W.E.B. Griffin - THE CORPS VI - CLOSE COMBAT

"I think the Senator's going with you, General," the doorman said, with a smile.

At that moment, Senator Richardson K. Fowler (R., Cal.), a tall, silver-haired, regal-looking sixty-two-year-old, appeared at the car and slipped into the passenger seat. He had been waiting for the Buick to appear, standing just inside the lobby, looking out through the plate glass next to the bellboy-attended revolving door.

"You made good time, Flem," he said.

The doorman closed the door after him.

"Let's have it," Pickering replied curtly.

"Let's have what?"

"You said, quote, 'as soon as possible.' "

"We're having lunch with the President and Frank Knox," Fowler said. "And, I think, Admiral Leahy."

"That's all?" Pickering asked suspiciously.

"Most people in this town would be all aflutter at the prospect of a private luncheon with the President, his Chief of Staff, and the Secretary of the Navy," Fowler began, and then saw something in Pickering's eyes. "What did you think it was, Flem?"

"You know damned well what I thought it was," Pickering said.

"Pick's going to be all right, Flem," Fowler said gently. "He's a Pickering. Pickerings walk through raindrops."

The last time General Pickering heard, his only son, Second Lieutenant Malcolm S. "Pick" Pickering, USMCR, was flying an F4F4 Wildcat off Henderson Field on Guadalcanal.

"Get out," Pickering said. "Open the door."

"We're due at the White House in twenty minutes," Fowler said, looking at his watch.

"That's plenty of time," Pickering said. "It's right across the street. All I want is a quick drink." He met Fowler's eyes, and confessed, "I've been frightened sick ever since you called. You sonofabitch. You should have told me that it was lunch with Roosevelt."

"I'm sorry, Flem," Fowler said, genuinely contrite.

Fowler opened his door, and Pickering slid across the seat to follow him.

"Don't bury it," Pickering said to the doorman, who hurried back to the car. "We'll be out in a minute."

The doorman walked around the front of the Buick, got in, and drove it fifteen yards. He parked it by a sign proclaiming, NO PARKING AT ANY TIME, then walked back to his post.

General Pickering was always well treated by the staff of the Foster Lafayette. For one thing, he occupied a five-room suite on the sixth floor, adjacent to Senator Fowler's somewhat larger suite. More important, Pickering's wife, Patricia, was the only child of Andrew Foster, the owner of the Foster Lafayette and forty-one other Foster hotels.

Inside the lobby, Fowler turned to Pickering and asked, "You want to go upstairs?"

In reply, Pickering pointed toward the door of the Oak Grill. There a line of people waited behind the maitre d'hotel's lectern and a velvet rope for their turn to enter the smaller and more exclusive of the Lafayette's two restaurants.

Fowler shrugged and followed Pickering.

The maitre d'hotel saw them coming. Smiling as he unhooked the velvet rope, he greeted them:

"General, Senator, your table is ready."

That was not the unvarnished truth. The Oak Grill customarily placed brass RESERVED signs on a few tables more than were actually reserved. Such tables were required for those people who came without reservations and were too important to stand in line. Before General Pickering had taken up residence in the Lafayette, Senator Fowler's name had headed the list of those who got tables before anyone else, reservation or no. Now Fleming Pickering's name was at the top.

A waiter appeared before Pickering and Fowler had time to slide onto the leather-cushioned banquette seats.

"Luncheon, gentlemen?"

"No, thank you," Pickering said. "What we need desperately is a quick drink."

"Don't bring the bottle," Senator Fowler said.

The management of the Oak Grill was aware that when General Pickering asked for a drink, he was actually requesting a glass, a bowl of ice, a pitcher of water, and a bottle of Famous Grouse scotch. Two of these, from the General's private stock, were kept out of sight under the bar.

The waiter looked to Pickering for guidance.

"Just the drinks, please," Pickering ordered. When the waiter was gone he added, "I really hadn't planned to get plastered."

"There are those, you know, who would be reluctant to show up across the street reeking of booze."

"You don't say?"

"And, you know, most general officers ride in the backseat, beside their aides, while their sergeant drives."

"My aide and my sergeant have more important things to do," Pickering said, and then added, "Speaking of which..."

He took a thin sheet of paper from the left bellows pocket of his tunic and handed it to Fowler.

=SECRET=

NOT LOGGED

ONE COPY ONLY

DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN

FOLLOWING IS DECRYPTION OF MSG 234707 RECEIVED 091142 1105 GREENWICH

FROM SUPREME COMMANDER SWPOA

091142 1325 GREENWICH VIA PEARL HARBOR

FOR SECNAV WASHINGTON DC

EYES ONLY BRIG GEN FLEMING PICKERING USMCR

OFFICE MANAGEMENT ANALYSIS HQ USMC

GREYHOUND RETURNED SAFELY TO KENNEL XXX PUPS A LITTLE WORSE FOR WEAR BUT HEALTHY XXX

BEST PERSONAL REGARDS FROM ALL HANDS XXX SIGNATURE BANNING

=SECRET=

Senator Fowler read it and handed it back to Pickering.

"Aside from recognizing the somewhat grandiose title Douglas MacArthur has given himself, I haven't the foggiest idea what I just read," he said. "But are you supposed to carry something marked 'Secret' around in your pocket so casually?"

Pickering looked at him and smiled.

"Watch this," he said.

He crumpled the sheet of paper and put it in the ashtray. Then he took a gold Dunhill lighter from his pocket, got it working, and touched the flame to the crumpled paper. There was a flash of light, and the paper disappeared in a small cloud of white smoke.

"Christ!" Fowler said, surprised.

Heads elsewhere in the Oak Grill turned, startled by the light.

"They treat it chemically somehow," Pickering said, pleased. "The coal on a cigarette will set it off. You don't need a flame."

"How clever," Fowler said drolly as the waiter delivered the drinks. He picked up his and raised it. "To Pick, Flem. May God protect him."

Pickering met his eyes and then touched glasses.

"That came in a moment before you called," he said. "We put a couple of Marines-precisely, I put a couple of Marines-onto an island called Buka, not far from the Japanese base at Rabaul. The Australians left people behind when the Japanese occupied it-"

"You put somebody onto a Japanese-occupied island?" Fowler interrupted.

Pickering nodded. "They call these people Coastwatchers. They have radios, and provide our people with early warning of Japanese movement, air and ship. This fellow's radio went out, so we sent him a new one, a Hallicrafters-"

" 'You' or 'we,' which?" Fowler interrupted again.

"Me," Pickering said. "I asked a couple of Marines to volunteer to parachute onto Buka with a new radio. Then I found out that the Australians were infected with the British notion that no sacrifice is too great for King and Country..."

"Meaning what?"

"That they were going to leave my Marines there until they were either killed by the Japanese or died of disease or starvation. Goddamn them!"

"So you got them out? The greyhound and the pups? That's what they meant?"

Pickering nodded. "We replaced them. Took the first Marines out and sent some others in. I was worried about it; it was a hairy operation. And the moment after the courier handed me Banning's message and I could exhale, I got your 'come as soon as possible' message. I thought that Pick... I thought the other shoe had dropped. I stuffed that in my pocket without thinking."

"Pick, like his old man, will walk between raindrops," Fowler said. "To quote myself."