This time, for a change, there was an immediate reply.

FRD6.FRD 1 FRD6.FRD 1.FRD6.FRD 1.

Hello, Detachment A, this is Headquarters Royal Australian Navy CoastwatcherEstablishment, Townesville, Australia, responding to your call.

As Koffler reached for the RECEIVE/XMIT switch, there was another reply.

FRD6.KCY.FRD6.KCY.FRD6.KCY.

Hello, Detachment A, this is the United States Pacific Fleet Radio Station at Pearl Harbor, Territory of Hawaii responding to your call.

"What's that?" Joe Howard asked.

"We got both Townesville and Pearl Harbor,"' Koffler said. Meanwhile his fingers were on the key.

FRD1.FRD1.SB CODE. KCY.KCY.PLS COPY.

Townesville, stand by to copy encrypted message. CINCPAC Radio, please copy my transmission to FRD1.

FRD6.FRD1. GA.

Townesville to Detachment A: Go ahead.

KCY.FRD6.WILL COPY YRS FRD1.GA.

CINCPAC to Detachment A; As requested we will copy your transmission to FRD1. Go ahead.

Koffler put the sheet of damp paper Howard had given him under his left hand, then pointed his index finger at the first block of five characters.

As his right hand worked the telegrapher's key, his index finger swept across the coded message. It is more difficult to transmit code than plain English, for the simple reason that code doesn't make any sense.

It took him not quite sixty seconds before he sent, in the clear, END.

FRD6.FRD1.VRF.

Detachment A, this is Townesville. I am about to send to you the material you just transmitted to me for purposes of verification.

FRD1.FRD6.GA.

Townesville, this is Detachment A. Go ahead.

Koffler picked up a stubby pencil carefully.

We're running out of pencils, too. If something doesn't happen, if they don't send us some supplies, I'll be taking traffic from the Townesville and the Commander-in-Chief, Pacific by writing it with a sharp stick in the dirt floor.

After the message was received, Koffler handed it to Howard, who checked it against his original. Then Koffler began to write down the verification from Pearl Harbor.

The message informed both the Royal Australian Navy Coastwatcher Establishment and the Commander-in-Chief, Pacific, that Detachment A had observed, beginning at 1025 hours, a fleet of approximately ninety-six Japanese aircraft, consisting of approximately thirty Aichi D3A1 "Val" aircraft; ten Mitsubishi G4M1 Type 1 "Betty" Aircraft; fifteen Nakajima B5N1 "Kate" aircraft and approximately forty-one Mitsubishi A6M2 Model 21 "Zero" aircraft, flying at altitudes ranging from 5,000 to 15,000 feet, on a course which would probably lead them to Guadalcanal.

Howard wanted to make sure the message had been correctly transmitted. It took a little time.

FRD6.KCY ?????????.

Detachment A. This is CINCPAC Radio. What's going on? We haven't heard from you in ninety seconds.

KCY.FRD6. FU FU.

CINCPAC Radio. This is Detachment A. Fuck You Twice.

"OK, Steve," Howard said. "Tell them we verify."

FRD6.FRD1.KCY. OK VRF. SB.

Detachment A to Townesville and Pearl Harbor. Verification is acknowledged. Detachment A is standing by.

FRD1.FDR6. SB TO COPY CODE.

FDR6. GA.

A minute later, Sergeant Stephen Koffler asked rhetorically, as he scribbled furiously, "what the hell are they sending us, the goddamned Bible?"

The message took three minutes to take down.

FDR1.FDR6. CLR.

Townesville to Detachment A. We have no further traffic for you at this time and are clearing this channel.

FDR6.FDR1. CLR.

Detachment A to Townesville. OK, Townesville, Good-bye.

KCY.FD6. FOLLOWING FOR COMMANDING OFFICER. PASS TO ALL HANDS. WELL DONE. NIMITZ. ADMIRAL.KCY CLR.

FRD6.KCY. GRBL. RPT.

Detachment A to CINCPAC Radio. Your last transmission was received garbled. Please repeat it.

KCY.FD6. FOLLOWING FOR COMMANDING OFFICER. PASS TO ALL HANDS. WELL DONE. NIMITZ. ADMIRAL.KCY CLR.

"I'll be goddamned," Sergeant Koffler said, and sent: FRD.6.KCY.CLR.

"Ian!" he called to the now completely sweat-soaked man pumping the generator. When he had his attention, he made a cutting motion across his throat.

"About fucking time!" Ian Bruce replied.

Steve handed the sheet of paper to Joe Howard.

"You think that's for real?" he asked.

"I can't imagine CINCPAC Radio fucking around," Howard said, seriously. "I'll be damned."

"What was the long code?" Steve asked.

Howard handed it to him.

Deeply regret am unable to relieve or reinforce at this time. Cannot overstate importance of what you are doing. Hang in there. Semper Fi. Banning.

"That's all there was?" Koffler asked.

"That's not enough?" Howard asked.

"You know what I meant," Koffler said. "I thought he was sending the goddamned Bible."

"That was all, Steve."

"Are we going to get out of here?"

"Until we got that 'Well Done' from the Commander-in-Chief Pacific, I thought so," Howard said. But when he saw the look on Koffler's face, he quickly added, "Just kidding, for Christ's sake."

"I was thinking of Daphne this morning," Koffler said. "I can't remember what she looks like. Ain't that a bitch?"

"When you see her, you'll know who she is," Howard said seriously. "Let's go get something to eat."

(Four) HEADQUARTERS MAG-21.

HENDERSON FIELD.

GUADALCANAL, SOLOMON ISLANDS.

1215 HOURS 24 AUGUST 1942.

First Lieutenant Henry P. Steadman, USMC, reminded Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, USMC, Commanding, Marine Air Group 21, of First Lieutenant David F. Schneider, USMC. Like Lieutenant Schneider, Steadman was a graduate of the United States Naval Academy and a brand-new replacement from the States; and the similarity did not please him.

When he saw Steadman with apparently nothing to do sitting on a folding chair just outside the sandbagged frame building which was serving as his headquarters, Lieutenant Colonel Dawkins ordered, "Steadman, pass the word to the pilots there'll be a briefing in ten minutes, will you?"

Lieutenant Steadman rose to his feet, looked baffled, and inquired, "The enlisted men, too, Sir?"

Dawkins's temper escaped.

"No, of course not," he said, with withering sarcasm. "I certainly have no intention of letting any of my flying sergeants in on officer type secrets like who and where we are going to fight."

Steadman's face colored.

"Sorry, Sir."

"You stupid little sonofabitch," Dawkins went on, his anger not a whit diminished, "if you don't know it yet, I'll spell it out for you: There's not a flying sergeant around here who can't fly rings around you. I would cheerfully trade two of your kind for one flying sergeant. You better write that on your goddamned forehead, I don't want you to forget it."

"Yes, Sir. I mean, No, Sir. I won't forget that, Sir."

"Go!" Dawkins ordered, extending a pointed finger at arm's length.

Lieutenant Steadman took off at a trot.

I really shouldn't have blown my cork that way, Dawkins thought, but then reconsidered: That arrogant little asshole needed that. It just may keep him alive through the next couple of days.

Ten minutes later, the pilots of MAG-21 were gathered in the tent that served as the briefing room. Three of the four sides had been rolled up, leaving only one narrow end wall behind the area that in a theater would have been the stage. Here, a bed removed from an otherwise destroyed Japanese Ford truck had been set up as a very rudimentary platform. It faced rows of simple plank benches. On the platform was a tripod made of two-by-fours. The tripod held several maps, now covered by a sheet of oilcloth.

Dawkins stepped into view from behind the canvas wall and made the slight jump onto the "stage."

"Ten-HUT!"

That was Galloway, Dawkins thought. For one thing, the command sounded like it came from a Marine, not from a recent graduate of the University of Michigan Naval ROTC program. And for another, a million years before the war, back when he was Technical Sergeant Galloway of VMF-211, Galloway had always taken pride in being the first to spot the commanding officer and issue the command that brought everybody to their feet and to attention.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Galloway at the rear of the tent, standing beside Lieutenant Bill Dunn and Captain Dale Brannon, U.S. Army Air Corps.

Brannon commanded the somewhat grandiosely named 67th Pursuit Squadron, which had arrived at Henderson 21 August. Brannon's group, more or less informally, was put under MAG-21 's command. It had only five airplanes, Bell P-400s. In Dawkins's opinion the P-400 was only marginally superior to the F2A-3 Buffalo, which was arguably the worst plane either side sent into combat in the Pacific.

Dawkins felt sorry for Brannon and his pilots; they would be going into combat almost literally with one hand tied behind them. Not only was the P-400 inferior to the Zero, but Dawkins had just learned that the oxygen system installed on the P-400s when they were supposed to go to the English could not be serviced by the equipment on Guadalcanal. That would limit them in altitude to maybe 12-13,000 feet. The book said that oxygen should be used over 10,000. The only hope Brannon and his pilots would have was in their superior armament (superior to the F4F, anyway): In addition to six.50 caliber Browning machine guns, the P-400s had a 20mm cannon, which fired through the propeller hub.

A hit with an explosive 20mm projectile was far more lethal than, say, ten hits with a.50 caliber solid nose or tracer bullet.

Dawkins was not surprised, somehow, when he noticed that Brannon and Galloway had taken up with each other.

All the pilots, Marine and Army, were dressed in gray tropical areas Naval aviator flying suits and boondockers. Dawkins would not have been surprised, either, to learn that the Army pilots' flight suits had come to them via Charley Galloway's VMF-229. Just before they left Ewa, a highly excited Navy supply officer at Pearl Harbor appeared, trying to locate a barrel-chested, bald-headed Marine Technical Sergeant who had been drawing supplies-including leather jackets and flight suits-with requisitions that turned out to be fraudulent. Dawkins told him he couldn't call to mind, offhand, if he had a barrel-chested, bald-headed Technical Sergeant or not. But if one turned up, he promised to let the Navy supply officer know right away.

Although there were some.38 Special caliber revolvers around, Galloway and Dunn and most of the others had Model 1911A1 Colt autoloaders in shoulder holsters.

Captain Brannon and his officers were all wearing battered leather-brimmed caps, from which the crown forms had been removed, ostensibly so that earphones could be worn over them. Dawkins recognized them for what they really were. They were pilots' hats, so that no one could mistake their wearers for some pedestrian soldier. Dawkins thought it was a classy idea-though he would not have shared this opinion with Brannon.

Galloway had a utility cap at least four sizes too small for him perched on top of his head. He had pinned to it his gold Naval aviator's wings and his railroad tracks. Dunn and most of the others wore khaki fore-and-aft caps, carrying the Marine insignia and the insignia of their rank.

I wonder what's going to happen to Dunn today? He's going out as Charley's exec, not as just one more airplane driver.

"Take your seats," Dawkins ordered. "Good afternoon, gentlemen."

There was a chorus of "Good afternoon, Sir," from the pilots, as they settled onto the plank benches.

"I am sorry to have to tell you that Captain Frankel is not available. Word has reached me that he was out carousing all night, and will not be sober until much later this afternoon. Consequently, I will handle this part of the briefing," Dawkins announced, straight-faced.

There was another chorus, this time of chuckles. There was, of course, no place to carouse; and even if there were, Captain Tony Frankel, MAG-21's S-2, was an absolute teetotal, and everybody knew it. And most of the pilots knew that Frankel had caught some kind of bug and had a spectacular case of the running shits. The scuttlebutt was that the Doc said he didn't know what it was, although he didn't think it was dysentery. Whatever it was, the Doc had grounded him.

Dawkins grabbed the oilcloth covering the maps and threw it over the back of the tripod.

A map showing the area from New Britain in the North to San Cristobal island, southwest of Guadalcanal, was now visible.

"For those of you who may have been wondering where the U.S. Navy is..." Dawkins began, and waited for the laughter to subside, "I have it on pretty reliable authority that as of midnight last night, Task Force 61 was in this area, about 150 miles east of here."

He used a pointer to show where he meant; it was made of a shortened pool cue, to which was fixed a.3O'O6 cartridge case and bullet.