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
1710 HOURS I SEPTEMBER 1942
There was a knock. And Senator Richmond F. Fowler went to the door of his suite to answer it.
Two young men were standing in the hotel corridor. One wore a suit that bulged under the left armpit.
The other was a Lieutenant Commander of the United States Navy in high=collared whites. From his shoulder was suspended the golden cords of an aide to the President of the United States.
The collars of both were wilted by sweat, and there were sweat-soaked patches under the jacket armpits.
"Good evening, Senator," the Secret Service agent said. "I'm Special Agent McNulty of the Presidential detail." Fowler nodded at him but did not speak.
We have a White House car, Senator, whenever you and Captain Pickering are ready," Secret Service Agent McNulty said.
"Please thank the President," Senator Fowler said, "and tell him that both the Captain and I are quite able to walk across the street and would prefer to do so."
"There has been a change of plans, Senator," the Naval aide said. "I'm Commander Jellington, Sir, the President's Naval aide."
Fowler looked at him and waited for him to go on. When he did not, Fowler said, "Is the change of plans really a matter of national security, Commander? Or are you going to tell me what the change is?"
"Dinner will be aboard the Potomac, Senator," McNulty answered for him.
"Hence, the Naval aide, right?" Fowler said. "Come in."
"Thank you, Sir," they said almost in unison.
"Actually, Sir," Commander Jellington said, "the President sent me to be of whatever assistance I could to Captain Pickering.
"Rendering assistance to Captain Pickering is right up there with trying to pet an alligator -constipated alligator," Fowler added. "You stand a good chance of having the friendly hand bitten off at the shoulder."
He led the two down a corridor to the sitting room, which was on the corner of the building.
"There has been a change of plans, Fleming," Fowler announced to what looked like an empty room.
"We are going to dine on the Potomac.
"What does that mean?" Pickering's voice came from a high-backed leather chair placed directly in front of the room s air-conditioning duct.
"The Potomac is the Presidential yacht, Sir," Commander Jellington said.
Pickering rose from the chair. He was dressed in a T-shirt and boxer shorts. He was shoeless, but wearing calf-high black. St stockings held in place by garters. Bandages across his one could be seen through the thin cotton of the T-shirt.
Neither the Naval aide nor the Secret Service agent seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.
"Good afternoon, Captain Pickering," the Naval aide said. "Sir, I'm Commander Jellington. The President thought I might in some way be helpful to you."
"Whenever you and the Senator are ready, Sir," Agent McNulty said, "we have a White House car."
The last I heard," Pickering said, glowering at Senator Fowler, "this was going to be cocktails and a simple supper across the street." He gestured with his right arm toward the White House; in his hand he held a bottle of Canadian ale.
"And starting at half past six. It's only five something."
"The President has apparently changed his mind," Fowler said. "We are going to dine aboard the Potomac. And may I suggest that it behooves you, Captain, as a Naval officer, to manifest a cheerful and willing obedience to the desires of your commander in chief?"
"That sonofabitch," Captain Pickering said. "I should have known he'd pull something like this."
The eyes of Special Agent McNulty widened. He was not used to hearing the President referred to in such terms, much less by someone about to be honored with the great privilege of an intimate dinner with the President aboard the Presidential yacht.
"I think we should all remember that Captain Pickering is a wounded hero," Senator Fowler said, a touch of amusement in his voice, "just recently released from the hospital. And we all know that wounded heroes are a little crazy and have to be humored, don't we?"
"Fuck you, Senator," Captain Pickering said.
McNulty was more than a little uncomfortable. It was one of those situations not neatly covered by regulations and policy.
On one hand he took very seriously (his wife said "religiously") his duty to protect the President of the United States from all threats, real or potential: Here was a man who'd obviously been drinking, who angrily referred to the President as "that sonofabitch," who was just out of the hospital, and was quite possibly at least a little off the tracks, mentally speaking. A rational man did not say "Fuck you!" to a man like Senator Richmond Fowler.
On the other hand Senator Fowler seemed more amused than disturbed by Pickering's behavior, and it could be presumed that the Senator was at least nearly as concerned with the safety of the President as the Secret Service.
McNulty realized that he had two options: He could get on the phone and tell the supervisory agent on duty that he had a potential loony here who'd been at the bottle and should not be allowed anywhere near the President. The trouble was that the loony was not only the President's personal invitee, but a very close personal friend of Senator Fowler. Indeed, he was living in the Senator's hotel suite; and the Senator had not gone bananas when this Pickering guy told him to fuck himself.
Option two was to say nothing but keep a close eye on him.
"Commander," Senator Fowler said, "Captain Pickering has a nice fresh uniform in that bedroom.
Perhaps you'd be good enough to help him into it?"
"You stay where you are, Commander!" Captain Pickering ordered. He marched across the room, entered the bedroom, and closed the door.
A moment later it opened again.
"Commander," Captain Pickering said, almost humbly, "if you wouldn't mind, I could use some help."
"Yes, Sir," the Naval aide said.
Special Agent McNulty decided that for the time being, option two seemed best.
"I'll give you a hand, Jellington," he said and followed him into Captain Pickering's bedroom.
[Five]
THE WASHINGTON NAVY YARD
1750 HOURS I SEPTEMBER 1942
Two limousines drove onto the wharf, where they were immediately stopped by neatly dressed men in business suits. The first limousine held a Naval aide to the President of the United States and a member of the Secret Service Presidential Security detail. There was a wave of recognition; then the limousine, Cadillac, was given a wave of permission to drive farther down the wharf.
Instead, the Secret Service agent got out of the Presidential 1941 Cadillac.
He indicated the second limousine, a 1942 Packard 280.
"Senator Fowler and Captain Pickering are in that one," McNulty said to his Secret Service colleagues.
"I'll identify them for you." One of his colleagues asked the obvious question: "Why aren't they riding in the White House car?"
"Because the Senator's Packard is air conditioned, and the White House car isn't, " McNulty said.
He opened the front-seat passenger door in time to hear Senator Fowler say, "Now for God's sake, Fleming, when we go on board, watch your mouth. You've been at the sauce all afternoon."
"Just pull up behind the other car," McNulty said to Fowler's chauffeur.
There was a twenty-foot-high wall of corrugated paper boxes on the wharf, leaving just enough room for a car to pass between it and the small white ship tied up at the wharf.
Or a truck, Fleming Pickering decided, once he was out of the Packard. That stuff is intended for a ship's galleys. This place really is a working Navy yard, not just a place for the President to park his yacht.
He looke
d down the hull of the Potomac. Perfect paint. No a speck of rust. A lifeboat, forward, had been swung out on davits. The tide was such that the main deck was within a couple of inches of the wharf, a simple gangplank was in place.
I wonder how they get Roosevelt on here when the Potomac is much lower or higher than the wharf?
The answer came immediately: Hell, a couple of Secret Service guys make a basket of their hands and carry him on. How else? Christ, maybe Fowler's right and I am half in the bag.
"Right this way, please, gentlemen," Commander Jellington said, and led them to the gangplank.
Two sailors in undress white uniforms stood at either side of the gangplank at parade rest.
Join the Navy and see the Potomac, Pickering thought cynically and then was immediately ashamed of the cynicism.
The sailors came to attention as he started onto the gangplank.
"Good evening," Pickering said and smiled at them.
A full Lieutenant and two more sailors stood on the deck at the end of the gangplank.
At the last moment Pickering remembered his Naval courtesy, and that the Potomac was legally a ship of the line.
"Permission to come aboard, Sir," he asked.
"Granted." Pickering saluted the National Colors and then the officer of the deck.
"The President asks that you join him on the fantail, Sir," the officer of the deck said, and gestured toward the stern of the ship.
Canvas had been hung from the overhead to the rail along the dock side of the Potomac, obviously to shield the vessel from the eyes of the curious. But when he reached the fantail, he saw the river side was open. Or at least only covered by mosquito netting.
The President was sitting in an upholstered wicker chair, facing away from the wharf.
What the hell is the protocol? Do I just walk in and say hello?
There was another Naval officer on the fantail, wearing a somewhat wilted white uniform, with four stars on each shoulder board, the insignia of a full admiral.
Admiral William D. Leahy, Chief of Staff to the President, was sitting on a wicker couch and holding a glass of what looked like iced coffee.
He looks, Pickering thought, a good deal older than the last time I saw him.
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