FOLLOWING PERSONAL FROM DDPACIFIC TO ADMIRAL NIMITZ
DEAR ADMIRAL NIMITZ:
GETTING WHAT SOMEBODY DECIDED TO CALL ‘OPERATION GOBI’ UNDERWAY HAS TAKEN LONGER THAN I HOPED IT WOULD, BUT WE ARE FINALLY AT A POINT WHERE I CAN BRING YOU UP TO DATE, AND EXPLAIN THE PROBLEMS WE ARE HAVING.
WE TURNED UP AN EX-4TH MARINES GUNNERY SERGEANT WHO BEFORE THE WAR APPARENTLY AUGMENTED HIS INCOME SMUGGLING GOLD AND ART WORK INTO AND OUT OF INDIA AND THE SOVIET UNION USING CAMEL CARAVANS. WE ARE ABOUT TO SEND HIM TO CHINA WHERE HE THINKS, AND I BELIEVE, HE CAN USE HIS FORMER BUSINESS ASSOCIATES TO GET DECENT RADIOS INTO THE HANDS OF THE AMERICANS NOW IN THE GOBI DESERT.
LT COLONEL ED BANNING, ALSO EX 4TH MARINES, WHO I BROUGHT INTO THE OSS WITH ME, TELEPHONED ME AN HOUR OR SO AGO FROM FORT MONMOUTH TO TELL ME HE HAS HALF A DOZEN CAMEL TRANSPORTABLE RADIOS. BANNING, WHO HAS SPECIAL COMMUNICATIONS SKILLS, IF YOU TAKE MY MEANING, WILL SHORTLY DEPART FOR CHUNGKING TO TAKE UP DUTY AS A STAFF OFFICER ON THE STAFF OF THE US MILITARY MISSION TO CHIANG KAI-SHEK. AND WILL OVERSEE THE RADIO DELIVERY FROM THERE. ONCE HE IS PHYSICALLY PRESENT IN CHUNGKING, WE WILL HAVE SPECIAL CHANNEL CAPABILITY.
THESE RADIOS WILL NOT, REPEAT NOT, BE OF MUCH USE BEYOND GIVING US MORE OR LESS RELIABLE COMMUNICATION WITH THE PEOPLE IN THE DESERT, AND, OF COURSE, TO GIVE US A POSITIVE POSITION FOR THEM.
ONCE WE LOCATE THESE PEOPLE AND ESTABLISH COMMUNICATIONS WITH THEM, WE COME TO THE NEXT PROBLEM, WHICH IS HOW TO SEND THE NECESSARY METEOROLOGICAL EQUIPMENT, AND THE PEOPLE TO OPERATE IT IN THERE.
AFTER CONSULATION WITH GENERAL MAC MCINERNEY I HAVE DECIDED THE BEST, AS A MATTER OF FACT ONLY, WAY TO DO THIS IS BY SPECIALLY EQUIPPED AIRCRAFT, SPECIFICALLY AMPHIBIOUS CATALINAS. THEY ARE THE ONLY AIRCRAFT WITH BOTH THE RANGE AND WEIGHT CARRYING CAPABILITY WE HAVE TO HAVE. FOR A NUMBER OF REASONS, USE OF LARGER NAVY AND AIR CORPS AIRCRAFT HAS BEEN DECIDED AGAINST.
THE IDEA IS TO REFUEL THE CATALINAS BY HAVING THEM RENDEZVOUS AT SEA WITH A SUBMARINE IN THE YELLOW SEA, A HUNDRED MILES OR SO NORTHEAST OF TIENTSIN.
THERE ARE SOME OBVIOUS PROBLEMS WITH THIS, INCLUDING THE HAZARDS OF TRANSPORTING AVIATION FUEL ABOARD A SUB, GETTING THE FUEL OFF THE SUBMARINE AND INTO THE AIRCRAFT ON THE HIGH SEAS, AND OF COURSE MAKING SURE THE SUBMARINE WILL BE WHERE IT IS SUPPOSED TO BE WHEN THE CATALINAS GET THERE.
ANOTHER OF THE PROBLEMS IS THAT NOT ONLY WILL THE AIRCRAFT ALMOST CERTAINLY BE UNABLE TO FLY OUT OF THE GOBI, BUT THEY ARE SOMEHOW GOING TO HAVE TO BE CONCEALED FROM AERIAL AND OTHER OBSERVATION ONCE THEY GET THERE.
MCINERNEY FEELS THAT FAIRING OVER THE FUSELAGE BUBBLES AND THE FORWARD GUN TURRET WILL APPRECIABLY INCREASE BOTH RANGE AND SPEED, THE FORMER POSSIBLY, JUST POSSIBLY, TO THE POINT WHERE BY DRAINING FUEL FROM ONE OF THE CATALINAS INTO THE OTHER, ONE OF THE AIRCRAFT MIGHT BE ABLE TO FLY OUT, EITHER BACK TO THE YELLOW SEA OR POSSIBLY INTO CHINA.
THE COLLINS RADIO COMPANY OF CEDAR RAPIDS IOWA IS DEVELOPING, OR PERHAPS MORE ACCURATELY, MODIFYING, ON AN EMERGENCY PRIORITY BASIS, THE MORE POWERFUL RADIO TRANSMITTERS WHICH WILL BE REQUIRED FOR THE WEATHER STATION ITSELF. THE METEOROLOGICAL EQUIPMENT IS AT HAND. WE ARE IN THE PROCESS OF RECRUITING VOLUNTEER WEATHER PEOPLE, AND MCINERNEY HAS PUT OUT A CALL FOR CATALINA OR OTHER MULTIENGINE PILOTS WITH LONG DISTANCE NAVIGATION EXPERIENCE.
SO WHAT I NEED RIGHT NOW IS TWO AMPHIBIOUS CATALINAS, WHICH WILL HAVE TO HAVE THE NECESSARY MODIFICATIONS MADE TO THEM, THE FAIRING OVER OF THE BUBBLES, AND THE INSTALLATION OF AUXILIARY FUEL TANKS. PLUS OF COURSE A SUBMARINE SPECIALLY EQUIPPED TO HANDLE THE REFUELING ON THE HIGH SEAS.
I AM OF COURSE WIDE OPEN TO SUGGESTIONS OF ANY KIND.
WITH BEST PERSONAL REGARDS, I AM, RESPECTFULLY,
FLEMING PICKERING, BRIG GEN USMCR
END PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM DDPACIFIC TO ADMIRAL NIMITZ
T O P S E C R E T
* * *
“Just a few minor problems,” Wagam said. “Like transporting several thousand gallons of avgas on a submarine; making a rendezvous at sea without any navigation aids to speak of, and then refueling a Catalina on the high seas in winter.”
“Two Catalinas,” Nimitz corrected him. “But you know what really bothers me about the way Pickering has set this whole thing up?”
“No, sir.”
“Nothing will work unless we can establish communication with the people who are supposed to be wandering around in the Gobi Desert. It all hinges on this gunnery sergeant both finding them and then smuggling radios into them on camelback. We won’t need a submarine or two Catalinas if he can’t do that.”
“Yes, sir,” Wagam said. “My orders, sir?”
“Give him whatever he thinks he wants, Dan. I don’t think we have any choice.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Lewis, you have any thoughts about avgas on a submarine?” CINCPAC asked.
“No, sir. Not a one. But submariners are resourceful, Admiral. We’ll work out some way to do this.”
[SIX]
Female Officers’ Quarters
U.S. Navy Hospital
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
2025 12 March 1943
Just as Captain James B. Weston, USMC was about to step up into the hotel bus that would carry him to the Trailways bus terminal in White Sulphur Springs, Commander T. L. Bolemann, MC, USN, walked onto the wide outside stairway of the Greenbrier, called Weston’s name, and tossed him the keys to the Buick. “If it doesn’t shame you to drive that gas-guzzling automobile of yours, on black-market gasoline and wasting precious rubber that is desperately needed in the war effort, I won’t stop you. Never let it be said about Ted Bolemann that he erected roadblocks in the path of true love.”
“Thank you,” Jim said.
“Try to stay on the black stuff between the trees,” Bolemann said. “And if you want my advice, stop lying to that nice young woman. Love is only partially blind.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jim replied, as he started for the hotel garage.
I don’t want to lie to her, certainly. But I don’t think I should give her a full accounting of what happened in Pensacola.
What happened in Pensacola isn’t going to happen again. We were both carried away by the emotion of the moment; we were both suffering from that well-known service-connected malady known as enforced celibacy; and Martha Sayre Culhane—probably because of the emotion—had much more to drink than she could handle.
Plus, of course, I am an unprincipled no-good sonofabitch.
When Jim stopped in Wilmington, Delaware, for gasoline, he telephoned Janice to tell her she didn’t have to meet him at the bus station.
“Commander Bolemann called and said you were driving. Where are you?”
Her voice, he thought, sounded a little cold and distant.
“I’m in Wilmington,” he said. “I should be there in about an hour.”
“I’ll wait for you at the FOQ,” she said. “Drive carefully.”
He was now sure that her voice had sounded cold and distant.
Is there some sort of female intuition that tells them when their—what am I, “boyfriend”?—has been unfaithful?
Or did she sense that I was lying to her about where I spent last weekend? Bolemann said I was a lousy liar and that love is only partially blind.
He was driving around in the FOQ parking lot looking for a place to park when Lieutenant (j.g.) Janice Hardison, NC, USNR, appeared, in her blues, with her uniform cap perched attractively on top of her upswept hair.
She was carrying a leather valise.
That’s it. That’s the reason she sounded cold and distant on the phone. She has changed her mind about this weekend. She’s going someplace, and she wanted to tell me in person and not on the telephone.
Jim stopped the Buick and leaned across the seat to push the door open.
“Hi,” Janice said, pulled the seat forward, and put her valise in the backseat.
“Hi,” Jim said.
This was obviously not the time or place to try for a kiss.
She opened her purse, found what she was looking for
, and handed it to him.
“What’s this?”
“Ration coupons for twenty gallons of gas,” she said. “They’re mine, I’ve been saving them up.”
“I don’t need them,” he said. “But thank you just the same.”
“I don’t feel right using black-market gasoline,” Janice said.
Well, if you feel that way, why don’t we swap the wheels and tires off your Ford? That way we wouldn’t be riding on black-market tires, either, thereby ensuring that if we lose the war, nobody can point an accusing finger at you.
What are you making fun of her for? She’s right, and you’re wrong. Among other reasons, because she is a highly principled woman, and you know what you are.
“Whatever you say, Janice,” he said, taking the coupons.
Her perfume had now begun to fill the car.
“I have a seventy-two-hour pass,” Janice said. “And I thought it would be nice to get out of Philadelphia.”
“Good idea.”
“I went to the chaplain—he’s a friend of mine…”
Of course he is.
“…and he arranged for rooms for us at the Chalfont-Haddon Hall, in Atlantic City—there’s some sort of a program, a tie-in with the hospital. I hope that’s all right with you.”
Rooms, plural. Of course. You don’t go to the chaplain and ask him to help you find a room where you and the boyfriend can carry on carnally over the weekend.
“That’s fine with me,” Weston said.
“The rooms and the food come with a twenty-percent discount, but not the liquor.”
Of course. What self-respecting chaplain would be pushing discounted booze?
“Well, then, we’ll have to go easy on the booze,” Jim said.
“Have you been drinking a lot, Jim?”
“Oh, I have a drink from time to time with Dr. Bolemann.” No more than three or four beers at lunch, followed, at the cocktail hour, by as many martinis, to giveus courage to face the really bad wine they offer in the dining room?
There you go, you’re lying to her!
“He’s a really nice man,” Janice said. “My father told me he knows him. I’m glad you’ve become friends.” She went into her purse again and this time came out with a road map. “I marked the route,” she said. “I think the best way is to go into Philadelphia and take the Tacony-Palmyra bridge.”
“I’m Lieutenant Hardison,” Janice said to the desk clerk. “And this is Captain Weston. I believe Chaplain Nesbitt made reservations for us?”
The desk clerk checked. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Two rooms at the Chaplain’s Program discount.” The desk clerk examined Weston carefully.
And I know what you’re thinking, buddy. “What’s a nice girl like this one, a personal friend of the chaplain, doing with a guy like you?”
“What time does the dining room close?” Janice asked.
“You don’t have much time before food service stops,” the desk clerk said. “But there will be dancing until two A.M.”
“Well, then,” Janice said. “Why don’t we eat now, while we still can? Could you have our luggage taken to our rooms?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the desk clerk said, and handed them each a key.
“There’s a Roman Catholic mass at six-thirty every morning,” the desk clerk said, and pointed to a sign announcing religious services. “And a Protestant nondenominational service at nine-thirty on Sunday morning.”
“Thank you,” Janice said. “We’ll try to make the Sunday-morning service.”
“And I’m required to remind you not to open your window curtains or blinds at night,” the desk clerk said. “At least not while you’re burning lights in your room.”
“What?” Weston asked.
“Submarines, sir,” the desk clerk said. “German submarines. They use lights ashore to locate ships.”
“Oh, of course,” Weston said.
They each had a cocktail before dinner, Janice a gin fizz, and Jim a bourbon on the rocks, there being no scotch. And with their “Shore Dinner,” they shared a bottle of New York State sparkling wine—made by the “champagne process,” according to the label.
Janice’s first lobster had been with him at Bookbinder’s in Philadelphia. This was her second. She really liked them, now that she’d found the courage to try one.
The band began to play while they were still eating; after their dessert, they danced. Jim very carefully maintained as much distance between their bodies as he could manage.
“I would really like to walk on the beach,” Janice said. “Could we do that before we go to bed?”
Our separate beds, of course.
“If there are no lights,” he said, practically, “how are we going to see?”
“By moonlight. It’s a full moon.”
They walked perhaps half a mile down the wide board-walk, and then Janice stepped over a chain barring access to stairs leading to the beach and motioned for him to follow her.
“The sign says, ‘Access to the beach is forbidden during hours of darkness,’” Weston quoted.
“Oh, who’ll know?” she said. “And we’re in uniform.”
He followed her onto the beach.
She caught his hand.
“That’s also against regulations,” she said. “They call it PDA.”
“They call what ‘PDA’?”
“It stands for ‘public display of affection,’” she said. “‘Officers will not show a PDA.’ Should we stop?”
“Hell, no.”
“I wasn’t sure how you were going to answer that,” Janice said.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve been,” she paused, considering her next words, “cool and distant, I guess—since I got in the car.”
“I thought the same thing about you,” he said.
“I thought maybe I scared you off when I told you I loved you,” Janice said.
“As I recall it—and the words are burned forever in my memory—you said, quote, I think I love you, unquote. I was afraid you’d had time to think it over and changed your mind.”
“I have had time to think it over, and when I saw you in the parking lot, I knew I could drop the ‘I think.’”
“Jesus, Janice!”
He stopped and looked at her.
“Good evening, sir!” a male voice said, adding, “Ma’am.”
Weston turned and found himself looking at a Coast Guardsman. He was wearing a pea coat, puttees, and a web cartridge belt. A Springfield rifle was slung over his shoulder, and he was leading a very large German shepherd on a leash.
The Coast Guardsman saluted. Weston returned it in a reflex action, and saw, out of the corner of his eye, Janice doing the same thing.
She’s adorable when she does that! And there’s something somehow erotic about it, too!
“Sir, you’re not supposed to be on the beach during hours of darkness,” the Coast Guardsman said.
What is this guy supposed to be doing? Repelling a landing party from a German submarine? Or is seeing him marching up and down with his rifle and killer dog supposed to remind people there’s a war on?
Janice dropped to her knees, made kissing sounds, and reached out to the dog, who was sitting on his haunches.
“Watch the goddamned dog, Janice!”
“Don’t be silly, he’s sweet!”
The killer dog nuzzled Janice’s neck and sent sand flying with his tail.
“He’s not as ferocious as he looks,” the Coast Guardsman said.
“Either that, or he’s a very good judge of character,” Weston said, and then added: “Actually we have two very good reasons for being on the beach. One, I wanted to make sure for myself that no one has stolen the ocean, and two, this officer and I are trying very hard not to be seen engaged in a PDA.”
“PDA?”
“Public display of affection. The punishment for which, I’m told, is death by firing squad.”
The Coast Guardsman chuckled. “The thing is, Capta
in, the Chief rides along the beach in a jeep. If he sees you…”
“I’ll sic the killer dog on him,” Weston said.
The Coast Guardsman laughed.
“No, you won’t,” Janice said, standing up and brushing the sand off her uniform skirt. “We’ll get off the beach. It’s time we went to bed, anyhow.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the Coast Guardsman said, winking at Weston.
I wish what you are thinking was true, but what the lady meant to say was, “It’s time we went to our separate beds.”
“I’ll see you to your room,” Jim said, as they waited for the elevator.
“All right,” she said. She took her key from her purse, looked at it, and announced, “I’m on eight.”
He checked his key.
“So am I,” he said.
“Eight oh eight,” Janice said.
“Eight ten,” he replied.
Adjacent rooms? Probably not. Eight oh nine is probably next to eight oh eight, and eight ten is across the corridor.
But close! Is that an omen?
No. It means that the hotel reserves a block of rooms for the chaplain’s healthy and wholesome Weekend in Atlantic City program.
She stopped before the door to 808 and handed him the key. He put it in the lock and she raised her face to be kissed. He kissed her, gently, on the lips.
What that instant hard-on proves is that you are an oversexed sonofabitch, nothing more. She wasn’t promising more than you got, and you really should be ashamed of yourself.
Considering how you spent last Saturday night, how could you even think of making love to this virgin?
“Call me when you wake up,” Jim said. “And we’ll have breakfast.”
Janice nodded, touched his cheek, and slipped into her room.
He stared at the closed door for a moment, forced from his mind a very clear mental image of Lieutenant (j.g.) Janice Hardison, NC, USNR, taking off her uniform, then went searching, across the hall, for Room 810.
In Danger's Path Page 32
