FRD6. KCY. GA.
CINCPAC Radio to Detachment A: Go ahead.
The information that thirty-five Bettys, escorted by forty Zeroes, out of Rabaul and on a course that would take them to Guadalcanal, had just passed overhead at approximately 15,000 feet was encoded on a sheet of damp paper. Sergeant Koffler put the sheet under his left hand and pointed his index finger at the first block of five characters.
As his right hand worked the telegrapher's key, his index finger swept across the coded message. It is more difficult to transmit code than plain English, for the simple reason that code doesn't make any sense.
It took him just over a minute, not quite long enough for the Japanese to locate the transmitter by triangulation, before he sent, in the clear, END.
FRD6. KCY. AKN. CLR.
Detachment A, this is Pearl Harbor. Your transmission is acknowledged.
Pearl Harbor Clear.
Steve made a cutting motion across his throat, and Edward James stopped pumping the generator pedals.
Steve watched as Edward James proudly disconnected the generator leads from the Hallicrafters and then smiled at him.
As Edward James left the hut, Miss Patience Witherspoon came in. She carried a plate on which was a piece of cold roast pork (though it took quite a stretch of his imagination to identify it as such) and a baked vegetable, something like a stringy sweet potato, also cold. It tasted like stringy soap.
"Perhaps," Patience said gently, once she saw the look on his face, "they will be able to get something you will like from the Japanese." And perhaps they've already had their heads cut off by the fucking Japs... after telling them where to find us, when the Japs sliced their balls off.
Ah, shit, she means well. I don't want to hurt her feelings.
"This is fine, Patience," he said. "And I'm starved." She lowered her head modestly and crossed her hands over her breasts. The motion served to bring her breasts to Koffler's attention. with their shape, of the large nipples.
And then he had a thought that really frightened him: With the officers gone, no one would ever know, if I fucked her.
Chapter Four
[One]
THE FOSTER LAFAYETTE HOTEL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
1915 HOURS 31 AUGUST 1942
Fleming Pickering made a grunting noise and opened his eyes.
It could very well be a groan of pain, Senator Richmond Fowler thought.
"I seem to have dropped off," Pickering said, pushing himself up in the armchair. "How long was I out?"
"Passed out is more like it," Fowler said. "A couple of hours. How do you feel?"
"Will you stop hovering over me like Florence Nightingale? I'm fine."
"I probably shouldn't tell you this, but you look a hell of a lot better than when you walked in here."
"I feet fine," Pickering said. He sniffed under his armpit.
"I smell like a cadaver but I feel fine."
"I was wondering about that," Fowler said. "How do you manage bathing?"
"I take a shower with my arm raised as far as I can, and very carefully. Would you like to watch?"
"I'll pass, thank you just the same. I can live with the smell for a while. And besides, you might want something sent up to eat."
"Was the tailor here?"
"Yes. He did three shirts for you."
"Then I think I'd rather eat downstairs in the grill," Pickering said.
He pushed himself out of the chair and walked into the bedroom.
In a moment, Fowler heard the sound of running water. Not without difficulty, he resisted the temptation to go in and help.
Fleming Pickering was a big boy.
Five minutes later there was indication that not all was well.
"Oh, shit!" Pickering's voice came from the bedroom, filled with disgust.
Fowler went quickly in. Pickering, stark naked, dripping, stood in the door of the bath, examining water-soaked bandages scattered over his chest and upper stomach. Fowler saw streams of watery blood running down his body.
"I don't suppose you have any adhesive tape?" Pickering asked.
Fowler picked up the telephone.
"This is Senator Fowler. Find Dr. Selleres and send him up here immediately."
"That wasn't necessary," Pickering said.
"Trust me. I'm a U.S. Senator," Fowler said.
Pickering looked at him and chuckled. " `The check's in the mail,' right? `Your husband will never find out'?"
"Speaking of wives, I just spoke with yours."
"How'd she know I was here?"
"Where else would you be? Aside from St. Elizabeth's?" St. Elizabeth's was Washington's best-known mental hospital'
"And?" Pickering replied, not amused.
"And she says, when you get a chance, call."
"I will," Pickering said.
He put his hand to his chest and jerked off one of the bandages. Fowler saw that the wound beneath was still sutured.
"You were almost killed, weren't you?"
"That's like being pregnant, you either are or you aren't. No I wasn't. I don't think I was ever in any danger of dying."
"I saw the Silver Star citation. You passed out from loss of blood."
"I think that was shock from the arm," Pickering said matter-of-factly. "And I didn't pass out. I just got a little lightheaded. Where did you see my citation?"
"Knox sent me a copy. He thought I would be interested."
"Christ, Knox. I forgot all about him."
"You will see him tomorrow."
"How do you know that?"
"He called me. How did he know you were here? Same answer. Where else would you go?"
"is he annoyed?"
"I don't think `annoyed' is a strong enough word."
"When do I see him?"
"Half past five."
"In the afternoon, obviously. Am I being forced to cool my heels all day, until half past five, as a subtle expression of displeasure?"
"At half past five we are having drinks and a small intimate supper with the President."
"Are you kidding""
"No. I am not. Knox will be there. And Admiral Leahy. No one else, I'm told."
"What's that all about?"
"I have no idea. When the President's secretary calls me and asks if I am free for drinks and supper, I say, `Thank you very much." I don't ask what he has in mind."
"I had hoped to be well on my way to Florida by half past five tomorrow."
"You'll have plenty of time to see Pick. One more day won't matter."
"He is liable to be on orders any day. Considering the shortage of pilots over there, they may not give him much of a pre-embarkation leave, possibly only three or four days. I don't have plenty of time." A knock at the door kept Fowler from having to reply. He went to answer it, and Pickering went into the bathroom and wrapped a towel around his middle.
Or tried to. It was a difficult maneuver with one arm in a cast.
"Hello, Fleming," Dr. Selleres, the house physician, said. He spoke with a slight Spanish accent.
"How are you, Emilio? You brought your bag, I hope? I seem to be leaking all over the Senator's floor." Dr. Selleres walked to him, took a quick look, and shook his head.
"I'm surprised you were discharged from the hospital," the doctor said.
"These wounds are still suppurating."
"They can suppurate as well here as they could in a hospital," Pickering argued reasonably.
"Did you get the cast wet, too?" Selleres said, feeling it. "I don't suppose you've heard of this marvelous new medical technique we have called the sponge bath?"
"I needed a real bath," Pickering said.
"Or so you thought," Selleres said. "Lie down on the bed and I'll do what I can to clean up the mess you've made of yourself." Once he had Pickering down, the doctor checked his heart and blood pressure and peered intently into his eyes. Fowler was surprised that Pickering didn't protest.
Selleres then swabbed the wounds w
ith an antiseptic solution and applied fresh bandages.
"If you don't kill yourself falling down in a shower or doing something else equally stupid, you can have those sutures looked at in four or five days," Dr. Selleres said.
"I love your bedside manner," Pickering said, smiling at him.
"If I wasn't in love with your wife, you could change your own bandages," Selleres said. "Shall I give her any kind of message when I talk to her?"
"You're going to talk to her?"
"Patricia called and made me promise to check on you in the morning. The Senator had told her you were passed out and wouldn't stir before then. Now I can call her tonight and tell her, unfortunately, that you're going to live."
"Do what you can to calm her down, will you, please?"
"Don't I always?" Selleres said. He put out his hand. "Welcome home, Flem. It's good to see you. And I heard about the Silver Star. Congratulations."
"Thank you," Pickering said. Fowler saw that he was embarrassed.
When he had gone, Pickering got off the bed, tried to fasten the towel around his waist, failed, swore, and walked naked out of the bedroom to the bar in the sitting room.
"Not that it seems to bother you," Fowler said, "but would you like some help getting dressed?"
"I can handle everything but a towel," Pickering said. "Towels having neither rubber bands nor buttons."
He made himself a drink and carried it back into the bedroom. Fowler, after making himself a drink, went to the doorway, leaned on the jamb, and watched Pickering dress. He did not offer to help, although it was obvious that Pickering was having a hell of a hard time pulling his cast through the sleeve of a T-shirt and then forcing it over his head.
"Would you please put braces on my trousers?" Pickering asked as he pulled on boxer shorts.
Fowler went to the dresser and picked up a pair of suspenders.
"If you manage that without too much difficulty, I'll let you put the garters on my socks," Pickering said.
"How do you cut your food?" Fowler asked.
"The same way I tie my tie," Pickering said. "I have some kind soul do it for me."
"We don't have to go out to eat, you know. There's room service."
"Tell me about what Leahy's doing," Pickering said, ignoring the offer.
"What do you want to know?"
"I'm just curious. His role seems to fascinate all the admirals."
"You ever meet him?" Pickering nodded.
"A couple of times. When he was Governor of Puerto Rico. Interesting man."
"A good man," Fowler said. "The first time I met him was when he was Chief of Naval Operations. If it wasn't for him, the way he fought for construction funds, made Congress understand, we would have a very small Navy right now to fight this war."
"So what's he doing now?" Pickering asked, sitting on the bed and pulling black socks over his feet.
Fowler dropped to his knees and strapped garters on Pickering's calves.
"His title is Chief of Staff to the Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces of the United States..." Fowler said.
"Which the Navy brass in the Pacific thinks means that he's the senior uniformed officer of the Armed Forces, Army and Navy. Is that the situation?"
... which sounds very impressive," Fowler went on, ignoring the question. "There was an initial perception that he was to rank above both King and Marshall." Admiral Ernest King was the Chief of Naval Operations; General George C. Marshall was the Chief of Staff of the Army. "He had seniority over both officers, having retired from being Chief of Naval Operations in 1939."
"But?" Pickering interrupted again.
"But Roosevelt quickly torpedoed that," Fowler went on, note the Naval symbolism-by saying that Leahy is going to be his legman. His legman only. "
"I am just a simple sailor," Pickering said. "Unversed in the Machiavellian subtleties of politics. I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"It means that the master of that art, Machiavellianism, our beloved President, has done it again."
"Done what again?"
"Kept his subordinates off balance. He's very good at that.
Marshall and King don't know what to think: Just what authority does Leahy have? Is he speaking as Admiral Leahy, who has a lot of rank but no legal authority? Or is Leahy speaking with the authority of the President?"
"So what exactly does he do?"
"Whatever the President tells him to do."
"Now that I have this explanation, I realize that not only doesn't it have anything to do with me, but that I really don't give a damn about White House or Army/Navy politics."
"You're in the Navy, you should be interested."
"I keep telling you that I'm getting out of the Navy," Pickering said.
"And I keep telling you," Fowler said, getting off his knees, "that I don't think Frank Knox is going to let you go. Can you get your pants on by yourself or will you need help with that, too?"
"If you've put the braces on my pants, I can handle putting them on."
[Two]
PENNSYLVANIA STATION
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
31 AUGUST 1942
"Thanks for the ride, Boats," Lieutenant Stecker said to the bosun's mate who had driven them to Manhattan from Lakehurst.
"Yes, Sir," the bosun said. "You go right through that door and you'll see where you turn in your travel vouchers for a ticket-the sign says `Rail Transportation Office."
"Thanks again," Stecker said and closed the station wagon door.
He picked up his small bag and stood there smiling and waving until the station wagon had driven away.
Lieutenant Pickering stepped off the curb, put his fingers to his lips, and whistled. The noise was startling. In a moment a taxi pulled to the curb.
Pickering bowed Stecker into the cab.
"Foster Park Hotel, please," Pickering said to the driver, and then turned to Stecker. "I don't understand why we didn't have the station wagon drop us at the hotel."
"Because that was not some seaman second class," Stecker explained, "who would not give a damn if you told him to drop you in the middle of the Holland Tunnel. That was a boatswain's mate second class. Boatswain's mates second class do not normally chauffeur people around."
"So?" Pickering asked.
"So he probably was driving us because nobody else could be found to drive us. He did not mind doing so, because he thought we really had to catch the train to Long Island. Still with me?"
"To repeat, so?"
"So now he is returning to Lakehurst thinking he has made a small contribution to the war effort by giving up an evening drinking beer and taking two Marine officers to catch a train.
On the other hand, if he dropped us at the hotel, bosun's mates being the clever fellows they are, he would have deduced that we were not bound for Long Island. He would have reported this fact to the chief who runs the motor pool. `Those two fucking jarhead flyboy second Johns didn't go anywhere near fucking Penn Station.' And the next time we asked for wheels at Lakehurst, we would be told, politely, of course, to go fuck ourselves."
Stecker looked at Pickering to judge his reaction to what he thought of as his Lesson 1103 in The Practical Aspects of Military Service. It was immediately apparent that Pickering hadn't heard at least half of what he had said. Pickering was looking out the window.
Then he leaned forward and slid open the panel between the backseat and the front.
"Where are we going?"
"Foster Park Hotel, Sir."
"By way of Greenwich Village? Jesus, do we look that stupid?"
"This is a shortcut I know, Sir."
"Stop at the next cop you see," Pickering said.
The taxi made the next right turn and then turned right again, now headed uptown toward Central Park.
"A guy's got to make a living," the cabdriver said,
"You picked the wrong sucker," Pickering said. "I used to live here."
"You sure don't sound like n
o New Yorker."
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