Colonel Gregory held out a leather folder to Pluto. It held a badge and a photo identification card. It was something like the ones Banning and Moore carried, identifying them as Special Agents of the Office of Naval Intelligence. The credentials Gregory held out identified him as an Agent of the U.S. Army Counterintelligence Corps.
"Yes, Sir," Pluto said.
"Ed Banning and I are sort of friends, Lieutenant. I really would like to talk to him."
"I'm sorry, Colonel, I can't help."
Gregory's eyes appraised him carefully.
"You going upstairs with that briefcase, Lieutenant? Or out to Water Lily Cottage?"
How the hell does this guy know about Water Lily Cottage?
More important, what the hell does he want?
When Gregory realized that Hon was not going to answer him, he said, "No offense, Pluto, but you look more like a Japanese spy than I do, don't you think?"
How the hell does he know that people call me Pluto?
"I don't know who you are, Colonel," Pluto said.
"I really hoped to avoid using the word until we were alone, but I'm here to talk about your Buka operation," Gregory said.
Shit! We're compromised. Who the hell told him?
The first possibility that came to his mind was Mrs. Ellen Feller, but that couldn't be. Banning had gotten her out of Water Lily Cottage before anyone mentioned the word Buka.
Then who? In a moment the answer came: That fucking Air Corps Colonel that MacArthur summoned to his office.
"You're not compromised," Colonel Gregory said, reading his mind. "Nobody knows a thing who is not supposed to. Are you going to Water Lily Cottage?" Pluto nodded.
"Let me ride out there with you then. We might have to get Moore involved in this anyway." This sonofabitch knows a hell of a lot about Water Lily Cottage.
"I don't know how long I'll be out there, Colonel. How would you get back?"
"We keep the cottage under surveillance. There'll be a car there to bring me back. Shall we go?"
"I'm not going to tell you where Major Banning is, Colonel."
"You've made that perfectly clear, Pluto," Gregory said.
Gregory volunteered to drive the Studebaker. After a moment's hesitation, Pluto agreed: He is a CIC
type; he is not going to commandeer the car and take me someplace where they will stick lighted matches under my fingernails to make me tell them where Banning is. And besides, driving a car with a briefcase chained to your wrist is difficult, even dangerous.
It soon became apparent that Gregory not only knew where Water Lily Cottage was, but the shortest route.
"I've got a question," Gregory said.
"Sir?"
"Just idle curiosity. When you gave me the hard time on the phone and I realized that I was going to have to deal with you personally, I went to look at your personnel file. You don't have one. What do they do, keep it in Pearl Harbor or Washington?"
I honestly don't know.
"What I was wondering is, how do you get paid?"
"They send me a check," Pluto said. "I take it to Finance and they cash it."
Gregory grunted. Then he changed the subject.
"I got a copy of that Transfer of Detainee form that Moore signed for Mrs. Farnsworth. The Kangaroo FBI sent it to the Provost Marshal, and he didn't know what to do with it, so he sent it to me. What the hell was that all about?"
"The Kangaroo FBI?"
"His Majesty's Royal Australian Constabulary," Gregory said. "What are you going to do with her?"
Pluto again elected not to reply.
"I know she's staying in the cottage, for Christ's sake," Gregory said.
"I told you we keep it under surveillance. At Ed Banning's request."
"She's a fine young woman," Pluto said. "Her heinous crime was to get herself impregnated by one of our Marines. Banning didn't know that when he sent word we wanted to talk to her. The Kangaroo FBI, as you so aptly describe them, went overboard."
"They tend to do that," Gregory replied. He didn't speak for a moment or two. "And so she'll become one of yours, I presume?" he asked when he was ready to talk again. "As in Special Detachment 14, rather than The U.S. Marine Corps generally?"
"Right, I think we'll hire Mrs. Farnsworth."
"As soon as Banning gets back from wherever he is?"
Pluto declined to reply.
Gregory chuckled, and then remained silent until they pulled up the drive to Water Lily Cottage and stopped. As Pluto reached for the car door handle, he touched his arm.
"Do you think we could send the ladies shopping or something? I'd really rather have our little chat in private."
"Well, Lieutenant," Colonel Gregory said to Moore as soon as the Studebaker with Barbara Cotter, Joanne Miller, and Daphne Farnsworth in it had nosed out of the driveway, "you seem to have recovered from your recurrence of malaria. And congratulations on your promotion."
"You seem to know a hell of a lot about me, Colonel," Moore said.
"You provided my people with a lot of laughs when you were here the first time... humping Mrs. Feller,"
Gregory said.
"Son of a bitch!" Moore blurted.
"From the look on your face, Pluto, I don't think you knew that, did you? I guess Banning decided you didn't have the Need to Know," Gregory said.
He chuckled at Moore's flushing face.
"Your secret is-secrets are-safe with me. Believe it or not, I was reluctant to bring that up, but I wanted to make the point quickly that I know a good deal about you-and about what goes on here-because Ed Banning wanted me to know."
"What the hell is this all about?" Pluto asked.
"This is a very delicate situation, gentlemen," Gregory said.
"One of those aberrations where people of our lowly ranks and positions have to make decisions involving our superiors."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Pluto said.
"At his first opportunity, Colonel Armstrong went to General McKinney and told him he had been ordered by the Supreme Commander to stage diversionary air attacks in connection with a clandestine operation being conducted in or around Buka-"
"That must be the Air Corps officer who was in General MacArthur's office?" Pluto interrupted.
"Right," Gregory said, "-under the auspices of Lieutenant Hon. Or Banning, who is Hon's boss. I don't mean to sound cynical, but that sounds like bullshit to me; Ed Banning is a nice guy, but he's only a major.
I'd like to know what authority, if any, there is for this operation." Moore looked at Hon for instruction.
Without those orders for authority, Hon thought, what we are is two pissant Lieutenants surrounded by very senior brass who are likely to fuck this whole thing up on general principles. Jesus, I wish Banning or Dillon was here!
"Show him your orders, John," Pluto said.
Moore went into his bedroom, returned with his plastic sealed orders, and handed them to Colonel Gregory.
"Well," Gregory said after reading them and handing them back, "I suppose that operating under the auspices of the Chief of Staff to the President gives you all the authority you could ask for."
"Is that what you came to find out?" Pluto asked.
"Not exactly," Gregory said. "So General McKinney, who is not exactly on General MacArthur's fair-haired-boy list, went to General Willoughby. He did that on the reasonable presumption that as the G-2, Willoughby would know all about this clandestine operation and could tell him what was going on.
But it turns out that all Willoughby knows he got from Mrs. Feller. I.e., that there's a clandestine operation he knows nothing about. He was pissed off about that-understandably, I think. But what really upset him was that MacArthur was in on the secret. Obviously, since MacArthur laid this air-raid diversion mission on McKinney."
"We didn't ask for that," Pluto said. "That was MacArthur's idea."
"That's the problem," Gregory said. "By definition, any tactical or strategic mission invented by MacAr
thur is brilliant. And not subject to cancellation."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Pluto said.
"Buka is not within the boundaries of South West Pacific Ocean Area," Gregory said. "It belongs to CINCPAC. MacArthur cannot order an operation in CINCPAC's area. If he does, the shit will hit the fan all the way back to Washington. The Navy is just as sensitive about its territory-about infringements thereon-as MacArthur himself."
"So there will be no diversionary air attack?" Pluto asked.
"No problem. We didn't think it was feasible in the first place."
"You miss the point, Pluto," Gregory said. "There will be diversionary air activity; MacArthur has ordered it. It's entirely possible, I think, that he hopes it will cause the shit to hit the fan. He knows damned well where his boundaries are."
"I'm confused again," Pluto said.
"General Willoughby has a number of other virtues, I'm sure, but the one I admire most is his determination to keep his boss out of trouble. While simultaneously keeping his own ass out of trouble with MacArthur, of course. He and McKinney have come up with a possible solution. Willoughby sent me to present it to you."
"Why didn't Willoughby just call me in?" Pluto thought aloud.
"Since MacArthur never told Willoughby about his order to McKinney, he doesn't officially know about it."
"What do they want from us?" Moore asked.
"They want Hon to go back to Colonel Armstrong and request aerial reconnaissance of your operations area in other words, of Buka. Because the only aircraft with the range to do that are bombers, B-17s, it can be described to General MacArthur as a diversionary raid. At the same time it can be described as reconnaissance activity to CINCPAC. They don't object to that. Actually, they're glad to have it.
McKinney can offer daylight reconnaissance for four days."
"Why don't we just tell MacArthur that we d rather not have any aircraft involved in this, period?" Moore asked.
"I tried that," Pluto said. "General MacArthur has decided we need a diversionary attack."
"When is this thing going to happen?" Gregory said. "And don't tell me I don't have the Need to Know."
Hon pointed to the briefcase.
"By now the R4D should be on its way to Port Moresby. Townsville sent me a copy of the message just before you called me.
"I happen to know that Colonel Armstrong is in his office right now," Gregory said, "if you have anything to say to him. "
"We don't have any wheels to get back to SWPOA," Hon said.
"I told you that wouldn't be a problem," Gregory said.
He walked out on the wide porch of Water Lily Cottage and waved his arm. Thirty seconds later, a black Humber four-door sedan with a man in civilian clothing behind the wheel pulled into the driveway.
Chapter Seventeen
[One]
FERDINAND SIX
BUKA, SOLOMON ISLANDS
1005 HOURS 7 OCTOBER 1942
Sergeant Steve Koffler, USMC, sat on the dirt floor of his hut, carefully scraping at the rib cage of a wild pig Ian Bruce had beheaded with his MACHETE, SUBSTITUTE STANDARD. They'd roasted the pig whole over an open fire like in the movies about the South Pacific, at a luau or some such bullshit.
The difference was that the pigs they cooked in the movies were great big porkers, and this one had been about the size of a medium-sized dog. It had lasted just one meal, not counting the stew they'd made with the leftovers.
He wasn't scraping the rib cage to get food from it. There wasn't anything edible left, just some stringy shit. He was scraping the rib because there wasn't a goddamned thing else to do.
Steve had sort of hoped there would be another message for them when he'd gone on the air with a Here-They-Come report, but there hadn't been. And there hadn't been when he'd made the regular net check-in either.
So that left the bullshit message of the day before, about that guy Nathan swimming to see Patience.
And that bullshit simple substitution code with Daphne's name... which made him think of Daphne, practically all fucking night. That was a bitch, because there was absolutely no fucking way he was ever going to see Daphne again in his entire life, no matter how the fuck long that lasted. It didn't look like it was going to be long at all, frankly.
He was going to die on this fucking island, and the goddamned ants would pick his bones as clean as they'd picked the rib cage of Ian's fucking pig.
Better sooner than later, this shit is really getting me down.
He put his knife aside. But then he picked it up and worked the edge under one of the scabs on his legs, just prying it loose enough so he could force the pus out.
Jesus, if Daphne walked into this fucking hut right now, and saw me, she'd run away screaming. I look like I got fucking leprosy or terminal syphilis or something.
Patience Witherspoon stuck her head in the opening.
You had to show up right now, right? When I was thinking of Daphne?
"Oh, Steven, come quickly!" Patience said excitedly, holding her arm across her bosom.
"What's up?"
Jesus, maybe Ian got another pig! He hasn't been around since yesterday. Reeves had to pump the fucking bicycle.
"Oh, come quickly!" Patience said, and disappeared.
Maybe I should fuck her again. That once wasn't bad, and if I'm going to die, what the fuck difference does it make if she looks like something out of National Geographic magazine?
Fuck that. Don't even think that. You may be holding the shitty end of the stick in the absolute asshole of the world, but you are a white man, and a Marine, and you know better than fucking cannibals.
He rose to his feet and picked up the Thompson and left the hut.
Well, there's Ian. He doesn't have a pig. Who the fuck is that with him? I never saw that cannibal before.
What is this, Cannibal Homecoming?
Patience came running back and caught his hand and pulled him to the new cannibal, slowing as they got close.
"Steven," she said shyly, "I want you to meet my old friend Nathaniel Wallace. Nathaniel, this is Steven."
"Chief Signalman Wallace, Sergeant," the cannibal said, putting out his hand. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."
"You have?"
"You have a fine hand," Wallace said. "I tried to copy your style."
"I'll be goddamned."
[Two]
HENDERSON FIELD
GUADALCANAL, SOLOMON ISLANDS
1105 HOURS 7 OCTOBER 1942
Captain Charles M. Galloway ran the engines up, saw that all the needles were in the green, and looked back over his shoulder toward Major Jake Dillon. Dillon was standing behind the pilots' seats, wearing a headset. Galloway took the microphone from its holder and moved the switch to INTERCOM.
"Strap yourself in, Jake," Galloway ordered, jerking his thumb to show Dillon a fold-down seat behind him. "I don't want you in my lap if I have to try to stop this thing." He looked at Second Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, in the copilot's seat.
"We have twenty degrees of flaps," he said, pointing.
"There's the gear control. The way we're going to do this is move onto the runway, run the engines up, remove the brakes, and see if we can get it to fly. You follow me through on the throttles. When I give you the word, you will raise the gear and then the flaps. Got it?" Pickering took his microphone and pressed the switch.
"Got it, Skipper."
"Call the tower," Galloway said.
Pickering moved the switch to TRANSMIT.
"Cactus, this is"-he stopped, searching the control panel in vain for the aircraft's call sign-"Eastern Airlines City of San Francisco on the threshold for takeoff."
"Eastern Airliner, you are cleared for takeoff as number one," the Cactus tower replied. The amusement in his voice came through even over the frequency-clipping radio.
Pickering dropped his microphone in his lap and watched as Galloway moved onto the runway, lined up with its center, stopped, locked the brak
es, and put his hand on the throttle quadrant. Then he put his hand over Galloway's as Galloway ran the throttles forward to TAKEOFF POWER.
The engines roared and the airplane strained against the brakes.
Galloway released them, and the R4D started to roll. He pulled his hand from under Pickering's and put it on the wheel.
Pickering picked the microphone from his lap.
"Cactus, Eastern Airlines rolling." The aircraft slowly began to gain speed. It was over the Recommended Maximum Gross Weight for the temperature and available runway length. And the runway was not smooth concrete but wet dirt, patched here and there with pierced steel planking.
Galloway was more than a little worried about blowing a tire, but he kept that to himself As soon as he could, he eased forward on the wheel to get the tail wheel off the ground.
Then he kept his eye on the end of the runway, dropping his eyes every second or so to the airspeed indicator, which had come to life at 40 knots.
The speed climbed very slowly. But then Galloway sensed life in the controls. He eased back on the wheel, felt the airplane want to try to fly, and then eased the wheel back just a hair more.
The heavy rumbling of the undercarriage suddenly quit.
"Gear up!" he called.
Pickering took his hand from the throttle quadrant and dropped it to the wheel-shaped landing gear control ten inches down and to the rear. He put it in RETRACT.
The wheels took a long time coming up. On Jack Finch's orders, the pilot who had flown the airplane to Guadalcanal from Espiritu Santo had also tested and timed how long it took to get the gear up with the added weight and wind resistance o the skis. It hadn't taken appreciably longer than normal, a tribute to the strength of the hydraulic system.
A moment before he expected the GEAR up light to go on, Galloway ordered, "Flaps Up!"
The GEAR up light went on as Pickering moved the flap-control lever.
"Gear up," Pickering's voice came over the earphones, and then a moment later, "Flaps retarded." The airspeed indicator needle pointed at 110. Galloway put the airplane into a shallow climb to the left and kept it there until the surf on the Guadalcanal beach passed under his wing.
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