In Dangers Path

Annotation

In Dangers Path

by

W.E.B. Griffin

THE CORPS is respectfully dedicated to the memory of

Second Lieutenant Drew James Barrett III, USMC

Company K, 3d Battalion, 26th

Marines

Born Denver, Colorado, 3 January 1945

Died Quang Nam Province, Republic of Vietnam 27 February 1969

and

Major Alfred Lee Butler III, USMC

Headquarters 22nd

Marine Amphibious Unit

Born Washington, D.C .4 September 1950

Died Beirut, Lebanon, 8 February 1984

and to the memory of Donald L. Schomp

A marine fighter pilot who became a legendary U.S. Army Master Aviator

RIP 9 April 1989

Prologue

At the start of the war in Europe, the Italians, the Germans, and the Japanese had become allies, called the ‘Axis Powers’ soon afterward, the Italians and Germans left Shanghai; yet even before that, it was clear they were not going to challenge Japanese authority in the city in any way. Meanwhile, following their defeat in Europe, the French had withdrawn their troops from China and had signed a «Treaty of Friendship» with the Japanese that permitted the Japanese to use military air bases and naval facilities in French Indochina. Finally, in August 1940, the British had announced their withdrawal from Shanghai and northern China.

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«Good morning, sir,» he said.

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Chapter Two

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Chapter Three

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Chapter Four

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Chapter Six

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Chapter Seven

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Chapter Eight

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Chapter Nine

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Chapter Eleven

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Chapter Twelve

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The Joint Chiefs of Staff

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«You think you're going to be as lucky the next time?» Weston asked.

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Roger H. Walters

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T O P S E C R E T

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EPILOGUE

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Prologue

Shanghai, China

November 1941

Countess Maria Catherine Ludmilla Zhivkov, was united in holy matrimony to Captain Edward J. Banning, USMC, of Charleston, South Carolina, by the Very Reverend James Fitzhugh Ferneyhough, D.D., canon of the cathedral, in a 10:45 A.m. Anglican ceremony on 12 November 1941. It was the first marriage for both.

Throughout the ceremony, the tall, black-haired, blue-eyed bride, age twenty seven and known as Milla, wondered when and how she would take her life.

She loved Ed Banning madly; that was not the problem. She had felt something special the moment he walked into her small apartment off the Bund. And this spark had almost immediately, almost frighteningly, turned into excitement and desire.

The problem was that they really had no future; and she was fully aware of that.

Ed Banning was an officer of the United States Corps of Marines, about to leave Shanghai, almost certainly never to return, and she was an escapee from what was now the Soviet Union. In Imperial Russia, she had been born into a noble family.

Now she was a stateless person without a country. Her Nansen passport-issued to stateless Russians who had fled the Revolution and from whom the Communist government had withdrawn citizenship-was a passport in name only. It was not valid for travel to the United States, or, for that matter, for travel anywhere else.

The Japanese army in Shanghai was poised to take over the city. This might happen in the next week or two, or else somewhat later. In any event, it was going to happen, and when it did, she would be at their mercy.

Once American, French, British, German, and Italian troops had been stationed in Shanghai to protect their own nationals-but de facto all Westerners, including the “Nansen people”-against Japanese outrages. That protection was in the process of being withdrawn.

At the start of the war in Europe, the Italians, the Germans, and the Japanese had become allies, called the ‘Axis Powers’ soon afterward, the Italians and Germans left Shanghai; yet even before that, it was clear they were not going to challenge Japanese authority in the city in any way. Meanwhile, following their defeat in Europe, the French had withdrawn their troops from China and had signed a «Treaty of Friendship» with the Japanese that permitted the Japanese to use military air bases and naval facilities in French Indochina. Finally, in August 1940, the British had announced their withdrawal from Shanghai and northern China.

That had left only the Americans in Shanghai.

Now they too were leaving. War between the Japanese and the Americans was inevitable. Until war actually came, the Japanese in Shanghai would probably behave no more badly than they had when the Americans were stationed in the city. They were still paying lip service to the «Bushido Code of the Warrior» and were not entirely deaf to world opinion. But when war came, that would be the end of any pretense. Meaning: every westerner, except Germans, Italians, and the rare citizens of neutral powers, would be at the mercy of the Japanese. It would be rape in every sense, not just the physical rape of women. They'd ravage bank accounts, real estate, everything.

All the property that Ed had turned over to her—the convertible red Pontiac of which he was so fond, the furniture in the apartment, and the paid-three-years-in advance lease on the apartment—would disappear.

And Japanese officers liked white women. If they were now willing to pay a premium for Russian whores, what would happen to her when rape was the norm?

If her future offered nothing but becoming a whore for some Japanese officer, Milla preferred to be dead.

The first time Milla saw Ed Banning, he had a long, green cigar clamped between what she thought of as perfect American teeth. He was in uniform, tall, thin and erect, and just starting to bald; and, she learned a little later, he was thirty-six years old.

Earlier, Banning had telephoned Milla in answer to her advertisement in the

Shanghai Post

: «Wu, Cantonese and Mandarin Conversation offered at reasonable rates by multi-lingual Western Lady.» On the telephone, he told her that he was an officer of the 4th Marines. His voice was very nice. Deep, soft, and masculine. «You sound British,» he went on to say.

She recognized that as a question and answered it: «Actually, I'm Russian,» and added, «Stateless.»

She knew that any sort of a relationship between stateless people—sometimes called «Nansen people»—and American diplomatic and military personnel was frowned upon or outright forbidden. It was better to get that out in the open now, she knew, rather than opening up the possibility of an embarrassing scene when they actually met.

To a great many Nansen women, forming a relationship with an American officer—becoming his mistress—was a far better way to earn their living than any of their other options. But Milla wished to make it clear from the beginning that she wanted nothing but a professional, student-teacher relationship. She didn't want to become the girlfriend of an American officer, much less his mistress. She wasn't quite that desperate. She knew it wasn't likely that she could turn her at-home language classes into a real school that would support her. But she had some jewels hidden in her underwear drawer, sewn into her mother's girdle when they fled St. Petersburg. A few of these still remained. When the last of them was gone, then she might have to consider something like that. But not yet, not now.

In fact, her Nansen status did not seem to bother him. Later, when they actually discussed it, he explained to her that he was the intelligence officer for the 4th Marines, and as such judged «other officers' inappropriate relationships.» Any relationship he had himself, he said, smiling smugly, was of course appropriate.

Anyhow, when he asked over the phone if he could come right over, he could be there in fifteen minutes, she told him, «yes.» Then she stationed herself at her window, curious enough to peek through the curtains, waiting for him to arrive.

He drove up in a bright red Pontiac convertible, the top down. And a moment later he hired a man on the street to watch his car while he was inside—demonstrating to her that he was not entirely ignorant of Wu, the Chinese language most commonly used in Shanghai.

But that was a minor detail just then. What really hit her the moment she saw him walking across the street to her building was the certainty that he was going to change her life.

And she knew as soon as he saw her that his reaction was similar.

When she opened the door to his ring, he blurted, startled, «My God, you're beautiful!»

«You wish, as I understand it, to improve your conversational Chinese?» she replied coldly.

«Absolutely,» he said. «I didn't mean to offend.»

Milla ignored that.

«You already speak some Chinese,» she said, and without thinking, added: «I saw you speaking to the man about your car.»

«What were you doing,» Banning asked, chuckling, «peeking out from behind the curtains?»

«I just happened to be looking out the window.»

«Of course,» he said. «Yeah, I speak some Wu and Mandarin. But I'd like to perfect it.»

«Speak only? Or read and write?»

«I read a little, but I have not mastered much writing.»

«We could work on that, too, if you like,» she said.

Their first session proved that he was serious about perfecting his Chinese. It was also apparent that he was highly intelligent. So when he asked if they could meet twice a week, maybe more often if he could find the time, she readily agreed.

When he came back, he was a perfect gentleman. There was not the slightest hint that he thought she was a Nansen girl looking for an American benefactor.

After their fifth session, very correctly, he asked her if she would have dinner with him. She accepted uneasily. This man was exciting in ways she had never experienced with other men.

Over dinner, she learned a little bit about him. The enormous ring on his finger, for instance, signified graduation from a private military school called The Citadel. His father—who had been an Army officer, a colonel—had also graduated from The Citadel. As had his grandfather, and his great-grandfather. They had all been soldiers; he was the first Marine in the family.

Though she had also come from a military family, she didn't tell him everything there was to say about that. She did tell him that her father had been an officer, but not that he had been a lieutenant general on the General Staff of the Imperial Army, for fear he would not believe her, or else think she was boasting. Neither did she tell him that her father had been a count, and that, on the death of her parents, she had come into possession of the title.

Every other Russian in Shanghai with a Nansen passport claimed he was a Count, or a Grand Duke. So what? That life was gone forever anyway.

All through dinner, Ed Banning behaved with absolute correctness. And when they danced, he carefully avoided all but the most necessary body contact.

At her apartment door, he very properly shook her hand, thanked her for the pleasure of her company, and asked if they could have dinner again sometime soon.

When she went to the window to watch him leave, he was already gone. The depth of her disappointment surprised her.

Twenty minutes later, just as she was about to slip into bed, the telephone rang.

«Milla, this is Ed,» he said. His voice sounded strange.

«Is something wrong?»

«Yeah, I'm afraid so.»

«What?»

«I probably should have told you this at dinner, but I couldn't work up the courage.»

Oh, God, he's going away! Or, just as bad, our perfectly innocent, wholly businesslike relationship has come to the attention of his superiors, and despite his claims to be able to discern inappropriate relationships for himself he has been told to sever his relationship with me.

«Tell me what?»

«I'm in love with you,» Ed Banning said, and the phone went dead.

That's insane, if it's true. If it isn't true, then he wants me for his mistress

—

the proposition he's been hiding behind his gentlemanly mask. If he really means what he said, about being in love with me… that's hopeless. People in love get married… unless the people concerned are a Russian refugee with a Nansen passport and an officer in the United States Corps of Marines. For them marriage simply is not possible

.

Milla got very little sleep that night, as she ran the possibilities through her head over and over again. None of them was appealing.

What she would do, she finally decided, was speak to him the next day when he showed up for his lesson. She would tell him that under the circumstances it would be better all around if he found someone else to help him perfect his Chinese.

But when he appeared next day at her door, she was suddenly struck dumb. All she could do was smile—carefully not looking at him—and motion him into her living room. Their conversation session was perfectly routine. Afterward, all she could remember was that he was wearing an aftershave lotion that smelled like limes. When the time was up, he stood up and offered her his hand. Touching it made her feel very strange in her middle.

«Thank you,» he said.

«Don't be silly,» she said.

«And thank you for not being offended by my call last night.»

«Were you drinking?» Milla asked.

«Not then, except for the wine we had at dinner. Afterward. Yeah.»

He let go of her hand and walked to the door.

Milla suddenly knew what she wanted to do. Had to do. No matter what the ultimate cost.

«Just a minute, please, Ed,» Milla said.

«What?»

«It won't take a minute,» she said, then walked into her bedroom and closed the door.

And then she stared at the closed door and glanced around the room.

It was, of course, insane.

Her eyes fell on a faded photograph of her father.

»

Life is a gamble, Milla

,» the former Lieutenant General Count Vasily Ivanovich Zhivkov had told her many times. «

Sometimes, if you want something very much, it is necessary to put all your chips on the table, and wait to see where the wheel stops. If you understand that the ball will probably not fall into your hole, you will know, when it does not, that you at least tried. It is better to risk everything and lose than not to take the chance

.»

Looking at herself in the faded mirror of her dressing table, she unbuttoned her blouse and shrugged out of it and let it fall to the floor. Then she slipped out of her skirt and underwear and leaned over to pick up her only—and nearly empty— bottle of perfume. She dabbed perfume behind her ears and between her breasts and then—embarrassed, averting her eyes from her reflection—between her legs.

Then she threw the cover off her bed, crawled in, and pulled the sheet up under her chin.

She called his name. She didn't seem to have control of her voice. She wondered if he had heard her through the closed door.

«What?»

«Would you come in here, please?» she called.

He opened the door, and asked «What?» again when he saw her in the bed.

When she didn't reply, he said her name, «Milla?» and she saw that he was having trouble with his voice, too.

«I have been in love with you from the moment I saw you drive up in your car,» she said.

And then she threw the sheet away from her body and held out her arms to him.

«Oh, Jesus H. Christ, Milla!» Ed said softly, and then got in bed with her and put his arms around her.

She had, she knew, just put her last chip on the table.

^{note 1}

«I got a cable from my father today,» Captain Ed Banning announced a week later.

They were in his apartment. He was on his back, his hands folded under his head. She was on her stomach, her face on his chest, her right leg on top of his. Their coupling had been intense, and he had been sweating. Even though she could smell his underarms, she didn't mind that at all, but worried—because she'd been sweating, too—that her own odor might offend him.

«Is something wrong?»

«No, as a matter of fact, things are looking up.»

«I have no idea what you're talking about.»

«First things first,» he said. «Will you marry me, Maria Catherine Ludmilla Zhivkov? Will you promise to love, cherish, and obey me, in sickness and in health, et cetera, et cetera, so long as we both shall live?»

She felt the tears come.

«Don't do this to me, Ed,» she said softly.

«What is that, a no? After I spent all that money—it's twenty-two cents a word—cabling my father about you?»

«You cabled your father about me?»

«Uh-huh.»

«What did you tell him?»

«Not much. I told you, it's twenty-two cents a word, but I did tell him that if he wants to be a grandfather, he'd better go see good

ol'

Uncle Zach and ask him to pass a special law allowing the future mother of his grandchild into the States.»

«Ed, I have no idea what you're talking about.»

«You haven't answered the question,» Ed said. «Let's start with that.»

«What question?»

«Will you marry me, Milla? Would you rather I got out of bed and got on my knees?»

«We can't get married; you know that as well as I do.»

«Well, for the sake of argument, if you could, would you?»

«Ed, for the love of God, don't start saying things you don't mean, or making promises you won't be able to keep,» Milla said. «Please.»

«I never do,» he said, a little indignantly. «Answer the question.»

«Oh, Ed, if it were possible, I would try very hard to be a good wife to you.»

«I didn't detect a whole hell of a lot of enthusiasm.»

«How can I be enthusiastic about something both of us know will never happen?

«You don't seem to understand, Milla,» he said. «I'm trying to tell you that the Marines have landed, and the situation is well in hand.»

«Damn you! Stop this. I don't think it's funny. It's cruel. It's perverse!»

«Before I cabled my father,» Ed said. «I went down to the legation and asked the consul general some questions.» He caught her eye. «He's a nice guy and won't run off at the mouth about that.»

«Questions about us?»

«About you,» he said. «Your Nansen status. Specifically, I asked him how I can get you into the United States.»

«And he told you that that's impossible. I'm surprised you don't know that. You can't immigrate to the United States on a Nansen passport.»

«Unless you get a special law passed by Congress, is what he told me.»

«What do you mean, a 'special law'?»

«The Congress of the United States in solemn assembly passes a law stating that so much of the applicable laws pertaining are waived in the case of Maria Catherine Ludmilla Zhivkov, and the Attorney General is hereby directed to forthwith issue to the said Maria Catherine Ludmilla Zhivkov an immigration visa.»

«That's possible?» she asked incredulously.

«We can't get married here. I'd need permission, and the Colonel would never grant it. And I can't resign from the Corps now. Resignations have been suspended for what they call 'The Emergency.' «

«So what are you talking about?»

«What we have to do is get you to the States,» he said. «Once you're in the States, we can get married. I won't be the first Marine officer with a foreign-born wife. And I really want to stay in the Corps.»

«You're dreaming the impossible. Didn't your consul general tell you what we both know? I can't get into the United States on a Nansen passport.»

«That's where good old Uncle Zach comes in with his special law,» Ed said. «My father's cable said that he had gone to see Uncle Zach, and Uncle Zach came on board.»

«Your Uncle Zach has political connections?»

«He's not really my uncle. He and my father were classmates at The Citadel. But I've known him all of my life.»

«But he has political connections?»

«The Honorable Zachary W. Westminister III has the honor to be the Representative to the Congress of the United States from the Third Congressional District of the great state of South Carolina.»

«And he will help?»

«The way my father sounded, it's a done deal. It won't happen next week, but it can be done.»

Oh, Holy Mary; Mother of God, is it possible ? Has the wheel stopped spinning and the ball really dropped into my hole ?

Milla started to weep.

He raised his head to look down at her and saw the tears running down her cheeks.

«Hey,» he asked, very tenderly, touching her cheek with his fingers. «What's that all about?»

«Ed, I want so much to believe, but I'm so afraid.»

«I told you. baby, the Marines have landed, and the situation is well in hand.»

«What does that 'Marines have landed' mean?» she asked, confused.

«It means that between now and the time the next Pan American Clipper leaves for the States, we have to go to the legation and get certified true copies made of all your documents, including your Nansen passport and what they call a 'narrative of the circumstances' by which you wound up here. Then we stuff everything in an airmail envelope and send it off to Uncle Zach. Who will get a special law passed for us.»

«Really, Ed? This can be done?»

«Really, baby. It will be done.»

Believe the dream. Why not? A dream is all I have.

She kissed his chest.

«But we don't have to do that right now,» Ed said. «And, anyway, I see that something else has come up we're going to have to do something about.»

«Excuse me?» Milla asked, looking up at him.

He pointed to his midsection.

«Oh,» she said.

«Does that suggest anything to you?» he asked.

Milla put her hand on him, rolled over onto her back, and guided him into her.

^{note 2}

They had three months together.

Without telling Ed. Milla went to her Russian Orthodox priest. Father Boris didn't have a church. He supported himself exchanging one foreign currency for another. He'd even shaved his beard and wore a suit so that he would look like a respectable businessman. But before the Revolution, he had been a priest at St. Matthew's in St. Petersburg. She didn't remember him there—she had been too young—but he remembered her family, and he had buried both her father and her mother here in Shanghai with the holy rites of the church. Several times, when he looked particularly desperate when she saw him on the street, she had given him a little money, and once, a little drunk on the anniversary of her mother's death, she had gone into the hem of her mother's girdle and taken a stone from it—one of the small rubies—and given it to him «for the poor.»

When they met, he called her «Countess»; and when she asked, he heard her confession. She was having carnal relations, she told him. And while she was sorry to sin, she was not ashamed, for she loved the man very much.

Since she was not willing to swear an oath to break off the sinful relationship, Father Boris could not grant her absolution. But she believed him when he told her he was sorry. «Your sin is now between yourself and God,» he went on to say, «and you will have to answer to him.»

That was all right with Milla. She didn't see how a merciful God could be angry with her for being in love. God had to know that she and Ed would already be married, if that had been possible. And just as soon as it was possible, she would marry him, and be a good and faithful wife to him.

In a sense, they

were

married. She didn't feel like a mistress, even though, after the first week, she slept more in Ed's apartment than her own.

In time, a letter came from the congressman, acknowledging receipt of her documents, and advising Ed that he would move on the special bill as quickly as he could, but that it was going to take time.

A very nice letter also came from Ed's mother. «You must really be a special person,» she wrote, «because we had always assumed that Ed was married to the Marine Corps until we got the wire from him announcing your engagement…

Meanwhile,» the letter continued, «we're anxiously waiting for you to come to the States. When you arrive, why don't you plan on living in our house with us, for the time being at least. There's plenty of room, and I look forward to the company.» She signed the letter, «with much love to my new daughter-to-be.»

With one exception, she didn't meet any of Ed's fellow Marines. She understood why. Theirs was an inappropriate relationship in the eyes of the United States Corps of Marines.

The one Marine she met, a corporal, was a very strange young man. One morning Ed asked her if she would prepare a little dinner party for this young man. The next day he was returning to the United States.

She was happy to do that. She roasted a chicken, made blini and rice, found some nice wine, and even, since it was a farewell party, a bottle of French champagne.

When Ed introduced the young man to her—his name was McCoy—the one thing Milla most noticed about him was his cold eyes. He also looked as though he didn't approve of the inappropriate relationship. And a few moments later, when Ed told him to relax and take off his uniform tunic, Milla was startled to see that McCoy was wearing a nasty-looking dagger strapped to his left arm, between his hand and his elbow.

She was also surprised that he spoke better Chinese—Wu, Mandarin, and Cantonese—than Ed did, and even knew a few words of Russian.

He didn't stay long after dinner; and when he left, Milla asked Ed if the rules were different in the U.S. Corps of Marines than in Russia. Could officers have friends who were common soldiers?

«The Killer's not a common soldier, honey,» Ed said. «Not even a common Marine. And, though he doesn't know it yet, he's going to be an officer. He thinks he's being reassigned. But I've arranged for him to go to Officer Candidate School.»

» 'Killer'? What's that mean?»

«He hates to be called that,» Ed told her, «but the truth of the matter is that he's killed a lot of people. Around the Fourth Marines, he's something of a legend.»

He went on to explain that he had met McCoy when assigned to defend him against a court-martial double charge of murder. What had actually happened was that four Italian Marines had ambushed McCoy—Ed had had to define the word for her—and he had killed two of them with his knife. «It was self-defense,» Ed said. «But I thought he was going to go to prison anyway. It was the word of the two surviving Italians against his, and they said he had attacked them.»

«So what happened?»

«Do you know who Captain Bruce Fairbairn is?»

«Yes, of course.»

Fairbairn was Chief of the British-run Shanghai Police Department, and one of the best-known westerners in Shanghai.

«Fairbairn came to me—he and McCoy are two peas from the same pod. They're friends, and that knife McCoy carries is the one Fairbairn designed. He gave it to McCoy and taught him how to use it—anyway, Fairbairn came to me and said that if the Marine Corps went forward with the 'ridiculous' court-martial, he had three agents of his Flying Squad prepared to testify under oath that McCoy was the innocent party, they had seen the whole thing.»

«Had they?»

«I don't really think so, baby. But Fairbairn didn't think McCoy attacked anybody, and he wasn't going to see him sent to prison for twenty years—or life— so an unpleasant diplomatic incident could be swept under the rug.»

«So he was set free,» Milla observed. «And now they call him 'Killer' He has a killer's eyes.»

«He's a tough little cookie,» Ed said. «But the Italians weren't the only people he had to kill. One time when he was on a supply convoy to Peking, the convoy was ambushed by Chinese 'bandits'—almost certainly in the employ of the Kempeitai, the Japanese Secret Police. Anyhow, McCoy and the sergeant with him, Zimmerman—but mostly McCoy—really did a job on them. After it was over, there were twenty bodies. When that word got out, he became 'Killer' McCoy for all time.»

«Incredible!»

«He likes you, Milla,» Ed said.

«How can you say that?»

«He talked to you. For the Killer, he talked a lot. And he just doesn't talk to people he doesn't like.»

«Are most of your friends like him?»

«I really don't have many friends, Milla,» he said after a moment, thoughtfully. «To me a friend is somebody you can trust when the chips are down—do you know that expression, 'when the chips are down'?»

She nodded.

«I trust the Killer. Like I trust you, my love.»

^{note 3}

One day, in the middle of the morning, he came to her apartment, unexpected. Milla knew it was over as soon as she looked in Ed's eyes.

«I don't know how to break this to you easy, honey,» he said, just looking at her, not even kissing her.

«Tell me.»

«The Fourth has been transferred to the Philippines,» he said. «I'm on the advance party. I fly out of here the day after tomorrow.»

I

knew it was too good to be true, too good to last

.

«Good God!»

«Which means we don't have much time.»

«Two days…«

She wrapped her arms around him and fought back the tears.

«I've got to transfer title to all my stuff to you.»

«I don't want anything!»

«You're my wife.»

«I am not.»

«You will be at eleven o'clock tomorrow. Jim Ferneyhough—Father Ferneyhough—at the Anglican Cathedral says he'll marry us, and to hell with getting permission from my colonel or anybody else.»

«But you will be in trouble with the Corps of Marines.»

«Oh, to hell with that, baby.»

^{note 4}

Milla came very close to taking her life the day Ed left Shanghai. When she saw him enter the huge, four-engined Sikorski Pan American Airways «China Clipper,» she was absolutely convinced that she would never see him again. And without Ed, she didn't want to live. Not the way things were now in Shanghai, and certainly not in the Shanghai that was soon to be. Even though Ed was an intelligence officer and should know how things really were, she was sure she knew what really was going to happen better than he did.

Because it had a basement garage, and she wouldn't dare leave the red Pontiac on the street in front of her own apartment, Milla drove from the wharf to Ed's apartment—which by now she had begun to think of as their apartment, their home.

Maybe

, she thought,

it would be best to take my life in our apartment, where we were so happy

.

The bed was still mussed from their last time together. Wondering why she was doing it, she made it over with fresh sheets.

The towel in the bathroom was still damp from his last shower, and he had forgotten to take a half-empty bottle of his aftershave lotion that smelled of limes.

She went so far as to take out the Colt automatic pistol he had left with her, after teaching her how to load and cock and aim it.

Then she decided she would wait until the 4th Marines actually left Shanghai. The advance party, to which Ed was assigned, would fly to Manila to arrange for the arrival of the regiment, which would be moved by ship.

She did not want Ed to receive news that she was dead. But if she took her life before the regiment left, especially in his apartment, it was possible someone would notify him in Manila.

It would be different after the 4th Marines were gone. No one would then care if a Nansen person shot herself in an apartment once occupied by an officer of the 4th Marines.

^{note 5}

Two days before the 4th Marines had finished loading aboard the USS

President Madison

, the ship sent to transport them to Manila, Milla had a visitor in her apartment. It was a Marine, a sergeant. He was short, barrel-chested, round-faced, and stubby-fingered; and her first impression was that he was stupid and crude. Behind him was a flat-faced Chinese woman, with a pair of children in tow—obviously half white—and a third in her arms.

«Mrs. Banning?» he asked.

It was only the second time in her life that she had been so addressed. The English priest at the cathedral had been the first. «May I congratulate you, Mrs. Banning, on your marriage, and offer my best wishes for a long and happy marriage?» he had said, knowing full well how the odds were stacked against that.

«I am Mrs. Banning,» she said.

It was the first time in her life she had ever said that. It sounded strange and made her want to cry.

«Sergeant Zimmerman, ma'am,» he said. «Fourth Marines. This is my woman, Mae Su, and our kids.»

The woman nodded at Milla but did not speak. Milla, somewhat unkindly, thought they were a well-matched pair. Mae Su was built like Zimmerman, short, squat, and muscular, and looked no more intelligent.

«How may I help you, Sergeant?»

«I don't need any help, but Mae Su and the kids are probably going to need some help. Before he left, Killer McCoy said I should get the two of youse together. And before he left, I asked Captain Banning about it, and he said it was a good idea that the two of youse could probably help each other out.»

«Well, if my husband said that, Sergeant, I'll be happy to do anything I can for you,» Milla said, noting what she had said. It was the first time she had ever used the phrase «my husband.»

This is insane. I'm insane. I'm in no position to help anybody. What I need is somebody to help me.

«Okay,» Sergeant Zimmerman said. «The Killer said you was smart and would know how fucked up things are going to get around here once we get on that fucking ship and sail off.»

The Killer said I was smart? Obviously, what has happened here is that Corporal the Killer was boasting to his friend the sergeant that he had met Captain Banning's woman

—

my God, we weren't married when the Killer went to America; that's all I was to him, his Captain's Nansen person equivalent of this Chinese peasant

—

and that the two

women

should get together

.

So why did this sergeant call me Mrs. Banning? Because Ed told him we were married? I don't think so. He just decided that Captain Banning's Nansen person woman would like to be called Mrs. Banning, it would make her feel less like a mistress, less like one more Nansen person whore.

«Exactly what did you have in mind, Sergeant?» Milla asked.

«Nothing now,» he said. «But sure as hell, something will fucking well turn up.»

«Would you like to come in? Can I offer you a cup of tea?»

Sergeant Zimmerman spoke to the woman, repeating her offer in what sounded like perfect Mandarin. The woman shook her head, «no.»

«We don't have much time,» Sergeant Zimmerman said. «We looked for you first over at the Captain's apartment, waited around for you, and then we come here.»

«I see.»

«What I think would be best would be for youse two to get together once I'm gone.»

«Whatever you think is best,» Milla had said. She smiled at Zimmerman's woman, who did not smile back.

Sergeant Zimmerman put out his hand.

«Captain Banning told me I would like you,» he said, and added, «Would it be okay if I told you I think he's one hell of a fucking officer?»

«Of course.»

«And if anybody can get you out of this fucking place, Mrs. Banning, the Captain can. That's the real reason I wanted youse two to meet.»

Could that possibly mean that Ed thought this woman, this Chinese peasant, could help me ?

Sergeant Zimmerman nodded at her, gestured for his woman to turn, and then walked away from Milla's door.

^{note 6}

For reasons she didn't quite understand, Milla got all dressed up before driving Ed's red convertible Pontiac to the Yangtze River wharf to watch the 4th Marines sail away from Shanghai aboard the

President Madison

.

She was not, she saw, the only Marine's woman to come to the wharf to watch her man—and her future—sail away. At least twenty Chinese women were there, many of them with children, as well as four white women, two of them with children. She recognized two of them, and presumed all four were Russians. They looked as desperate and pathetic as she felt.

She also saw Sergeant Zimmerman, leaning on the rail of the ship, and his woman and their three children on the wharf.

As the lines tying the ship to the wharf were loosened and picked up, and the

President Madison

began, just perceptibly, to move away, a sudden impulse sent Milla out of the Pontiac, and she found herself walking to Sergeant Zimmerman's woman.

The woman nodded to her but didn't speak.

When Sergeant Zimmerman waved, Milla waved back. His woman—Milla remembered her name now, Mae Su—waved just once, and then just stood there, watching as the distance between the ship and the wharf grew.

«Come with me, I'll drive you home,» Milla said.

Mae Su looked at her and nodded her head, just once, but didn't speak.

The current of the Yangtze River finally moved the

President Madison

far enough away from the wharf to allow her engines to be engaged. There was a sudden powerful churning at her stern, under the American flag hanging limp from a pole, and she began to move, ever faster, both farther away from the wharf and down the Yangtze.

Milla and Mae Su watched until it was no longer possible to make out individual Marines on her deck, and then Mae Su looked up at Milla, and they walked to the Pontiac and got in.

The Zimmerman apartment was far larger and better furnished than Milla expected. Did a Marine sergeant make enough money to support something like this, she wondered, or did they have a second source of income?

«You have a very nice apartment,» Milla said, as Mae Su changed the diaper of her youngest child.

«Thank you,» Mae Su said, and then as if she were reading Milla's mind, went on: «My man is without education and crude, but he is not stupid. We supplied all the houseboys who took care of the Marines in their barracks. And had other enterprises.»

Milla nodded politely.

Mae Su thought of something else. «'And, after much instruction, he became a very good poker player. There was always a little something extra in the pot after payday.»

«Oh, really?» Milla asked, smiling.

«I will really miss all of this.» Mae Su said. «We were here five years.»

«You're going to leave?»

«Sell everything and leave,» Mae Su said. «Before the Japanese really get bad. I have already made some arrangements.»

Milla nodded again.

«I went with my man to your apartment because he wanted me to,» Mae Su said. «He thought we could help each other. I had the feeling you did not agree.»

«How could we help each other?» Milla asked.

«Much would depend on how much money you have, in gold or pounds or dollars—gold would be best—and on how much you could get for Captain Banning's possessions in these circumstances.»

The circumstances were, Milla knew, that the only potential purchasers of a westerner's property were Chinese, and the Chinese were fully aware it was a buyer's market. Ed's things would not bring anything close to what they were worth. Milla seriously doubted she could find a buyer for the Pontiac at all. Who would want to pay good money for an expensive American automobile when it would almost certainly—under one pretense or another—be confiscated by the Japanese?

«Specifically, what do you have in mind?» Milla said.

«At first, I am going to return to my village,» Mae Su said. «I have a tractor, a Fordson, and a small caravan large enough for a stove and to sleep in on the road.»

Milla could see that in her mind. Tractors pulling rickety four-wheel carts were a common sight outside the city, rolling along at five miles an hour on bare tires mounted on axles from ancient automobiles.

She was also suddenly aware that she was talking to Mae Su as an equal. The woman wasn't nearly as stupid as she looked.

«And then?»

«Then I think I shall do what my man said to do. Go north and then west, and try to make it through Tibet and into India. Or perhaps even further north into Mongolia, and then into India through Kazakhstan.»

«Kazakhstan is in Russia,» Milla said with a sense of terror.

Her father had refused to return to what had become the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics—for good reason. As a former general in the White Army, he would have been imprisoned, or more likely shot, if he did. His refusal had stripped him and his family of Russian citizenship; and the Russians, like the Americans, did not permit holders of stateless person Nansen passports to cross their border.

«Kazakhstan is Kazakhstan,» Mae Su said. «It is possible to get through it to India. Gold opens all borders.»

«Why India?»

«My man said for me to find an American consulate, and give them our marriage paper, and the papers he has signed saying he is the father of our children. Maybe they will be able to help us. They would probably help you. You are the wife of an American Marine officer.»

Yes, I am

, Milla realized, somewhat surprised.

«But I only have enough money for us,» Mae Su said. «If you want to come with me, you will not only have to pay your own way, but, if necessary, to share what you have with me.»

«I have some money,» Milla said, thinking out loud. «All that my husband had here. And a little of my own. And the car, and the furniture in the apartments. I don't think any of that will bring very much.»

I sound as if I'm willing to go with this woman, by tractor-drawn cart, to some nameless village in the interior of China, and entrusting her with all I have in the world.

But she sounds so confident, and what other choice do I have, except to stay here and hope the Japanese officer who wants me for his woman will be kind to me? Or to end it all, once and for all?

«If you would like,» Mae Su said. «I could deal with the disposition of your property. I know some people. I might be able to get you more for it than you think.»

«All right,» Milla said. She knew a Chinese could strike a better deal than she could.

«I have two guns,» Mae Su went on. «A shotgun and a pistol. My man took them from the Marine armory.»

«My husband left a pistol with me.»

«And do you know how to use it? If necessary, could you use it?»

Milla nodded. «Yes,» she said. «I know how to use it.»

«That may be necessary,» Mae Su said. «Now, if you will stay here and watch the children, and give me the keys to your apartments, I will see about selling your things.»

«All right,» Milla said, and added: «Thank you, Mae Su.»

Mae Su, for the first time, smiled at her.

Milla wondered if she would ever see Banning again.

Chapter One

^{note 7}

Apartment 4C

303 DuPont Circle

Washington, D.C.

0905 8 February

Fourteen months later, and half a world away, Major Ed Banning, USMC, opened his eyes, aware of the phone ringing. The next thing he noticed was that he was alone in bed.

As he swung his feet out of bed and reached for the telephone, he read his clock, remembering that Carolyn had told him she absolutely had to go to work, which meant catching the 6:05 Milk Train Special to New York. Which meant she had silently gotten out of bed at five, dressed without waking him, and gone and caught the goddamned train. The kindness was typical of her, and he was grateful for it, but he was sorry he missed her.

He was—especially when she showed him a kindness—shamed by their relationship. Even though she had known from the beginning about Milla, the truth was that Carolyn was getting the short end of the stick. They could be as «adult» and «sophisticated» as they pretended to be about their relationship, but the cold truth was Carolyn was doing all the giving, and he was doing all the taking, and Carolyn deserved better than that.

«Damn!» he said aloud, as he picked up the telephone. He had the day off— he had worked the Sunday 1600-2400 shift in the cryptographic room, and would not be expected at work again until 0800 tomorrov morning. It would have been nice to spend that time with Carolyn.

«Liberty Four Thirty-four Thirty-three,» he said into the telephone. It was standing operating procedure in the U.S. Marine Corps' Office of Management Analysis to answer telephones—in the office and in quarters—with the number, not the name. That way a dialer of a wrong number would learn only that he had the wrong number, not the identity of the person or office he had called by mistake.

«Sorry to do this to you, Ed,» his caller said, without wasting time on a greeting. He recognized the voice. It was his boss, Colonel F. L. «Fritz» Rickabee,

USMC, Deputy Director of the U.S. Marine Corps Office of Management Analysis. After Ed had been evacuated from the Philippines, just before they'd fallen to the Japanese, Banning had been assigned to the little-known unit.

Even its title was purposely obfuscatory—it had nothing to do with either management or analysis. It was a covert intelligence unit that took its orders from, and was answerable only to, Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox.

«Oh, no!» Banning said.

«One of the sailors apparently has a tummy ache,» Rickabee said.

«When?»

«Right now,» Colonel Rickabee said. «A car's on the way.»

«Oh shit!»

» 'Oh, shit'?»

«Aye, aye, sir,» Major Banning said.

There was a final grunt from Colonel Rickabee and the line went dead.

Banning marched naked to his bathroom and stepped under the shower. Five minutes later, he stepped out, having made use of time normally wasted standing under the shower by shaving there. He toweled himself quickly and then paused at the washbasin only long enough to splash aftershave cologne on his face. Then he went into his bedroom to dress.

He took a uniform from a closet still-in-its-fresh-from-the-dry-cleaners-paper-wrapping, ripped off the paper, and laid the uniform on the bed. With a skill born of long practice, he quickly affixed his insignia and ribbons to the tunic. His ribbons indicated, among other things, that he had seen Pacific service, during which he had twice suffered wounds entitling him to the Purple Heart Medal with one oak-leaf cluster.

Next he took a fresh, stiffly starched khaki shirt from a drawer and quickly pinned a gold major's oak leaf in the prescribed position on its collar points. He slipped on the shirt, buttoned it, tied a khaki field scarf in the prescribed manner and place, and put on the rest of his uniform. The last step before buttoning his tunic was to slip a Colt Model 1911 Al .45 ACP pistol into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back.

The entire process, from the moment the telephone rang until he reached the apartment building's curb where a light green Plymouth sedan was waiting for him, had taken just over eleven minutes.

Though the car had civilian license plates, the driver, a wiry man in his thirties just then leaning on a fender, was a Marine technical sergeant. He was in uniform, which told Banning that when the call from the crypto room came in, no one around the office had been wearing civilian clothing—and there'd been no time to summon somebody in civvies. Standing operating procedure was that the unmarked cars were to be driven by personnel in civilian clothes. The sergeant straightened up, saluted, and then opened the door for him.

«Good morning, sir,» he said.

«That's a matter of opinion,» Banning said, smiling, as he returned the salute.

«The Colonel indicated you might be pissed, sir,» the sergeant said.

«I left that goddamn place nine hours ago,» Banning said. «And now another eight hours!»

«War is hell, isn't it, sir?»

«Oh, screw you, Rutterman,» Banning said.

Sergeant Rutterman drove Major Banning to the Navy Building, where Banning underwent four separate security screenings before reaching his destination. The first was the more or less

pro forma

examination of his identity card before he could enter the building. The second, which took place on the ground floor, required him to produce a special identity card to gain access to the Secure Area. When this was done, he was permitted to enter the elevator to the second sub-basement. Once he was in the second sub-basement, armed sailors carefully matched a photo on his Cryptographic Area identification card against a five-by-seven card that held an identical photograph. The successful match allowed them to admit him to the area behind locked steel doors. The final security check was administered by a Navy warrant officer and a chief petty officer at a desk before still another heavy, vaultlike door.

Although they both knew Banning by sight, and the warrant officer and Banning had often shared a drink, they subjected him to a detailed examination of the three identity cards and finally challenged him for his password. Only when that was done, and the chief petty officer started to unlock the door's two locks— the door also had a combination lock, like a safe—did the warrant officer speak informally. «I can see how delighted you are to be back.»

«Is he in there?» Banning said.

«Oh, he's been in there, Major, waiting for you.»

There was no identifying sign on the steel door, and few people even knew of the existence of the «Special Communications Room.» Even fewer had any idea of its function.

In one of the best-kept secrets of the war, cryptographers at Pearl Harbor had broken several of the codes used by the Japanese for communications between the Imperial General Staff and the Imperial Japanese Army and Navy, as well as between Japanese diplomatic posts and Tokyo. Most, but not all, of the cryptographers involved in this breakthrough had been Navy personnel. One of the exceptions was an Army Signal Corps officer, a Korean-American named Lieutenant Hon Song Do.

Intercepted and decrypted Japanese messages were classified top secret— magic. The magic window into the intentions of the enemy gave the upper hierarchy of the United States government a weapon beyond price. And it wasn't a window into the Japanese intentions alone, for some of the intercepted messages reported what the Japanese Embassy in Berlin had been told by the German government. In other words, magic also opened a small window on German intentions as well.

But it was a window that would be rendered useless the moment the Japanese even suspected that their most secret messages were being read and analyzed by the Americans.

The roster of personnel throughout the world who had access to magic material fit with room to spare on two sheets of typewriter paper. It was headed by the name of President Roosevelt, then ranged downward through Admiral William Leahy, the President's Chief of Staff; Admiral Ernest King, Chief of Naval Operations; General George C. Marshall, the Army Chief of Staff; Admiral Chester W. Nimitz, the Navy Commander in Chief, Pacific; General Douglas MacArthur, Supreme Commander, South West Pacific Ocean Area; and Major Edward J. Banning, USMC; then farther downward to the lowest-ranking individual, a Marine Corps Second Lieutenant named George F. Hart.

Almost as soon as the system to encrypt and transmit magic messages had been put in place, the senior officers with access to it—from Roosevelt on down—had realized that magic also gave them a means to communicate with each other rapidly and with the highest possible level of security. The result was that nearly as many «back-channel» messages were sent over the system as there were intercepted Japanese messages.

«Okay, Major,» the chief petty officer said to Banning, and swung the vaultlike door open. Banning stepped inside and the chief swung the door closed after him. Banning heard the bolts slip into place.

Inside the room were two desks placed side by side, a safe, and two straight-backed chairs. The magic cryptographic machine was on one of the desks, along with a typewriter and three telephones, one of them red and without a dial.

A Navy lieutenant commander rose from one of the chairs. His uniform bore the silver aiguillettes signifying a Naval aide to the President, and he carried a .45 ACP pistol in a leather holster suspended from a web belt.

«Good morning,» Banning said.

He had seen the lieutenant commander a dozen times before and didn't like him.

«It was my understanding that this facility was to be manned twenty-four hours a day,» the lieutenant commander snapped.

Banning looked at him carefully. He reminded himself to control his temper.

«Ordinarily, it is,» he said. «In this instance, one of your swabbies got sick to his tummy, and the Marines had to fill in for him.»

«It is also my understanding that the officer in charge will be armed,» the lieutenant commander said.

«I'm armed. Do you want to see it, or will you take my word as a fellow officer of the Naval establishment?»

The lieutenant commander looked for a moment as if he intended to reply to the comment, but then changed his mind.

«Well, let's have it, Commander,» Banning said. «Time is fleeting.»

The lieutenant commander unlocked the handcuff that attached his briefcase to his wrist. After he had placed the briefcase on the table, he unlocked the briefcase itself.

He took from it a clipboard and a large manila envelope, unmarked except for a piece of paper affixed to it in such a way that no one could open it without tearing the paper. To facilitate that, the paper was perforated in its center.

He handed Banning the envelope. Banning wrote his name on one half of the paper. Then he sealed the envelope, tore it loose, and handed it to the lieutenant commander. The lieutenant commander handed him the clipboard, and Banning signed the form it contained, acknowledging his receipt of the envelope and the time he had accepted it. Then he picked up one of the black telephones, dialed two digits, and ordered, «Open it up, Chief.»

They could hear keys in the locks, followed by the faint whisper of the combination lock.

Banning ripped open the manila envelope. It contained another manila envelope, nearly as large. This one was stamped top secret in red ink four times on each side, and sealed with cellophane tape imprinted top secret.

He didn't open this envelope until the lieutenant commander had left the room and the chief had closed and locked the door after him again. He had to use a pock-etknife to cut through the cellophane tape, very careful not to damage whatever the envelope held. Finally, he held several sheets of paper in his hand. They were typed on White House stationery, and bore the signature of Admiral William Leahy, Chief of Staff to the Commander in Chief.

Each page was stamped, top and bottom:

TOP SECRET COPY 2 OF 2

SPECIAL CHANNEL TRANSMISSION DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN

Banning read the message through, said, «I'll be damned!» and then reached for the telephone and dialed a number from memory.

«Liberty 3-2908,» a familiar voice answered.

«Sir, I respectfully suggest you come over here. Right now.»

There was a pause, long enough for Banning to consider whether or not Colonel Rickabee was going to accept the suggestion.

«On my way,» Colonel Rickabee said finally, and hung up.

Banning laid the message on White House stationery beside the magic encryp-tion device, made the necessary adjustments to the mechanism, and began to type. From the far side of the encryption device, a sheet of teletypewriter paper began to emerge. It was covered with apparently meaningless five-character words, in one block after another. When that process was complete, Banning tore the teletypewriter paper from the device, laid it on top of the original message, threw several switches, and began to type the encoded message back into the machine.

To ensure accuracy, standing operating procedure was to decrypt a Presidential Special Channel after it had been encrypted, so that it could be compared with the original before it was transmitted. It was a time-consuming process, and Banning wasn't quite through when the sounds of keys in the locks and the twirling of the combination device announced the arrival of Colonel Rickabee.

«Almost finished, sir,» Banning said.

Rickabee waited more or less patiently for Banning to finish. And then, because it was quicker to do that than for Banning to make the comparison himself, he held the teletypewriter decryption while Banning read the original message aloud.

T O P S E C R E T

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON

0900 8 FEBRUARY 1943

VIA SPECIAL CHANNEL

GENERAL DOUGLAS MACARTHUR

SUPREME COMMANDER SWPOA

FOLLOWING PERSONAL FROM THE PRESIDENT TO GENERAL MACARTHUR

MY DEAR DOUGLAS:

I'M SURE THAT YOU WILL AGREE THE FOLLOWING IS SOMETHING AT LEAST ONE OF US SHOULD HAVE THOUGHT OF SOME TIME AGO. I WOULD APPRECIATE YOUR GETTING THIS INTO FLEMING PICKERING'S HANDS AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.

ELEANOR JOINS ME IN EXTENDING THE MOST CORDIAL GREETINGS TO YOU AND JEAN.

AS EVER,

FRANKLIN

END PERSONAL FROM THE PRESIDENT TO GENERAL MACARTHUR

FOLLOWING PERSONAL FROM THE PRESIDENT TO BRIG GEN PICKERING

MY DEAR FLEMING:

FIRST LET ME EXPRESS MY GREAT ADMIRATION FOR THE MANNER IN WHICH YOUR PEOPLE CONDUCTED THE OPERATION TO ESTABLISH CONTACT WITH WENDELL FERTIG IN THE PHILIPPINES AND MY PERSONAL DELIGHT THAT JIMMY'S COMRADE-IN-ARMS CAPTAIN MCCOY AND HIS BRAVE TEAM HAVE BEEN SAFELY EVACUATED. PLEASE RELAY TO EVERYONE CONCERNED MY VERY BEST WISHES AND GRATITUDE FOR A JOB WELL DONE.

SECOND, LET ME EXPRESS MY CHAGRIN AT NOT SEEING THE OBVIOUS SOLUTION TO OUR PROBLEM VIS A VIS OSS OPERATIONS IN THE PACIFIC UNTIL, LITERALLY, LAST NIGHT. I WOULD NOT HAVE DREAMED OF COURSE OF OVER-RIDING THE WHOLLY UNDERSTANDABLE CONCERNS OF GENERAL MACARTHUR AND ADMIRAL NIMITZ THAT HAVTNG THE OSS OPERATE IN THEIR AREAS OF COMMAND WOULD MEAN THE INTRUSION OF STRANGERS WHICH MIGHT INTERFERE WITH THEIR OPERATIONS. IN THEIR SHOES, I WOULD HAVE BEEN SIMILARLY CONCERNED.

WHAT IS NEEDED OF COURSE IS SOMEONE WHO ENJOYS THE COMPLETE TRUST OF BOTH ADMIRAL NIMITZ, GENERAL MACARTHUR AND DIRECTOR DONOVAN. I HAD FRANKLY DESPAIRED OF FINDING SUCH A PERSON UNTIL LAST NIGHT WHEN I WAS STRUCK BY SOMETHING CLOSE TO A DIVINE REVELATION WHILE HAVING DINNER WITH OUR GOOD FRIEND SENATOR RICHARDSON FOWLER AND REALIZED THAT HE… YOU… HAD BEEN STANDING IN FRONT OF ALL OF US ALL THE TIME.

I HAVE TODAY ISSUED AN EXECUTIVE ORDER APPOINTING YOU DEPUTY DIRECTOR OF THE OFFICE OF STRATEGIC SERVICES FOR PACIFIC OPERATIONS. I AM SURE THAT GENERAL MACARTHUR AND ADMIRAL NIMITZ WILL BE AS ENTHUSIASTIC ABOUT THIS APPOINTMENT AS WAS DIRECTOR DONOVAN. I HAVE FURTHER INSTRUCTED ADMIRAL LEAHY TO TRANSFER ALL PERSONNEL AND EQUIPMENT OF USMC SPECIAL DETACHMENT SIXTEEN TO YOU, AND TO ARRANGE FOR THE TRANSFER OF ANY OTHER PERSONNEL YOU MAY FEEL ARE NECESSARY.

WHILE YOU WILL BE REPORTING DIRECTLY TO DIRECTOR DONOVAN, LET ME ASSURE YOU THAT MY DOOR WILL ALWAYS BE OPEN TO YOU AT ALL TIMES. I LOOK FORWARD TO DISCUSSING FUTURE OPERATIONS WITH YOU JUST AS SOON AS YOU FEEL YOU CAN LEAVE BRISBANE.

WITH MY WARMEST REGARDS

FRANKLIN

END PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM THE PRESIDENT TO BRIG GEN PICKERING

BY DIRECTION OF THE PRESIDENT

LEAHY, ADMIRAL, USN

CHIEF OF STAFF TO THE PRESIDENT

TOP SECRET

In what was for him was an extraordinary emotional reaction, Colonel F. L. Rickabee blurted, «I will be damned!»

«Yes, sir,» Banning said.

«You better take it to Radio, Ed,» Rickabee said. «I'll see that this stuff is shredded and burned.»

«Aye, aye, sir,» Major Banning said, and reached for the phone to tell the chief to open it up.

^{note 8}

Office of the Supreme Commander

Supreme Headquarters

South West Pacific Ocean Area

Brisbane, Australia

OS 8 February

When the Military Police staff sergeant on duty in the corridor saw the Signal Corps officer approaching, he smiled at him and gave him permission to enter the outer office of the Supreme Commander with a wave of his hand.

By and large, the enlisted men of Supreme Headquarters, South West Pacific Ocean Area, liked Major Hon Song Do, Signal Corps, USAR. Not only was he a pleasant officer, who treated the troops like human beings, but he was known to be a thorn in the sides of a number of officers whom the troops by and large did not like.

«How goes it, Sergeant?» Major Hon Song Do greeted him, smiling.

He was carrying a battered, Army issue leather briefcase. It was held to his left wrist with a chain and a pair of handcuffs. The right lower pocket of his tunic sagged with the weight of a .1911 Al Colt automatic pistol.

«Can't complain, sir.»

Major Hon was a very large man, heavy set and muscular, with 210 pounds distributed over six feet two inches. His thick Boston accent was a consequence of his before-the-war years at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, where he had been a professor of theoretical mathematics.

Major Hon pushed open the door to the outer office of the Supreme Commander and walked across the room to a large desk. Behind the desk sat a tall, rather good-looking officer whose collar insignia identified him as a lieutenant colonel serving as aide-de-camp to a full (four-star) general.

«Good afternoon, sir,» the Major said. «I have a Special Channel for General MacArthur.»

Lieutenant Colonel Sidney Huff raised his eyes briefly from the typewritten document he was working on, then returned his attention to it. His actions were a hairsbreadth away from being insulting.

Finally, he raised his eyes to the Major. «I'll see if the Supreme Commander will see you, Major.»

Now that's bullshit, Huff, and you know it. You and I

both

know that the arrival of a Special Channel gets El Supremo's immediate attention, ahead of anything else

.

Except perhaps if he is occupying the throne in the Supreme Crapper when it gets delivered, in which case it will have to wait until he's finished taking his regal dump.

«Thank you, sir.»

Major Hon was not sure why Lieutenant Colonel Huff disliked him.

One possibility was that Huff disliked Orientals, and it didn't matter whether an Oriental was the Emperor of Japan or—as he was—a Korean-American born to second-generation American-citizen parents in Hawaii, and a duly commissioned officer and gentleman by Act of Congress.

A second possibility was that it was dislike by association. Major Hon—as were the others associated with magic—was assigned to the Office of Management Analysis, and were not members of MacArthur's staff. Hon's immediate superior officer was Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR,

Director of the Office of Management Analysis, who didn't think much of Colonel Huff, and did not try very hard to conceal his opinion.

A third possibility—and Major Hon was growing more and more convinced this was the real reason—was that he played bridge at least once a week with the Supreme Commander and Mrs. MacArthur, and they both called him by his nickname, «Pluto.» This really offended Huff's sense of propriety. A reserve officer— maybe even worse, an academic—who had not been in the Philippines with El Supremo getting close to MacArthur violated all that Huff held dear.

Colonel Huff knocked at the Supreme Commander's closed door, opened it, stepped inside, and closed the door.

A moment later, a sonorous but pleasant voice called cheerfully through the door, «Come on in, Pluto!»

Pluto Hon pushed open the door and stepped inside.

«Good afternoon, sir,» he said.

General Douglas MacArthur, wearing his usual washed-thin-and-soft khakis, was at a large, map-covered table. A thick document stamped top secret that was almost certainly an Operations Order also lay on the table. «Set it on the table, Pluto,» MacArthur ordered, pointing at the briefcase with a thin, black, six-inch-long, freshly lit cigar. «I suppose it would be too much to hope that it's good news for a change?»

«At first glance, sir, it strikes me as lousy news,» Pluto said.

That earned him a dirty look from Colonel Huff.

Pluto set the briefcase on the table, unlocked a small padlock, removed the padlock, delved inside, and came out with a sealed manila envelope, stamped top secret in red letters. He handed it to MacArthur, who nodded his thanks, tore it open, took out two sheets of typewriter paper, and read them.

«I see what you mean, Pluto,» the Supreme Commander said. «I will, pardon the French, be damned.»

«Yes, sir,» Pluto replied. «My sentiments exactly.» He glanced at Colonel Huff, whose frustrated curiosity was evident on his face.

Another reason good ol' Sid doesn't like me. I get to know a number of things he doesn't get to know. And will not get to know unless El Supremo decides he has a reason to know.

There were only two officers in Supreme Headquarters, SWPOA, authorized access to Special Channel communications: MacArthur and his G-2 (Intelligence Officer) Brigadier General Charles A. Willoughby.

Plus, of course, the people at SWPOA who handled the actual encryption and decryption of Special Channel messages (by means of codes used for no other purpose). There were only three of them: Major Hon Song Do, USAR; First Lieutenant John Marston Moore, USMCR; and Second Lieutenant George F. Hart, USMCR.

Major Hon had been recruited from MIT to apply his knowledge of theoretical mathematics to code breaking. Cryptography and mathematics were not, however, his only talents. He was also a linguist—fluent in Korean, Japanese, and several Chinese languages. And equally important, he was an analyst of intercepted Japanese messages. He had been sent from Hawaii to Australia not only to encrypt and decrypt magic messages to and from MacArthur, but also to lend his knowledge of the Japanese to the analysis of intercepted Japanese messages.

Lieutenant John Marston Moore was primarily an analyst. Because he had lived for years in Japan with his missionary parents, studied at Tokyo University, and was completely fluent in Japanese, he was deeply familiar with Japanese culture, which meant he also knew something about the Japanese mind. On the other hand, though he had learned the mechanics of cryptography, he did not, like Pluto Hon, understand the theories and mathematics behind it.

The third of Pickering's men authorized access to magic, and thus the Special Channel, was Lieutenant George F. Hart. Hart spoke only English, and had a mechanical knowledge—only—of the magic cryptographic device. Officially General Pickering's aide-de-camp, he was really a former St. Louis police detective who had been recruited from Marine Boot Camp at Parris Island, South Carolina, to serve as Pickering's bodyguard. As Hart thought of it, he had been taught to «operate the machine» because there was just too much work for Pluto and Moore.

Pickering himself, who was Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox's Personal Representative to both SWPOA (MacArthur) and CINCPAC (Nimitz), also had magic clearance.

«Do you suppose, Pluto?» MacArthur asked thoughtfully, waving the Special Channel, «that General Pickering had any inkling of this?»

«I don't think so, General,» Pluto replied. «I don't think the possibility ever entered his mind.»

MacArthur grunted. «No,» he said, almost to himself. «Neither do I. One generally knows precisely what Pickering is thinking.»

«Yes, sir,» Pluto said, chuckling.

Lieutenant Colonel Huff's curiosity was nearly out of control.

MacArthur either saw this and took pity on him, or perhaps simply decided that this was a magic Special Channel message that his aide-de-camp should be familiar with. He handed it to him.

«Take a look at this, Huff,» he said.

Huff took the two sheets of teletypewriter paper containing President Roosevelt's Special Channel Personal to General Douglas MacArthur and Brigadier General Fleming Pickering.

Pluto watched Huff's face as he read the message. It was a study of surprise and displeasure.

«Where is General Pickering, Pluto?» MacArthur asked. «Still on Espiritu Santo?»

«So far as I know, sir. I've had no word from him.»

«You had best get the President's message to him as soon as possible,» MacArthur ordered.

«I've already had Radio do that, sir.»

«You didn't think, Major,» Huff snapped, «that you should have waited for the Supreme Commander's authority to do so?»

Pluto's temper flared, although it did not show on his face.

«What I thought, Colonel,» he said coldly, «was that General MacArthur would expect me to immediately carry out the wishes of the President.»

«Absolutely,» MacArthur said with a smile.

«I was thinking, sir,» Huff explained, somewhat lamely, «that the President's message was classified magic. There's no one on Espiritu Santo cleared for MAGIC.»

«No, Colonel,» Pluto said, in the manner of a professor explaining something simple to a dense student. «The President's message was classified Top Secret, not Top Secret—magic. The President—or, more likely, Admiral Leahy—chose to transmit it over the Special Channel, probably because that would guarantee the most rapid transmission.»

Huff's face tightened.

Whether MacArthur saw this and decided to pour oil on obviously troubled waters, or whether he was simply in a garrulous mood, he decided to change the subject. «The miracle of modern communications,» he said. «Did I ever tell you, Pluto, that I am a qualified heliograph operator?»

«No, sir,» Pluto said. It took him a long moment to search his brain until he could recall that the heliograph was a Spanish-American War-era method of transmitting Morse code from hilltop to hilltop using tripod-mounted mirrors to reflect the rays of the sun.

«I was seven or eight at the time,» MacArthur went on. «A Signal Corps officer on my father's staff was kind enough to take the time to teach me. By the time I was finished, I could transmit twelve words per minute, which was the speed required of enlisted men assigned to such duties.»

«I've only seen pictures,» Pluto said.

«I believe there's a photo in my album,» MacArthur said. «I'll show it to you tonight, Pluto, before we begin our bridge game.»

«Thank you, sir,» Pluto said.

«About half past seven?» MacArthur asked.

«Whenever it's convenient for you, sir.»

«Then seven-thirty,» MacArthur said. «Thank you, Pluto.'

^{note 9}

Espiritu Santo Island

New Hebrides, Southern Pacific Ocean

1620 8 February

At 1130 that morning, Rear Admiral Jerome J. Henton, USN, the commander of US Navy Base (Forward) Espiritu Santo, summoned Captain Howell C. Mitchell, Medical Corps, USN, who commanded the Navy hospital, to his office. Henton told him that he was about to receive six patients, U.S. civilians, four of them female, all in need of urgent medical attention.

«Sir?» Mitchell was confused.

«They were evacuated by submarine from Mindanao, and a Catalina picked them up at sea,» Admiral Henton explained.

Mitchell's eyes widened—Mindanao was in the hands of the Japanese—but he said nothing.

«It's part of a hush-hush Marine Corps operation,» Henton went on. «And the man running it, Brigadier General Pickering, will probably be on the beach to meet the Cat. A very interesting man. Hell of a poker player. And—forewarned is forearmed, as they say—he has friends in very high places.»

«I will treat the gentleman accordingly.»

Six patients in need of urgent medical attention translated to three ambulances. Captain Mitchell ordered four ambulances to the beach, plus four doctors, four nurses, and twelve corpsmen.

When he himself arrived at the beach, he found that the ambulances were already lined up in a row, backed up to the beach. He looked around to see if General Pickering had arrived, and decided he hadn't. Neither of the two staff cars on the island used to transport flag and general officers was in sight. Nor did he see any sign of a general officer's aide-de-camp, or of a vehicle adorned with the silver star on a red tag that proclaimed it was carrying a Marine brigadier. The only other vehicles around were a three-quarter ton truck, carrying the ground crew who would guide the Catalina ashore, and a jeep. Both were parked at the far end of the line of ambulances. Only one man was in the jeep. Captain Mitchell decided the man in the jeep was probably a chief petty officer sent to supervise the beaching of the Catalina.

Before he took another look at the lone man in the jeep, Mitchell worked his way to the end of the line of ambulances, chatting for a moment with each of the doctors, nurses, and corpsmen while simultaneously checking to make sure everything was as it should be.

But when he came close enough to see who was in the jeep, he realized he'd guessed wrong. The man sent to supervise the beaching of the Catalina wasn't a chief petty officer. Pinned to the collar points of his somewhat mussed khakis were the silver stars of a brigadier general.

He walked up to the jeep and saluted.

«Good afternoon, General.»

The salute was returned.

Mitchell's next thought was that General Pickering had intelligent eyes; but, more than that, he also had that hard to define yet unmistakable aura of command. This man was used to giving orders. And used to having his orders carried out.

«Afternoon, Doctor,» General Pickering said, and offered his hand. And then he pointed up at the sky.

Mitchell followed the hand. The Catalina was in the last stages of its amphibious descent. And together they watched as it splashed down and taxied through the water toward the beach.

Pickering got from behind the wheel of the jeep and walked to the edge of the water.

«I'll be damned!» he said, a curious tone in his voice.

«Sir?»

«I just saw one of my men,» Pickering replied. «I really didn't think any of them would be on that airplane.»

«Killer, General Pickering's on the beach,» the tall, solid, not-at-all-bad-looking man peering out the portside bubble of the Catalina announced to the man standing beside him. The man who was standing kept his balance by hanging on to the exposed framing of the Catalina's interior.

The insignia pinned to the khaki fore-and-aft cap stuck through the epaulets of the khaki shirt of the man in the bubble identified him as a Navy lieutenant. His name was Chambers D. Lewis III, and he was aide-de-camp to Rear Admiral Daniel J. Wagam, who was on the staff of Admiral Chester W. Nimitz, Commander in Chief, Pacific.

«Goddamn you, don't call me that,» the other replied, and then the even-featured, well-built, fair-skinned young man leaned far enough into the now-water-splattered bubble to confirm Lewis's sighting. He did not look old enough to be entitled to the silver railroad tracks and Marine globe on his fore-and-aft cap that identified him as a captain, USMC. His name was Kenneth R. McCoy, and he had recently passed his twenty-second birthday.

McCoy and the other two Marines in the Catalina, Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman and Staff Sergeant Koffler, were assigned to the USMC Office of Management Analysis. All four men had just been exfiltrated by submarine from the Japanese occupied Philippine island of Mindanao.

When Mindanao had fallen to the Japanese early in 1942, Lieutenant Colonel Wendell W. Fertig, a reserve officer of the Corps of Engineers, had refused to surrender. Instead, he'd gone into the hills, proclaimed himself to be a brigadier general in command of U.S. forces in the Philippines, and commenced guerrilla activities against the Japanese. When he'd finally managed to establish radio communication with the United States and asked for supplies, there was some question about his bona fides. For one thing, General Douglas MacArthur had firmly stated that guerrilla operations in the Philippines were impossible. For another, Army records showed only a Lieutenant Colonel Fertig, not a brigadier general. In order to better explain these irregularities, President Roosevelt ordered the mounting of a covert operation. This would infiltrate into Mindanao to determine whether Fertig was actually commanding a bona fide guerrilla organization that could do harm to the Japanese, or a pathetic and deluded poseur who, after somehow eluding the Japanese, now had convinced himself that he was a general. Responsibility for the covert operation had been given to Brigadier General Pickering, who had sent McCoy, Zimmerman, and Koffler into the Philippines. They had infiltrated onto Mindanao on a submarine.

Lieutenant Lewis had been assigned to accompany them on the submarine— carrying with him his admiral's authority—and at the very last minute had decided to stay on Mindanao with McCoy and the others.

«Jesus!» Captain McCoy said, then turned from the bubble to a stocky, barrel-chested, ruddy-faced man who had planted himself precisely on the centerline of the fuselage floor. «That's the general, all right, Ernie. I wonder where the hell we're going now.»

Ernest W. Zimmerman, who was twenty-six but looked older, grunted. The man—the boy—beside Gunny Zimmerman looked very much as if he should be in high school and was, in fact, just a few weeks past his nineteenth birthday. But he was also, in fact, Staff Sergeant Stephen M. Koffler, USMC.

«McCoy,» he asked, in a still-boyish voice. «You think maybe the General's got a letter for me?» Mrs. Daphne Koffler, Sergeant Koffler's Australian wife, was in the terminal days of her first pregnancy.

«We're back in the world, asshole,» Gunny Zimmerman said. «You better get back in the habit of calling the Killer 'Captain' and 'Sir.' «

«I don't know, Koffler,» Captain McCoy said. «I wouldn't get my hopes up.» There was a jolt as one of the lowered wheels encountered the sand of the beach, followed a moment later by a second jolt. The roar of the engines increased as the pilot taxied the Catalina onto the shore.

The port in the fuselage opened and Captain Howell C. Mitchell, MC, USN, stepped through it. He glanced at the four men who were standing, then turned his attention to the patients on litters.

«Doctor, would you rather we got out of the way, or got off?» McCoy asked.

«I think it would be better if you got off,» Mitchell said.

«Aye, aye, sir,» McCoy said, and, jerked his thumb toward the port in the fuselage, ordering the others to leave the plane.

Doctor Mitchell made the same judgment about the young Marine captain he had made about Brigadier General Pickering. This man was used to giving orders. And having them obeyed.

Koffler went through the port first, followed by Zimmerman, Lewis, and finally McCoy.

When McCoy stepped down from the plane, General Pickering had his arm around Lieutenant Lewis's shoulder and was pumping his hand.

Captain McCoy saluted.

The salute was returned with a casual wave in the direction of General Pickering's forehead, which quickly changed into an arm reaching for McCoy. The General hugged the young captain enthusiastically. To judge by the looks on their faces, few of the medical personnel had ever seen such behavior before on the part of a general. «Goddamn, I'm glad to see you guys,» Pickering said, «and I've got something for you, Ken.»

Pickering walked quickly to his jeep, opened a battered leather briefcase, and withdrew from it a heavy envelope, large enough to hold several business-size envelopes inside. He walked back to McCoy and handed it to him.

McCoy looked at it.

The return address was «Office of Management Analysis, HQ USMC, Washington, D.C.»

It was addressed to General Pickering, at Supreme Headquarters, South West Pacific Ocean Area. And it had two messages stamped in red ink: by hand officer courier only; and addressee only.

McCoy looked at General Pickering. Smiling, Pickering gestured for him to open the envelope. It was not sealed. It contained two smaller envelopes. These bore a printed return address on the back:

Miss Ernestine Sage Rocky Fields Farm Bernardsville, N.J.

Without really realizing what he was doing, Captain McCoy raised one of the envelopes to his nose and sniffed.

Oh, God, I can smell her

!

Captain McCoy closed his eyes, which had suddenly watered. When he opened them, he saw Staff Sergeant Koffler looking at him as if someone had stolen his little rubber ducky.

If there had been a letter from Daphne for him

, McCoy thought,

the general would already have given it to him

.

With a massive effort, Captain McCoy managed to push down the lump in his throat. «Thank you, sir,» he said. «I'll read these later. General, what's the word on Mrs. Koffler?»

«She's fine, Koffler,» General Pickering said, looking at him. «I told Pluto to bring her to meet the plane tomorrow. And he has had standing orders to let me know immediately if the baby decides to arrive.»

Koffler nodded but didn't seem to be able to speak.

It got worse.

A Corpsman chief came up and tugged on McCoy's sleeve.

McCoy gave him a look that would have withered a lesser man.

«Captain, one of the ladies wants to talk to you,» the Corpsman chief said.

«Very well,» McCoy said, sounding crisply nautical, and followed the chief to a stretcher being carried by two Corpsmen.

It held a skeletal, silver-haired woman. Her eyes were sunken and her skin translucent, so that her veins showed blue. A bony hand rose from beneath the Navy blanket and reached out toward McCoy. It took him a moment to realize she wanted him to lean over so her bony hand could touch him. «God bless, thank you, God bless,» the woman said faintly. «Thank you. God bless you.»

McCoy gently touched the hand on his face, and then it was beyond his ability to maintain the dignity expected of a Marine officer.

His eyes closed, and tears ran down his cheeks. His chest heaved and hurt as he tried and failed to control his sobs.

Next he became aware of an arm around his shoulder.

He opened his eyes.

«I just happen to have a couple of bottles of Famous Grouse in my hut,» General Pickering said. «I don't suppose you'd really be interested, would you?»

«Shit!» McCoy said.

He looked around. The ambulances were moving off the beach.

He remembered what he had just said.

«Sorry, sir.»

«Let's go have a drink. Several drinks,» General Pickering said, and gently pushed McCoy in the direction of his jeep.

^{note 10}

Flag Officers' Quarters #4

U.S. Navy Base (Forward) Espiritu Santo

New Hebrides, Southern Pacific Ocean

2245 8 February

Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, knocked at the door of one of the three small bedrooms in the Quonset hut he had been assigned.

«Yeah, come in,» Captain Kenneth R. McCoy called, and Pickering pushed the door open.

McCoy was lying on the steel cot in his underwear, propped up against the wall with a pillow. He had a thin black cigar in his mouth, and there was a bottle of Famous Grouse scotch whisky on the small bedside table beside him.

He was reading Ernie Sage's letters.

The instant McCoy saw Pickering, he started to jump to his feet.

«Stay where you are, Ken,» Pickering said quickly.

McCoy nevertheless rose to his feet.

«Do you have another glass?» Pickering asked.

«Yes, sir,» McCoy said, stuffed Ernie Sage's letters under his pillow, then walked to a chest of drawers and picked up a glass.

«I was in before,» Pickering said. «You were out.» It was a question.

«I was checking on Koffler and the gunny,» McCoy said, handing the glass to Pickering.

«And?» Pickering asked, as he walked to the bedside table and poured an inch and a half of Famous Grouse into the glass.

«The gunny's playing poker with some chiefs,» McCoy said, and smiled. «Who were in the process of learning that all Marines aren't as dumb as they think we are.»

«Zimmerman's a good poker player?» Pickering asked.

«There was a lot of poker playing in Shanghai in the old days,» McCoy said. «The second time Zimmerman lost his pay, Mae Su—his wife, I guess you should call her—taught him how to play. The Chinese are great poker players.»

«Yes, I know,» Pickering said. «It was an expensive lesson for me to learn when I was a young man.»

They smiled at each other.

«Ah, the good old days!» Pickering said, then asked: «What did Ernie have to say?»

«She was a little pissed with me. Just before we went into Mindanao, I wrote her that if anything happened, she could do a lot worse than marrying Pick.» He met Pickering's eyes as he said this.

Captain McCoy and First Lieutenant Malcolm S. «Pick» Pickering, USMCR,

General Pickering's only son, had met and become friends at Officer Candidate School.

«She's in love with you, Ken, not Pick. She told me. And you know that.»

«Yeah,» McCoy said. «She said that, too.»

«That's all she said? There were two letters.»

«She said there's going to be female Marines, and she's thinking of joining up.» The look on his face made his opinion of females in the Marine Corps very evident.

«I gather you don't approve?» Pickering asked dryly.

«Jesus!

Women

Marines?»

Pickering chuckled, then changed the subject. «I need to know what you really think of General Fertig,» he said. «Just between us.»

«Interesting guy,» McCoy said, admiringly. «Knows what he's doing. Knows the Filipinos.»

«Is he going to be able to do some damage to the Japanese?»

«If we get him the supplies he needs, he'll cause them a lot of grief.»

«In other words, you would say that he is in full possession of his mental faculties? Not suffering from the stress of what happened to him in the Philippines? Or delusions of grandeur?»

«He's a lot saner than a lot of people I know,» McCoy said. «Putting on that general's star was really smart. Nobody, Filipino or American, would have put themselves under the command of a reserve lieutenant colonel.»

«That's how you really feel?»

McCoy nodded.

«Then that's what I want you to tell El Supremo,» Pickering said, matter-of-factly, «and the President.»

«Sir?» McCoy asked.

«That's what I want you to tell General MacArthur and President Roosevelt.»

«Sir…«

When we're alone, sometimes

, Pickering thought,

he deals with me like a man who's a friend. But the moment he's not sure of himself, hears something he doesn't like, he crawls behind that shield of military courtesy, that protective womb of superior and subordinate, and starts calling me «Sir

.»

«You remember Weston?» Pickering asked. «The guerrilla officer you sent out? The guy with the beard?»

«I only saw him for a few minutes on the beach.»

«Well, in case you don't know, he was a Marine pilot who got caught in the Philippines, escaped from Luzon, and went to Mindanao. He was Fertig's intelligence officer.»

«Fertig was sore as hell when he heard I'd ordered him out.»

«I can understand why. But it was the right thing to do,» Pickering said.

«Anyway, I ran him past MacArthur and Willoughby. Still wearing his beard, by the way. I thought he made a good impression, and said some good things about Fertig and his operation, but I'm a little worried that by now El Supremo and Willoughby have managed to convince themselves that, fine young officer or not, all he is is a junior officer whose judgments can't really be trusted.»

«Sir, I'm a junior officer.»

«Who is going to brief the Secretary of the Navy and the President of the United States. I think it's important that El Supremo know what you're going to tell them. It may change his thinking about the impossibility of guerrilla activity in the Philippines, and about General Fertig.»

«Sir, I don't suppose there's any way…«

«You can get out of it? No. Ken. It's important. You have to do it.»

«Aye, aye, sir,» McCoy said.

«There's something else, Ken,» Pickering said, and reached into the pocket of his khaki shirt. «This is why Admiral Henton sent his aide to take me away from our welcome-home dinner.»

He handed McCoy several sheets of paper stamped top secret.

McCoy carefully read the Personal From The Commander in Chief.

«Jesus H. Christ!» McCoy said.

«Welcome to the OSS, Captain McCoy,» Pickering said. He saw on McCoy's face that McCoy didn't like that at all. «I'm sorry, Ken,» Pickering said sincerely. «I don't know what I'm supposed to do now, but whatever it is, I'm going to need you to help me do it.»

McCoy met his eyes for a long moment.

«Am I allowed to ask questions?»

«I'll answer any question I can.»

«What happens to that Gobi Desert operation? Are you still going to be responsible for that?»

Before being ordered into the Philippines, McCoy had been in the first stages of planning an operation in which he would somehow—probably by parachute— be infiltrated into the Gobi Desert to see if he could establish contact with some Americans thought to be there.

Christ, I'd almost forgotten about that. But he didn't. I pulled him off of that to send him into the Philippines. And all the time he was there, he was wondering, «What next? The Gobi Desert?»

«I don't know, Ken,» Pickering said. «I don't want you to get your hopes up about not having to be in on that, but that's a Management Analysis operation. We don't work for Management Analysis anymore. And I really don't think you can consider the Gobi Desert as being in the Pacific.»

McCoy, still meeting his eyes, thought that over for a moment without expression. '

«Aye, aye, sir,» he said finally.

That means, of course, that he thinks I'm wrong.

Chapter Two

^{note 11}

Office of the Deputy Director

The Office of Strategic Services

National Institutes of Health Building

Washington, D.C.

1745 8 February 1943

«And how did you find the Pentagon?» The DDA (Deputy Director for Administration) of the OSS inquired of the DDO (Deputy Director for Operations) when the DDO walked into his office, dropped a heavy briefcase on the floor, and slumped into a green leather armchair.

«It's not hard to find, Charley. You just drive across the Potomac and there it is. Great big sonofabitch!»

«I really can do without the humor,» the DDA said, «if that was supposed to be humor.»

«You're in a bad mood. Heard from Wild Bill, have we?»

Colonel William J. Donovan, known, though not to his face, as «Wild Bill,» was Director of the Office of Strategic Services.

«Not a word, as a matter of fact,» the DDA said, visibly not amused. «What did the Joint Chiefs give you?»

The DDO reached over and picked up the briefcase, then let it fall heavily to the carpet. «I've got a briefcase full of crap from the Joint Chiefs,» he said. Then he reached into one of the pockets in his vest and came out with the key to the briefcase, which he tossed to the DDA.

By accident or intention, the toss required the DDA to lunge for the key. When he caught it, he gave the DDO a look he hoped would adequately display his displeasure.

The ten Deputy Directors of the Office of Strategic Services, known informally as the «Disciples» (because there were supposed to be twelve), had been recruited from the upper echelons of business, science, and academia. Before the War, the DDO had been the managing director of the second-largest investment banking concern in the United States and—not unreasonably—considered himself a peer rather than a subordinate of the DDA, who had been a senior vice president of the General Motors Corporation. In short, the DDO did not much like being treated like an underling.

«There was one thing, Charley, that you might want to pass on to Wild Bill if you talk to him before I do.»

«And that is?»

«What do you know about the Gobi Desert operation?» the Deputy Director for Operations asked.

«So far as I know, the OSS doesn't have a Gobi Desert operation.»

«We do now,» the DDO said.

«I really have no idea what you're talking about. I can tell you this, however, Director Donovan has never discussed anything like that with me. What about the Gobi Desert?»

«It's in China. Or, actually, Mongolia,» the Deputy Director for Operations said.

«Really?» the DDA replied sarcastically.

«Yeah. It borders on Russia. It's about a thousand miles long, and from three hundred to six hundred miles wide. I looked it up in the

Encyclopaedia Britannica

before I came in here. Or before I went to Wild Bill's office to report to him and heard he was out of town.»

«I presume that you eventually will get to the point,» the DDA said, and then his curiosity got the best of him. «This Mongolian desert was presumably a subject of discussion at the meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff? Specifically, some sort of an operation there?»

«Oh, yes. We hardly talked about anything else. The discussion was yet another fascinating display of interservice rivalry and noncooperation.»

«And you

are

going to tell me why the Gobi Desert is important to the war effort? And how this affects the OSS?»

«So far as the Army Air Corps is concerned, it is of great importance because of their plans to bomb the Japanese home islands. Once they get the B-29 operational, of course, and once they've found someplace to base them. To conduct long range bombing operations, they need weather information.»

The Boeing B-29 «Superfortress» (first flown in 1942) was a high-altitude bomber powered by four 2,200-hp Wright R-3350 radial engines. It had a takeoff weight of 70 tons; a range of 4,100 miles at 340 mph; was capable of carrying 10 tons of bombs; and was armed with ten .50-caliber machine guns.

«What's that got to do with the Gobi Desert? More important, what's that got to do with us?»

«The weather data has to come from that part of the world. It has something to do with cold air masses moving down from the Arctic Circle across Russia, Mongolia, China, Korea, the Yellow Sea, the Sea of Japan, the Japanese islands, and into the Pacific.»

«Why?»

«I have no idea, except that was the one thing on which the Air Corps and the Navy could reach agreement today. I would suspect that it is necessary for both short– and long-range planning.»

«Why is the Navy concerned?»

«They need the information for the same reasons the Air Corps does, and they insist they need it now and can't wait for the Air Corps.»

«Wait for the Air Corps to do what?»

«Army Air Corps planning has always counted on cooperation from our Russian allies. Even before we got into the war—which frankly surprised me— the Air Corps was thinking about the need for a weather station in that area, first choice Russia. As soon as we got in the war, they formed a weather station unit and asked for permission to send it to Russia. They are still waiting.»

He saw that he now had the DDA's attention.

«Representations,» the DDO went on, «as they say, have been made at the highest diplomatic levels, but so far problems of an unspecified nature have kept Uncle Joe Stalin from granting the necessary permission.»

«God!»

«The Navy, which is always interested in weather information, was informed that just as soon as the Air Corps weather station was up and running, they would be provided with any information it produced, and they should not trouble themselves worrying about it.»

The DDO pushed himself out of the green leather armchair and walked to a credenza.

«Thank you, Charley, I

will

have a cup of coffee,» he said, and poured himself a cup from a stainless-steel thermos.

«Okay. Where was I?» he asked, rhetorically, as he slumped back into the arm chair. «Right. The Navy, in effect, was told to butt out, the Air Corps had the situation in hand. The Navy, however, apparently did not share the Air Corps' faith in our Russian allies' willingness to fully cooperate with us in every possible way. But what to do?»

«What, indeed?» the DDA asked impatiently.

The DDO saw that he had succeeded in annoying the DDA and was pleased. «Furthermore,» he went on, «the Navy has a card in the hole—if not an ace, then say a jack, or maybe even a queen—which, from their perspective, entitles them to preeminence vis-a-vis weather stations in the Gobi Desert.»

«Which is?»

«It has come to the attention of Naval Intelligence…«

«Naval Intelligence, overt?» the DDA broke in. «Or that Office of Management Analysis covert intelligence outfit Frank Knox operates?»

«Secretary of the Navy Knox was represented at the meeting by his Administrative Officer—he does for Knox what you do for Wild Bill—Captain David W. Haughton. USN.»

As intended, this statement annoyed the DDA, who thought of himself as Chief of Staff to Director Donovan.

«I know who Haughton is,» the DDA said, somewhat snappishly. «Knox wasn't there?»

«No,» the DDO said. «Maybe he was off somewhere with Wild Bill.»

«If that were the case, I would certainly have been advised.»

«Yes, I'm sure you would,» the DDO said sarcastically. «And, before today, I never heard Haughton admit he has even heard of the USMC Office of Management Analysis, much less that Knox has anything to do with it.»

«Today he did?»

«Today he not only did, but announced that for some time the Office of Management Analysis has been planning an operation to set up a weather station in the Gobi Desert.»

«Director Donovan is right,» the DDA said, somewhat righteously, «Management Analysis should have been brought into the OSS at the beginning! They're a loose cannon running around on the deck. They have no authority to do anything like that!»

«What Captain Haughton said,» the DDO went on, «is that Naval Intelligence—not further defined—has learned that a number of members of the Marine Guard at the Peking legation—and some other U.S. military personnel — have not all entered Japanese captivity, as previously believed. Some of them instead headed for the hills, the hills of Mongolia, accompanied by a number of retired Marines and soldiers and sailors.»

«Retired Marines and soldiers and sailors?» the DDA asked, incredulous.

«A total of sixty-seven Americans, Navy, Marine Corps, and Army, plus a not-specified number of wives and children,» the DDO finished, ignoring the interruption.

»

Retired

Marines and sailors?» the Deputy Director repeated. «And wives and children?»

«Remember the halcyon days of gunboat diplomacy? The Yangtze River patrol? The Japanese strafing of the

PanayT

On 12 December 1937, Japanese bombers had attacked and severely damaged the U.S. Yangtze River gunboat

Panay

near Nanking. A number of American sailors had been killed.

«Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.»

«I'd really forgotten about it, at least about the Yangtze River patrol,» the DDO confessed. «But Captain Haughton delivered an illuminating lecture on the subject of the American military in China.»

«Can you please get to the point?»

«Bear with me, Charley,» the DDO said. «I really didn't come in here to waste your valuable time.»

They locked eyes for a moment, and then the DDO went on: «Anyway, Haughton said that many of these guys—the enlisted men of the Fourth Marines, the Army's Fifteenth Infantry, and the Yangtze River patrol—just stayed in China.

Retired there

. Once there, they got time and a half toward their retirement.»

«What?»

«They got six weeks' credit toward retirement for every month they served in China. Which meant they could retire after about twenty years of service as if they had served thirty years. And a good many of them acquired wives after they'd been there for a while.»

»

Chinese

wives?» the Deputy Director asked, his tone making it clear that he found the idea distasteful.

«Mostly Chinese, but according to Captain Haughton, a number of these chaps married White Russians. After the Bolshevik takeover in Russia, thousands of Russians fled into Shanghai, Peking, et cetera. Many of them had been aristocrats. Anyway, after fifteen, twenty years in China, these people had acquired wives and children. And their pension checks would go much further in China than in the States. So they didn't come home. Some of them, according to Haughton, opened bars and restaurants. Some went into the countryside and bought farms. Anyway, they stayed. And rather than let themselves be imprisoned—or shot—by the Japanese, they took off. Presumably, they are hoping that they can get out through Russia. And the safest route to Russia is through the Gobi Desert.»

«Fascinating. But I still don't see what all this has to do with the OSS.»

«If I may continue, Charley,» the DDO said. «There has been some radio communication with these people. Erratic. They apparently don't have very good equipment.»

«So they can't furnish the weather data?»

«They need meteorological equipment and better radios. Plus, of course, meteorologists to operate it. Which the Navy proposes to send in to them.»

«How do they propose to do that?»

«Haughton was a little vague about that.»

The DDA snorted.

«The Navy came to the meeting hoping to convince Admiral Leahy that since the Air Corps has been unable to get a weather station operating in the Soviet Union, and since the data generated in the Gobi Desert would be more useful anyway, and since they have these military retirees already in the Gobi Desert—«

«With whom they are not in communication,» the DDA interrupted.

»—they be given the weather-station mission,» the DDO finished.

«And the Navy, not surprisingly, got their way, right? And we have been directed to cooperate with them?»

«Not exactly. 'Cooperate' isn't the precise word. I don't know whether Leahy didn't want to slap the Air Corps down, or appear to be too partial to the Navy, but the Solomon-like decision of the Joint Chiefs of Staff is that the OSS will determine, as a high-priority mission, whether or not the 'assets' presently in the Gobi Desert can be reinforced so that they can operate a weather station, and if so, to do so.»

«Which means that we are expected to establish communication with these people—who may or may not exist?»

«Not only establish

reliable

communication with them, but, if feasible, use them in setting up a secret weather station.»

«God!» the DDA said.

«Leahy threw a bone to the Air Corps. They can still send their weather team into Russia as soon as they get permission from Uncle Joe. In other words, if and when.»

«The Navy is really not capable of taking on something like this,» the DDA said thoughtfully. «The Gobi Desert is some distance from the nearest ocean.»

«The Marine Corps is part of the Navy,» the DDO said. «The Marine Corps could be given the mission. But that would annoy the Army Air Corps. If we do it…«

«I take your point,» the DDA said. «On the subject of the Marine Corps, you are aware that General Pickering is now the OSS Deputy Director for Pacific Operations?»

«Yes, I am.»

The DDO knew General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, only by reputation. And he also knew that Pickering had been named OSS Deputy Director for Pacific Operations by the President of the United States, who had not consulted OSS Director Donovan before making the appointment.

«Since when is Mongolia considered in the 'Pacific,' Charley?» the DDO asked.

«I think Director Donovan will determine that it falls in General Pickering's area of responsibility,» the DDA said.

It took the DDO a moment to figure that out, but then it made sense. Or, rather, he saw what good ol' Charley had in mind: While the DDA hoped, of course, that General Pickering would quickly accomplish the task of establishing contact with a group of former enlisted men and their Chinese wives roaming somewhere in the Gobi Desert, it was possible that he would fail. That would, of course, disappoint Director Donovan. On the other hand, Director Donovan had not appointed General Pickering to run OSS Operations in the Pacific; consequently, he could not be held responsible for his failure.

The DDO knew that if Director Donovan had been consulted vis-a-vis General Pickering's appointment, he would have strongly advised against it. Director Donovan was not an admirer of General Pickering, for a number of reasons he had shared with the DDO immediately after learning of the presidential appointment. The DDO had decided that that conversation had been private and so had not shared it with good ol' Charley. But now it seemed obvious to him that Donovan had also complained to good ol' Charley.

«Presumably, there is written notification of this assignment of mission in the briefcase?» the DDA asked.

«Duly initialed by all parties concerned.»

«I'll bring it to the Director's attention as soon as I see him.»

«If you see him before I do, Charley, ask him to give me a ring, will you?»

«In connection with the Gobi Desert operation?» The DDO pushed himself out of the green leather armchair. «Actually no,» he said. «Something else. Thanks for the coffee, Charley.» He was pleased with himself. He had nothing really important for Donovan, nothing that couldn't wait. But the DDA didn't know this; and, with a little bit of luck, he'd worry all afternoon about what the DDO was going to discuss with the Director.

^{note 12}

Paotow-Zi, China

8 February 1943

Milla, Mae Su, and the children left Shanghai on November 30, three days after the 4th Marines sailed away aboard the President Madison. It took them six weeks to travel to Mae Su's home village in the tractor-drawn cart. Milla dressed as a Chinese. At night, they stopped by the side of the road. And when they passed through a village, she hid herself in the cart, sometimes for five or six hours. Mae Su dealt with the curious who came to see what they could sell to—or steal from—the travelers. Several times, it was necessary for her to brush aside the flap of her loose, thigh-length blouse to make the curious aware of the Mauser Broomhandle machine pistol hanging there, but there was no serious trouble.

By the end of the third week on the road, Milla knew she was pregnant.

She prayed that wasn't so—not in this worst of all possible times to bear a child. Into what horrible kind of world would she be bringing it?

And worse, it would not have a father. Not now, certainly, with Ed in the Philippines, and probably—facing reality—not ever. Even on the back roads they were traveling over, they heard stories that the Japanese had attacked the American Navy base in Hawaii, and that America and Japan were at war. Ed would certainly be in that war. Facing reality, he would probably die in it.

That left the entire responsibility for rearing a child on her shoulders. Facing reality, that meant finding enough food for it to eat, a place for it to live, and medicine for it when it became ill.

Facing reality, she was not equipped to do any of those things. If she was arrested—facing reality, a real possibility—her possessions would be searched and the gemstones in her mother's girdle, her only means of buying food and shelter for herself and an infant, would be seized.

God did not answer her prayers. She was pregnant.

Suicide was no longer a possibility. Suicide was a sin, but she had been willing to endure whatever punishment God gave her for doing it to herself. But now suicide would mean killing the life in her womb, and she could think of no greater sin. She had no option but to bear the child and do whatever she could to keep both of them alive.

Finally, she told Mae Su, very much afraid that Mae Su would decide the only way to keep herself and her own children alive would be to abandon the Nansen stateless person and her unborn child.

«It will make things more difficult,» Mae Su responded. «There is a midwife in my village, but she will expect to be paid not to report another birth to the authorities. We are going to have to be very careful with our money.»

Mae Su then matter-of-factly laid out what they could expect once they reached Paotow-Zi, a small farming village of less than a thousand people. She had relatives there, but her parents were both dead. The head of her family, who was also the presiding elder of the village, was her uncle, her father's brother.

«He is of the old school,» Mae Su said. «He has difficulty understanding the justice of a woman—particularly a woman who has borne a foreigner's children—having a larger house, and more land, and of course more money, than he does, the head of the family and the village. Ernie, my man, told him he would kill him if he tried to take our property. But now he will naturally start to wonder whether or not Ernie will ever come back.

«That means practically that he can only be trusted not to report your presence in Paotow-Zi—or, for that matter, my presence, and my half barbarian children— only as long as that poses little risk to him… and only as long as we make regular gifts to him.

«If the authorities discover that we are in the village, he will do nothing to protect me, my children, or you. He will tell the truth, that Ernie threatened him. Other people besides my family heard what Ernie said to him about stealing from me.»

From what Mae Su had told her, Milla expected the uncle to be a village elder, old, dignified, with maybe even a wispy beard. But when they finally reached Paotow-Zi, Gang-Cho turned out to be clean-shaven, muscular, and tall, certainly not yet forty, who was the head of the family simply because he was of the generation of Mae Su's parents. One of Mae Su's brothers actually turned out to be older than he was.

When they met, Gang-Cho was courteous to them. But he looked at Milla the way a man looks at a woman he wants.

Almost immediately Mae Su began to make regular trips with one or more of her brothers to Baotou, a city of half a million people thirty miles away. They traveled in Mae Su's cart, but now it was drawn by a small horse rather than the tractor. The tractor was placed on blocks and hidden behind a wall in Mae Su's house. The horse really only had to work going in one direction, for the entire party was able to float back from Baotou to Paotow-Zi aboard a raft powered by the current of the Huang-He (Yellow) River.

The purpose of Mae Su's trips was twofold. First—publicly—to sell sausage and chickens, and once in a while ducks and pigs, in the Baotou marketplace. Secondly—very privately—to sell a few of Milla's precious stones to make a present of gold to Gang-Cho, in exchange for his silence. Mae Su hoped he believed the gold came out of the profits from her businesses; she didn't want him aware that she and Milla both had gold and gemstones.

On 9 August 1942, six months after her arrival in Paotow-Zi, Milla was delivered of a healthy boy by the village midwife. She decided to name the baby Edward Edwardovich, in the Russian custom. Though she worried she would not have enough milk to nurse the infant, she had more than enough. And Edward Edwardovich quickly proved to be a healthy child, and a happy one.

Obviously

, Milla thought,

because he does not yet understand the terrible situation, in a terrible world, that his mother has brought him into

.

Before long, Mae Su turned over half the work of the sausage making business to Milla. Mae Su handled the pig farm part of it, including the slaughter of the animals, then delivered the meat and the spices to Milla so she could prepare the mixture.

The large sausage grinder and stuffer had the legend «Thos. Graves Co. Boston Mass. USA» cast into the side of its mouth. The meat had to be run through the machine twice, first to grind it, and then to stuff it into the intestines after it had been seasoned and blended.

Since there was no refrigeration in Paotow-Zi, most of the sausage was smoked to preserve it. The fire beneath the clay smokehouse had to be fed with wood gathered in the countryside and tended every four hours, around the clock, seven days a week. The smokehouse, including the wood gathering and tending the fire, also became Milla's responsibility.

Milla also cared for the chicken hutch. She gathered eggs and slaughtered the chickens, and sometimes ducks. Some went to their table; most were smoked for sale in Baotou.

The business grew, largely because Milla's work making and smoking the sausage left Mae Su more time for the Baotou market or else buying and selling livestock. One by one, Mae Su's sister, her two sisters-in-law, and a niece were also put to work in the sausage factory. They were well paid.

Gang-Cho, meanwhile, said nothing, although Milla sensed that Mae Su's success made him uncomfortable. To make his discomfort more bearable, the size of their gifts to him increased; and he expected—and received—gifts from the women Mae Su and Milla had put to work.

With Mae Su making regular and frequent trips to market, their product line expanded. It soon included fresh sausage, which commanded a higher price than the smoked, as well as smoked pork loins and hams and smoked duck. Milla prepared the fresh sausage, in a frenzy of activity, the day and night before Mae Su left on a trip.

In December 1942, Mae Su returned from Baotou with news for Milla. «One of your people is in Baotou,» she said, «recently arrived from Shanghai.»

«An American?»

«A Russian. A Nansen person.»

«What is he doing there?»

«He gambles and he makes business,» Mae Su said, «from what I hear.»

The next time Mae Su went to Baotou, she—very reluctantly—carried a message from Milla for the Russian Nansen person gambling businessman.

The message was simple. Just «Ludmilla Zhivkov. St. Petersburg,» written in the Cyrillic alphabet on a small piece of paper. Nothing that would really identify her, nothing that the gambling businessman could turn over to the authorities to curry favor. Even if there was a reply, she told Mae Su—meaning it—she would think long and hard before actually meeting this person. If he in fact existed.

When Mae Su and the cart and the pony came again floating on a tiny raft down the Yellow River three days later, she brought a reply.

Praise God for His mercy in Preserving you.

If you tell this woman to tell me where you are, I will come pray with you.

God bless you, my child.

Father Boris

Three weeks later, in the first week of January 1943, when Edward Edwardovich was now five months old, Father Boris walked up the steep path from the Yellow River. He did not look much like a Russian Orthodox priest. Most of his face was hidden by a conical straw hat; and he now had a full, yellow-white beard, which hung below the top buttons of his ankle-length black cotton garment, the dress of the successful elderly. He wore sandals and carried a heavy staff. And he was accompanied by four Chinese, each almost as large as he was, each carrying a similar staff.

When he saw her with Edward Edwardovich in her arms, his face reflected both pleasure and great sadness.

The first thing Milla said to him, defiantly, was, «I am married. In the eyes of God, I am married. This is my son.»

«He is a beautiful baby. God loves him.»

«He is not christened.»

«I will take him into the arms of Holy Mother Church.»

«And will you now grant me absolution?»

«Are you sorry for your carnal life? Will you abstain in the future?»

«I am married,» she said.

«How can that be?»

«I tell you, I am married.»

«By whom, my child, were you married?»

«By an Englishman, an English priest. In the Anglican cathedral in Shanghai.»

His face beamed.

«The Anglican apostolic succession is valid,» Father Boris said. «I am happy for you, my child.»

«I don't know what you're talking about.»

«Their priests, Anglican priests, like those of Holy Mother Church and the Roman Church, can trace their ordination in an unbroken line back to the Holy Apostles. If an Anglican priest gave you the sacrament of marriage, it is as valid as if I did.»

Milla began to weep.

Father Boris raised his hand and made the sign of the cross. «In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I grant you absolution. Go and sin no more, my child.» He held out his hand, and she kissed his ring. «And we will take the child into Holy Mother Church,» he said, adding, «after we have something to eat.»

After Father Boris had time to think it over, while devouring an entire duck, and a huge plate of rice and peppers, the christening of the baby initially had seemed to pose problems he had not originally thought of. «I don't know where we are going to find a second male godparent,» he said. «We are surrounded by heathens, of course, and we need Christians. Two Christian males, because the baby is a boy, and one Christian female. In extraordinary circumstances like these, you may serve as the child's godmother.»

«And you will be his godfather, Father Boris?» Milla asked, pleased by the notion.

«That is impossible,» he said, suggesting disapproval of her lack of canonical knowledge. «Lee Tsing is a Christian,» he went on, indicating the larger of the four men he had with him, «but we need two males.»

«My children are Christian,» Mae Su announced. It was the first word she had spoken.

Mae Su had watched the initial encounter between Father Boris and Milla with mingled suspicion and curiosity.

Father Boris looked at her. «How is that? You were educated by missionaries?»

«My man is a Catholic. He took them to a Catholic priest.»

Later that afternoon, Father Boris invited Gang-Cho, both as Mae Su's uncle, and as the presiding elder of the village, to the christening of Edward Edwardovich Banning. He placed him in a position of honor beside the blue porcelain vessel he had put to God's use as the baptismal font, and then very respectfully explained to Gang-Cho that the baby was now under the protection of God and Holy Mother Church. It was instantly clear to Milla that Mae Su's uncle understood this to mean, in a temporal sense, that the child was now under the protection of the four large Chinese men who accompanied Father Boris, at least two of whom—including Edward Edwardovich's new godfather, Lee Tsing—were carrying Mauser Broomhandle 9 mm machine pistols under their long black robes.

After his first visit, Father Boris visited Milla at Paotow-Zi regularly, at intervals of two or three weeks. On his second, and subsequent visits, he brought Mae Su's uncle a bottle of the very best rice wine, as a gesture of respect between Wise Elders, always thanking him profusely for using his wisdom and influence to protect Milla and Mae Su and their children. Before long, Father Boris became known in the village as the Wise Foreigner.

And he brought news of the war.

Most of that was not good, at least at first. But Father Boris thought Milla especially should have the knowledge.

The Japanese struck the American Pacific Feet at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, and sank most of America's battleships; they took the British Colony at Hong Kong on Christmas Eve; Singapore surrendered; they invaded the Philippine Islands; and after a long battle, the Americans there had surrendered. The Japanese were all over the Pacific. They were on New Guinea, off the Australian continent, and for a while it looked as if they would invade Australia itself.

Meanwhile, the Japanese behavior in Shanghai was even worse than anyone expected. They had all been wise to leave Shanghai when they did, Father Boris explained to Milla.

The news was not all bad. The Japanese were a long way from winning the war. There was even a story that American bombing airplanes had struck Tokyo itself,and in august 1942—the month Edward Edwardovich was born—American Marines had invaded an island called Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands. The Japanese had promised to throw them back into the sea within days, but as there had been no announcement, Father Boris assumed that the Americans were still on Guadalcanal.

Milla had never heard of Guadalcanal, had no idea where it was, and it didn't matter anyway. Ed's—and Ernie Zimmerman's—4th Marines had been sent to the Philippines, and the Philippines had surrendered. The best outcome for either of them was maybe they had managed to avoid being killed in the battles and were now prisoners. Which, in itself, was a false hope, considering how much the Japanese hated Americans, and how they treated prisoners.

She had to accept the fact that Ed was probably dead. What she had to do now was survive the war, pray the Americans and the English would somehow win, and then somehow establish contact with Ed's mother and father, in Charlestown, South Carolina, USA, so that Edward Edwardovich could be taken to them and enjoy his heritage.

Once she accepted that hope and that responsibility, things somehow didn't seem so terrible. She and Edward Edwardovich were safe in Paotow-Zi. There were more than enough precious stones still sewn into the seams of her mother's girdle to last four, five years, maybe longer—as long as Mae Su's uncle's demands remained more or less «reasonable.»

Meanwhile, Father Boris was now handling the sale of the stones, and she had also made frequent «investments in business deals» with him. Milla wasn't sure whether there were really business deals, or whether he had run low on the cash he used to gamble. But most of Father Boris's deals had turned a profit. In fact, half a dozen times Mae Su had returned from Baotou with the stones Milla had given her to sell.

And she stayed busy in Paotow-Zi. There was Edward Edwardovich to care for, of course, which took more and more of her time as he got older.

Milla was tired when she went to sleep. She went to bed early and rose early.

It was not really a suitable life for the Countess Maria Catherine Ludmilla Zhivkov, she often told herself, or for Mrs. Edward J. Banning, wife of an officer of the U.S. Corps of Marines, but it was infinitely better than the life she would have had if Ed had not introduced her to Corporal McCoy, and if captain McCoy had not told Mae Su's Ernie about her. Without them, she would now be either a Japanese officer's mistress or a whore in a Japanese Army comfort station.

Now she had hope, if not for herself, then for Edward Edwardovich. All she had to do was be patient, and pray for God's protection until the war was over.

Zi-Ko, as the former Countess Maria Catherine Ludmilla Zhivkov was known in Paotow-Zi, was supervising the making of sausage when Song, the elder of Mae Su's boys, came into the kitchen and told her the Wise Foreigner was coming.

Milla was pleased. Paotow-Zi had few visitors. While this was desirable—or rather, the absence of visits by the authorities was desirable—Milla sometimes felt very alone.

The Wise Foreigner was an especially welcome visitor. Milla picked Edward Edwardovich up from the floor, where he was happily rubbing pork fat on his face, wiped him as clean as she could, sniffed to make sure he didn't need a fresh nappy, and carried him out of the smokehouse to greet Father Boris at the head of the path leading up from the Yellow River. (The Chinese baby-diapering technique was to allow the baby to go around naked, letting things fall where they might. Her refusal to follow it, as far as the other women in Paotow-Zi were concerned, was another proof that foreigners were indeed strange.)

Father Boris was accompanied by only Lee Tsing and one other of his usual Chinese escorts. He had referred to them, jokingly, as his altar boys.

She made a bobbing bow and kissed his ring, then waited until she and Edward Edwardovich had received his blessing before she spoke. «I didn't expect to see you so soon again,» she said. «You'll have to take potluck.»

Usually, she had a good idea when he was coming, and was thus able to prepare something like an elegant meal. He was especially fond of her chicken and chicken liver dumplings.

«We have to talk, my child,» he said.

It must be important

, Milla thought.

Usually there is nothing but Holy Mother Church more important to him than eating

.

And then the truth of that set in. Something was wrong. Gang-Cho appeared in order to receive his expected gift between wise elders. Lee Tsing opened his sheepskin coat and took a bottle of rice wine from a purse hanging across his chest. Milla saw his Mauser machine pistol under the coat.

Mae Su's uncle repaid the gift with a live chicken. Father Boris took it and handed it to Lee Tsing.

«I must discuss, Wise Brother, some personal matters with my daughter,» Father Boris said.

Gang-Cho didn't seem to mind.

Milla led Father Boris into the kitchen. They could talk in Russian, which the women making sausage did not understand. Mae Su followed them into the kitchen. «Is this personal?» she asked in Wu. Milla looked at Father Boris.

«Of course not,» he said. «And it concerns you, Mae Su, and your children. But…«

Taking his meaning—that her in-laws would hear what he had to say if they spoke Wu—the three of them left the kitchen and stood at the edge of the cliff overlooking the Yellow River.

«The Japanese Kempeitai are rounding up all white people in Baotou,» Father Boris began. «It is no longer safe for me there. Sow Key and Yon Fu have already 'left my service.' «

Milla recognized the names of the two missing «altar boys.»

«I will very much miss you, Father,» Milla thought out loud.

«It will come to the attention of the Kempeitai that the Nansen person businessman whom they cannot locate employed Sow Key and Yon Fu,» Father Boris said. «And they will look for them. Or they will go to the Kempeitai by themselves. Or the Kempeitai will inevitably learn there is a white woman—«

«And a Chinese woman with half-white children,» Mae Su interrupted, «living in Paotow-Zi.»

«Yes,» Father Boris said.

«But where will we go?» Milla asked, sick to her stomach.

«India,» Father Boris said.

«India?» Milla parroted.

«India will now permit holders of Nansen passports to enter,» Father Boris said.

Milla remembered Mae Su talking about India before they had left Shanghai.

«Through Kazakhstan?» Mae Su asked.

«Yes,» Father Boris replied, obviously surprised that Mae Su even knew the route to India.

«If you know the Kempeitai are in Baotou,» Mae Su said, «it will only be a matter of time before my uncle learns. If he doesn't already know. We will have to leave as soon as possible.»

«Immediately,» Father Boris said. «I have arranged for two horses and a cart. They're twenty kilometers downstream.»

«We will take chickens and sausage and a pig with us,» Mae Su said. «And tell my brother we are going to Baotou.»

«That probably would be best. But what do we do about Milla? How do we get her out of the village?»

«Tonight when it is dark, she will get in the cart. With Edwardovich and my children. We will leave at first light. It will be several hours before he learns we are all gone.»

«I will get him drunk tonight,» Father Boris said, practically.

«Yes,» Mae Su agreed.

Father Boris looked at Milla with sympathy. «We are in the hands of God, my child,» he said. «After we have something to eat, we will pray for His protection.»

Milla nodded.

«There is one other thing « Father Boris said. «I don't know if it is true or not, but from merchants who have come to Baotou from the Gobi Desert, I have heard that Americans are there…«

»

Americans

?» Milla asked incredulously.

«If there are, and I don't really know, perhaps they are trying to reach India, too. In numbers, sometimes, there is strength. And if there are Americans, and if we can cross the desert, it would help to be with Americans when we reach the Kazakhstan border.»

Milla thought they had as much chance to find Americans in the Gobi Desert as to be taken bodily into heaven to serve as handmaiden to the Mother of God. What were Americans doing in the

Gobi Desert

?

^{note 13}

Supreme Headquarters

South West Pacific Ocean Area

Brisbane, Australia

0915 10 February

Second Lieutenant George Hart, USMCR, pushed open the door to the office of Lieutenant Colonel Sidney Huff and held it open until Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, followed by Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis III, USN, and Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, had marched in. Everyone was far more formally dressed than they had been on Espfritu Santo. The Marines were in greens, with Sam Browne belts. The breast of Pickering's superbly tailored Marine tunic was adorned with ribbons attesting to his valor in two world wars. The breast of McCoy's equally finely tailored tunic and Hart's off-the-officer's-clothing-store-rack tunic were bare. Hart, however had the golden cords of an aide-de-camp hanging from his epaulet. Lewis was in high-collared whites, and also had the golden cords of an aide-de-camp hanging from his shoulder.

Captain McCoy's fine tailoring was something of an accident. Officer Candidate McCoy had ordered his officer's uniforms from the same place that Officer Candidate Pickering had ordered his, and at his suggestion, the Custom Department of Brooks Brothers in New York City. Officer Candidate McCoy had no idea at the time what the uniforms would cost, though he had been assured that Brooks Brothers would happily extend him credit.

Lieutenant Colonel Sidney Huff rose to his feet behind his desk.

«Good afternoon, sir,» he said.

«How are you, Sid?» General Pickering replied, offering him his hand.

Huff took the hand, then nodded at the junior officers.

«I'll tell the Supreme Commander you're here, General,» Huff said. «I'm not sure the Supreme Commander is expecting these gentlemen…«

If that was a question, Pickering ignored it. «Thank you, Sid,» he replied.

Huff walked to the door to the inner office and opened it. «General Pickering is here, General,» he announced.

«Send him in,» MacArthur replied cheerfully.

«The Supreme Commander will see you, General,» Lieutenant Colonel Huff announced formally.

«Thank you,» Pickering replied with what could have been a smile of amused contempt. He had heard Mac Arthur's voice as clearly as Huff had. Pickering made a quick gesture telling the others to stand fast, then walked through the door and past Huff. He stopped halfway to MacArthur's desk and saluted.

There was a question about whether the salute was actually proper, under the circumstances. Navy protocol decreed that salutes were not exchanged indoors unless under arms. But Douglas MacArthur was a soldier, and Army protocol stated that juniors saluted seniors. Fleming Pickering had enormous respect for Douglas MacArthur. For that reason he decided that saluting MacArthur was the proper thing to do.

MacArthur returned the salute with a casual gesture in the general vicinity of his forehead, then came smiling from behind his desk with his hand extended.

«My dear Fleming,» he said, «I was wondering when I was going to see you.»

MacArthur's use of Pickering's first name was yet one more of the many reasons Colonel Sid Huff did not like General Fleming Pickering. It indicated Pickering's special position in the pecking order surrounding the Supreme Commander.

In the vast majority of instances, when MacArthur addressed one of his officers directly, it was by rank. A privileged few close to the throne were addressed by their last names. And on some rare occasions, a very, very few officers—for example, Generals Sutherland and Willoughby, and Lieutenant Colonel Sidney Huff, all of whom had escaped with MacArthur from the Philippines—would be honored to be addressed by the Supreme Commander by their Christian names.

General MacArthur rarely addressed General Pickering by anything but his first name.

«Thank you for receiving me on such short notice, sir,» Pickering said.

«Nonsense, Fleming,» MacArthur said with a wave of his hand. «You know my door is always open to you.» Then a smile crossed his face. «I mean, after all, Fleming, once the camel's nose is inside the tent, there's not much sense in closing the flap, is there?»

Pickering was surprised to see that MacArthur was responding to his appointment as Deputy Director of the Office of Strategic Services for Pacific Operations as something like a harmless joke. He had imagined that MacArthur would be as furious and frustrated as he himself was.

«General,» Pickering said, «before we get into that, I thought you might wish to talk to the officers who went onto Mindanao to meet with General Fertig. They're outside.»

«And then we can discuss this new development?» MacArthur asked, smiling.

«Yes, sir. Whenever you wish to, of course.»

«Perhaps you're right, Fleming. It probably would be best if we discussed the OSS privately, unofficially, between friends. Are you free for cocktails and dinner tomorrow? Unfortunately, Mrs. MacArthur and I are dining with the Prime Minister tonight. Can't get out of it.»

«Yes, sir.»

«Then that's the way we'll talk about it,» MacArthur said. He turned to Colonel Huff. «Sid, would you ask General Pickering's officers to come in, please? And then telephone Mrs. MacArthur and tell her General Pickering will be joining us for cocktails and dinner tomorrow?»

Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, and Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis III, USN, marched into the Supreme Commander's office and came to attention before his desk. They did not salute. They were officers of the Naval Service.

«Stand at ease, please, gentlemen,» MacArthur said.

«General, Captain McCoy and Lieutenant Lewis,» Pickering said.

MacArthur offered both officers his hand, then took a closer look at Lewis.

«Haven't I previously had the pleasure, Lieutenant?»

«I'm flattered the Supreme Commander remembers,» Lewis said.

«And where was that?» MacArthur asked.

«Corregidor, sir,» Lewis said. «I was aboard the

Remora

.»

MacArthur's suddenly increased interest in Lieutenant Lewis was visible on his face.

«Frankly, I had been searching my memory to recall the name of your admiral,» he said, gesturing toward Lewis's aide-de-camp's cord. «But now I remember! Of course. It really is good to see you again, Lieutenant.»

He turned to Pickering.

«The submarine service did not share the belief of the rest of the Navy, Fleming, that it was too hazardous to attempt breaking through the Japanese fleet to reach us.»

«Yes, sir, I know,» Pickering said.

«They came, again and again,» MacArthur continued emotionally. «Until the very end. They couldn't bring us much, but at least they tried!» He returned his attention to Lewis. «You made more than one voyage to Corregidor, didn't you, Mr. Lewis?»

«Three trips, sir.»

«And, more recently, if I correctly understand the situation, you left your sinecure as aide-de-camp to… ?»

«Admiral Wagam, General,» Pickering furnished.

»… Admiral Wagam,» MacArthur went on, «to undertake the infiltration of Mindanao, a mission posing great hazards! Your courage is inspirational!»

Lewis, visibly embarrassed, did not reply for a moment, but then blurted: «Sir, that was my first rubber-boat mission. It was Captain McCoy's third!»

MacArthur looked at McCoy. «Is that so?»

«McCoy was on the Makin Island raid,» Pickering replied, «with the President's son. And then he went onto Buka to replace our Coastwatcher team there.»

MacArthur looked at Pickering. «Presumably, Fleming, recommendations for decorations for these two fine young officers are making their way through the bureaucracy?»

«There really hasn't been time for that yet, sir,» Pickering replied.

«I was thinking that I would be honored to decorate them myself,» MacArthur said thoughtfully, and then announced, «And by God, I will!» He looked at Colonel Huff. «Sid, go down the hall to G-1»—the General Staff section that dealt with personnel—«and get a couple of Silver Star medals,» he ordered. «Silver Stars would be appropriate, don't you agree, Fleming?»

«Yes, sir. I think they would be. But General, there were two enlisted men on McCoy's team.»

«Silver Stars for the officers, Bronze Stars for the men,» MacArthur decreed. «General Pickering can prepare the citations later.»

«Yes, sir,» Huff said, and left the room.

Chapter Three

^{note 14}

Quarters of the Supreme Commander

Supreme Headquarters

South West Pacific Ocean Area

Brisbane, Australia

1815 11 February 1943

Jeanne (Mrs. Douglas) MacArthur offered Brigadier General Fleming Pickering her cheek to kiss. «I'm delighted to see you back, Fleming,» she said.

«Thank you.»

«And I would offer my congratulations on your new appointment, but I'm not sure that's the thing to do.»

My God

, Pickering thought,

she knows all about it. That message from the President was classified Top Secret, and wife to El Supremo or not, she had no right to know what it said

.

I wonder what else she knows?

Dumb question. She knows whatever El Supremo feels like telling her, which probably means she knows more Top Secret material than most of the officers around here.

«Darling,» MacArthur said, «would you please ask Manuel to bring us two stiff drinks of Fleming's excellent Famous Grouse scotch?»

Master Sergeant Manuel Donat, late of the Philippine Scouts, was MacArthur's orderly. Pickering had provided the MacArthurs with several cases of Famous Grouse whisky from the stores of a P&FE freighter that had called at Brisbane. Fleming Pickering was Chairman of the Board of Pacific & Far East Shipping.

«Then congratulations

are

in order?» she asked.

«What we're celebrating is the safe return of two of Fleming's officers from their mission to see this Fertig fellow. I had the privilege of decorating both of them.»

So she knows about that, too. Why am I surprised?

«Curiosity overwhelms me,» she said. «I hope Charley was wrong.»

Charley was Brigadier General Charles A. Willoughby, MacArthur's intelligence officer. Though Pickering thought that Willoughby was actually bright, he had also concluded that his closeness to MacArthur was based more than anything else on his absolute loyalty to, and awe of, the Supreme Commander.

«Charley was wrong about what?» Pickering asked.

«He said the poor fellow was… that the stress had been too much for him.»

«Jeanne, according to my people, General Fertig is perfectly sane, and, if we can get supplies to him, is going to cause the Japanese a good deal of trouble.»

«Would you ask Manuel to bring us the drinks, Jeanne, please?» MacArthur said.

Obviously, El Supremo wants the subject changed

, Pickering thought, but as soon as his wife had left the room, MacArthur proved him wrong.

«And that, presumably, is what your officers are going to tell the people in Washington?» MacArthur asked. «That this Fertig fellow knows what he's doing?»

«Yes, sir.»

MacArthur raised his expressive eyebrows and shook his head.

Pickering thought it over for half a second and decided he was obliged to make the Supreme Commander even unhappier.

«Fertig made quite an impression on both McCoy and Lewis, General. What Lewis thinks, of course, he will report to Admiral Wagam, and more than likely to Admiral Nimitz. And just before I went back to Espiritu Santo, there was a Special Channel message from Colonel Fritz Rickabee, suggesting I prepare McCoy to brief the President just about as soon as he gets off the plane in Washington.»

«Who is Rickabee? How would he know what the President wants'? For that matter, why would Franklin Roosevelt want to hear what a captain thinks?»

«Rickabee is my deputy—

was

my deputy—before this OSS thing came up. I don't know this, but I suspect the President told Frank Knox that he wants to talk to McCoy.»

«Why would he want to do that?»

«McCoy is held in high regard by Jimmy Roosevelt; they were both on the Makin raid.»

MacArthur snorted.

«And Frank Knox told his assistant, Captain Houghton, who told Colonel Rickabee,» Pickering finished his thought.

MacArthur considered that for a moment. «Don't misunderstand me, Fleming,» he said. «I admire this Fertig fellow. And I will move heaven and hell and whatever else has to be moved to see that he gets the supplies he needs.»

Sergeant Donat, in a crisp white jacket, arrived with a tray holding glasses, ice, and a bottle of Famous Grouse.

«Good to see you again, General,» he said.

«Thank you, Manuel,» Pickering said.

Donat poured two stiff drinks, then looked at Mrs. MacArthur, who smiled and shook her head, «no.»

«A toast, I would suggest, is in order,» MacArthur said. «To your brave young officers, Fleming.»

«And the enlisted men they had with them,» Pickering responded. «Better yet, to all the brave men who are carrying on your fight in the Philippines.»

MacArthur considered that, then sipped his drink. «So what are you going to do now, Fleming?» he asked.

«Now that my nose is under your tent flap?»

MacArthur smiled and nodded.

«I'm going to meet with Colonel Waterson first thing in the morning,» Pickering said.

Colonel John J. Waterson was OSS Brisbane Station Chief, which is to say head of the Office of Strategic Services detachment assigned to Supreme Headquarters, South West Pacific Ocean Area.

«In your new role as Deputy Director for Pacific Operations of the OSS?»

«Yes, sir.»

«You have not previously met the gentleman?»

Pickering shook his head, «no.»

«Coast Artillery Corps. Class of '22 at West Point,» MacArthur recited. «Resigned in 1934, with twelve years of service, after failure of selection for promotion to captain. Commissioned as major artillery, reserve, in 1939. Called to active service October 1940. Instructor—mathematics—at the Artillery School, Fort Bliss. Detailed to the OSS January 1942. Promotions to lieutenant colonel and colonel came shortly after he joined the OSS. In his civilian career, Colonel Waterson was a vice president of Malloy Manufacturing Company—they make hubcaps for automobiles—which is owned by his wife's family.»

It was not a very impressive recitation of military credentials, and both men knew it.

MacArthur, looking very pleased with himself, smiled at Pickering.

«You know more about him than I do,» Pickering confessed.

«I thought that might be the case,» MacArthur said.

«What was that? 'Know your enemy'?» Pickering asked.

«Your phrase, Fleming, not mine,» MacArthur said, smiling. «And I certainly don't think of you as the enemy.»

«Thank you.»

«Unfortunately, I was never able to find time to receive Colonel Waterson,» MacArthur said, obviously pleased, «and now it won't be necessary, will it?»

Pickering suddenly understood why Douglas MacArthur was pleased that the President had appointed him OSS Deputy Director for Pacific Operations.

He thinks I'm going to get Roosevelt and Donovan off his back.

And in his shoes, I would think the same thing. He knows he's right about the OSS; and he knows I think he's right, and I can plead his case in Washington better even than he can.

Just before Pickering left Washington for his current Pacific trip, the President of the United States had personally given him a subsidiary mission: to convince General Douglas MacArthur to find time in his busy schedule to receive Colonel Waterson.

OSS Director William Donovan had complained to Roosevelt that following a very brief meeting with General Charles A. Willoughby, MacArthur's G-2, shortly after his arrival in Brisbane seven weeks before, Waterson had been waiting in vain for the meeting with MacArthur Willoughby had promised to arrange «just as soon as the Supreme Commander can find time in his schedule.»

When Pickering had raised the subject to MacArthur soon after his arrival in Brisbane, he was told that MacArthur had decided that the OSS was going to bemore trouble than it was worth. Receiving Colonel Waterson would therefore be tantamount to letting the nose of an unwelcome camel into his tent. MacArthur had no intention of doing that.

Pickering thought MacArthur was right. The OSS probably would be more trouble than it would be worth in the kind of war MacArthur was fighting. The situation here was completely different from Europe and Africa, where the OSS had proven very valuable.

It was a relatively simple matter to infiltrate OSS Jedburgh teams into France and other German-occupied areas of the European landmass by parachute or even by small fishing boats setting out from England. Once inside enemy-held territory, agents who spoke the language and were equipped with forged identification papers could relatively easily vanish into the local society, aided by in-place resistance movements. Once in place, OSS agents in Europe could go about their business of blowing up railroad bridges and harbor facilities, of gathering intelligence, and of arranging for resistance groups to be armed and equipped with communications equipment.

None of the conditions that made the OSS valuable in Europe prevailed in the Pacific. For one thing, there was no contiguous landmass. The war in the Pacific was already becoming known as «island hopping.» Hundreds—often thousands—of miles separated Allied bases from Japanese-occupied islands.

Simply infiltrating OSS teams onto a Japanese-held Pacific island would pose enormous—probably insurmountable—logistical problems.

And, with the exception of a few Americans and Filipinos who had refused to surrender when the Philippine Islands had fallen to the Japanese, there was no organized resistance in Japanese-occupied territory anywhere in the Pacific. In other words, there would be no friendly faces greeting OSS agents when they landed. Furthermore, no matter how well he might speak Japanese, no matter how high the quality of his forged identification papers, a Caucasian agent stood virtually no chance of passing himself off as a Japanese soldier, or making himself invisible in a society whose brown-skinned citizens often wore loincloths, filed their teeth, and spoke unusual languages.

And finally, on the Pacific Islands where MacArthur intended to fight, there were very few railroad or highway bridges or industrial complexes to blow up, and really very little intelligence to gather.

Aware that his thinking was probably colored by his personal feelings toward OSS Director Colonel «Wild Bill» Donovan, Pickering thought the very idea of setting the OSS up in the South West Pacific Ocean Area probably had more to do with Donovan playing Washington politics than anything else.

Pickering had little use for Donovan, a law school classmate of President Roosevelt who had been a hignly successful Wall Street lawyer before Roosevelt had appointed him to lead the OSS.

Lawyer Donovan had once been engaged by Chairman of the Board (of the Pacific & Far East Shipping Corporation) Pickering to represent P&FE in a maritime legal dispute. Pickering had liked neither the quality of the legal services rendered—the suit had been decided against them—nor the size of the bill rendered, and had called Donovan on the telephone and bluntly told him so.

William Donovan was not used to people talking to him the way Pickering did; and he was Irish. He was still angry two weeks later when he ran into Pickering in the lobby of the Century Club in New York City. There was some disagreement about who uttered the first unkind remark, but it was universally agreed that only the intervention of friends—strong friends—of both gentlemen had prevented adding to the many Century Club legends a fistfight in the main lobby between two of its most prominent members.

The enmity between the two men had continued after Donovan became Roosevelt's intelligence chief as head of the newly created Office of Strategic Services and Pickering had performed various intelligence services—separate from the OSS—for Navy Secretary Frank Knox, leading to his appointment as head of the highly secret Office of Management Analysis. The new marriage—at Roosevelt's direction—between Pickering and the OSS was likely to become a marriage made in hell from the point of view of everyone except the President.

Brigadier General Fleming Pickering looked at General Douglas A. MacArthur, shrugged, shook his head, took a healthy swallow of his Famous Grouse, and then shook his head again.

«Yes, Fleming?» MacArthur asked. «What is it you are having such a hard time saying?»

«I was wondering how a simple sailor like myself ever wound up between a rock named MacArthur and a hard place named Roosevelt,» Pickering said.

«All I ask of you, Fleming, with every confidence in the world that you are incapable of doing anything else, is to tell the President the truth. I don't think the OSS can play a valuable role here—I wish that it were otherwise—and neither do you.»

Pickering didn't reply.

«Elsewhere in Asia,» MacArthur went on, «India, China, Indochina, Burma, the OSS may prove, under your leadership, to be very useful.»

Christ, I didn't even think of those parts of the world! Are they considered within the area of responsibility of

—

what the hell is my title

?—«

OSS Deputy Director for Pacific Operations «

?

«I hadn't even thought about China, or India,» Pickering thought aloud. «I can't believe that Roosevelt would give me the responsibility for intelligence and covert operations in those areas.»

That's not true. I did think about that when McCoy asked me if he could expect to be sent into the Gobi Desert. And I told him I didn't think so. And I told him that because the Gobi Desert doesn't sound like the Pacific to me.

And now MacArthur is telling me that I'm wrong.

«If I were in his shoes,» MacArthur said, «I would.»

«It borders on the absurd,» Pickering said.

«Absurd? No. Imaginative? Yes. I guess you're just going to have to ask the President for clarification of your role.»

«Yeah,» Pickering said thoughtfully.

«When are you going to Washington, Fleming?»

«As soon as I can,» Pickering thought aloud. «The day after tomorrow, if I can get things here organized by then.»

«Please be good enough to personally pass to the President and Mrs. Roosevelt the best regards of Jeanne and myself,» MacArthur said. «Now, with that out of the way, would you like another drink before I speak to Manuel about dinner?»

«I would very much like another drink, please, General,» Pickering said, and raised the glass in his hand to his mouth and drained it.

^{note 15}

Water Lily Cottage

Brisbane, Australia

0815 12 February

Second Lieutenant George F. Hart, USMCR, knocked at the door to Brigadier General Fleming Pickering's room. «General, Colonel Waterson is here.»

Using the first joint of his thumb as a gauge, Pickering was in the act of pinning his brigadier general's stars to the collar points of a tropical worsted shirt.

«Offer the Colonel a cup of coffee—for that matter, breakfast—and tell him I'll be right out,» Pickering called.

Pickering had specified the time he expected Colonel Waterson to arrive at Water Lily Cottage: 0830. Waterson was fifteen minutes early.

What the hell, if I was meeting my new boss, I would err on the side of being too early myself.

But does he know that I'm his boss? Or does he think I summoned him over here to tell him he's finally going to get the audience with El Supremo that Willoughby promised him

?

He pushed the pins on the underside of the star through the cloth of the right collar point, then compared that with the star on the left collar point. It was close enough. He picked up his fruit salad—an impressive display of colored ribbons, all mounted together, representing his decorations and services in two world wars—and started to pin the device to the shirt. And then changed his mind.

While he certainly wasn't ashamed of his decorations, wearing some of them sometimes made him uncomfortable—especially the Silver Star Admiral Nimitz had given him for taking the con of the destroyer USS

Gregory

when her captain had been killed and he himself painfully wounded; he thought that was worth no more than a Purple Heart. He was proud of his Navy Cross. He had been too young and stupid to think about what he was doing at the time, but the bottom line, looking back, was that he had behaved in Belleau Wood the way Marines are supposed to behave and the Navy Cross proved it.

To judge by the curriculum vitae MacArthur had provided, Colonel Waterson was not going to have many ribbons pinned to his chest; and Pickering decided that he was not going to make him uncomfortable by using his own ribbons to rub it in that Waterson had never heard a shot fired in anger. It was going to be bad enough as it was. MacArthur had made it quite clear that he still had no intention of permitting the OSS to operate in the South West Pacific. There was only one role he saw for Waterson, and he probably wasn't going to like it. Nor would Donovan when he heard about it.

Pickering put the shirt on, tucked it in his trousers, zipped up his fly, checked in the mirror to see that the button line on his shirt was aligned with his belt buckle and the trousers fly, shifted the belt buckle until it was in alignment, and then walked out of his bedroom.

Waterson, a chubby forty-odd year old who brushed his hair straight back, was sitting on one of the upholstered rattan couches in the living room. He was in civilian clothing—which surprised Pickering—a well-tailored, single-breasted, tropical worsted suit, a white button-down collar shirt, a finely printed silk necktie, and well-polished wing-tip shoes. When he saw Pickering, he stood up.

He looks more like a business executive than an Army colonel

, Pickering thought.

But, of course, that's what he really is. El Supremo told me he had been vice president of some company

—

Malloy Manufacturing. He's no more a bona fide colonel than I am a bona fide brigadier general

.

«Good morning, Colonel,» Pickering said, offering his hand. «I'm Fleming Pickering.»

«Good morning, sir.»

«Have you had your breakfast?»

«I had some coffee, sir.»

«Well, I'm about to have my breakfast,» Pickering said. «You can either have some with me, or you can have a cup of coffee and watch me eat.»

«That's very kind of you, sir.»

«George,» Pickering ordered. «Round up Pluto and ask him to come to the dining room. I want you there, too.»

Pickering gestured for Waterson to precede him into the dining room.

«I have—this sounds like a line from a B movie—no secrets from either Hart or Major Hon,» Pickering said. «Not only because they have to know everything that's going on, but also because they generally know things before I do. They both have magic clearances. Pluto—Major Hon—knew about this latest development before I did, because he decrypted the message when it came in. You are familiar with this latest development?»

«I received a radio message from Colonel Donovan, sir,» Waterson said, «telling me that OSS Station Brisbane is now under your command.»

«Have a seat, Colonel,» Pickering said, as he sat down himself.

Pluto came into the room, trailed by George Hart. Pickering introduced Pluto.

«Let's go over our problems,» Pickering said. «Problem One is that General MacArthur doesn't want the OSS here at all.»

«But, General…« Waterson began.

Pickering held up his hand to shut him up.

«Problem Two is magic,» he went on, «which breaks down into three sub-problems: the analysis part of magic; magic clearances; and people to assist Pluto in the encryption/decryption.»

«General,» Waterson said, «you're going a little fast for me.»

«Let's talk about magic,» Pickering said. «How much do you know about that, Colonel?»

«I know it exists,» Waterson said.

«That's all? I'm disappointed.»

«I probably know more than I should, General,» Waterson said.

Pickering made a «give it to me» gesture with both hands.

«We've broken the Japanese codes,» Watersoi. said.

»

Some

of them,» Pickering corrected him. «Enough to be of enormous value. And obviously, it's the most important secret of the war.»

«Obviously,» Waterson agreed.

«People with a magic clearance cannot be placed in any situation where there is any chance at all they will be captured,» Pickering went on. «Right now we have three people here, Pluto, Hart, and Lieutenant Johnny Moore, who have magic clearance. Hart will be leaving with me. And two people are not enough to handle the traffic, particularly since the big brass have learned that the Special Channel is the best way to get a message through securely and in the shortest possible time.»

«Is that why Director Donovan has had trouble gaining access to the Special Channel?»

«Donovan is on the magic list, but General MacArthur decides who is to be given access to the Special Channel to SWPOA. I presume he decided the OSS didn't need it. But that's something else that's been changed. I have magic access, and I have every intention of using it—when necessary—to communicate with you.»

«Does that mean I'm to be given magic access?»

«I don't think so. For one thing, it would cause trouble with MacArthur. In SWPOA, only he and Willoughby have magic clearances. If I suddenly arranged for the Brisbane Station Chief to be placed on the list, MacArthur would think I had betrayed him. I don't want to do that.»

«Sir, I don't quite know quite what…«

«What I want from you are the names of two of your officers—now two of

our

officers—who (a) can be trusted with magic information; and (b) are junior to Pluto. I don't want anybody trying to tell Pluto how to do his job. Bear in mind that once they get magic clearance, they will no longer be available to do anything operational.»

«Let me think about that, sir,» Waterson said. «About the names, I mean.»

«Pluto will have the right of rejection,» Pickering said. «And then, once these men—one at a time—are taught how to encrypt and decrypt magic, Pluto will see that you have access to it.»

Waterson thought this over a moment, then said, «That will work.»

«Pluto and Moore are also analysts,» Pickering continued. «It would be nice if the people you select could be helpful in that area as well.»

«I think I have the guy,» Waterson said. «Let me think about it.»

Good. He's cautious.

«It would also be nice if he were a bridge player,» Pluto said. «A

good

bridge player.»

«You're a bridge player, Major? So am I.»

«So is El Supremo,» Pickering said. «Pluto, see if you can subtly let it drop to El Supremo that Colonel Waterson plays bridge.»

«Anything to get the camel's nose further into the tent?»

«Precisely,» Pickering said with a smile. He looked at Waterson again. «I want to make sure you understand the command structure,» he said. «I have just decided to name Major Hon and Lieutenant Moore to my personal staff. Appointments two and three.»

«Who's one?» Pluto asked.

«McCoy,» Pickering said, and met Waterson's eyes. «That way, if Director Donovan tells you to simply order either of them to do something, your reply is that you can't do that, General Pickering made it quite clear that they are not subordinate to you.»

Waterson nodded. «Sir? May I speak freely? Before these gentlemen?»

«Of course.»

«Question. I'm aware, of course, of the… relationship… between Director Donovan and yourself.»

«I thought you might be,» Pickering replied.

«The question: What are the chances of a truce?»

«I've been wondering the same thing,» Pickering said. «Frankly, 1 don't have high hopes. If the… relationship… between myself and Donovan is awkward for you, Colonel, feel free to ask Donovan to reassign you.»

«Oh, I don't think I'd want to do that, General. From everything I've heard, I think I'm going to enjoy working for you.»

«Four,» Pickering said.

«Sir?» Pluto and Colonel Waterson asked in chorus.

«Appointment Four. I need Banning. Fritz Rickabee won't like it, but whatever I wind up doing, I'm going to need Ed Banning to help me do it.»

«Yeah,» Pluto agreed thoughtfully.

That was not the proper military response

, Pickering thought,

but it means, Thank God that Pluto agrees with me

.

«General, I'm getting the idea you're going home soon?» Waterson asked.

«Tomorrow,» Pickering said. «I've got some goodbyes to say here, and then I'm going to Washington.»

Where, unless I'm mistaken

, Pickering thought, I

am going to get assigned one hellishly impossible project in the deserts of Mongolia

.

Chapter Four

^{note 16}

Aboard Transcontinental & Western Airlines Flight 303

Above Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

1530 16 February 1943

Fleming Pickering was not the only one traveling to the United States just then.

«And there it is, the City of Brotherly Love,» the pilot of the DC-3 announced to the two other pilots in the cockpit, gesturing out the windshield at the city below.

The two other pilots chuckled dutifully.

The pilot picked up his microphone, checked to see that the proper frequency was set, and called the Philadelphia Tower.

«Philadelphia, TWA 303, ten miles north at 3500. Request landing instructions.»

«TWA 303, Philadelphia. You are cleared as number two to an Eastern DC-

now on final to runway one-seven. The altimeter is two-niner-eight, winds are negligible.»

«Three-oh-three understands number two to one-seven after the Eastern DC-3 on final. I have him in sight.»

«Affirmative, 303.»

«You want to sit it down, Charley?» the pilot asked of the copilot.

«Thank you very much,» the copilot said.

With an exaggerated gesture, the pilot took his hands from the wheel.

«You've got it,» he said.

The copilot retarded the throttles and began a shallow descent.

«TWA 303, Philadelphia,» the radio went off again.

«Three-oh-three, go ahead.»

«Three-oh-three, be advised you will be met by a Navy ambulance and a medical team. You are requested to off-load the Navy patient before, repeat, before, you off-load your passengers.»

«Oh, shit!» Captain James B. Weston, USMCR, said, shaking his head. He was riding on the jump seat between and just behind the pilot and copilot.

The pilot looked at Jim Weston curiously, then reached for the microphone again. «Philadelphia, TWA 303. We will off-load the Navy patient first,» he said. Then he turned and looked at Weston again. «Do you know what's that about?»

«I'll bet that ambulance is for me,» he said.

«Something wrong with you?» the pilot asked with concern.

«Not a goddamn thing, but I am having trouble convincing the goddamn Navy about that,» Weston said, adding, «It's a long story.»

The pilot did not press for an explanation. He had earned his own wings as a Naval Aviator at Pensacola, and had tried to get back in the Navy after Pearl Harbor. They told him he was (a) too old and (b) there was a shortage of airline pilots because all the younger ones were going back into the service. Logic told him the Navy had been right, but he still felt a little guilty to be flying an airliner between St. Louis and Philadelphia instead of a Navy plane in the Pacific.

Especially when he saw a kid like this one, who didn't look old enough to be a captain, and wearing not only wings but ribbons representing the Silver Star, Purple Heart, and Pacific service.

For that reason, he had asked him if he would like to fly up front when he saw him get aboard. For the same reason, if the kid didn't want to talk about why the Navy had sent an ambulance to meet him, he wasn't going to embarrass him by asking.

«You ever fly one of these?» the pilot asked, indicating the DC-3.

«Some,» Weston said. «I'm rated—I

was

rated—in it, but most of my multi-engine time is in Catalinas.»

«You fly Catalinas?»

«Past tense,» Weston said. «I'm a fighter pilot.»

«I'm jealous,» the pilot confessed.

«The Corsair is one hell of an airplane,» Weston said.

The pilot looked at the window and picked up his microphone.

«Philadelphia, TWA 303 turning on final.»

«Three-oh-three, take taxiway twenty-seven right. The Navy ambulance will meet you at gate eleven.»

«Understand twenty-seven right, gate eleven,» the pilot said, and then turned his attention to see how well his copilot was going to handle the landing.

The ambulance was a civilian vehicle, a Packard painted white with us navy lettered on its doors, rather than the GI ambulance that he was used to, which was built on the frame of a Dodge three-quarter-ton truck, the sides and roof decorated with large red crosses. The medical crew consisted of two Corpsmen, in hospital whites, and a very well-assembled nurse in a crisp white uniform. She wore a stiffly starched white cap, perched precariously, and very attractively, atop her short blond hair. Her face was very serious. She looked to be in her very early twenties.

Because I am a Marine officer and a gentleman by act of Congress, with certain standards to maintain, I would not kick that out of bed.

The Corpsmen were equipped for any eventuality. They had a wheelchair, and also a chrome stretcher on wheels that sat on the ground beside the open rear door of the ambulance. As soon as the pilot had shut down the left engine, a curt ncd from the nurse directed the Corpsmen toward the airplane. She walked in front of them.

The pilot turned to Weston, putting out his hand.

«Good luck,» he said.

«Thank you,» Jim replied, «and thanks for letting me ride up front.»

«My pleasure,» the pilot said.

«Mine, too,» the copilot chimed in and offered his hand.

Weston rose from the jump seat and fastened it in the up position, then left the cockpit and started down the aisle. When he turned after taking his small canvas bag from the rack over his seat, he saw that the nurse was already in the plane.

She looked at him curiously as he walked down the aisle.

«And good afternoon to you, Lieutenant,» Jim said with a smile.

«Are you my patient?» she,asked, as if surprised that he could make it down the aisle by himself.

«I don't think so,» he said.

«I'm looking for a Marine captain named Weston,» she said.

«Then this is your lucky day,» Jim said. «And perhaps mine, too. Captain James B. Weston at your service, ma'am. I didn't catch the name?»

«If you'll come with me, please, Captain,» she said.

«That's a funny name for a pretty girl,» he said.

She colored, gave him a dirty look, then turned around and got off the airplane. He went down the stairs quickly after her.

The fatter of the two Corpsmen pushed the wheelchair toward him.

«Is someone ill?» Weston asked innocently.

«Please get in the chair, Captain,» the nurse said.

«Thank you ever so much, Lieutenant, but I don't need a wheelchair.»

«It's procedure,» she said. «Please get in the chair.»

«Something wrong with your hearing, Lieutenant? Is that ambulance our transportation?»

«If you'll please get in the back, Captain.»

He walked to the rear of the ambulance and looked inside.

«There're no seats in there,» he said reasonably. «Where am I supposed to sit? On the floor?»

«You're supposed to lie down on the stretcher,» she said.

«Again, thank you but no thank you,» he said. «I'll just ride in front, if that would be all right.»

«I would appreciate it if you wouldn't give me any trouble,» she said.

«Captain,» the fatter Corpsman said, «Sir, you've got to ride in the back.»

«Butt out!» Weston said coldly, tossed his small bag in the back of the ambulance, and then walked to the front and got in.

The nurse and the corpsmen had a discussion, following which the fatter Corpsman got behind the wheel and the nurse slipped in beside Weston.

«Perhaps there's been some sort of mix-up,» the nurse said. «The officer we were supposed to meet was just rescued from the Philippines.»

«Oddly enough, I was in the Philippines until a couple of months ago,» Weston said. «Until Christmas Eve, as a matter of fact.»

«You were hospitalized… in the Pacific… until now?»

«I haven't been hospitalized at all,» he said. «Do I look like I need hospitalization? In your professional judgment, I mean?»

«Let's go, Nevin,» she ordered.

«Yes, ma'am,» the chubby Corpsman started the engine.

«I suppose this really isn't any of my business, Lieutenant, but is there anyone in your life, in a romantic sense, at the moment? What I'm leading up to is wondering if you're free for dinner?»

«You're going to be in a hospital bed when I have my dinner,» she said. «But thank you just the same.»

«Well, we could have dinner there, I suppose,» Weston said reasonably. «I really hate to eat alone.»

«You understand that I'm going to have to report your conduct?» she said.

«I wouldn't have it any other way,» he said.

«Please sit in the wheelchair,» she said when they had pulled up to the Admissions entrance to one of the buildings in the hospital complex on South Broad Street.

«I thought we already had this discussion,» he said.

«You have to!»

«Where do I report in, Lieutenant?»

«Nevin,» she ordered, «go find a couple of psychiatric Corpsmen.»

«Yes, ma'am,» the chubby Corpsman said, and hurried into the building.

What are they going to do? Wrap the nutty escapee from the Philippines in a straitjacket and drag me inside to a padded cell?

The two muscular Corpsmen who appeared moments later—almost running—did not have a straitjacket with them.

They don't need one. I have seen smaller gorillas.

«Would you please escort this patient to Five-B, please?» the nurse said.

«Yes, ma'am,» one of them said. «You want to get in the wheelchair, please, Captain?»

«No,» Weston said evenly.

«Why not?»

«I don't need a wheelchair; I don't like wheelchairs.»

The Corpsman looked at him intently for a long moment. «Yes, sir. Will you come this way, please, Captain?»

«Certainly,» Weston said. He turned to the nurse. «The memory of our meeting, Lieutenant, will remain with me always.»

She ignored him. «I'll call Commander Kister and alert him that you're coming,» she said to the Corpsmen, and walked quickly into the building.

«What's Five-B?» Weston asked the larger gorilla. «Or is that a military secret?»

«It's preliminary evaluation, Captain,» the Corpsmen answered. «Nothing to worry about. They'll keep you there for a couple of days, and then you'll get transferred to one of the other wards for treatment.»

The entrance to Ward Five-B was barred. A Corpsman as large as the two who had escorted him there unlocked and pulled open a barred door.

«Put him in Four,» he ordered.

Four was a small room furnished with a small desk and two chairs. The window was covered with a steel mesh.

Weston looked out the window—it opened on an interior courtyard—and then tried the door. He was not surprised to learn he was locked in. He walked back to the window and half-sat on the windowsill. He took a long, thin, green cigar from a breast pocket on his tunic, looked at it, decided he really didn't want a smoke right now, and returned the cigar to the pocket.

Five minutes later, the door opened and a chubby, redheaded man in a white smock walked in, carrying a manila folder.

«I'm Dr. Kister,» he announced.

Weston touched his index finger to his temple in a mocking salute.

Dr. Kister sat down at the desk and laid the manila folder on it. «You gave Lieutenant Hardison a hard time,» Kister said.

«That's the nurse?»

Kister nodded. «Nice girl,» he said.

«Nice-looking, too.»

«Then why did you give her a hard time?»

«I didn't give her a hard time. I

did

tell her I didn't need her wheelchair, and that I had no intention of lying on a stretcher in the back of her ambulance.»

«That's standard procedure. She was just obeying orders.»

«Never let common sense get in the way of standard procedure and obeying orders, right?»

«You want to tell me why you're so pissed off, Captain?» Dr. Kister asked.

«Are you really interested, Doctor?» Weston asked. «Or… ?»

«Will you settle for 'curious'? I

am

curious.»

Weston looked at him for a moment, shrugged, reached into the lower right , outer pocket of his tunic, and with some difficulty pulled out a large manila envelope, folded in half. He unfolded it, opened it, rummaged through it, found what he was looking for, and handed it to Dr. Kister.

It was a long sheet of yellow paper, a carbon copy of a Teletype message. Kister took it and read it. As he did, his eyebrows went up.

HQ USMC

1705 08 FEB 43

PRIORITY

COMMANDING OFFICER

MAG-21

EWA MCAS OAHU TERRITORY OF HAWAII

1. DEPUTY CHIEF OF STAFF FOR PERSONNEL USMC HAS INFORMED THE UNDERSIGNED:

A. NO EXCEPTION TO STANDING OPERATING PROCEDURE REGARDING MISSING OR CAPTURED PERSONNEL RETURNING TO USMC CONTROL WILL BE GRANTED IN CASE OF CAPTAIN JAMES B. WESTON, USMCR, USMC SPECIAL DETACHMENT 16, CURRENTLY ON TEMPORARY DUTY VMF 229, MAG 21, EWA MCAS.

B. IN VIEW STRONG OBJECTIONS VOICED BY US NAVY BUREAU OP AERONAUTICS TO COMMANDANT USMC CONCERNING RETURN TO FLIGHT STATUS OP OFFICER WHO HAS BEEN OFF FLIGHT STATUS FOR TWELVE OR MORE MONTHS WITHOUT SUCCESSFUL COMPLETION OF PRESCRIBED BUAER RETRAINING PROGRAM CAPTAIN WESTON'S TRANSITION TRAINING INTO F4U-1 AIRCRAFT AND HIS FLIGHT STATUS WILL BE TERMINATED IMMEDIATELY UPON RECEIPT OF THIS MESSAGE.

2. YOU WILL IMMEDIATELY ISSUE ORDERS DIRECTING CAPTAIN WESTON

TO

PROCEED BY FIRST AVAILABLE AIR TRANSPORTATION TO US NAVY HOSPITAL, PHILADELPHIA, PENNA., REPORTING ON ARRIVAL THEREAT TO COMMANDING OFFICER, TO UNDERGO PHYSICAL AND PYSCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION PRESCRIBED FOR PERSONNEL RETURNING TO USMC CONTROL AFTER ESCAPE FROM ENEMY CONTROLLED TERRITORY.

3. FOR YOUR INFORMATION, PRESUMING CAPTAIN WESTON'S PHYSICAL AND PSYCHOLOGICAL CONDITION IS JUDGED TO BE SUCH THAT HE CAN RETURN TO ACTIVE DUTY, HE WILL BE ORDERED TO THE GREEHBRIBR HOTEL, WEST VIRGINIA, FOR THIRTY DAYS RECUPERATIVE LEAVE, NOT CHARGEABLE AS ORDINARY LEAVE. HE WILL THEN BE SENT TO USNAVY AIR STATION, PENSACOLA, FLORIDA, TO UNDERGO PRESCRIBED BUATR PILOT RETRAINING PROGRAM. IF SUCH COURSE OP INSTRUCTION IS SUCCESSFULLY COMPLETED, IT IS CONTEMPLATED THAT CAPTAIN WESTON WILL BE ASSIGNED TO VMP-262, US NAVAL AIR STATION, MEMPHIS, TENN., FOR TRANSITION TRAINING INTO F4U-1 AIRCRAFT.

4. NO REQUESTS FOR RECONSIDERATION OF ABOVE OR COMMENTS CONCERNING THESE DECISIONS ARE DESIRED.

D.G. MCINERNEY

BRIG GEN USMC

DIRECTOR USMC AVIATION

Doctor Kister looked at Weston. «Very interesting,» he said.

Weston went into the envelope again and came out with a long form, which he handed to Kister. «That's a flight physical,» Weston said.

«Would you believe I've seen one before?» Kister asked, and read it carefully. Then he looked at Weston. «How'd you get this?»

«I went to the Navy Hospital in Pearl Harbor. They examined me for several hours and decided I could see lightning and hear thunder well enough to be allowed to fly.»

«According to this, aside from being a few pounds underweight, you're in excellent health.»

«As, indeed, I am,» Weston said. «So what the hell am I doing in a psycho ward?»

«Interesting question,» Kister said. «This is dated five weeks ago. Have you been flying?»

«Yes, I have. And four hours after I passed my rating check ride in a Corsair, I got orders to come here.»

«Anybody who has been a prisoner of war and escapes gets sent here,» Kister said, «to determine what kind of shape he's in. You were a POW, right?»

«No.»

«Your paperwork,» Kister said, tapping the manila folder he had brought with him, «says you escaped from the Philippines.»

«I was

ordered out

of the Philippines. You asked if I had been a POW.»

«What were you doing in the Philippines?»

«Would you believe it if I told you I was G-2 of U.S. forces in the Philippines?»

Kister examined him carefully and, Weston thought, with disbelief.

«With overwhelming immodesty,» Weston said, «I have a Silver Star to prove it. It was personally pinned to my breast by General Douglas MacArthur.»

Kister opened Weston's records jacket and went through it carefully. «Your Silver Star somehow didn't get into your records,» Kister said. «And you're not wearing it.»

Weston reached into his manila envelope again, came out with a four-by-five-inch glossy photograph, and handed it to Dr. Kister. «I have six more copies of that, eight-by-tens, in my luggage, wherever the hell my luggage might be.»

Kister examined the photograph. It showed the Supreme Commander, South West Pacific Ocean Areas, in the act of pinning the Silver Star to Weston's tunic. Weston was wearing a full beard.

«I'll be damned,» Kister said. «Nice beard.»

«Thank you,» Weston said.

«Who's the Marine general?» Kister asked.

«His name is Pickering.»

«Maybe he's the guy who can straighten this out,» Dr. Kister said. «I don't think I'd have much luck getting General MacArthur on the telephone.»

Weston chuckled.

«What I don't understand is how you went back to flying,» Kister said. «You want to tell me about that?»

«I got as far as Hawaii when I was given the choice of a thirty-day leave in the States or getting checked out in the Corsair,» Weston said. «I chose the Corsair.»

«You didn't want to come home on leave? Why?»

«I don't have much of a family here,» Weston said. «Weighed in the balance, an aunt I hardly know and haven't seen in years came up short when the alternative was getting back to flying fighters.»

«And then, it would seem reasonable to assume, the bureaucracy caught up with you, and you're back in the Escaped POW Pipeline.»

«So it would seem,» Weston said. «If I told you I'm mightily pissed off, would that certify me as a loony?»

«No. But getting off on the wrong foot with Lieutenant Hardison does.»

Weston smiled.

«So now you're going to call in the corpsmen with the straitjacket?»

«No. It's too late to do anything about this today. So what I suggest is that we get you a bed for the night. Could I give you an off-the-ward pass to visit the O Club for dinner and a couple of drinks with reasonable assurance that you would behave yourself?»

«In other words, you want my word as an officer and a gentleman that if I encounter Lieutenant Hardison, I will not drag her off into the bushes and ravish her?»

«Her or any other female you encounter, including those who imply they would like to be dragged into the bushes.»

«I so solemnly swear,» Weston said, and held up his right hand with the three center fingers extended. «Boy Scout's Honor.»

«I'll take the chance,» Dr. Kister said. «One thing. Go easy on the booze. I'm going to schedule you for a physical first thing in the morning, and I don't want your blood test coming back reading 'mostly alcohol.' «

«Why another physical?»

«It will allow the physicians, nurses, and Corpsmen involved to feel they are making a contribution to the war effort, okay? And as sure as Christ made little apples, when we start looking into this, the first question somebody is going to ask is, 'How do we know that Hawaiian physical isn't somebody else's?' «

«Okay. Easy on the booze,» Weston said. «Thank you, Doctor.»

«Welcome home, Captain Weston,» Dr. Kister said, and offered Weston his hand.

^{note 17}

«I will be

damned

,» Lieutenant (j.g.) Janice Hardison, NNC, exclaimed as she was driving her 1937 Ford Business Coupe northward on South Broad Street approximately one hour later. The insufferably arrogant patient who had given her all the trouble earlier, and who should by now be mildly sedated, dressed in a bathrobe, and either asleep in his bed or listening to the radio in the dayroom of Ward Five-B, was instead marching purposefully down the sidewalk six blocks from the hospital compound in full uniform. He was carrying a brown paper bag.

She made the next left turn and headed back to the hospital. She would tell the Shore Patrolman on duty at the gate. A Shore Patrol detail would be instantly dispatched, and he would be returned to the hospital, in handcuffs if necessary.

Janice had a change of heart before she reached the hospital. She admitted to herself that she was being controlled by her personal emotions and was therefore responding to the situation in a nonprofessional manner.

Marines were, almost by definition, arrogant. But in the arrogance department this one stood head and shoulders over any other Marine she had ever met. She could not recall anyone ever in her entire life having made her so angry in so short a time as had this blond-haired, blue-eyed gyrene sonofabitch. And while it probably would be good for his character, long term, to be subjected to the humiliation of being hauled back to the hospital in handcuffs, she had, as a practitioner of the healing arts, to consider the short term.

God only knew what horrors he had experienced in a POW camp. The proof of that seemed to be that he denied having been a POW. The memories were simply too horrible for him to accept. That veneer of arrogance was paper-thin, concealing all the effects of severe psychological trauma. She could not, as a nurse, add humiliation to the other psychological burdens he was already carrying.

She turned the Ford coupe around and turned onto South Broad Street again.

Before she saw him, she had just about convinced herself that she would not be able to find him.

She pulled to the curb, leaned across the seat, and opened the door. «Weston!» she called.

He looked at her and smiled, pretending to be really glad to see her.

«I'll be damned,» he said. «Is this how you spend your off-duty hours, cruising the streets and picking up Marines?»

«Please get in the car, Captain,» Janice said.

He walked to the car and squatted on the sidewalk so that their faces were on a level.

«Does this mean you've changed your mind and we're on for dinner?»

«Please get in the car,» she said. «I'll take you back to the hospital. With a little luck, the Shore Patrol won't ask for your pass, and we will just forget this ever happened.»

«Actually, I have other plans,» he said. «Made, of course, after you so cruelly rejected me. Her name is Caroline, and she is at this moment anxiously awaiting my appearance.»