My God, he came through! Pick's all right!
Pickering's physical response came as a total shock to him. His throat tightened. His eyes watered. He was able to keep from sobbing only by an act of massive willpower.
"Fleming's son, Jean, has eight times been the victor in aerial com-bat," MacArthur announced. "A warrior in his father's mold!"
"You must be so proud of him!" she said.
"I am," Pickering said, surprised that he could speak.
And so goddamned relieved! Thank you, God!
"General Vandegrift did not say to where they have been with-drawn," MacArthur said. "I suppose I should have asked. Perhaps Espiritu Santo, or Noumea, or here, or New Zealand. Should I send another personal radio?"
"No, Sir. That won't be necessary. Pluto will either know or can quickly find out."
And why should I be able to have access to scarce communications facilities when ten thousand other fathers will have to wait until the services in their own good time get around to telling them whether their sons are dead or alive?
Don't get carried away, Pickering, and kick the goddamn gift horse in the goddamn mouth!
"You said there were two things, General?" Pickering asked.
"Yes, there are," MacArthur said, and reached to the table beside him and came up with a radio message. "This came in at the same time the other did."
MacArthur handed him the CINCPAC radio message announcing that Nimitz had relieved Ghormley and appointed Halsey to replace him.
"You saw Admiral Nimitz on your way here," MacArthur said. "Did he tell you he was thinking about doing something like this?"
It was, Pickering understood, more than a matter of curiosity.
MacArthur wanted to know if Pickering had information that he had not chosen to share with him.
"No, Sir," Pickering said, meeting MacArthur's eyes. "He didn't."
"Does this surprise you?"
"Admiral Nimitz gave me no indication that he was... dissatis-fied... with Admiral Ghormley," Pickering said.
"But?"
"But Ghormley seemed... General, you're putting me on the spot. I dislike criticizing officers who know vastly more about waging war than I do."
"Entre nous, Fleming," MacArthur said. "We are friends."
That was a command, not a request. He wants a reply and I will have to give him one.
And when in doubt, tell the truth.
"General, in the belief it would go no further, Pluto Hon said to me that Admiral Ghormley's radios of 16 and 17 October were unreasonable, and sounded a little desperate... the ones in which he claimed his forces were totally inadequate and requested tremendous new levels of support. I thought so, too."
"Absolutely!" MacArthur agreed. "The one thing a commander simply cannot do is appear unsure of himself. Nimitz saw this. He had no choice but to relieve Ghormley; Ghormley gave him none."
Pickering looked at him but did not reply.
"Relieving an officer, especially if he is someone you have served with and think of as a friend, is one of the most painful responsibilities of command," MacArthur declared. "It must have been very distressing for Admiral Nimitz."
He looked for a moment as if he was listening to his own words, and upon hearing them, agreeing with them. He nodded, then smiled.
"But at least he picked the right man," he said.
"You know Admiral Halsey, Sir?"
"I've met him. I know his reputation. But he is apparently someone who immediately takes charge. He has called a conference for the day after tomorrow at Noumea. Vandegrift will be there. And Harmon. And Patch. The Admiral is apparently one of those rare sailors who thinks that sometimes soldiers and Marines may have something to say worth listening to."
"Douglas!" Jean MacArthur chided. "That's unkind!"
MacArthur ignored her.
"In the belief that you would find this conference interesting, Fleming, I've arranged for a plane to take you there."
"That's very kind of you," Pickering said.
He suddenly understood: MacArthur had not been invited to Admiral Halsey's conference.
Prince Machiavelli knows that while I would be no more welcome there than he would, or any of his palace guard (Willoughby, for example), they can't keep me out. And, since we are friends, it is to be expected that on my return, I will report what happened. The wily old sonofabitch!
"But my mission here, Sir, is to convince you that Mr. Donovan's people would be of greater value than harm. I'm not sure I should go to Admiral Halsey's conference with that hanging in the air."
"We can talk about Wild Bill Donovan when you return," MacArthur said.
That could be interpreted to mean tit-for-tat; I go to the conference and tell you what they said, and you let Donovan's people in. But I know you better than that. When I return we will talk about Donovan again and you will tell me of another reason you don't want his camel's nose under your tent.
"General, you have again put me on the spot," Pickering said, draining his scotch. "Ethically. If I go to Halsey's conference, there is a good chance I will be made privy to things the Navy wouldn't wish you to know."
"My dear Fleming," MacArthur said. "I understand completely. But it is a moot point. If anything transpires at that conference that I should know, Admiral Nimitz will see to it that I do."
I believe that. I also believe that somewhere in the hills of Tennessee there is a pig that really can whistle.
"And anyway," MacArthur said, tapping his foot on the floor-mounted button again, and smiling at Pickering. "When they see you at the conference, they won't say anything they don't want me to hear. They know how close we are."
[FOUR]
Office of the Director of Public Affairs
Headquarters, U.S. Marine Corps
Eighth and I Streets, N.W.
Washington, D.C.
0945 Hours 20 October 1942
Brigadier General J. J. Stewart, USMC, a ruddy-faced, stocky, pleasant-looking officer of not-quite-fifty, had received by hand the square envelope he was now holding. In theory, every item delivered into the Navy Department message center system was treated like every other: It would gradually wend its way through the system until it ultimately arrived at its destination.
There were exceptions to every standard operating procedure, however, and the item General Stewart held in his hand headed the list of exceptions. The return address read: "The Secretary of the Navy, Washington, D.C."
General Stewart carefully opened the envelope by lifting the flap. His usual custom was to stab the envelope with his letter opener, a miniature Marine Officer's Sword given to him by his wife. But such an act felt too much like a-well, minor desecration. He extracted the single sheet of paper and read it carefully.
The Secretary of the Navy
Washington, D.C.
October 19, 1942
Brigadier General J. J. Stewart
Director, Public Affairs
Headquarters, U.S. Marine Corps
Washington, D.C.
The Secretary wishes it known, upon the release of Major Homer C. Dillon, USMCR from temporary duty with the Office of Management Analysis, that he is cognizant of, and deeply appreciative of, the extraordinary performance of duty by Major Dillon in the conduct of a classified mission of great importance.