In Danger's Path by W. E. B. Griffin Page A

Pluto.”
    [THREE]
Espíritu Santo Island
New Hebrides, Southern Pacific Ocean
1620 8 February 1943
    At 1130 that morning, Rear Admiral Jerome J. Henton, USN, the commander of US Navy Base (Forward) Espíritu Santo, summoned Captain Howell C. Mitchell, Medical Corps, USN, who commanded the Navy hospital, to his office. Henton told him that he was about to receive six patients, U.S. civilians, four of them female, all in need of urgent medical attention.
    â€œSir?” Mitchell was confused.
    â€œThey were evacuated by submarine from Mindanao, and a Catalina picked them up at sea,” Admiral Henton explained.
    Mitchell’s eyes widened—Mindanao was in the hands of the Japanese—but he said nothing.
    â€œIt’s part of a hush-hush Marine Corps operation,” Henton went on. “And the man running it, Brigadier General Pickering, will probably be on the beach to meet the Cat. A very interesting man. Hell of a poker player. And—forewarned is forearmed, as they say—he has friends in very high places.”
    â€œI will treat the gentleman accordingly.”
    Six patients in need of urgent medical attention translated to three ambulances. Captain Mitchell ordered four ambulances to the beach, plus four doctors, four nurses, and twelve corpsmen.
    When he himself arrived at the beach, he found that the ambulances were already lined up in a row, backed up to the beach. He looked around to see if General Pickering had arrived, and decided he hadn’t. Neither of the two staff cars on the island used to transport flag and general officers was in sight. Nor did he see any sign of a general officer’s aide-de-camp, or of a vehicle adorned with the silver star on a red tag that proclaimed it was carrying a Marine brigadier. The only other vehicles around were a three-quarter ton truck, carrying the ground crew who would guide the Catalina ashore, and a jeep. Both were parked at the far end of the line of ambulances. Only one man was in the jeep. Captain Mitchell decided the man in the jeep was probably a chief petty officer sent to supervise the beaching of the Catalina.
    Before he took another look at the lone man in the jeep, Mitchell worked his way to the end of the line of ambulances, chatting for a moment with each of the doctors, nurses, and corpsmen while simultaneously checking to make sure everything was as it should be.
    But when he came close enough to see who was in the jeep, he realized he’d guessed wrong. The man sent to supervise the beaching of the Catalina wasn’t a chief petty officer. Pinned to the collar points of his somewhat mussed khakis were the silver stars of a brigadier general.
    He walked up to the jeep and saluted.
    â€œGood afternoon, General.”
    The salute was returned.
    Mitchell’s next thought was that General Pickering had intelligent eyes; but, more than that, he also had that hard to define yet unmistakable aura of command. This man was used to giving orders. And used to having his orders carried out.
    â€œAfternoon, Doctor,” General Pickering said, and offered his hand. And then he pointed up at the sky.
    Mitchell followed the hand. The Catalina was in the last stages of its amphibious descent. And together they watched as it splashed down and taxied through the water toward the beach.
    Pickering got from behind the wheel of the jeep and walked to the edge of the water.
    â€œI’ll be damned!” he said, a curious tone in his voice.
    â€œSir?”
    â€œI just saw one of my men,” Pickering replied. “I really didn’t think any of them would be on that airplane.”

    â€œKiller, General Pickering’s on the beach,” the tall, solid, not-at-all-bad-looking man peering out the portside bubble of the Catalina announced to the man standing beside him. The man who was standing kept his balance by hanging on to the exposed framing of the Catalina’s interior.
    The insignia pinned to the