There was no reply. He put his hand on the key again.
FRD6. FRD6. FRD6. FRD6. FRD6. FRD6.
There was a reply: KCY.???.KCY.???.KCY.???
This is the United States Pacific Fleet Radio Station at Pearl Harbor, Territory of Hawaii.
Is there someone trying to contact me?
KCY.FRD6.KCY.FRD6.KCY.FRD6.
FRD6. KCY. FRD6. KCY URSIG 2Xl. GA.
Detachment A of Special Marine Corps Detachment 14, this is the United States Pacific Fleet Radio.
Your signal is weak and barely readable. Go ahead.
Fucking radio. Fucking atmospherics. Fucking sunspots.
Fuck fuck fuck.
KCY. FRD6. SB CODE.
CINCPAC Radio Pearl Harbor, stand by to copy encrypted message.
FRD6. KCY. RPT URS IG 2X 1. GA.
Detachment A of Special Marine Corps Detachment 14, this is the United States Pacific Fleet Radio.
Repeat, your signal is weak and barely readable. Go ahead.
After six tries, Detachment A of Special Marine Corps Detachment 14 was able to relay to the United States Pacific Fleet headquarters in Pearl Harbor that an enemy bomber force of twenty Betty bombers, escorted by an estimated thirty Zero fighters, had passed overhead at an approximate altitude of 13,000
feet on a course that would take them to Guadalcanal.
FRD6. KCY. AKN. CLR.
Detachment A, this is Pearl Harbor. Your transmission is acknowledged.
Pearl Harbor Clear.
KCY. FRD6. FU2 AND GOOD AFTERNOON. FRD6. CLR.
FU was not in the list of authorized abbreviations, but it was not difficult for the United States Pacific Fleet operator in Pearl Harbor to make the translation; every radio operator knew what it meant. He had just been told to attempt a physiologically impossible act of self-impregnation. Since regulations did not permit the transmission of personal messages and/or greetings, the Pearl Harbor operator concluded that wherever FRD6 was, and whoever he was, he had really stuck his neck out by getting drunk on duty.
[Two]
FOSTER LAFAYETTE HOTEL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
1525 HOURS 4 SEPTEMBER 1942
Because Fleming Pickering ate lunch late that afternoon, when there was a knock at Senator Fowler's door, he thought it was the floor waiter come to remove the remnants of the tray of hors d'oeuvres they had sent him from the Grill Room.
But it wasn't the floor waiter, it was the concierge. He was helping a mousy-looking little man carry two large stacks of cardboard boxes. Each box bore the corporate insignia of Brooks Brothers.
He knew what they were.
"Put them in that bedroom, please," he said, pointing.
When he signed the receipt the mousy-looking man handed him, he said, "Please tell Mr. Abraham that I'm grateful for the quick service. And for sending you down here personally."
"Our pleasure, Captain Pickering," the mousy little man said. "You told Mr. Abraham, às soon as possible." And I had a nice lunch on the train." Once they were gone, Pickering looked at the boxes now neatly stacked on the bed and the chest of drawers, shook his head, exhaled audibly, and went back into the sitting room.
Yesterday afternoon, after Pick and Jack Stecker's boy left, Dr. Selleres got him to the office of an orthopedic surgeon.
Selleres' pretext was to make a more comfortable cast for Pickering's arm. But his actual motive was to have the arm X-rayed-which was done. Then it was placed in a much less substantial cast than the Navy had given him at San Diego.
Though Pickering had been reluctant to go, he was now pleased that he did. For one thing, Selleres got on the phone afterward and assured Patricia that her husband's arm was well on the way to recovery...
and not about to fall off or develop gangrene. But more important, he could now put his arm through a shirtsleeve.
Pickering, who was wearing a light seersucker robe, boxer shorts, and a pair of the Foster Lafayette's throwaway cotton shower slippers, went back to the leisurely postprandial rest that the man from Brooks Brothers had interrupted. He poured himself another cup of black coffee-the last the silver pitcher held-sat down on the couch, put his feet up on the coffee table, and picked up The New York Times.
There came another knock at the door.
That has to be the floor waiter.
"Come in." He heard the door open and sensed movement in the room, but no one appeared to roll the room service cart away.
"Get me another pot of coffee, would you, please? I won't need any sugar or cream."
"General Pickering, I'm Captain Sessions, Sir, from Management Analysis." Pickering looked over his shoulder. A tall, well-set-up young man was standing in the open door. His black hair was styled in a crew cut, and he was wearing a well-fitting, if sweatdampened, green elastique summer uniform. He carried a heavily stuffed leather briefcase and a newspaper.
"I thought you were the floor waiter," Pickering said.
"Come in, please." Then he blurted what he was thinking: "That's the first time anyone has called me that.
`General.,
"Then I'm honored, General."
"I'm about to order some coffee. Can I get you anything?"
"Would iced tea be possible?"
"How about a cold beer, Captain? That's what I really want."
"A general officer's desire is a captain's command, Sir."
Pickering chuckled.
Nice kid. He's not much older than Pick.
Pickering picked up the telephone. "This is Captain-strike that-General Pickering. Would you send the floor waiter to clear things away, please? And have him put a half dozen bottles of Feigenspan ale in a wine cooler with some ice." He stopped. "That all right? Feigenspan?"
"Just fine, Sir."
"Thank you," Pickering said to the telephone and hung it up. "What can I do for you, Captain?"
"Colonel Rickabee's compliments, Sir. He asked me to express his regrets for not coming here himself.
He's playing golf with the Deputy Commandant." Playing golf, Jesus Christ!
"War is hell, isn't it, Captain?"
"General, with respect, Colonel Rickabee regularly meets with the Commandant; or if the Commandant is not available, with the Deputy Commandant. The back nine holes at the Army & Navy Country Club is a fine place to hold a confidential conversation."
"My mouth ran away with me," Pickering said. "Sorry."
"I can understand why it sounded a bit odd, General."
"We're back to, `what can I do for you, Captain?"
"There's a good deal of paperwork to be signed, General-"
"I'll bet," Pickering interrupted.
Sessions smiled, and then went on, "-but first things first.
Has the General seen The Washington Star?" Pickering shook his head and reached for the newspaper Sessions extended to him.
"It's on the lower right-hand corner of the second section, General." Pickering found what Sessions thought he should see:
SHIPPING MAGNATE ENTERS MARINE CORPS
Washington Sept 3 - The White House this afternoon announced that it had been advised by the Senate of its consent to the appointment of Fleming Pickering as Brigadier General, USMC Reserve.
Presidential Press Secretary Stephen Early said that Pickering, an old and close friend of the President, will head the Marine Corps Office of Management Analysis, which has responsibility for increasing efficiency of Marine Corps' supply acquisition and distribution.
Pickering, who before the war was Chairman of the Board of Pacific & Far East Shipping Corporation, has been serving as a temporary Captain, U.S. Navy Reserve, and only recently returned from the Pacific, where he was a Special Representative of Navy Secretary Frank Knox on logistics matters.
"Both the President and Secretary Knox felt that Pickering would be more effective as a Marine officer,"
Press Secretary Early reported. "He brings to his new duties not only his extensive shipping experience, but those of his previous service as a Ma
rine." He said that Pickering was three times wounded and earned the Distinguished Service Cross and the Croix de Guerre as a Marine in France in World War 1.
"And like the President," Early added, "he has a son in The Marine Corps." Captain James Roosevelt participated in the recent Marine Corps raid on Makin Island. Second Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering recently completed training as a Marine Corps fighter pilot and is believed en route to the Pacific.
Pickering will assume his new duties, according to Early, "just as soon as he can get into uniform."
"Not that I am one to believe much that I read in any newspaper," Pickering said, "but this really strays from the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but, doesn't it?"
"Actually, we were very pleased with it, General."
"We? Who's we?"
"Colonel Rickabee and me, Sir. He saw it first and told me to get a copy before I came over here."
"Just for openers, I am not an old and close friend of Mr. Roosevelt."
"And the Office of Management Analysis does not, as you know, Sir, have anything to do with logistics,"
Sessions said, smiling. "But it is almost always to our advantage if people have the wrong idea. And, General, with respect, there are people in this town who would kill to have The Star report that they are old and close friends of Mr. Roosevelt." Pickering considered that and chuckled.
"I'm sure you're right, Captain," he said. "You're an interesting young man. What's your backgrounds How'd you get involved... in your line of work?" Before he could reply, there was another knock at the door.
"May 1, Sir?" Sessions asked.
He went to the door and opened it. The floor waiter and a busboy came in, wheeled the floor service tray out, and left behind a tray of pilsner glasses and two silver champagne buckets, each holding three bottles of ale buried in ice.
"Help yourself," Pickering said, "there's an opener on the bar."
"This is very nice," Sessions said, indicating the champagne buckets.
"They are very nice to me here, probably because my wife's father owns the place."
"Yes, Sir, I know," Sessions said, opening a bottle of ale and handing it to Pickering. He glanced at Pickering as he spoke and saw coldness in his eyes.
"General, we have to know all there is to know about our people. That applies to everybody."
"I'm sure," Pickering said. "You were telling me how you got into this?"
"I served in China, Sir. With then Captain Ed Banning."
"You know Ed Banning?"
"I'm privileged to be his friend, Sir."
"That speaks highly of you, Captain."
"Sir, this may be a little out of line, but I think I should return the compliment. Ed Banning thinks the world of you."
"Two questions at a tangent, Captain?"
"Yes, Sir?"
What about our two people on Buka? You know about I "Yes, Sir. They're still there. Banning is trying to figure out a way to relieve them." Pickering nodded. "I said two questions. I meant three.
Number two: When you were in China, did you happen to meet a young man, a corporal, named McCoy?" Sessions smiled. "Sir, I am happy to report that I am the man, over his bitter objections, who sent the Killer to Officer Candidate School."
"He went to OCS with my son. But I guess you know that."
"Yes, Sir."
"Do you happen to know where McCoy is? The reason I ask-"
"Sir, the Killer's one of us-"
"I suppose I should have guessed that," Pickering said.
"He's on convalescent leave, Sir."
"He was wounded?" Pickering asked, concern in his voice.
"On the Makin raid. But not seriously. The Colonel thought he was entitled to the full thirty days of convalescent leave. He ordered him to take it."
"Question three: Sergeant John Marston Moore?"
"Philadelphia Naval Hospital, Sir. He took some pretty bad shrapnel wounds on Guadalcanal."
"Is he going to be all right?"
"He'll be on limited duty for a while, Sir. But he will be all right. "
"What else do you know about Moore?" Pickering asked innocently. But Sessions knew the question behind the question. He decided to answer it fully.
"He's privy to MAGIC, Sir. You authorized that clearance."
"And didn't tell anybody. Which is why he was sent to Guadalcanal, why he's in the hospital."
"Yes, Sir. I'm familiar with the details."
"You're apparently on the MAGIC list?"
"Yes, Sir. Colonel Rickabee and I both, Sir."
"Not McCoy?"
"No, Sir. Lieutenant McCoy does not have the Need to Know, Sir."
"I appreciate your candor in answering these questions, Captain."
"General, you're the boss."
"Two parts to that statement," Pickering said, "both of which I'm having difficulty accepting."
"Well, then, Sir, why don't we make it official?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"One of the things the General has to do to become a general, General, is sign his resignation from the Navy and his acceptance of his commission as a Marine general. Plus no more than four or five hundred other forms, all of which I just happen to have with me, all neatly typed up." Smiling, he held up the briefcase.
"I even have two spare fountain pens," Sessions went on, and these." He took from the briefcase two pieces of metal, each the size of a license plate. They were painted red and had a silver star fastened to their centers.
"What's that?" Pickering asked, even as he belatedly recognized the plates for what they were.
"That is what brigadier generals mount on their automobiles, fore and aft. I also drew your General's Flag, and the National Colors from Eighth and Eye before I came over here.
But I left those in the car." Headquarters, United States Marine Corps, is at Eighth and I streets, in the District of Columbia.
"What am I supposed to do with a General's Flag?"
"It will be placed in your office, General, which at this very moment is being equipped with the appropriate furniture."
"And who got thrown out of his office so I could have one?"
"A Colonel LaRue, Sir," Sessions replied immediately. "The Colonel is the Marine representative to the Inter-Service Morale and Recreation Council. He was, Sir, very much aware that he was the senior officer in our little building. I don't think Colonel Rickabee was heartbroken when he had to tell him that we required his office space for our General, General."
"Oh, Christ," Pickering said, shaking his head.
"We'll still be pretty much sitting in each other's laps, Sir, but at least there will be nobody in the building but us from now on."
"Well, that's something, I suppose."
"Sir, Colonel Rickabee suggested that we drive down to Quantico this afternoon if you feel up to it."
"Oh? Why?"
"Uniforms, Sir. Colonel Rickabee said to tell you that the concessionaire there, a fellow named A. M.
Bolognese, not has very good prices, but is an old friend of his. He could probably turn out some uniforms for you in a couple of days." Pickering gestured toward the bedroom.
"They just arrived. I called Brooks Brothers and they sent a man down on the train with them." Sessions laughed. "Major Banning said that was the way you were, Sir. By the time he thought of something, you'd done it."
"I wish I'd known about this man with the good prices. I hate to think of the bill I'm going to get from Brooks Brothers."
"What exactly did you order, Sir?"
"I told them to send me whatever I would need."
"General, while you're signing all this stuff, why don't I take a look at it?"
"Somebody who knows what he's doing should," Pickering said. "Thank you."
"You'll find a little red pencil check mark every place you're to sign your name, General," Sessions said, going to a desk and unloading the briefcase. "Everything is in at least four copies, all of which have to be signed."
"Wh
at if I had broken my right arm?"
"Then you would make a mark, Sir, and I would sign everything, swearing that was your mark."
Pickering laughed.
"OK, Captain," he said and walked to the table and sat down.
Sessions uncapped a fountain pen and handed it to him. "If you run out of ink, Sir, there's a spare pen."
"You think two is going to be enough?"
"With a little luck, Sir." By the time he'd taken the documents from one stack, signed his name in the places marked, and put them on a second stack, Pickering had concluded that Sessions was not exaggerating about how many there were. His fingers were stiff from holding the pen.
He got up and walked into the bedroom. The cardboard boxes had been opened, emptied, and piled by the door. An incredible amount of clothing was now spread out on the bed.
And still more clothing was hanging from doorknobs and the drawer pulls of the two chests of drawers.
Sessions, who was bent over the bed, pinning insignia to an elastique tunic, looked over his shoulder at Pickering.
"They took you at your word, Sir. There's everything here but mess dress."
"Is mess dress expensive?"
"Yes, Sir. Very expensive."
"Then it was a simple oversight which Brooks Brothers will remedy as soon as humanly possible.
The only thing we don't know is whether or not it will fit you, Sir."
"It should. I've been buying clothing there since I was in college."
Sessions handed him a shirt.
"There's only one way to know for sure, General."
Three minutes later, Flem Pickering was examining Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door.
I feel like one of the dummies in the Brooks Brothers windows.
I may be wearing this thing, but I am not, and there is no way I could be, a Marine general.
That Navy captain business was bad enough, but at least I have the right to wear those four gold stripes.
I am an any-ocean, any-tonnage master mariner, entitled to wear the four stripes of a captain.
This is different.
"That fits perfectly," Sessions said. "Let's see about the cover.
Line of Fire Page 13
