"I always feel like Edward G. Robinson in a grade-B movie when I wear that," Pickering said.

"But on the other hand, people can't tell you are wearing it. A.45 is pretty obvious," Hart said. "It's up to you."

"I think I'll stick with the.45, George. That makes me feel like Alan Ladd. Or John Wayne."

"Suit yourself," Hart said.

Pickering went to the table on which sat the mysterious machine now covered with canvas, opened a drawer, and took out a Colt Model 1911 Al.45 pistol. He removed the clip, checked to see that there was no cartridge in the action, and replaced the clip. He then put the pistol under the waistband of his trousers, in the small of his back. He sensed Stecker's eyes on him, and looked at him.

"George and I have a deal," he said. "I am allowed to go out and play by myself, but only if I am armed to the teeth. If you think it's a little odd for a general to be ordered around by a second lieutenant, you have to remember Colonel Fritz Rickabee.... You know Fritz don't you, Jack?" He didn't wait for an answer. "The truth is that we really work for him, and this gun nonsense is his idea. And both of us are afraid of him, right, George?"

"The Colonel is a formidable man, Sir."

"I know Rickabee," Stecker said. "I agree, he's formidable."

"OK, George. I'll save you a piece of the wedding cake," Pickering said. "Or maybe the party will still be going when Moore relieves you."

"I forgot to tell you. Commander Feldt is at the Cottage, he and some other RAN types. I told him you insisted that he stay there."

"Good man," Pickering said, and again sensed Stecker's curiosity. "Staff Sergeant Koffler is getting married at two. He's the radio operator Killer McCoy and company took off Buka. I am giving the bride away. Afterward, I may very well have more to drink than is good for me."

"That seems like a splendid idea," Stecker said.

[TWO]

Saint Bartholomew's Church

Brisbane, Australia

1345 Hours 8 November 1942

When Pickering and Stecker drove up in Pickering's 1938 Jaguar Drop Head Coupe, Lieutenant Commander Eric Feldt, Royal Australian Navy Reserve, a RAN lieutenant, a RAN chief petty officer, and ten RAN sailors were standing outside the church. They were all in dress uniforms (in the case of the officers and the chief, this included swords).

The chief shouted something unintelligible in the Australian version of the English language, whereupon he, the Lieutenant, and the enlisted men snapped to a frozen position of attention.

Commander Feldt, however, did not feel constricted by the minutiae of military courtesy as it was usually practiced among and between officers of an allied power. He waited until Pickering emerged from the Jaguar. Then, hands on hips, he declared, "I was wondering where the bloody hell you were, Pickering. The bloody bride has been here for an hour."

Lieutenant Colonel Stecker's eyes widened noticeably. He was more than a little shocked.

The RAN lieutenant, looking mortified, raised his hand in the British-style, palm-out salute, and held that position.

Pickering returned the lieutenant's salute. "Good afternoon, Mr. Dodds." He then turned to Feldt. "And good afternoon to you, Commander Feldt. I'm so glad to see that you have found time in your busy schedule for this joyous occasion."

"Well, I couldn't have you going around saying that all Australians are a lot of sodding arseholes, now could I?" He turned his attention to Colonel Stecker. "You're new."

"Colonel Stecker, may I present Commander Feldt?" Pickering said formally, but smiling. "Commander Feldt commands the Coastwatcher Establishment."

"Thank you," Colonel Stecker said when Feldt offered his hand-so idly it was close to insulting.

"For what?" Feldt asked suspiciously. "It was the sodding least we could do for Koffler; he's one of us."

"I commanded Second Battalion, Fifth Marines, on Guadalcanal," Stecker said. "We know what the Coastwatchers did for us. So thank you."

Commander Feldt looked very embarrassed.

"What exactly is it that you're doing for Sergeant Koffler, Eric?" Pickering asked. "Aside from gracing the wedding with your presence?"

"What the sodding hell does it look like? When the lad and his bride come out of the church, they will pass under an arch of swords. Ours and yours. Not actually swords: They're going to use the machetes we got from the ordnance people. They're damned near as big as swords. I sent the one who limps-"

"Lieutenant Moore?"

"Right. The one who limps. I sent him out behind the church to rehearse with your lads."

"To rehearse what?"

"I don't know how the sodding Marine Corps does it, Pickering," Feldt said, "but in the Australian Navy, everyone raises his bloody sword at the same time, on command, not when they sodding well feel like it. When I asked the one who limps if he knew how to do it, and he said no, I sent him around in back to rehearse."

"With the General's permission," Lieutenant Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker said formally, but not quite succeeding in concealing a smile, "I will go see how the rehearsal is proceeding."

"Go ahead," Pickering said. "We have five or ten minutes yet."

Feldt waited until Stecker was out of earshot.

"He works for you?"

"No. He's here to set up things for the First Marines when they come here to refit."

"I thought he said he was a battalion commander?"

"Until a week or so ago, he was."

"But he got himself relieved, huh? He looked pretty bloody competent to me. What did he do wrong?"

"He is pretty bloody competent," Pickering said coldly. "Jack Stecker has our Medal of Honor, Eric. The equivalent of your Victoria Cross."

"Then he really must have fucked up by the numbers-the way you bloody Yanks say it-to get himself relieved."

"Eric," Pickering flared furiously, "once again you're letting your goddamned mouth run away with you, offering ignorant and unsolicited opinions about matters you don't know a goddamned thing about."

Feldt met his eyes and didn't give an inch. "Good friend of yours, huh?"

"That has absolutely nothing to do with it."

"To change the subject, I spoke with the bride's father this morning."