In Danger's Path

by W. E. B Griffin

  His room was all he thought, and hoped, it would be. Sort of a monastic cell. A single bed, a chest of drawers, one armchair, and a desk with a folding chair before it and a lamp that didn’t work sitting on it.

  He had just hung his Val-Pak in the closet when a knock came at the door.

  It can’t be for me. Nobody knows I’m here.

  “Captain Weston?” the charge of quarters called.

  “Yes?”

  My God—she is an admiral’s daughter and knows how things work around here—Martha has found me!

  “Telephone for you, sir.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The telephone was on a small table halfway down the hall. It had no dial. He remembered that from flight school. If you wanted to make an off-base or long-distance call, you had to find a pay station and feed it coins.

  Weston picked up the telephone. “Captain Weston.”

  “You’re here, obviously,” the voice said. It took a moment for Weston to recognize Major Avery R. Williamson, USMC.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You drove straight through, apparently?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I thought you might. I left word with Billeting they were to call me the minute you got here…if you came here. But they didn’t. It’s a damned good thing I called.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Weston could tell that Major Williamson was upset about something.

  “Something has come up. I need to see you right away.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know where I live?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Have you a pencil and sheet of paper?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, get one, Weston!”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Weston laid the telephone on the table and ran down the corridor and the stairs to the charge of quarters’ desk. He took a pencil and a pad, then picked up the telephone on the CQ’s desk.

  “Ready, sir.”

  Major Williamson gave him directions from the BOQ to his quarters.

  Major Williamson opened the door to his quarters, an attractive, obviously prewar bungalow not far off Pensacola Bay, and motioned Weston inside.

  His wife and two kids, a boy and a girl, were sitting on a couch in the living room. All of them looked unhappy. When Weston was introduced to them, they were polite—the wife even offered him a cup of coffee—but Weston sensed that he was somehow intruding. He declined the coffee.

  “I’m glad you came in early,” Major Williamson said. “I won’t be here in the morning, and I wanted to see you before I left.”

  “Where are you going, sir?” Weston blurted, and immediately sensed he should not have asked the question.

  “Hawaii,” Williamson said. “You remember that temporary job over there we discussed? I told you it was one of General McInerney’s little projects?”

  “Yes, sir, I do,” Weston said.

  Christ, he’s talking about that request for volunteers to fly the Catalina. Weston remembered the wording: “a classified mission involving great personal risk in a combat area.”

  “Well, I was allowed to apply for it,” Williamson said. “And apparently, I was the best-qualified applicant.”

  Applicant, my ass, Weston thought. You didn’t volunteer. General McInerney apparently didn’t get the eight volunteers he was looking for, and you were volunteered.

  “How long will you be gone, sir?”

  “Not long. Ninety days at the most. Probably a lot less than that.”

  God, I would kill to get out of here for ninety days, to go someplace where I’d have time to figure out what the hell to do about Martha and Janice!

  “You’re going first thing in the morning, sir?”

  “I’m going in about an hour,” Williamson said. “That’s what I wanted to see you about. This sort of fouls up the training schedule I was laying on for you.”

  “Sir, I wonder if I could speak to you privately for a moment?” Weston asked.

  “I really don’t have the time for your personal problems, Weston,” Williamson said, annoyance in his voice.

  “I would consider it a great personal favor, sir,” Weston said. “It won’t take but a minute or two.”

  Williamson looked at him coldly for a moment, then gestured at the front door.

  “With the understanding that I am really out of time, Weston.”

  “Yes, sir, I fully understand,” Weston said.

  They walked onto the small porch of the bungalow. Major Williamson closed the door. “Make it quick,” he ordered.

  “Sir, we’re talking about the classified Catalina mission?”

  “General McInerney—who got his second star, by the way—flew in here in a Corsair, told me he had gotten zero volunteers, and under the circumstances thought that I might wish to consider the opportunity again.”

  “You were volunteered?”

  “Me and several other people, one of whom doesn’t know it yet. I’m out of here in a twin Beech in an hour bound for NAS New Orleans, where I will pick up another, quote, volunteer, unquote, and then head for San Diego. That poor bastard just came back from the Pacific.”

  “General McInerney must think this project is important,” Weston said.

  Major Williamson didn’t reply.

  “What’s your personal problem, Weston? Try to explain it in thirty seconds or less.”

  “Sir, I’d like to volunteer.”

  “Are you out of your mind, Weston? Christ, you’re just out of the hospital.”

  “Sir, with respect, I have twelve hundred hours as pilot-in-command of a Catalina.”

  “That’s right, isn’t it?” Williamson said thoughtfully.

  “Sir, I’m a Marine officer. Apparently one with the special qualifications needed for General McInerney’s project.”

  “I thought you wanted to be a fighter pilot?”

  “Sir, I am a fighter pilot. Captain Galloway checked me out in the Corsair. I would just be wasting my time, and the Corps’ time, to go through the training again here.”

  “And maybe you’re thinking that if you did this job for General McInerney you wouldn’t have to do the training again.”

  “That thought did occur to me, sir, but it’s not the reason I am volunteering.”

  “I know,” Williamson said.

  “Sir?”

  “You’re volunteering for the same reason I did,” Williamson said emotionally. “Because, goddammit, you’re a Marine and you want to serve where you can do the most good for the Corps.”

  “That’s not really it, sir.”

  “You’re sure about this, Weston?”

  “I’m sure, sir.”

  “One more time, I put the question to you. Warning you beforehand that I have orders to appear at San Diego as soon as I can get there, with any qualified Marine Aviator I choose to take with me. As you have pointed out, you have the necessary qualifications.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You want to go, is that it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How long will it take you to get packed? To say good-bye to Martha?”

  “I’m already packed, sir, and as far as Martha goes, I think I would rather call her from San Diego and tell her my orders have been changed. I don’t feel up to facing her with this.”

  “You’re chicken, Mr. Weston, but in your shoes, I’d do the same thing. I know how it is. I have lied to my wife about this mission—I don’t think she believes me, but that’s not the point—and I didn’t like having to do that.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Women just don’t seem to be able to understand that a Marine, at least an honorable Marine, has to answer the call of duty even when that involves a certain amount of personal sacrifice.”

  “I suppose that’s true, sir.”

  “You’ve got your car?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go get your luggage. Meet me at
base operations. I’ll arrange for somebody to take care of your car until we get back. And we will come back, Weston. Get that firmly fixed in your mind.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  But maybe with a little luck I can stretch the ninetydays a little. Maybe to six months. Maybe for the duration of the war plus six months.

  Major Williamson touched Captain Weston’s shoulder in a gesture of affection.

  “I should have known, since Charley Galloway likes you, that you are really a Marine, Weston. It shouldn’t have taken this to prove it.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  XIX

  [ONE]

  Patrol Torpedo Boat 197

  Kaiwi Channel

  North Pacific Ocean

  0815 6 April 1943

  Lieutenant (j.g.) Max Schneider, USNR, into whose twenty-year-old hands the United States Navy had three weeks before placed command of PT-197, had absolutely no idea what he and his vessel were doing floating around the Kaiwi Channel at a point equidistant between the islands of Oahu and Molokai. And he had been specifically ordered to ask no questions.

  He had been summoned to the office of the Squadron Commander shortly after lunch the day before. “I have a mission for PT-197, Max,” Lieutenant Commander James D. Innis, USN, had announced. “A classified mission.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. May I inquire into the nature of the mission?”

  “The precise nature of the mission will be made known to you in due course, Mr. Schneider,” Commander Innis had said.

  Lieutenant Commander Innis, in fact, had no idea himself about the nature of the mission. But he was naturally reluctant to admit this to a twenty-year-old newly promoted j.g. who still believed his skipper knew everything.

  When Innis picked up his telephone half an hour before, he was somewhat astonished to find himself talking to an admiral.

  “This is Admiral Wagam, Commander.”

  While Commander Innis was not familiar with all the senior officers of CINCPAC, he did know who Admiral Wagam was. Admiral Wagam was not only close to Admiral Nimitz, he had the reputation of relieving, on the spot, officers who did not measure up to his standards. Being in command of a PT boat squadron was infinitely better than being, for example, a morale officer, or a VD control officer, which is usually what happened to officers who incurred Admiral Wagam’s displeasure.

  What the hell does he want with me?

  “Yes, sir?”

  “If I told you you were going to lose one of your boats and its crew, for up to a month, which of your boats could you best spare?”

  I suspect that no matter how I answer the question, it will be wrong.

  When in doubt, tell the truth.

  “That would be PT-197, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “It has a new skipper, sir. And some new crewmen. There hasn’t been time to bring him and the boat up to speed.”

  The next question will be, “Why not, Commander? What are you doing all day, lying around on your tail?”

  “But the skipper can handle the boat?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You sound very sure, Commander.”

  That’s both a statement and a question.

  “Sir, Lieutenant Schneider has more experience handling boats than any of my other boat commanders.”

  Or, for that matter, me. The problem is he doesn’t know diddley-shit about anything else in the Navy.

  “How is that?”

  “Sir, his family operates a fleet of tuna boats out of San Francisco. He was the master of an eighty-footer when he was sixteen.”

  “He’s my man,” Admiral Wagam said. “It always pays to ask questions, Commander.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sure it does.”

  “Has this officer got a big mouth? Rephrased: Can he be trusted to keep his mouth shut?”

  I have absolutely no idea.

  “He’s a good young officer, sir.”

  “Impress upon him, and have him impress upon his crew, that they are not to discuss this mission with anyone.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Sir, may I inquire as to the nature of the mission?”

  “Not over a nonsecure landline, Commander,” Admiral Wagam said. “You will be contacted shortly by either Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis, who is my aide-de-camp, or Major Homer C. Dillon, a Marine. They will tell you what they feel you should know. From this moment, you will consider PT-197 attached to me until relieved.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The line went dead, and Commander Innis sent for Lieutenant (j.g.) Max Schneider.

  Major Homer C. Dillon, USMCR, driving a Ford station wagon bearing the logotype of the Pacific & Far East Shipping Corporation, showed up as darkness was falling. He was followed by a Marine Corps General Motors six-by-six. The truck was driven by a chief carpenter’s mate who had apparently lost his cap somewhere.

  Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider quickly descended the ladder from PT-197 to the wharf. “Major Dillon, sir?” he asked, saluting.

  “Right,” Jake Dillon replied, returning the salute. “Lieutenant Schneider?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where’s the captain?” the chief carpenter’s mate asked.

  “I command PT-197, Chief,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider replied coldly.

  “No shit? You don’t look old enough,” the chief carpenter’s mate said.

  “You’ll have to excuse the chief, Mr. Schneider,” Major Dillon said. “He’s only been in the Navy nine months.”

  “Before I came in the Navy, Chief, I ran tuna boats out of San Francisco,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider said. “What did you do?”

  “No shit?” Chief Carpenter’s Mate Peter T. McGuire, USNR, replied. “I spent some time on boats like that. Remember They Go Down to the Sea, Jake?”

  Dillon nodded. “It laid an enormous egg,” he said.

  “That was a movie,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider said. “They rented some boats from my father. I was ten, eleven years old.”

  “They were your father’s boats?” Chief McGuire said. “I’ll be damned.”

  “Can you muster a labor detail, Mr. Schneider?” Major Dillon asked. “The truck is loaded with boxes we need aboard your boat. And two rubber boats.”

  “It would be best if you could lash this stuff outside,” Chief McGuire said. “Rather than put it inside, I mean.”

  “To the vessel’s superstructure, you mean, Chief?” Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider asked. “Rather than below?”

  “Right,” Chief McGuire agreed with a smile.

  “Sir,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider said, looking at Dillon. “May I ask what the crates contain?”

  Jake Dillon smiled at him. “Sand,” he said.

  “There’s twenty-seven of them,” Chief McGuire amplified. “Average weight, fifty pounds. Total weight, thirteen hundred and fifty pounds.”

  “And as soon as Lieutenant Lewis can get here,” Major Dillon said, “there will also be two hundred and fifty gallons of avgas, in five-gallon jerry cans. Fifty cans.”

  “Total weight seventeen hundred fifty pounds, give or take,” Chief McGuire added.

  “And when we come back in the morning,” Dillon said, “in addition to myself, Lieutenant Lewis, and Chief McGuire, there will be five other men with us.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider said. He was nearly consumed with curiosity, but he had been ordered to ask no questions, and didn’t. Even when he saw Major Dillon’s boxes. They were of various odd sizes and constructed of what looked like aircraft aluminum. Each bore a number, (1) through (27).

  The crew of PT-197 had just about finished moving the boxes and rubber boats from the truck to the boat when another GM six-by-six—this one painted Navy gray—drove up.

  Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis III, USN, climbed down from the cab. He was wearing the aiguillette of an aide-de-camp.

  He and Major Dillon and Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider exchanged salutes. Chief McGuire did not.

  “I was told the skipper
would be here,” Lieutenant Lewis said to Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider.

  “You’re looking at him,” Chief McGuire informed him. “And we lucked out. He used to run a tuna boat out of ’Frisco. He probably knows more about boats than you do.”

  “I’m sure he does,” Lieutenant Lewis said with a strained smile.

  Major Dillon coughed into his balled fist. Or laughed.

  “My name is Lewis,” Lewis said to Schneider, offering his hand.

  “Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider, sir.”

  “Has the chief explained what we need, Mr. Schneider?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any problems?”

  “No, sir. Sir, may I ask where we are going?”

  “We’ll let you know that in the morning,” Lewis said. “I hate to be so secretive, but we’ve had a bad experience with an aviator who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The distance involved will be about seventy-five nautical miles, one way. We may be there a couple of hours. Does that pose any fuel problems?”

  “No, sir.”

  “We will want to put out at first light,” Lewis said. “So we’ll be here ten minutes before that. Will that give you enough time?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Permission to come on the bridge, Captain?” Lieutenant Lewis asked at 0425 the next morning.

  “Granted,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider replied. “Good morning, sir.”

  At least one of these people knows how to treat the master of a man-of-war, Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider thought, pleased.

  The good feeling was immediately dissipated when Major Dillon and Chief McGuire came onto the bridge right after Lewis, having apparently decided the permission obviously included them.

  Lieutenant Lewis handed Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider a nautical chart, and Schneider examined it in the light of a flashlight. There was an X approximately equidistant between Oahu and Molokai in the Kaiwi Channel. “Right about there, please,” Lewis said.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  By the time they had cleared the antisubmarine net guarding Pearl Harbor, it was light. Lieutenant Schneider was thus able to see for the first time where the twenty-seven oddly shaped aluminum boxes and the fifty cans of aviation gasoline in jerry cans had been lashed to his vessel. Patrol torpedo boats are not very large vessels. The packages and jerry cans were lashed all over the deck, fore and aft.