There was more, Whittaker thought, than simple chemistry to explain why he had disliked Eldon Baker from the moment he had met him. He could prepare a long list of Things-Wrong-with-Eldon-Baker, headed by Baker's ruthlessness, and running down to such items as pompous, overbearing, and the compleat bureaucrat, but it was the chemistry primarily responsible for the inevitable verbal flare-ups whenever they were together.

Baker now chose to tolerate Whittaker.

"There's a mission envisioned for you," he said.

"What kind of a mission?"

Baker ignored the question.

"Prior to which it has been decided that you will go through the course."

"Decided by whom?"

"It's OSS policy," Baker said, "that everybody will go through the school."

"You're weaseling," Whittaker said. "Donovan doesn't know you expect me to go through this school of yours for spies, does he? You were just going to tell me that's the 'way it is.' Screw you, Eldon. That won't work. Canidy told me that Donovan told him that neither one of us had to do this. For Christ's sake, I was running running the school in England. " the school in England. "

"You have no training in infiltration by rubber boat from a submarine," Baker said. "Obviously, it was not my intention to send you through the whole course . . ."

"Oh?"

"And actually, I had planned to ask you to teach a few hours. I thought it would really get and keep the men's attention if they understood they were being taught by someone who had been operational."

"If that's a bone you're throwing, gnaw on it yourself," Whittaker said. He started out of the room, then turned and stopped at the door. "I'm going back to Washington," he said. "And it's going to take Wild Bill himself to order me back here. And then I may not come."

"Obviously, there's no purpose in debating this with you," Baker said.

When he went outside the building, determined to find Cynthia, Whittaker saw her immediately. In the time it had taken him to go through the confrontation with Baker, her group of trainees had run from where he had seen them on the road to the mansion.

Presumably, he decided, they had run all the way. Cynthia and another woman, both of them red-faced and heaving from the exertion, were sitting on the ground, their backs against a wall.

He walked over to her. She looked up at him but said nothing.

One of the senior trainees walked quickly up to him. He was tall and muscular and very handsome, and looked somehow familiar to Whittaker.

"May I help you, Sir?" he asked.

"Take a walk," Whittaker said.

He met Cynthia's eyes. "What the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing?"

"What does it look like?" she replied.

"Jesus Christ, if it wasn't so stupid, it would be funny," he said.

"Jimmy, why don't you just turn around and walk away from here?" Cynthia asked.

Instead, he reached down and grabbed her wrist and jerked her to her feet.

"What do you think you're doing?" she snapped.

He kissed her, moving so quickly there was no time for her to avert her face, and so surprising her that it was a moment before she twisted free.

One of the trainees laughed and applauded.

"What was that all about?" Cynthia said, seeming torn between outrage and tears. "Why did you do that?"

"Two reasons," he said. "To remind you that you're a woman. And because I love you."

"d.a.m.n you!" Cynthia said, fighting an infuriating urge to cry.

"Now, just a minute here!" the senior trainee said.

"Greg, don't!" Cynthia called quickly. "He's crazy. He'll kill you!"

The trainee looked at him warily and with great interest.

"Relax," Whittaker said. "I'm a lover, not a fighter." Then, feeling very pleased with himself, he walked over to the Packard, got in, and started it up.

III.

1.

HEADQUARTERS, 344TH FIGHTER GROUP ATCHAM ARMY AIR CORPS STATION, ENGLAND 31 JANUARY 1943.

Rank hath its privileges. In this case that meant that the commanding officer of the 344th Fighter Group was driven in a jeep from the final briefing to the revetment where his aircraft was parked. The other pilots rode jammed together in the backs of trucks.

The commanding officer of the 344th Fighter Group, Eighth United States Air Force, was Lieutenant Colonel Peter ("Doug") Dougla.s.s, Jr., USMA '39, a slight, pleasant -appearing officer who looked, until you saw his eyes, much too young to be either a fighter group commander or a lieutenant colonel. He was, in fact, twenty-five years old.

He was wearing a horsehide A-2 jacket, which had a zipper front and knit cuffs. On its back was painted the flag of the Republic of China and a legend in Chinese stating that the wearer had come to China to fight the j.a.panese invader, and that a reward in gold would be paid for his safe return in case he fell from the sky.

Doug Dougla.s.s had been a member of the American Volunteer Group in China and Burma, a "Flying Tiger," one of a small group of pilots who, before the United States had entered the war, were recruited from the Army Air Corps, the Marines, and the Navy to fly Curtiss P-40 fighters against the j.a.panese. On the nose of his P-38F there were painted ten small j.a.panese flags, called "meatb.a.l.l.s, " each signifying a j.a.panese kill. There were also painted six swastikas, representing the kills of six German aircraft, and the representation of a submarine.

While attacking the German submarine pens at Saint-Lazare, then-Major Dougla.s.s had attempted to skip-bomb a five-hundred-pound aerial bomb into the mouth of the pens. He hadn't made it. But his bomb had struck, literally by accident, a U-boat tied to a wharf just outside the mouth of the pen. It had penetrated the hull in the forward torpedo room, and what was known as a "sympathetic explosion" had occurred. The explosives in the bomb and in G.o.d-alone -knew-how-many torpedoes had combined, and the submarine had simply disappeared, leaving few recognizable pieces.

Dougla.s.s and his group had been accompanied on the mission by photo reconnaissance aircraft, and there was a motion picture record of the five-hundred-pound bombs dropping from Dougla.s.s's wings, and of one of them striking the submarine, and of large chunks of the submarine hull floating lazily through the air. There was no question about it, mistakes counted, it was a confirmed kill.

Newly promoted Lieutenant Colonel Dougla.s.s had given in to the "suggestion" by his division commander that he paint a submarine on the nose of his P-38F not because he considered it a victory but because it signified that he had been on the Saint-Lazare raid. He had lost forty percent of his aircraft-and his pilots-on that raid.

A story made the rounds that after the raid Dougla.s.s had walked into Eighth Air Force Headquarters and decked the Plans & Training officer who had ordered the mission. And that the b.l.o.o.d.y nose he'd given the chair-warmer had given the bra.s.s a choice between court-martialing a West Pointer who was a triple ace or promoting him, and they'd opted in favor of the promotion.

Today, there was with him in the jeep as it made its way down the parking ramp at Atcham another pilot wearing an identical A-2 jacket with the Chinese flag and calligraphy painted on its back. He was taller and heavier than Dougla.s.s, and, at twenty-six, a year older. His name was Richard Canidy, and he had been Lt. Col. Dougla.s.s's squadron leader in the Flying Tigers.

He was not a member of the 344th Fighter Group, nor, despite the gold leaves of a major pinned to his A-2 jacket epaulets, even an officer of the Army Air Corps. Canidy (BS, Aeronautical Engineering, MIT '38) had first been recruited from his duty as a lieutenant junior grade, USNR, instructor pilot to be a Flying Tiger, and from the Flying Tigers to be a "technical consultant" to the Office of the Coordinator of Information.

The Office of the Coordinator of Information had been redesignated the Office of Strategic Services, and Canidy was now officer in charge, Whitbey House Station, OSS-England, which made him the third-ranking OSS officer in England. Civilians, in a military environment, attract attention. But little attention is paid, particularly at the upper levels of the military hierarchy, to majors. It had been arranged with the Army Air Corps to issue "Technical Consultant Canidy" an AGO card from the Adjutant General's Office, identifying him as a major, and to ensure that if inquiries were made at Eighth Air Force or SHAEF (Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force) there would be a record of a Canidy, Major Richard M., USAAC.

Canidy was not supposed to be flying with the 344th Fighter Group on this mission. Indeed, if either he or Lt. Col. Dougla.s.s had asked their superiors for permission for him to come along, the request would have been denied.

Dougla.s.s wasn't sure why Canidy wanted to go. He guessed that it had something to do with Jimmy Whittaker getting his a.s.s shipped to Australia, and with Eric Fulmar and Stanley Fine having disappeared suddenly from Whitbey House, destination and purpose unspecified. Canidy's old gang, with the exception of Lt. Commander Eddie Bitter, USN (another ex-Flying Tiger), and of course Dougla.s.s himself, had been broken up. A deal like that, being with your buddies, was of course too good to last.

Once, at Whitbey House, Dougla.s.s with most of a quart of Scotch in him, had looked at the others with a sudden wave of warmth: They were good guys, the best, and they were his buddies; he would never, as long as he lived, have better friends. They were good guys, the best, and they were his buddies; he would never, as long as he lived, have better friends. And then he had made what had seemed in his condition to be a profound philosophical observation: And then he had made what had seemed in his condition to be a profound philosophical observation: "War, like politics, makes strange bedfellows." "War, like politics, makes strange bedfellows."

The undisputed leader of the gang, the best natural commander Dougla.s.s had ever seen-and the test had been combat-was Canidy. And Canidy was not, like Dougla.s.s (West Point) and Bitter (Annapolis), a professional warrior, but almost the ant.i.thesis, an MIT-trained aeronautical engineer who made no secret that he found most of the traditions sacred to the professional military hilarious.

The wise man, the philosopher so to speak, of the gang was Captain Stanley S. Fine, a tall ascetic Jew who had been a Hollywood lawyer before he had been recruited for the OSS from command of a B-17 Squadron. If closing with the enemy and killing him with bare hands was the ultimate description of a warrior, then the gang's most ferocious members were unlikely warriors. Eric Fulmar was the son of a movie star and a German industrialist, and Jimmy Whittaker was a wealthy socialite who addressed the President of the United States as "Uncle Franklin."

Dougla.s.s knew that if coincidence had thrown these men together in any normal military organization, and if, improbably, they had become buddies there, any commanding officer with enough sense to find his a.s.s with both hands would have broken up the gang and transferred them as far from each other as possible-as awesome threats to "good military order and discipline."

But they weren't in any normal military organization. They were in the Office of Strategic Services.

Lt. Col. Dougla.s.s knew more about the OSS than he had any right to know. He wasn't even supposed to know about Whitbey House, much less spend most of his free time in the requisitioned mansion, the ancestral home of the Dukes of Stanfield. But he was a special case. Not only had he been d.i.c.k Canidy's wingman in the Flying Tigers, but his father was Captain Peter Dougla.s.s, Sr., deputy director of the OSS, Colonel Wild Bill Donovan's number two.

David Bruce, Chief of London Station, and his deputy, Lt. Col. Ed Stevens, simply ignored Dougla.s.s's illegal presence at Whitbey House when they saw him there. Canidy and the others didn't talk about what they were doing in Dougla.s.s's presence, or tried hard not to, but it was difficult to remember all the time that Dougla.s.s didn't have the Need-to-Know, and things slipped out.

When Canidy had hinted that he wouldn't mind getting checked out in the P-38F, Dougla.s.s had known that the next inevitable step would be for him to go along on a mission. But it would have been difficult to tell his old squadron commander, on whose wing he had first experienced aerial combat, that that was against regulations and therefore impossible. It would have been difficult if he had wanted to say "no," and he didn't want to say no.

He was the group commander, and no one asked questions when they saw him personally showing an Air Corps major around a P-38F, or when he scheduled a couple of P- 38Fs for training flights and went along with the major.

If d.i.c.k dumped a P-38F while he was learning, Dougla.s.s decided, he would just say that he was flying it. That would work unless Canidy killed himself, in which case it wouldn't matter. That fear turned out to have been academic. Canidy hadn't had any trouble with the P-38F. He was a good pilot, and an experienced one. He had several thousand hours in the air. Many of Dougla.s.s's pilots had less than two hundred fifty.

When the jeep stopped in front of the revetment in which waited the P-38F that Canidy would fly today, and Canidy started to get out, Dougla.s.s touched his arm.

"I'll fly your wing, if you like, Skipper," he said.

Canidy smiled at him, touched by the gesture.

"I'm just going along for the ride, thank you, Colonel, Colonel," he said.

Dougla.s.s nodded and motioned for the driver to continue.

Canidy walked into the revetment. The crew chief, a young technical sergeant, threw him a casual salute.

"Good morning, Major," he said.

"Morning," Canidy said. "You've wound both rubber bands, I presume?"

"Yes, Sir," the crew chief said.

Canidy, with the crew chief trailing him, walked around the airplane, making the preflight check. He found nothing wrong and nodded his approval of the aircraft's condition.

They walked back to the nose of the aircraft, where the crew chief held out a sheepskin flying jacket to Canidy, and then when Canidy had put his arms into it, steadied him as he pulled sheepskin trousers over his uniform trousers.

Canidy started to climb the ladder to the c.o.c.kpit, which sat between the twin engines. And for the first time he saw what was painted on the nose. The Flying Tiger's shark's jaw, and "d.i.c.k Canidy," in flowing script, and beneath it five meatb.a.l.l.s.

"That was very nice of you, Sergeant," Canidy said. "Thank you very much."

"The Colonel thought you'd like it, Major," the crew chief said. "He was your squadron CO in the Flying Tigers, wasn't he?"

"Right," Canidy said. It was not the time for historical accuracy.

He climbed into the c.o.c.kpit. The crew chief climbed the ladder after him, carrying sheepskin boots. Canidy, not without difficulty, put them on, and then the crew chief helped him with the parachute straps, and finally handed him the leather helmet and oxygen mask, with its built-in microphone.

"Go get a couple, Major," the crew chief said. "G.o.d go with you."

Canidy smiled and nodded.

The crew chief climbed down the ladder, then removed it from where it hooked on the c.o.c.kpit. Another crew member, as Canidy ran the controls through their limits, rolled up a fire extinguisher. Then he and the crew chief looked up at the c.o.c.kpit, waiting for Canidy's next order.

Canidy looked down and saw they were ready for him.

This is not the smartest thing I have ever done, Canidy thought. Canidy thought. I know better. Only a G.o.dd.a.m.n fool goes off voluntarily into the wild blue yonder, from which he stands a good chance indeed of dying in flames. I know better. Only a G.o.dd.a.m.n fool goes off voluntarily into the wild blue yonder, from which he stands a good chance indeed of dying in flames.

The alternative was sitting around Whitbey House going nuts. Christ only knew what Donovan had in mind for Jimmy Whittaker. And at this moment, Eric Fulmar was somewhere in Germany wearing the uniform of an SS-Obersturmfuhrer (first lieutenant). If the SS caught him in that, they would be inspired to see that his death was preceded by their most imaginative interrogation techniques.

It was either this-which by stretching a point could be considered flying a reconnaissance mission himself that otherwise the Air Corps would have to make-or drink. Or go nuts.

He flipped the Main Power Buss on, then adjusted the richness control of the left engine. He looked down from the c.o.c.kpit.

"Clear!" he called.

"Clear, Sir," the crew chief called back.

Canidy leaned forward and held the ENGINE START LEFT toggle switch against the pressure of its spring.

The left engine began to grind, and the prop began to turn, very slowly. Then the engine caught for a moment, bucked, and spit. The prop became a silver blur.

There had been time to think. He was just along for the ride. He was riding Dougla.s.s's wing, throttled back at 25,000 feet so as not to outrun the bomber stream of B- 17Es at 23,000 feet. Dougla.s.s had the responsibility for the flock of sheep. All Canidy had to do was maintain his position relative to Doug.

The first thing he thought was that this was where he really belonged. He was a pilot, and a good one, a combat-experienced pilot. And also an aeronautical engineer. He knew what he was doing here. He should have fought this war as a pilot.

But other thoughts intruded. Experience was relative to somebody else's experience. Relatively speaking, he was an old-timer in the intelligence business, not because he'd done so much but because hardly anybody else had done anything at all. The Americans, as the British were so fond of pointing out whenever they found the opportunity, were virgins in the intelligence business.

There had been a cartoon one time on the bulletin board at MIT in Cambridge: "Last Weak I Cudn't Even Spell 'Enginnear' And Now I Are One."

There should be one on his corkboard in his office, he thought: "Last Year, I Didn't Even Know What An Action Officer Was, But Look At Me Now!"

And I am now possessed of knowledge, he thought, he thought, that would scare the s.h.i.t out of those guys in the bombers. They have been told so often-by people who believe what they are saying-that the "box" tactic- that would scare the s.h.i.t out of those guys in the bombers. They have been told so often-by people who believe what they are saying-that the "box" tactic-which provided a theoretically impenetrable fire zone of .50-caliber machine-gun fire-is going to keep them safe from harm that they tend to believe it.

They question what they are told, of course. They're smart enough to figure out-or have learned from experience-that German fighters will get past the fighter escort and then penetrate the box. But they hope that the fighter escorts will grow more skilled and the .50-caliber fire zones will be refined so that things will get better, not worse, and that all they will really have to worry about is flak.