2. Travel by government and civilian rail, motor and air transportation is authorized.
Priority AAA.
3. A five (5) day delay en route leave is authorized in connection with these orders.
BY DIRECTION OF BRIG GEN F. PICKERING:
F. L. Rickabee, Col, USMC
Executive Officer, Office of Management Analysis
I'll be damned He's sending Hart out there to tell Pick his father'll be all right, McCoy thought.
He blurted what popped into his mind: "That was very nice of you, Sir."
" `Nice' is not one of my character traits, McCoy," Colonel Rickabee said. "One: I think it important that your man Hart understand just who he will be working for. His initial introduction to the General was something less than inspiring. Seeing what he did in civilian life, who he was, will be instructional. Two: I think it is important that General Pickering knows that we think of him as one of our own. Three: Sergeant Hart is entitled to an end of boot-camp leave; and he won't be needed around here anyway for ten days, possibly more."
Bullshit-that was nice of you!
"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. I know that, Sir."
"I would hate to think you were being sarcastic, McCoy."
"Not me, Sir."
"Sessions tells me you told him Mrs. Pickering will be coming to Washington."
"Yes, Sir. I think she will."
"Keep me advised of her schedule. I'd like to meet her plane, or train, whatever."
"Yes, Sir."
"General Pickering, McCoy, can be very valuable to us around here. It thus behooves us to do whatever we can for him."
Bullshit again, Colonel. You like Pickering. You're two of a kind "Yes, Sir."
"Get out of here, McCoy."
"Yes, Sir."
[Three]
MUNICIPAL AIRPORT
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
1530 HOURS II SEPTEMBER 1942
When Hart entered the terminal after leaving the Transcontinental and Western (TWA) DC-3 that brought him from Chicago, with a stop at Salt Lake City, two shore patrolmen were standing in the middle of the airport aisle. One was a sailor armed with a billy club, and the other was a Marine sergeant, wearing a.45 suspended from a white web belt.
Neither of them looks like much of a cop, former Detective George Hart decided, and then dismissed them from his mind as he headed for a row of telephone booths.
Lieutenant McCoy had given him four telephone numbers for Lieutenant Pickering: the Pickering home, in Marin County; the offices of Pacific and Far East Shipping, in San Francisco; the San Francisco apartment of Mrs. Fleming Pickering; and the Andrew Foster Hotel. If he called the last number, he was instructed to ask for Mr. Andrew Foster, stating he was a friend of Lieutenant Pickering.
His orders were to tell Lieutenant Pickering, without any bullshit, General Pickering's condition when they went into the bedroom of the Foster Lafayette Hotel, and then to tell him that the prognosis was good and that his coming to Washington would have only embarrassed his father.
"Tell Lieutenant Pickering he's doing the right thing by not coming," Lieutenant McCoy said. "And, if you have to, that I wouldn't lie to him. And tell him to call me just before he gets on his plane, and I'll give him the latest poop." Hart had just taken the list of telephone numbers from his pocket and was about to drop a nickel in the pay phone slot, when there was a sharp rap on the telephone booth window.
It was the sailor shore patrolman. He made a sign with his index finger for Hart to come out of the booth.
"What can I do for you?" Hart asked.
"For one thing, you can show us your orders," the Marine sergeant said.
Hart produced a copy of the orders from the breast pocket of his tunic and handed them over.
The MP read them and showed them to the sailor.
"Anybody with a mimeograph machine could have made these up," he said.
"There's no stamp or seal or nothing."
"That thought occurred to me on the way out here," Hart said.
"Where did you get that haircut, Sergeant?" the Marine asked.
"Parris Island."
"Boots' hair usually grows back in before they make sergeant material ," the Marine said. "I think, Sergeant, that you better e with us until we can check out these orders." I was wrong. This guy's not as dumb as he looks. He picked up on the Parris Island haircut.
"How about this, Sergeant?" Hart said, and handed him the leather folder holding the badge identifying him as a Special Agent of the Office of Naval Intelligence and the accompanying photo identification card.
"I'll be damned," the sergeant said. "Sorry."
"No problem. It was the haircut, right?"
"Yeah, and there's two inspection stickers hanging out on the back of your jacket," the Marine said. "So I checked."
"I understand."
"Could I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"How do you get a billet like that? It would sure be better than standing around an airport all day looking for AWOLs and drunks."