"Just to get off an airplane," Pickering said. "I was hoping I could bunk with you tonight."

"h.e.l.l, yes! But what are you doing down here?"

"I was over with the Army Air Corps at Eglin Air Force Base," Pickering said. "It's right down the coast."

"Doing what?"

"None of your business, Lieutenant."

"You're involved with the B-25s," Pick Pickering challenged.

"What B-25s?" Pickering asked innocently.

"As if you didn't know," Pick said. "They've got an airfield over there with the dimensions of an aircraft-carrier deck painted on it. And they're trying to get B-25s off it."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Pickering said. "But if I were you, I'd watch my mouth. You haven't seen those posters, 'Loose Lips Sink Ships'?"

Pick's look was both hurt and wary.

"That sounded pretty official," he said after a moment. "You're my father, for Christ's sake!"

"Pick, you and I are officers," Pickering said.

"See, wisea.s.s?" d.i.c.k Stecker said. "Learn to keep your mouth shut."

"I'd still like to know what the h.e.l.l they think they're doing over there," Pick Pickering said.

"You keep wondering out loud about it, you can read all about it in the newspapers. In your cell at Portsmouth. I'm serious, Pick."

Their eyes met.

"I didn't mean to put you on the spot, Dad," he said. "Sorry."

"Forget it," Pickering said.

"Don't forget it," d.i.c.k Stecker said. "Write it on your G.o.dd.a.m.ned forehead."

"Well, the both of you can go to h.e.l.l," Pick said cheerfully. "You can stand here and feel self-righteous. I need a shower."

"Can I make you a drink, Captain Pickering?" d.i.c.k Stecker asked. "You name it, we've got it."

"At least one of the occupants of this rooftop brothel is an officer and a gentleman," Pickering said. "Scotch, please. With soda, if you have it."

"Yes, Sir. Coming right up."

"I saw your dad a while back. In San Diego."

"Yes, Sir. Dad wrote me that he'd seen you; that you were in the Corps in War One together."

"Is that what you call it now? 'War One'?"

"Yes, Sir. Isn't that what it was, the First World War?"

"At the time, it was called 'the war to end all wars,' " Pickering said.

d.i.c.k Stecker handed him a drink.

"Thank you," Pickering said. "Is my being here going to interfere with any serious romantic plans you two had for tonight?"

"No, Sir. Not at all."

"When I had them let me in here, I was a little surprised not to find an a.s.sortment of local lovelies," Pickering said.

"Yes, Sir," Stecker said uncomfortably, then blurted, "You're asking about Martha Culhane, aren't you, Captain?"

"I am. But I would rather Pick didn't know I knew about her. Something about her. If this puts you on a spot, the subject never came up."

d.i.c.k Stecker made a circling motion with his index finger at his temple.

"He's nuts about her," he said. "She's a widow. Did you know?"

Pickering nodded.

"He's really got it bad for her. And she won't give him the time of day."

"You think that's maybe what it is? That she's not interested? That his Don Juan ego is involved?"

"No. I wish it was."

"What do you think of her?"

"I don't know what to think," Stecker said. "Maybe it'll pa.s.s when we graduate and get the h.e.l.l out of here. But I don't know."

"OK. Thank you. Subject closed."

They ate in the hotel dining room, which was crowded with men in Navy and Marine Corps uniforms.

Over their shrimp c.o.c.ktail, Fleming Pickering told them he was headed, via Washington and the West Coast, for Hawaii.

"When are you coming back?"

"I don't know," Pickering said. "Captains, like second lieutenants, go when and where they're told to go."

That was not true. Although he was still traveling on the vague orders that Captain Jack NMI Stecker had described as "awesome," permitting him to go where and when he pleased, no questions asked, he now had specific orders from the Secretary of the Navy: Stay at Pearl Harbor as long as you want, Flem; learn what you can. But the President is going to order MacArthur out of the Philippines and to Australia. I want you there when he gets there. I want to know what he's up to. Haughton will message you wherever you are when Roosevelt orders him to leave, if you're not already in Australia by then.

Lieutenants Pickering and Stecker laughed dutifully.

There was a stir in the room while they were eating their broiled flounder. Pickering followed the point of attention to the door. Rear Admiral Richard Sayre, a woman almost certainly his wife, and a beautiful young blond woman almost certainly the widowed daughter, followed the headwaiter to a table across the room. Moments later, a Marine captain, a Naval Aviator, walked quickly to join them.

"That's Admiral Sayre, Captain," d.i.c.k Stecker said. "He's number three at Pensacola. And his wife and daughter."

Fleming Pickering was aware that his son was looking intently, perhaps angrily, at Stecker.

"And Captain Mustache," Stecker added.

"Captain 'Mustache'?" Pickering asked.

"He's one of our IPs . . . Instructor Pilots," Pick said.

"Oh," Pickering said.

"And like a lot of people around here, he's got a crush on the Admiral's daughter," Stecker said.

"She's a beautiful young woman," Pickering said.

"Yeah," Pick said. "She is."

That was all he had to say about Martha Sayre Culhane. But he kept looking over at her. And when Fleming Pickering looked in that direction, more often than not, Martha Sayre Culhane was surrept.i.tiously looking in their direction.

Chapter Nine.

(One) Aboard the Motor Yacht Last Time The San Diego Yacht Club San Diego, California 7 March 1942 Ensign Barbara Cotter, USNR, and Miss Ernestine Sage were alone aboard the Last Time. Ensign Cotter was barefoot; she wore the briefest of white shorts, and her bosom was only barely concealed beneath a thin, orange kerchief bandeau. Miss Sage was wearing the briefest of pale blue shorts and a T-shirt, beneath which it was obvious she wore nothing else.

Although it was nearly noon, they were just finishing the breakfast dishes. They had been up pretty late the night before; there had been a certain amount of physical activity once they had gone to bed. After breakfast, they'd waved bye-bye to Lieutenants Joseph L. Howard, USMCR, and Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, as they departed for duty. Then Miss Sage had suggested to Ensign Cotter, "To h.e.l.l with the dishes, let's go back to bed," and they had done just that, rising again only a few moments ago.

Barbara Cotter did not go home to Philadelphia on her overseas leave. She had called her parents and told them she was being shipped out; and no, she didn't know where she was going, and no, she wouldn't be able to get home before she left.

It was the first time she had ever lied to her parents about anything important, and it bothered her. But the choice had been between going home, alone, and staying in San Diego with Joe for the period of her leave. She was perfectly willing to admit that she was being a real s.h.i.t for not going home, and then lying about it, but she wasn't sorry.

And in Ernie Sage she had found both a friend and a kindred soul; it was no time before Ernie offered Barbara and Joe the starboard stateroom for as long as they wanted it-just because they felt so close so quickly. Both of them were nice, Protestant, middle-cla.s.s (in Ernie's case, maybe upper-cla.s.s) girls who had gone to college and had bright futures. And both of them were shacked up with a couple of Marines.

And were completely unashamed about it.

In no time they were both sharing deep, mutual confidences: The first time they had laid eyes on Joe and Ken, they had known in their hearts that if they wanted to do that, and they hoped they would want to do that, they were going to let them.

It was the first time either of them had really felt that way, although in Ernie's case there had been a poet from Dartmouth, and in Barbara's case a gastroenterologist, who had made them feel almost that way.

And they talked, seriously, about why those things were going on. Barbara's theory was-that Mother Nature caused the transmitters and receptors to be turned on in the interests of propagation. And Ernie's tangential theory was that Nature wanted to increase pregnancies in time of war.

And they talked of getting pregnant, and/or of getting married. They both reached the same conclusion: they weren't going to get married, not right away, anyhow. Because Joe and Ken thought they were probably going to get killed-or worse, crippled-in battle, both men refused to consider marriage. Yet Barbara and Ernie both agreed that what they really wanted, maybe most in the world, was to make babies with Joe and Ken. If they did, Joe and Ken would be furious-for the same reason they didn't want to get married. And further, since it was really better to have a baby when the baby was wanted, it was probably really better to wait until The Boys Came Home.

And in the meantime, they played housewife, and they loved it. They either prepared elaborate meals in the Last Time's galley, or they went out for dinner to the Coronado Beach Hotel dining room, or to some hole-in-the-wall Mexican or Chinese restaurant. They carried their men's uniforms to the laundry, sewed their b.u.t.tons on, and bought them razor blades and boxer shorts and Vitalis For The Hair. And loved them at night. And refused to think that it couldn't last forever-or, in Barbara and Joe's case, not later than the time her orders gave her, 2300 hours 16 March 1942. She was supposed to report to the Overseas Movement Officer, San Diego Naval Yard; and for her the Last Time would turn into a pumpkin.

Ernie told Barbara that after she was gone, and after Ken McCoy had shipped out, she was going back to New York City and back to work. She promised to visit Barbara's family in Philadelphia then, and tell them about Joe. She would confirm what Barbara was going to write them about him once she was on the ship headed n.o.body would tell her where.

The telephone rang, and Ernie Sage answered it, then held up the phone to Barbara.

"It's somebody from the Navy Yard," she said.

Lieutenant Joe Howard, ever the dedicated officer, had advised her that if she wasn't going home, she was required to let "the receiving station" (by which he meant the Navy Yard) know where she was and how she could be reached.

"Ensign Cotter," Barbara said to the telephone.

"Ma'am, this is Chief Venwell, of Officer Movement, at the Navy Yard."

"What can I do for you, Chief?"

"Ma'am, you're to report here, with all your gear, for outshipment by 0630 tomorrow."

"What are you talking about? I'm on leave until the sixteenth."

"No, Ma'am. That's why I'm calling. Your orders have been changed. You're to report in by 0630 tomorrow."

"Why?"

"Ma'am, I guess they found a s.p.a.ce for you to outship."

"But what if I was in Philadelphia?"

"Ma'am?"

"I was authorized a leave to Philadelphia. You couldn't do this to me if I was in Philadelphia," Barbara said. "I couldn't get from Philadelphia to San Diego by six o'clock tomorrow morning."

"Ma'am, you're in San Diego," Chief Venwell said. "Ma'am, I'm sorry about this, but I can't do a thing for you."

(Two) The Coronado Beach Hotel San Diego, California 8 March 1942 "It's been a long time since I came here with a man in uniform," Patricia Foster Pickering said to her husband as they approached the hotel entrance.

Fleming Pickering was at the wheel of a 1939 Cadillac Sixty-Two Special he had borrowed from J. Charles Ansley, General Manager, San Diego Operations, Pacific & Far Eastern Shipping. He looked at his wife in some confusion until he took her meaning.

"Oh," he said wickedly, "that stuck in your mind, did it?"

It was a reference to their rendezvous in San Diego in 1919. Corporal Fleming Pickering, USMC, was going through the separation process at the San Diego Marine Barracks when, unannounced, Miss Patricia Foster of San Francisco had shown up at the gate to announce that she just happened to be in the neighborhood and thought she would just drop by.

She had had a suite in the Coronado Beach, a complimentary courtesy rendered by the management to the only daughter of Andrew Foster, Chairman of the Board of the Foster Hotel Corporation. There she had presented him with a welcome-home present of a nature he had not really expected to receive until after their relationship was officially sanctioned by the Protestant Episcopal Church.

"From time to time, I think of it," she admitted.

Throughout their marriage, Patricia had often surprised him. She had surprised him at two-fifteen that morning by slipping, naked, into his bed at Charley Ansley's house on a bluff overlooking the Pacific.