Without those orders for authority, Hon thought, what we are is two pissant Lieutenants surrounded by very senior brass who are likely to fuck this whole thing up on general principles. Jesus, I wish Banning or Dillon was here!
"Show him your orders, John," Pluto said.
Moore went into his bedroom, returned with his plastic sealed orders, and handed them to Colonel Gregory.
"Well," Gregory said after reading them and handing them back, "I suppose that operating under the auspices of the Chief of Staff to the President gives you all the authority you could ask for."
"Is that what you came to find out?" Pluto asked.
"Not exactly," Gregory said. "So General McKinney, who is not exactly on General MacArthur's fair-haired-boy list, went to General Willoughby. He did that on the reasonable presumption that as the G-2, Willoughby would know all about this clandestine operation and could tell him what was going on. But it turns out that all Willoughby knows he got from Mrs. Feller. I.e., that there's a clandestine operation he knows nothing about. He was pissed off about that-understandably, I think. But what really upset him was that MacArthur was in on the secret. Obviously, since MacArthur laid this air-raid diversion mission on McKinney."
"We didn't ask for that," Pluto said. "That was MacArthur's idea."
"That's the problem," Gregory said. "By definition, any tactical or strategic mission invented by MacArthur is brilliant. And not subject to cancellation."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Pluto said.
"Buka is not within the boundaries of South West Pacific Ocean Area," Gregory said. "It belongs to CINCPAC. MacArthur cannot order an operation in CINCPAC's area. If he does, the shit will hit the fan all the way back to Washington. The Navy is just as sensitive about its territory-about infringements thereon-as MacArthur himself."
"So there will be no diversionary air attack?" Pluto asked.
"No problem. We didn't think it was feasible in the first place."
"You miss the point, Pluto," Gregory said. "There will be diversionary air activity; MacArthur has ordered it. It's entirely possible, I think, that he hopes it will cause the shit to hit the fan. He knows damned well where his boundaries are."
"I'm confused again," Pluto said.
"General Willoughby has a number of other virtues, I'm sure, but the one I admire most is his determination to keep his boss out of trouble. While simultaneously keeping his own ass out of trouble with MacArthur, of course. He and McKinney have come up with a possible solution. Willoughby sent me to present it to you."
"Why didn't Willoughby just call me in?" Pluto thought aloud.
"Since MacArthur never told Willoughby about his order to McKinney, he doesn't officially know about it."
"What do they want from us?" Moore asked.
"They want Hon to go back to Colonel Armstrong and request aerial reconnaissance of your operations area in other words, of Buka. Because the only aircraft with the range to do that are bombers, B-17s, it can be described to General MacArthur as a diversionary raid. At the same time it can be described as reconnaissance activity to CINCPAC. They don't object to that. Actually, they're glad to have it. McKinney can offer daylight reconnaissance for four days."
"Why don't we just tell MacArthur that we d rather not have any aircraft involved in this, period?" Moore asked.
"I tried that," Pluto said. "General MacArthur has decided we need a diversionary attack."
"When is this thing going to happen?" Gregory said. "And don't tell me I don't have the Need to Know." Hon pointed to the briefcase.
"By now the R4D should be on its way to Port Moresby. Townsville sent me a copy of the message just before you called me.
"I happen to know that Colonel Armstrong is in his office right now," Gregory said, "if you have anything to say to him. "
"We don't have any wheels to get back to SWPOA," Hon said.
"I told you that wouldn't be a problem," Gregory said.
He walked out on the wide porch of Water Lily Cottage and waved his arm. Thirty seconds later, a black Humber four-door sedan with a man in civilian clothing behind the wheel pulled into the driveway.
Chapter Seventeen
[One]
FERDINAND SIX
BUKA, SOLOMON ISLANDS
1005 HOURS 7 OCTOBER 1942
Sergeant Steve Koffler, USMC, sat on the dirt floor of his hut, carefully scraping at the rib cage of a wild pig Ian Bruce had beheaded with his MACHETE, SUBSTITUTE STANDARD. They'd roasted the pig whole over an open fire like in the movies about the South Pacific, at a luau or some such bullshit.
The difference was that the pigs they cooked in the movies were great big porkers, and this one had been about the size of a medium-sized dog. It had lasted just one meal, not counting the stew they'd made with the leftovers.
He wasn't scraping the rib cage to get food from it. There wasn't anything edible left, just some stringy shit. He was scraping the rib because there wasn't a goddamned thing else to do.
Steve had sort of hoped there would be another message for them when he'd gone on the air with a Here-They-Come report, but there hadn't been. And there hadn't been when he'd made the regular net check-in either.
So that left the bullshit message of the day before, about that guy Nathan swimming to see Patience.
And that bullshit simple substitution code with Daphne's name... which made him think of Daphne, practically all fucking night. That was a bitch, because there was absolutely no fucking way he was ever going to see Daphne again in his entire life, no matter how the fuck long that lasted. It didn't look like it was going to be long at all, frankly.
He was going to die on this fucking island, and the goddamned ants would pick his bones as clean as they'd picked the rib cage of Ian's fucking pig.
Better sooner than later, this shit is really getting me down.
He put his knife aside. But then he picked it up and worked the edge under one of the scabs on his legs, just prying it loose enough so he could force the pus out.
Jesus, if Daphne walked into this fucking hut right now, and saw me, she'd run away screaming. I look like I got fucking leprosy or terminal syphilis or something.
Patience Witherspoon stuck her head in the opening.
You had to show up right now, right? When I was thinking of Daphne?
"Oh, Steven, come quickly!" Patience said excitedly, holding her arm across her bosom.
"What's up?"
Jesus, maybe Ian got another pig! He hasn't been around since yesterday. Reeves had to pump the fucking bicycle.
"Oh, come quickly!" Patience said, and disappeared.
Maybe I should fuck her again. That once wasn't bad, and if I'm going to die, what the fuck difference does it make if she looks like something out of National Geographic magazine?
Fuck that. Don't even think that. You may be holding the shitty end of the stick in the absolute asshole of the world, but you are a white man, and a Marine, and you know better than fucking cannibals.
He rose to his feet and picked up the Thompson and left the hut.
Well, there's Ian. He doesn't have a pig. Who the fuck is that with him? I never saw that cannibal before. What is this, Cannibal Homecoming?