W E B Griffin – Corp 06 – Close Combat

“How do you know that?” Pickering asked, smiling.

“It was the only time they were together,” Pluto said.

“Well, Pluto, after all, he is a Marine,” Pickering said. “What? Is there some kind of problem?”

“Several. For one thing, they threw her out of the Navy in something like disgrace.”

“Well, to judge by the look on his face, making an honest woman of her is high on Koffler’s list of things to do.”

“She’s a widow,” Moore went on. “Her husband was killed in North Africa. They had his memorial service the day before she and Koffler…”

“What are you saying? That Koffler has been sucked in by a designing woman?”

“No, Sir. Not at all. She’s been disowned by her family, if that’s the word.”

“And meanwhile, Koffler was on Buka?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“How is she living?”

“Well, she had a job. But she lost that.”

“I hired her, Sir, to work for us,” Moore said.

“Good idea. But what’s the problem? Koffler’s back. He wants to marry her…”

“We’re having a problem with that, Sir. The SWPOA Command Policy is to discourage marriages between Australians and Americans. They throw all sorts of roadblocks up. For all practical purposes, marriages between Australians and lower-grade enlisted men, below staff sergeant, are forbidden.” (SWPOA was the abbreviation for the South West Pacific Ocean Area., which was MacArthur’s area of responsibility in the Pacific.)

“No problem. We’ll make Koffler a staff sergeant.”

“There’s more, Sir.”

“I’ll deal with it,” Pickering said. “Tell Koffler to relax.”

How I don’t know. But certainly, someone who has been flown across the world at the direct order of the President of the United States to arrange a peace between the chief of American espionage and the Supreme Commander of the South West Pacific Ocean Area should be able to deal with the problem of a Marine buck sergeant who has knocked up his girlfriend.

“Does General MacArthur know I’m back?”

“I can’t see how he could, Sir.”

“I thought perhaps they’d sent word from Washington.”

“I don’t think so, Sir. Wouldn’t that have been a ‘personal for General MacArthur’?”

“Probably. Almost certainly.”

“I keep pretty well up on that file, Sir,” Pluto Hon said. “There hasn’t been anything.”

“Well, that at least gives me today. I need a bath, a couple of drinks, and a long nap. I’ll call over there at five o’clock or so and ask for an appointment in the morning.”

“There’s a couple of things I think you should see, Sir,” Pluto said.

“This morning?” Pickering asked.

“Yes, Sir.”

When Pickering came out of his bedroom into the living room of Water Lily Cottage, Pluto Hon and John Marston Moore were waiting for him. Pickering was wearing a terry-cloth bathrobe over nothing at all, and he was feeling-and looking-fresh from a long hot shower.

In the middle of room, they’d set up a map board-a sheet of plywood placed on an artist’s tripod. Maps (and other large documents) were tacked onto the plywood. A sheet of oilcloth covered the maps and documents; it could be lifted to expose them.

An upholstered chair, obviously intended for him, had been moved from its usual place against the wall so that it squarely faced the map board.

“Very professional,” Pickering said.

“We practice our briefings here,” Pluto said seriously. “It’s a waste of time, but General Willoughby’s big on briefing the Supreme Commander with maps and charts.”

“You don’t work for Willoughby,” Pickering said. “And you don’t have time to waste.”

Pluto didn’t reply. Pickering knew that his silence was an answer in itself.

“How bad has it been, Pluto? Let’s have it.”

“I don’t want to sound like I’m whining, Sir.”

“Let’s have it, Pluto.”

“The point has been made to me, Sir, by various senior officers, that I am a first lieutenant, and that first lieutenants do what they’re told.”

“You’re talking about MAGIC intercept briefings, right?” Pickering asked.

“Yes, Sir. I believe it is General Willoughby’s rationale that since he has no one on his staff cleared for MAGIC, he can’t have them prepare MAGIC briefings for the Supreme Commander. That leaves us.”

“Left you. Past tense,” Pickering said. “For one thing, MacArthur doesn’t need kindergarten-level briefings; he has an encyclopedic memory. For another, I can’t afford to have either of you wasting your time playing brass-hat games. The next time Willoughby calls, your reply is, quote, ‘Sir, General Pickering doesn’t believe that a formal briefing is necessary.’ Unquote. If he has any questions, tell him to call me.”

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *