Chapter 3
Vella La Cava, VMF 214 HQ
Kate's tent – where things are not as they appear. Much to her disappointment
Kate's eyes snapped open at Greg's words and she took an involuntary step back. The sensual heat of his mouth and hands sparkled through her system, setting off a distracting series of reactions, and caught in the turbulence, she was sure she'd mis-heard him.
"You want me to do what?"
"Write a newspaper story," Greg said again. "Something that will make Japan think the United States is about to blow that blockade out of the water."
Kate reeled at the sudden change of subject. It appeared her current state of physical frustration was likely to be a long-term condition, plus now her mind was looping in circles that overlapped but refused to synchronize. "But you said it's going to be weeks before Washington can implement a plan. You want me to just make something up?"
"Exactly." The firm set of his mouth made it clear she hadn't mis-heard him this time.
Reluctantly, she forced her mind to focus on the matter at hand. Which was not the matter she thought was at hand.
"You want me to fabricate a story that will make the Japanese pull their fleet back because they think Uncle Sam is going to drop a pill down their stack." It was a statement, not a question. She completely failed to see how this was going to work.
"I knew you'd see it my way."
Kate locked her eyes on his, trying—not for the first time—to figure out how he pulled her into these schemes. One minute she was contemplating a nightcap that involved a little more than Scotch and the next, she was up to her neck in Black Sheep subterfuge. And—not for the first time—she failed. Greg's easy grin said he had her and he knew it.
Her ethics rebelled at the thought of just making up a story and passing if off as fact. He knew her well enough to know her principles were clear when it came to truthful reporting. How could he expect her to do this? She opened her mouth, fully intending to say no, she did not see it his way. That wasn't what came out.
"I understand the concept but not the execution," she said instead, addressing one of the myriad things she thought were wrong with this idea. "Lard said the supply planes aren't coming. How am I going to get a story out of here?"
As a correspondent, her stories and photos for publication in stateside papers typically made their way via courier from La Cava to Espritos to Pearl Harbor and from there, were sent via teletype or through the mail to the States. After clearing censors at the War Department, they continued on to the Associated Press for distribution in newspapers across America. The journey took anywhere from a few days to a few weeks, depending on action in the various theatres.
"You're not going to send it through regular channels," Greg said. "You're going to call it in."
On occasions when weather delayed the transports, Kate called the Associated Press office on Espritos directly. The office on that rear area base was a tiny affair with a two-man staff who spent more time in the officers' club than at the news desk. When they were in the office, they took a dim view of being asked to take dictation, even if it was K.C. Cameron on the line. Due to the necessity of using secure radio channels and having one of the Black Sheep read the story, pretending to be her, it was less hassle to just send her work via hard copy. Slowly, she began to see where Greg was headed.
"And our scrambler will just happen to be down," she said, "so I won't be on a secure line and Japanese intelligence will get an ear full."
"Exactly."
Kate was starting to dislike that word. Nothing in this war was exact. "Won't they be suspicious if all of a sudden the American press starts leaking strategy?"
Greg dismissed her concern with a shake of his head. "Still working on that part." His eyes were the vibrant hue they took on when he was intensely focused on a mission. "You'll need to write more than one story. We have to create an illusion of a secret weapon or a major offensive aimed at the blockade. There has to be a build-up, we can't just drop this all at once and expect them to buy it."
"Now we are writing this story?" Kate asked dryly.
"I'll help." He smiled and her heart gave a little skip.
"I doubt you'll be much—"
Greg pulled her into his arms and silenced her doubts. She gave herself to the kiss as the familiar aching need rose through her, heat and power and the promise of impossible pleasure. Every damn time he touched her it was like a flame ignited low in her belly and spread like wildfire. Her lips parted, inviting a degree of intimacy that wasn't a good idea but she couldn't help it. It was dark, after all. Really dark. And the base was asleep and—
Bootsteps sounded outside the door and tent canvas rustled.
"We're not interrupting, are we?" Jim sauntered in with Casey behind him. Kate held Greg's mouth for a second longer, noting he wasn't in a hurry to end the embrace either. Would she ever learn privacy was unheard of on this base whether the lights were on or not?
"When has that ever stopped you?" She untangled herself from Greg. Meatball thumped his tail, happy at this impromptu gathering of his friends.
"Saw your light, figured you were up," Jim snickered.
"What do you want?" Kate asked with a resigned sigh.
"We want to know what your plan is, Greg," Casey said. "The guys are worried. If we can't get supplies and can only fly half-time, we're not gonna be much use to the War Department. Lard will see that in a New York minute and it'll be bye-bye, Black Sheep."
"We were just discussing that," Greg said.
"Uh-huh." Jim rubbed his chin. "That's what it looked like."
Kate glared at him. He grinned.
"We're no worse off than any other combat unit in the Solomons right now so I wouldn't worry about Lard getting in a hurry to take us down," Greg said. "Cameron is going to write a series that will make the Japanese believe Uncle Sam is coming after their blockade with enough fire power to blow them into next year."
"But we aren't, are we?" Confusion spread across Casey's face.
"The Japanese don't know that," Greg said. "Their intelligence says Nimitz and MacArthur are focused on the eastern side of the theatre, mopping up after the battle of Tarawa."
"Yeah," Casey said, "because they are."
Greg ignored him. Casey exchanged a glance with Kate. She shrugged. There was no sense trying to re-route the man when he had an objective in mind.
"The Japanese know the Allies can't wrap up operations at Tarawa and rescue us at the same time, so they figure they can weaken us by cutting our supply lines," Greg continued. "All we have to do is make them believe MacArthur is coming in with enough fire power to make Pearl Harbor look like a Sunday school picnic and they'll run over each other to get out of the way."
Jim chucked. "Ah, Greg? I'm sure Katie's told you this but you can't just make up news stories to suit your agenda. That'll never get past the censors."
Kate shot him a grateful look. It wasn't that she didn't want to help the war effort but this idea had more holes in it than Swiss cheese.
"It won't have to." Greg paced within the confines of the tent. "Cameron's going to be making them up, not me, and they're not going anywhere near the censors. Since she can't send her work out on the weekly transports, I'll have Anderson call the stories into the AP office on Espritos. He's done it before."
Casey opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it.
Greg continued. "But instead of calling the news office, he'll use an unsecured line to a buddy of mine stationed near Bougainville. The guy owes me a favor and he's right on the edge of that blockade. He'll pretend to be an AP clerk taking dictation for the papers in the States and we'll make sure the transmission goes out on an unsecured channel. You know the riceballs are always trying to monitor our transmissions. If we can shake them up, they'll back off the blockade. They don't want another Guadalcanal."
Casey and Jim looked contemplative. Kate thought of a hundred ways this plan could go wrong.
"Won't that compromise your journalistic integrity?" Casey asked her. He looked serious but she couldn't tell if he was kidding or not.
"I checked my integrity at the door when I signed on with this unit," she said, even though it wasn't entirely true. Her reporting was truthful and accurate. She couldn't help if it had a decidedly pro-Black Sheep slant. The boys were the hottest squadron in the Southwest Pacific. It would be downright unpatriotic to write anything negative about them. She thought of it as focusing on the positive. There was enough bad news in the papers these days, anyway.
Her approach was the exact opposite of what Col. Lard had hoped for when posting her on La Cava and his frustration over her stories had resulted in any number of threats to have her removed. If he'd known K.C. stood for Katherine Christine, not Kevin Charles, he'd have done more than threaten. The entire unit, from pilots to ground crew, believed what Lard didn't know, didn't hurt him and protecting her true identity had become second nature to them.
"It won't be journalism, exactly," Kate mused. "Think of it more as creative writing."
"That's the spirit!" Casey pumped a fist in the air. "If anyone can do this, you can!"
Kate smiled at his optimism. No matter how insane Greg's plan might sound on the surface, she'd seen schemes more harebrained than this one succeed. Those plans, however, had all relied on the boys' skill, either in the air or on ground-based skulduggery. None of them had been based entirely on words flowing from her fingertips onto paper.
"All right, get out." She planted her hands on Casey's shoulders, spun him around and pushed him toward the door. "You, too, Gutterman."
"Thought you were going to share that bottle, Katie." Jim indicated the Scotch sitting on her desk.
"I am, but not with you." She pointed toward the door. "Go away."
The boys left, Jim grumbling loudly about how hard it was to get a decent drink in this unit any more. Kate turned around and ran into Greg, who was lounging against the stack of crated supplies occupying half the tent.
"What are you still doing here?" She stepped back.
"You didn't tell me to leave." He folded his arms across his chest.
Well. Okay. He had a point.
"Do you want me to leave?"
Kate took a deep breath, aware of how close he was and how good he looked. No. She didn't want him to leave. She didn't want him to stay either, given that what she really wanted was not going to happen. Having him so near she could feel the heat of his body only made it worse.
"Yes. Out. Now," she said.
He pushed off from the crates, stepping closer. His laugh was husky. "You don't mean that."
"If I'm going to commit crimes against my journalistic integrity, I need a good night's sleep."
Greg cradled the back of her neck with one hand, his thumb stroking her jaw. For a moment, she forgot about the blockade, the ever-present threat from the Japanese, the fact the base's already minimal creature comforts were about to become more Spartan. She lost herself in the wild rush of joy that filled her when they were together. Loving him was insanity. He was 13 years her senior and had an avowed dislike for the civilian press corps but they'd been pulled to one another like a magnet to steel.
If they had met under different circumstances, would their mutual attraction have been so powerful, she mused. Or simply a matter of physical convenience, to be dismissed by either of them as circumstances changed? Here on La Cava, their relationship was forged in the flames of war and tempered by the tumult of existing amidst a squadron of Marine pilots who'd been hand-picked from the finest the court martial pool had to offer.
Greg's lips brushed hers, sending her adrift on a wave of fantasy. With an effort, she planted her palms on his chest and pushed him gently away.
"Get out. And take your dog. He snores."
XXX
Two days later
1700 hours
Jim slouched into Greg's tent, sat down on the other available chair and tipped his head back, contemplating the canvas overhead. "You think Katie can pull this off?"
"Make yourself at home." Greg didn't look up from the calculations for the next day's mission. It didn't take long to plot coordinates these days. Mission parameters were restricted to the point where the squadron did little more than lift off, turn around and land again. The only ones happy about that were Hutch and Micklin, since it gave them time to perform long over-due maintenance while substantially reducing new damage. And that kept Micklin off Greg's back, which was a welcome relief.
Greg figured this would lull would pass as the Japanese pushed closer. Allied intelligence reported not only the continued blockade holding off American fuel tankers but enemy flattops and troop carriers moving toward the Solomons. If something didn't give and soon, the Empire of Japan would be knocking on their door and coming in whether they were invited or not. He tossed the pencil down and shoved his chair back.
"I think she's got a good chance of making something happen before Washington does." It had taken him less than twenty-four hours to totally convince Kate of the merits of his plan. Boyle had given three to one odds it would take him longer than that because while they all knew Kate would do anything to help the unit, Anderson had privately told Greg the boys all thought she'd hold out because she enjoyed the process of being convinced. Well, he'd enjoyed doing the convincing but it wasn't like they had all the time in the world.
Kate had finally agreed his plan was probably as sound as anything else coming out of Washington but then she started asking questions and he'd been forced to admit there was nothing coming out of Washington. Neither the War Department nor the politicians had any answers. She'd agreed to draft a story, then kissed him with a degree of heat that made him not think about the war for a while and left, muttering, "If you want something done right, do it yourself."
"You got a lot of faith in that girl." Jim's words brought Greg back to the present. His XO's tone was level but couldn't hide the underlying doubt.
"I've seen what she can do when she sets her mind to it," he said.
Jim snorted. Greg raised an eyebrow. "You think you can do better? Be my guest."
"I don't think I can do better. I just don't know if this half-assed scheme of yours is going to work. Do you really think you can fool the entire Japanese navy?"
"I don't have to fool the entire navy, just a few lower-level communications officers who spend their days sitting at a console, monitoring transmissions, bored as hell. They'll jump at a chance to break some big news to their brass."
"What's the status? When does the first story go out?"
"Soon. She's almost finished. Anderson and Casey have the scrambler rigged to jam the channels to Espritos. My guy at Bougainville is on board with the plan. We'll route the transmission to him on an open channel the Japanese in that area are bound to be monitoring."
"Then what?"
"Then Kate writes another story, this one with a few more details, and we do it again."
"How many stories is this gonna take?" Jim asked. "It ain't like we're sitting on a storehouse of groceries out here. Even if Tojo falls for this little deception, it's gonna take a while for it to run up the chain of command. We're gonna get mighty hungry, sitting around waiting."
"Everything in good time," Greg said. "It'll work. Trust me. In the meantime, this island is full of stuff we can eat. All we have to do is go out and get it. I'm putting you in charge of the hog hunting party."
Jim stood up, grumbling. "I signed on with this unit to be a pilot, not play big game hunter."
"Jim, you signed on with this unit to keep from getting court martialed."
Grumbling, the Texan left.
XXX
The next day
1500 hours
The steady rhythm of the typewriter keys was comforting, even if the sentences they created were not. Kate bit her lip in concentration. She was used to dealing with established sources and solid facts. Creating a story out of thin air, weaving the reality of intelligence provided by Greg and Casey, with pure fiction, also provided by Greg and Casey with random input from the rest of the boys, went against every journalistic principle she held.
It's never going to print, she reminded herself. This wasn't a degradation of her ethics because it wasn't a real story, just a new way to use her talents. She paused to re-read the draft.
Allied Forces Prep for Strike Against Japanese Blockade
By K.C. Cameron, Associated Press, Solomon Islands
According to officials with the War Department in Washington, D.C., and those in the Southwest Pacific Theater, forces under the command of Admiral Chester Nimitz will soon strike to break the Japanese blockade holding Allied units in a stranglehold.
The blockade, which has shut down Allied shipping lanes to parts of the theater, has effectively stopped combat units from carrying out missions on both land and in the air as food and fuel supplies dwindle. Fighting units have been forced to restrict activities in order to ration available resources.
Sources speaking on the condition of anonymity said word has been received of the movement of Admiral 'Bull' Halsey's Third Fleet near Palau, indicating the U.S. may indeed be starting to move into position to launch a counter offensive. These facts came to light shortly after a clandestine gathering of theater leaders at the Espritos Marcos Naval Base on Wednesday.
Kate sipped from the mug of coffee at her elbow. Lard would have a fit and fall in it if he got wind of this.
Sources remain tight-lipped, however, regarding how the Allies plan to eradicate the collection of both carriers and destroyers, given the Japanese currently outnumber the combined American, British and Australian fleet by two to one.
She paused and idly tapped her teeth with a pencil. Bobby Boyle would take those odds and put his money on the Black Sheep. So would she. Inspired, she pushed on, her fingers flying over the keys.
"Given Admiral Halsey's reputation for 'hit hard, hit fast, hit often' strategies, there has been a great deal of speculation about the possible use of a new long-range weapon currently being tested in the States. With reports of successful test-firing in both home waters and on land appearing in the Stateside press, it is possible ships under Halsey's command will soon take position to put this weapon into real-time use.
Footsteps sounded on the floorboards behind her but engrossed in her writing, Kate didn't look up. If it was one of the boys, they'd say something. If it was Greg, she'd know soon enough. If the island had experienced a silent invasion by Japanese forces, well, hell, she'd know that soon enough, too.
Warm hands squeezed her shoulders in a touch that instantly eliminated two of the options.
"What are you doing?" She still didn't look up and typed a few more sentences, intent on finishing her thought.
"Checking on my favorite reporter."
"I'm your only reporter."
"Thank God. I wouldn't know what to do with any more of you."
That did it. Kate closed her eyes and gave herself to the pleasure of his hands. After a few minutes, she abandoned trying to stay quiet and gave an audible groan as his fingers worked her tense shoulders and neck.
"How's the story coming?" he asked.
"The base has been really quiet this afternoon so I'm on the final draft. Where is everyone?"
"Jim is out scouting game trails with Don and a couple of mechanics off the line. Casey took TJ and Boyle fishing. Bragg and Beans finished converting the stoves in the mess to wood burning and now they're out with firewood detail. Micklin still has propane tanks on the line but they're for welding and he said he'd take a wrench to anyone who tried to use it for cooking."
"How's the food supply holding out?"
Greg's hands paused briefly, then resumed their work. "The fresh food from the last transport is almost gone. Beans says we've got a decent supply of canned goods and oatmeal and powdered eggs. And plenty of Scotch and toilet paper."
Kate closed her eyes as his hands worked along her shoulder blades, relieving the tension that wasn't entirely due to sitting in a hard chair in front of her typewriter for several hours.
"I remember one winter back home, it was '34 or '35, and it snowed so hard we couldn't get to town for two weeks," she said. "But we had meat in the smokehouse and the summer canning in the pantry and a root cellar full of potatoes and winter squash and apples. We had two milk cows and the chickens. We knew we'd be all right until the weather cleared and we could get out." She paused. "But we weren't relying on anyone to bring us things we needed. Not like here." She waved a hand in a gesture that encompassed the camp and bit down on the tickle of fear rising in her chest. "Are we going to be okay?"
Greg pulled her up from the chair and she pressed her face against his chest, inhaling that elixir of soap, whisky and warm skin that conjured more than the occasional dream. He cradled the back of her head and the steady beat of his heart drummed away the uncharacteristic worry that had haunted her through the afternoon.
"We'll be fine, sweetheart. We won't starve."
"I'm not worried about that," she said, her voice muffled by his shirt. She pulled back to meet his eyes. "But if the Japanese think our forward bases are weakened, won't they start pushing to retake territory, knowing we may not be able to fight back?" La Cava, with its established air field and hospital, was prime real estate. It had been Japanese territory earlier in the war and more than once, their forces had tried to re-claim it.
"It's not going to come to that."
"You sound awfully sure of yourself." The squadron had faced any number of challenges to its existence since Kate had joined them but more often than not, the problems had stemmed from within the military establishment itself: conflict between branches when tasked with a joint mission, conflict between Greg and Col. Lard, conflict between the boys themselves over issues either real or imagined. Some days it seemed like the war against the Japanese was the easy part. This was entirely different.
She stood without moving, her face against his chest. His heart beat a steady rhythm, slow and strong, and his arms around her made her feel like no one, not even Emperor Hirohito, was a viable threat.
"There are plenty of Allied defensive forces in place inside the theater. It's just the supply lanes that are blocked," he said quietly.
She smiled against his shirt, grateful for the reassurances although they lived on the razor's edge in this part of the war and they both knew it. Things could—and did—change in a heartbeat. With a small sigh, she stepped back. "You owe me for this. Writing propaganda is not part of my job description."
"Propaganda is meant to advance an agenda and I can't think of a better agenda to advance right now than a looming American offensive with a secret weapon," Greg said. "What else do you have to do with your time? You should be thanking me for keeping you busy."
His innocent expression didn't fool her for a minute. She narrowed her eyes at him. "Anything for you, Boyington."
"Counting on it, sweetheart. Get back to work." He kissed her lightly on the forehead and left the tent.
To be continued . . .