“The public relations guy says he’d like to get him involved in this, and I know damned well he wouldn’t come here.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” Pick said.
“So you’re saying I shouldn’t do it?”
“No, I think it’s a good idea. What I said was he won’t like it, and I agree that he wouldn’t come here except at the point of a bayonet. But if I have to go in there and be charming and modest, the least the old man can do is smile at the press and whoever.”
“The charm comes easily,” Ernie said. “It’s the modesty that gives him problems.”
“Thank you, Killer, for taking this forked-tongue female off my hands,” Pick said.
“Don’t call him ‘Killer,’ goddamn you!” Ernie snapped.
“It’s okay, baby,” McCoy said.
“We’re ready for you, Captain,” a man in a gray suit said.
“And now, I think Captain Pickering will take a few questions, ” the man in the gray suit announced. “And then we’ve got cars arranged to take everybody to the Imperial for a little liquid courage.”
Predictably, Pick thought, the questions were predictable:
Q. (Fat little bespectacled fart) Isn’t this really show-boating? Putting the passengers in danger?
A. The safety of our passengers is our primary concern; we have not and will not increase any risk to them.
Q. (Tall, thin, pasty-faced. Was probably a classroom monitor in high school) But speed records imply racing, racing is by definition dangerous, so how can you say this wasn’t dangerous?
A. The aeronautical engineers of the manufacturer, Lockheed, and our own aeronautical engineers have come up with what they call an “envelope.” It sets forth the conditions in which flight is safe. Airspeed, engine rpm, that sort of thing. We were never “out of the envelope”; if we had been, the record wouldn’t have counted.
Q. (Pasty-face follow-up) But then why try to set speed records?
A. We didn’t try to set a speed record. We tried to bring our passengers here as quickly—and comfortably—as possible within the safe-flight envelope. We did that, and it happened to set a speed record.
Q. (Nice-looking. Great boobs) Aren’t you a little young to be a captain?
A. Excuse me?
Q. (Great boobs follow-up. Nice face, too) The popular image of an airline captain—especially of one making across-the-ocean flights like this one—is, oh, forty-ish, fifty-ish, gray temples, a look of experience.
A. I must be the exception to that rule.
Q. (Nice boobs, plus nice teeth in a very nice mouth, follow-up) How did you get to be a captain? Did you fly transports or bombers when you were in the service?
A. No, ma’am, I did not fly multiengined aircraft, bombers or transports, in the service.
Q. (Nice boobs, face, teeth, nice everything, follow-up) Then how did you get to be a captain so young?
A. My daddy loaned me the money to start Trans-Global.
Q. (Nice, better than nice, everything, follow-up) I don’t think you’re kidding.
A. Boy Scout’s honor, ma’am.
Q. (Nice everything follow-up) Who’s your daddy?
A. His name is Fleming Pickering.
Q. There’s a rumor floating that he’s in Tokyo. True?
A. (Man in gray suit) We’re going to have to cut this off, ladies and gentlemen, we’re running out of time. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. The cars are waiting in front of the hotel, and will wait at the Imperial to bring you back here.
“Except for that crack about your daddy loaning you the money to start the airline, you did very well, Pick. I’m proud of you,” Ernie said, as they walked along the street to where Pick had parked the Ford.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Is that crap really important?” McCoy asked.
“According to Charley it is. It sells seats, and that’s the name of the game.”
“Hey, Captain Pickering, hold up a minute!”
Pick looked over his shoulder to find the source of the female voice. Nice Everything was coming down the sidewalk toward them.
Nice legs, too. Damn nice legs.
“Believe it or not, that was a legitimate question,” Nice Everything said.
“What was a legitimate question?”
“You are—at least you look—too young to be an airline captain.”
“I don’t think I caught the name,” Pick said.
“Jeanette Priestly, Chicago Tribune,” she said, giving him her hand.
Nice, soft, warm hand.
“My friends call me ’Pick,’ ” he said. “These are my friends, Captain and Mrs. McCoy. Ken and Ernie.”
“Which one’s Ernie?”
“I am.”
Nice Everything turned to McCoy.
“You’re also a pilot?”
“I’m a Marine, not a pilot.”
Jeanette turned to Pick.
“The public relations guy told me why you didn’t fly ‘multiengine’ planes when you were a Marine,” Jeanette said. “You should have told me. It would have made a great lead: ‘Marine Fighter Ace Sets Trans-Pacific Airliner Speed Record.’ ”
“You have to understand,” Ernie said, straight-faced, “that when you look in the dictionary under ‘modest,’ you see our hero’s picture.”
The two women smiled at each other.
“And so was the question about your father being here legitimate,” Jeanette said. “I’d really like to interview him.”
“I don’t know about an interview,” Pick said. “But if you want to come with us to the Imperial—presuming the old man is back from dinner—I’ll introduce you.”
“Dinner with MacArthur, right?” she asked.
Pick didn’t reply.
“Hey, I’m good at what I do, too,” Jeanette said. “Yes, thank you ever so much, Captain Pickering, I would love to go to the Imperial with you.”
“And afterward, how about dinner?”
“If I’m in a good mood—and getting to talk to your daddy would put me in a very good mood—I would be delighted. ”
[FIVE]
THE DEWEY SUITE THE IMPERIAL HOTEL TOKYO, JAPAN 2245 1 JUNE 1950
In the limousine on the way to the Hotel Imperial, Fleming Pickering had consoled himself with the thought that while he had absolutely no idea what to do about McCoy’s predicament, he didn’t have to face him right now with that announcement. What he was going to do now was have a drink—maybe two, but certainly one really stiff one—and fall into bed.
Sometimes, perhaps even often, he went to bed facing a problem that seemed to have no solution and when he woke in the morning—for that matter, sometimes at three A.M.—he had found one. He couldn’t explain it, except perhaps to wonder if the brain continued to work while one was asleep, but it happened, and with a little bit of luck it would happen tonight.
He heard the sound of a party as he walked down the corridor toward the Dewey Suite, and as he felt for his key, was surprised to realize that it was coming from his suite.
What the hell?
He had just put the key in the lock when it was opened for him by a white-jacketed Japanese barman.
Pickering looked quickly around the room and saw there were two dozen or more people in the living room, including Charley Ansley and the station manager who had met them at the airport, and whose name he still didn’t know. After a moment, he recognized Pick’s copilot on the flight.
The record-setting flight. That’s what this is all about. Charley’s throwing a party for the crew, the people who run the operation in Tokyo, and, more than likely, for the press.
Seeming to confirm this, there was a bartender now behind the bar, and another white-jacketed Japanese was walking through the room carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
Jesus! Just what I need! Like a third leg.
He saw Pick paying rapt attention to a tall, graceful brunette, and then, surprising him, he saw Captain and Mrs. Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR.
Pick and Charley Ansley saw him at the same time, and Ansley, a portly man in his fifties who combed what was left of his hair over the top of his skull, started toward him.
“Hail the father of our conquering hero,” Charley said.
Pickering smiled, hoping it didn’t look as insincere as it felt, and put out his hand.
“Good to see you, Charley,” he said.
“This was the best place I could think of to do this . . .”
“They don’t have party rooms at the Hotel Hokkaido?”
“. . . and even if they did, you probably would not have come over there, and I would have had to invite Bart Stevens, which I didn’t want to do.”
“It was a good idea, Charley,” Pickering said.
“How did things go with MacArthur?” Charley asked.
“He’s an amazing man,” Pickering said.
“If you’re talking about the Supreme Commander,” Pick said, “Jeanette here would be ever so grateful for details.”
Pickering had not seen Pick and the lanky brunette walk up.
“Jeanette, this is my dad,” Pick went on. “Pop, this is Jeanette Priestly.”
She put out her hand to him.
“Pick tells me you just had dinner with General MacArthur. True?”
“Miss Priestly, I feel morally bound to tell you that one—especially if one is a very attractive young woman— should never trust anything my son says.”
“True or not?” she pursued.
“Jeanette’s interest is professional,” Pick said. “She’s a reporter.”
“Chicago Tribune,” she furnished.
“It was a private dinner between old friends,” Pickering said. “General MacArthur said nothing newsworthy.”
And even if he had, despite that brilliant smile you’re flashing me, did you really think I would tell you?
“Whatever General MacArthur says is newsworthy,” she said, with a smile.
“How did it go, Pop?” Pick asked.
“A trip down memory lane,” Pickering replied.
“Just you and MacArthur and Mrs. Supreme Commander? ”
He’s doing this to get on the right side of the girl. Well, why not?
“We had drinks, first,” Pickering said. “General Willoughby, Colonel Huff, and MacArthur’s chief of staff, General Almond. I’d never met him before. It was just the MacArthurs and me for dinner.”
“What did you think of General Almond?” Jeanette asked.
“He’s an army officer, a senior one, and he must be competent, or he wouldn’t be MacArthur’s chief of staff. Nice fellow, I thought. And you may quote me, Miss Priestly.”
“There’s a story going around about General Almond,” she said. “I’d love to know if it’s true or not.”
“I really don’t think I want to hear the story,” Pickering said, rather coldly. “Isn’t that what they call muckraking?”
“I know nothing but nice things about General Almond,” she said. “But his previous—to being chief of staff to the Supreme Commander—claim to fame was that he had one of the two Negro divisions in Italy during World War II.”
“I don’t think I follow you,” Pickering said.
“Are you being diplomatically dense, General?”
“Please don’t call me ‘General,’ Miss Priestly, it’s been a long time since I wore a uniform.”
“Sorry,” she said, and then smiled at him. “You make it sound like something you’re ashamed about.”
“I meant to imply, Miss Priestly,” Pickering said coldly, “that ‘General’ is a title of honor to which I am no longer entitled.”
Well, aren’t you the pompous ass, Fleming Pickering?
Goddamn, she made me mad.
And, I think, on purpose.
Get the old fart mad, and he’s liable to say something he shouldn’t.
“And I don’t know what ‘diplomatically dense’ means,” Pickering said.
“That’s when you pretend not to understand what someone has just told you.”
“I understood that General Almond commanded a Negro division in Italy. I don’t understand the significance of that.”
“Really? Or is that diplomatic density?”
He didn’t reply.
“Is this history lesson boring you, General?”
He looked at her for a long moment before replying.
“No. If you wanted to get my attention, you’ve succeeded. Please go on.”
“Okay,” she said, then waited as Pickering grabbed a wandering waiter.
“Famous Grouse, double, water on the side,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
“Two,” Jeanette said.
“Three,” Pick said.
“Oh, what the hell,” Charley Ansley said. “Four.”
“Please continue, Miss Priestly,” Pickering said.
“You can call me ’Jeanette,’ ” she said. “What should I call you?”
“ ‘Sir’ would be nice.”
Charley Ansley chuckled.
“Score one for sir,” Jeanette said. “The game ain’t over . . .”
“Until the fat lady sings?” Pick offered.
“And half a point for Little Sir,” Jeanette said.
Pickering chuckled. Jeanette smiled at him.
That smile she meant.
“We’re waiting, with somewhat bated breath, for your history lesson, Jeanette.”
“Okay, sir. Consider the end of World War Two.”
“Sir was on the first plane to land in Japan,” Pick said.
“How fascinating. Next time, raise your hand before you interrupt me.”
“Score one for Jeanette,” Pickering said.
“We have two five-stars, Eisenhower in Germany, specifically in Frankfurt, and El Supremo here. Each has a three-star chief of staff. Ike had Walter Bedell Smith, who had been his chief of staff throughout the European war, and MacArthur had Sutherland here.”
“Okay,” Pickering said.
“Just before he died, Roosevelt appointed another three-star, Lucius D. Clay, a heavy hitter who had been in charge of Army procurement throughout the war, to be deputy military governor of Germany under Ike. When Ike went home to be chief of staff, Clay replaced him as Commander-in-Chief, Europe. Truman gave Clay a fourth star, and sent him a succession of three-stars to command Seventh Army.”
“You’ve done your homework, obviously,” Pickering thought aloud.
“I work hard at what I do for a living, sir. Like you, sir.”
Pick chuckled.
“Walter Bedell Smith, known as ‘The Beetle’ for reasons I can’t imagine, went home with Ike. First, he was made DCSOPS . . . You know what that is, sir?”
Pickering shook his head, “no.”
“Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations,” Jeanette said. “Then Truman named him Ambassador to the Soviet Union. Now there’s talk of naming him Director of the Central Intelligence Agency to replace Admiral Hillenkoetter. ”
“This is all very fascinating, Jeanette,” Pickering said, smiling, “and I’m sure that somewhere down the road, you’ll make your point.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, smiling back. “Now, at this end of the world, we had General of the Army Douglas MacArthur, and his chief of staff, Lieutenant General Richard Sutherland. General Sutherland went home for ‘reasons of health’—and I’d love to know what was behind that. He thereupon disappeared from sight. No job in the Pentagon, nothing.”
“Maybe he was ill,” Pickering said.
“Maybe,” Jeanette went on. “Leaving one three-star here under MacArthur, Lieutenant General Walton H. ‘Johnny’ Walker, who commands the Eighth Army. I don’t suppose he was at dinner tonight?”
Pickering shook his head, “no.”
“Not surprising. He is not a member of the elite, otherwise known as the ‘Bataan Gang.’ ”
“There is a point to all this, right?” Pickering said.
“One would logically assume, wouldn’t one, th
at the five-star Supreme Commander in Japan would be entitled to the same sort of staff as the five-star commander-in-chief in Europe?”
“One might.”
“A four-star, like Lucius Clay, would be appropriate, no?”
“One would think so.”
“Failing a four-star, then a three-star, right?”
“That would seem logical.”
“And failing a three-star, then a hotshot two-star with lots more stars clearly on his horizon. Max Taylor comes to mind. So does I. D. White.”
“Who?” Pick asked.
“Max Taylor commanded the 10lst Airborne Division; White commanded the 2nd ‘Hell on Wheels’ Armored Division. He would have liberated Paris if he hadn’t had to let the French pass through his lines to get the glory, and he had his lead tanks across the Elbe River and was prepared to take Berlin when Ike told him to let the Russians do it. It’s a sure thing that both of them will get a third star, a good chance that they’ll both get four, and even money that one or the other will be chief of staff of the Army. And what better way to learn that trade than by being chief of staff to MacArthur?”
“That would seem to make sense,” Pickering said.
“So who does the Army—which means Eisenhower, onetime aide to MacArthur—send to the Supreme Commander? Edward M. Almond, whose claim to fame was commanding one of the two Negro divisions in Italy. Without much wild acclaim, by the way. He did his job, but he wasn’t a hotshot. I don’t think he’s even a West Pointer. I think he’s either VMI or the Citadel.”
Mention of the Citadel made him think of Colonel Ed Banning, one of the finest officers he had ever known.
“And you’ve drawn some sort of a conclusion from this?” Pickering asked.
“If I were Douglas MacArthur, I’d think I was being insulted. ”
“If Douglas MacArthur thought having General Almond assigned to him was insulting, General Almond would not be his chief of staff,” Pickering said.
I don’t believe that; so why did I say it? MacArthur’s reaction to insults is to ignore them. He knew damned well they called him “Dugout Doug,” and pretended he didn’t. It wasn’t fair, anyway. He took stupid chances by staying in the line of fire—artillery and small arms—when he should have been in a dugout.
“Huh!” Jeanette snorted.
Under Fire Page 7
