Griffin W.E.B. - The Corps 08 - In Dangers Path

«Sir, I had nothing to do with this,» Weston said.

«Yeah, I know, Weston,» Williamson said. «And I owe Charley Galloway a couple of big ones. So we will make the most of this unfortunate situation. After I visit the gentlemen's rest facility, you will buy me a cup of coffee and tell me how much you know about PBY-5A aircraft.»

«Yes, sir.»

«It was put to me—not in so many words, of course—that the Admiral would not be displeased if you acquired some bootleg time at the controls of that ugly beast.»

«I've got about twelve hundred hours in one, sir,» Weston said.

«In the left seat?» Williamson asked dubiously. The pilot sat in the left cockpit seat, the copilot in the right.

«Most of it, sir,» Weston answered. «I was rated as an instructor pilot in it, sir.»

«I didn't know that,» Williamson said. «Where are your flight records?»

«They went up in smoke on December seventh, sir.»

«If I were you, Weston, and you still want to fly fighters, I'd keep the twelve hundred hours and IP rating in the Catalina to myself. They just put out a high-priority call for experienced Cat drivers for some classified mission, and most of us are scurrying for cover.»

«Thank you, sir,» Weston said. «I want to fly the Corsair.»

«Don't go so far as dumping the bird on our way back to Pensacola, but on the other hand, don't mention to anyone that you've got IP status and that much time in one.»

«What kind of a classified mission?» Weston asked in simple curiosity.

«They didn't say, and I didn't ask,» Williamson said.

The copilot, a Navy lieutenant, and the crew chief, a chief aviation mechanic, climbed out of the Catalina. Weston recognized the copilot. He was Admiral Sayre's aide-de-camp.

Weston wondered how the two of them had planned to spend Saturday before Admiral Sayre «asked» them to fly up to Asshole, West Virginia, in the Catalina.

«While it is true, of course, that any landing you can walk away from is a good landing,» Major Williamson said, as Weston applied the brakes and prepared to turn off the runway at Pensacola, «that wasn't too bad, Captain Weston.»

It was the eighth landing he had made in the Cat between Charleston and Pensacola. The others were touch-and-goes at an Army Air Corps training base near Midland City, Alabama, a little over one hundred miles from Pensacola.

«Thank you, sir.»

«So far as I'm concerned, you've just passed your flight check for recertification as pilot-in command of, and instructor pilot for, PBY-5A aircraft.»

«Thank you, sir.»

«Unfortunately for you, I'm going to have to make a record of that. I'll try to see if I can't get Flight Records to lose it for a while—there's a Marine sergeant who works there who owes me a couple of favors—at least until after General Mclnerney finds the eight unfortunate volunteers he's looking for.»

«Thank you,» Weston said, meaning it.

Admiral Sayre's aide drove him to Quarters Number One.

Mrs. Sayre and Martha—who was wearing white shorts and a T-shirt—came out to the drive to welcome him. Very warmly.

He was very careful to kiss Martha with slightly less passion and intimacy than he kissed Mrs. Sayre.

«You got here just in time,» Mrs. Sayre said. «We're having a few people over for shrimp and hamburgers, and when we heard you had to make a precautionary stop at Midland City, I was afraid we were going to have to drive up there to get you.»

«Major Williamson let me shoot some touch-and-goes,» Jim said.

«That's what Daddy said they were probably doing when he told you not to worry,» Martha said, and turned to smile dazzlingly at Weston. «How did you do?»

«Okay, I guess,» Jim said. «Everybody was able to walk away from the airplane.»

Martha and Mrs. Sayre laughed dutifully.

«Major and Mrs. Williamson will be here,» Mrs. Sayre said. «Together with some other people the Admiral wants you to meet before you actually report for duty.»

«That's very kind of you,» Jim said.

«Don't be silly. You're like family.»

»

Like family» is one step shy of «family»

he thought,

which I strongly suspect is next on everybody's agenda. I have been adjudged to be a suitable replacement for Greg Culhane

.

Why am I surprised?

Admiral and Mrs. Sayre are intelligent, perceptive people, and if Martha is telling the truth that until me she hasn't been interested in any man since Greg got killed

—

and I think she is

—

they've seen this and have naturally been concerned about it

.

And here comes Greg's best friend, back from the dead, delivered right into their laps, and Martha comes back from the dead herself.

How the hell am I going to get out of this?

The first step on what may turn out to be a very long journey is to keep my hands off her, and my pecker firmly tucked in my pocket.

«Martha will show you your room, and then come out on the patio,» Mrs. Sayre said. «Where you can admiringly watch the Admiral make his world-famous grilled shrimp.»

«Even funnier than that,» Martha said, «is watching people pretend to like them.»

«You should be ashamed of yourself!» Mrs. Sayre said.

Martha led him inside and to one of the bedrooms. «Remember this?» she asked.

He shook his head, «no.»

«This is the room where Daddy puts people he likes,» she said. «It has its own bath.» She walked to the bathroom door and opened it. «Everybody else gets a guest room with the bathroom down the hall.»

«I'm flattered,» he said.

«Are you going to kiss me, or what?» Martha asked. «I thought Mother made it perfectly clear we were to have a minute or two alone.»

«Of course,» he said.

I

will kiss her as a friend. No passion whatever. Maybe I can send her a subtle message

.

That noble intention lasted until he felt the pressure of her breasts against his abdomen and her tongue against his lips.

The next thing he knew, she was pushing him away. They were both breathing heavily. Martha leaned against the wall and pulled her brassiere back in position over her breasts.

«For a moment, I was afraid you weren't glad to see me,» she said.

«Don't be silly!»

«I don't know what we're going to do,» Martha said. «But I'll think of something. Now go wash the lipstick off your face.»

«Yes, ma'am,» he said.

«And as much as I hate to say this, I think it would be a good idea if you closed your fly.»

note 55

United States Submarine

Sunfish

159° 33» East Longitude 25° 42» North Latitude

Pacific Ocean

0705 20 March 1943

There were four officers in the tiny wardroom of the

Sunfish

when the chief of the boat, Chief Boatswain's Mate Patrick J. Buchanan, pushed the curtain aside and wordlessly, with raised eyebrows, asked permission to enter.

«Come on in, Chief,» said Lieutenant Commander Warren T. Houser, USN, the

Sunfish's

skipper. Houser was a stocky man in his late thirties who wore his blond hair in a crew-cut.

Buchanan, a wiry thirty-seven-year-old with twenty years in the Navy, fifteen of them in the Silent Service, nodded at the other officers and slid into an empty chair at the tiny table.

Lieutenant Amos P. Youngman, USNR, the executive officer of the

Sunfish

, pushed a silver coffeepot and a heavy china mug across the table to him. He was tall, thin, balding, and wore glasses, which gave him an intellectual look.

Before helping himself to coffee, Chief Buchanan made three gestures toward the skipper with his right hand. He balled his fist with the index finger extended upward. Then he turned his balled fist downward and described a circle. Finally, he balled his fist with the thumb extended upward.