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.»