W E B Griffin - Corp 05 - Line of Fire

by Line Of Fire(Lit)

  Galloway waited until Dunn left the tent, then said, "Lieutenant Dunn is working on being a double ace. He's my executive officer." He saw increased interest in the eyes of both of his new officers.

  "Stecker, you said?"

  "Yes, Sir." `You're an Annapolis man, I see, Mister Stecker?" `No, Sir. West Point."

  West Point? You don't see many of those in The Corps.

  "And you, Mr.-"

  "Pickering, Sir."

  "-Pickering. Where did you get your commission?"

  "Quantico, Sir. Officer Candidate School."

  "And your flight training?

  "P'Cola, Sir. Both of us."

  "And how many hours do you have? You first, Mr. Pickering."

  "Four hundred sixty-eight, Sir." That was a good deal more than Charley expected to hear.

  The last half-dozen replacements to VMF-229 had averaged about 250 hours total time, very little of that in Wildcats.

  "How much in Wildcats?"

  "Two twenty-eight, Sir."

  "This is not, then, your first squadron assignment?"

  `Yes, Sir, it is."

  "How did you get so much time in Wildcats, then?"

  "They had us ferrying them, Sir, from Bethpage all over the country."

  "Both of you, you mean?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "You answer this, Mr. Stecker. I want a straight answer. What was your last thought when you took off from the escort carrier?"

  "Sir," Stecker hesitated a moment, and then blurted, "that had better run the engine as lean as possible, Sir, or prepare to take a swim."

  "How much fuel remaining when you touched down?"

  "About fifteen minutes, Sir."

  "You, Pickering?"

  "My fuel warning light was lit, Sir."

  "And what was your reaction to that?"

  "I was scared shitless," Pick said, remembering a moment later to add, "Sir."

  "In other words, you're telling me that you knowingly took off with inadequate fuel?"

  "It didn't turn out to be inadequate, Sir."

  "You're not being flip, are you, Pickering?"

  "Sir," Stecker said, "Mr. Pickering raised the question of fuel just before we were to launch and was told to man his aircraft."

  "Sir, I think it was a question of getting the carrier turned around as quickly as possible."

  In other words, I was right, there was an asshole on that escort carrier, probably wearing commander's boards.

  "Where are you from, Pickering? Are you married?"

  "San Francisco, Sir. No, Sir, I'm not married." Galloway looked at Stecker.

  "No, Sir. I'm not married. I'm from eastern Pennsylvania, Sir."

  "Philadelphia?"

  "About seventy miles north of Philadelphia, Sir."

  "My girl's from Philadelphia," Galloway said.

  Why the hell did I offer that information?

  "Yes, Sir," Stecker said.

  "And just before I came over here, I was in San Francisco," Galloway said. A quick, entirely pleasant memory of Caroline came into his mind. They'd spent a fair amount of time together in their marble-walled, multiple-showerhead bath. "Had a hell of a time in the Andrew Foster Hotel. You know it?"

  "Yes, Sir," Pick said. "We've been there." Galloway picked up on a look the two of them exchanged.

  The Andrew Foster Hotel touched a nerve, he decided. They probably got really shit-faced there. In due course a report of conduct unbecoming officers and gentlemen will be forwarded through channels for my attention. I hope they had a good time.

  "What we do here is try to protect the field and the area around it from the Japanese," Galloway explained. "Most of the time-nine times out of ten-we have advance knowledge that they're coming. When we do get it, we get in the air as fast as we can and try to intercept them as far from here as we can."

  "May I ask how we get the advance knowledge, Sir?" Stecker asked.

  "Primarily from the Coast watchers. They're Australians who stayed behind when the Japs occupied the islands to the north of us. Guys with real big balls. They radio Pearl Harbor and it's relayed to us here. Other times we get word from our own patrolling aircraft or from carrier-launched patrols. But mostly it's the Coast watchers who alert us."

  "What are those funny-looking airplanes I saw when I sat down?" Pick asked. "The ones with alligator teeth painted on them?" He didn't say "Sir ",- he should know what a Bellfighter is; and those are shark teeth, not alligator teeth. But there's something about this kid I like.

  "Those are shark teeth, Mr. Pickering," Galloway said.

  "The aircraft are Army P-400 fighters, and the pilots who man them are as good as any I've ever known. Any further questions?"

  "Yes, Sir. When will we go up for the first time?"

  "Anxious to get into combat, are you?"

  "No, Sir. I was just curious, that's all."

  Hell, I'd ask the same question.

  "Well, we'll get you a place to sleep and show you the mess.

  In the morning either Lieutenant Dunn or myself will take you for a little ride and see how well you can fly. If that goes well, you'll go up for real very soon after that. If it doesn't go well, we'll wait until we're sure you won't kill yourself or somebody else."

  "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

  Lieutenant Bill Dunn came into the tent.

  "Sir, I took the liberty of asking Big Steve to put our squadron numbers on those airplanes."

  "Good boy, Bill," Galloway said, and then introduced the newcomers to Dunn.

  "Find them a place to sleep and get them settled for this afternoon," Galloway said. "I told them we'll give them an area check ride in the morning."

  "Aye, aye, Sir."

  "Unless you have a question, Stecker?"

  "Sir, more on the order of a request."

  "Shoot."

  "If we're to have a couple of hours free, would there be time for me to go to 2nd of the Fifth?"

  "Second Battalion, Fifth Marines?" Galloway asked. "Why do you want to go there? A buddy's with 2nd of the Fifth?"

  "My father, Sir." There was silence for a moment.

  "You don't happen to be Jack (NMI) Stecker's boy, do you, Mr. Stecker?"

  "Yes, Sir." Well, that explains West Point. If they hang the Medal of Honor around your neck, your kids get to go to the Service Academy of their choice.

  He then remembered hearing that Major Jack (NMI) Stecker's son, an Annapolis graduate, a Navy ensign, had been killed aboard the battleship Arizona at Pearl Harbor on December 7th.

  Major Jack (NMI) Stecker is going to be something less than overjoyed to find his other son on this fucking goddamned island as a fighter pilot.

  "Find somebody to drive him up there in my jeep, please, Bill," Galloway said.

  "Aye, aye, Sir."

  [Three]

  THE FOSTER LAFAYETTE HOTEL

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  0915 HOURS 22 SEPTEMBER 1942

  A discreet knock at the door came shortly after a room service waiter rolled in a tray carrying ham and eggs, toast, coffee, a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, a copy of The Washington Star, and a rose in a tiny vase.

  "Come in," Sergeant George Hart called cheerfully.

  The door opened and a man in a paint-stained smock stuck his head in.

  "Sorry to disturb you, Sir," he said. "If you'll tell me when it's convenient, I'll come back and finish painting the door." He pointed at the wall that separated the suite Hart shared with Moore from the one Senator Richmond F. Fowler shared with Brigadier General Fleming Pickering. A tarpaulin concealed the newly installed door.

  "Come ahead," George said. "Watching other people work has never bothered me." The witticism was lost on the painter.

  "I'll come back when you've left, Sir."

  "I don't plan to leave. Come on in and paint the door."

  "Yes, Sir." George turned his attention to The Washington Star.

  According to Reuters News Service, there was heavy fighting bet
ween the Germans and the Russians on Mamayec Kurgan Hill, outside Stalingrad. Casualties on both sides were described as severe.

  British troops had landed at Tamatave on the east coast of Madagascar, with the apparent intention of taking the capital, Tananarive. This was held by reportedly "very strong" Vichy French forces. There was a map, with arrows. George knew who the Vichy French were, they were the ones who'd made peace with the Germans. But he had no idea where Madagascar was. The map was no help.

  In the Pacific, the Commander in Chief, Pacific, had announced that six transports, under heavy escort, had made it safely to Guadalcanal, where they successfully delivered the Seventh Marines (to reinforce the First Marine Division), and a "substantial amount" of supplies. There was a map here, too; and George studied this one with interest.

  Until he'd seen Major Dillon's movies yesterday, he really hadn't been all that interested in Guadalcanal.

  He was reading the comic strips when the telephone rang.

  Not the one in his suite, one of the telephones in The General's.

  He carefully squeezed past the painter working on the door and picked it up. It was The General's phone, not the Senator's. He knew the drill:

  "General Pickering's quarters, Sergeant Hart speaking, Sir." He would then tell them The General was not available at the moment and could he take a message?

  "George?" His heart jumped.

  "Jesus Christ!"

  "I called last night when I got here," Elizabeth Lathrop said.

  "Some officer answered and said you would be late." He could feel her fingernails on his back, smell the soap in her hair, taste the skin of her neck.

  "How the hell did you get this number?"

  "Where else would Pick's father stay in Washington?"

  "What do you want?" He could tell from her tone that the question hurt.

  Jesus Christ, I didn't want to hurt her feelings!

  "Well, I happened to be in the neighborhood," she said more coldly, "and I thought I would just call up and say hi."

  "You're in Washington?"

  "Yes," she said. "And I thought maybe you'd want to see me. He thought: I would kill to be inside you again, with your breasts soft and warm against my chest.

  Detective George Hart of the Saint Louis Vice Squad answered for him without thinking: "Honey, I can't afford you." The telephone made a clicking noise, then hummed, and then after a moment, there came the dial tone.

  "Shit!" Hart said, loudly and bitterly. He slammed the handset into the cradle and said "shit!" again.

  The man painting the door looked at him with open curiosity. George glowered at him and the painter looked away.

  How the hell can I find her? Call the local cops and ask them as a professional service to a brother vice detective if they have an address or known associates of a high-class whore named Lathrop, Elizabeth, white female, approximately five three, approximately twenty-two or twenty-three, approximately one hundred five pounds, blue eyes, blond hair, no distinguishing scars or bodily blemishes?

  That's probably not even her fucking name. That's her professional name.

  Her real name is probably Agnes Kutcharsky or some shit.

  He had just squeezed past the painter when the telephone rang again.

  "General Pickering's quarters, Sergeant Hart speaking, Sir."

  "Don't you think I know you don't have any goddamned money?"

  "Baby!"

  "You sonofabitch!"

  "I'm sorry. That just... I don't know why I said that." There was a long silence.

  "I said I was sorry."

  "OK."

  "Where are you?"

  "The Hotel Washington."

  I've seen that marquee. It's around here someplace. Hell, yes, right down the street, a block down from Pennsylvania Avenue, around the corner from the movie theater.

  "That's right around the corner."

  "Yeah, I know. Do they give you any time off?"

  "I'm off now."

  "Would you like to come here? And have a drink or something?" A drink, at hal(past nine in the morning? Or something?

  "Or something," George said.

  "I'm in 805," Elizabeth Lathrop said. The phone clicked again before he could open his mouth to say, "I'll be there in a couple of minutes." It was beautiful outside. The sun was shining and the temperature was just right. Indian summer, he thought, as he walked-almost trotted-past the White House. It's sort of like a dream, he thought, walking past the White House, on my way to be with Elizabeth.

  The Washington Theater was showing Eagle Squadron; Tyrone Power was playing an American who went to fly for the English. Hart remembered hearing someplace that Tyrone Power was joining The Corps. From Major Dillon, that's it, he remembered; he'd heard him tell The General. He wondered if they would send him to Parris Island. It was strange to think of Tyrone Power with all his hair cut off getting screamed at by some asshole like Corporal Clayton C. Warren.

  The Hotel Washington was just where his memory placed it.

  He pushed his way through the revolving door, walked across the lobby to the bank of elevators, and rode up to the eighth floor; 805 was the third door to the left.

  When Beth opened the door, she was wearing a white blouse, an unbuttoned sweater, and a tweed skirt. And she wouldn't look at him.

  "Hi! Come on in."

  "I'm sorry about what I said on the telephone." She nodded but didn't reply.

  "It's only a couple of blocks from the Foster Lafayette to here." She nodded again.

  "So what brings you to Washington?" Now she looked at him, and there was pain in her eyes again.

  "Oh, Jesus!" Hart said, almost moaning.

  "Stupid of me, right?" Elizabeth said. "But I decided, what the hell..." He reached out and touched her face; and her hand came up and touched his. Then all of a sudden he was holding her in his arms as tight as he had ever held anybody. He didn't kiss her, he just clung to her, his face buried in her hair. And she was hanging on to him, too, and she was weeping a little, and he realized he felt a little like crying too.

  And then he became aware of the warmth of her legs against his, and the softness of her breasts against him, and he grew erect. He pulled his middle away from her.

  She pulled her head back and looked at him, and he was right, she had been crying; tears were making a path down her cheeks through her makeup.

  "It's all right," she said, sort of laughing. "I would have been disappointed..." She put her hand on his cheek.

  There was an imperious rapping at the door.

  "Who's there?"

  "Assistant manager, Miss Lathrop. Please open the door." She freed herself from George's arms. Rubbing at her eyes with her knuckles, she went to the door and opened it.

  A middle-aged man in a business suit entered without being invited.

  Assistant manager, my ass. that's a house detective. I've seen enough of them to know one when I see one.

  "You're not allowed up here, Sergeant. The Washington is not that kind of hotel. And, Miss Lathrop, we would appreciate it if you would check out as soon as possible." As he walked quickly to the ruddy-faced house detective, George took his credentials from his tunic pocket.

  "What's going on in here is none of your business," he said.

  The house detective took a long look at the credentials and then looked at Hart.

  "Take a walk," Hart said. "And don't come back. And the lady will not be checking out. Got it?" Without a word, the house detective turned and pulled the door open and went through it.

  What was that all about? Did he just add up a Marine sergeant going to hotel room as a guy about to pay for a piece of ass?

  Or did he take one look at Elizabeth and decide she was a whore?

  Jesus, she doesn't look like a whore or act like one.

  He turned and looked at her.

  "Well," she said.

  Hart shrugged.

  "What was that you showed him?"

  "I've got sort of a Marine Cor
ps badge."

  "I thought maybe you showed him your vice detective badge," Beth said.