The Last Heroes (Men at War 1)

Then, the week before, the President had decided to place the entire fission project under a group of academics headed by Dr. J. B. Conant, of Harvard. This had the logical cover of a scientific program being run by the Office of Scientific Research and Development.

The change had taken place as of December 6, 1941, and Douglass had not moved over to OSRD.

‘‘Pete, you’re not a physicist, and I need you more than they do,’’ Donovan had said, with irrefutable logic.

‘‘Colonel, I’d like to go back to the Navy.’’

‘‘Come on, Pete, I need you more than the Navy,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘I can’t do without you, and you know it.’’

‘‘I’d hoped for a command, Colonel,’’ Douglass said.

‘‘Think that through, Pete,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘If you went back to the Navy, it would be to ONI. They’re not going to give you a sea command. You’re too valuable as an intelligence officer. And you would be of more value here than you would be in the Navy.’’

Donovan was of course right. And what that meant was that after a lifetime of preparing for war at sea, Captain Peter Douglass was going to spend the war behind a desk. His friends and peers would be on the bridges of ships while he stayed in Washington. And the price he was going to pay for working for Donovan, he clearly understood, was that he could never make admiral.

When the telephone call came for Donovan, Douglass took it. And then he quietly opened the door to the Oval Office and stepped inside. The office was heavy with cigarette smoke, and although there had been a steady stream of stewards passing in and out, doing their best to keep it shipshape, the place was a mess. Sandwich remnants and empty coffee cups on every flat surface but the President’s desk itself. That was covered with sheets of paper and a large map.

Douglass found Colonel Donovan sitting beside General Marshall on a couch against the wall. The President had rolled his wheelchair close to the other two. They were all facing each other, deep in conversation.

It was almost a minute before Donovan sensed Douglass’s presence and looked up at him. And when he did, it was with only partly hidden annoyance in his eyes.

‘‘What is it, Pete?’’ Donovan asked.

‘‘I’ve got a Miss Chenowith on the line,’’ Douglass said. ‘‘She’s calling for Mr. Chesley Whittaker, and says it’s important. ’’

‘‘See what she wants,’’ Donovan said impatiently.

‘‘She insists on talking to you, sir,’’ Douglass said.

‘‘Try again,’’ Donovan said, and returned his attention to the President.

‘‘Did he say that Chesty Whittaker was on the phone?’’ the President asked.

‘‘Chesty’s in Washington. He rode up with me from New York. I’ve asked him to work with me.’’

‘‘And he accepted?’’ the President asked. ‘‘He probably hopes you’re leading a palace coup.’’

‘‘He said to tell you he’s ready to join the team,’’ Donovan said.

The President laughed.

‘‘As in ‘of jackasses’?’’ he quipped.

Captain Douglass returned.

‘‘Miss Chenowith said to tell you it’s an emergency,’’ Douglass said.

‘‘Take the call, Bill,’’ the President ordered. ‘‘Chesty wouldn’t have her call under these circumstances unless he thought it was necessary.’’

Donovan looked around for a phone. Douglass handed him the base of one, but kept the handset. ‘‘Miss Chenowith, here’s Colonel Donovan,’’ he said, and then handed the instrument to Donovan.

‘‘Hello, Cynthia,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘Put Chesty on.’’

‘‘I can’t do that, I’m afraid,’’ Cynthia Chenowith said.

‘‘What is this, Cynthia?’’

‘‘Chesty’s dead, Mr. Donovan,’’ she said. ‘‘And unless I have some help, right away, there’s going to be a mess.’’