"Do you think I could have that in writing?"

Dillon glowered at him. After a moment, Pick shrugged.

"OK, Jake. I'll take care of them."

"The proper response, Mr. Pickering, is 'aye, aye, Sir.' "

"Aye, aye, Sir," Pick said. "I said I'd take care of them. I will."

"Sergeant McCoy and his escorts will be billeted at Eighth and I. I have no objection to you and Dunn staying in your dad's apartment, but I am holding you responsible for McCoy."

"Then I had better stay at Eighth and I, too, hadn't I? What escorts?"

"I've got two gunnies, large ones, sitting on McCoy. You work out the details with them. Somebody from Public Relations will meet your plane. You call me on arrival, and at least once a day. And whenever anything happens you think I should know about. I'll give you the numbers of the Public Relations office here, and my house in Malibu. The officer-in-charge is a lieutenant named Macklin."

"OK, Jake," Pick said.

"When we're around Macklin, it's 'Major' and 'Yes, Sir.' Get the picture?"

"Aye, aye, Sir."

Dunn walked up.

"Can I meet you guys later someplace? The lady wants to show me around Hollywood."

"In half an hour, you'll be on another airplane," Dillon said. "Follow me, please, gentlemen."

"Major, this is a sure thing!" Dunn protested.

"The only sure things are death and taxes," Dillon said. "I broke my ass to get seats on the airplane. You'll be on it."

"What if I, for example, had diarrhea and missed it?"

"Then you would spend the next four days having diarrhea crossing the country by train," Dillon said. "Follow me, please."

There were four Marines inside the terminal: three noncommissioned officers standing by a not-in-use-at-the-moment ticket counter, and one second lieutenant sitting in a chrome and plastic chair in a waiting area on the other side of the terminal space.

As Major Dillon and Lieutenants Dunn and Pickering approached the enlisted men, the largest of these, a barrel-chested, 220-pound, six-foot-two-inch master gunnery sergeant, softly said, "Ten-hut!" and came to attention. The next-largest Marine, a six-foot-one, 205-pound, barrel-chested gunnery sergeant, decided that the smallest Marine, a six-foot, 195-pound staff sergeant, was not complying with the order with sufficient dispatch. He corrected this perceived breach of the code of military courtesy by punching the staff sergeant just above the kidneys with his thumb, which caused the staff sergeant not only to grunt painfully but rapidly assume the position of attention.

"As you were," Major Dillon said. "Gunny, there's been a slight change in plans. This is Lieutenant Pickering, who will be in charge."

"Aye, aye, Sir," the master gunnery sergeant said.

"Lieutenant Pickering, this is Master Gunnery Sergeant Louveau, who is Sergeant McCoy's escort, and this is Gunnery Sergeant Devlin."

Pickering shook hands with both Louveau and Devlin, then offered a hand to McCoy.

"I have the advantage on you, Sergeant," he said. "Not only do I know who you are, but I'm a friend of your brother's. This is Lieutenant Dunn."

"I know who you are, too, Sergeant," Dunn said.

Staff Sergeant McCoy said not a word, for which breach of courtesy he received another thumb over the kidney.

"The officers spoke to you, McCoy," the gunnery sergeant said.

"Aye, aye, Sir," Staff Sergeant McCoy said.

"Gunny, I'm sure they're ready to board the aircraft," Dillon said. "Would you see that Sergeant McCoy finds his seat?"

"Aye, aye, Sir," the master gunnery sergeant said. He took Staff Sergeant McCoy's elbow and, followed by the gunnery sergeant, propelled him down the terminal toward an area occupied by United Airlines.

"You want to tell me what that's all about?" Pick asked.

"He's a mean sonofabitch when he's sober," Dillon said. "Drunk, he's worse. The gunnies are going to keep him sober while the President or the Secretary of the Navy-just who is still up in the air-hangs The Medal around his neck. And while you all are out selling war bonds."

"Major, did you hear what he did on Bloody Ridge?" Dunn asked. "He's one hell of a Marine."

"I also heard what he did in a whorehouse in San Diego," Dillon replied. "The only reason he's not on his way to Portsmouth Naval Prison is because of what he did on Bloody Ridge." He paused for a moment, catching each of their eyes in turn., as he said: "Let me tell both of you something: A smart Marine officer knows when to look the other way when good Marine sergeants, like those two, deal with a problem. You understand what I'm saying?"

"I get the picture," Pickering said.

"Good," Dillon said. "I really hope you do. I know Charley would have. Whether you like it or not, Pick, you're going to have to start behaving like a Marine officer; flying airplanes isn't all The Corps expects you to do."

He raised his hand over his shoulder and made a come on over gesture to the second lieutenant sitting in the chrome and plastic chair across the terminal.

"Surprise two," Dillon said.

Pick and Dunn turned to see Second Lieutenant Robert F. Easter-brook, USMCR, standing up and then walking over to them.

"I'll be damned," Bill Dunn said. "What do you call that, a three-day wonder?"

"Good morning, Sirs," the Easterbunny said.

My God, Pick thought, he's actually blushing.

"Where's your camera, Easterbunny?"' Dunn asked. "You have to have a camera around somewhere."

"Shit," the Easterbunny said, blushing even redder as he ran back to where he'd been sitting and retrieved a 35mm Leica from under the seat. He returned looking sheepish.

"Lieutenant Easterbrook is one more responsibility of yours, Lieutenant Pickering," Jake said. "Since you so graciously excused Captain Galloway from this detail."

"What do I do with him?"

"The Director of Public Affairs, a brigadier general named J. J. Stewart whom you will find at Eighth and I, is not only determined to have a look at this most recent addition to the officer corps, but he's going to pin a medal on him. You will work that into your busy schedule, too. After that, Easterbrook, you have until Thursday, 5 November, to make your way back out here."