"Three thousand in the brigade in the Palau Islands, plus two thousand in the Ichiki Butai on Truk, plus what? Five, six hundred in the Rikusentai battalion? Five thousand five hundred people. Plus the four thousand you say may be left on Guadalcanal. Ninety-five hundred, ten thousand."
"At the most optimistic," Hon said, "they would have as many people there as we do. Much more likely, a couple of thousand less."
"And you can't push an Army back in the sea unless you outnumber them-what? Two to one?"
"Question," Hon said. "Are we missing intercepts that authorize more troops than these? Probable answer, probably not. We know about the two divisions they intend to stage through Rabaul to use in New Guinea. So again, probably not."
"Question," Moore picked up, "Do they not know how many men we have on Guadalcanal? Probable answer, they know damned well."
"So?"
"Question, do they really think they are so much better soldiers than we are that they can kick us off Guadalcanal with the troops they have and the ones they're sending? Answer: I don't know. They are not stupid, but when they get their pride going, all bets are off."
"How about this? Question, are they only sending five thousand troops because they don't have shipping to transport any more than that? Probable answer, I haven't the faintest idea. Maybe there are enough ships and they intend to use them to move those two divisions from Rabaul to New Guinea with them, leaving Guadalcanal until later."
"So what we're looking for is shipping information?" Moore asked.
"One other thing. I have seen nothing in any of these intercepts that suggests the Japs are worried about our getting that airfield up and running. Does that mean they don't think we can do it? Or they don't understand what it will mean?"
"How much more is there to go through?"
"I've got another thirty intercepts."
"I'll get on them," Moore said.
"The reason I was hoping you would bring the Deaconess with you was so that she could help. Why should we do all the work? She's making all the money."
"Lieutenant," Moore said, in mock shock and outrage, "that's very ungentlemanly of you."
"I haven't been admiring her legs. I don't have to be gentlemanly."
"I'll take the intercepts out to the cottage."
"I thought you said she was playing tennis?"
"You don't play tennis all afternoon."
"OK," Hon said. "Now listen to me, John. I'm not pulling your leg. I don't trust that woman. She looks to me like she has taken post graduate courses in how to take credit for what other people have done, while simultaneously keeping her own ass out of the line of fire."
"You better go deeper into that," Moore said.
"So far, she has not put her ass on the line with any analysis we've taken to the Emperor. Think about it. So far we have been right. She's getting credit for that, because they think she's in charge. But if we had been wrong, I think she would have said, 'Lieutenant Hon never discussed that with me.'"
"You really think she's that much of a bitch?"
"Yeah."
"Well, there's something damned cold about her, I'll admit that."
"I want to make sure she reads every goddamned thing that comes through here. I don't want her to be able to say she never saw something."
"What are you going to do about the Emperor?"
"I'm going to call Sid Huff and tell him I have some MAGIC. What you read. Before we offer an analysis, I want the Deaconess's two cents."
"I'm on my way," Moore said.
"Take a pistol and use the chain on the briefcase. Do it by the book, Sergeant."
"OK."
"Do I have to tell you that making a pass at the Deaconess would earn you a prize for Stupid Action of the Century?"
"Jesus Christ, that never entered my mind."
"Bullshit. That leg crack didn't just pop into your head."
"Believe what you want. But rest assured, the lady's virtue is in no danger from me."
"OK. One final thing. Did you know that you're on the AWOL report this morning?"
"I heard they were looking for me."
"Well, you are. I think I fixed it. But you better not go anywhere near the headquarters company barracks until I know for sure."
"Don't worry about that either," Moore said.
He picked the briefcase off the floor, opened it, and set it on the table. Hon put the intercepts into it-it looked more like fifty or sixty than thirty, Moore thought. And then Moore closed the briefcase and snapped the handcuff around his wrist. Hon took a.45 Colt automatic from a file cabinet. Moore hoisted the skirt of his tunic and put the pistol in the small of his back under his trouser waistband.
"You're going to shoot yourself in the ass one day doing that," Hon said.
Then he picked up the telephone and dialed a number.
"Colonel Huff? Sir, this is Lieutenant Hon. I have several MAGIC messages that I believe should be brought to the Supreme Commander's attention."
Moore unlocked the steel door and let himself out. When he reached the security post by the elevator, an Army technical sergeant from headquarters company was waiting for him.
"Sergeant Moore, you went AWOL last night."
"There's been a mistake, Sergeant," Moore said. "I don't live in the barracks any more. I'm not supposed to be on your duty rosters."
"You tell that to the first sergeant, Sergeant. He told me to find your ass and bring you home."
"I'm sorry," Moore said. "I can't do that." He held up the briefcase.
"I don't give a shit about any fucking briefcase," the sergeant said. "You come with me."
"I'll have to tell my officer where I'm going," Moore said and went back to the office. Hon was locking the steel door when he got there.
"There's a tech sergeant out there who wants to haul me off to headquarters company," he said.
"Oh, shit!" Hon said. "Come on."
The tech sergeant was waiting at the outer security point with his arms folded.
"All right, Sergeant, what's this all about?"
"Sir, I'm here to return Sergeant Moore to Headquarters Company. We're carrying him as AWOL."
"That's in error. Sergeant Moore is not attached to Headquarters Company."
"Sir, I got my orders."
"And I have mine, Sergeant. Mine are to dispatch Sergeant Moore, with a briefcase full of classified documents, to-to who is none of your business. But to someone who ranks much higher around here than the first sergeant of Headquarters Company. For that matter, than the Headquarters Company commander. You will not interfere with that. If necessary, I will have this MP place you under arrest. Do you understand me, Sergeant?"
"Yes, Sir."
"All right, Moore, get going," Hon said.
"Yes, Sir."
"Sergeant, you will return to Headquarters Company. You will tell your first sergeant that (a) Sergeant Moore is no longer his responsibility and (b) if he ever does something like this again around here, I will be forced to bring the matter to the attention of Captain Pickering-that's Navy Captain Pickering-and I think he would speak to General Sutherland about it. You understand that?"
"Yes, Sir."
"You may go, Sergeant."
"Yes, Sir."
That may work, Hon thought. If it doesn't, fuck it, I'll go to Sutherland.
As Moore was unlocking the door of the Studebaker, the Marine Aviator lieutenant colonel he had seen before walked up to him.
"Good afternoon, Sergeant," he said.
Moore straightened and saluted.
"Good afternoon, Sir."
"I'm delighted to see a familiar uniform around here," Dailey said. "I'm Colonel Dailey. I've just been assigned here as the CINCPAC liaison officer."
"Yes, Sir," Moore said. He remembered-the radio Captain Pickering had sent SECNAV asking that a liaison officer be assigned.
"What have they got you doing around here, Sergeant?"
"I work for Major Banning, Sir."
"Major Banning is assigned to this headquarters?"
"No, Sir. I mean, he works with SWPA, Sir. But he's not assigned here."
"Oh?"
"He commands Special Detachment 14, Sir."
"I see," Dailey said. "Do you happen to know, Sergeant, who is the ranking Marine officer here?"
"I suppose that would be Major Banning, Sir."
Well, that's nice to know, too, Dailey thought. Since this man Banning is only a major, that makes me the senior Marine officer present.
"When you see Major Banning, Sergeant, would you please tell him we bumped into each other, and that I'd like to meet him?"
"Yes, Sir, I'll do that."
"Thank you, Sergeant."
Dailey smiled at Moore and went back to the front door to wait for the car and driver that had been assigned to the CINCPAC liaison officer by General Douglas MacArthur's personal order.
He wondered what Special Detachment 14 was and what it did around here.
(Five)
WATER LILY COTTAGE
MANCHESTER AVENUE
BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA
1730 HOURS 13 AUGUST 1942
Ellen Feller was annoyed when she returned from the Doomben Tennis Club to see that the Studebaker was not there. She parked the Jaguar drophead coupe Fleming Pickering had left for her to use and went into the house.
She wondered why it should annoy her that the car-and thus, Sergeant John Marston Moore-was not there. She concluded that it was because it left her with the choice of either driving to the Lennon Hotel for dinner, which she did not like to do alone, or making herself something to eat, alone, here. Neither option was appealing.
She was desperately thirsty. The water at the tennis courts tasted as if it had been stored for a decade in a rusty barrel; and of course the Turf Club was closed for the duration, so there was no place to get even a soft drink.
She found a bottle of water in the refrigerator. And beer. She shrugged and reached for a beer bottle and opened it. And since there was no one around to see her, she drank from the neck. It was good beer, more bitter than American beer, and reminded her somewhat of the beer she'd grown to like in China.
On the sly, of course, she thought. The wife of the Reverend Glen T. Feller of the Christian and Missionary Alliance could not afford to have the recent heathen see her sucking on a bottle of beer.
I wonder what that bastard is up to these days?
The Reverend Feller had elected to go about The Lord's Work during the war years by bringing the Gospel to the Indians in Arizona.
Which is probably where he has the jade he smuggled out of China when we left. I know it's nowhere around Baltimore or Washington. If it was, I would have found it.
He's probably waking up right about now in bed with some well-muscled, smooth-skinned young Indian lad in whom he was taking a special interest.
Well, what's wrong with that? There is a lot to be said for being in bed with well-muscled, smooth-skinned lads. Like Sergeant John Marston Moore, for example.
Oh, God, is that why I was so annoyed when I found out he wasn't here? Am I in that dangerous condition again? That's absurd. I know better. Only a stupid ladybird dirties her own nest, to coin a phrase.
She finished the bottle of beer and was surprised at how quickly she did it.
It was the lousy undrinkable water at Doomben. I'm dehydrated. I'm not even very sweaty.
She tested this theory by raising her arm and sniffing her armpit. There was an unpleasant odor, but not what she expected after an hour and a half on the court with an Australian woman who was built like a boxcar but who moved around the court with really amazing speed and grace.
Ellen opened the refrigerator door again and started to reach for another bottle of beer, and then changed her mind.
It will make me flatulent and probably keep me up all night.
There was a quart can of Dole's pineapple juice in the refrigerator.
Moore's, she thought. Lieutenant Hon got it for him somewhere.
Well, fuck him, I'm thirsty.
There you go again. Dear. Thinking dangerous thoughts.
She took the can of pineapple juice from the refrigerator, punched a hole in the top with a beer can opener, and then poured it in a glass and added ice cubes.
After that she walked into the living room, to the array of bottles on a table, and went through them. She could find neither gin nor vodka, but there was a bottle of rum. She carried that back into the kitchen.
I wonder what that will do to pineapple juice? For that matter, what does straight rum taste like?
She took a pull from the neck of the rum bottle.
God! That's awful! It burns like cheap whiskey!
She poured rum into the pineapple juice, stirred it with her finger, and then licked her finger.
Not bad!
She took a tiny sip from the glass, then a much larger one. She was pleased with the taste.
She put the glass on the table and went into the refrigerator again, looking for something she could make for dinner after she had her shower. She saw the remnants of a leg of lamb. Nothing in the world tastes worse than cold lamb. In the pantry, she found a dozen cans of chicken and dumplings, furnished, she supposed, by Lieutenant Hon.
I wonder what he does about his sinful lusts of the flesh? God knows, no respectable Australian girl would dare to be seen with an Oriental, even one wearing an American officer's uniform.
I wouldn't mind trying a few relatively hairless muscular young male bodies again; but that would be even more stupid than doing something with John Marston Moore.
She took one of the cans of chicken and dumplings from the pantry, carried it into the kitchen, and set it on the sink. Then she picked up her drink and finished it.
She could feel the warmth spread through her body. You have another one of those, Dear, you'll have trouble finding the bathroom. And God knows how you'll manage to get in and out of the tub.
She put more ice, pineapple juice, and rum into the glass, stirred it with her finger, licked her finger, took one little sip, added another little drop of rum, stirred, licked, and tasted again. Satisfied, she carried it with her out of the kitchen and into the master bedroom, where she would have it when she finished her bath.
She undressed, and put the soiled tennis dress and her underclothes in the hamper. When she turned, she saw her reflection in the mirror over the chest of drawers. She remembered what Fleming Pickering said the night he saw the same thing, the night she arrived in Australia: "I wondered what they would really look like."
She smiled to herself. Making love to Fleming Pickering had been a wise move. He regarded their sex together as far more important than she ever dreamed he would. It was the first time he had been unfaithful to his wife, he told her, and she believed him. But Ellen was truly surprised to hear it. Someone as good looking and as rich and prominent as Fleming Pickering should have had women jumping into his bed the moment word got out that Mrs. Pickering wasn't in it. Anyway, doing it had accomplished her intentions. It put Fleming Pickering permanently in her corner. It was sort of a living, breathing insurance policy. And she needed that. There was still a chance-more and more remote as time passed, to be sure-that the smuggled jade would become a matter of official attention. If it did, she would need a bit of insurance.
Back in China before the war, Ken McCoy told her that the Marines knew all about the jade. McCoy was a member of the 4th Marine's escort detachment then. They were guarding the missionaries from the mission to Shanghai when they had to get out.
But she didn't know exactly what he meant: The junior officers of the guard detachment? Or just the other enlisted men? Or Captain Ed Banning, who had been the 4th Marines Intelligence Officer? She hadn't thought to ask until it was too late.
For a while, Ellen Feller thought the whole matter of the jade was water under the bridge. So far as getting in trouble for smuggling it out of China was concerned, at least. Getting her fair share of the mo
ney from her husband would have to wait until the war was over.
But then she'd taken a job as a Japanese language translator with Naval Intelligence in Washington, and both McCoy and Banning had turned up again. McCoy by then had been commissioned, and Banning had been promoted to major.
The Corps IV - Battleground Page 46
