"No, sir."
"If he doesn't pick you, we'll worry about that then."
"Captain, can I talk to you man to man?"
"Of course not, said the officer to the officer who saved his life," Sessions said. "What's on your mind, Ken?"
"I don't like this job," McCoy said. "I feel like a real slimy sonofabitch, spying on Colonel Carlson. I like him. He's a good officer, and I think the commandos are a good idea."
"Raiders," Sessions corrected him automatically, and then fell silent.
"I went too far, huh?" McCoy said, after a long moment.
"No, no," Sessions said. "I was trying to frame my reply. I think I know how you feel, Ken. The only thing I can really say is that it has to be done, and you're the fellow to do it. I don't think anyone is going to be happy if you find out he is either unbalanced or a Communist."
"I do. I've had a chance to think about this a lot. It looks to me that a lot of the brass want to stick it to Carlson because he's got a direct line to the President."
"There's some of that, sure," Sessions said. "But I also think that if he actually goes off the deep end, he could do the Corps a lot of damage. More damage, Ken, than I think you can fully appreciate."
"Aye, aye, sir," McCoy said.
"Excuse me, Ken?" Sessions asked.
"That means I understand the order and will carry it out," McCoy said. "Didn't you ever hear that before, Captain, sir?"
"Don't be a wiseass, you're only a second lieutenant," Sessions said, and then his voice grew serious. "For what it's worth, Ken, I think what you're doing has to be done."
"I knew that," McCoy said. "It's the main reason I'm doing it."
"I just had another patriotic, flag-waving, hurrah-for-the-Corps thought," Sessions said. "You want to hear it?"
"Sure."
"When they get both of the Raider battalions up to strength and trained, Ken, I don't think there will be fifty people in them, officer or enlisted, who have ever heard the sound of a shot fired in anger. Even though nobody will know about it, with your doctored service record, you'll be one of the most experienced officers around. Certainly the most experienced lieutenant. The only test that counts for an officer is how he behaves when people are shooting at him. And you've passed that test twice, Killer, and with flying colors."
"Shit," McCoy said.
"No shit, Ken. I'm a living witness to how well you conduct yourself under stress. If you do nothing else with the Raiders, you'll probably be able to keep some of the kids alive."
Ernie had moved on the bed, so that she could rest her head on McCoy's shoulder while she listened to the conversation. Now she raised her head so that she could see Ken's eyes.
He shrugged his shoulders, as if embarrassed by what Captain Sessions had said.
"You said you had a couple of things to tell me," McCoy said.
"Oh, yeah. I'm glad you reminded me. One of them was about Zimmerman."
"He doesn't know what I'm doing out here, does he?"
"No, and don't tell him," Sessions said. "Let him think it's because you both speak Chinese, or because Carlson likes China Marines."
"Yes, sir," McCoy said. "What else?"
"You didn't happen to see Captain Banning, did you?"
"Captain Banning? Our Captain Banning?"
"Banning was evacuated from Corregidor by submarine. He passed through Diego today on his way here. There was a chance he might have bumped into you. I had to ask. The worst possible case would have been for him to greet you like a long-lost brother within Carlson's hearing. Even worse, to have him thank you for saving his life. That would have blown your new service record out of the water, and told Carlson that he's being watched."
"I didn't see him," McCoy said. "What's going to happen to him?"
"Well, for one thing, he's going to be told that he never heard of you in his life, and aside from that, I can't tell you."
"Can you give him my regards?"
"Sure, Ken," Sessions said.
"I guess that's about it," McCoy said.
"How's your love life, Ken?" Sessions asked.
"None of your business."
"I was just going to say to give her my regards."
McCoy didn't reply.
"You better check in every day from now on, either with me or Colonel Rickabee."
"Aye, aye, sir."
McCoy sat up, taking Ernie with him, and put the phone back in its cradle on the bulkhead behind him.
"He knows about us?" Ernie asked. McCoy nodded. "What did you tell him?"
McCoy smiled. "That you're the best piece of ass I ever had in my life," he said, and then put his arms up to defend himself from the blows he was sure would follow.
They did not. Ernie waited for him to put his arms down, and then said, "Well, I'm glad you told him the truth."
Then she got out of the bed and went back to the main cabin.
McCoy put on a pair of khaki trousers and a T-shirt, then went out and made himself another drink.
"I understand," Lieutenant Marty Burnes said, "that you're in a heavy-weapons company."
"That's right," McCoy said. "What do they have you doing?"
"At the moment I'm assigned to S-Three," Burnes said.
"At the moment?" McCoy asked.
"You've heard about the Raiders?" Burnes asked.
"A little," McCoy replied. He was aware that Ernie had picked up on the conversation and was watching them.
"Well, I've applied, and I think I'm going to be accepted," Burnes said. "I talked to Captain Roosevelt-the President's son?-and he said I would probably qualify."
"It's a very good way to get your ass blown away," McCoy said.
"Ken!" Ernie said.
"Sorry," McCoy said. "I shouldn't have said that."
Chapter Thirteen
{One)
Saufley Field
Pensacola Navy Air Station 20 February 1942
There was no doubt in the mind of Lieutenant Junior Grade Allen W. Minter, USNR, that Second Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, had a good deal more time in aircraft cockpits than his record showed; or, off the record, than he was willing to admit.
That made Pickering a liar. Not only a liar, but a good liar. Of course it was possible to put that more kindly, to say that he was a good role player. One could possibly maintain-or at least imagine-that Pickering was playing the role of someone who knew nothing about flying or aircraft, but who was eager to learn, and was a very quick learner.
From the moment Minter first took him out to the flight line, Pickering asked both the natural and the dumb questions Minter expected of a student whose flight records had "NONE" written in the "PREVIOUS FLYING EXPERIENCE" block. And he appeared to listen with rapt attention-as if he was hearing it all for the first time-while Minter pointed out the parts of the N3N Yellow Peril and explained their function.
And Minter was perfectly willing to accept that Pickering was learning for the first time that the thing that sat upright at the back of the Yellow Peril was the vertical stabilizer, and that the back part of it moved when the rudder pedals were pressed; that in the sea of air it served the same function that the rudder of a boat served in the water.
And Pickering seemed absolutely fascinated to learn that while the altimeter did indeed indicate the height of the aircraft above sea level, it did so seven seconds late. In other words, because it took some time for the change in air pressure to work upon the membrane of the barometric altimeter, the altimeter reported what the altitude had been seven seconds ago, not what it was at the moment.
It was only when he took Pickering up for the first time that Minter began to smell a rat.
Instructor pilots were given some latitude in teaching their students. Lieutenant Minter did not believe the way to turn an eager young man into a pilot was to take him up and scare the shit out of him, and/or make him sick to his stomach.
He believed that it was best to start out very simply, to show the student that a very slight rearward pressure on the stick would cause the nose of the Yellow Peril to rise, and that a very slight downward pressure would put the Yellow Peril in a nose-down attitude.