“Point taken. Two, who is Hotshot Billy?”
“Lieutenant Colonel William W. Wilson. He is General White’s twenty-five-year-old aviation officer. He believes—as does General White—that he became a light bird eighteen months or so ago when his West Point classmates were hoping to make captain before the war was over—”
“He made light colonel at twenty-four?” Rasberry interrupted, his tone one of disbelief.
“Yes, he did. And he attributes this to applying what has become known as the Hotshot Billy Principle. To wit: When you must have permission to do something you know is right and you have good reason to believe that the officer with the power to give you such permission is going to say ‘Hell, no,’ do it anyway, as success washes away all sins.”
“My God! And I. D. White goes along with this?”
“Indeed. He and Billy, without asking the permission they know would be refused, are hard at work trying to establish what they call Army Aviation. Their argument is, light aircraft provide mobility on the battlefield, and when the Army Air Forces becomes a separate service next year, they don’t want it to control mobility. Ergo sum, the Army needs its own airplanes, its own air force.”
“Interesting,” Rasberry said.
“So, turning to Super Spook’s idea, are you willing to stick your neck out and walk over to the prison with me and tell the OD that Super Spook will be taking Brigadeführer Heimstadter out of the prison overnight?”
Rasberry considered this.
“Okay,” he said, finally.
“You heard ‘overnight,’ right, Jim? You have twenty-four hours from now to get him back in his cell.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Both of you.”
“And when we come back from the prison,” Cohen said to Rasberry, “I am going to tell Father McGrath all I know about the new Nazi religion. If you want in on that—let’s call it a lecture, for want of a better word—you’re welcome.”
“Thank you. The more I hear about that, the more it worries me.”
“Colonel, could I sit in on that lecture?” Ginger asked.
“Why would you want to?” Cohen said.
“Two reasons. My late husband and I were given a tour of the prison six months ago. And . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“And what?” Cohen said.
She looked at Cronley.
“It’s time, Jimmy, that we publicly fess up.”
“I was coming to that,” Cronley said.
“Confessing to what, for God’s sake?” Cohen said, impatiently.
“Colonel, Fat Freddy Hessinger told me how you helped his friend get through all the bullshit the Army gave him to protect him from designing women.”
“And so . . . ?”
“I was hoping you’d do the same thing for me . . . For me and Ginger.”
After some thought, Cohen asked, “You actually want to marry Super Spook, Mrs. Moriarty? After all you’ve gone through?”
“Not only marry him but also know what he’s up to. Beginning with this Nazi religion Himmler was trying to set up, which I know Jim is very involved in trying to figure out.”
Cohen nodded thoughtfully.
“I’ve been saying all along that the more people who know about it, the better. So, okay, Mrs. Moriarty, you can sit in.”
“Thank you.”