“I thought we might have a little wine with our dinner,” General Sun said.
“That’s very kind of you, General,” Pickering said, taking the package from Banning.
It held two bottles of French wine—good French wine—causing Banning to wonder where Sun had gotten it in wartime Chungking, and then to wonder if there was some significance in a gift of expensive wine.
“This is very nice,” Sun said, looking around. “I didn’t know about this house.”
“Captain McCoy only recently rented it. He’s the officer I hope you can help get into the Gobi Desert as inconspicuously as possible.”
“I thought this might have something to do with the Gobi Desert,” Sun replied. “I couldn’t imagine what other interest the OSS would have in that part of China.”
“I hope you understand why I was reluctant to talk about the operation earlier, General.”
“Completely, General,” Sun said. “Unfortunately, China is not in a position to adequately compensate its officers. That too often results in the selling of information, especially information about the actions of someone else. The Japanese would be very interested to hear about your interest in the Gobi, and would pay very well for the information.”
“I’m glad you understand,” Pickering said.
“I would have been disappointed if the Deputy Director for Pacific Operations of the OSS had been less prudent,” Sun said.
Either he’s swallowed that whole, or he’s decided to be gracious.
“Why don’t we try that fine-looking wine?” Pickering asked. “And I’ll try to explain Operation Gobi to you.”
By the time the second bottle of wine was empty—before dinner—Pickering was able to hope that he had once again skirted a disaster by the skin of his teeth. Sun seemed to understand the necessity of getting McCoy and Zimmerman into the Gobi Desert as quietly as possible.
“It was rather clever of you, I think,” General Sun said, “not to mount this operation from within China. There is no way it could have been kept secret.”
“The truth of the matter is that wasn’t a consideration. We just didn’t think it could be done from inside China. Or actually, I didn’t think it could. The OSS station chief in Chungking, on the other hand, doesn’t think we can do it the way we plan to. He wants to send the station in by truck, guarded by two companies of soldiers.”
“That would attract a good deal of attention from the Japanese,” General Sun said. “It’s probably not my position to say so, but if keeping the weather station secret is a major consideration, I think he’s wrong.”
Pickering chuckled.
“Did I say something funny?”
“General, did you ever hear that the true test of another man’s intelligence is how much he agrees with you?”
“No,” General Sun said, smiling. “But now that I have, I’ll remember it.”
That left only the question of McCoy to deal with, and Pickering decided this was the time to do that. “There is one thing I’ve done,” he began, “or at least didn’t stop—this was before I knew you were going to be involved—that you should know about. Captain McCoy felt the best way for him to move around was in the uniform of a Chinese officer.”
General Sun’s smile faded. “The uniform of a Chinese officer?”
“A major. Both of my men have Chinese Army identification, and Nansen passports identifying them as White Russians.”
Sun frowned and shook his head, then spoke, in Chinese, to Major Kee, whose face showed both disbelief and disapproval.
“And we don’t think Captain McCoy has made himself known to the Thirty-second Military District Headquarters,” Pickering continued. “Or if he’s not yet there, will when he gets there,” he added.
“That may cause serious problems,” Sun said. “Let me think about that. If they are discovered and arrested…”
“Captain McCoy is very capable, General,” Banning said, “and knows China.”
“I respectfully disagree, Colonel,” General Sun said. “If he thinks he can successfully masquerade as a Chinese officer, he is not capable, and he does not know China.”
He forced a smile, and went on. “But as I said, let me think about it.”
[FIVE]
Headquarters, Marine Air Group 21
Ewa Marine Air Station
Oahu, Territory of Hawaii
1400 13 April 1943
When his attention was distracted by a Navy-gray Plymouth station wagon pulling up before his headquarters building, Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, USMCR, was sitting in his spartan office, in a flight suit, tilted back in his chair, his feet resting on an open drawer, working his way through the day’s supply of directives from higher headquarters—ninety-five percent of them useless, in his judgment. A fleet of such vehicles was assigned to CINCPAC, allowing Navy chair-warmers in the grade of lieutenant commander and above to move about the island, spreading Naval bureaucratic nonsense in their wake.
Christ, that’s the last thing I need!
But it was not a Navy officer but a Marine officer whom Dawkins knew personally, who stepped out of the passenger seat, walked to the rear of the station wagon, and withdrew two canvas suitcases. He started up the walk to the building.
The last time I saw him was on the ‘Canal, when I pinned the DFC onto his sweat-soaked khaki shirt.
The officer was now wearing a splendidly tailored Marine Green uniform. His gold Naval Aviator’s wings sat atop three lines of ribbons.
He’s got his weight back. He looks good.
Dawkins looked at the document in his lap. It directed him (and every other commanding officer of Navy and Marine units on Oahu) to personally encourage his officers and men to participate in religious-worship services of their choice on a weekly basis. He tossed the document into his wastebasket, rose from behind his desk, and walked out of his office.
The officer whom he had last seen on Guadalcanal was standing before the desk of Dawkins’s sergeant major, who was reading the officer’s orders.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Colonel Dawkins said. “Look what came in with the tide. How are you, Pickering? What brings you here?”
“Good afternoon, sir,” Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, said.
Dawkins went to his sergeant major and took the orders from his hand. “A word of warning, Sergeant Major,” Dawkins said. “Don’t play poker with this officer.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant major said, smiling. He’d liked the looks of this Marine officer from the moment he walked in the door. Not only did he look like a Marine officer was supposed to look, but he had the DFC and the Purple Heart to prove he wasn’t a candy-ass. The way he was greeted by Colonel Dawkins confirmed that judgment.
As Dawkins read Lieutenant Pickering’s orders, he shook his head in what could have been either disbelief or disgust.
* * *
SECRET
UNITED STATES NAVAL AIR STATION
MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE
30 MARCH 1943
SUBJECT: LETTER ORDERS
TO: 1ST LIEUTENANT MALCOLM S. PICKERING,
USMCR
VMF-262
US NAVAL AIR STATION
MEMPHIS, TENN.
1. REFERENCE IS MADE TO TWX (SECRET) HQ, USMC, DATED 9 MAR 1943, SUBJECT: “SOLICITATION OF VOLUNTEERS FOR HAZARDOUS DUTY.”
2. HAVING VOLUNTEERED FOR SUCH ASSIGNMENT, YOU ARE THIS DATE DETACHED FROM VMF-262, THIS STATION, AND ATTACHED TO CINCPAC ON TEMPORARY DUTY FOR AN INDEFINITE PERIOD. ON COMPLETION OF THIS TEMPORARY DUTY, YOU WILL BE PERMANENTLY ASSIGNED BY CINCPAC WITHIN THE PACIFIC THEATER OF OPERATIONS.
3. YOU WILL PROCEED NO LATER THAN 5 APRIL 1943 TO US NAVAL BASE, SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA, FOR FURTHER SHIPMENT TO CINCPAC. A FOUR (4) DAY DELAY EN ROUTE LEAVE TO YOUR HOME OF RECORD (C/O PACIFIC & FAR EAST SHIPPING CORPORATION, SAN FRANCISCO, CAL.) IS AUTHORIZED.
4. TRAVEL BY US GOVERNMENT AND/OR CIVILIAN RAIL AND AIR TRANSPORTATION IS AUTHORIZED BETWEEN USNAS MEMPHIS AND USNB
SAN DIEGO, AND US GOVERNMENT AND/OR CIVILIAN AIR TRANSPORTATION PRIORITY AAAAA IS DIRECTED BETWEEN SAN DIEGO AND OAHU, T.H.
BY DIRECTION: JESSE R. BALL, REAR
ADMIRAL, USN
OFFICIAL:
CAPTAIN, USN
SECRET
* * *
When he finished reading the orders, he exhaled audibly before handing them back to his sergeant major. He looked at Lieutenant Pickering and shook his head.
“When I got to Pearl Harbor, Colonel,” Pick said. “They sent me here to report to you.”
“Come in here, Pickering,” Dawkins said, pointing to his open office door. He added to his sergeant major, “Unless it’s Admiral Nimitz, I’m unavailable at the moment and will get back to them.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Or Major Dillon. I’ll talk to him. As a matter of fact, see if you can find Major Dillon.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Dawkins followed Pickering into his office and closed the door after them. “You want to tell me what this is all about, Pickering?”
“Sir, I was given the opportunity to volunteer for this mission, and did so.”
“Why does your nobility strike me as bullshit, pure and simple? Unless, of course, you’ve lost your mind,” Dawkins said, not unkindly. And then, before Pickering could even begin to frame an answer, he thought of something else.
“Where did you get qualified in a PBY-5A? The last time I looked at your records, you had maybe twenty-five hours in the right seat of a Gooney Bird, all of it when you went off with Charley Galloway on that lunatic mission to Buka. And you had zero hours in a Catalina. Is my memory failing me, Lieutenant Pickering?”
“Just before I came over here, I got a crash course in the Catalina, sir. Thirty hours in four days.”
Dawkins looked at Pickering for a long moment. “Up to you, Pick,” he said finally. “You can tell me what’s going on or not. If you’re in some kind of jam, I’ll go to bat for you, you know that.”
“The truth is, sir, I got in a little trouble in Memphis. I was offered my choice of volunteering for this, or a court-martial. Preceded by grounding.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“There was a lady involved, sir.”
Dawkins raised his eyebrows.
“And there were some minor things, too, sir, to be truthful. Speeding tickets, out of uniform. Things like that.”
“If Billy Dunn offered you the choice between a court-martial and volunteering for this operation, there’s more to it than a couple of speeding tickets. Or were you perhaps drunk when they arrested you for speeding?”
“Just once, sir, and I got that downgraded to reckless driving. And it wasn’t Billy who gave me the choice, it was the Admiral.”
“What you’re saying, in other words, is that Billy—out of misguided loyalty—covered for you while you were showing your ass, but you were such an all around fuckup that it got to the Admiral? What admiral?”
“The Memphis NAS admiral, sir. Who is friend of a friend of the lady’s husband.”
“You were fooling around with a married woman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did this admiral know who your father is?”
“Yes, sir. Dad—and General Mclnerney—were at Memphis just before the Admiral…sent for me.”
“You were about to say something other than ‘sent for me’?”
“Placed me under arrest, sir.”
“You’re a disgrace to your uniform, Pickering. Do you understand that? There’s more to being a Marine officer than flying an airplane.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve had time to consider that.”
“Worse than that, you let Billy Dunn down. He needed you. The kids you were training needed you.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve had time to consider that, too.”
“Let me tell you the situation here. For administrative convenience, all the volunteers for this mission—the legitimately noble volunteers and you—will be attached to MAG-21 for rations, quarters, and administration. I command MAG-21.”
“Yes, sir. ‘Will be’, sir?”
“You’re the first one to show up. Don’t interrupt me again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The mission is being run by Major Jake Dillon—”
“My father’s involved in this?” Pick blurted.
“Goddamn it, I told you not to interrupt me!”
“Sorry, sir.”
“And the volunteers will be housed at Muku-Muku. Both to give the condemned a hearty meal before they fly off on this idiotic mission, and to keep them from running off at the mouth in the O Club bar about what they’re doing. I would really like to order you to draw a pup tent and pitch it behind Hangar Two, but that would draw attention to you. You will proceed to Muku-Muku and there await further orders from Major Dillon.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“While you are at Muku-Muku, you will not confide in anyone—Major Dillon, Captain Galloway, Gunner Oblensky, and especially not the bona fide noble volunteers—what has caused you to be in their midst. Is that clear, Mr. Pickering?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will engage in no activity while you are under my administration that might possibly draw attention to you or the mission. You will not drive a privately owned vehicle. You will not go into Honolulu, and you will not partake of the facilities of any officers’ club unless you are accompanied by Major Dillon or Captain Galloway. You get one drink of spirits a day. Do you understand these restrictions, Mr. Pickering?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, because if you violate any one of them, I will ground you and I will court-martial you. Your father and Admiral Wagam—and, I am reliably informed, Admiral Nimitz himself—regard this operation as very important. I am not going to run any chance whatever of having it fouled up by a spoiled child wearing a Marine officer’s uniform who doesn’t have enough sense to know when to put his whisky glass down and his zipper pulled up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are dismissed, Mr. Pickering,” Colonel Dawkins said. “Ask the sergeant major to arrange for a jeep—a jeep, not a staff car—to transport you to Muku-Muku.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Lieutenant Pickering said, did an about-face movement and marched out of Dawkins’s office.
[SIX]
Headquarters, Marine Air Group 21
Ewa Marine Air Station
Oahu, Territory of Hawaii
1530 13 April 1943
Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins’s sergeant major put his head into Dawkins’s office. “Captain Galloway would like a couple of minutes, sir,” he announced.
“Send him in,” Dawkins ordered.
He’s heard Pickering’s at Muku-Muku and wants to know what’s going on.
Galloway, in an oil-stained flight suit, came through the door. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Close the door please, Captain,” Dawkins said.
Galloway turned and did so.
Dawkins took a bottle of scotch from his desk drawer. “You flying, Charley, or can you have one of these?”
“I’m through for the day, sir. Thank you.”
Dawkins poured stiff drinks in Kraft cheese glasses and handed one to Galloway.
“To Marine fighter pilots, goddamn them,” Dawkins said, raising his glass. “If we didn’t need the bastards, I’d put a bounty on them.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Galloway said. “I just came from ‘counseling’ one of the bastards. And I need this.”
He raised his glass, then drank half of it.
“I see no scrapes, bruises, or contusions,” Dawkins said. “This was one of your smaller hooligans?”
“I haven’t actually had to…’strongly counsel’ anybody in some time,” Galloway said. “All I have to do now is show my fangs and growl.”
Dawkins chuckled. “What’s on your mind, Charley, or did you just come in to drink my liquor?”
“Lieutenant Stevenson,” Galloway s
aid.
“A problem?”
“Sort of.”
“What happened? Did somebody teach him how to box?”
“Actually, he’s pretty well been on the straight and narrow,” Galloway said. “He wants to fly one of Dillon’s Cats.”
“Does he, now? And what does he know about Dillon’s Catalinas? Are we about to have another problem with somebody’s big mouth?”
“He’s figured out they’re going to make a long, long flight,” Galloway said. “And he came to me and said he’d heard the pilots were all volunteers for whatever it was, and he’d like to volunteer.”
“Just for the record…Belay that: Off the record, Charley, are you volunteering this guy?”
“No, I’m not,” Galloway said. “This was his idea.”
“And what do you think prompted this selfless act on the part of Mr. Stevenson? We are talking about the same Stevenson, right, the one you wiped the hangar floor with when Mclnerney was here?”
“What I was doing was offering a little extra instruction in the manly art of self-defense. Yeah, same guy. He wants to redeem himself.”
“And you believe him?”
“Yeah, I do,” Galloway said. He drank the rest of his drink and looked at Dawkins. “I really do. He’s come around. He’s a regular, you know. I think he wants to see if he can salvage his career by doing something heroic.”
“Who told him the pilots were going to be volunteers?”
“Probably the Navy pilots who volunteered. He drinks with them.”
“Jesus Christ, what do we have to do to get people to keep their mouths shut?”
“Okay, Skipper,” Galloway said, holding up his hand in a mock gesture of self-protection. “I told him I would ask. I asked. I will now leave without even asking for another taste.”
“I would be ever so honored, Captain Galloway, if you would join me in another libation,” Dawkins said.
“I accept your kind offer with great gratitude, sir,” Galloway said, then walked to where the bottle sat and picked it up.
“How much Catalina time does this guy have?” Dawkins asked.
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