Line of Fire

by W. E. B Griffin

  "Lieutenant Pickering was very nice to me, Ma'am."

  "Was that before or after he flew you under the Golden Gate Bridge?" she responded, gently sarcastic.

  "That was inexcusable! Stupid enough on his part, and inexcusable to take you with him." He had been following her into the sitting room.

  "Dick, this is Sergeant Hart," she said. "Sergeant, this is Senator Fowler." Jesus Christ, a United States Senator is actually getting out of his chair to shake my hand!

  "How do you do, Sergeant?" Fowler said. "I've been hearing a good deal about you lately, all of it good.

  I'm quite an admirer of your commanding officer."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Correction," Senator Fowler said, "I'm quite an admirer of Colonel Rickabee. I'm very fond of your commanding officer, but as Mrs. Pickering and I were just saying, he does need a keeper; and according to Rickabee, you're just the man for the job."

  "You're putting the sergeant on a spot, Dick," Patricia Pickering said.

  "I certainly didn't mean to," Fowler said. "I meant to make the sergeant welcome."

  "Thank you, Sir."

  "Where are your things, Sergeant?" Patricia Pickering asked.

  "Ma'am?"

  "Your uniforms. Your clothing."

  "Oh. Captain Sessions arranged for me to share an apartment. It's a couple of blocks away. I went there first."

  "We were just talking about that, too," Fowler said. "We think it would be better for you and Lieutenant Moore to be in here with the General. Would that pose a problem for you?"

  "Sir, I go where I'm told to go. But I don't know what Colonel Rickabee would say. Or General Pickering. Or, for that matter, Lieutenant Moore."

  "I don't think Colonel Rickabee will have any objection," Fowler said. "I'll have a word with him. And that should take care of any objections Lieutenant Moore might have. You know him, I gather?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "And General Pickering's vote doesn't count," Patricia Pickering said firmly. "There's a small suite next door," she went on, gesturing toward the wall behind Hart. "I've asked them to put a door in. It should be there by the time Lieutenant Moore gets out of the hospital. With a little luck, that will be before my husband does."

  "For the time being you can stay in the spare bedroom," Fowler said. "Is that all right with you?"

  "Sir, I do what I'm told." Well, I guess if your father owns the hotel, and you want a door put in, they put a door in.

  "There's one more thing, Sergeant," Patricia Pickering said.

  "One of our stewards, a fine old fellow named Matthew Howe, is retired here in Washington-" What the hell is she talking about?

  ,-and he is willing-actually, he seemed delighted when I asked him-to look after my husband. He'll be coming in every day to take care of him."

  "What Mrs. Pickering is saying, Sergeant," Senator Fowler explained, "is that Howe will take care of General Pickering's linen and pass the canap‚s, leaving you and Lieutenant Moore free to take care of him in other ways."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Our first priority, your first priority, is to see that General Pickering does nothing that might hinder his recovery," Senator Fowler said. "Obviously, Mrs. Pickering and I have a personal interest in that. But I would also strongly suggest to you, Sergeant, that he's not going to be much use to The Marine Corps, for that matter to the country, if he winds up back in the hospital. Do I make my point?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "And finally," Fowler said, with a vague gesture toward Pick's mother, "Mrs. Pickering is a little concerned that both you and Lieutenant Moore are armed. I have told her that J. Edgar Hoover and the FBI have done their job, and that there is absolutely no danger to General Pickering from the enemy here in Washington."

  "Then why do they need guns?" Patricia Fleming asked quickly, rising to the moment. "My God, Dick, Fleming has his old Marine Corps.45 in there in his dresser!" She pointed toward the bedroom.

  "Mrs. Pickering," Hart said, "every cop carries a gun. Ninety-five percent of cops never take them out of their holsters from the time they join the force until they retire."

  Fowler looked at him with approval; Patricia Fleming looked at him dubiously.

  "Have you ever had to take yours from its holster?" she asked.

  I can't lie to this woman.

  "Yes, Ma'am, I've had to do that twice."

  "That's why Rickabee assigned him to Fleming, Patricia," Fowler said.

  "You should find that reassuring."

  "I find Sergeant Hart very reassuring," she said. "Everybody carrying a gun disturbs me."

  "Speaking of the FBI, Sergeant," Senator Fowler said, "I had a chat with Mr. Hoover this morning. He tells me that since they've come up with very little information about the lunatic who flew his airplane under the Golden Gate Bridge, and since no damage was done, and since the FBI has more important cases to work on, the FBI in San Francisco has been instructed to put that investigation on the back burner." Hart saw a faint smile in Fowler's eyes and on his lips.

  Jesus Christ, Hart thought, remembering the suicide in women's underwear his father had been dealing with back home, I guess the fix is in everywhere.

  " I would be very surprised if that lunatic was ever hauled before the bar of justice," Fowler added. "You know how these things are."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "And thank you, Sergeant," Patricia Pickering said, "before I forget it, for getting the lunatic off to war before he got in any more trouble." She met his eyes and smiled.

  "I'm on an Eastern Airlines flight out of here at 9:30 tomorrow morning. My husband pointed out to me this afternoon that I really should get back to San Francisco. After all, you're here to take care of him, and I have a shipping company to run.

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  "Over his objections, I am going to the hospital to say goodbye before I leave. I'd be grateful if you would go with me."

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  "It is my intention, Sergeant, to tell my husband that the Secretary of the Navy personally ordered you to report to him the very first time my husband does something stupid."

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  "I told Frank Knox," Senator Fowler said, "that I would relay that order to you."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "I was about to ask you," Patricia Fleming said, "to meet me here about half past seven in the morning.

  But I just had a better idea: Why don't you take the car and go get your things and bring them back?

  Move in now, in other words? That way we'd both be here in the morning."

  "Yes, Ma'am. What car?"

  "It's a Buick my husband bought when he first came here.

  It's parked out in front. The doorman should have the keys." You didn't really think this woman would have her car parked anywhere else, did you?

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  "And then we'll all have dinner. Considering what you've already done for me, and what my husband is certain to do to you, that's the very least I can do."

  Chapter Ten

  [One]

  THE WILLARD HOTEL

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  0945 HOURS 20 SEPTEMBER 1942

  When Major Jake Dillon, USMCR, debarked from the aircraft at Anacostia Naval Air Station at 2100

  the previous evening, a message for him stated that a room at the Anacostia Bachelor Officer Quarters had been reserved for him, and that Brigadier General J. J. Stewart, Director, Public Affairs Division, Head- quarters, USMC, would see him in his office at 0745 the next morning.

  Although Major Dillon was fully aware of the penalties provided for a Marine who failed to appear at the proper time and the proper place in the properly appointed uniform-which was the definition for Absence With Out Leave-it took him no longer than five seconds to put himself at risk of those penalties. Fuck him, he thought, I'm entitled to a good night's sleep and a good breakfast.

  Instead of cheerfully and willingly complying with his lawful orders, Major Dillon caught a cab to the Willard
Hotel and obtained the key to the suite Metro-Magnum Studios maintained in the Washington landmark.

  He took a long hot shower, sent his uniform to the valet service for an emergency cleaning and pressing, and consumed about half a bottle of Haig & Haig Pinch Bottle scotch, while enjoying his room service dinner of filet mignon with pommes frites, topped off with a strawberry shortcake dessert.

  In the morning, he rose at eight, had another long hot shower, and then ate a room service breakfast of freshly squeezed orange juice, milk, breakfast steak, two eggs sunny side up, rye toast, and a pot of coffee. He then read The Washington Star from cover to cover, excepting only the classified advertisements.

  Even in the fresh light of day, his conscience did not bother him vis-a-vis his AWOL status, nor was he concerned about the consequences of his act. What can they do to me? Send me back to Guadalcanal?

  This was not the first time he had been AWOL, and more than likely it would not be the last. And this time he had some justification: He had just gone through a rough two weeks.

  What he-privately, of course-thought of as the road company of Dillon's Heroes had made it from Melbourne to Pearl Harbor without any problems. Unfortunately, they arrived in Pearl a day after a hospital ship had come in. For a number of valid reasons, both Army and Naval medical authorities in Hawaii were anxious to send those requiring long-term care home to the States. It obviously made more sense to give the badly wounded priority over Dillon's war bond tour heroes.

  And so they had been bumped from available airspace to the States.

  At first Jake thought this was probably a stroke of good luck. Compared to the healthy, well-nourished people at Pearl, Dillon's undernourished, wan, and battered heroes looked like death warmed over.

  And so he decided to arrange rooms for them in the Royal Hawaiian. Three or four days' rest on the beach and some good food would do them wonders. (He would even look into getting them better-fitting uniforms.) While they were basking on the beach, he'd go out to Fort Shafter. A former Metro-Magnum Studios lab guy, now commissioned into the Army Signal Corps, was running a photo graphic laboratory there. For auld lang syne-if not the war effort-he would soup the undeveloped film Jake had carried from Henderson Field in the "borrowed" whole-blood container. The sooner it was souped, the better. Christ only knew what damage the heat and humidity had already done.

  He had no sooner explained the change in plans to the cast of Dillon's Heroes-there was no objection, save from Lieutenant R. B. Macklin, who clearly saw himself as the star of the troupe and could not wait to get onstage-than they encountered Pearl Harbor Standard Operating Procedure.

  In order to keep those returning from exotic areas from infecting the natives with exotic diseases, returnees were required to submit to a medical examination. Once they had successfully passed medical muster, they would be permitted to leave the base and enter the real world.

  The Navy doctors took one look at Dillon's Heroes and decided that entry into the real world was out of the question: All of them-Major Jake Dillon included-would be admitted to the hospital for more complete physical examinations and treatment.

  It took six days before pressure from Washington forced the Navy Hospital, reluctantly, to discharge them from the hospital-only on condition that they fly immediately to San Diego for admittance to the U.S. Navy Hospital there.

  Because of all this, Jake was unable to get the Guadalcanal combat footage souped. And worse, the doctors took away the whole-blood container, promising to inform his superiors of his blatant misappropriation of Navy Medical Corps property.

  After Jake Dillon's failure to bring them anywhere near the Royal Hawaiian Hotel or the world-famous beach at Waikiki-not to mention his ineptitude in dealing with the medical bureaucracy-Dillon's Heroes concluded they were in the care of a world-class incompetent.

  And to judge by his URGENT radio messages to Dillon, Brigadier General J. J. Stewart, Director, Public Affairs Division, Headquarters, USMC, held a like opinion. He was absolutely unable to understand how a major could fuck up so simple a task as bringing eight people from Melbourne especially since Brigadier General J. J. Stewart himself had arranged for their travel.

  San Diego turned out to be slightly less a pain in the ass-only because Jake was able to get the film souped. But that was just good luck: Jake ran into Tyrone Power in the hospital coffee shop. The actor was taking a precommissioning physical, and then he was driving back to L.A. The two men chatted awhile, and one thing led to another. And so, even though it was now packaged in an ice-filled garbage can, Power carried Jake's film back to Los Angeles in his Packard 220 roadster and dropped it off at the Metro-Magnum Film Laboratory.

  The Navy, meanwhile, amazed that any hospital could have discharged Dillon's Heroes, wanted to keep them until they were fully recovered. It took four days and several telephone calls from General Stewart to get them released. And it took yet another day to talk the local Marine bureaucrats into issuing them leave orders.

  During each of his many icy telephone conversations with Major Dillon, General Stewart not only pointed out that the whole operation was ten days behind schedule, but that he failed to see why the Heroes could not have waited until the end of the war bond tour before taking their leaves.

  In short, Jake Dillon was in no great rush to make his 0745 appointment with Brigadier General J. J.

  Stewart, Director, Public Affairs Division, Headquarters, USMC.

  When Major Dillon examined himself in the full-length mirror in his bathroom, his tailor-made uniform now seemed sewn for a bigger brother, and he himself looked like hell. His face was drained of color, his eyes were sunken, and there were bags under them.

  It wasn't that bottle of Pinch last night, either, or even the bullshit of the last two weeks. That goddamned Guadalcanal did this to me.

  He had a quick image of Guadalcanal men standing around in sweat-soaked utilities, weak with malaria or some other goddamned tropical disease, their skin spotted with festering sores.

  He forced the image from his mind, adjusted his cover at an angle appropriate to a field-grade Marine feather merchant, and left the Metro-Magnum suite.

  "The General will see you now," Brigadier General J. J. Stewart's staff sergeant clerk said.

  Dillon tucked his cover under his left arm and marched into the General's office.

  "Major Dillon reporting, Sir." When Stewart raised his eyes, Dillon saw disapproval in them. He was familiar with the look.

  I am now going to have my ass chewed. Fuck him.

  "My God, Dillon, you look awful!" General Stewart said.

  "Are you all right?"

  "I'm a little tired, Sir."

  "You were ill, too, weren't you, Dillon?" General Stewart accused. "You just didn't think you should say so, am I right?"

  "Everyone on the island is a little sick, General. I'll be all I right."

  "Damn it, Major! You've got to take care of yourself. What the hell would I do without you?"

  "Probably very well, Sir."

  "Under other circumstances, Major, I would order you to the dispensary. But we have our mission, don't we? And the mission comes first."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Where's your film?"

  "I think... I hope. it will be here today, Sir."

  "You didn't bring it with you?"

  "No, Sir. I arranged to have it souped on the West Coast."

  "At San Diego?"

  "No, Sir. At Metro-Magnum."

  "I'm not entirely sure that was wise. As a matter of fact, I think it was unwise. Certainly, now that I think of it, there must be footage that we wouldn't want to get into the wrong hands. What were you thinking about?"

  "Sir, I was very concerned about possible damage to the raw film from heat and humidity. I know the capabilities of the Metro-Magnum lab. I decided the film was so important that it should get the best possible lab work. That meant Metro-Magnum."

  General Stewart grunted.

  "You don't think it
might get into the wrong hands?"

  "No, Sir. I'm sure it won't."

  Jesus, I didn't think about that. Morty Cohen probably make a duplicate to show his friends. Are those the wrong hands?

  Morty will be careful who he shows it to. And what the fuck does wrong hands" mean anyway? There should be a film record somewhere of those kids crumpled up dead, even if it's lousy public relations.

  "And it's being sent here? How?"

  "It'll probably come in by air, Sir, to the Metro-Magnum suite at the Willard. I thought that would be safest."

  "Well, you're the expert, Dillon. But as soon as possible, I'd like to screen that footage."

  "As soon as it gets here, I'll set up a screening for you."

  "Good. I'm looking forward to it. And in the meantime have a look at this." He handed Dillon a manila folder. Then he suddenly seemed to remember that Jake was standing with his cover under his arm and his right hand in the small of his back-the position officially described as "at ease...... My God, Dillon, sit down," he added.

  "Thank you, Sir." He opened the folder. The pages inside were fastened with a metal clip. The first of these was a newspaper clipping neatly glued to a sheet of paper.

  "Machine Gun" McCoy Hero of Bloody Ridge

  By Robert McCandless

  INS War Correspondent

  With The First Marine Division Sept 14 (Delayed) - "What we expected to find was his body, but what we found was Japanese bodies stacked like cordwood in front of his position, and McCoy, despite his wounds, ready to take on the rest of the Japanese Army," said Marine First Lieutenant Jonathan S.

  Swain, of Butte, Montana, and the 1st Raider Battalion, describing what he found when he led a counterattack to retake positions lost in the early stages of the battle for Bloody Ridge.

  Staff Sergeant Thomas M. McCoy, 21, of Norristown, Pa., and a veteran of the Marine Raider attack on Makin Island, had been placed in charge of three listening posts in front of the Marine Raider line on Bloody Ridge. Two of the listening posts were wiped out in the first thirty minutes of the Japanese attack, and the two Marines with McCoy in his position were seriously wounded.