Line of Fire

by W. E. B Griffin

  "What are those funny-looking airplanes I saw when I sat down?" Pick asked. "The ones with alligator teeth painted on them?" He didn't say "Sir ",- he should know what a Bellfighter is; and those are shark teeth, not alligator teeth. But there's something about this kid I like.

  "Those are shark teeth, Mr. Pickering," Galloway said.

  "The aircraft are Army P-400 fighters, and the pilots who man them are as good as any I've ever known.

  Any further questions?"

  "Yes, Sir. When will we go up for the first time?"

  "Anxious to get into combat, are you?"

  "No, Sir. I was just curious, that's all."

  Hell, I'd ask the same question.

  "Well, we'll get you a place to sleep and show you the mess.

  In the morning either Lieutenant Dunn or myself will take you for a little ride and see how well you can fly. If that goes well, you'll go up for real very soon after that. If it doesn't go well, we'll wait until we're sure you won't kill yourself or somebody else."

  "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

  Lieutenant Bill Dunn came into the tent.

  "Sir, I took the liberty of asking Big Steve to put our squadron numbers on those airplanes."

  "Good boy, Bill," Galloway said, and then introduced the newcomers to Dunn.

  "Find them a place to sleep and get them settled for this afternoon," Galloway said. "I told them we'll give them an area check ride in the morning."

  "Aye, aye, Sir."

  "Unless you have a question, Stecker?"

  "Sir, more on the order of a request."

  "Shoot."

  "If we're to have a couple of hours free, would there be time for me to go to 2nd of the Fifth?"

  "Second Battalion, Fifth Marines?" Galloway asked. "Why do you want to go there? A buddy's with 2nd of the Fifth?"

  "My father, Sir." There was silence for a moment.

  "You don't happen to be Jack (NMI) Stecker's boy, do you, Mr. Stecker?"

  "Yes, Sir." Well, that explains West Point. If they hang the Medal of Honor around your neck, your kids get to go to the Service Academy of their choice.

  He then remembered hearing that Major Jack (NMI) Stecker's son, an Annapolis graduate, a Navy ensign, had been killed aboard the battleship Arizona at Pearl Harbor on December 7th.

  Major Jack (NMI) Stecker is going to be something less than overjoyed to find his other son on this fucking goddamned island as a fighter pilot.

  "Find somebody to drive him up there in my jeep, please, Bill," Galloway said.

  "Aye, aye, Sir."

  [Three]

  THE FOSTER LAFAYETTE HOTEL

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  0915 HOURS 22 SEPTEMBER 1942

  A discreet knock at the door came shortly after a room service waiter rolled in a tray carrying ham and eggs, toast, coffee, a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, a copy of The Washington Star, and a rose in a tiny vase.

  "Come in," Sergeant George Hart called cheerfully.

  The door opened and a man in a paint-stained smock stuck his head in.

  "Sorry to disturb you, Sir," he said. "If you'll tell me when it's convenient, I'll come back and finish painting the door." He pointed at the wall that separated the suite Hart shared with Moore from the one Senator Richmond F. Fowler shared with Brigadier General Fleming Pickering. A tarpaulin concealed the newly installed door.

  "Come ahead," George said. "Watching other people work has never bothered me." The witticism was lost on the painter.

  "I'll come back when you've left, Sir."

  "I don't plan to leave. Come on in and paint the door."

  "Yes, Sir." George turned his attention to The Washington Star.

  According to Reuters News Service, there was heavy fighting between the Germans and the Russians on Mamayec Kurgan Hill, outside Stalingrad. Casualties on both sides were described as severe.

  British troops had landed at Tamatave on the east coast of Madagascar, with the apparent intention of taking the capital, Tananarive. This was held by reportedly "very strong" Vichy French forces. There was a map, with arrows. George knew who the Vichy French were, they were the ones who'd made peace with the Germans. But he had no idea where Madagascar was. The map was no help.

  In the Pacific, the Commander in Chief, Pacific, had announced that six transports, under heavy escort, had made it safely to Guadalcanal, where they successfully delivered the Seventh Marines (to reinforce the First Marine Division), and a "substantial amount" of supplies. There was a map here, too; and George studied this one with interest.

  Until he'd seen Major Dillon's movies yesterday, he really hadn't been all that interested in Guadalcanal.

  He was reading the comic strips when the telephone rang.

  Not the one in his suite, one of the telephones in The General's.

  He carefully squeezed past the painter working on the door and picked it up. It was The General's phone, not the Senator's. He knew the drill:

  "General Pickering's quarters, Sergeant Hart speaking, Sir." He would then tell them The General was not available at the moment and could he take a message?

  "George?" His heart jumped.

  "Jesus Christ!"

  "I called last night when I got here," Elizabeth Lathrop said.

  "Some officer answered and said you would be late." He could feel her fingernails on his back, smell the soap in her hair, taste the skin of her neck.

  "How the hell did you get this number?"

  "Where else would Pick's father stay in Washington?"

  "What do you want?" He could tell from her tone that the question hurt.

  Jesus Christ, I didn't want to hurt her feelings!

  "Well, I happened to be in the neighborhood," she said more coldly, "and I thought I would just call up and say hi."

  "You're in Washington?"

  "Yes," she said. "And I thought maybe you'd want to see me. He thought: I would kill to be inside you again, with your breasts soft and warm against my chest.

  Detective George Hart of the Saint Louis Vice Squad answered for him without thinking: "Honey, I can't afford you." The telephone made a clicking noise, then hummed, and then after a moment, there came the dial tone.

  "Shit!" Hart said, loudly and bitterly. He slammed the handset into the cradle and said "shit!" again.

  The man painting the door looked at him with open curiosity. George glowered at him and the painter looked away.

  How the hell can I find her? Call the local cops and ask them as a professional service to a brother vice detective if they have an address or known associates of a high-class whore named Lathrop, Elizabeth, white female, approximately five three, approximately twenty-two or twenty-three, approximately one hundred five pounds, blue eyes, blond hair, no distinguishing scars or bodily blemishes?

  That's probably not even her fucking name. That's her professional name.

  Her real name is probably Agnes Kutcharsky or some shit.

  He had just squeezed past the painter when the telephone rang again.

  "General Pickering's quarters, Sergeant Hart speaking, Sir."

  "Don't you think I know you don't have any goddamned money?"

  "Baby!"

  "You sonofabitch!"

  "I'm sorry. That just... I don't know why I said that." There was a long silence.

  "I said I was sorry."

  "OK."

  "Where are you?"

  "The Hotel Washington."

  I've seen that marquee. It's around here someplace. Hell, yes, right down the street, a block down from Pennsylvania Avenue, around the corner from the movie theater.

  "That's right around the corner."

  "Yeah, I know. Do they give you any time off?"

  "I'm off now."

  "Would you like to come here? And have a drink or something?" A drink, at hal(past nine in the morning?

  Or something?

  "Or something," George said.

  "I'm in 805," Elizabeth Lathrop said. The phone clicked again
before he could open his mouth to say, "I'll be there in a couple of minutes." It was beautiful outside. The sun was shining and the temperature was just right. Indian summer, he thought, as he walked-almost trotted-past the White House. It's sort of like a dream, he thought, walking past the White House, on my way to be with Elizabeth.

  The Washington Theater was showing Eagle Squadron; Tyrone Power was playing an American who went to fly for the English. Hart remembered hearing someplace that Tyrone Power was joining The Corps. From Major Dillon, that's it, he remembered; he'd heard him tell The General. He wondered if they would send him to Parris Island. It was strange to think of Tyrone Power with all his hair cut off getting screamed at by some asshole like Corporal Clayton C. Warren.

  The Hotel Washington was just where his memory placed it.

  He pushed his way through the revolving door, walked across the lobby to the bank of elevators, and rode up to the eighth floor; 805 was the third door to the left.

  When Beth opened the door, she was wearing a white blouse, an unbuttoned sweater, and a tweed skirt.

  And she wouldn't look at him.

  "Hi! Come on in."

  "I'm sorry about what I said on the telephone." She nodded but didn't reply.

  "It's only a couple of blocks from the Foster Lafayette to here." She nodded again.

  "So what brings you to Washington?" Now she looked at him, and there was pain in her eyes again.

  "Oh, Jesus!" Hart said, almost moaning.

  "Stupid of me, right?" Elizabeth said. "But I decided, what the hell..." He reached out and touched her face; and her hand came up and touched his. Then all of a sudden he was holding her in his arms as tight as he had ever held anybody. He didn't kiss her, he just clung to her, his face buried in her hair. And she was hanging on to him, too, and she was weeping a little, and he realized he felt a little like crying too.

  And then he became aware of the warmth of her legs against his, and the softness of her breasts against him, and he grew erect. He pulled his middle away from her.

  She pulled her head back and looked at him, and he was right, she had been crying; tears were making a path down her cheeks through her makeup.

  "It's all right," she said, sort of laughing. "I would have been disappointed..." She put her hand on his cheek.

  There was an imperious rapping at the door.

  "Who's there?"

  "Assistant manager, Miss Lathrop. Please open the door." She freed herself from George's arms.

  Rubbing at her eyes with her knuckles, she went to the door and opened it.

  A middle-aged man in a business suit entered without being invited.

  Assistant manager, my ass. that's a house detective. I've seen enough of them to know one when I see one.

  "You're not allowed up here, Sergeant. The Washington is not that kind of hotel. And, Miss Lathrop, we would appreciate it if you would check out as soon as possible." As he walked quickly to the ruddy-faced house detective, George took his credentials from his tunic pocket.

  "What's going on in here is none of your business," he said.

  The house detective took a long look at the credentials and then looked at Hart.

  "Take a walk," Hart said. "And don't come back. And the lady will not be checking out. Got it?" Without a word, the house detective turned and pulled the door open and went through it.

  What was that all about? Did he just add up a Marine sergeant going to hotel room as a guy about to pay for a piece of ass?

  Or did he take one look at Elizabeth and decide she was a whore?

  Jesus, she doesn't look like a whore or act like one.

  He turned and looked at her.

  "Well," she said.

  Hart shrugged.

  "What was that you showed him?"

  "I've got sort of a Marine Corps badge."

  "I thought maybe you showed him your vice detective badge," Beth said.

  There were tears in her eyes again.

  "He's gone. He won't be back."

  "Would you just put your arms around me again?" Beth asked softly, looking into his eyes. "And just hold me?" He held his arms open and she took the few steps to him.

  When he put his arms around her, she started to cry again. He ran his hands over her back and against her hair and made soothing noises.

  And then the warmth of her legs and the softness of her breasts got to him again; and the erection returned. When he tried to pull away from her, she followed him. And then she tilted her head back again and looked into his eyes for a moment. And then her mouth was on his, hungrily, and she dragged him backward onto the bed.

  [Four]

  WALTER REED ARMY GENERAL HOSPITAL

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  1145 HOURS 22 SEPTEMBER 1942

  At quarter past ten, Technical Sergeant Harry N. Rutterman put his head in Colonel F. L. Rickabee's office and told him that General Pickering was on the line.

  The conversation was a short one: "There's something we have to talk about, Rickabee," General Pickering said. "Is there some reason you can't come over here, say at quarter to twelve?"

  "No, Sir," he said, though he was not telling the precise truth when he said it. His work schedule was a god-awful mess. Adding a meeting with The General would only make it worse. On the other hand, a general's wish was a colonel's command.... I "Thank you,' Pickering said, and hung up.

  When Colonel F. L. Rickabee, at precisely the appointed hour, walked into the sitting room of Brigadier General Fleming Pickering's VIP suite, he found a table set for two. And The General was dressed in uniform -or part of one-and not in a bathrobe and pajamas. Though he wasn't wearing his blouse a field scarf, there was a silver star on the collar points of his khaki shirt. Rickabee decided that Pickering had a purpose when he pinned on the insignia of his rank.

  Otherwise why bother? He's not going anyplace. On the other hand, maybe someone's coming to see him-maybe General Forrest-and he's putting his uniform on for that. And wants some advice from me before he meets him?

  "Good morning, General."

  "Sorry to drag you away from your office, but I suspect I would have made waves if I had come to you."

  "My time is your time, General," Rickabee said. "And I thought you would be interested in this, Sir. It was delivered by messenger yesterday afternoon." He took a sheet of paper from his inside pocket and handed it to Pickering.

  INTEROFFICE MEMORANDUM

  DATE: 21 September 1942

  FROM: Assistant Chief of Staff, Personnel

  TO: Director Public Affairs Office Hq, USMC

  HAND CARRY

  SUBJECT: Office of Management Analysis Hq, USMC

  1. Effective immediately, no, repeat no, public relations activity of any kind will involve the Of f ice of management Analysis, or any personnel assigned thereto.

  2. The Public Affairs Office is forbidden to contact the office of Management Analysis for any purpose without the specific permission of the undersigned.

  3. Discussion of this policy, or requests for waivers thereto, is not desired.

  BY DIRECTION OF THE COMMANDANT:

  Alfred J. Kennedy

  Major General, USMC

  Assistant Chief of Staff, G-1

  Pickering read it and snorted, then handed it back.

  "I suppose that will keep them off our backs. Being a general officer does seem to carry with it the means to get things done, doesn't it?"

  "Yes, Sir, it does seem to, General.

  "I thought we could save time by having lunch," Pickering said. "I asked them to serve at twelve."

  "Very kind of you, Sir."

  "You better hold the thanks until you see what they give us.

  Now that I think of it, I should have ordered some emergency rations."

  "Sir?"

  "I sometimes have the hotel send over a platter of hors d'oeuvres against the likelihood that lunch or dinner will be inedible."

  "I see."

  "I am medically restricted to four drinks
a day," Pickering said. "I am about to have my second. Would you care to join me?"

  You are medically restricted to no more than two drinks a day, General, not four. And somehow I suspect that the drink you are about to have is going to be Number Three or Number Four, not Number Two.

  "Yes, Sir. I would. Thank you."

  "Scotch all right?"

  "Scotch is fine, Sir." Pickering went into the small room between the sitting room and the bedroom. He returned in a moment with a nearly empty bottle of Famous Grouse.

  "My supply of this is running a little low," he said.

  "No problem, Sir, I don't have to have scotch."

  "Oh, no. There's a couple of bottles left here, and if Hart and Moore haven't been at them, several more in the hotel. But the stock is running low. I have a hell of a stock, however, a hundred cases or more, in San Francisco. Most of it came off my Pacific Princess when I chartered her to the Navy."

  "Well, they have a rule, no liquor aboard Navy vessels."

  What the hell is this all about?

  "We have people running back and forth between the West Coast and here all the time, don't we, Rickabee?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Do you suppose it would be possible for one of them to bring a couple of cases of this back here for me?"

  "Certainly, Sir. No problem at all, Sir. Captain Lee is at Mare Island right now, Sir. I'll just call him and that'll take care of it. He's leaving tonight, that should get him in here the day after tomorrow."

  "One of the little privileges that goes with being a general right? Being able to get a Marine officer to haul a couple of cases of booze cross country for you?" Jesus, I don't like this. What the hell is he leading up to?

  "If you will call your people in San Francisco, General, and tell them Captain Lee will be coming by?"

  The question was directed to Pickering's back. He had turned and walked out of the room again, and he didn't reply.

  He returned in a moment with two glasses dark with whiskey. He handed one to Rickabee.

  "Here you are, Rickabee."

  "Thank you, Sir."

  "Who shall we drink to?"

  "How about The Corps, Sir?"

  "How about those two Marines on Buka?" Pickering said.

  "The Marines on Buka," Rickabee said, raising his glass.