Line of Fire

by W. E. B Griffin

  Sessions said sharply.

  "I'm pissed at me, Captain," McCoy said. "When Moore got out of bed this morning correction: yesterday morning he passed out."

  "I told you, I slipped," Moore interrupted.

  "He passed out and fell down... hit his leg on a dresser drawer and opened his goddamned wound. And when they took a look at him at the dispensary, they wanted to keep him.

  "I had a hell of a time getting him out."

  "I'm all right," Moore insisted.

  "Do you think we should take him to Bethesda?" Sessions asked.

  "Sir, I would prefer to go back to Philadelphia," Moore said.

  "I should never have taken you out of Philadelphia," McCoy said.

  "OK," Sessions said. "Lieutenant Moore, you will return to the Naval Hospital at Philadelphia and you will stay there until properly discharged by competent medical authority. Understand?" Moore nodded.

  "Lieutenant, when an officer receives an order from a superior officer, the expected response is, Àye, aye, Sir."

  "Aye, aye, Sir."

  "What the hell's the matter with you, John? You were seriously wounded," Sessions said, far more gently.

  "Sir, I'm all right. I'm a little weak, that's all."

  "You up to driving to Philadelphia? Or should I make other arrangements?"

  "I can ride in a car, Sir."

  "There it is," McCoy said. "Make the next right, Hart."

  "You guys have your breakfast?" Sessions asked.

  "We stopped in Richmond," McCoy said. "But I could have something. Coffee and a doughnut anyway."

  "I called General Pickering after you called me yesterday," Sessions said. "He said we could bring Hart by at eight this morning. But when I called from the lobby, there was no answer. I guess he's still asleep.

  If it makes you feel any better, Lieutenant Moore, neither one of you should be out of the hospital."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "So there will be time for me to talk a little to Private Hart, and then we'll go see the General. Give him another hour in bed." An hour later, when Captain Sessions called on the house phone in the lobby of the Foster Lafayette Hotel, there was no answer from Senator Richmond F. Fowler's suite.

  "Wait here," Sessions ordered, and then modified that.

  "You go sit down, Moore, over there. I'm going to check with the desk and see if he left a message."

  There was no message at the desk.

  "I don't like this," Sessions said to McCoy. "I think we'd better see if we can get somebody to let us into the suite."

  Hart said, "I've got a sort of master key for hotel rooms, if you'd like me to try."

  "I told you," McCoy said, smiling, "that Hart would be useful."

  "Let's see if your key works, Hart," Sessions said.

  There was a Do Not Disturb card hanging from the doorknob of the Fowler suite.

  "Fowler's in Chicago," Sessions said. "Pickering told me when I called him." Hart pushed the Do Not Disturb card out of the way and applied his "key"-the blade of a pocketknife ground square and flat-to the crack in the door. He then pushed the door open and stood back to let Sessions enter.

  In the sitting room were the remnants of Fleming Pickering's room service dinner, including the wheeled cart and an empty quart of scotch.

  Sessions, with McCoy on his heels, went quickly to Pickering's bedroom.

  When they opened the door, the foul smell of human waste met them.

  Fleming Pickering, wearing only a sleeveless undershirt, made a failed attempt to pull a sheet over him.

  "My God!" Sessions said.

  "I seem to be a little under the weather," Fleming Pickering said weakly.

  McCoy went to the bed and made an instant diagnosis: "Malaria," he said.

  "You think that's what it is, Ken?" Pickering asked.

  "Sweating, freezing? You can't control your bowels"" McCoy asked.

  "Yes. Made a hell of a mess, haven't I?"

  "We've got to get him out of that bed," Hart said matter-of-factly. "In addition to the mess he's made, it's soaking wet."

  "There's at least one more bedroom," Sessions said.

  "You two get him on his feet," Hart ordered, "and I'll clean him up.

  Then we'll move him."

  "Moore," Sessions ordered, "get on the horn and get the house physician up here. And then call the dispensary at Eighth and Eye and have them send an ambulance over here. An ambulance and a doctor."

  "The dispensary where?" Moore asked.

  "At Marine Barracks. The number will be in the phone book," Sessions said.

  "No," Pickering said, as McCoy and Sessions bent over the bed to pick him up. "Moore, don't call the dispensary. Just the house doctor. His name is Selleres. He can take care of me."

  "Call the dispensary, Moore," Sessions ordered.

  "Goddamn it, Captain," Pickering said furiously. "I said no

  "Do what the General says, Moore," Sessions said after a moment's hesitation.

  Hart came out of the bathroom with wet towels and wiped the waste from Pickering's groin area and from his legs.

  "God, that's disgusting, something like this," Pickering said.

  "Don't be silly, General," Hart said. "Women do it to their babies three, four times a day."

  "Christ!" Pickering said.

  "Where's the other bedroom?" Hart asked.

  "Down the corridor somewhere, I suppose," Sessions said.

  Then, with Pickering suspended between them, he and McCoy carried Pickering out of the room.

  Hart went ahead of them into the other bedroom and had the covers ripped off one of its twin beds before they dragged Pickering in.

  "We've got to get some fluid in him," McCoy said. "He's dehydrated."

  "Do you know what you're doing, McCoy?" Sessions asked.

  "This isn't the first malaria I've seen." They lowered Pickering into the bed. Hart covered him with a blanket.

  "A minute ago I was sweating," Pickering said. "Now, goddamn it, I'm freezing!" His body shook with shivering under the blanket. Hart ripped the bedspread and a blanket from the other twin bed and laid it over him.

  "Doctor Sellers is on his way," Moore announced from the door.

  "Selleres, " Pickering corrected him. His, teeth chattered.

  "Yes, Sir," Moore said.

  "What the hell are you doing out of the hospital?" Pickering demanded.

  "About the same thing you are, General," McCoy said.

  "Making things a hell of a lot worse."

  Dr. Selleres appeared a minute or two later, and immediately confirmed McCoy's diagnosis and immediate treatment.

  "Somebody get General Pickering a glass of water," he ordered.

  "The water here is undrinkable," Pickering said. "There should be some ginger ale."

  "OK, ginger ale. Have you been nauseous?"

  "No, but I have had a first-class display of diarrhea."

  "The ginger ale may make you nauseous."

  "I'll take my chances, thank you," Pickering said. "And aside from ginger ale, what can you do for me?"

  "Well, the first thing we do is get you into an ambulance and into a hospital,"

  "No."

  "You have to go to the hospital, General. Period. No argument."

  "Jesus Christ! Why can't you do what you have to do here?"

  "Well, for one thing, Fleming, we don't have facilities to conduct an autopsy here, and unless you start behaving, that's the next medical procedure you'll need."

  "Bullshit."

  "No. No bullshit. The facts. How long have you been experiencing symptoms like these?"

  "The diarrhea's new. And the goddamned weakness. But the hot and cold spells, a couple of days. Three maybe. Maybe four."

  "And you've been treating yourself with aspirin and scotch, right?"

  "I thought the scotch had given me the runs," Pickering said.

  Hart appeared with a bottle of ginger ale and two glasses, one empty and one with ice.

 
"Here you are, Sir."

  "That's liable to make you sick, Fleming," Dr. Selleres said.

  "So you said," Pickering snapped, and then, "I don't have the goddamn strength to sit up." Hart went to him and held him in a sitting position. McCoy held the glass to his lips.

  Sessions went into the sitting room and dialed a number from memory.

  When Colonel Rickabee came on the line, he told him what was going on.

  Then he went back into the bedroom.

  "An ambulance is on the way," he said, "with a doctor and corpsmen. The General will be taken to Walter Reed Army Hospital, which has the best malaria treatment facilities in the area."

  "You really think I need hospitalization, Emilio?" Pickering asked.

  "Only if you want to live, Fleming," Dr. Selleres said.

  "Hell!" Pickering said, and then shrugged. He looked at the people standing around his bed. "If I'm going back in the hospital, John, so are you. Can you arrange that, Sessions?"

  "It's already been arranged, Sir. He's going in your ambulance."

  "McCoy, will you telephone Mrs. Pickering and make sure she doesn't get hysterical when she hears about this?"

  "Yes, Sir, if you want me to."

  "I'll call her, Fleming," Dr. Selleres said. "If I don't, she'll call me." Pickering ignored him. He looked at Private George Hart.

  "You've just had one hell of an introduction to a prospective boss, son.

  I would certainly understand why you wouldn't want to work for me."

  "Do I have a choice, Sir?"

  "Yes, of course, you do."

  "I think I'd like very much to work for you, Sir." Pickering didn't reply for a moment. Then he said,

  "Sessions, Moore told me that when you snatched him out of Parris Island you made him an overnight sergeant. And he didn't even have to wipe an officer's ass. Can you do as much for this young man?"

  "Yes, Sir. If that is the General's desire, Private Hart will be a sergeant before noon."

  "That is the General's desire," Pickering said. Then he looked at Dr. Emilio Selleres. "I hate to admit this, but you're right, you sonofabitch. I'm about to throw up."

  "Roll over on your side, Fleming," Selleres said.

  Outside, there was the wail of a siren.

  "Do you suppose that's for me?" Pickering asked. "Or is that Roosevelt out for a morning drive?" And then he was shaken with chills and nausea.

  Chapter Eight

  [One]

  THE PENTHOUSE THE ANDREW FOSTER HOTEL

  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  0930 HOURS 9 SEPTEMBER 1942

  "We could have eaten downstairs, you know," Andrew Foster said as he transferred two kippers from a crystal platter to his grandson's plate with all the skill and ‚lan of any of his first class waiters. Foster was in his sixties, tall and distinguished looking, with elegantly cut silver hair.

  "The service isn't nearly as nice downstairs," Second Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering replied, adding,

  "thank you." `But on the other hand, I'm not nearly as pretty as any of the half-dozen young women I'm sure you would have found down there. " They were sitting at a glass-topped cast-iron table on the tiled terrace of the penthouse. A striped awning had been lowered enough to shade them from the morning sun, and mottled glass panels in steel frames had been rolled into place to shield them from the wind.

  "But they couldn't possibly smell as good as you do," Pick said. "What is that you're wearing?"

  "Something your mother gave me. I thought she might come with you, so I bit the bullet and sprayed some on."

  "Very nice."

  "Perhaps for a French gigolo," Foster said.

  "Maybe a little strong." Pick chuckled.

  "The last time I had some on, a gentleman of exquisite grace, inhaling rapturously, followed me across the lobby," the old man said, "thinking he'd found the love of his life."

  Pick laughed. "It's not that bad."

  "I'd be happy to give you what's left of the bottle."

  "Thank you, but no thank you," Pick said.

  A waiter came to the table and picked up a silver-collar orange juice pitcher.

  "More juice, Mr. Pickering?"

  "No, thank you," Pick said.

  "Have some more," the old man said. "I rather doubt where you're going that freshly squeezed orange juice will be on the menu."

  "Point well taken, Sir," Pick said. "Yes, please, Fred."

  "Speaking of where you're going, you haven't said where or when?"

  "I report to Mare Island on the thirteenth. I'm headed for VMF-229. I'm not supposed to know, but I do. It's on Guadalcanal."

  "What is... what you said?"

  "VMF-229. It's a fighter squadron."

  "Do you feel qualified to go, Pick?"

  "I think I'm a pretty good pilot."

  "I'm sure you are."

  "On the other hand, I sometimes think my ego is running away with me," Pick confessed. "I guess I'll just have to wait and see."

  "I had an interesting chat, a while back, with a Marine pilot."

  "There must be fifteen or twenty in the bar every night," Pick said.

  "This was an interesting chap. I had him and his lady to dinner up here. With your mother."

  "His `lady'?"

  "Well, she was a lady. I liked her and so did your mother, but came out that their relationship had not yet culminated in holy matrimony."

  "Illicit cohabitation? In the Andrew Foster? Shocking! And the innkeeper had them to dinner? With my mother?"

  "Yes, and the innkeeper was very glad that he did. He told me all about your training. I understood at least twenty percent of what he told me.

  And I think he managed to alleviate some of your mother's concerns-"

  "Which is why you had him to dinner, right?"

  "Certainly. He was a very impressive man. On his way to the Pacific.

  Galloway was his name. He said he was to be a squadron commander."

  "I don't know the name," Pick said.

  "He didn't know yours, either," the old man said. "I asked." The telephone rang.

  "Take that, Fred, will you, please?" the old man said. "And remind the operator that I said I didn't want any calls." The waiter went inside, and Pick could hear him speaking softly on the phone. Then, to his surprise, he reappeared on the terrace, telephone in hand. He plugged it in and handed it to Andrew Foster.

  "The inn better be on fire, Fred," the old man said as he took the telephone.

  "I thought you had better take it, Mr. Foster."

  "This is Andrew Foster.

  "No, Mrs. Pickering is not here.

  "I'm afraid I have no idea where she is."

  "She said she would be at the office from about eleven," Pick said.

  "What is that?" The old man handed him the phone.

  "Who is this, please?" Pick asked.

  "My name is McCoy, Sir. I'm a Marine officer."

  "From what I hear, you're a flaming disgrace to the goddamn Marine Corps," Pick said cheerfully.

  There was a moment's hesitation, then the caller asked, "Is that you, Pick?"

  "How the hell are you, you ugly bastard?"

  "Pick, I'm calling from Walter Reed. Your dad's in here."

  "Jesus, now what?"

  "He's going to be all right. I waited until they gave him a... Colonel Rickabee just got the word from the doctors."

  "Who's he?"

  "He works for your father."

  "So what's going on?"

  "Your father has malaria. I went to his room in the hotel this morning and found him too weak to even sit up. He's been treating himself with scotch and aspirin. But he's going to be all right. He made me promise to call your mother and see what I could do to calm her down. I called all over, and finally somebody at your house-Talbot, something like that-gave me this number."

  "Mother's butler," Pick said. "It's my grandfather's number. That was him on the phone before."

  "OK. So what I know is this: He has mal
aria. There's two kinds, intestinal, and-I forget what they call it, in the brain.

  That's really bad news. He has intestinal. That's not as bad.

  What it does is give you chills and fever, and you lose control of your bowels, and you throw up a lot."

  "That's not bad, huh?"

  "It dehydrates you. He was in pretty bad shape when we found him. But we got him in the hospital, and they're giving him stuff to kill the malaria, and they're putting fluid in him.

  He's going to be all right."

  "Define àll right,' " Pick said.

  "He's sick. He's weak, and embarrassed."

  "What do you mean, embarrassed? What the hell's he got to be embarrassed about?"

  "He... shit his bed. We had to wash him like a baby."

  "God!"

  "He said I was to tell your mother there was no need for her to do anything foolish, like come to Washington."

  "Which means she will be on the next plane. We will be on the first plane."

  "You better think about that," McCoy said. "You're supposed to be at Mare Island on the thirteenth."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I checked. Actually, you're supposed to be in Pensacola. What was that all about?"

  "I had originally... " Pick said, and stopped. "What the hell does it matter?"

  "I called all over Pensacola for you. I finally got some Admiral's wife on the phone, and she told me you were on your way to San Francisco." The Admiral's wife was Mrs. Richard B. Sayre, mother Mrs.

  Martha Sayre Culhane. Upon learning that Lieutenant Pickering was headed for the Pacific, Martha had been even more determined than ever not to marry him. Martha had said it so often he had no choice but to believe her.

  She could not go through again what she'd already gone through. She couldn't wait around for the inevitable telegram from the Secretary of the Navy expressing his deep regret that her husband had been lost in aerial combat against the forces of the Empire of Japan.

  "There's no way you could come here and get back out there by the thirteenth," McCoy said.

  "I could get an emergency leave," Pick said.

  "Yeah, you probably could," McCoy said. There was a hint of disgust in his voice.

  "Meaning what?"

  "Meaning you're a Marine officer, and you have your orders. There's nothing you could do for your father here except embarrass him by showing up."