This is the United States Pacific Fleet Radio Station at Pearl Harbor, Territory of Hawaii.
Is there someone trying to contact me?
KCY.FRD6.KCY.FRD6.KCY.FRD6.
FRD6. KCY. FRD6. KCY URSIG 2Xl. GA.
Detachment A of Special Marine Corps Detachment 14, this is the United States Pacific Fleet Radio. Your signal is weak and barely readable. Go ahead.
Fucking radio. Fucking atmospherics. Fucking sunspots.
Fuck fuck fuck.
KCY. FRD6. SB CODE.
CINCPAC Radio Pearl Harbor, stand by to copy encrypted message.
FRD6. KCY. RPT URS IG 2X 1. GA.
Detachment A of Special Marine Corps Detachment 14, this is the United States Pacific Fleet Radio. Repeat, your signal is weak and barely readable. Go ahead.
After six tries, Detachment A of Special Marine Corps Detachment 14 was able to relay to the United States Pacific Fleet headquarters in Pearl Harbor that an enemy bomber force of twenty Betty bombers, escorted by an estimated thirty Zero fighters, had passed overhead at an approximate altitude of 13,000 feet on a course that would take them to Guadalcanal.
FRD6. KCY. AKN. CLR.
Detachment A, this is Pearl Harbor. Your transmission is acknowledged.
Pearl Harbor Clear.
KCY. FRD6. FU2 AND GOOD AFTERNOON. FRD6. CLR.
FU was not in the list of authorized abbreviations, but it was not difficult for the United States Pacific Fleet operator in Pearl Harbor to make the translation; every radio operator knew what it meant. He had just been told to attempt a physiologically impossible act of self-impregnation. Since regulations did not permit the transmission of personal messages and/or greetings, the Pearl Harbor operator concluded that wherever FRD6 was, and whoever he was, he had really stuck his neck out by getting drunk on duty.
[Two]
FOSTER LAFAYETTE HOTEL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
1525 HOURS 4 SEPTEMBER 1942
Because Fleming Pickering ate lunch late that afternoon, when there was a knock at Senator Fowler's door, he thought it was the floor waiter come to remove the remnants of the tray of hors d'oeuvres they had sent him from the Grill Room.
But it wasn't the floor waiter, it was the concierge. He was helping a mousy-looking little man carry two large stacks of cardboard boxes. Each box bore the corporate insignia of Brooks Brothers.
He knew what they were.
"Put them in that bedroom, please," he said, pointing.
When he signed the receipt the mousy-looking man handed him, he said, "Please tell Mr. Abraham that I'm grateful for the quick service. And for sending you down here personally."
"Our pleasure, Captain Pickering," the mousy little man said. "You told Mr. Abraham, `as soon as possible." And I had a nice lunch on the train." Once they were gone, Pickering looked at the boxes now neatly stacked on the bed and the chest of drawers, shook his head, exhaled audibly, and went back into the sitting room.
Yesterday afternoon, after Pick and Jack Stecker's boy left, Dr. Selleres got him to the office of an orthopedic surgeon.
Selleres' pretext was to make a more comfortable cast for Pickering's arm. But his actual motive was to have the arm X-rayed-which was done. Then it was placed in a much less substantial cast than the Navy had given him at San Diego.
Though Pickering had been reluctant to go, he was now pleased that he did. For one thing, Selleres got on the phone afterward and assured Patricia that her husband's arm was well on the way to recovery... and not about to fall off or develop gangrene. But more important, he could now put his arm through a shirtsleeve.
Pickering, who was wearing a light seersucker robe, boxer shorts, and a pair of the Foster Lafayette's throwaway cotton shower slippers, went back to the leisurely postprandial rest that the man from Brooks Brothers had interrupted. He poured himself another cup of black coffee-the last the silver pitcher held-sat down on the couch, put his feet up on the coffee table, and picked up The New York Times.
There came another knock at the door.
That has to be the floor waiter.
"Come in." He heard the door open and sensed movement in the room, but no one appeared to roll the room service cart away.
"Get me another pot of coffee, would you, please? I won't need any sugar or cream."
"General Pickering, I'm Captain Sessions, Sir, from Management Analysis." Pickering looked over his shoulder. A tall, well-set-up young man was standing in the open door. His black hair was styled in a crew cut, and he was wearing a well-fitting, if sweatdampened, green elastique summer uniform. He carried a heavily stuffed leather briefcase and a newspaper.
"I thought you were the floor waiter," Pickering said.
"Come in, please." Then he blurted what he was thinking: "That's the first time anyone has called me that. `General.,
"Then I'm honored, General."
"I'm about to order some coffee. Can I get you anything?"
"Would iced tea be possible?"
"How about a cold beer, Captain? That's what I really want."
"A general officer's desire is a captain's command, Sir."
Pickering chuckled.
Nice kid. He's not much older than Pick.
Pickering picked up the telephone. "This is Captain-strike that-General Pickering. Would you send the floor waiter to clear things away, please? And have him put a half dozen bottles of Feigenspan ale in a wine cooler with some ice." He stopped. "That all right? Feigenspan?"
"Just fine, Sir."
"Thank you," Pickering said to the telephone and hung it up. "What can I do for you, Captain?"
"Colonel Rickabee's compliments, Sir. He asked me to express his regrets for not coming here himself. He's playing golf with the Deputy Commandant." Playing golf, Jesus Christ!