«Ready, sir.»
Major Williamson gave him directions from the BOQ to his quarters.
Major Williamson opened the door to his quarters, an attractive, obviously prewar bungalow not far off Pensacola Bay, and motioned Weston inside.
His wife and two kids, a boy and a girl, were sitting on a couch in the living room. All of them looked unhappy. When Weston was introduced to them, they were polite—the wife even offered him a cup of coffee—but Weston sensed that he was somehow intruding. He declined the coffee.
«I'm glad you came in early,» Major Williamson said. «I won't be here in the morning, and I wanted to see you before I left.»
«Where are you going, sir?» Weston blurted, and immediately sensed he should not have asked the question.
«Hawaii,» Williamson said. «You remember that temporary job over there we discussed? I told you it was one of General Mclnerney's little projects?»
«Yes, sir, I do,» Weston said.
Christ, he's talking about that request for volunteers to fly the Catalina
. Weston remembered the wording: «a classified mission involving great personal risk in a combat area.»
«Well, I was allowed to apply for it,» Williamson said. «And apparently, I was the best-qualified applicant.»
Applicant, my ass
, Weston thought.
You didn't volunteer. General Mclnerney apparently didn't get the eight volunteers he was looking for, and you were volunteered
.
«How long will you be gone, sir?»
«Not long. Ninety days at the most. Probably a lot less than that.»
God, I would kill to get out of here for ninety days, to go someplace where I'd have time to figure out what the hell to do about Martha and Janice!
«You're going first thing in the morning, sir?»
«I'm going in about an hour,» Williamson said. «That's what I wanted to see you about. This sort of fouls up the training schedule I was laying on for you.»
«Sir, I wonder if I could speak to you privately for a moment?» Weston asked.
«I really don't have the time for your personal problems, Weston,» Williamson said, annoyance in his voice.
«I would consider it a great personal favor, sir,» Weston said. «It won't take but a minute or two.»
Williamson looked at him coldly for a moment, then gestured at the front door. «With the understanding that I am really out of time, Weston.»
«Yes, sir, I fully understand,» Weston said.
They walked onto the small porch of the bungalow. Major Williamson closed the door. «Make it quick,» he ordered.
«Sir, we're talking about the classified Catalina mission?»
«General Mclnerney—who got his second star, by the way—flew in here in a Corsair, told me he had gotten zero volunteers, and under the circumstances thought that I might wish to consider the opportunity again.»
«You were volunteered?»
«Me and several other people, one of whom doesn't know it yet. I'm out of here in a twin Beech in an hour bound for NAS New Orleans, where I will pick up another, quote, volunteer, unquote, and then head for San Diego. That poor bastard just came back from the Pacific.»
«General Mclnerney must think this project is important,» Weston said. Major Williamson didn't reply.
«What's your personal problem, Weston? Try to explain it in thirty seconds or less.»
«Sir, I'd like to volunteer.»
«Are you out of your mind, Weston? Christ, you're just out of the hospital.»
«Sir, with respect, I have twelve hundred hours as pilot-in-command of a Catalina.»
«That's right, isn't it?» Williamson said thoughtfully.
«Sir, I'm a Marine officer. Apparently one with the special qualifications needed for General Mclnerney's project.»
«I thought you wanted to be a fighter pilot?»
«Sir, I am a fighter pilot. Captain Galloway checked me out in the Corsair. I would just be wasting my time, and the Corps' time, to go through the training again here.»
«And maybe you're thinking that if you did this job for General Mclnerney you wouldn't have to do the training again.»
«That thought did occur to me, sir, but it's not the reason I am volunteering.»
«I know,» Williamson said.
«Sir?»
«You're volunteering for the same reason I did,» Williamson said emotionally. «Because, goddammit, you're a Marine and you want to serve where you can do the most good for the Corps.»
«That's not really it, sir.»
«You're sure about this, Weston?»
«I'm sure, sir.»
«One more time, I put the question to you. Warning you beforehand that I have orders to appear at San Diego as soon as I can get there, with any qualified Marine Aviator I choose to take with me. As you have pointed out, you have the necessary qualifications.»
«Yes, sir.»
«You want to go, is that it?»
«Yes, sir.»
«How long will it take you to get packed? To say goodbye to Martha?»
«I'm already packed, sir, and as far as Martha goes, I think I would rather call her from San Diego and tell her my orders have been changed. I don't feel up to facing her with this.»
«You're chicken, Mr. Weston, but in your shoes, I'd do the same thing. I know how it is. I have lied to my wife about this mission—I don't think she believes me, but that's not the point—and I didn't like having to do that.»
«I understand, sir.»
«Women just don't seem to be able to understand that a Marine, at least an honorable Marine, has to answer the call of duty even when that involves a certain amount of personal sacrifice.»
«I suppose that's true, sir.»
«You've got your car?»
«Yes, sir.»
«Go get your luggage. Meet me at base operations. I'll arrange for somebody to take care of your car until we get back. And we will come back, Weston. Get that firmly fixed in your mind.»
«Yes, sir.»
But maybe with a little luck I can stretch the ninety days a little. Maybe to six months. Maybe for the duration of the war plus six months.
Major Williamson touched Captain Weston's shoulder in a gesture of affection. «I should have known, since Charley Galloway likes you, that you are really a Marine, Weston. It shouldn't have taken this to prove it.»
«Thank you, sir.»
Chapter Nineteen
note 72
Patrol Torpedo Boat 197
Kaiwi Channel
North Pacific Ocean
0815 6 April 1943
Lieutenant (j.g.) Max Schneider, USNR, into whose twenty-year-old hands the United States Navy had three weeks before placed command of PT-197, had absolutely no idea what he and his vessel were doing floating around the Kaiwi Channel at a point equidistant between the islands of Oahu and Molokai. And he had been specifically ordered to ask no questions.
He had been summoned to the office of the Squadron Commander shortly after lunch the day before. «I have a mission for PT-197, Max,» Lieutenant Commander James D. Innis, USN, had announced. «A classified mission.»
«Aye, aye, sir. May I inquire into the nature of the mission?»