W E B Griffin - Men at War 2 - Secret Warriors

by Secret Warriors(Lit)

  "But it was considered necessary. It gave Sidi el Ferruch a choice.

  He could turn Fulmar in, and cover himself with the Germans. Or he could continue to protect him, and leave the door open to us. And of course, when we're talking about el Ferrucb, we're talking about Tbami el Glaoui. For the moment, at least, He's decided to leave the door open.

  Fulmar is in the pasha's palace at Ksar es Souk.

  "And what does this Fulmar think of us for leaving him behind when we promised to 2et him out of Morocco?"

  "I don't suppose he thinks very kindly of us," Donovan said. "We'll have to deal with that when we come to it. If we come to it. As I said, the decision whether or not to try to use Thami el Glaoui's Berbers has not yet been made," "If I were Fulmar," the Italy Disciple said, "I would tell you to go straight to the devil." Donovan suppressed a smile.

  "We'll have to burn that bridge when we get to it," he said.

  "I don't think waving a flag at him will be very effective, but he likes money."

  "Good God!" the outraged Disciple said in disgust. "Anything else?"

  Donovan asked, looking at them one at a time. There were only verbal reports, nothing that required discussion. When these were concluded, Donovan's visitors shook his hand and left. He drained the Scotch in his glass, had another, and then turned the light off. But his mind would not let him go to sleep. He poured more Scotch and drank that.

  He wondered if he would die. He didn't want to die now. Not, he thought, until the tide had turned. Not while he was having so much fun. He went to sleep vowing to obey the doctor's command to stay in bed until the embolism dissolved.

  Donovan had been asleep an hour when one of the telephones on his bedside table rang. He had three telephones there: a house phone, a s personal, unlisted telephone. The last was ringing. It was probably Ruth, he thought as he reached for it. He wondered what his wife wanted at this time of night. Instead, it turned out to be Barbara Whittaker. Barbara owned Summer Place, the mansion in Deal, and had made it available without cost or question when Donovan told her he needed it. Barbara Whittaker was a very old friend of both Ruth and Bill. She was also the widow of his lifelong friend Chesly Whittaker, and, he remembered, the aunt of Jimmy Whittaker, who was in the Philippines in the Air Corps, Turning over Summer Place and the house on Q Street to Donovan was the only way she could imagine of helping Jimmy. "I'm sorry if I woke you, Bill, but I had to say thank you."

  "For what?" Donovan asked, confused. "Jimmy just called. He's in San Francisco." Donovan concealed his surprise. The best hope he had had for Chesly Whittaker's nephew was that he would somehow survive both the debacle in the Philippine Islands and the certain confinement in a Japanese POW camp. "He's in San Francisco?" he asked, still confused.

  "All right, Bill," Barbara Whittaker said.

  "I understand. But thank you and God bless you."

  "He got out of the Philippines?" he asked. "Okay, I'll tell you," she said, gently sarcastic, humoring him. "So in case anyone asks you, you'll know. He got out of the Philippines with Douglas MacArthur, and Douglas sent him from Australia with a letter to Franklin Roosevelt.

  They're flying him to Washington tonight with it."

  "I had nothing to do with this, Barbara," Donovan said.

  "But of course I'm delighted to hear it," "God bless you, Bill," Barbara said emotionally "You're really a friend."

  "I hope I am," he said. Then the phone went dead. She really thinks I went to Franklin Roosevelt and got him to give Jimmy special treatment.

  And then he had another thought, a professional thought. Douglas MacArthur, whom Bill Donovan had known since they had both been young colonels with the AEF in France in 1917, was very likely up to something devious. God only knew what that letter contained. Whatever it said, it could not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. Donovan realized that the wrong hands were not only those of Colonel McCormick of the Chicago Tribune but those of George Marshall as well. Marshall and MacArthur despised each other, What Roosevelt did with the letter was his business, but it had to reach him, not get "mistakenly' released to the press, or "misplaced' mi 41111 the Pentagon. Or "lost." Donovan picked up the secure telephone and called the White House. The President was not available, he was told, but would be in half an hour. He left a message for the President: Jimmy Whittaker was in San Francisco, en route to Washington, bearing a personal letter to Franklin Roosevelt from Douglas MacArthur.

  After he hung up, he realized that wasn't enough. Interception of the letter was possible now that he had announced its existence. He picked up the secure phone again and called the COI duty officer in the National Institutes of Health building. He told him to find Captain Peter Doug lass and have him call immediately. Captain Doug lass, whom Donovan had recruited from the Office of Naval Intelligence, was on the phone in three minutes. Donovan told him what he had just learned. "I want you to find out how Whittaker is traveling to Washington," Donovan said. "If he flew from Hawaii," Doug lass said, "he went to NAS Alameda.

  I'll call there and get the details."

  "I want to ensure that he delivers that letter to the President," Donovan said. '-Mich means I want you to have the airplane met when it lands in Washington. I would prefer that you're not personally involved, but if need be, meet him yourself. Is there anybody available?"

  "Canidy is in Washington," Doug lass replied.

  "He came back today from visiting his father in Cedar Rapids. He and Whittaker are close. I think I can lay my hands on him. And Chief Ellis is at the house on Q Street, of course."

  "Where's Canidy, if He's not at the house?" Donovan asked. "He called up and said he was staying with a friend," Doug lass said dryly.

  "He left her number with Ellis."

  "Aside from his cat ting around," Donovan asked, chuckling, "is he giving us any trouble?" Canidy was a naval aviator who had been recruited by General Claire Chennault for his Flying Tigers in China.

  Canidy had been the first ace of the American Volunteer Group. He had then been recruited again, this time by the COI to bring Grunier and the old admiral out of North Africa. After he and Eric Fulmar had been left floating in the Atlantic off Safi by the submarine they'd both expected to escape on, Canidy decided he no longer wished to offer his services to COI Shortly after his safe return to the States, Canidy had informed Captain Doug lass that now that he'd had the opportunity to play Jimmy Cagney as a spy, he'd decided that flying fighters off an airplane carrier didn't seem nearly as dangerous or unpleasant as what he'd gone through in Morocco, and that he would be grateful if Captain Doug lass would arrange for his recommissioning in the Navy.

  There were several reasons why Donovan could not permit this. At the top of the list was Canidy's involvement with the "movement" of Grunier from Morocco to the United States. Canidy knew nothing about why Grunier was important, of course, but he knew about Grunier, and that meant he was privy to a nuclear secret, and that in itself was enough to deny him return to the Navy. And that wasn't the only secret he knew. He had been in contact with Sidi Has san el Ferruch, pasha of Ksar es Souk. Donovan believed that Roosevelt in the end would decide in favor of the notion of using el Ferruch's Berbers in the. But even if he didn't, the necessity for absolute secrecy about American plans for North Africa was such that Canidy's knowledge of them-presuming he was not a cheerful, willing, obedient, loyal Boy Scout's honor COI volunteer-made him a security risk. So would his very knowledge of the inner workings at the top of COI For these reasons, if he became "difficult" Donovan would have to have him sit out the war at a remote base in Alaska or Greenland. It might even be necessary for Donovan to order his "hospitalization for psychiatric evaluation." In the opinion of Roosevelt's attorney general, the legal right of habeas corpus did not apply to mental patients. If Canidy were "hospitalized," it would be for the duration. Captain Doug lass could not threaten Canidy with any of this when he asked to return to the Navy. What he did say to him was that he should sit and think a moment about why it
might be impossible for him to pin his golden naval aviator's wings back on.

  Canidy, who was by no means stupid, saw what the writing on the wall was, and agreed-by no means enthusiastically-to stay on. "No," Doug lass said to Donovan.

  "He's hardly what you could can a happy volunteer, but he seems to have reconsidered his situation."

  "If he were a happy volunteer," Donovan said, "that would worry me."

  Donovan was pleased, and relieved. He liked Canidy personally, and it would have been unpleasant to order his "hospitalization." And he agreed with El don Baker, the longtime professional intelligence officer in charge of the Moroccan operation, that Canidy was one of those rarities who have the strange combination of intelligence, imagination, courage, and ruthlessness that an agent needs. It would have been a pity had it been necessary to lock those talents up for the duration. Captain Doug lass chuckled.

  "Okay," Donovan said.

  "Then he's the man. Have Chief Ellis get him out of the lady's bed, tell him what he has to know, and then let him handle it. Didn't you tell me you'd gotten him a marshal's badge?"

  "It's in the safe."

  " Well, give it to him," Donovan said." Send Ellis along with him.

  Chief Boatswain's Mate Ellis was an old China sailor from the Yangtze River Patrol. Ellis was Doug lass's jack-of-all-trades in Washington.

  "Yes, Sir."

  "And maybe you better go with them too. Sit in the car or something, where nobody can see you. just make sure that letter is not intercepted."

  "If I have any trouble, I'll call you back," Doug lass said.

  "Otherwise, I will call you when Whittaker is safe in the house on Q Street."

  "Fine."

  "How are you, Colonel?" Doug lass asked. "I'm sitting up in bed drinking rat poison and Scotch whiskey," Donovan said.

  "Thank you for asking, Peter."

  "Good night, Sir." Somewhat bitterly, Donovan thought he was spending much too much time in political warfare with the ranking member of the American military establishment. But it couldn't be helped. His allegiance belonged to Roosevelt, and no one else.

  ONE I Alameda Naval Air Station Alameda, California April 4, 1942

  The twin-engine B-25 Mitchell medium bomber taxied up to the Alameda transient parking ramp and killed its engines. Mounted just below the pilot's-side window on the fuselage was the single silver star insignia of a brigadier general on a red plate the size of an automobile license plate.

  A door opened in the bottom of the fuselage and a short ladder appeared.

  A lieutenant, wearing aviator's wings and the insignia of an aide de-camp, descended the ladder and started toward base cps just as a Navy captain and an Army captain walked out of the base cps building.

  The lieutenant and the Navy captain exchanged salutes. The Army captain, hands jammed into his pockets, nodded at the lieutenant.

  "Hold it down there a minute," a voice called from the pilot's window of the B-25. A moment later, the pilot, who wore the stars of a brigadier general on the epaulets of his horsehide zippered jacket, came out of the airplane and walked toward the others. Another salute was exchanged.

  "Good evening, Captain," the general said, offering his hand. "I'm General Jacobs. What's this all about?"

  "Captain Farber, Sir," the Navy officer said.

  "I'm the air operations officer. This is your passenger."

  "My name is Whittaker," the Army officer volunteered conversationally.

  Brigadier General Jacobs did not like the appearance of the captain.

  He was wearing a horsehide aviator's jacket over his tropical worsted uniform; that was not only against uniform regulations, it was unsightly, for the leather jacket did not cover the blouse. Moreover, he was annoyed at being ordered to divert to Alameda to pick up a priority passenger who turned out to be nothing but a lowly captain.

  Your appearance, Captain," he said, "is disgraceful," "I've been traveling, General," Whittaker told him. "And you have been drinking," the brigadier general snapped. "I can smell it!"

  "Yes, Sir, I have been drinking," Whittaker confessed cheerfully. "I have been informed that he is on a high-priority mission," Brigadier General Jacobs said to the Navy captain.

  "My first reaction is to order him back to his unit." Whittaker chuckled.

  "You're amused?" the general flared. "That might be a little hard to do, General," Whittaker said. "General," the Navy captain said, "this officer just came out of the Philippines."

  "Oh?" The general's tone softened, but just barely. He looked at Whittaker.

  "I'm sure," he said, "that you have seen difficult service. But that's really no excuse for looking slovenly. Or drinking on duty. Let me see your orders, Captain."

  "Sir," the Navy captain said, "Captain Whittaker's orders are classified Secret."

  "You've seen them?"

  "Yes, Sir," the Navy captain said.

  "Captain Whittaker has the highest possible priority to facilitate his movement to Washington." That explained, then, General Jacobs thought, why he had been ordered to Alameda Naval Air Station. Brigadier generals bound for Washington on their own important business are not routinely ordered to divert for passenger pickups. Curiosity got the better of him. He looked at Whittaker. "How did you get out of the Philippines?"

  "In apt boat," Whittaker said.

  The story of MacArthur's escape-General Jacobs privately thought of it as "personal retreat"-from the Philippines was well known. It was logical to conclude that this young officer had been with him. "Well, get aboard, Captain," he said.

  "We've got a long flight ahead of us, and we're only going to stop for fuel."

  "Thank you, Captain," Whittaker said to the Navy captain. General Jacobs waited until Whittaker and his aide had disappeared into the fuselage.

  Then he looked at the Navy captain. "You can't tell me what this is all about?" ,I've had two telephone calls already from Washington," the Navy captain said, "asking for his schedule. All I know is that he's headed right for the White House."

  "Very interesting," General Jacobs said. He gave his hand to the Navy captain, then walked to the airplane. As he started up the ladder, the port engine starter began to grind.

  TWO I It was a long and cold flight from San Francisco to Salt Lake City. The aircraft's weapons had been removed, but the pieces of Plexiglas intended to cover the weapons ports had not been replaced, and cold wind whistled through the fuselage from the moment they began the takeoff roll. When they were at altitude, General Jacobs went back into the fuselage and expressed regret that it was uncomfortable for Whittaker, but that he could unfortunately do nothing about it. In Salt Lake City, while they took on fuel, Whittaker stole a case of paper towels from the men's room in base operations. As soon as they were airborne again, he stuffed the towels in the openings in the nose.

  It wasn't a perfect solution, but it helped. When they refueled again at the Air Corps field at Omaha, Nebraska, It was a toss-up, Whittaker reflected, whether the general was more annoyed with him for the appearance of the airplane, or with the people at Omaha for not having the parts to fill the gaps in the windows. The paper towels were removed and replaced with strips of blanket, taped in place. General acobs's ire had preceded them to the Air Corps J base at Columbus, Ohio, and when they landed there to refuel again, a captain and two sergeants were waiting with the missing pieces of Plexiglas. From Columbus to Washington, it was not quite as cold in the fuselage, but Whittaker's blood was still thin from the tropics, and he spent the flight huddled under a thick layer of blankets, When the B-25 landed at Bolling Field, a Follow Me pickup led it far away from the lights of Base Operations and the hangars to a distant spot on the parking ramp.

  When Whittaker climbed down the ladder and, ducking his head, walked away from the airplane, he found a number of people waiting for the B-25. There were two cars: an olive-drab Chevrolet staff car, driven by a buck sergeant, which Whittaker presumed was for him, and a black Buick Road master sedan, driv
en by a Navy chief boatswain's mate. A tall, erect General Staff Corps colonel approached him first and asked if he was Captain Whittaker. When Whittaker nodded, he announced that he was from the Office of the Chief of Staff and that he had been sent to take possession of the letter Whittaker was carrying. "Excuse me, Colonel," another voice-oddly familiar, Whittaker thought-broke in, "but I have been sent to welcome Captain it take r home, and to take charge of him and the letter."

  "I'll be a sonofabitch," Whittaker said, really surprised." Canidy!

  Richard Canidy had been James M. B. Whittaker's best friend since they had been adolescents at St. Mark's School. Until this moment, Whittaker had believed that Canidy was in China as a Flying Tiger.

  Which meant that Canidy, if he wasn't dead, was in the deep shit there at least as much as he himself had been in the Philippines. "May I ask who you are?" the colonel asked, "I'm a deputy United States marshal, Colonel," Canidy said. He took a small wallet from his pocket and extended it, open, for the colonel's examination. "What the hell is all that?"