"Just before the Gregory was hit, her captain told me what a fine airplane the F4F is. It's probably the last thing he ever said; he was dead a minute later. He was trying to do what you're trying to do, make the Daddy feel a little better. It didn't work then and it's not working now. But I appreciate the thought."
"Goddamn it, Flem, I'm calling it like I see it."
"So am I, goddamn it, and I'm calling it how I see it, not how I would like it to be."
"Well, I think you're wrong," Pickering shrugged and took another swallow of the orange juice and gin, "Have I still got some uniforms here?"
"No, I gave them to the Salvation Army. Of course you do."
"How about having the house tailor sent up here? I need to have the sleeves cut out of some shirts."
"Sure."
"I mean now, Richmond."
"You're leaving? You just got here."
"I want to go see Frank. To do that, I'll need something more presentable than what I walked in here wearing."
"Seeing Frank can wait until tomorrow. For that matter, I'll call him and ask him to come here."
"Call downstairs for the tailor. Do it my way."
"Yes, Sir, Captain," Fowler said. He walked to a table and started to pick up the telephone. Instead he picked up a copy of The Washington Star and carried it back to Pickering.
"Here's the paper," he said, unfolding it for him and laying it in his lap.
There were two major headlines:
BATTLE RAGES ON GUADALCANAL WILLKIE HEADS OVERSEAS
A photo of a Consolidated B-24 four-engine bomber converted to a long-range transport was over the caption,
Republican Party head Wendell Willkie will travel in this Army Air Corps transport on his around-the-world trip as personal representative of President Franklin D. Roosevelt. He will visit England, North Africa, China and the Soviet Union.
"There are not enough bombers to send to the Pacific," Pickering said bitterly. "But there are enough to give one to a goddamn politician to go all over and get in the goddamned way." Fowler ignored him.
"Are you hungry, Fleming? Have you eaten?"
"No, and no. But I suppose I'd better have something. How about having them send up steak and eggs?"
Fowler nodded picked up the telephone. He called the concierge and asked him to send up the tailor, and then called room service and ordered steak and eggs for Pickering. After a moment's indecision he added, "And send two pitchers of orange juice, too, please." He walked back to Pickering, thinking he could turn the pages of the Star for him. Pickering had fallen asleep. His head sagged forward onto his chest. His face was still gray.
"Christ, Flem," Fowler said softly. He walked into the bedroom and came back with a light blanket, which he draped over him, and then he went to the air conditioner and directed its flow away from Pickering.
Then he walked to his own bedroom, in a far corner of the apartment, and closed the door. He took a small address book from the bedside table, found the number he was looking for, d picked up the telephone.
"Office of the Secretary of the Navy, Chief Daniels speaking."
"This is Senator Fowler. May I speak to Mr. Knox, please?"
"One moment, please, Senator. I'll see if he's available."
"Richmond?"
"He's here, Frank."
"Let me speak with him."
"He's asleep. More accurately, he passed out in an armchair in my sitting room."
"How is he?"
"He looks like hell."
"Shall I send a doctor over there?"
"I don't think that's quite necessary. And there's one in the hotel if it should be."
"Do you have any idea what this is all about? What's he up to?"
"Two things. Apparently, you told him you would discuss his getting out of the Navy when he got out of the hospital. He says he is now out of the hospital."
"I'd hoped he would forget that."
"He says he wants to go back to running Pacific and Far East Shipping so that he can make a bona fide contribution to the war effort."
"I wonder what he thinks he's been doing so far?" Secretary Knox asked, and then went on, without waiting for a reply.
"There are a number of reasons that's not possible. I suppose I should have told him that when I saw him. But he was a sick man..."
"He's still a sick man. I told him, for what it's worth, that I didn't think you'd let him out."
"It's now out of my hands, if you take my meaning." Fowler took his meaning. There was only one man in Washington who could override Frank Knox's decisions as Secretary of the Navy. He was Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
"You told him?"
"He's being Machiavellian again. He has his own plans for Pickering."
Fowler waited for Knox to elaborate. He did not.
"He is also very anxious to see his son," Fowler said. "His idea is to see you, get out of the Navy, and then go to Florida."
"I offered to have the boy flown to San Diego!"
"I think he wants to see him alone. He's managed to convince himself that the boy will not come through the war."
"He's not the only father who feels that way. You heard what our mutual friend's son has been up to?" That was an unmistakable reference to James Roosevelt, a Marine Corps Captain. Captain Roosevelt had recently participated in the raid on Makin Island.
The Marine Corps had somewhat reluctantly formed the 1st and 2nd Raider Battalions. They were the President's answer to the British Commandos. The 1st was one of the units participating in the Guadalcanal operation. At about the same time, the son of the President of the United States was paddling ashore from a submarine with elements of the 2nd Raiders to attack Japanese forces on Makin Island.
"I also heard the Germans have taken Stalin's son prisoner.
Do you think our mutual friend-make that `acquaintance' has considered the ramifications of that?"
"I have brought it to his attention," Knox said, then went on:
"Technically, I suppose you know, Fleming Pickering is AWOL."
"I don't think you could make the charge stick. And he has a lot of friends in high places."
"And doesn't he know it?" Knox said, and then went on, again without waiting for a response: "I'm on my way to the White House. I'll get back to you, Richmond. Keep him there.
I don't care how, keep him there."
"I'll do what I can," Fowler said, and hung up.
[One]
HEADQUARTERS,
2ND RAIDER BATTALION
CAMP CATLIN, TERRITORY OF HAWAII
31 AUGUST 1942
When Gunnery Sergeant Ernest W. Zimmerman, USMC, Company A, 2nd Raider Battalion, was summoned to battalion headquarters, he suspected it had something to do with Sergeant Thomas Michael McCoy, USMCR.
Zimmerman was stocky, round-faced and muscular. And he'd been in The Corps almost exactly seven years, having enlisted as soon as possible after his seventeenth birthday. He'd celebrated his twenty-fourth birthday a week before aboard the submarine USS Nautilus on the way home to Pearl Harbor from the raid on Makin Island. At the time he was nursing a minor, though painful, mortar shrapnel wound in his left buttock.
Sergeant McCoy-four inches taller and forty-two pounds heavier than Gunny Zimmerman-had celebrated his twentyfirst birthday the previous January in San Diego, California.