W E B Griffin - Corp 03 - Counterattack

by Counterattack(Lit)

  Less than a minute later, Admiral Sayre called back.

  "Pickering, you said? The VIP from Washington?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Present my compliments to Captain Pickering, please, and inform him I would be pleased to receive him at my office at his earliest convenience."

  "Aye, aye, Sir."

  Captain Fleming Pickering was driven directly to Admiral Sayre's office from the airfield. The Admiral's aide was waiting on the sidewalk when the staff car pulled up, and escorted him directly to the Admiral's office.

  "Welcome to Pensacola, Captain," Admiral Sayre said. "May I offer you a cup of coffee, or something a little stronger?"

  "Admiral, I feel like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar," Fleming Pickering said. "I'm not here officially..."

  "You did get the message to call Captain Haughton?"

  "Yes, Sir. I did. Thank you. Sir, I was about to say that I'm not here officially, and that what I hoped to do was get off and back on the base with no one noticing."

  "Oh?"

  "Sir, I've been over at Eglin Field on duty. I've got a seat on the courier plane to Washington from here tomorrow morning. I have some personal business in Pensacola."

  "I thought that might be it," Admiral Sayre said.

  "Sir?" Pickering asked, surprised.

  "He's a nice boy, according to both my wife and Doc Mclnerney," the Admiral said. "And actually, he's the reason I asked you to come to see me."

  Pickering's surprise was evident on his face.

  "Doc and I went through flight school here together," Admi-ral Sayre said. "We're still pretty close. When your boy was sent here, Doc called me and told me about him. And you. I frankly found it comforting."

  "Sir?"

  "He spoke highly of your boy-Pick, they call him, don't they?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "And he said that the only favor you asked of him was that the Marine Corps didn't make him a club officer. I thought that spoke well of you, Captain. And, as I said, I found that rather comforting."

  "Comforting, Sir?"

  "Your son is in hot pursuit of my daughter," Admiral Sayre said. "I'm not supposed to know that, but I do."

  Pickering didn't reply.

  "You don't seem surprised to hear that," the Admiral said. Pickering knew more than his son thought he knew about the boy's romantic affairs. There had been an astonishing number of them, and they could more accurately be described as "car-nal" than "romantic."

  "Pick is attracted to the ladies, Admiral," Pickering replied. "And vice versa. Actually, from what I've seen, more the latter than the former. I can only presume your daughter is not only extraordinarily good looking, but something special. Pick is sel-dom reported `in pursuit'; usually the phrase is `in flight from.'" The Admiral chuckled.

  "I have seen him," he said. "Good-looking young Marine offi-cers driving Cadillac convertible automobiles do seem to attract the ladies, don't they?"

  "I've noticed," Pickering said, chuckling.

  "Once Martha told him, rather forcefully, that she's not inter-ested, I would have thought that he would have looked else-where."

  What is this? Did he call me in here to tell me to keep my son away from his precious daughter?

  "Pick's not her type? Has he been making an ass of himself?"

  "No. He's been a perfect gentleman," Admiral Sayre said. "And I have the feeling that Martha is more attracted to him than she's willing to admit to herself or anyone else."

  "Admiral-"

  "My daughter's a widow," Admiral Sayre interrupted. "Her husband, Admiral Culhane's boy, an aviator, was killed at Wake Island."

  "Oh," Fleming Pickering said, and then added, "I'm sorry to hear that."

  "He was a really nice kid," Admiral Sayre said. "It's a damned shame."

  "Are you saying this... relationship... between Pick and your daughter is serious?" Pickering asked.

  Hell, of course it's serious. Chasing after a widow, especially a widow whose husband has been dead only a couple of months, and especially after she told him to get lost, is simply not Pick's style.

  "I don't know," Admiral Sayre said. "But since Colonel Doolittle was kind enough to drop you in my lap, I thought I should introduce myself and mention it."

  "Colonel Doolittle?" Pickering asked, trying to sound con-fused.

  "Oh, come on, Pickering. Doc and Jimmy and I used to race airplanes together. And I thought that, doing what you're doing, you would have learned by now that whenever two people know something, it's no longer a secret. I know what's going on at Eglin, and my Officer of the Day recognizes Jimmy Doolittle when he sees him in a cockpit window."

  "I think, Admiral, if that invitation is still open, I will have a drink."

  (Five)

  The San Carlos Hotel

  Pensacola, Florida

  1725 Hours 28 February 1942

  "Good afternoon, Sir," Second Lieutenant Richard J. Stecker, USMC, said to the Navy Captain. "May I help you, Sir?" The Captain was in the act of hanging up the telephone in the pent-house suite of the San Carlos Hotel.

  Dick Stecker, a good-looking, trim young man wearing a fur-collared leather jacket over a flight suit, was torn between sur-prise, anger, and alarm at finding a fucking four-striper nosing around the suite. But he was a graduate of the United States Mil-itary Academy at West Point and a regular officer of the United States Marine Corps, and West Pointers and regular Marine of-ficers do not demand of U.S. Navy captains, Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing in my hotel room?

  "You must be Lieutenant Stecker," Captain Pickering said.

  "Yes, Sir."

  "It has been reported to me that these quarters are not only infested with females of notorious reputation, but awash, as well, in cheap whiskey," Pickering said sternly.

  Lieutenant Stecker looked stunned.

  Another Marine second lieutenant, similarly dressed, stepped around Lieutenant Stecker to see what the hell was going on, and then yelped in delight:

  "Dad! God, am I glad to see you! What are you doing here?"

  He ran across the room and wrapped his father in a bear hug.

  "I'm catching a plane out of here in the morning," Pickering said.

  "You've been on the base?" Pick asked uneasily.

  He does not want anyone to know that his father is a Navy cap-tain. Good boy!

  "Just to get off an airplane," Pickering said. "I was hoping I could bunk with you tonight."

  "Hell, yes! But what are you doing down here?"

  "I was over with the Army Air Corps at Eglin Air Force Base," Pickering said. "It's right down the coast."

  "Doing what?"

  "None of your business, Lieutenant."

  "You're involved with the B-25s," Pick Pickering challenged.

  "What B-25s?" Pickering asked innocently.

  "As if you didn't know," Pick said. "They've got an airfield over there with the dimensions of an aircraft-carrier deck painted on it. And they're trying to get B-25s off it."

  "I have no idea what you're talking about," Pickering said. "But if I were you, I'd watch my mouth. You haven't seen those posters, `Loose Lips Sink Ships'?"

  Pick's look was both hurt and wary.

  "That sounded pretty official," he said after a moment. "You're my father, for Christ's sake!"

  "Pick, you and I are officers," Pickering said.

  "See, wiseass?" Dick Stecker said. "Learn to keep your mouth shut."

  "I'd still like to know what the hell they think they're doing over there," Pick Pickering said.

  "You keep wondering out loud about it, you can read all about it in the newspapers. In your cell at Portsmouth. I'm seri-ous, Pick."

  Their eyes met.

  "I didn't mean to put you on the spot, Dad," he said. "Sorry."

  "Forget it," Pickering said.

  "Don't forget it," Dick Stecker said. "Write it on your god-damned forehead."

  "Well, the both of you can go to hell," Pick said cheerfully. "Yo
u can stand here and feel self-righteous. I need a shower."

  "Can I make you a drink, Captain Pickering?" Dick Stecker asked. "You name it, we've got it."

  "At least one of the occupants of this rooftop brothel is an officer and a gentleman," Pickering said. "Scotch, please. With soda, if you have it."

  "Yes, Sir. Coming right up."

  "I saw your dad a while back. In San Diego."

  "Yes, Sir. Dad wrote me that he'd seen you; that you were in the Corps in War One together."

  "Is that what you call it now? `War One'?"

  "Yes, Sir. Isn't that what it was, the First World War?"

  "At the time, it was called `the war to end all wars,' " Picker-ing said.

  Dick Stecker handed him a drink.

  "Thank you," Pickering said. "Is my being here going to in-terfere with any serious romantic plans you two had for to-night?"

  "No, Sir. Not at all."

  "When I had them let me in here, I was a little surprised not to find an assortment of local lovelies," Pickering said.

  "Yes, Sir," Stecker said uncomfortably, then blurted, "You're asking about Martha Culhane, aren't you, Captain?"

  "I am. But I would rather Pick didn't know I knew about her. Something about her. If this puts you on a spot, the subject never came up."

  Dick Stecker made a circling motion with his index finger at his temple.

  "He's nuts about her," he said. "She's a widow. Did you know?"

  Pickering nodded.

  "He's really got it bad for her. And she won't give him the time of day."

  "You think that's maybe what it is? That she's not interested? That his Don Juan ego is involved?"

  "No. I wish it was."

  "What do you think of her?"

  "I don't know what to think," Stecker said. "Maybe it'll pass when we graduate and get the hell out of here. But I don't know."

  "OK. Thank you. Subject closed."

  They ate in the hotel dining room, which was crowded with men in Navy and Marine Corps uniforms.

  Over their shrimp cocktail, Fleming Pickering told them he was headed, via Washington and the West Coast, for Hawaii.

  "When are you coming back?"

  "I don't know," Pickering said. "Captains, like second lieu-tenants, go when and where they're told to go."

  That was not true. Although he was still traveling on the vague orders that Captain Jack NMI Stecker had described as "awesome," permitting him to go where and when he pleased, no questions asked, he now had specific orders from the Secre-tary of the Navy:

  Stay at Pearl Harbor as long as you want, Flem; learn what you can. But the President is going to order MacArthur out of the Philippines and to Australia. I want you there when he gets there. I want to know what he's up to. Haughton will message you wherever you are when Roosevelt orders him to leave, if you`re not already in Australia by then.

  Lieutenants Pickering and Stecker laughed dutifully.

  There was a stir in the room while they were eating their broiled flounder. Pickering followed the point of attention to the door. Rear Admiral Richard Sayre, a woman almost certainly his wife, and a beautiful young blond woman almost certainly the widowed daughter, followed the headwaiter to a table across the room. Moments later, a Marine captain, a Naval Aviator, walked quickly to join them.

  "That's Admiral Sayre, Captain," Dick Stecker said. "He's number three at Pensacola. And his wife and daughter."

  Fleming Pickering was aware that his son was looking in-tently, perhaps angrily, at Stecker.

  "And Captain Mustache," Stecker added.

  "Captain `Mustache'?" Pickering asked.

  "He's one of our IPs... Instructor Pilots," Pick said.

  "Oh," Pickering said.

  "And like a lot of people around here, he's got a crush on the Admiral's daughter," Stecker said.

  "She's a beautiful young woman," Pickering said.

  "Yeah," Pick said. "She is."

  That was all he had to say about Martha Sayre Culhane. But he kept looking over at her. And when Fleming Pickering looked in that direction, more often than not, Martha Sayre Cul-hane was surreptitiously looking in their direction.

  Chapter Nine

  (One)

  Aboard the Motor Yacht Last Time

  The San Diego Yacht Club

  San Diego, California

  7 March 1942

  Ensign Barbara Cotter, USNR, and Miss Ernestine Sage were alone aboard the Last Time. Ensign Cotter was barefoot; she wore the briefest of white shorts, and her bosom was only barely concealed beneath a thin, orange kerchief bandeau. Miss Sage was wearing the briefest of pale blue shorts and a T-shirt, be-neath which it was obvious she wore nothing else.

  Although it was nearly noon, they were just finishing the breakfast dishes. They had been up pretty late the night before; there had been a certain amount of physical activity once they had gone to bed. After breakfast, they'd waved bye-bye to Lieu-tenants Joseph L. Howard, USMCR, and Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, as they departed for duty. Then Miss Sage had sug-gested to Ensign Cotter, "To hell with the dishes, let's go back to bed," and they had done just that, rising again only a few mo-ments ago.

  Barbara Cotter did not go home to Philadelphia on her over-seas leave. She had called her parents and told them she was being shipped out; and no, she didn't know where she was going, and no, she wouldn't be able to get home before she left.

  It was the first time she had ever lied to her parents about anything important, and it bothered her. But the choice had been between going home, alone, and staying in San Diego with Joe for the period of her leave. She was perfectly willing to admit that she was being a real shit for not going home, and then lying about it, but she wasn't sorry.

  And in Ernie Sage she had found both a friend and a kindred soul; it was no time before Ernie offered Barbara and Joe the starboard stateroom for as long as they wanted it-just because they felt so close so quickly. Both of them were nice, Protestant, middle-class (in Ernie's case, maybe upper-class) girls who had gone to college and had bright futures. And both of them were shacked up with a couple of Marines.

  And were completely unashamed about it.

  In no time they were both sharing deep, mutual confidences:

  The first time they had laid eyes on Joe and Ken, they had known in their hearts that if they wanted to do that, and they hoped they would want to do that, they were going to let them.

  It was the first time either of them had really felt that way, although in Ernie's case there had been a poet from Dartmouth, and in Barbara's case a gastroenterologist, who had made them feel almost that way.

  And they talked, seriously, about why those things were going on. Barbara's theory was-that Mother Nature caused the trans-mitters and receptors to be turned on in the interests of propaga-tion. And Ernie's tangential theory was that Nature wanted to increase pregnancies in time of war.

  And they talked of getting pregnant, and/or of getting mar-ried. They both reached the same conclusion: they weren't going to get married, not right away, anyhow. Because Joe and Ken thought they were probably going to get killed-or worse, crip-pled-in battle, both men refused to consider marriage. Yet Bar-bara and Ernie both agreed that what they really wanted, maybe most in the world, was to make babies with Joe and Ken. If they did, Joe and Ken would be furious-for the same reason they didn't want to get married. And further, since it was really better to have a baby when the baby was wanted, it was probably really better to wait until The Boys Came Home.

  And in the meantime, they played housewife, and they loved it. They either prepared elaborate meals in the Last Time's gal-ley, or they went out for dinner to the Coronado Beach Hotel dining room, or to some hole-in-the-wall Mexican or Chinese restaurant. They carried their men's uniforms to the laundry, sewed their buttons on, and bought them razor blades and boxer shorts and Vitalis For The Hair. And loved them at night. And refused to think that it couldn't last forever-or, in Barbara and Joe's case, not later than the time her orders
gave her, 2300 hours 16 March 1942. She was supposed to report to the Over-seas Movement Officer, San Diego Naval Yard; and for her the Last Time would turn into a pumpkin.