"Tomorrow morning be all right?" Pickering replied.
Now it was Knox’s turn to chuckle.
"Things don’t move quite that quickly, even for the Secretary of the Navy," he said. "Could you call Captain Haughton back in here, please?"
Pickering picked up one of the telephones.
"Would you ask Captain Haughton to come in here, please, Mrs. Florian?"
The slim Navy officer, his eyes wary, appeared a moment later.
"David, Mr. Pickering has kindly offered me a case of this excellent Scotch. Would you see that it gets on the plane?"
"Yes, of course, Mr. Secretary."
"And before we get on the plane, I want you to find out who handles officer procurement out here. Then call them and tell them I want a suitable officer assigned to walk Mr.- Captain- Pickering through the processing. Make it clear to them that this is important to me. As soon as we can get him sworn in, Captain Pickering will be joining my staff."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Haughton said. He looked at Pickering, briefly but intently. He was obviously surprised at what he had just heard.
"And stay on top of it when we get back to Washington," Knox ordered. "I don’t want the process delayed by bureaucratic niceties. Tell them they are to assume that if any waivers are required, I will approve them. And while I’m thinking about it, tell the Office of Naval Intelligence that while we’ll go through the normal security-clearance process with Captain Pickering, I have-based on my own knowledge of Captain Pickering, and on the unqualified recommendation of Senator Fowler-already granted him an interim top-secret clearance. Have that typed up. Make it official."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
Knox turned to Pickering. "That should get the ball rolling. Haughton will be in touch. Thank you, Pickering. Not only for the Scotch. And now I have to get out of here. They’re waiting for me at Alameda."
"May I send someone for the Scotch, Captain Pickering?" Haughton asked.
"It won’t take a minute to get it. You can take it with you."
"Whatever you say. I’ll get the driver."
"It doesn’t weigh all that much," Pickering said, without thinking. "I’ll get ii."
Haughton gave him a quick, dirty look.
Well, here you go, Fleming Pickering, not five minutes into your naval career, and you’re already pissing people off.
"Let’s get it now," Knox said. "Before he has a chance to change his mind."
Pickering led them to the storeroom on the ground floor that held the greater part of the whiskey removed from the sold Pacific passenger liners. He pulled a case of Old Grouse off a stack. When he started to carry it out, he saw that Haughton was uncomfortable, visibly unable to make up his mind whether he should volunteer to carry the case of whiskey himself-or to insist on it.
A sailor who had been leaning against the front fender of a 1941 Navy gray Chrysler quickly stood erect when he saw them coming out of the building. He opened the rear door, then quickly moved to take the case of whiskey from Pickering.
At leasthe knows what he’s doing, Pickering thought.
Knox nodded to Pickering and got in the car. Haughton, at first hesitantly, and then enthusiastically, offered his hand to Pickering.
"Welcome aboard, Captain," he said.
"Thank you," Pickering said. He did not like the feel of Haughton’s hand.
He watched the Chrysler move down Nob Hill, and then went back to his office.
He made himself another drink, and drank it looking out his window at San Francisco bay. Then he looked for a moment at his father’s picture. He wondered what the Old Man would have said: Hooray for you for enlisting! or, You damned fool! Then he sat on the edge of his desk and called his home.
"Hi!" he said, when Patricia’s cheerful voice came on the line.
"You’ve heard, haven’t you?" Patricia Pickering said.
"What?" he replied, only afterwards remembering that she was talking about the overdue Endeavor, Volition, and Venture. They had, shaming him, slipped from his immediate attention.
"What’s on your mind, Flem?" Patricia asked.
"Frank Knox, the Secretary of the Navy, was just in to see me."
"About the ships? Oh God, that sounds ominous!"
"He wants me to go into the Navy," Pickering said.
There was a pause before Patricia replied, "If you had turned him down, you would have said ‘wanted.’"
"Yes, that’s right."
He heard her inhale deeply; it was a moment before she spoke.
"When do you go? What are you going to do?"
"Soon. Work for him. He’s arranging for me to be commissioned as a captain."
"Oh, goddamn him!"
"I suppose I should have discussed this with you," Pickering said.
"Why should you start now, after all these years?" It was a failed attempt at lightness; a genuine bitterness came through.
"I’m sorry, Pat," he. said, meaning it.
"My father would say, ‘Never be sorry for doing something you want to do.’ And you do want to go, Flem, don’t you?"
"Yes. I suppose I do."
"Don’t come home now. I’d say things I would later regret."
"OK."
"Give me an hour. Make it an hour and a half. Then come."
He heard the click as she hung up.
(Three)
Building "F"
Anacostia Naval Air Station
Washington, D.C.
30 January 1942
First Lieutenant Charles E. Orfutt, aide-de-camp to Brigadier General D. G. Mclnerney, stepped inside Mclnerney’s office, closed the door quietly behind him, and waited until the General raised his eyes from the paperwork on his desk.
"Sergeant Galloway is outside, Sir."
That the news did not please General Mclnerney was evident on his face. He shrugged, exhaled audibly, and said, "Give me two minutes, Charlie, and then send him in."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Orfutt said, and quietly left the office.
Precisely two minutes later, there was a polite knock at Mclnerney’s door.
"Come!"
Technical Sergeant Charles M. Galloway, USMC, in greens, marched into the office, stopped precisely eighteen inches from Mclnerney’s desk, and came to attention. Then, gazing twelve inches over Mclnerney’s head, he said, "Technical Sergeant Galloway reporting to the General as ordered, Sir."
General Mclnerney pushed himself backward in his chair, locked his fingers together, and stared at Galloway for a full thirty seconds before he spoke.
"Look at me," he said.
Oh, shit. Here it comes,Charley Galloway thought. He dropped his eyes to meet Mclnerney’s.
"Do you have any idea how much goddamned trouble you’ve caused?"
"Yes, Sir. I think so."
"You don’t look especially penitent, Sergeant."
"Sir, I’m sorry about the trouble I caused."
"But you think it was really caused by a bunch of chickenshit swabbies, and in your heart of hearts you don’t think you did anything wrong, do you?"
The old bastard can read my mind.
Galloway’s face went pale, but he didn’t reply.
"You’re thinking that you were almost a Marine Corps legend, is that it? That you’d be remembered as the guy who fixed up a shot-up fighter with his own hands, flew it without orders onto the Saratoga, and then on to Wake, and died gloriously in a battle that will live forever in the memory of man?"