W.E.B. Griffin - The Corps 03 - Counterattack

But Eckley Walker, the proprietor, was smiling and extending his hand.

"How are you, Dave?" he said. "It’s been some time."

"You still serving those condemned oysters?" Haughton said.

"Only to sailors who can’t tell the difference," Walker said. He snapped his fingers and a bartender appeared. He said only one word, "Rye," but made certain gestures with his head and hand that conveyed to the waiter that he wanted a dozen oysters and two drinks, the latter from his private bottle of rye whiskey, which was kept out of sight.

The bartender poured stiff drinks, added a dash of ginger ale, and slid them across the bar.

"Mud in your eye," Eckley Walker said. "Good to see you, Dave."

"Bottoms up," Haughton said.

They smiled at each other.

A slight, tall, balding man in civilian clothing, holding a beer glass, slipped onto the stool next to Haughton.

"Amazing, the strange people you run into in obscure, out-of-the-way restaurants," he said.

"Eckley," Haughton said, "have you got a little room someplace where this guy can make his life-insurance pitch without disturbing the paying guests?"

"We’ve already got one," the slight man said.

"I’ll have them take the oysters there, if you like," Eckley Walker said.

"Please," Haughton said.

Walker nodded. "Enjoy your lunch."

As they walked to the rear of the bar, the slight man turned and said, "I suppose I should warn you. I’ve got my boss with me."

"Is there a reason for that?"

"He asked me where I was going, and when I told him, he said he thought he would come along. If you don’t like that, tell him."

There was a door at the end of the barroom, opening on a flight of stairs. At the top of stairs was a corridor. The tall, slight man opened a door and gestured for Haughton to precede him.

A trim man, his gray hair shorn in a crewcut, sat at the table. A napkin was tucked into his collar to protect his pin-striped, double-breasted blue suit from dripping butter as he attacked a steaming pile of crab and shrimp.

"You look unhappy to see me, Haughton," he said. "Now I’m glad I came."

"Good afternoon, General," Haughton said. "I am a little surprised, Sir."

"Consider your hand shaken, Captain," said Brigadier General Horace W. T. Forrest, Assistant Chief of Staff G-2 (Intelligence), USMC. "My fingers are dirty."

"Thank you, Sir," Haughton said.

"I could tell you I came here because this is the best seafood on the East Coast, but that would be a lie. What the hell are you up to, Haughton?"

"I’m acting for the Secretary, Sir," Haughton said.

"Clever fellow that I am, I already had that figured out," General Forrest said, "but the question was, ‘What the hell are you up to?’"

There was a knock at the door, and the waiter appeared with a battered oblong tray holding what looked like two dozen oysters.

"Why don’t you order while he’s here?" General Forrest said. "Then we can talk without being disturbed every two minutes."

"Can I get a lobster?" Haughton asked. The waiter nodded. "A cup of clam chowder and a lobster, then, please," Haughton said.

"Twice," the slight man said. He was Lieutenant Colonel F. L. Rickabee, USMC. Rickabee was carried on the organizational chart of Headquarters USMC as being assigned to the Office of Congressional Liaison. That had absolutely nothing to do with what he really did.

"And to drink? A bottle of wine?" the waiter asked.

"I don’t want a whole bottle," Haughton said.

"We’ll help you, Haughton," General Forrest said. "Yes, please. A dry white."

"And a lobster for you, too, Sir?"

General Forrest looked at the shrimp and oysters before him.

"What the hell, why not? I just won’t eat again for the next couple of weeks. But hold the clam chowder."

The waiter left.

"You were saying, Haughton?" General Forrest said, the moment the door closed.

Haughton hesitated just perceptibly. He had decided that Rickabee had told him the truth, which was that General Forrest had asked where he was going, and Rickabee had told him. He knew Rickabee well enough to know that while he often would do a great many things without telling General Forrest, he would not evade a question from him. And Forrest was naturally curious as to why the Secretary of the Navy’s alter ego wanted to meet Rickabee in a restaurant in Baltimore, rather than somewhere in Washington. That implied an unusual degree of secrecy, and that had fired his curiosity.

"I have a project for Colonel Rickabee, General," Haughton said. "One which we will fund from the Secretary’s Confidential Fund."

General Forrest, who had just popped a large shrimp in his mouth, gestured for Haughton to continue.

"Do you know Captain Fleming Pickering, Sir?" Haughton asked.

"I don’t know him. I know who he is. I don’t know what he’s doing."

"He’s in Australia, Sir, as the Secretary’s personal liaison officer to General MacArthur."

"The admirals must love that," Forrest said dryly.

"Captain Pickering has learned from the Australians of a special force they have. Coastwatchers. They have arranged for people who lived on the islands in that area-plantation managers, civil servants, even some missionaries-to remain behind when the islands were lost to the Japanese-"

"I’ve heard about that," Forrest cut him off.

"Captain Pickering feels that these people have an enormous intelligence potential," Haughton went on. "His opinion is apparently not shared by senior Navy officers in the area."

"I can understand that," Forrest said. "I mean, hell, everybody knows that if you didn’t go to Annapolis, you’re stupid, right?"

Haughton smiled at General Forrest, but did not rise to the challenge. "The Secretary feels that Captain Pickering is right, and that these people could be of great use to us," he said. "He is, however, understandably reluctant to intervene personally and override the officers in question."

Forrest grunted.

"What I wanted to discuss with Colonel Rickabee was the formation of a special Marine unit to establish contact with the Coastwatcher organization, see what, if anything, we can do to assist them, and ensure that their intelligence is readily available to us when we commence operations in that area. In the interests of efficiency, and considering the time element, the Secretary feels that setting up such an organization under Colonel Rickabee is the way to go."

"And with a little bit of luck, maybe the admirals won’t find out what’s going on, right, until it’s too late to do anything about it?"

"That’s just about it, Sir."

"Now drop the other shoe, Haughton," Forrest said. "You couldn’t hide an operation like that from the admirals, and both you and I know it."

Did I handle that badly? Or is he that clever? You don’t get to be head of Marine Corps intelligence by being dull, and it’s a sure thing he and Rickabee played "What’s Haughton up to?" for an hour, as they drove over here from Washington.

"In addition to his liaison duties with General MacArthur’s headquarters, Captain Fleming is performing other, classified, duties for the Secretary," Haughton said.

"Spying on the admirals, you mean," Forrest said. "And, of course, MacArthur."

"I don’t think I’d use those words, Sir."

"I’ll bet those are the words the admirals are using."

"If they are, Sir, they’re wrong," Haughton said.

Forrest met his eyes. "They are?" he asked softly.

"The Secretary feels that he needs a set of eyes on the scene. Expert eyes. Dispassionate. Perhaps nonparochial would be a better word. Captain Pickering has been charged with reporting to the Secretary on matters he feels will be of interest to the Secretary. If the Secretary feels that’s necessary, I don’t think it appropriate for me to categorize it as ‘spying.’"