"The Japanese hold Buka, right? Where are we going to land? Or are we going to land?"
"We're going to pick up some people and equipment at Moresby and fly to Buka. We'll land on the beach, off-load the people and their equipment, and pick up three passengers." Pickering looked at him. "Christ, you're serious!" Galloway nodded.
"There's something I think I should tell you, Captain," Pickering said. Charley picked up on the "Captain"; Pickering usually called him "Skipper."
"You're not Alan Ladd or Errol Flynn, right?"
"No," Pickering said. "I used to think I was a pretty good pilot."
"You are. With the Zeke you shot down this morning, that made five, you're officially an ace."
"That's not what I meant," Pickering said. "I mean, when I got my first ride in a Yellow Peril at P'Cola, the IP thought I was a wiseass-"
I can certainly understand that, Mr. Pickering.
"-and tried to make me airsick, and couldn't. So he turned it over to me and told me to take it back to the field and land it and I did; and then he was really pissed because he thought I already knew how to fly and hadn't told anybody."
"No kidding?"
"No kidding," Pickering said. "I had no trouble learning to fly the Wildcat, either, and... shit, just before I came over here, I took my grandfather's Stagger Wing Beech up, the first time I'd ever sat behind the wheel, buzzed Marin County, and then flew under the bridge."
"You flew under the Golden Gate Bridge?" Galloway asked incredulously.
Pickering nodded.
"Both ways, I flew in from the ocean, went under the bridge, did a one-eighty over Alcatraz, and flew back out under the bridge."
"That's a little hard to believe."
" I did it. And I wasn't scared. And I wasn't scared here until this morning."
I'll be a sonofabitch if I don't believe him about flying under the Golden Gate.
"Maybe you grew up this morning," Galloway said.
"Could be. After I saw what happened to Dick Stecker, I was about to hand you my wings and take my chances with a rifle.
I don't want to end up like that." He means that, too.
"So why didn't you?"
"Because wherever you were going was away from Henderson, from Guadalcanal," Pickering said. "I figured I could hand you my wings wherever we landed."
"You're out of luck, Pickering. At least until this mission's over," Galloway said. "You want to turn in your wings, that's your business. But not until we get back."
"You can't make me get back in this airplane once we land."
"Yes, I can. You're a goddamned Marine officer, and you'll do what you're ordered to do."
"Or what?"
"There is no `or what,' " Galloway said. "The subject is closed, Mr. Pickering."
Pickering shrugged and folded his arms across his chest.
Galloway put his hand on the wheel and reached up and turned the automatic pilot off.
"Put your hands and feet on the controls," he ordered. Pickering looked at him. After a moment he unfolded his arms and put his left hand on the wheel.
"You have the aircraft, Mr. Pickering," Galloway said.
"Maintain the present course and rate of climb until reaching nine thousand feet." Pickering nodded.
They rode in silence for a minute or so. Galloway had enough time to judge that Pickering was telling the truth about that-the rate-of-climb and airspeed-indicator needles didn't even flicker, nor did the attitude of the aircraft change a half degree. He was one of those rare people you heard about but never actually saw: He was born with the ability to fly.
A glint of light at his left startled him. He snapped his head and looked out.
First Lieutenant William Charles Dunn, USMCR, Executive Officer-and at the moment, acting Commander-of VMF-229 waved cheerfully at him from his F4F.
Galloway furiously signaled him to return to base.
When Dunn brought the subject up before they left, Galloway expressly told him not to escort the R4D.
It would have been nice if a whole squadron of Wildcats could escort the R4D away from Guadalcanal, to protect it from Japanese bombers. They'd be delighted to shoot an R4D down if they saw it. But a whole squadron of Wildcats could not be diverted from their primary mission for that-they couldn't even divert two or three of them.
And a single Wildcat wouldn't do any good. Not only that, it would place itself in unnecessary jeopardy.
Bill Dunn continued to wave cheerfully, apparently choosing to interpret Galloway's furious signals as a friendly return of his own greeting. Galloway remembered that back at Henderson, Bill seemed to cave in to the logic of his arguments far easier than Galloway expected.
"We're at nine thousand feet, Sir," Pickering reported.
"See if you can trim it up for straight and level flight at an indicated 180 knots, Mr. Pickering, without running into Mr. Dunn."
Pickering looked at him in confusion, and then saw Dunn in the Wildcat. He took his left hand from the wheel and, smiling, waved at him.
Meanwhile, the R4D leveled off. The altimeter indicated 9,000 feet, and the rate-of-climb indicator needle stopped moving. It was right in the center of the dial.
In direct violation of a specific order to the contrary, Lieutenant Dunn remained on the wingtip of the R4D until he had only enough fuel, plus ten minutes, to return to Henderson Field.
Then he waved one more time and entered a slow 180-degree turn to the left.
When he was out of sight, Galloway unfastened his shoulder and seat belts and got up out of his seat. Pickering looked at him.
"Piss call," Galloway said. Pickering nodded.
He'll be all right, Galloway thought. He had every reason in the world to go a little crazy. Bringing him along was the right thing to do.
[Three]
ROYAL AUSTRALIAN AIR FORCE STATION
PORT MORESBY, NEW GUINEA
1340 HOURS 7 OCTOBER 1942
RAAF Moresby was located too far forward to have the most advanced cryptographic equipment. It was necessary, therefore, to decrypt both incoming and outgoing classified messages by hand.
A loose-leaf notebook kept locked up in the safe of the cryptographic officer held a number of codes printed on chemically treated paper. It would readily burn-almost explode-if a match were applied.
Each day there was a new code. But the change did not follow the calendar. Rather, it occurred upon notification from RAAF Radio, Melbourne. In other words, a code might be valid for eighteen hours, or twenty-six, or two, depending on when RAAF Radio, Melbourne, decided to change it.
The cryptographic officer's notebook also contained a number of codes for special use. A new set of these codes was sent in every two weeks by officer courier.
The RAAF Moresby Cryptographic Section consisted of a Flight Lieutenant and two Leading Aircraftsmen, RAAF.
When the message came in from RAAF Radio Melbourne for Lieutenant Commander Eric Feldt, RANVR, these men were frankly annoyed. Now that action against the Japanese on New Guinea was finally getting in gear, they had enough work as it was without having to handle the classified traffic for a goddamned sailor and his motley command-four American Marines and a Bushman wearing a RAN Petty Officer's uniform.