"You've seen the FBI reports?" Wesley asked. "Of course not," Rickabee said, dryly. "FBI reports are confidential and never shown to outsiders. What agencies requesting an investigation get is a synopsis of what the FBI thinks it found out."
He clearly meant, Wesley decided, that he had indeed seen the FBI reports on Lieutenant Colonel Evans Carlson, USMCR.
"What's your personal opinion of him?" Wesley said.
"I think he's a good Marine gone off the deep end," Rickabee said. "That he's a zealot, quite eccentric, perhaps even unbalanced. He might have gotten Roosevelt to sign this, but the Major General Commandant will know he was behind it."
Wesley grunted his agreement.
"But on the other hand," Rickabee said after taking a sip of his drink, "they said very much the same things about Jesus Christ, you will recall. 'What's happened to that nice Nazarene carpenter? Why is he attacking the established order?'"
"I don't think that's funny, Colonel," Wesley said, coldly.
"It wasn't intended to be, Colonel. There is even the parallel between Christ being able to talk to his heavenly, all-powerful father…"
What could have been a faint smile crossed Wesley's lips. "And what about Roosevelt… the son, I mean?" he asked.
"Everything I know about him is positive. He's smarter than hell, hard working, everything a good reserve officer should be. After seeing this, I would suggest that he's fallen in with evil companions… an evil companion." "You know him, personally?"
Rickabee nodded. "Not well. Great big guy. Getting bald. Has to wear glasses. Nice guy, from the little I know him. What I would like to know is why they gave Carlson his commission back."
"Isn't that obvious, Colonel?" Colonel Wesley replied, sarcastically. "He came highly recommended. He has the Navy Cross. And, as they say, 'friends in high places.'"
"A little backbone then would have kept this from happening," Rickabee said, and raised the sheets of paper.
"He made that decision," Wesley said.
"That was the big mistake," Rickabee said, undaunted.
"You say your mind, Colonel, don't you?" Colonel Wesley said, coldly.
"That's what I'm paid for," Rickabee said. "I would prefer to be at Camp Elliott myself. Believe it or not, I'm qualified to command an infantry battalion."
"Obviously, the Corps feels that what you're doing now is of greater importance," Colonel Wesley said.
"What does the Corps want me to do about this?" Rickabee asked, holding up the sheaf of paper again. "How does my run-him-over-with-a-truck suggestion sound?"
"As if you don't understand the seriousness of the problem," Wesley said. "Otherwise you wouldn't be joking."
"You seem to be very sure that I was joking," Rickabee said.
Colonel Thomas C. Wesley was furious with himself when he realized that he did not in fact know for sure that Rickabee was being flip. He met Rickabee's eyes for a long moment, and learned nothing.
"What I was hoping-" he said, finally.
"Was that I could give you proof positive," Rickabee interrupted him, "proof that He could take to at least Frank Knox, and/or to the White House, that Evans Carlson is in fact a Communist and/or certifiably out of his mind. I can't do that, Colonel. I can't even manufacture any evidence to that effect. It wouldn't stand up in the light."
"But you do see the problem," Wesley said.
"Would you like to hear how I see it?" Rickabee asked.
"Of course," Wesley said, impatiently.
"The Corps is in a no-win situation," Rickabee said. "When this document reaches His desk, He's going to have to approve it, at least on a trial basis. Carlson's Eighth Communist Route Army, also known as the Marine Commandos or Rangers or whatever, will have to be employed. That will result in one of two things: They will get wiped out on the beach of some Pacific island, and He will find Himself explaining why He approved such a nutty idea, resulting in such a terrible waste of young American life. Or, Carlson's private army will do what Carlson says it will do, which, by the way, is very likely to happen. Carlson has proved that he's a skilled, courageous officer. If Carlson succeeds-and to repeat, he damned well may-the Commandant will find himself turning the Corps into the U.S. Commandos, with at least full Colonel Carlson-and possibly General Carlson-at his side while the rules are written."
"It could mean the end of the Corps," Wesley said.
"Yes, it could," Rickabee said. "After the war, when there was no need for Commandos, or for more than a few of them, the Marine Corps could become an Army regiment. A lot of. people would like to see that happen."
"If you were charged with stopping this, Rickabee," Colonel Wesley asked, "how would you go about it?"
"Is that what this little chat is all about, Colonel? He sent you here to order me to stop it?"
"I said nothing of the kind," Wesley said quickly. "Just answer the question, please."
"I would look for proof positive that Carlson is crazy or a Communist, or both," Rickabee said. "That's the only chance I see to scuttle this."
"And, how would you do that?"
"I would put someone close to him, telling him what to look for, and to make sure he had witnesses… unimpeachable witnesses."
"A spy, you mean."
"An undercover operative," Rickabee said.
"Have you such a man available?" Wesley asked.
"Not off the top of my head," Rickabee said, then changed his mind. "I might. He's a bright young shavetail-"
Wesley interrupted him. "I don't want to know the details," he said. "Not yet."
"Then where are we?" Rickabee said.
"I want you to think this through," Wesley said. "Come up with a plan, including the name of the man you intend to employ, and a synopsis of his background. When you have that, as soon as you have it, call me."
"Yes, sir," Rickabee said. He motioned to someone standing in Peacock Alley to come to the table.
"What are you doing?" Colonel Wesley asked, confused.
A good- looking young man in a camel's hair sports coat and gray flannel trousers came to the table.
"Colonel Wesley, Lieutenant Frame," Rickabee said.
"How do you do, sir?" Lieutenant Frame asked politely.
"Lieutenant," Colonel Wesley said.
"Bill, take this to the office and have it photographed," Rickabee ordered, handing Frame the sheaf of carbon copies. "Stick around until you have the negatives, then bring this back here. I have just accepted Colonel Wesley's kind invitation to lunch, and we'll be in the dining room."
"Aye, aye, sir," Lieutenant Frame said. He looked at Colonel Wesley, said, "It was a pleasure to meet you, sir," and then walked down Peacock Alley toward Fourteenth Street.
"And what's his reason for being in mufti?" Colonel Wesley asked. He was annoyed that Rickabee had, without asking, turned the carbon of Captain James Roosevelt's proposal for Marine Commandos over to Frame to be photographed.
"He'd look a little strange following a civilian around in uniform, don't you think, Colonel?" Rickabee replied, smiling.
"And that's necessary? His following you around?"
"That was the general's idea, Colonel," Rickabee said, and stood up. "Shall we have our lunch? He won't be long, and I've got a busy afternoon."
From Colonel Wesley's silence during lunch, Lieutenant Colonel Rickabee decided that Wesley was displeased with him. He had probably been a little too flip for the colonel, failed to display the proper respect for a senior member of the Palace Guard. But there was nothing that could be done about that now.
He was wrong. When Colonel Wesley returned to Headquarters, USMC, and to the office of Major General Lesterby, he told Lesterby that Rickabee might just be the answer to "the Carlson problem."
"He had a specific suggestion?"
"Yes, sir, that he arrange to have Carlson run over with a truck."
"You think he was serious?"
"Sir, I don't know."
"It may come down to that, Tom."
(Three)