"And?"
" 'Sergeant, I am the ranking Marine officer present. I will see that Major Banning is informed of what has transpired,' or bullshit to that effect."
"My God!"
"I tried refusing," Moore said. "Politely. I told him that Major Banning had told me to take orders from nobody else."
"And?"
Moore pointed toward the window. Ellen went and pushed the curtain aside. There was a 1941 Ford staff car in the drive. It had MILITARY POLICE painted on the doors. An MP wearing a white helmet liner was sitting on it. Another rested his rear end on the front fender.
"They're going to take me to the airport," Moore said. "Dailey apparently rushed to tell Willoughby, or maybe Sutherland, of his orders... for all I know, The Emperor himself may have gotten into the act by now. Anyway, a B-25 is going to fly us to Espiritu Santo. The field at Guadalcanal won't take a B-25 yet. So from Espiritu Santo, we'll go by Catalina."
"He didn't put you under arrest?" Ellen asked.
"No. Except by inference. The MPs are to 'help me gather' my gear and get me to the airport."
"I don't see what else you can do," Ellen said.
"I've got to go, there's no question about that. And what you have to do is one of two things: Call Willoughby now, tell him you have just heard about this, and that I'm into
MAGIC."
"I don't think that's smart," Ellen said. "I think a decision like that should be made by Major Banning."
"That's 'B,'" Moore said. "Get on the phone and keep trying to get through to Banning."
"I will," she said. "That's the way to handle this."
The horn on the MP car blew.
"Shit," he said.
He walked out of her bedroom and across the living room to his bedroom and began stuffing his belongings into his sea-bag.
Ellen stood in his doorway and watched.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"I can handle it," he said.
Inasmuch as she was unaware how many times Private John Marston Moore had, under the skilled eye of a Parris Island Drill Instructor, packed and unpacked, packed and unpacked a seabag until he had it right, Ellen was genuinely surprised to see how quickly and efficiently he packed his gear.
He finally picked up the seabag and bounced it three or four times on the floor. This caused the contents to compact.
He reached inside, removed a precisely folded pair of pants, reached under the skirt of his blouse, and came out with a Colt.45 and four extra magazines. He put these in the bag, replaced the pants on top, and closed the bag.
"I decided I needed that pistol more than one of the classified documents messengers," he said. "So I signed it out before I left the basement. If they come looking for it, send them to Guadalcanal."
My God, he really is going to the war! He is too beautiful to be killed!
She stepped into the room and closed the door after her.
She walked up to him and put her hand on his cheek, then raised her head and kissed him lightly on the mouth.
"Do you think they'll wait another five minutes, Baby?" she asked, dropping her hand down his body, pushing aside the skirt of his blouse, and finding the buttons of his fly. "Or will they break the door down?"
When he was gone, she decided calmly that it was probably a good thing. Their relationship could easily have gotten out of hand.
If only Fleming Pickering hadn't been such a damned fool and brought him into MAGIC!
The thing to do about that, she decided, is nothing. The chances that John Moore will fall alive into Japanese hands are negligible to begin with. And even if he does, he is only a sergeant. Sergeants are not expected to be privy to important secrets.
She would have to make that point to Banning. Hon would argue against it, but Hon was a lieutenant and Banning a major. The important thing to do was to protect Fleming Pickering. Banning, for his own reasons, would understand that, and he almost certainly would be able to convince Pluto Hon as well.
That was going to be possible, she decided. Fleming Pickering would be protected... and it followed that he would be available to protect her, if need be.
She had-years ago, she couldn't remember where-heard someone described as "being able to walk around raindrops." She was a little uneasy about thinking that she was one of these people, but the facts seemed to bear it out. Just when things started to get out of hand, something happened that put them in order again.
Chapter Eighteen
(0ne)
ABOARD USS GREGORY (APD-44)
CORAL SEA
0735 HOURS 18 AUGUST 1942
Captain Fleming Pickering stood in the port leading from the Chart Room to the bridge until the captain turned, saw him, and motioned him to come in.
"Permission to come onto the bridge, Sir?" Pickering asked. He was wearing borrowed khakis that were just a bit too tight for him.
"Captain, aboard this tin can, you have the privilege of the bridge at any time."
"That's very kind of you, Captain," Pickering said, coming onto the bridge. "But-in the olden days-when I was a master and carrying supercargo, I always wanted the bastard to ask." The USS Gregory's Captain, a Lieutenant Commander, laughed.
"I appreciate the sentiment, Sir, but I repeat: You have the privilege of this bridge whenever you wish. Can I offer you some coffee?"
"No, thank you. I just had a potful for breakfast."
"And you slept well, Sir?"
"Like a log. Despite the fact that I felt like an interloper in your cabin."
"My pleasure, Sir. I rarely use it at sea, anyway."