In Danger's Path

by W. E. B Griffin

  TOPSECRET

  * * *

  [SIX]

  Somewhere in the Gobi Desert

  Mongolia

  0900 1 May 1943

  Nothing but snow could be seen in any direction. Three days before, the skies had cleared following two days of intermittent blowing small-flake snow. When the sun came out, it came out brightly, reflecting off the snow. It didn’t quite blind them, but it effectively limited their vision to about one thousand yards, less sometimes when the wind blew the snow especially hard.

  McCoy’s decision was to keep moving day and night, despite the snowfall.

  It was very cold. The ambulance—designed to provide as much comfort as possible for the wounded—had a heater mounted on the firewall. The weapons carrier had an open cab and no heater. But those crowded onto the seat—McCoy, Sampson, and two of the Chinese—found a certain amount of warmth from the engine and transmission by draping a blanket over their laps.

  They moved on what McCoy hoped was a dead easterly course, determined by a U.S. Army-issue compass. McCoy had no idea how much the metal mass of the weapons carrier was affecting the compass, but at least they were moving in a straight line. They used a kind of stop-and-go technique. That is to say, the ambulance would be stopped and used as a reference point while McCoy drove the weapons carrier ahead, making every effort to keep the tracks through the snow perfectly straight, moving as slowly as he could in third gear to conserve fuel.

  In order to keep further control of all this, he also stationed one of the Chinese on top of the mountain of supplies and jerry cans in the back of the truck, with orders to instantly report if the tracks didn’t make a straight line, or if he lost sight of the ambulance.

  At night, they drove without headlights. Doing that proved to be not so difficult as he feared, after Zimmerman removed the lenses of a “blackout light” mounted on the front of the weapons carrier, from one at the rear, and from the one mounted on the front of the ambulance. The bare bulb on the front of the weapons carrier and the ambulance provided enough light for steering, and the bare bulb on the rear of the weapons carrier was bright enough to guide the driver of the ambulance—even at a thousand yards.

  Anytime he had difficulty seeing the ambulance during the day—or its bare bulb at night—McCoy stopped and shut down the engine. The ambulance then caught up with him.

  Because Zimmerman maintained—with the certainty of an article of religious faith—that after sixty seconds, more fuel was conserved by shutting an engine down and then starting it again, than by letting it idle, McCoy decreed to do that…but only so long as the batteries held up. And under no circumstances would both batteries be shut down at once. That way they could attempt to start a vehicle whose battery was exhausted by pushing it with the other vehicle.

  In third gear each truck would go about fifteen miles per hour. That meant it took not quite three minutes for McCoy to drive the weapons carrier as far as he could without losing sight of the ambulance, and then it took the ambulance about that long to catch up. Thus the engines of each vehicle could be shut down for nearly three minutes during each stop-and-go cycle.

  So far, the batteries of both vehicles seemed to be holding up, and McCoy was beginning to hope that the fuel-saving technique would work indefinitely. If a battery did become exhausted, he decided, he would get the vehicle started by pushing it. And then he’d try shutting the engines down every other time, or every third time. That way they’d have a running time of six or nine minutes to keep the batteries charged.

  The move-stop-wait, move-stop-wait routine quickly became automatic and boring.

  McCoy was startled when the Chinese lookout came crawling down from his perch.

  He braked to a stop as the lookout began to climb over the passengers and windshield onto the hood, in the process striking with his boot the head of the Chinese soldier sitting next to Sampson. “Your mother is a whore who fucks dogs,” the one kicked muttered in Cantonese.

  After a glance at the rearview mirror, which proved he could see the ambulance clearly, McCoy turned his full attention to the lookout, who had by now made it onto the hood of the weapons carrier. He was pointing into the distance. McCoy stared hard but could see nothing.

  Sampson stood up, awkwardly hanging on to the windshield frame. “There’s a guy on a horse out there,” he said, and corrected himself: “On a pony.”

  McCoy finally saw the same thing, as the man and the pony suddenly came to life and trotted off into the distance. They were lost to sight within seconds because of the glare.

  “What the hell was that?” Sampson said.

  “He was probably as surprised to see us as we were to see him,” McCoy said. “What was he, an outrider?”

  “If he was, he saw us, that’s for sure.”

  McCoy put the weapons carrier in gear again and resumed moving. As he stopped to let the ambulance catch up, the pony and its rider came into sight again. Not moving, just watching.

  The ambulance began to move.

  “What do we do now?” Sampson asked.

  “Wait,” McCoy said.

  The ambulance caught up with them two minutes or so later.

  The rider on the pony moved toward them.

  “He’s not afraid of us, obviously,” Sampson said. “Is that good or bad?”

  “He’s got a rifle slung over his shoulder,” McCoy said.

  He suddenly pushed himself out of the seat and started to climb over the windshield.

  “Let them see that we have soldiers with rifles,” he ordered. “But for God’s sake, don’t point a rifle at him. If he unslings his rifle, be prepared to kill him.”

  McCoy climbed onto the hood, then slid forward and climbed down to the ground over the jerry cans and burlap sacks tied to the bumper.

  He held his hands away from his body to show that he wasn’t holding a weapon, and walked toward the man on the pony.

  The man on the pony started to unsling his rifle, then changed his mind. He waited for McCoy to approach.

  The man on the pony had a full beard, and in the moment it occurred to McCoy that few Chinese had luxuriant beards, it occurred to the man on the pony that the Chinese officer approaching him with the flaps of his cap tied under his chin had a white man’s skin.

  “Major,” the man on the pony said in Cantonese, “do you speak English?”

  “Who are you?” McCoy replied in Cantonese.

  The man didn’t reply.

  “Do you speak English?” McCoy asked in English.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you American?” McCoy asked.

  “Yes. Are those American Army vehicles?”

  “Actually, they’re Marine Corps vehicles,” McCoy said. “Does the name Sweatley mean anything to you?”

  “Sergeant Sweatley?”

  “Sergeant James R. Sweatley,” McCoy amplified.

  “He’s the tactical officer,” the man on the pony said.

  “What does that mean?” McCoy asked, and then, without giving the man on the pony a chance to reply, “Where is Sweatley?”

  The man on the pony gestured over his shoulder. “We’re not moving,” he said. “Waiting for the snow to blow away.”

  “Let’s go to see Sergeant Sweatley,” McCoy said. “How many of there are you?”

  “You are an American, right?” the man on the pony asked.

  “I’m an American,” McCoy said. “Get going.”

  He waved at the weapons carrier to come after him.

  The man on the pony turned the animal and started moving off. The weapons carrier and the ambulance followed him.

  Twenty minutes later, they came to a circle of wagons covered with snow. Smoke and steam rose from inside some of the wagons.

  If we had passed this five hundred yards to either side, we never would have seen it.

  The man on the pony kicked it in the ribs, and it moved a little more quickly toward the circle of wagons.

  “Americans!” the man shouted.
“Americans!”

  Then he rode the pony inside the circled wagons. Several people appeared, some peering out of the tarpaulins covering the wagons, some brave enough to come out of the circled wagons to stare as the two vehicles drove up. Some of these had weapons, but no one brandished them threateningly.

  McCoy dropped off the weapons carrier and walked up to them.

  “I’m looking for Sergeant James R. Sweatley, formerly of the Marine detachment in Peking,” McCoy said to an older man who looked as if he might be in charge.

  “Go get Sweatley,” the man ordered. “I’m Chief Frederick Brewer. I transferred to the Fleet Reserve off the Panay. Who are you?”

  “My name is McCoy,” McCoy said, and was interrupted by a tall, dark-haired woman.

  “Oh, my God!” she said.

  McCoy knew who she was.

  “Corporal McCoy,” she said. “Do you remember me? I was Mrs. Edward J. Banning. My husband was a captain in the Fourth Marines. You once came to our apartment.”

  “It’s Lieutenant Colonel Banning now, Milla,” McCoy said. “You’re still Mrs. Banning. It’s good to see you, Milla.”

  “Oh, my God! Ed is alive?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He’s alive. Is Zimmerman’s wife here? Their kids?”

  Milla nodded, unable to find her voice.

  “Ernie,” McCoy called, raising his voice. “Mae Su and the kids are here!”

  Zimmerman came out of the ambulance and ran toward the circle of wagons.

  “I’ll be a sonofabitch,” Sergeant James R. Sweatley, USMC, said, walking up as he shrugged into an ankle-length sheepskin coat.

  “Hello, Sweatley,” McCoy said, offering his hand. “Good to see you.”

  “Killer fucking McCoy in the fucking flesh!” Sweatley said. “What the fuck are you doing here, Killer?”

  McCoy pulled his hand back. “It’s Captain McCoy to you, Sergeant,” he said icily. “And my first order to you is to watch your mouth in the presence of a lady. And don’t you ever call me Killer again.” He stared Sweatley down and turned to Chief Brewer. “Are you in charge here, Chief?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s go find someplace to talk out of the cold,” McCoy said. “We’ve got a lot to do.” He turned to Sergeant Sweatley. “There’s an Army officer getting a radio out of the back of the ambulance,” he said. “Make yourself useful to him.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  [SEVEN]

  Naval Communications Facility

  U.S. Naval Base, Pearl Harbor

  Oahu, Territory of Hawaii

  0530 Local Time 1 May 1943

  “Flag officer on the deck!” the radioman first class called, as he rose to his feet from behind his desk in the foyer of the building.

  “As you were,” Rear Admiral Daniel J. Wagam, USN, said quickly, and then asked, “Commander Toner?”

  “Right here, Admiral,” Commander Lewis B. Toner, USN, said. “Good morning, sir.”

  Admiral Wagam needed a shave, and when he removed his gold-heavy uniform cap, his short hair was uncombed. Commander Toner also suspected that Admiral Wagam’s white uniform was the one he had worn the day before.

  “Good morning,” Wagam said. “What have you got?”

  “Contact, sir. Not much more than that. If you’ll come with me, sir?”

  He pointed to a steel door that had a large AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT sign on it.

  Wagam looked at the radioman first class. “A Major Dillon of the Marines is on his way here. See that he gets to wherever I’m going.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  He followed Commander Toner through the steel door and down a corridor. They came to a Marine PFC armed with a Thompson guarding a second door.

  “Open it,” Commander Toner ordered.

  The Marine pushed the lever of an intercom. “Passing the duty officer and an admiral,” he announced.

  Bolts were slid open, and then the door was pushed inward. Toner waved Admiral Wagam into a large room. There was the peculiar odor of high voltage. A dozen sailors sat before communications radios, some working telegraph keys, others pounding typewriters. Two radio Teletype machines clattered against the wall.

  Toner led Wagam to a glass-walled office with a sign reading DUTY OFFICER. Inside was a desk, two chairs, a chief petty officer, and a seaman first class who looked about seventeen years old and very nervous.

  The chief put a china mug quickly on the desk.

  “Good morning, Chief,” Wagam said. “I’d kill for a cup of coffee.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the chief said, stepped to the door, and ordered, “Coffee, now!”

  “Good morning, son,” Wagam said to the young sailor.

  “Epstein, sir,” the kid said. “Lester J. Seaman, First Class.”

  “What have you got for me, Epstein?” Admiral Wagam asked.

  Seaman Epstein thrust at Admiral Wagam a sixteen-inch-long sheet of yellow paper, obviously torn from the roll of paper that had been fed into his typewriter.

  * * *

  0426

  20 METER MONITOR

  KCG TO KNX

  KCG TO KNX

  GA GO AHEAD

  KCG TO KNX VERIFIER GYPSY ACK

  STAND BY

  ACK VERIFIER G A

  KCG TO KNX

  FIVE THREE FIVE THREE READING ME 5X3

  ONE ONE ONE ONE 501 21

  ACK

  READING YOU SXS ACK USING SIG OP ONE

  KCG TO KNX

  ZERO ONE ZERO ONE

  ALL WELL IN CONTACT WITH GYPSIES

  ZERO EIGHT FIVE SEVEN ZERO EIGHT FIVE SEVEN

  ALL WELL WITH GYPSIES STRENGTH 57

  ONE ABLE TWO FOUR ONE ABLE TWO FOUR

  MEN 24

  ONE BAKER THREE THREE ONE BAKER THREE THREE

  WOMEN AND CHILDREN 33

  TWO ABLE 1456 X 3401 TWO ABLE 1456 X 3401 NOT RELIABLE

  MAP COORDINATES 1456X 3401 NOT RELIABLE

  TWO DOG SEVEN TWO DOG SEVEN

  WILL RETURN TO NET IN SIX HOURS

  ACK

  ALL ABOVE ACKNOWLEDGED

  KCG OFF

  * * *

  The chief handed Admiral Wagam a cup of coffee. “We didn’t have much time, sir, to clean that up for you, sir,” he said. “Can you read his handwriting? The material he took from the Signal Operating Instruction? What he sent to them?”

  “I can read it just fine, Chief,” Admiral Wagam said. He smiled at Seaman Epstein. “Well done, son.”

  Seaman Epstein flushed. “Can I ask a question, Admiral?” he asked, which earned him a withering glare from the chief.

  “Sure,” Admiral Wagam said.

  “Who are these gypsies?”

  “Mostly, son, they’re a group of old sailors and soldiers and Marines who didn’t like the idea of surrendering to the Japanese. And until they talked to you, I suspect many of them were beginning to wonder if the Navy had forgotten about them.”

  Which raises an entirely new question, Admiral Wagam thought. How the hell are we going to get thirty-three women and children—not to mention the men—out of the Gobi Desert?

  “May I have this?” Admiral Wagam asked, holding up the sheet of yellow paper.

  Commander Toner looked uncomfortable.

  “I’ll get it back to you,” Admiral Wagam said. “I think Admiral Nimitz will want to have a look at it.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “When Major Dillon shows up, send him over to my office.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Commander Toner said.

  “Keep up the good work, son,” Admiral Wagam said to Seaman Epstein. “Thank you for the coffee, Chief.”

  Jake Dillon drove up in a civilian Ford station wagon as Admiral Wagam was about to get into a staff car.

  He looks, damn him, despite the hour, Admiral Wagam thought, as if he’s about to go on parade.

  “Follow me to my quarters, Dillon, and you can read what we have. Admiral Nimitz said to let him know immedi
ately of developments, whatever the hour; but he’s going to have to wait until I have a shave and get into a decent uniform.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Dillon said. “Good news or bad, Admiral?”

  “I suppose that would depend, Major, on whether or not you are a pilot who’s about to be ordered to find a submarine in the Yellow Sea and then somebody in the Gobi Desert.”

  The Commander in Chief, Pacific, in a crisp white uniform, was having a cup of coffee when Admiral Wagam and Major Dillon were shown into his office.

  “This is the original, sir, I hope you’ll be able to understand the jargon.”

  “It may come as a shock to you, Dan, but before I got this job, I was actually a seagoing sailor. Let me see what you have.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Help yourself to some coffee, Dillon,” Admiral Nimitz said. “The steward doesn’t come on duty until 0630.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Nimitz read the long sheet of yellow paper. “I don’t like that ‘unreliable’ position report,” he said.

  “They’re going to be in contact again in five hours, sir,” Wagam said. “Perhaps they’ll be able to give us a better one then.”

  “But this means, as I read it, that neither Pickering’s people, nor the people they found, seem to know exactly where they are.”

  “Yes, sir, it would seem so.”

  “Is this position, the unreliable one, within range of the Catalinas?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I suppose you’d better alert Colonel Dawkins, and start this thing rolling.”

  “Aye, aye; sir.”

  “As I recall the Opplan, the aircraft will depart at midnight to give them daylight both at the rendezvous site and in the desert?”

  “Yes, sir,” Wagam said. “The exact time is 2330, sir.”

  “Then we still have time to get them off today,” Nimitz said. “But I’d like an on-site weather report from the Sunfish before we send them.”