W E B Griffin - Corp 03 - Counterattack

by Counterattack(Lit)

  "What would Mrs. Feller do about a gun?" Pickering asked dryly.

  "She carries one in her purse, Sir."

  "I'll be damned!"

  Pickering put the Colt automatic back in the drawer and closed it. Then he examined his tie, straightened it, and shrugged into his uniform jacket.

  "Let me help you with your ribbons," Kramer said.

  He pinned them on for Pickering, then they went into the sit-ting room.

  "Mrs. Feller," Pickering said, "Commander Kramer speaks very highly of you. If you think it's worth trying, I'd be grateful if you would come on board to help me."

  "If you're not pleased with how I work out, Captain Picker-ing," she said, "I'll understand."

  "Well, we'll give it our best shot," Pickering said. "Mr. Sat-terly, you want to hand me that briefcase?"

  "Aye, aye, Sir," Lieutenant Satterly said. For the first time, Pickering saw that the briefcase was attached to Satterly's wrist with a length of stainless steel cable and a handcuff.

  "Mrs. Feller," Pickering said, "why don't you call room ser-vice and order some coffee?"

  "Just for the two of you," Kramer explained. "Ellen, you'll stay and see what Captain Pickering decides to send back with you to the office."

  She nodded. As Pickering dipped into the briefcase, he heard her ask the operator for room service.

  A moment or two later, he glanced around for Commander Kramer to ask him a question. Before he found Kramer, how-ever, his eyes went up Ellen Feller's dress. Quite innocently, he was sure, she was sitting in such a way that he could see that her lingerie was lace and black.

  I'll be damned, a missionary lady who wears black lace under-wear and carries a gun in her purse.

  "Commander, would you tell me what the hell this is, please?" he said, turning his attention to the business at hand.

  (Three)

  Headquarters, 2nd Joint Training Force

  Camp Elliott, California

  1005 Hours 2 February 1942

  Offices in Marine headquarters are usually well equipped with signs identifying the various functions performed therein. And often the signs identify the name of the functionary as well. That didn't seem to be true of Headquarters, 2nd Joint Training Force. There were sign brackets mounted over the doors, but no signs hung from them.

  Second Joint Training Force, whatever the hell that was, was either moving in or moving out, Staff Sergeant Joe Howard de-cided. He was not surprised. The whole Corps seemed to be in a state of upheaval.

  Though Staff Sergeant Joe Howard normally took a great deal of professional pride in his appearance, he looked slovenly now, and he knew it. He needed a shave, for one thing, and his greens were mussed and bore the stain of a spilled cup of coffee.

  Howard had just flown into San Diego from Pearl Harbor on a Martin PBM-3R Mariner. The Mariner was a "flying boat," a seaplane. Most of the twin-engined, gull-winged aircraft had a crew of seven. They were armed with one.30- and five.50-caliber machine guns and had provision to carry and drop a ton of ordnance, either bombs or depth charges.

  The one Howard had flown from Pearl Harbor, however, was the unarmed transport version, the "Dash-Three-R." But this one wasn't a standard Dash-Three-R. It had been fitted up inside for Navy brass. For admirals or better, Joe judged from the com-fortable leather seats, the steward, and even an airborne crapper. There were sixteen passengers aboard, including a rear admiral, a half-dozen Navy captains, three Marine and one Army full colonels, and some lesser brass. And two enlisted men. The other one was a gold-stripe Navy Chief Radioman who had made it plain even before they were taken out to the airplane at Pearl that he was not interested in conversation.

  Rank didn't get you on the Mariner, the priority on your or-ders did. They left a roomful of brass behind them at Pearl, in-cluding a highly pissed Marine lieutenant colonel who had strongly asserted that there was something seriously wrong with a system that made him give up his seat to a lowly staff sergeant.

  It had been Joe Howard's first ride on an airplane of any kind. As a consequence, he had not been aware that aircraft have a tendency to make sudden rapid ascents and descents while pro-ceeding in level flight. The price he paid to gain such an aware-ness was a nearly full cup of coffee spilled on his chest, soiling his shirt, field scarf, and blouse, and painfully scalding his skin. All this took place while the gold-stripe Chief Radioman watched him scornfully.

  A heavyset, middle-aged master gunnery sergeant came down the deserted, signless corridor.

  "Gunny, excuse me, I'm looking for Captain Stecker in Spe-cial Planning," Staff Sergeant Joe Howard said to him.

  The Gunny examined him carefully, critically. There was no way he could miss the stubble on Howard's face or the brown stains on his field scarf and khaki shirt.

  I am now going to get my ass eaten out, and this sonofabitch looks like he's had a lot of practice.

  "You're Howard, right?" the Gunny said.

  "That's right," Joe said, and then blurted, "They just flew me in from Pearl, Gunny. That's when I spilled coffee on me."

  "Captain Stecker's the third door on the right, Howard," the Gunny said, turning and pointing. "You bring your records jacket with you?"

  "Yeah," Howard said, surprised. An enlisted man's records were not ordinarily put into his hands when he was transferred. They either found some officer going to the same place and gave them to him, or they sent them by registered mail. But Howard had been handed his along with the set of orders transferring him to 2nd Joint Training Force.

  "Good," the Gunny said, and walked down the corridor.

  How the hell does he know about my records? Or my name?

  Joe went to the third door on the right and knocked.

  "Come!"

  It was Jack NMI Stecker's familiar voice. But it was no longer Gunny Stecker, his friend from Benning and Quantico. It was now Captain Jack NMI Stecker.

  Joe opened the door, marched in, and reported to Stecker as a Marine sergeant is supposed to report to a Marine captain.

  "Jesus, you're a mess," Stecker said. It was an observation, not a criticism; and there was gentle laughter in his voice when Stecker added, "You may stand at ease, Sergeant."

  Howard dropped his eyes to Stecker's, and saw that he was smiling at him.

  "What did you spill on yourself, Joe?" Stecker asked.

  "A whole goddamned cup of coffee," Joe said, and remem-bered to add, "Sir."

  "Well, come on," Stecker said, "we'll get you cleaned up. You look like something the cat dragged in."

  "I'm sorry," Joe said.

  "You look sorry," Stecker chuckled.

  He led him out of the building, opened the trunk of a 1939 Ford coupe, and motioned for him to put his bag in the back. At Quantico, Joe remembered, Stecker had driven an enormous black Packard Phaeton.

  "I left Elly the Packard," Stecker said, as if reading his mind. Elly was his wife. "She went to Pennsylvania for a while. I bought this when I got here."

  "How's she doing?" Howard asked uneasily. He knew that the Steckers' son, Ensign Jack NMI Stecker, Jr., USN, had been killed on the Arizona.

  "All right," Stecker said evenly. "I suppose it's tougher on a mother than the father."

  That's bullshit, Howard thought.

  "How are you doing?" Joe asked.

  "Well, I seem to be getting used to it," Stecker said. "At least I don't salute lieutenants anymore."

  Joe chuckled, as he knew he was expected to. And he knew that Jack NMI Stecker had purposefully misunderstood him, in order to change the subject from the death of his son.

  It doesn't matter, Howard thought. I had to ask, and I asked, and he knows I'm sorry as hell about his kid. That's enough.

  "How was the flight? Aside from the coffee?" Stecker asked.

  "It was a fancied-up Mariner. Real nice. They put a lieutenant colonel off it to put me on."

  "Is that so?"

  "What's going on?"

  "That airplane used to belong to the Rear Admiral at
Guantanamo," Stecker said. "They took it away from him to use it as a courier plane between here and Pearl."

  "That's not what I was asking," Howard said.

  "I know," Stecker chuckled. "Well, here we are. Home sweet home."

  Howard saw that they were pulling into a dirt parking lot be-side three newly built frame two-story buildings. There was a plywood sign reading, bachelor officers' quarters.

  It was the first time Joe Howard had ever been in Officers' Country for any purpose. For what he understood was good rea-son, these were off limits to enlisted men. If it had been anyone but Captain Jack NMI Stecker, he would have asked what he was doing here now.

  Stecker's quarters inside were not fancy-the opposite, in fact. The studs in the wall were exposed. There were no doors on the closets, but just a piece of cloth hung on a wire. There was a bed, an upholstered chair, a folding metal chair, and a chest of drawers. In a small alcove there was a desk and another folding metal chair.

  Only a few things in the room had not been issued. There were graduation pictures of Stecker's sons: one of Jack Junior in his brand-new ensign's uniform, taken at Annapolis; and another of Second Lieutenant Richard S. Stecker, USMC, his dress blue uniform making him stand out from his fellow graduates at the Military Academy at West Point. There was also a picture of Stecker and Elly and the boys when they were just kids. It was taken on a beach somewhere, and everybody was in bathing suits.

  There was a radio, a hot plate with a coffeepot, and a small refrigerator. And that was it.

  "You better take a shower," Stecker said. "You got a towel?"

  "Yeah."

  "And your other greens?" Stecker asked. "They going to be pressed?" He nodded toward Howard's bag.

  "They should be all right," Joe said.

  "I've got an iron if they're mussed."

  Howard took his carefully folded greens from the bag. They would be all right, even up to Jack NMI Stecker's high stan-dards.

  "You going to tell me what's going on?" Howard asked.

  `Take a shower and a shave," Stecker said. "Right now, you're probably the sloppiest sergeant on the base."

  "In other words, you're not going to tell me."

  "When you're shipshape," Stecker replied.

  When Joe Howard came out of the shower, a tin-lined cubicle shared with the next BOQ room, Stecker was sitting slumped in the one upholstered chair, holding a beer in his hands.

  Joe's eyebrows rose.

  "You can have one later," Stecker said. "First let me tell you about Colonel Lewis T. Harris."

  "Lucky Lew? He's here? I thought he was in Iceland."

  "He's here. Scuttlebutt-I believe it-says he's about to make general. But right now he's Chief of Staff of the 2nd Joint Train-ing Force."

  "What's that got to do with me?"

  "Well, among other things, he's the president of the Officer Selection Board for the West Coast."

  "I don't even know what that is," Howard confessed.

  "The Corps is pretty hard up for officers. We don't have enough right now, and the way they're building the Corps up, that situation will get worse."

  "So?"

  "When you're finished dressing-you better take a brush to your shoes, while you're at it-you're going to go up before him. We're desperately short of officers who know anything about small arms beyond what we taught them in Basic School at Quantico. I've recommended you for a direct commission as a first lieutenant."

  "Jesus Christ!"

  "You may not get it. You may have to settle for being a second lieutenant, but that's not so bad. Scuttlebutt has it again that from here on in, promotion will be automatic after six months."

  How the hell can I be an officer? You can't be a Marine officer if you get hysterical and hide behind a counter when you see some-body get killed.

  "I don't know what to say," Howard said.

  "When you're in there with Colonel Harris, what you say is `Yes, Sir,' `No, Sir,' `Thank you, Sir,' and `Aye, aye, Sir.'"

  "I meant about becoming an officer."

  "Don't you, of all people, start handing me that crap," Stecker said.

  "What crap?"

  "Why do you think I had you brought here from Hawaii, for Christ's sake, so that you could go work in a battalion small-arms locker someplace? Goddamn you, don't you dare tell me, "Thanks, but no thanks.'"

  "A year ago, I was a corporal. I don't how to be an officer. Captain, I just don't think I could handle it."

  "If I handed you a list with the names of every officer you know on it, you could go down it and say, `This one is a good Marine officer,' and "That one is a feather merchant.' Do what you've seen the good officers do."

  "And what if I fuck up? What if I can't?"

  "Then we'll give you your stripes back," Stecker said. "For Christ's sake, do you think I would have recommended you if I didn't think you could pass muster? And anyway, you'll be an ordnance officer; you won't have to worry about running a platoon."

  "It just never entered my mind, is all...." He stopped, then started to tell Stecker about what had happened at Pearl, but realized he couldn't. He added lamely, "I almost said `Gunny.' "

  "I get into something sometimes and answer the phone that way," Stecker said. "Usually with some real asshole calling." He laughed. "You know those indelible pens with the soft tip you use to write on celluloid overlays?" Howard nodded.

  "Harris came in my office when I first got here, told me to give him my hand, and when I did he wrote C-A-P-T on the palm. Then he said, `Every time you answer your phone, Cap-tain Stecker, read your hand before you speak.' He said he was getting tired of explaining to people that I was retarded."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. Harris is one of the good guys. We were in France together. In Domingo, too. Nicaragua. We go back a long way. I had a hell of a time getting that stuff off my hand. It's really indelible."

  "You sure you're doing this because you think I'd make a passable officer?"

  "Or what?"

  "Because we're friends."

  "That pisses me off," Stecker snapped.

  "Sorry, I didn't mean it that way. But, Jesus, this came right out of the goddamned blue!"

  "You'll be able to handle it, Joe," Stecker said. Maybe as an ordnance officer. Just maybe. Maybe they'll as-sign me here, or at Quantico. Someplace in the States, some rear area. I know weapons, at least. I could earn my keep that way.

  "When is all this going to happen?"

  "We'll go back to the office. You'll see Harris. If you don't fuck that up, you'll go into `Diego to the Navy Hospital and take what they call a `pre-commissioning physical.' That'll take the rest of the day. In the meantime, we'll get all the paperwork typed up, there's a lot of it. Jesus... you do have your records?"

  "In the bag."

  "OK. Come back to the office tomorrow morning, we'll get you discharged. And then you go over to the Officers' Sales Store and get your uniforms. Colonel Harris can swear you in after lunch."

  "That quick?"

  "That quick."

  "Where will I be assigned?"

  "Here. To work for me, stupid. Why do you think I went to all this trouble?"

  "What will I be doing?"

  "You ever hear of the Raiders?"

  "No. What the hell is that?"

  "American commandos. Long story. Nutty story. No time to tell you all about them now. But they've been authorized to arm themselves any way they want to. I need somebody to handle that for me, to get them whatever they want. You."

  (Four)

  Headquarters, 2nd Joint Training Force

  Camp Elliott, California

  1205 Hours 2 February 1942

  One of the two telephones on Captain Jack NMI Stecker's desk rang, and he answered it on the second ring, and correctly:

  "G-3 Special Planning, Captain Stecker speaking, Sir."

  "Stecker, this is Captain Kelso."

  There was a certain tone of superiority in Captain Kelso's voice. Stecker knew what was b
ehind that. Although Captain Kelso was in fact outranked by Captain Stecker, by date of rank, he could not put out of his mind that Captain Stecker was a Mustang, an officer commissioned from the ranks. As an Annap-olis man himself, Kelso considered that he was socially superior to a man who had served in the ranks. This opinion was but-tressed by his duty assignment: he was aide-de-camp to the Commanding General, 2nd Joint Training Force.