Retreat, Hell!

What she would have to do is fly first to K-1, then see what she could do there about further transportation to Wonsan.

With some difficulty, she managed to get a seat on the next Pusan-bound C-54.

The dispatcher at Pusan base operations was polite but firm.

To board a Wonsan-bound aircraft, it would be necessary for her to have an authorization from the Eighth Army Rear Press Officer. There could be no exceptions. And no, he could not provide her with transportation to the Eighth Army Rear Press Office. Perhaps if she called them, they might be willing to send a jeep for her.

Jeanette went to the highway, took off her cap, unbraided her long blond hair, and let it fall around her shoulders.

The drivers of the first two jeeps to pass her stared openmouthed at the sight of a fatigues-clad lady with long blond hair hitchhiking. The driver of the third jeep slammed on his brakes, backed up, and told her he would carry her any­where in the Orient she wanted to go.

He dropped her at the Eighth Army Rear Press Office, a collection of Quonset huts near the railroad station in downtown Pusan.

There, first a corporal, then a technical sergeant, then a captain, and finally a major with a very neatly trimmed pencil-line mustache told her essentially the same thing, that there was a lot of demand for air passage to Wonsan— "Every reporter in Korea wants to be able to say they were waiting on the beach when X Corps landed"-—and there was only a limited amount of space available for nonessential travelers, like reporters.

There was a list, to which her name would be appended. With a little luck, she might be able to get on a plane to Wonsan tomorrow, but it would most likely not be until the day after.

Jeanette hitchhiked back to K-1, and wandered around the field until she saw a C-47 standing in front of a hangar from the doors of which hung a huge red cross.

A little investigation revealed that this was the point at which medical sup­plies, which have the highest priority, were loaded aboard transport aircraft.

She dazzled the pilot with a smile, asked him where he was going, and was told that he was going round robin Pusan-Seoul-Wonsan-Pusan, which meant, he explained, that he would first fly to Seoul, where he would discharge cargo and take on enough fuel to fly across the peninsula to Wonsan, where he would discharge the rest of his cargo and take aboard wounded requiring evacuation via Pusan, and fly to Pusan.

Jeanette told him that was really fascinating, the sort of a human-interest story her editors were always interested in, the sort of a story that would be reprinted in a lot of newspapers.

"Where did you say you were from, Lieutenant?" Jeanette asked, taking the lens cap off her Leica.

"Louisville, Kentucky."

"'The Louisville Courier usually prints everything I write," Jeanette said. "Why don't you just stand there by the boxes with the big red crosses on them."

"That's human blood, ma'am," he said, "fresh human blood, straight from the States."

"Fascinating," Jeanette said. "Let me make sure 1 have your name spelled right."

Lieutenant Jefferson C. Whaleburton, of Louisville, Kentucky, did not ques­tion Miss Priestly's statement that he didn't have to get permission to take her on the round robin, that journalists such as herself could go anywhere the story took them. She showed him her "invitational orders" from Supreme Head­quarters, which authorized her to travel anywhere with the Far East Command.

As they flew up the Korean Peninsula—Jeanette sat on a fold-down seat be­tween the pilot's and copilot's seats—Lieutenant Whaleburton pointed out the windshield and told her the dark clouds on the horizon were a front moving down from Manchuria.

"Weather said it's not moving very fast and shouldn't give us any trouble, either to Seoul of across to Wonsan," he said.

[SEVEN]

No. 7 Saku-Tun Denenchofu,

Tokyo, Japan

15O5 14 October 195O

Jai-Hu-san, the housekeeper for Major and Mrs. Kenneth R. McCoy, did not speak English. Master Sergeant Paul T. Keller, U.S. Army, did not speak Japa­nese. Jai-Hu-san, moreover, was very fond of Mrs. Ernestine McCoy, aware of the problems of her pregnancy, and absolutely unwilling to disturb her rest by waking her simply because some Yankee soldier said he had to speak to her.

It was only when the barbarian sergeant began to shout Ernie-san's name that Jai-Hu-san relented and went to the McCoy bedroom.

"The sergeant with the red face is here," Jai-Hu-san announced after gently waking her employer. "He is very rude, and he will not go away."

"I'll deal with it," Ernie said, "thank you."

She hurriedly put on and buttoned a kimono over her sleeping gown and swollen belly. Then she saw herself in the mirror. Not only was her hair mussed, but she had smeared her makeup tossing around on the bed, trying to get to sleep.

The baby was now kicking with some regularity, very often when she was trying to take her mind off Ken, Pick, and her condition and get some sleep.

"I can't go out there like this!" she said, aloud, and went into her bathroom.

She began to remove her lipstick with a tissue.

Who am I kidding? I don't give a damn what I look like. I'm afraid to go to the door. Paul wouldn't be here in the middle of the afternoon unless he had something to tell me that won't wait. And I'm afraid to hear what it is that won't wait.

She reapplied her lipstick and ran a brush through her hair, then looked at herself in the mirror again, exhaled audibly, and then walked through the house to the front door. Jai-Hu-san walked behind her.

"Hi, Paul," she called cheerfully. "What's up?"

"What did I do, get you out of bed? The Dragon Lady wouldn't let me in until I raised hell."

"I was taking a nap," Ernie said. "What's going on?"

"Major Pickering is aboard the Badoeng Strait" Keller said. " 'Dirty, un­shaven, very hungry, but not wounded or injured, and in sound psychological condition.'"

"Major Pickering has never been in sound psychological condition," Ernie said. "Are you sure, Paul? How do you know?"

"There was an Operational Immediate from the Badoeng Strait" Keller said. "Signed by the major."

"What major?"

"Your husband, my boss," Keller said. "I guess the Killer carried him there after he found him. I just finished encrypting it and sending it to the States."

"Don't call him Killer," Ernie said.

And then she felt herself starting to fall, and the lights went out.

The next thing she knew, she was looking up at Keller, who was gently wiping her face with a cool wet cloth.

Ernie pushed his hand away and sat up.

She saw she was on cushions on the tatami.

"Jesus, you went down like a polled ox, whatever the hell that means," Paul said. "Are you all right, Ernie?"

"I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

Ernie saw the look on Jai-Hu-san's face. It was clear that she thought Keller had told her something so awful that it had caused her to pass out.

"The red-faced barbarian brought very good news, Jai-Hu-san," Ernie said. "He is a very good man."

"You went unconscious," Jai-Hu-san said. "You could have hurt yourself and the baby."

"I think I better call for an ambulance," Paul Keller said, getting to his feet.

"No," Ernie said flatly. "I don't need an ambulance."

“I think I should call an ambulance," Paul said.

Ernie looked at him.

He's trembling; his face is as white as a sheet. Christ, is he going to faint?

"What you should do, Paul," Ernie said, "is first sit down. Before you fall down. Jai-Hu-san will get you a stiff drink. I will watch you drink it, because I don't get any in my condition. That out of the way, we will then try to put a call in to Pick's mother."

"At least let me call a doctor."

"If I thought I needed a doctor, I'd tell you," Ernie said. Then she had another thought. "Where's the general?" she said.

"He's with the President, on the way to Wake Island. MacArthur left here for Wake at seven this morning."

"How will he hear about this?"

"The President is never out of touch," Keller said. "They will forward my— Major McCoy's—message to him wherever he is, and there's always a cryptog­rapher with the President. He'll get it, Ernie."

"And we're going to have to get word to Jeanette, too," Ernie said. "She's on her way to Wonsan."

"I wish you'd let me call a doctor."

"Do you think you can find her?"

"That shouldn't be hard," Keller said. "As soon as I leave here, I'll start call­ing around. She's probably at the Press Center in Pusan."

"First things first, Paul," Ernie said. "Go sit on the couch before you fall down, and Jai-Hu-san will bring you a drink."

"First things first I'm going to get you a doctor!"

Ernie, laboriously, assisted by Jai-Hu-san, got to her feet. She walked to Keller, who was just over six feet one and weighed just over two hundred pounds, put her hands on her hips, and looked up at him. "For Christ's sake, Paul, go sit on the goddamn couch!" Master Sergeant Paul T. Keller, USA, walked over to the couch and sat down.

[EIGHT]

The weather was getting nasty by the time Lieutenant Whaleburton put the C-47 down at K-16, and by the time they took off the weather was, in Whaleburtons phraseology, "marginal."

"Not a problem, Miss Priestly," he said. "If it gets any worse, we'll just head for Pusan."

The weather got worse.

Thirty minutes out of Seoul, Lieutenant Whaleburton said, "If I get up in that soup, I'll never find Wonsan, so what I'm going to do is drop down below it. And if it gets any worse than this, I'm going to head for Pusan. But I really would like to get that blood to Wonsan."

It quickly got worse, much worse, with lots of turbulence.

When Lieutenant Whaleburton saw the ridge in the Taebaek mountain range ahead of him, he of course pulled back on the yoke to get over it.

He almost made it.

The right wingtip made contact with the granite of the peak, spinning the aircraft around and down. Before it stopped moving down the mountainside, it came apart and the aviation gasoline exploded.

Lieutenant Whaleburton didn't even have time to make a radio report.

Chapter Eleven

[ONE]

Wake Island

O625 15 October 19SO

As the Independence landed, Brigadier General Fleming Pickering saw, with a sense of relief, that the Bataan was already on the ground. He'd overheard some of President Truman's staff wondering if that was going to happen, whether, in other words, MacArthur would time his landing so that the President would arrive first and have to wait for the Supreme Commander to arrive from Tokyo. At first, Pickering had dismissed the conjecture as utter nonsense, but then he thought about it and had to admit that MacArthur was indeed capable of doing something like that. It was, he thought, like two children playing King of the Hill, except that Truman and MacArthur were not children, and Truman was, if not a king, than certainly the most powerful man on the planet. A king worried that one of his faithful subjects had his eyes on the throne.

Pickering had realized—maybe especially after he'd met with General Wal­ter Bedell Smith—that Truman was anything but the flaming liberal incom­petent the Republican party had painted him to be.

He had then realized—the late-dawning realization making him feel like a fool—that Senator Richardson K. Fowler, who was as much entitled to be called "Mr. Republican" as any politician, was fully aware of this.

That had led him to recall Truman's visit to tell him he was naming Gen­eral Walter Bedell Smith to replace Admiral Hillencoetter. When he had told Truman he had always felt he was in water over his head, Truman had told him that not only had "Beetle" Smith said the same thing, but Wild Bill Donovan as well. Pickering had been so surprised—in the case of Donovan, astonished— to hear that that it was only later that he recalled what Truman had said when he'd assumed the presidency on Roosevelt's death, that "he was going to need all the help he could get."

That certainly suggested that Truman thought he had been given responsi­bility he wasn't at all sure he was qualified to handle.

And the truth was that Truman had proven himself wrong. Almost all the decisions he had made—right from the beginning, when he'd ordered the atomic bombs to be dropped on Japan—had been the right ones.

He of course had been mistaken to give in to the brass and disestablish the Office of Strategic Services. And Fleming Pickering found Truman's suggestion that it was about time to disband the U.S. Marine Corps to be stupid and out­rageous. But Truman had realized he'd made a mistake about the OSS, and quickly formed the CIA, and after the performance of the Marines in the Pusan Perimeter and at Inchon, Truman had changed his mind about the Marines and said so.

Truman's selection of General Smith to head the CIA had been the right one, even though his old friend Ralph Howe, the one general officer he really trusted, had relentlessly pushed Pickering for the job, and appointing Picker­ing would have pleased Senator Fowler personally and silenced a lot of Re­publican criticism.

As the Independence stopped, Pickering saw from his window the Supreme Commander, United Nations Command, standing on the tarmac waiting for the Commander-in-Chief.

MacArthur was wearing his trademark washed-out khakis and battered, gold-encrusted cap.

Jesus, Truman is the Commander-in-Chief! At least El Supremo could have put on a tunic and neck scarf!

Then he saw the others in the MacArthur party. Brigadier General Court­ney Whitney was among them; Major General Charles Willoughby was not. That was surprising.

He wondered if Willoughby, who was almost invariably at the Supreme Commander's side, might somehow have fallen into displeasure.

Is El Supremo punishing Willoughby for something by bringing Whitney here and leaving Willoughby in Japan? I know damned well Willoughby would want to be here.

The two were, in Pickering's judgment, the most shameless of the Bataan Gang in sucking up to MacArthur, in constant competition for his approval, or even for an invitation to cocktails and dinner.

Both disliked Pickering. He had long before decided this was because of his personal relationship with MacArthur, which was far closer than their own. Pickering declined more invitations to cocktails, or bridge, or dinner with the MacArthurs than both of them received. And MacArthur often addressed Pick­ering by his first name, an "honor" he rarely accorded Willoughby or Whitney or, for that matter, anyone else.

There was more than that, of course. Pickering had never been subordinate to MacArthur. Worse than that, they knew—and there was no denying this— that he was, in effect, a spy in their midst, making frequent reports on MacArthurs activities that they never got to see.

In the case of Whitney, Pickering had made a social gaucherie the day he had met MacArthur when he arrived in Australia from the Philippines with members of his staff—soon to be dubbed the "Bataan Gang." He had not rec­ognized Major Whitney as a Manila lawyer he had known before the war.

The truth was that he simply hadn't remembered the man. Whitney had de­cided he had been intentionally snubbed, and had never gotten over it.

Pickering had written his wife from Australia, in early 1942, that his rela­tions with MacArthurs staff ranged from frigid to frozen, and that had been when he had been a temporarily commissioned Navy captain sent to the Pa­cific by Navy Secretary Frank Knox. The temperature had dropped even lower when he had been sent to the Pacific as a Marine brigadier general and with the title of Deputy Director of the OSS for Asia.

MacArthur—with the encouragement of Willoughby and Whitney, Pickering had come to understand—had not wanted the OSS in his theater of op­erations. Willoughby, MacArthur's intelligence officer, and Whitney, who had been commissioned a major in the Philippines just before the war, and was serv­ing as sort of an adviser, were agreed that intelligence activities should be under MacArthur's intelligence officer. Whitney, moreover, had decided he had the background to become spymaster under Willoughby.

MacArthur had not refused to accept the OSS in his theater, he had simply been not able to find time in his busy schedule to receive the OSS officer sent to his headquarters by Wild Bill Donovan, the head of the OSS.

Donovan, who was a close personal friend of Roosevelt, had complained to him about MacArthur's behavior, and Roosevelt had solved the problem by commissioning Pickering into the Marine Corps, assigning him to the OSS, and sending him to deal with MacArthur.

Pickering had a dozen clashes with the Bataan Gang during World War II, the most galling to Willoughby and Whitney his making contact with an offi­cer fighting as a guerrilla on Mindanao after MacArthur—acting on Willoughby's advice—had informed the President there "was absolutely no possibility of U.S. guerrilla activity in the Philippines at this time."

Pickering had sent a team commanded by a young Marine intelligence officer—Lieutenant K. R. McCoy—to Japanese-occupied Mindanao on a Navy submarine. McCoy had established contact with a reserve lieutenant colonel named Wendell Fertig, who had refused to surrender, promoted himself to brigadier general, announced he was "Commanding General of United States Forces in the Philippines," and begun guerrilla warfare against the Japanese occupiers.

When, late in the war, MacArthur's troops landed on Mindanao, they found Brigadier General Fertig waiting for them with 30,000 armed and uniformed troops, including a band. Pickering had had Fertig's forces supplied by Navy submarines all through the war.

Every report of Fertig's successes—even of a successful completion of a sub­marine supply mission to him—during the war had been a galling reminder to the Bataan Gang that Pickering had done what MacArthur had said—on their advice—was impossible to do.

Pickering had learned that MacArthur had a petty side to his character. The one manifestation of this that annoyed Pickering the most—even more than MacArthur's refusal to award the 4th Marines on Corregidor the Presi­dential Unit Citation because "the Marines already have enough medals"—was MacArthur's refusal to promote Fertig above his actual rank of lieutenant colonel even though Fertig had successfully commanded 30,000 troops in com­bat. An Army corps has that many troops and is commanded by a three-star general.

Whitney had risen steadily upward in rank—he ended World War II as a colonel and was now a brigadier general—and this added to Pickering's an­noyance and even contempt.

Aware that he was being a little childish himself, Pickering took pleasure in knowing that Brigadier General Whitney's pleasure with himself for being at El Supremo's elbow when he met with the President would be pretty well soured when he saw Pickering get off the Presidential aircraft.

There turned out to be less of an arrival ceremony for the President than there had been at K-16 when MacArthur had landed there to turn the seat of the South Korean government back to Syngman Rhee.

The door of the Independence opened, and two Secret Service men and a still cameraman and a motion picture cameraman went down the stairs. Then Truman came out of his compartment and went down the stairs.

MacArthur saluted. Truman smiled and put out his hand, then started shak­ing hands with the others of MacArthur's party.

The first man off the Independence after Truman was a stocky Army chief warrant officer in his mid-thirties. He carried a leather briefcase in one hand and a heavy canvas equipment bag in the other. He wore a web pistol belt with a holstered .45 around his waist. A jeep was waiting for him. He got in it and drove off before General of the Army Omar Bradley came down the stairs.

George Hart knew—and had told Pickering—what the equipment bag contained, and what Chief Warrant Officer Delbert LeMoine, of the Army Se­curity Agency, was doing with it. LeMoine was the Presidential cryptogra­pher. Messages intended for the President that had come in since they left Hawaii had been forwarded to Wake Island. Wake Island, however, did not have the codes. The President would have to wait for his mail until LeMoine decrypted it.

The dignitaries aboard the Independence came down the stairs one by one and shook hands with MacArthur and the members of his staff he had brought with him from Tokyo. Pickering decided he was not an official member of the Truman party, and waited until the handshaking was over before he got off the Independence.

He gave Brigadier General Courtney Whitney a friendly wave. Whitney re­turned it with a nod and a strained smile.

Truman and MacArthur got in the backseat of a something less than Pres­idential—or MacArthurian—1949 Chevrolet staff car and drove off for a pri­vate meeting.

Then everyone else was loaded, without ceremony, into a convoy of cars and jeeps and driven to one of the single-story frame buildings lining the tarmac. Inside, a simple buffet of coffee and doughnuts had been laid out for them.

Pickering had just taken a bite of his second doughnut when another Army warrant officer touched his arm.

"Would you come with me, please, General?" he asked.

"Sure," Pickering said. "What's up?"

The warrant officer didn't reply, but when Hart started to follow them, he said, "Just the general, Captain."

The warrant officer led Pickering to a frame building—identical to the one where coffee and doughnuts were being served—a hundred yards away and held open the door for him.

There was an interior office, guarded by a sergeant armed with a Thomp­son submachine gun. He stepped out of the way as Pickering and the warrant officer approached, and then the warrant officer knocked at the door. A mo­ment later LeMoine unlocked the door, opened it, and motioned Pickering inside.

Then he closed and locked the door and turned to Pickering with a smile.

"We have a mutual friend, General," he said.

"Who's that?"

"Master Sergeant Paul Keller," LeMoine said. "He worked for me when we were in Moscow."

"Good man," Pickering said.

"He says much the same about you, General," LeMoine said. "And he has the same kind of problems I do, wondering who gets to see what and when."

"I'm not sure I follow you," Pickering said.

"Why don't you have a chair, General?" LeMoine said. "I've got to take a leak, and I'll see if I can't get us some coffee."

He pulled a chair on wheels away from a table, waited until Pickering sat down, then walked to the door, unlocked it, walked through it, and then closed and locked it.

There was one sheet of paper on the table.

Pickering wondered why LeMoine had left it on display.

A man like that does not make mistakes. Christ, whatever it is, he wants me to see it!

TOP SECRET-PRESIDENTIAL

WASHINGTON 2215 14OCT1950

FROM DIRECTOR CIA

TO (EYES ONLY) THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

FOLLOWING RECEIVED 22 07 14OCT1950 FROM MAJOR K R MCCOY USMCR

MESSAGE BEGINS

MAJOR MALCOLM S. PICKERING USMCR RETURNED TO US CONTROL 1200 14OCT1950. TRANSPORTED USS

BADOENG STRAIT AS OF 1300 14OCT1950.

SUBJECT OFFICER IS DIRTY, UNSHAVEN, AND VERY HUNGRY, BUT IS UNWOUNDED, UNINJURED, AND IN

SOUND PSYCHOLOGICAL CONDITION.

FOLLOWING CIVILIAN PERSONNEL SHOULD BE CONTACTED BY MOST EXPEDITIOUS MEANS, ASKED NOT TO

DISSEMINATE INFORMATION ABOVE TO OTHERS AND ON AGREEMENT BE NOTIFIED OF SUBJECT OFFICER'S

RETURN AND CONDITION.

MRS FLEMING PICKERING C/O FOSTER HOTELS SAN FRANCISCO CAL

MRS K.R. MCCOY, TOKYO, JAPAN

MISS JEANETTE PRIESTLY C/O PRESS RELATIONS OFFICER, SUPREME HEADQUARTERS UNITED NATIONS

COMMAND, TOKYO

MCCOY MAJ USMCR

MESSAGE ENDS

IN PRESUMPTION YOU WILL INFORM GENERAL PICKERING I WILL NOT DO SO

W.B. SMITH DIRECTOR

Pickering picked it up and read it.

There was the sound of the door being unlocked.

Fleming Pickering swallowed hard and stood up, but did not turn around for a moment, until he felt he had his voice and himself under control.

"Ready for some coffee, General?" LeMoine asked.

"Thank you," Pickering said.

LeMoine set a coffee mug on the table.

"A little sugar for your coffee, General?" LeMoine asked. He held a silver pocket flask over the cup.

"Can I do that myself?" Pickering asked.

LeMoine handed him the flask.

Pickering put it to his lips and took a healthy swig.

"Thank you," he said after a moment.

"Have another. There's more where that came from," LeMoine said.

Pickering took another pull, then handed the flask to LeMoine.

"Thank you," he said again.

"Oh, look what I did!" LeMoine said. He picked up the decrypted message. "I really should have put this in the envelope for the President."

"I didn't see it," Pickering said.

LeMoine met his eyes and nodded.

"I don't think anyone's going to question the Assistant Director of the CIA for Asia coming in here to ask if I had anything for him," LeMoine said. "But, after I told you I didn't, they might wonder why you hung around. Will you excuse me, please, General?"

"Thank you for the coffee," Pickering said.

"When you see Sergeant Keller," LeMoine said, "tell him I asked about him."

"I'll do that," Pickering said as he walked to the door.

As he walked back to the coffee-and-doughnuts building, Pickering saw that the people who had been on the Independence and the Bataan were now— in separate knots—gathered around a Quonset hut. As he walked toward it, the door of the Quonset opened and first Truman and then MacArthur came out.

General Bradley walked up to them, then led them toward another of the identical frame buildings.

Pickering decided that since he had not been invited to attend the official conference, he would just stay in the background. He was glad for the oppor­tunity: That Pick was coming home didn't seem quite real yet. He realized that he had really given up hope, and was ashamed that he had. He knew he needed a couple of minutes to set himself in order.

He walked between two of the frame buildings and leaned against the wall of one of them. He became aware that his forehead was sweaty, and took a hand­kerchief from his pocket to mop it.

Jesus Christ, he's really alive! And unhurt. Thank you, God!

"General, the President would like to see you, sir," an Army colonel said. Pickering hadn't seen him come between the buildings.

"Right away, of course," Pickering said, and pushed himself off the building.

"General, are you all right? Sir, you look—"

"Colonel, I couldn't possibly be any better," Pickering replied. When he turned the corner of the building, he saw the President standing with General Bradley and MacArthur in front of the conference building. When Truman saw Pickering, he motioned him over.

Pickering wasn't sure what the protocol was, whether he was supposed to salute or not. He decided if he was going to err, it would be on the side of cau­tion. He saluted, which seemed to surprise both Bradley and MacArthur, who nevertheless returned it.

"Delbert," the President began, ". . . the cryptographer? . . . has had time to decode only a couple of messages. One of them is this one. I thought you'd be interested."

The President handed him the message.

"General, I can't tell you how happy that message made me," Truman said as Pickering read the message again.

"Thank you, sir," Pickering said.

"May I show it to General Bradley and General MacArthur?" the President asked.

"Yes, sir. Of course." Bradley read it first.

"That's very good news, indeed," he said as he handed the message to MacArthur.

MacArthur's left eyebrow rose in curiosity as he read the message. Then he wrapped an arm around Pickering's shoulder.

"My dear Fleming!" he exclaimed emotionally. "Almighty God has answered our prayers! A valiant airman will be returned to the bosom of his family! Jean will be so happy!"

Bradley could not keep a look of amazement off his face.

"I'd like a word with General Bradley before we go in here," Truman said. "I think if you two went in, the others would follow suit."

"Of course, Mr. President," MacArthur said.

"I'm to be at the meeting?" Pickering blurted.

"Of course," Truman said. "You're really the middleman, General. You're the only one who knows everybody."

MacArthur entered the building with Pickering on his heels. Truman waited until they were out of earshot, then until the others who would participate in the conference had entered the building, and then turned to Bradley.

"General, I want that young officer returned to the United States as soon as he's fit to travel. And I want to make sure the people Major McCoy named are notified as soon as possible, by an appropriate person. Have you got some­one who can handle that for me?"

"Yes, sir," Bradley said. He raised his voice, just slightly. "General Mason!"

An Army major general walked quickly to them.

"General," Bradley said. "I want you to read this."

General Mason read the message and raised his eyes curiously to Bradley.

"General," Bradley began, "the President desires—"

"What the President desires," Truman interrupted, "is that Major Pickering— as soon as he is physically up to it—be flown to the United States to whichever Naval hospital is most convenient for his mother. And I want the people listed in that message to be notified personally—without anything said to them about keeping this a secret—by a suitable person just as soon as that can be arranged. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you," the President said.

"May I keep this message, sir?"

"Why not?" Truman said, then gestured for Bradley to precede him into the conference building.

Truman slipped into an ordinary wooden office chair at the head of a table around which the participants had arranged themselves, those who had come with the President on one side, and MacArthur and those who had come from Tokyo with him on the other.

Everyone was standing, in deference to the President.

"Take your seats, please," Truman said. "General Bradley will take notes, and each of you will later get a copy, but it is for your personal use only, and not to be shared with anyone else. Clear?"

There was a chorus of "Yessir."

"But before we get started, I want to tell you that General Pickering has just been informed that his son, a Marine pilot, who was shot down early in the war . . . How long ago, General?"

"Seventy-seven days ago, Mr. President," Pickering said softly.

". . . who was shot down seventy-seven days ago," the President went on, "and has gone through God only knows what evading capture, was rescued be­hind the lines yesterday and is as we speak aboard the carrier USS Badoeng Strait.'"

There was a round of applause.

"Mr. President," MacArthur said. "If I may?"

Truman gestured for him to go on.

"Perhaps only I know nearly as much as General Pickering does about what Major Pickering was facing and has come through. One of the unpleasant things I have had to do recently is compose the phrasing of the citation for the decoration it was my intention to award—posthumously, I was forced to think—to this heroic young officer. I would like your permission, Mr. Presi­dent, to—"

"Give him the medal anyway?" Truman interrupted. "What did you have in mind?"

"Mr. President, it is self-evident that Major Pickering's valor on the battle­field was distinguished."

"The Distinguished Service Cross?" Truman asked.

"The major is a Marine, Mr. President," General Bradley said. "It would be the Navy Cross."

"Yes, of course," the President said. "I agree. I don't know how that's done, but I'm sure that General Bradley and General MacArthur can handle that be­tween them."

"Yes, sir," Bradley said.

The President wasn't finished: "I also think whoever rescued him from be­hind enemy lines needs recognition," he went on. "That would be Major McCoy, wouldn't it, General Pickering?"

"Either McCoy or one of his men, sir," Pickering said.

"I would suggest, Mr. President," MacArthur said, "the Silver Star for the officer who risked his life to snatch Major Pickering from the midst of the enemy, and Bronze Stars for the others."

Truman looked at Omar Bradley.

"I agree, Mr. President," Bradley said.

"You'll take care of all this?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay," the President said. "Let's get started with this. The first thing . . .”

[TWO]

Aboard the Bataan

3O.59 Degrees North Latitude

172.44 Degrees East Longitude

The Pacific Ocean

1615 15 October 195O

Captain George F. Hart, USMCR, gently nudged Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, with his elbow, and, when he had his attention, directed it with a just-perceptible nod of his head down the aisle of the Bataan.

There were few passengers on the Douglas C-54 four-engine transport. Pickering and Hart were seated toward the rear, in what Hart called "the cheap seats." In them were seated the junior officers—including the aides-de-camp of the senior officers—and the warrant officers and noncoms brought from Tokyo to do whatever was necessary for the senior officers.

Pickering saw Brigadier General Courtney Whitney coming down the aisle to the rear of the airplane. In doing so he passed a number of rows of empty seats. There was little question in Pickering's mind that Whitney was headed for him. He was the only senior officer sitting in the cheap seats.

Whitney stopped at Pickering's seat.

"General Pickering," he said, "the Supreme Commander would like to see you at your convenience."

"Thank you, General Whitney," Pickering said.

Whitney turned and started back toward the front of the aircraft.

Pickering looked at Hart with a raised eyebrow. Hart smiled, hunched his shoulders, and feigned a shiver. Pickering smiled back. It had indeed been an icy encounter. Another one.

Brigadier General Whitney and Brigadier General Pickering had not ex­changed a word on Wake Island, and Pickering hadn't thought—until Whit­ney came down the aisle—that they would exchange one on the way to Japan.

Pickering waited until Whitney had taken his seat before unfastening his seat belt and standing up. Whitney took the seat nearest to the door of MacArthur's compartment. It was the seat traditionally reserved for the most senior of MacArthur's staff aboard.

Pickering knocked at the door to MacArthur's compartment and was told to come in.

"Ah, Fleming!" MacArthur said, coming half out of his chair to offer Pick­ering his hand. "I was afraid you might have been asleep. I told Whitney not to disturb you."

"I was awake, sir," Pickering said.

MacArthur waved him into the seat facing his.

"First, of course, I had to go through the messages from Tokyo." He indi­cated several manila folders that were imprinted with Top Secret in red. "And then I had to let poor Whitney down gently."

"Sir?"

"Entre nous, "MacArthur said. "I have been trying for some time to get him a second star. I thought perhaps a private word between myself and General Bradley might help—"

My God! Pickering thought. He actually tried to use a meeting between him and the President of the United States to get one of the Bataan Gang promoted!

He wanted to make a man who never commanded a company, much less a reg­iment, a major general!

Who are you to talk, General Pickering? The only unit you've ever commanded was a squad.

MacArthur had left the rest of the sentence unspoken, but when he saw the surprise on Pickering's face, he went on.

"I was surprised, too," he said. "I thought Bradley would arrange it as a per­sonal courtesy to me, but all he said was that he would 'look into it,' which, of course, is a polite way of saying no."

Pickering couldn't think of a reply.

"I thought I would tell you this," MacArthur went on, "because you've just learned you're not going to get the promotion you so richly deserved."

"Are you talking about General Smith being named Director of the CIA, sir?"

"Of course."

"You heard that I was being considered?"

"I have a few friends in the Pentagon," MacArthur said. "Not many, but a few. You were the logical choice for the job. But you were obviously tarnished with the brush of being someone held in very high regard by the Viceroy of Japan."

Pickering's surprise was again evident on his face.

"Oh, I know they call me that," MacArthur said. "They also call me 'Dugout Doug,' which I don't really think is fair. And 'El Supremo.' "

"I'm guilty of the latter, General," Pickering said. "I don't think anyone uses that as a pejorative. It's sort of like calling a company commander 'the Old Man.' "

MacArthur smiled but said, "That too. 'The Old Man in the Dai Ichi Building.' "

"General, before President Truman named General Smith, I told him I didn't think I was qualified to be Director of the CIA."

"It got as far—before you took a Pentagon knife in the back—as the Pres­ident actually offering you the job, did it?"

"The President told me, when he told me that he had named General Smith, that he had considered me but decided General Smith was the best man for the job. I told him I completely agreed."

"You know Smith?"

"I met him for the first time after I spoke with the President."

"From everything I hear, he was the brains behind Eisenhower," MacArthur said. "Well, for the record, I think you would have been the best man for the job."

"I respectfully disagree," Pickering said with a smile.

"Well, it's water over the dam," MacArthur said.

"Yes, sir, it is."

"As soon as we get within radio range of Tokyo, I'll set the wheels in mo­tion about your son," MacArthur said. "The first step, obviously, is to get a more precise indication of his physical condition than . . . What did the message say, 'very dirty and very hungry'?"

Pickering chuckled.

"It also said, 'uninjured, unwounded, and in sound psychological condition,'" he said.

MacArthur acted as if Pickering hadn't spoken.

"And once we have that information," he went on, "which shouldn't take long to acquire, we can decide whether it would be best for you to fly out to the Badoeng Strait, and arrange for that, or to wait until your boy is to be flown from the carrier to Tokyo."

"That's very kind of you, General," Pickering said.

"Not at all," MacArthur said. "I'm delighted that everything has turned out so well for you."

MacArthur stood up. After a moment, Pickering realized that he was being dismissed and got hurriedly to his feet.

MacArthur put his hand on Pickering's arm in an affectionate gesture.

"I hate to turn you into a runner, but would you mind sending Colonel Thebideaux in here as you pass through the cabin? He's the plump little chap with the shiny cranium."

"Yes, sir, of course. And thank you again, General."

MacArthur didn't reply. He smiled faintly and sat back down.

Pickering left the compartment, closing the door after him. Halfway down the aisle, he spotted a plump little lieutenant colonel with a shiny cranium. When he got closer, he saw that he was wearing a nameplate with thebideaux etched on it. When he got to the seat, Pickering squatted.

"Colonel Thebideaux," he said, "General MacArthur would like to see you."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Pickering went to the cheap seats and slipped in beside George Hart.

"What's up?"

"As soon as we're in radio contact with Tokyo," Pickering replied, "El Supremo will 'set the wheels in motion' to get me together with Pick. Either fly me out to the carrier or have Pick flown to Tokyo."

"That was nice of him," Hart said.

"I thought so."

"That's all he wanted?"

"That's all he wanted."

Hart pursed his lips and shrugged.

[THREE]

Haneda Airfield

Tokyo, Japan

21O5 15 October 19SO

As the Bataan taxied up to what he thought of as "El Supremo's Hangar," Brigadier General Fleming Pickering saw Master Sergeant Paul Keller leaning on the front fender of his Buick.

So much for the secrecy about El Supremo's movements, he thought. Willoughby and Company almost certainly didn't call Keller and give him our ETA. Paul knows how to find out "top secret" things like that.

As usual, he waited until the important members of MacArthur's staff de­planed before unfastening his seat belt and standing up.

When he came down the stairs, he was surprised to see MacArthur standing impatiently by the open door of his black Cadillac limousine. Willoughby was with him.

When MacArthur saw him, he motioned him over.

"Fleming, why don't you get a good night's sleep and then come by the of­fice first thing in the morning?" MacArthur said. "Willoughby is still collect­ing information about your boy, and by, say, eight, we should know just about everything."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

MacArthur nodded and ducked inside the Cadillac. Willoughby trotted around the rear of the limousine and got in beside him. The limousine, pre­ceded by the usual escort of chrome-helmeted MPs in highly polished jeeps, rolled off.

Pickering walked to his Buick. Keller straightened and saluted. Pickering re­turned it.

"You got the good news, General?" Keller asked.

"The President told me at Wake Island," Pickering said, and got in the front seat. Keller got behind the wheel and turned to him.

"Okay, while George is getting the luggage, this is what I know," Keller said.

Master sergeants are not supposed to refer to commissioned officers by their Christian names, but rather than being disrespectful, Pickering thought, it was an indication that Keller both liked Hart and considered everybody part of a special team.

"As soon as I got The Killer's message off," Keller began, "I went to Denenchofu and told Ernie."

"Good for you," Pickering said.

"Whereupon, she passed out," Keller said. "Scaring the bejesus out of me."

"My God! Is she all right?"

"She says she is. I tried to make her go to the hospital, or at least let me call a doctor, but she wouldn't let me."

"Before we go to the hotel, Paul, we'll swing by Denenchofu," Pickering ordered. Yes, sir.

"Did she hurt herself when she fell?"

"She says no, but I still think she ought to see a doctor."

"So do I."

"Anyway, right after that happened, we put in a call to Mrs. Pickering. We found her in Washington."

"So she knows?"

"Yes, sir. She said that she'd just gotten off the line with Colonel Banning and he'd already told her."

"He probably called her immediately after reading the decrypt of McCoy's message."

"Yes, sir, that's what I thought. I haven't been able to get in touch with the blond war correspondent. Ernie said I missed her at the house by a couple of hours, that she's on her way to Wonsan. I tried to call her at Wonsan. They said she wasn't there, so I called the Press Center at Eighth Army Rear in Pusan. They didn't know where she was, but she's on a list of press people trying to get to Wonsan. She'll turn up."

"And what do we hear about my son?"

"All I know is what's in Killer's message. I think that's probably what it is. He isn't hurt, he's okay psychologically, he's hungry, and he needs a shower and a shave."

"Thank you, Paul," Pickering said. "I suppose we'll have more news in the morning."

"I'm sure we will, sir."

[FOUR]

The Imperial Hotel

Tokyo, Japan

O21O 15 October 195O

Master Sergeant Paul Keller answered the telephone before it had a chance to ring twice.

"General Pickering's quarters, Sergeant Keller," he said. Then he listened briefly, covered the microphone with his hand, and turned to Pickering, who was sitting sprawled beside Captain George Hart on the couch. Both were holding drinks in their hands.

"I've got Mrs. Pickering on the horn, General."

"Thank you," Pickering said. "You two can now go to bed."

Hart stood up, drained his drink, and nodded at Keller as a signal for him to precede him out of the room. When Keller had gone through the door, Hart looked at Pickering, who was looking at him curiously, his raised eyebrow ask­ing,

"Jesus, right now, George?"

"General," Hart said, "would it be too much to ask Mrs. Pickering to call my wife and tell her we got Pick back? She's been holding her breath. Actually, she's been praying."

"Of course not," Pickering said, reaching out his hand for the telephone.

"Good night, sir," Hart said, and walked out of the room.

"Patricia?" Pickering said to the telephone.

"Flem?"

She sounds sleepy.

Jesus Christ, I have no idea what time it is in the States. Did I wake her up?

"How many other calls do you get from men at this time of day?"

"Quite a few, actually," she said. "And two minutes ago I got a telegram from the Secretary of the Navy ..." She paused, and he had a mental image of her picking it up and reading from it. "... who is 'pleased to inform you that your son Major Malcolm Pickering has been returned to U.S. control' and that 'fur­ther information will be furnished when available.' "

"I guess the system kicked in," he said.

"Have you seen him? Where are you?"

"In the Imperial. We got back here a couple of hours ago."

"Thank you for calling me immediately," she said sarcastically.

"I was with Ernie," he said, trying to explain and apologize. "Trying to get her to see a doctor."

"What's wrong with her?" she asked, concern replacing her anger.

"I don't think anything is. But when Keller told her about Pick, she fainted."

"What did the doctor say?"

"She wouldn't see a doctor," he said.

"Tell her that her mother and I are on the way," Patricia said.

"Here?"

"No, to Acapulco."

"I don't think that's such a good idea, sweetheart."

"My son has just been rescued after more than two months and my preg­nant goddaughter has just passed out, and it's not a good idea that her mother and I come over there? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"As soon as he's up to it, they're going to fly him to the States. You're going to be asked to which hospital he should be sent."

"How do you know that?"

"Harry Truman told me."

"Spare me your sarcasm, Flem."

"Just before he took off from Wake Island, the President told me that he has ordered that Pick be sent to the States as soon as his physical condition permits."

" As soon as his physical condition permits'? What do you know that I don't? When Ernie called, she said he was in great shape."

"He's in the sick bay on the Badoeng Strait. Patricia, he spent seventy-seven days running around Korea avoiding capture; they haven't found anything wrong with him, according to McCoy, but they . . . they want to make sure nothing is wrong with him."

"So something is wrong with him."

"I expect a full report on his condition in the morning. As soon as I get it, I'll call."

"Elaine and I will be traveling by tomorrow morning," Patricia declared. "She's on her way here from New Jersey."

Elaine Sage was Ernie's mother.

"Ernie doesn't want her mother over here, she told me."

"She's pregnant—she doesn't know what she wants."

"Obviously, I can't stop either of you, but if you come over here, it will be one goddamned big mistake. What's probably going to happen is that when you get here, you'll learn that you passed Pick flying in the other direction in the middle of the Pacific," Pickering said.

There was a long pause.

"So what are you telling me you think we should do, Flem?" she asked finally.

"Go to San Francisco. To the apartment. By the time you get there, I'll have more information. I'll call and give it to you."

"Elaine's determined to go over there."

"Talk her out of it, sweetheart."

"You'll call me at the apartment the minute you hear anything?"

"Of course I will."

"You sound tired, Flem."

"I am tired."

"Get some rest."

"I will," he said, then added: "Patricia, would you please call George Hart's wife in Saint Louis and tell her."

"I will, but—"

"George said she's been praying for him. Call her, please, Pat."

"I said I would."

"I don't know what the hell you're mad at me for."

"I'm not mad at you, Flem."

"That's not what it sounds like."

"I love you, Flem. I often wonder why."

"I love you, too, and I know why."

"I'll talk to you tomorrow," Patricia said, and hung up.

[FIVE]

The Dai Ichi Building

Tokyo, Japan

O8O5 16 October 19SO

A chrome-helmeted MP stepped into the street and held up his hand somewhat imperiously to stop Pickering's Buick.

"El Supremo's coming," Master Sergeant Paul Keller, who was in the front seat beside the driver, said. "Everybody look busy."

Pickering and Hart, in the backseat, laughed. The sergeant driver—no one knew his name; they changed frequently, and were, not in their hearing, uni­versally referred to as "the CIC guy"—looked at Hart, visibly surprised that a sergeant would dare mock the Supreme Commander, and even more so that a brigadier general and his aide-de-camp would laugh with him.

And it was indeed the Supreme Commander, United Nations Command & U.S. Forces, Far East, arriving at his headquarters.

Preceded by a jeep loaded with chrome-helmeted MPs, his black Cadillac limousine rolled regally past Pickering's Buick, and other cars behind it, and up before the steps leading to the door of the Dai Ichi Building.

A crowd of people, mostly Japanese but including some Americans and others in uniform, waited on the sidewalk behind a line of MPs.

Two more chrome-helmeted MPs stood on the sidewalk at the spot where the rear door of the limousine would open. As it approached them, they raised their hands in salute and held it. The instant the Cadillac stopped, one of them opened the door while the other held his salute.

MacArthur came out of the limousine and, looking straight ahead, walked quickly up the stairs to the building. He acknowledged the salutes given him three times.

Colonel Sidney Huff, MacArthur's senior aide-de-camp, got out of the lim­ousine and followed MacArthur into the building.

The limousine drove off. The crowd—the show over—began to disperse. The MP who had stopped them now motioned just as regally for them to start moving.

When the car stopped before the building, Pickering was out of the back­seat before either the CIC guy or Keller could get out of his seat to open it for him.

Trailed by Hart and Keller, Pickering walked across the lobby to the bank of elevators.

"If there's anything of interest, bring it upstairs," Pickering said to Keller.

"Yes, sir."

Keller got on one elevator, which would carry him to the Communica­tions/Cryptographic Center in the basement, and Pickering and Hart got on another, which carried them to the lobby outside the door of the Office of the Supreme Commander.

Hart walked quickly to the door, pushed it inward, and held it open for Pickering.

There were two outer offices, one manned by one of MacArthur's junior aides, a receptionist, and other clerical types. Pickering strode purposefully through the first outer office into the second, which was occupied by Colonel Sidney Huff and some clerical types.

Shortly after arriving in Tokyo, he had decided that stopping in the outer office and asking to see Colonel Huff was not the thing to do. It gave him a place in the pecking order. He was not only a brigadier general but the Deputy Director of the CIA. He did not need to ask a major if he could see a colonel on MacArthur's staff, even if that colonel was MacArthur's aide-de-camp and a founding member of the Bataan Gang.

"Good morning, Sid," Pickering said. "General MacArthur expects me. Would you tell him I'm here?"

"Good morning, sir," Huff said. "Before you see the Supreme Commander, may I have a minute of your time?"

"Sure, Sid. What can I do for you?"

"I thought you would be interested in this, General," Huff said. "And I don't think I have to tell you we were all delighted to hear that Major Pickering came through his ordeal.''

"Thank you, Sid," Pickering said, and reached out for the first of several documents Huff was obviously prepared to hand him.

SECRET

URGENT

FROM BADOENG STRAIT

0300 16 OCTOBER 1950

TO CHAIRMAN JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF ATTN MAJGEN MASON

INFO CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS

SUPREME COMMANDER UNC

COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF PACIFIC

COMMANDANT USMC

REFERENCE YOUR URGENT DIRECTION OF THE PRESIDENT SUBJ: PICKERING, MAJ MALCOLM USMCR

15OCT50

SUBJECT OFFICER SUFFERED NO WOUNDS OR INJURIES DURING THE CRASH LANDING OF HIS AIRCRAFT

OR IN THE PERIOD FOLLOWING UNTIL HIS RESCUE.

ON ARRIVAL BADOENG STRAIT SUBJECT OFFICER SUFFERED FROM EFFECTS OF MALNUTRITION AND DYSENTERY AND WAS INFESTED WITH INTESTINAL PARASITES. AS A RESULT OF THE FOREGOING, HE HAS LOST BOTH FAT AND MUSCLE TISSUE AND WEIGHS 58 (FIFTY-EIGHT) POUNDS LESS THAN HE DID AT THE TIME OF HIS LAST FLIGHT PHYSICAL EXAMINATION. IT IS NOT BELIEVED THAT HE WILL LOSE ANY TEETH, ALTHOUGH THE CONDITION OF HIS GUMS REFLECTS THE AFOREMENTIONED MALNUTRITION AND DYSENTERY.

4. SUBJECT OFFICER'S DYSENTERY HAS REACTED TO ANTI­BIOTIC TREATMENT, AND THE INTERNAL PARASITES HAVE REACTED TO ATABRINE AND OTHER TREATMENT. HE HAS BEEN PLACED ON A HIGH PROTEIN DIET.

THERE IS NO REASON SUBJECT OFFICER CANNOT BE AIR­LIFTED TO THE ZONE OF THE INTERIOR AT

ANY TIME. HE CAN BE TRANSPORTED FROM BADOENG STRAIT EITHER BY TBM-3G AVENGER AIRCRAFT OR BY UNDER-WAY TRANSFER TO A DESTROYER OR DESTROYER ESCORT.

IN THE OPINION OF THE UNDERSIGNED, PRESENT AND PROJECTED WEATHER CONDITIONS MAKE AT-SEA

TRANSFER THE LESS HAZARDOUS MEANS OF TRANSPORT. REQUEST DIRECTION.

BADOENG STRAIT PROCEEDING.

NORTON, CAPT USN

COMMANDING

Pickering read the message and handed it back to Huff. "Fifty-eight pounds," he said. "Jesus, he must look like a skeleton." Huff handed him another message.

SECRET

URGENT

FROM COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF PACIFIC

0405 16 OCTOBER 1950

TO BADOENG STRAIT

INFO SUPREME COMMANDER UNC TOKYO

CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS WASHINGTON

COMMANDANT USMC WASHINGTON

COMMANDER USNAVY BASE SASEBO JAPAN

1 . REFERENCE IS MADE TO

A. MESSAGE DIRECTION OF THE PRESIDENT SUBJ: PICKERING, MAJ MALCOLM USMCR 15OCT50

B. YOUR SECRET URGENT SUBJECT AS ABOVE 03 00 16 OCTOBER 1950

2. CINCPAC DIRECTS

A. DETACHMENT OF DESTROYER OR DESTROYER ESCORT FROM COVERING FORCE FOR PURPOSE OF TRANSPORTING SUBJECT OFFICER TO NEAREST PORT OFFERING SUITABLE AIR TRANSPORT OF SUBJECT OFFICER TO USNAVY HOSPITAL USNAVY BASE SASEBO JAPAN.

B. SUBJECT OFFICER BE ACCOMPANIED BY NAVY PHYSICIAN DURING MOVEMENT FROM BADOENG STRAIT TO SASEBO. TRANSFER TO TRANSPORTING VESSEL TO TAKE PLACE WHENEVER AND WHEREVER BADOENG STRAIT DEEMS ADVISABLE.

C. BADOENG STRAIT WILL ADVISE CINCPAC AND ADDRESSEES HEREON BY URGENT MESSAGE OF SUCCESSFUL TRANSFER OF SUBJECT OFFICER TO TRANSPORTING VESSEL, PORT OF DESTINATION, AND ETA THEREAT.

3. BADOENG STRAIT WILL PASS FOLLOWING PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM CINCPAC TO SUBJECT OFFICER AT EARLIEST OPPORTUNITY. QUOTE WELL DONE. YOUR RECENT ACTIONS IN HIGHEST TRADITIONS OF USMC AND NAVAL SERVICE. WELCOME BACK. END QUOTE

FOR THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF, PACIFIC

STEVENS, VICE ADMIRAL, CHIEF OF STAFF

Pickering read the message and handed it back to Huff. Huff held the other messages up.

"You can read these, of course, if you like," he said. "But they are simply administrative messages to implement what's going to happen. The thumb­nail of the situation is that a Navy R4-D hospital plane will be waiting at Pusan—that's the nearest port—to fly your son to Sasebo. The Supreme Com­mander has arranged for you to be flown to either Pusan or Sasebo, whichever you prefer—"

"Sasebo," Pickering interrupted. "I don't see much point in going to Korea just to come back. And I would just be in the way."

And it smacks of special treatment—not for Pick, for me.

"Yes, sir. There are two remaining problems."

"Which are?"

"The President has directed that Major Pickering be flown to the naval hospital in the United States most convenient for Mrs. Pickering. They have apparently been unable to contact her."

"San Diego," Pickering said. "Send him to the Navy Hospital in San Diego."

"Yes, sir."

"And the second problem?"

"Miss Priestly. We haven't been able to locate her. We know she's in Korea, and probably in Pusan, but we haven't been able to find her so far."

"I understand she was headed for Wonsan."

"We've checked Wonsan. They don't know where she is, and her name does not appear on any flight manifest of flights from Pusan to Wonsan." He paused, then added: "We'll find her, General."

"I'm sure you will," Pickering said. "Thank you, Sid."

"I know the Supreme Commander is expecting you, sir," Huff said. "I'll tell him you're here."

[SIX]

When Colonel Huff opened the door to MacArthur's office and announced, "General Pickering, sir," MacArthur and Major General Charles Willoughby, his intelligence officer, were standing at a table to one side of the room, look­ing down at a map.

"Ah, come on in, Fleming!" MacArthur called heartily. "I've been waiting for you."

"Good morning, sir," Pickering said, and saluted.

Marines and sailors do not salute indoors—unless under arms or "covered" (wearing a hat or cap)—soldiers do. Pickering had decided nine years before, in Australia, that it was wiser to follow the Army custom. His relationships with the officers around MacArthur were bad enough as it was without adding "the arrogant SOB doesn't even salute" to the listings of what was wrong with him.

"The Supreme Commander has just told me about your son, Pickering," General Willoughby said. "What good news!"

"Thank you, General," Pickering said.

"And Huff has you up to speed, right, on what's happened about that this morning?" MacArthur asked.

"Yes, sir, he has."

"Are you going out to the carrier, or to Korea?"

"No, sir. I think I'd just be in the way. I'll go to Sasebo and wait there."

"Probably the wisest thing to do. Huff will arrange whatever is necessary."

"Thank you."

"Willoughby has been bringing me up to speed on what's happening. Would you like to listen, or are you anxious to leave for Sasebo?"

"I'd prefer to hear General Willoughby's briefing, sir, if I may."

"Start from the beginning, Willoughby," MacArthur ordered.

"Yes, sir," Willoughby said. "On the west coast," he began, using his swag­ger stick as a pointer, "I Corps is poised to take Pyongyang. ..."

The briefing took only ten minutes. It was upbeat and confident. The impli­cation was that the Korea Peace Action was just about over.

MacArthur had asked only two questions of Willoughby.

"And the Wonsan mines, Willoughby?"

"Admiral Struble's Joint Task Force Seven, as of this morning, sir, has nine­teen minesweeping vessels working on the problem."

"And?"

"X Corps will sail today from Inchon, General," Willoughby said. "I have every confidence that by the time the invasion fleet arrives off Wonsan, the mines will no longer pose any problem at all."

"And the Chinese?"

"There has been no reliable intelligence of any movement of Chinese troops toward the border, sir," Willoughby said. "I've personally taken a look at a good deal of the Air Force photography. There's simply nothing there."

Pickering had another unkind thought about Major General Charles Willoughby:

He obviously believes what he's saying, but that is not the same thing as saying that what he believes is true.

What I should do, I suppose, is stand up and say, "General, please remember that Willoughby is the guy who told you guerrilla operations in the Philippines were absolutely impossible, and that there was no indication of hostile inten­tions on the part of North Korea, and his confident statements about no mines and no Chinese should be judged accordingly."

Why don't I? Because I don't know if the mines are gone from the approaches to Wonsan or not, and I don't know if the Chinese are going to come in the war, and absent proof of either, MacArthur's going to go with Willoughby.

And, furthermore, Bedell Smith made the point that the intelligence-gathering function of the CIA ends with passing it on to those charged with making decisions. Making decisions is not our responsibility.

MacArthur interrupted his thoughts. "Have you any questions for Willoughby, Fleming?"

"No, sir."

"In that case, Willoughby, would you give General Pickering and me a moment?"

"Yes, sir, of course."

Willoughby went through the door into Huff's office. "Willoughby tells me that you have sent the CIA Tokyo station chief home," MacArthur said, making it a question.

I can answer that tactfully, which means lie, and say Bedell Smith ordered it. Or I can tell the blunt truth, and probably antagonize him. It's probably time for the blunt truth.

"In my judgment, General, he needed to be replaced. For one thing, he failed to gain intelligence of North Korea's intentions when this war started, and for another—and no disrespect is intended—he was entirely too close to mem­bers of your staff, especially General Willoughby." MacArthur considered that a full fifteen seconds. "Have you decided on a replacement?"

"Colonel Ed Banning, sir. Do you remember him?"

"Of course. He was your deputy in the Second War."

"Yes, sir, he was."

"It's always nice, Fleming, to have old comrades-in-arms in one's inner com­mand circle. You know they can be trusted," MacArthur said, then smiled. "Well, I suppose you're anxious to head for Sasebo, aren't you?"

He meant Willoughby in that philosophical observation, not Ed Banning. Is he asking me to understand his relationship with Willoughby?

"Yes, sir, I am."

Pickering saluted again, then walked out of MacArthur's office into Huff's office, where Captain Hart and Master Sergeant Keller were waiting for him. Willoughby nodded at Pickering, then went back into MacArthur's office.

"This is the most interesting one, General," Keller said, handing him a sheet of paper. "And it was delivered by a Jap on a bicycle."

FROM TRANSGLOBAL HONOLULU TO TRANSGLOBAL TOKYO

PLEASE PASS TO GENERAL PICKERING THAT COLONEL EDWARD BANNING, USMC, IS ABOARD TGF 1022 DUE TO ARRIVE IN TOKYO 12 3 0 TOKYO TIME OCTOBER 16.

WILLIAMSON TG HONOLULU

"Well, I guess we'd better be at Haneda to meet him, hadn't we, Paul?" Pickering said.

Chapter Twelve

[ONE]

The Imperial Hotel

Tokyo, Japan

1115 16 October 19SO

Captain George Hart knocked lightly on the door to Brigadier General Pick­ering's bedroom, and then, as was his custom, without waiting for a reply, opened the door wide enough to look inside.

Pickering's bedroom was actually a suite within a suite. There was a bed­room, a private bath, and a small room holding a desk and chair and a leather-upholstered chair with a footstool.

Pickering was sitting in the chair, holding a cup of coffee. He was not on the telephone, which meant that his conversation with Mrs. Pickering was over.

Hart signaled with a wave of his hand for Master Sergeant Paul Keller to follow him into the small room.

Pickering didn't seem to notice their presence.

"It's about that time, boss," Hart said. "We better get out to Haneda. Trans-Global may surprise us all by arriving on time."

Hart got neither the laugh nor the dirty look he expected from Pickering. Instead, Pickering looked at them thoughtfully.

"Sir?" Hart asked.

"I want a straight answer from you two," Pickering said. "You listening, Paul?"

"Yes, sir?"

"A lot has gone on in Korea that I don't—we don't, and especially Colonel Banning doesn't—know much about. The helicopters, for one thing, and this Army lieutenant colonel who apparently has not only stolen a Beaver from the Eighth Army Commander but seems to have taken over our villa in Seoul," Pickering said. "Right?"

"That's right, sir," Hart said. "Are you worried about Colonel Vandenberg?"

Pickering didn't respond.

"George," he went on, "you and I have never been inside the Seoul villa, and all we know about it is what Bill Dunston has told us about it."

"The Killer seems impressed with this Vandenburg guy," Hart said.

Again, Pickering didn't respond.

"Neither have we been to Socho-Ri," Pickering said.

"No, we haven't," Hart agreed.

"And obviously, Banning should meet Dunston and Vandenburg, and have them and McCoy and Zimmerman bring him up to speed on what's going on. All of these things would seem to indicate that we get Banning and ourselves to Seoul as quickly as possible, even if Ed Banning's ass is dragging after hav­ing flown halfway around the world."

"Makes sense to me, boss," Hart said.

"Okay, here's the question, and kindness should not color your answer: Who made that decision, your steel-backed, cold-blooded commander think­ing of nothing but the mission, or a father who desperately wants to see his son?"

There was silence.

"You first, Paul," Pickering said.

"Jesus, General," Keller said. "If it was me, and if my son, if I had one, was just coming back from wherever the hell he's been, I'd be on the next plane to Korea, and I wouldn't even think of Dunston and Socho-Ri and the rest of it."

Pickering met his eyes for a moment, then looked around for Hart. Hart was across the room, on the telephone.

"Whoever that it is, George, it'll have to wait," Pickering said. "I want an answer."

Hart covered the telephone microphone with his hand.

"Where are we going? Pusan or Seoul?" he asked.

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning if we can get on the 1500 courier plane to Seoul, you'll have time to meet Colonel Vandenburg this afternoon and tonight, then fly to Socho-Ri in the morning and see the Killer and Zimmerman, and then be in Pusan prob­ably four, five hours before the tin can can get Pick off the carrier and deliver him there. Which means, your choice, you can have Dunston fly to Seoul from Pusan this afternoon—my suggestion—or have him wait for you in Pusan."

"That's not an answer to my question," Pickering said.

"Yes it is, boss," Hart said softly but firmly. "I kept my mouth shut when you and the Killer were going through that 'we can't use a helicopter that's needed to transport the wounded to look for him' noble Marine Corps bull­shit, but enough's enough. You have valid reasons to go to Korea. Be glad you do. You and Pick are entitled to get together. Now, where are we going, Pusan or Seoul?"

After a long pause, Pickering said, "Seoul."

Hart nodded and returned to the telephone.

"Brigadier General E Pickering, USMC, will require three seats on the 1500 courier to Seoul," he said.

Whoever he was talking to said something.

"Hey, Captain!" Hart barked into the phone, interrupting the person on the other end. "Whoa! Save your breath! I don't give a good goddamn if you have seats available or not. We have a priority that'll bump anybody but Douglas MacArthur, and we intend to use it. Am I getting through to you?"

Hart turned to Pickering, intending to smile at him. He saw that Pickering had stood up and was looking out the window. As Hart watched, Pickering blew his nose loudly.

"We're on the 1500, boss," Hart said.

General Pickering nodded his understanding, but he didn't trust his voice to speak.

[TWO]

USS Mansfield (DD 728)

37.54 Degrees North Latitude

13O.O5 Degrees East Longitude

The Sea of Japan

15O5 16 October 195O

Lieutenant Commander C. Lewis Matthews III, USN, a very large, open-faced thirty-nine-year-old, took a final look out the spray-soaked window of his bridge, then walked to the rear of the bridge and pressed the announce lever on the public-address system control panel mounted on the bulkhead.

"Attention all hands. This is the captain speaking," he announced. He knew that within seconds he would have the attention of every man aboard.

On being given command of the Mansfield, he had received advice from both his father and grandfather. In addition to a good deal else, they had both told him to stay the hell off the PA system unless he had something important to say.

"Don't fall in love with the sound of your own voice," Vice Admiral Charles L. Matthews, USN, Ret., his grandfather, had told him. "Remember the little kid who kept crying 'wolf.' "

Rear Admiral C. L. Matthews, Jr., his father, had put much the same thought this way: "Stay off the squawk box, Lew, unless you have something really important to say. When you say 'This is the captain speaking,' you want everybody to pay attention, not groan and say, 'Jesus Christ, again?' "

Lew Matthews had taken that advice, and right now was glad he had.

"We're about to pull alongside the Badoeng Strait" Captain Lew Matthews announced. "We are going to make an underway transfer of two officers from Badoeng Strait. One of them is a physician. The other is a Marine pilot who was shot down right after this war started, and has been behind the enemy's lines until his rescue yesterday. Once we have them aboard, we will make for Pusan at best speed, where a hospital plane will be waiting to fly the Marine to the hospital at Sasebo. Do this right. The one thing this Marine doesn't need after all he's gone through is to take a bath in the Sea of Japan."

He let go of the announce lever and walked to the spray-soaked window of the bridge, took a look at the seas and the gray bulk of the Badoeng Strait dead ahead, and shook his head.

He turned and caught the attention of the officer of the deck, then pointed to himself.

"The captain has the conn!" the officer of the deck announced.

"Bring us alongside the Badoeng Strait," Matthews ordered the helmsman, describing with his finger how he wanted the Mansfield to move and where.

He turned to the officer of the deck and nodded.

The officer of the deck went to the control panel, depressed the announce lever, and said, "Attention all hands. Make all preparations for underway per­sonnel transfer."

[THREE]

USS Badoeng Strait (CVE 116)

37.54 Degrees North Latitude

13O.O5 Degrees East Longitude

The Sea of Japan

1515 16 October 195O

Lieutenant Bruce D. Patterson, MC, USNR, wearing foul-weather gear and an inflated life jacket, was sitting in a bosun's chair. The chair—an item of Navy gear evolved from a sort of canvas seat that hauled sailors aloft to work on masts and sails, and thus was probably as old as the anchor—was suspended under a cable that had been rigged between one of the higher decks of the USS Mansfield and an interior strong point in the USS Badoeng Strait that was ac­cessible through a square port in her side.

"All things considered, Major Pickering," Lieutenant Patterson said, "I very much regret ever having met you."

Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, who was also wearing foul-weather gear and an inflated life jacket, and was strapped into a second bosun's chair, smiled, shrugged, held out both hands in front of him, and said, "Jeez, Doc, I thought you liked me."

There was laughter from the dozen Marine aviators who were on hand to watch Good Ol' Pick get transferred to the destroyer.

Another Marine aviator in a flight suit walked up to them.

"I don't suppose it occurred to any of you guys that you might be in the way down here," Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn, USMC, said.

Lieutenant Colonel Dunn was not in a very good mood. He had just fin­ished what he considered the most unpleasant duty laid upon a commanding officer.

And it was still painfully fresh in his mind:

USS BADOENG STRAIT (CVE-116)

MARINE AIR GROUP 33

AT SEA

16 OCTOBER 1950

MRS. BARBARA C. MITCHELL

APARTMENT 12-D, "OCEANVIEW"

1005 OCEAN DRIVE

SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

DEAR BABS:

BY NOW, I'M SURE THAT YOU HAVE BEEN OFFICIALLY NOTIFIED OF DICK'S DEATH.

I THOUGHT THAT YOU WOULD BE INTERESTED IN WHAT I CAN TELL YOU OF WHAT HAPPENED.

WE WERE IN A SIX-CORSAIR FLIGHT OVER NORTH KOREA, NEAR HUNGNAM, ON THE EAST COAST OF THE KOREAN PENIN­SULA. OUR MISSION WAS IN SUPPORT OF THE I REPUBLIC OF KOREA CORPS, WHICH IS IN PURSUIT OF RETREATING NORTH KOREAN ARMY FORCES.

WHAT WE WERE CHARGED WITH DOING WAS INTERDICTING NORTH KOREA TROOPS TO BOTH SLOW THEIR RETREAT AND HIT THEM AS HARD AS WE CAN. WHEN THE SOUTH KOREANS DID NOT HAVE A TARGET FOR US, WE MADE SWEEPS OVER THE AREA, LOOKING FOR SUITABLE TARGETS OURSELVES.

ON THE AFTERNOON OF 14 OCTOBER, I DIVIDED THE FLIGHT INTO THREE TWO-CORSAIR ELEMENTS, WITH MYSELF AND MY WINGMAN, LIEUTENANT STAN SUPROWSKI, IN THE LEAD AND FIVE HUNDRED FEET ABOVE THE SECOND ELEMENT, WHICH WAS CAPTAIN JACK DERWINSKI, WHOM I KNOW YOU KNOW, AND WHO WAS A CLOSE FRIEND OF DICK'S. LIEUTENANT SAM WILLIAMS WAS FLYING AS JACK'S WINGMAN. THEY WERE FIVE HUNDRED FEET ABOVE THE THIRD ELEMENT, WHICH WAS DICK, WITH CAPTAIN LESTER STEPPES FLYING ON HIS WING.

A LITTLE AFTER TWO-THIRTY, FROM MY GREATER ALTITUDE, I WAS ABLE TO SEE A COLUMN OF TROOPS MIXED WITH SOME TRUCKS AND OTHER VEHICLES. TO MAKE SURE THEY WERE NOT FRIENDLY FORCES, I PASSED THE WORD THAT I WOULD MAKE A PASS OVER THEM, AND THAT IF THEY WERE INDEED THE ENEMY, THE OTHERS WERE TO ATTACK, STARTING WITH SUPROWSKI, WHO WAS NOW A THOUSAND FEET BEHIND ME, AND THEN THE OTHER TWO ELEMENTS.

I MADE THE PASS, AND RECEIVED SOME SMALL-CALIBER FIRE, WHEREUPON I GAVE THE ORDER FOR THE OTHERS TO ATTACK.

I THEN PULLED UP, MADE A 180-DEGREE TURN, AND SHORTLY THEREAFTER WAS FLYING A THOUSAND FEET OR SO BEHIND DICK AND CAPTAIN STEPPES AT NO MORE THAN TWO HUNDRED FEET OFF THE DECK. I COULD SEE DICK AND LESTER'S TRACER AMMUNITION STRIKING THE ENEMY COLUMN.

AND THEN, TO MY HORROR, I SAW DICK GO IN. ACTUALLY, IT HAPPENED SO QUICKLY THAT THE FIRST SIGN OF TROUBLE I SAW WAS THE FIREBALL OF DICK'S AIRCRAFT.

THERE IS NO QUESTION WHATEVER IN MY MIND THAT HE DIED INSTANTLY, AND IT IS ENTIRELY LIKELY THAT DICK WAS STRUCK AND KILLED BY ANTIAIRCRAFT MACHINE-GUN FIRE BEFORE HIS CORSAIR CRASHED.

ON MY FIRST PASS OVER THE CRASH SITE—SECONDS LATER— THERE WAS NOTHING TO BE SEEN BUT THE FIREBALL. ON SUBSEQUENT PASSES, AFTER THE FIRE HAD BURNED ITSELF OUT, I WAS FORCED TO CONCLUDE THAT NO ONE COULD HAVE SURVIVED THE CRASH.

ON RETURNING TO THE BADOENG STRAIT, I WAS ABLE TO MAKE CONTACT WITH A MARINE UNIT ON SHORE WHICH HAS ACCESS TO AN H-19 HELICOPTER, AND THEY ARE AS THIS IS WRITTEN IN THE PROCESS OF GETTING DICK'S REMAINS. I KNOW THEY WILL DO THEIR VERY BEST, NOT ONLY AS FELLOW MARINES, BUT BECAUSE AMONG THEM IS A MASTER GUNNER WHO KNEW DICK IN NORTH CAROLINA, AND HELD HIM IN BOTH HIGH ESTEEM AND AFFECTION.

AS SOON AS I LEARN ANYTHING ABOUT THIS, I WILL IMMEDIATELY LET YOU KNOW.

I DON'T THINK I HAVE TO TELL YOU HOW ALL THE. MARINES IN MAG33 FELT ABOUT DICK. HE WAS A SUPERB PILOT, AND A FINE MARINE OFFICER, AND WE SHALL ALL MISS HIM VERY MUCH.

THIS WILL PROBABLY OFFER LITTLE IN THE WAY OF CONSOLATION, BUT I HAVE JUST BEEN NOTIFIED THAT MY RECOMMENDATION FOR THE AWARD OF THE DISTINGUISHED FLYING CROSS HAS BEEN APPROVED. THAT WILL BE HIS THIRD AWARD OF THE DFC.

IF THERE IS ANYTHING I CAN DO TO BE OF SERVICE AT ANY TIME, PLEASE LET ME KNOW.

SINCERELY,

William C. Dunn

WILLIAM C. DUNN

LIEUTENANT COLONEL, USMC

COMMANDING

Dunn walked up to Pickering.

"Jesus, Billy," Pickering said. "How about cutting a little slack? The guys just came to see me off."

Dunn didn't respond directly. He thrust a large oilskin envelope at Picker­ing. "Can I rely on you to get this in the mail as soon as you get to Japan?" he asked.

"Depends on what's in it," Pick said.

"My condolence letter to Babs Mitchell."

Pick's smile faded. "Sure," he said, and took the envelope and stuffed it in­side the foul-weather gear.

Dunn walked to the open door and peered out.

He saw that while weather conditions could not—yet—be accurately de­scribed as a storm, there were strong winds, five- to eight-foot swells, and it was raining, sometimes in gusts.

He saw that as the Mansfield and Badoeng Strait moved through the sea, with an intended space of fifty feet between them, they did not move up and down in unison. Only when the Mansfield, moving upward, for example, was exactly on a level with the Badoeng Strait, moving downward, was the cable stretched between them fairly level.

At all other times, it formed a loop, with one of the vessels at the top of the loop and the other at the bottom.

In addition, if the seas caused one vessel to lean to port and the other to starboard, the cable would be subject to a stress capable of snapping it as they moved apart unless additional cable was released from the winch. Conversely, if the vessels leaned toward each other, the lower part of the loop tended to go into the water, unless the cable was quickly winched in.

Dunn pulled his head in and looked at Chief Petty Officer Felix J. Orlovski, who had been in the Navy longer than many of his sailors were old.

"How are we doing with this, Chief?"

"We're about to make a test run, sir," the chief said, and pointed upward to the cable. A third bosun's chair was hooked to it.

"What's that strapped inside?" Dunn asked.

"The doc's medical bag, sir, and some weights to bring it to two hundred pounds. You want me to go ahead, sir?"

Dunn nodded, and Chief Orlovski bellowed, "CHAIR AWAY!"

The chair began to move between the ships. When it was almost exactly in the middle between them, the two vessels leaned toward each other. The loop in the cable dropped the bosun's chair to the surface of the sea, where it sank briefly beneath it.

When the two ships leaned away from each other, the loop straightened and the bosun's chair rose out of the water. As it continued to move toward the Mansfield, everyone watching the "transfer" could see that Lieutenant Patter­son's medical bag and the weights that had been in the seat were no longer there.

Major Pickering said, "I am offering three-to-five the doc never makes it"— there was appreciative laughter from the pilots—"in which case, the colonel's going to have to think of some better way to get me off this vessel."

More laughter.

Dunn looked coldly at Pickering but said nothing.

He had been giving Pickering a lot of thought ever since the Air Force pilot had relayed McCoy's "Bingo, heads up" message.

His first reaction had been personal: joy and relief that Pickering had not perished in some desolate rice paddy or at the end of some North Korean's bay­onet. That was understandable. They had been close friends since Guadalcanal, when, flying VMF-229 Grumman Wildcats off of Fighter One, Second Lieu­tenant Pickering had been First Lieutenant Dunn's wingman.

His second reaction, he'd originally thought, was sort of cold-blooded pro­fessional. Pickering's return to the Badoeng Strait after everyone—including himself—had decided he wouldn't come back at all was going to do a great deal to restore the sagging morale Dick Mitchell's death had caused among his pilots.

The first unkind or unpleasant thought had come when the Army pilot had flown the black H-19A out to the Badoeng Strait. For one thing, he had heard and believed that helicopters—particularly new ones, and the H-19A was as new as they came—were notoriously unreliable. Somebody who knew what he was talking about had told him that if it were not for the helicopter's ability to land practically anywhere—or, for that matter, to flutter without power to the ground in what they called an "autorotation"—they would be banned as a gen­eral hazard to mankind.

It was well over one hundred miles from Socho-Ri to where the Badoeng Strait cruised in the Sea of Japan. Finding the ship itself was risky. And if the H-19A had engine trouble, the "can land anywhere" and "autorotation" safety features would be useless at sea. It could flutter to the sea intact, of course, but then it would immediately begin to sink.

Dunn hadn't thought the H-19A would have life jackets—much less a rub­ber lifeboat—aboard, and he checked, and it didn't. Everybody on board would have died if they hadn't been able to make it to the Badoeng Strait.

And that was only the beginning of the problem. The Army aviator who had flown the machine had never landed on an aircraft carrier before. Dunn had admired his courage, and later his flying skill, but he had thought that if it hadn't been for Pick trying to become the first Marine locomotive ace, he wouldn't have been shot down, and no one would have had to risk their lives to save his ass.

That Pick had not been brought up short by a direct order to stop flying all over the Korean landscape looking for a locomotive to shoot up instead of what he was supposed to do, was what was known at the Command and Gen­eral Staff College as a failure of command supervision. Major Pickering's ass­hole behavior had been tolerated, not stopped, by his commander, whose name was Dunn, William C.

Phrased another way, what that meant was that Colonel Billy Dunn was re­ally responsible for all the lives risked, and all the effort spent, to save Pick Pick­ering's ass, because if he had done his job, Pick would not have been shot down trying to become the first locomotive ace in the Marine Corps.

"You ready, Doc?" Chief Orlovski asked.

"As ready as I'll ever be," Patterson replied.

"CHAIR AWAY!" Orlovski bellowed.

Dr. Patterson, in disturbingly quick order, felt himself being hauled up ver­tically, then moving horizontally off the Badoeng Strait, then sinking suddenly toward the Sea of Japan, then felt his feet being knocked out from under him as they actually encountered the Sea of Japan, then rising vertically and sideways at once, and then having strong male arms wrapped around him, and then dropping with a thump to the deck as someone released the bosun's chair from the cable.

Major Pickering turned to Lieutenant Colonel Dunn.

"I really don't want to do that, Billy," he said.

"Shut up, Pick," Dunn said, not very pleasantly.

Two sailors, supervised by a chief petty officer, began to attach Major Pick­ering's chair to the cable.

"As a matter of fact," Major Pickering said, "I'll be goddamned if I'll do that." He looked over his shoulder, saw Chief Orlovski, and ordered: "Get me out of this thing, Chief."

Pick started to unfasten the straps, and was startled to find Colonel Dunn's hand roughly knocking his fingers away from the buckle.

"Hook him up, Chief," Dunn ordered. "He's going."

"I am like hell!" Pick protested.

"You're going, Pick," Colonel Dunn said. "Goddamn you!"

"In my delicate condition, I really think it's ill-advised," Pick said lightly, and added, "I really would prefer to wait for weather that will permit me to fly off this vessel, as befitting a Marine officer, aviator, and gentleman, if that's all right with you, Colonel, sir."

"No, it's not all right with me, you self-important sonofabitch," Dunn said furiously. "Your delicate condition is your own goddamn fault. And we both know it." Dunn turned to Orlovski: "Snap it up, Chief!"

"What the hell is wrong with you, Billy?" Pick demanded.

"There's not a damn thing wrong with me. Your problem is that you have never, not fucking ever, really understood you're a Marine officer who does what he's ordered to do."

"What brought this on?" Pick asked, genuinely surprised at Dunn's tone.

"You really don't care how much trouble your childish behavior has caused, do you? Or how many good people have put their necks out to save you from the consequences of your sophomoric showboating, do you?"

"Jesus Christ!" Pick said softly.

"Haul him away, Chief!" Dunn ordered coldly.

Chief Petty Officer Felix J. Orlovski bellowed, "CHAIR AWAY!"

Ninety seconds later, after a brief but thoroughly soaking dip in the Sea of Japan, Major Pickering was sitting on the deck of the USS Mansfield.

A ruddy-faced chief bent over Pickering to help him out of the bosun's chair.

"I'm really sorry you got dunked, Major," he said, obviously meaning it. "It was the last goddamn thing I wanted to have happen to you."

"Chief, the skipper says the major is to go to his cabin," a voice said.

Pickering moved his head and saw a full lieutenant standing beside the chief.

"You all right, sir?" the lieutenant asked.

"I'm fine," Pick said.

The chief and the lieutenant hauled him to his feet and gently led him through a port into the Mansfield's superstructure.

Pick felt the Mansfield lean as she turned away from the Badoeng Strait.

[FOUR]

USAF Airfield K-16

Seoul, South Korea

175O 16 October 195O

Major William R. Dunston, TC, USA, was waiting in the passenger section of base operations at K-16 when the 1500 courier flight from Haneda arrived.

He saluted somewhat sloppily when Pickering walked into the building, trailed by Banning and Hart.

Pickering restrained a smile when he saw that Dunston, who was not what could be described as a fine figure of a man, and additionally was wearing mussed, somewhat soiled fatigues and could have used a haircut, had failed the First Impressions Test of Colonel Edward J. Banning, USMC.

"Bill, this is Colonel Ed Banning," Pickering said.

"Welcome to the Land of the Morning Calm," Dunston said. "Your repu­tation precedes you."

"Does it really?" Banning said a little stiffly.

Pickering thought: What's ruffling Banning's feathers? Dunston's appearance? Or that he hasn't used the word "sir"?

"Yeah," Dunston continued, "when the Killer heard you were coming, he told me all about you."

Pickering saw that Hart was also amused by the exchange.

"Where is Major McCoy?" Pickering asked.

"I don't really know," Dunston said. "When I got the heads-up from Keller, I got on the horn to Socho-Ri, and Zimmerman said they got the three clicks a little after three this morning."

" 'The three clicks'?" Banning asked.

"Meaning they got ashore okay. . . . Should we be talking about this in here?"

"Good point. Let's go outside," Pickering said.

Dunston led them to the end of a line of parked vehicles.

"What the hell is this thing?" Pickering asked.

"This is the Killer's Russian jeep," Dunston said. "He took it away from an NK colonel. He had it over in Socho-Ri, but when he sent Jennings here, he sent the Russian Rolls with him and said to keep it here."

"Is that what you call it, the Russian Rolls?" Pickering asked, chuckling.

"Who's Jennings?" Banning asked. It was almost an interruption.

"Tech Sergeant," Dunston said. "He and Zimmerman and the Killer were in the Marine Raiders. Good man. He's been with us since Pusan."

"You know McCoy hates to be called Killer, don't you, Major?" Banning asked.

"Yeah, well, I guess I'm one of the privileged few who can," Dunston said. "We're pretty close, Colonel."

Pickering saw that Banning found that hard to accept.

Dunston got behind the wheel, and Pickering got in beside him.

"Nobody can hear us here," Pickering said when Banning and Hart had climbed over the back into the rear seat. "What about McCoy? Where is he?"

"Well, they—the Killer and two of my Koreans—went ashore a few miles north of Chongjin," Dunston said. "The Wind of Good Fortune got the three clicks a little after three this morning."

"Your Koreans?" Banning asked.

"The Wind of Good Fortune is the flagship of our fleet, Colonel," George Hart offered quickly. "It's a diesel-powered junk."

He did that, Pickering thought, because he sensed that Dunston has had enough of Banning's attitude and was about to snap back at Banning. What the hell is wrong with Ed Banning?

Banning's glance at Hart did not suggest anything close to gratitude.

"My Koreans, Colonel," Dunston said coldly, "are what few agents I have left of the agents I had before the war. McCoy's Koreans are the ones he's bor­rowed from Colonel Pak at I ROK Corps. We tell them apart that way."

"Three clicks?" Pickering asked, more to forestall another question from Banning than for information. He had made a guess—as it turned out, the right one—about what three clicks meant.

"You push the mike button three times, General, but don't say anything," Dunston said. "It means you're safely ashore."

"Ashore a few miles north of where?" Banning asked.

"Chongjin," Dunston said. "It's a town—"

"On the Sea of Japan, about sixty miles from the Chinese and Russian bor­ders," Banning said impatiently. "I know where it is. What's he doing there?"

"Vandenburg got him some radios from the Army Security Agency," Dun­ston said. "He's going to listen to what he calls low-level Russian radio traffic."

"I was under the impression the ASA was responsible for intercepting enemy communications," Banning said.

"That's their job," Dunston agreed a little sarcastically.

"Then what—"

Pickering, who was sitting sidewards on the front seat of the vehicle, dropped his hand to Banning's knee and silenced him.

Pickering thought: I don't know what's wrong with Banning—maybe fatigue from the long flight; or maybe he doesn't think Dunston is showing him the proper respect—but he's acting like an inspector general, and Dunston doesn't like it. I don't want—can't have—the two of them scrapping.

Dunston started the engine and backed out of the parking slot.

[FIVE]

The Mouse

Seoul, South Korea

191O 16 October 19S0

Major General Ralph Howe, NGUS, Lieutenant Colonel D. J. Vandenburg, USA, Master Sergeant Charley Rogers, NGUS, Technical Sergeant J. M. Jen­nings, USMC, and an Army captain wearing a fur-collared aviator's jacket were sitting at the dining room table when Pickering, Banning, Hart, and Dunston walked in.

Everyone but Howe made some movement to stand. Pickering signaled for them to stay where they were.

"I will claim the privilege of rank, Flem," Howe said, "and be the first to tell you how delighted I am your son's safe."

"Thank you," Pickering said.

"I suppose I'd better do the introductions," Howe said. "General, this is Colonel D. J. Vandenburg . . ."

Pickering offered him his hand.

"How are you, Colonel?"

"Sir, we're all happy Major Pickering is back with us."

"Thank you," Pickering said.

". . . and this is Captain Lew Miller," Howe went on, "who flies the Beaver."

"I've heard about the Beaver," Pickering said, smiling at Vandenburg. "How are you, Captain?"

"How do you do, sir?" Miller said.

"And J. M. Jennings," Howe said, "who has the dubious distinction of hav­ing been a Marine Raider with McCoy and Zimmerman."

" 'Dubious distinction'?" Jennings said, and then: "How do you do, sir?"

"The phrase, General Howe," Pickering said, "is great distinction."

"Thank you, sir," Jennings said.

"I'm sorry, Sergeant," Pickering said, "that you've had to be alone with all these dogfaces, but that's changed. Ed Banning and I have landed, and the sit­uation is well in hand."

"Oh, God!" Howe said, shaking his head. He put out his hand to Banning. "I've heard a lot about you, Colonel, all good. And this is Charley Rogers, who the jarheads around here refer to—behind our backs, of course—as the 'Retread Doggie General's Retread Dog Robber.' "

"How do you do, General?" Banning said to Howe, and shook his hand. He shook Rogers's hand but said nothing to him.

Howe said, "I don't know if Marines drink champagne—for that matter, if they even know what it is—but when Bill Dunston heard about your son and you coming, he put a couple of bottles in the refrigerator in case a celebration was in order, and I suggest one is."

"My God!" Pickering said. "A house like this, with champagne in a refrig­erator, in what my favorite journalist refers to as 'the battered capital of this war-torn nation'? Pay attention, Ed, these doggies really know how to live. See if you can find out how they do it!"

There was laughter from everyone but Banning, who came up with a some­what restrained smile.

Dunston went through the door to the kitchen, and a moment later Lai-Min, the housekeeper, came through it carrying a tray with two bottles of champagne in coolers and champagne glasses on it. She set it on the table, went back into the kitchen, and came back with another tray. This one held hors d'oeuvres.

"I will be damned!" Pickering said.

"More than likely," Howe said, mock serious.

Dunston came back into the room, and he and Hart opened the champagne and poured.

Howe raised his glass. "Major Malcolm S. Pickering," he toasted. "Who has proved he's as good a Marine as his father, and probably a lot smarter."

Pickering took a swallow and then raised his glass again.

"How about to Major Ken McCoy and whoever was with him when he found Pick?" he said.

"Well, I'll drink to the Killer anytime," Howe said. "But that's not exactly what happened, Flem."

"Excuse me?"

Howe gestured to Jennings, whose face showed he would much rather not have to tell the story.

"Sir, what happened was that we were coming back to Socho-Ri in a Big Black Bird after having picked up a recon patrol—"

"You're talking about a helicopter?" Banning interrupted.

"Yes, sir," Jennings said. "And we heard somebody—'Road Service'—call­ing for any U.S. aircraft—"

"Road Service?" Banning parroted. Pickering looked at him sharply.

"Yes, sir," Jennings went on. "We found out later it was an Army convoy, a couple of tanks and some heavy vehicles, trying to find a land route to Wonsan. We even knew them. Anyway, we didn't reply, of course—"

"Why not?" Banning interrupted.

"Ed, for Christ's sake, let Sergeant Jennings finish," Pickering snapped, and immediately regretted it.

The remark earned him a look of gratitude from Jennings and a look of as­tonishment, even hurt, from Banning.

"But an Air Force P-51 did," Jennings went on. "And Road Service told him they'd just picked up a shot-down pilot and needed to get him to a hospital. The Air Force guy asked for a location, and it was about five miles from where we were, so the Kil . . . Major McCoy told Major Donald to go there, and see if we could land, and so we did. What we found was that the Army was lost, and Major Pickering had seen them and come out from where he was hiding."

Pickering saw Jennings smile.

"What's funny, Sergeant?" he asked.

"Well, sir, what Major Pickering did was come down the road to the dog­gie convoy with his hands over his head, singing 'The Marines' Hymn' as loud as he could and shouting 'Don't shoot' between lines."

"Jesus Christ!" Pickering said, smiling at the image.

"Anyway, sir, we could get in where they were, so we loaded Major Picker­ing on the Big Black Bird—they left me behind to show the Army the road to Wonsan—and flew on to Socho-Ri, took on fuel, and then flew him out to the aircraft carrier. But we didn't find him, sir, although God knows we sure looked hard for him—the major found the Army."

Pickering smiled and shook his head.

"What difference does it make, Flem?" Howe asked. "He's back. That's all that counts."

"There's a small problem," Pickering said, smiling. "It has been decided at the highest level—by that I mean agreement between El Supremo, General of the Army Omar Bradley, and the President himself—that McCoy gets the Sil­ver Star for his valor in finding Pick—"

"Goddamn!" Jennings said, chuckling.

"And everybody with him gets the Bronze Star," Pickering went on. He stopped himself as he was about to add "and the President agreed with MacArthur that Pick gets the Navy Cross."

Why did I stop? So Proud Papa won't be boasting?

No, it's something else.

Because I don't see where what he did deserves the Navy Cross?

I didn't think I deserved mine, either. I was just doing what a Marine is sup­posed to do.

Isn't that what Pick did? What a Marine is supposed to do?

How the hell did I get on this line of thought?

"General," Jennings said, "I didn't do anything that should get me the Bronze Star."

"I'll straighten it out," Pickering said. He raised his champagne glass to Jennings and smiled.

"I'm about to send a message I think you ought to see," Howe said. "Can we go upstairs for a minute?"

"Sure," Pickering said. "What's upstairs?"

"The communications," Howe said. He smiled. "I keep forgetting the laird of this manor has never been here before. I'll have to show you around."

"It's not what I expected," Pickering said.

"Very few things ever are," Howe said with a smile as he waved Pickering out of the room ahead of him.

They went through the foyer and up the stairs. Pickering was not surprised to find Koreans armed with Thompson submachine guns blocking entrance to the corridors on both the second and third floors, but he was surprised when Howe knocked on a door on the third floor and it was answered by a Korean woman holding a .45-ACP-caliber Grease Gun.

"Di-san," Howe said, "this is General Pickering."

She smiled. In perfect English, she said, "General, we were happy to hear your son has been rescued."

"Thank you," Pickering said.

"I want to show General Pickering my message," Howe said.

She nodded, motioned them into the room, and took several sheets of type­writer paper from a table.

TOP SECRET/PRESIDENTIAL

OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE

DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN

<««INSERT TIME BEFORE TRANSMISSION»»> TOKYO TIME 16 OCTOBER 1950

FROM: CHIEF PRESIDENTIAL MISSION TO FAR EAST

VIA: USMC SPECIAL COMMUNICATIONS CENTER CAMP PENDLETON CAL

TO: WHITE HOUSE COMMUNICATIONS CENTER WASHINGTON DC EYES ONLY THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

BEGIN PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM MAJOR GENERAL HOWE

DEAR HARRY

I JUST GOT WORD THAT GENERAL PICKERING IS ON HIS WAY HERE TO SEOUL. HIS SON IS TO BE TAKEN FROM THE CARRIER BADOENG STRAIT TO PUSAN ON A DESTROYER AND FLOWN FROM THERE TO SASEBO AND FROM THERE TO THE STATES. PICKERING UNDERSTANDABLY WANTS TO SEE HIM BEFORE HE GOES HOME.

BUT TYPICAL OF PICKERING, DUTY FIRST. BEFORE HE GOES TO PUSAN HE'S COMING HERE AND TO SOCHO-RI, THE BASE FROM WHICH MCCOY OPERATES ON THE EAST COAST. HE HAS WITH HIM COLONEL BANNING, WHO HAS BEEN HANDLING THESE COMMUNICATIONS AT CAMP PENDLETON, AND WHO WILL NOW, I PRESUME, SERVE AS HIS DEPUTY HERE.

THE FIRST BAD NEWS IS THAT I DON'T THINK WE ARE GOING TO GET GENERAL DEAN BACK. THIS I'M PRETTY SURE OF AS IT COMES FROM LT COL VANDENBURG, THE OFFICER SENT WITH THE MISSION OF GETTING HIM BACK, MCCOY, AND BILL DUNSTON, THE CIA SEOUL STATION CHIEF. THEIR AGENTS, OR THEY PERSONALLY, HAVE SPENT A GOOD DEAL OF TIME BEHIND THE ENEMY'S LINES AND THEY ALL TELL ME, AND I BELIEVE, THAT DEAN HAS BEEN TAKEN TO CHINA.

SECOND, UNLESS SOMETHING HAS HAPPENED THAT I DON'T KNOW ABOUT, MACARTHUR PROBABLY TOLD YOU ON WAKE ISLAND WHAT HE TOLD ME BEFORE HE LEFT, THAT THE CHINESE AND/OR THE RUSSIANS ARE NOT GOING TO COME INTO THE WAR AND THAT IT'S REALLY A MOOT QUESTION, BECAUSE EVEN IF THEY DID IT WOULD NOT POSE A PROBLEM AND WOULD GIVE US A CHANCE TO BLOODY THEIR NOSE.

MCCOY AS I WRITE THIS IS SOMEWHERE BEHIND THE ENEMY'S LINES IN THE FAR NORTH TRYING TO EAVESDROP ON SOVIET ARMY RADIO COMMUNICATIONS TO SEE IF HE CAN LEARN SOMETHING OF THEIR DISPERSAL, SIZE, AND INTENTIONS. HE IS NOT DOING THE SAME FOR THE CHINESE COMMUNISTS BECAUSE HE BELIEVES THAT THERE ARE SOME SIX HUNDRED THOUSAND CHINESE-THAT' S RIGHT, SIX HUNDRED THOUSAND—IN THE FOURTH FIELD ARMY EITHER ON THE BORDER OR ALREADY SLIPPING INTO NORTH KOREA AND THEY ARE NOT USING THEIR RADIOS.

THERE IS NO QUESTION IN EITHER MCCOY'S OR DUNSTON'S MIND THAT THE CHINESE ARE COMING INTO THE WAR. THEY ACKNOWLEDGE THEY DON'T HAVE ENOUGH HARD INTELLIGENCE TO MAKE THAT JUDGMENT VIS-A-VIS THE RUSSIANS.

WHEN I, WITHOUT MENTIONING MCCOY OR DUNSTON, ASKED MAJ GEN CHARLES WILLOUGHBY, MACARTHUR'S INTELLIGENCE OFFICER, WHETHER HE HAS ANY INFORMATION ABOUT CHINESE BEING ON THE BORDER, HE FLATLY STATED THERE WERE NOT, AND IF THERE HAD BEEN ANY UNUSUAL MOVEMENT OF CHINESE TROOPS HE WOULD KNOW ABOUT IT, AND ASSURED ME THAT IT WOULD BE IMPOSSIBLE TO HIDE THE MOVEMENT, OR THE PRESENCE, OF "SUBSTANTIAL TROOP FORMATIONS."

THIS AFTERNOON X CORPS WILL SAIL FROM INCHON AROUND THE TIP OF THE PENINSULA TO WONSAN. THE ORIGINAL IDEA WAS THEY WOULD MAKE AN AMPHIBIOUS LANDING AT WONSAN, AND THEN STRIKE BACK ACROSS THE PENINSULA, TOWARD PYONGYANG, CUTTING OFF THE RETREATING NORTH KOREANS.

THERE ARE SEVERAL PROBLEMS WITH THIS. FOR ONE THING THE I ROK CORPS IS ALREADY IN WONSAN, AND THE SEA APPROACHES TO WONSAN AND HUNGNAM HAVE BEEN MINED. MCCOY'S PEOPLE HAVE INTERCEPTED COMMUNICATION BETWEEN THE MINELAYING VESSELS IN RUSSIAN, WHICH SUGGESTS TO HIM THAT THE RUSSIANS ARE LAYING THE MINES.

I SAW DUNSTON'S MESSAGE A WEEK AGO TO THE TOKYO CIA STATION CHIEF IN WHICH HE REPORTED THIS. PRESUMABLY THIS INTELLIGENCE WAS PASSED ON TO WILLOUGHBY. SO FAR AS I CAN FIND OUT, IT WAS NEVER PASSED ON TO X CORPS, EIGHTH ARMY, OR THE NAVY. THE FIRST THE NAVY LEARNED OF THE MINES WAS WHEN A HELICOPTER FROM ONE OF THE BABY CARRIERS ON A DOWNED PILOT RESCUE MISSION FLEW LOW OVER THE APPROACHES TO HAMHUNG AND SAW THE MINES IN THE WATER. THE NAVY SENT A MINESWEEPER TO CHECK AND IT HIT A MINE AND SANK.

THIS MEANS THAT WHEN X CORPS ARRIVES OFF WONSAN OR HAMHUNG SOMETIME TOMORROW OR THE DAY AFTER, THEY WILL HAVE TO SAIL BACK AND FORTH UNTIL THE MINES ARE SWEPT, AND THAT WILL TAKE THREE TO FIVE DAYS.

MEANWHILE, ON THE WEST COAST, GENERAL WALKER'S EIGHTH ARMY IS IN PURSUIT OF THE RETREATING NORTH KOREANS. ONE OF THE WAYS THEY ARE DOING THIS IS WITH A DROP OF THE 173RD PARACHUTE INFANTRY REGIMENT. THE ONLY JUSTIFICATION I HAVE HEARD FOR THIS IS THAT THERE ARE A NUMBER OF PARACHUTE OFFICERS ON THE EIGHTH ARMY STAFF WHO DIDN'T WANT THE PARATROOPS LEFT OUT OF THE WAR.

One of the radio teletype machines in the room began to clatter, and Pick­ering stopped reading the message.

Di-san went quickly to it, then turned to Howe and Pickering.

"It's a back-channel from Sergeant Keller," she announced. "Depending on how long it is, it will take me a couple of minutes to type it into the decryp­tion machine."

A back-channel message is one sent between operators at two communica­tions facilities, in this case the Dai Ichi Building (UNC) communications center and the communications room in the house. Intended primarily to an­nounce schedules, down equipment, and other technical matters, they are not logged and officially do not exist.

Pickering smiled and nodded his understanding, then turned to Howe.

"Why don't you tell the President what you really think, Ralph, without being so polite?"

Howe chuckled.

"Read on, Flem," he said. "It gets better."

Pickering dropped his eyes to the yet-to-be-transmitted message.

ANYWAY, WITHIN A COUPLE OF DAYS, EIGHTH ARMY WILL ALMOST CERTAINLY TAKE PYONGYANG.

MCCOY AND DUNSTON (SEPARATELY) HAVE TOLD ME THE CAPTURE OF THE NORTH KOREA CAPITAL MAY BE THE TRIGGER FOR THE CHINESE TO ENTER THE WAR. OPERATIVE WORDS MAY BE THE TRIGGER.

BY THE TIME EIGHTH ARMY TAKES PYONGYANG, THE MINES ON THE EAST COAST WILL PROBABLY BE CLEARED, AND X CORPS CAN LAND. THE QUESTION THEN BECOMES WHAT WILL X CORPS HAVE TO DO? SINCE PYONGYANG WILL HAVE FALLEN, THERE IS NO POINT IN HAVING X CORPS RECROSS THE PENINSULA TO TAKE IT. THE ONLY THING LEFT FOR THEM TO DO IS MOVE NORTHWARD ALONG THE EAST COAST TOWARD THE CHINESE BORDER.

THE SOUTH KOREANS ARE ALREADY MOVING TOWARD THE BORDER.

MCCOY AND DUNSTON (AGAIN SEPARATELY) HAVE BOTH TOLD ME THAT WHILE THE CHINESE MIGHT NOT REGARD THE SOUTH KOREANS AS A REAL THREAT—THEY HAVE TO RELY ON U.S. LOGISTICS—ONCE THE CHINESE LEARN THAT THE X CORPS IS COMING THAT WAY THEY VERY LIKELY WILL CONSIDER THAT MACARTHUR IS PLANNING TO STRIKE ACROSS THE BORDER, MACARTHUR HAS TOLD ME, AND I BELIEVE, HE HAS NO PLANS TO GO ACROSS THE CHINESE BORDER, BUT THAT ISN'T THE POINT. WHAT THE CHINESE THINK IS WHAT'S IMPORTANT, MCCOY AND DUNSTON THINK THAT ONCE THE CHINESE LEARN THAT X CORPS IS APPROACHING THE BORDER, THEY WILL COME INTO THE WAR. I CANNOT FAULT THEIR LOGIC.

IT CAN BE ARGUED—AND GENERAL WALKER DOES SO EFFECTIVELY-THAT IF HE HAD COMMAND OF X CORPS, THERE WOULD BE OVERALL CONTROL AND COORDINATION. HE SPENT ALMOST AS MUCH TIME EXPLAINING THIS TO ME AS HE DID COMPLAINING ABOUT HIS MISSING AIRPLANE. I HAVE THE FEELING THAT IF HE WERE GIVEN COMMAND, THE FIRST THING HE WOULD DO WOULD BE TO RELIEVE GENERAL ALMOND, WHOM HE CORDIALLY DETESTS, AND VICE VERSA.

THERE IS NOT MUCH LOVE LOST BETWEEN MACARTHUR AND WALKER EITHER, WHICH IS ONE OF THE REASONS HE IS NOT ABOUT TO PLACE X CORPS UNDER EIGHTH ARMY. THERE ARE OTHERS, WHICH INCLUDE ALMOND—WHO IS A GOOD MAN—AGREEING WITH MACARTHUR'S CONCEPT OF FIGHTING THIS WAR. ANOTHER, OF COURSE, IS THAT IF X CORPS IS UNDER EIGHTH ARMY, ALMOND COULD NOT CONTINUE TO WEAR BOTH HATS, THAT OF X CORPS COMMANDER AND CHIEF OF STAFF TO MACARTHUR. IF ALMOND WERE RELIEVED AS X CORPS COMMANDER, "ONE OF WALKER'S MEN" WOULD GET IT. IF HE WERE RELIEVED AS CHIEF OF STAFF, THAT WOULD PERMIT THE PENTAGON TO SEND A REPLACEMENT OF THEIR CHOOSING. NEITHER ALTERNATIVE IS ACCEPTABLE TO MACARTHUR.

I HAVE NO IDEA HOW EVEN YOU CAN STOP THIS INTERNECINE WARFARE BETWEEN YOUR SENIOR OFFICERS, BUT I HAVE BEEN BOTH WORKING WITH PICKERING AND FILLING IN FOR HIM LONG ENOUGH SO THAT I FEEL COMFORTABLE OFFERING SOME ADVICE ABOUT INTELLIGENCE GENERALLY AND THE CIA IN PARTICULAR.

YOU WERE WRONG—AS YOU TOLD ME—WHEN YOU DISESTABLISHED THE OSS, AND YOUR APPOINTMENT OF ADMIRAL HILLENCOETTER TO HEAD THE CIA OBVIOUSLY HASN'T WORKED. IF MCCOY HADN'T GONE TO PICKERING AND PICKERING'S FRIENDSHIP WITH SENATOR FOWLER HADN'T GOTTEN HIM IN TO SEE HILLENCOETTER WE WOULD NEVER HAVE KNOWN THAT THERE WAS INTELLIGENCE SAYING THE ^:NORTH KOREANS WERE GOING TO ATTACK. AND THAT WOULD HAVE MEANT THE MILITARY ESTABLISHMENT COULD CLAIM, AND WOULD HAVE CLAIMED, THAT THIS PROVED THE CIA WAS ESSENTIALLY USELESS AND USING UP APPROPRIATIONS THAT THEY' COULD PUT TO BETTER USE.

ROOSEVELT'S AND DONOVAN'S IDEA THAT THERE SHOULD BE A CENTRAL AGENCY FOR INTELLIGENCE NOT SUBORDINATE TO ANYONE IN THE MILITARY WAS A GOOD ONE, EVEN IF THE MILITARY ESTABLISHMENT IMMEDIATELY PUT THEIR WAGONS IN A CIRCLE TO FIGHT THE OSS, AND HAVE ALREADY STARTED TO DO SO WITH THE CIA.

THE FIRST THING TO DO THEN IS MAKE SURE WALTER BEDELL SMITH UNDERSTANDS THAT HIS TITLE IS "MR. DIRECTOR" AND NOT "GENERAL" AND THAT HE ANSWERS TO NO ONE BUT YOU. IF HE'S TO DO A GOOD JOB, HE HAS TO BE FREE OF THE MILITARY ESTABLISHMENT AND ITS OLD BOY NETWORK.

THE SECOND THING TO DO IS MAKE SURE THAT INTELLIGENCE GATHERED ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD, BUT RIGHT NOW ESPE­CIALLY HERE, GOES DIRECTLY TO WASHINGTON, WHERE IT SHOULD BE EVALUATED BY SMITH AND THEN SENT TO WHOEVER MIGHT HAVE USE FOR IT. IF THAT IS DONE, THE VARIOUS COMMANDS WILL NOT BE ABLE TO IGNORE INTELLIGENCE THAT DOESN'T FIT THEIR AGENDA.

FOR ALL I KNOW, YOU MAY HAVE ALREADY STARTED SOMETHING LIKE THIS. PICKERING, YOU TOLD ME, WAS GOING TO MEET WITH SMITH. I'M SURE PICKERING TOLD HIM HOW HE THINKS IT SHOULD BE DONE, AND HE APPARENTLY DID THAT WELL ENOUGH TO HAVE COME BACK OVER HERE WITH AT LEAST SOME OF THE AUTHORITY HE NEEDS. I HAVE LEARNED THAT HE HAS RELIEVED THE CIA TOKYO STATION CHIEF, WHO WAS BOTH INCOMPETENT AND THOUGHT OF HIMSELF AS A MEMBER OF MACARTHUR'S STAFF. I DON'T KNOW THIS, BUT I SUSPECT PICKERING WILL REPLACE HIM WITH COLONEL BANNING, WHO WORKED FOR HIM IN WAR TWO AND IS HELD IN HIGH REGARD BY MCCOY AND OTHERS. AND WHO WILL WORK FOR PICKERING, THAT IS THE CIA, NOT MACARTHUR.

IN THIS LATTER CONNECTION, I AM VERY IMPRESSED WITH VANDENBURG AND VERY WORRIED THAT WILLOUGHBY WILL TRY— AND PROBABLY SUCCEED—TO GET CONTROL OF HIM. I RECOMMEND THAT YOU ORDER—AS OPPOSED TO SUGGEST—THAT HE BE PLACED ON TDY TO THE CIA AND PLACED UNDER PICKERING.

\

BY NOW, HARRY, YOU MUST SENSE THAT MY POSITION IS "A POX ON BOTH THEIR HOUSES." IT IS. YOU MUST ALSO SENSE THAT I HAVE TAKEN SIDES. I HAVE. I REALLY THINK MY USEFULNESS TO YOU HERE IS OVER, AND I RESPECTFULLY REQUEST RELIEF.

PICKERING CAN DO FOR YOU WHAT I HAVE BEEN DOING, AND IF YOU THINK ABOUT IT THAT'S THE WAY IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN DONE ALL ALONG. AS COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF YOU ARE ENTITLED TO GET THE FACTS, AND IT SEEMS TO ME THAT THE CIA IS WHERE YOU SHOULD GET THEM.

I'M GOING TO SHOW PICKERING THIS BEFORE I SEND IT, LARGELY BECAUSE I WANT HIM TO KNOW WHAT I'M TELLING YOU.

RESPECTFULLY, AND WITH BEST REGARDS TO BESS

RALPH

END PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM GENERAL HOWE

TOP SECRET/PRESIDENTIAL

Pickering raised his eyes to Howe.

"Jesus, Ralph," he said.

"Is there anything in there you disagree with?" Howe asked.

"No," Pickering said simply. "Except you wanting to leave me here to face the lions all by myself."

"I've outlived my usefulness," Howe said. "And I really think you can do anything for the President that I can."

He put out his hand for the message, and when Pickering handed it to him, he turned to Di-san. She was sitting at the keyboard of the decryption machine, her fingers flying over the keys.

As they watched, the electric typewriter section of the machine began to clat­ter as it typed the now decrypted message.

She waited until it had finished, then ripped the yellow paper from the ma­chine and handed it to Howe.

"Thank you," he said, and handed her his message. "Put the correct date time block on this, please, and send it."

Di-san nodded and turned back to the keyboard.

Howe read the back-channel, then handed it to Pickering.

FROM KELLER

TO ROGERS OR JENNINGS

PASS TO GEN PICKERING ON ARRIVAL: COL HUFF CAME TO IMPERIAL LOOKING FOR HIM. HE FINALLY TOLD ME WHY. MACARTHUR HAD SENT HIM TO TELL THE GENERAL THAT MAJ PICKERING WAS TRANSFERRED FROM THE CARRIER TO THE DESTROYER MANSFIELD AT 1500. MANSFIELD IS EN ROUTE PUSAN, ETA EARLY TOMORROW. MAJ PICKERING WILL BE FLOWN IN HOSPITAL PLANE TO SASEBO, AND THEN ON TO THE NAVY HOSPITAL IN SAN DIEGO. TELL THE GENERAL I THOUGHT ERNIE AND MRS PICKERING WOULD WANT TO KNOW, AND SO I HAVE PASSED THE WORD.

"Well," Howe said, "I guess you'll want to be in Pusan when he gets there."

"I'll have Hart get us seats on the Round Robin in the morning," Picker­ing said.

"The Beaver's at your disposal, Flem," Howe said. "If you want, you can use that."

"I hadn't thought about that," Pickering replied. "I guess what I could do is leave early, and go to Pusan by way of Socho-Ri. Would that be possible?"

"You could also wait to go to Socho-Ri after you see your boy," Howe said. "Your call, Flem."

"Let's go see what the pilot says," Pickering said, and then had another thought. "Keller didn't mention Jeanette Priestly. I'm sure Pick's lady friend'll want to see him. She's in Wonsan, right? Maybe we could pick her up at the same time."

"I don't know if she's in Wonsan or not," Howe said. "Or, for that matter, where she is."

"Really?" His surprise showed in his voice.

"I know Dunston and McCoy were looking for her, but I never heard where they found her."

"Well, let's go find out," Pickering said. "I think Pick will be far more in­terested in seeing her than me."

"General," Bill Dunston said a little uncomfortably. "The first thing I did when I got the Killer's Operational Immediate was call the Press Center at Eighth Army Rear in Pusan. They told me they expected her but she hadn't ar­rived yet. I left word for her to call me the minute she got in."

"And she didn't call?" Pickering said.

"No, she didn't. So—maybe around suppertime—I went there myself. She had been there—they told me they had given her my message, and that she had signed on to the roster for a Gooney Bird flight to Wonsan. They said it was a long roster and she almost certainly wouldn't get out the next day, more likely the day after that. They didn't know where she was. So I called around town, and couldn't find her."

"And you left it there?" Colonel Ed Banning inquired, not pleasantly.

Dunston replied, "You don't know this lady, Banning ..."

Pickering picked up on that—"Banning," not "Colonel"—and thought, Dunstons resentment is starting to show.

". . . she's a free spirit," Dunston went on. "There's no telling where she would be. I figured maybe she arranged her own ride to Wonsan—she doesn't like waiting—and that that had happened in such a way that she didn't have time to call me. Or didn't want to."

"So you stopped looking?" Banning asked.

"What I did, Banning, was get on the horn to Wonsan, specifically to the Capital ROK Division—we have a friend there, a colonel named Pak—and asked him to look for her, to have her call me, and then I called Zimmerman at Socho-Ri. Ernie knew about the major having been picked up, and he had already started checking around for the Priestly woman. I told him to keep look­ing, and to give me a yell if he found her."

"And he never called, Bill?" Pickering asked.

"He never called."

"Gunner Zimmerman looked all over for her, sir," Jennings said, "and when I came here, he told me to call him and let him know where she was. I guess he figured if she wasn't in Wonsan, or anywhere on the east coast, she had to be either here or in Pusan."

"So the bottom line," Banning began unpleasantly, "is that you were ordered to find Miss Priestly, and not only haven't done so, but didn't inform anyone that you failed—"

"That will enough, Colonel," Pickering interrupted him, coldly.

Banning was visibly surprised by both the order and the tone of Pickering's voice.

"He's right, General," Dunston said. "I guess I dropped the ball."

"I don't look at it that way," Pickering said. "You did what you thought had to be done. But I'm open for suggestions."

"I'll go out to K-16 and check with the Air Force," Dunston said. "The base commander is a pretty good guy. And while I'm doing that, Jennings is first going to get on the horn to Zimmerman, and then start calling all the division public information officers. She has to be here somewhere."

"When are you going to do this?" Pickering asked.

"That whoosh you hear, General, is me going out the door," Dunston said. He put his champagne glass on the table. "I'll finish this," he said, "when I have put my hands on the lady."

He walked out of the dining room. Zimmerman followed him.

Pickering looked at Banning.

"Come with me, please, Colonel," he said.

He walked out of the dining room with Banning on his heels, and led him out of the building into the courtyard. He stopped in the middle.

"Okay, Ed," he said. "You've got a hair up your ass. Tell me what it's all about."

"Sir, I don't know what you—"

"You've been pissing everybody off with your attitude since you got here, and I want to know why."

"With respect, sir, I don't—"

"You can either tell me what's bothering you, Ed, or I'm going to tell George to get you a seat on the first flight out of here tomorrow, and that will be the first leg of your flight to the States. I like you, we're—I have always thought— old and good friends, but I cannot afford to have you come in here with an at­titude that's pissing off good people. You understand me?"

They locked eyes.

"That was a question, Colonel," Pickering said.

Banning exhaled audibly.

"Milla's in the hospital," he said softly.

"Milla's in the hospital? When did this happen?"

"She went in yesterday, or the day before—I don't even know what day it is in the States, much less what time—to have a lump removed from her breast. Or maybe the whole breast, depending on what they find."

"Then what the hell are you doing here?" Pickering said.

"You sent for me," Banning said simply.

"Jesus H. Christ! If I had known about your wife . . ."

"I'm a Marine officer," Banning said.

"And a good one. But as a human being, you're a goddamn fool," Picker­ing said.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, sir," Banning said.

"Where is she? What hospital?"

"Charleston," Banning said.

"These are your orders, Colonel. You are to go up to the third floor of this building. There you will find a Korean woman named Di-san. You will order her to send an Urgent Message to the Commanding Officer, Marine Barracks, Charleston. Quote—Urgently require report status Mrs. Milla Banning, presently in Whateverthehell Hospital Charleston. Update hourly or more fre­quently, as necessary, until notified otherwise. Signature, Pickering, Brig. Gen. CIA Deputy Director for Asia—Unquote."

"General, with respect, that's . . ."

"What? Not authorized?"

"No, sir."

"Well, maybe not, Colonel. But the only person who can challenge me is a retired Army general named Smith, and I don't think he will. You have your orders, Colonel."

After a long moment, Ed Banning said, "Aye, aye, sir."

He started back toward the entrance and then turned.

"Sir, I'd really be grateful if you could keep this between us."

"You'd rather appear to be a horse's ass than admit you have human emo­tions? Like hell I will."

Banning didn't reply, but neither did he continue toward the house.

"Get moving, Ed," Pickering said. After a moment, Banning nodded and then walked quickly toward the house.

Chapter Thirteen

[ONE]

USS Badoeng Strait (CVE-116)

39.58 Degrees North Latitude

128.33 Degrees East Longitude

The Sea of Japan

1125 17 October 195O

The Badoeng Strait was at sea about fifty miles east of a midpoint between Hungnam and Wonsan.

There had not been much call for air strikes from any of the units of I ROK Corps, which was pursuing the retreating North Korean army up the rugged east coast of the Korean Peninsula.

With about two-thirds of his fuel remaining, Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn, USMC, had decided to take his three-Corsair flight north of Chongjin, which would place them close to the borders between North Korea and China, and North Korea and Manchuria.

He could then take a look around, then fly down the east coast of the peninsula, looking for targets of opportunity on the way back to the Badoeng Strait.

For a number of reasons, starting with the fact that he was a good Ma­rine officer who obeyed his orders, he was very careful not only not to cross the border but to keep far enough south of it so that it could not be credi­bly charged that he had violated either Chinese or Russian territory, even by mistake.

But he did take the flight inland far enough and high enough so that over extreme Northern Korea, he could look down and across the borders into both China and Manchuria.

He saw nothing that suggested the presence of troops massed on either side of the border prepared to enter the conflict. He had in mind, of course, what McCoy had told him and the skipper in the captain's cabin on the Badoeng Strait about 600,000 Chinese either on their side of the border, or already start­ing to cross into North Korea.

It was possible, of course, that McCoy was dead wrong. It was also possi­ble that McCoy was right. Again.

On the way back down the coast, they found the targets of opportunity they knew would be there, and made strafing passes at North Korean troops either on the roads or hiding on either side of them. They stopped this only when the fuel available became sort of questionable and most of their ammunition had been expended. It made no sense to either run out of fuel or to return to the Badoeng Strait with a lot of ammunition unfired.

Colonel Dunn brought the flight down pretty close to the deck and flew over Socho-Ri. The H-19As were not in sight, which meant either that their camouflage was very good or that they were off someplace. He decided it was the camouflage, because Major Donald, the Army pilot, had told him they preferred to make their flights in the very early hours or just before nightfall, so as to provide as small a "window of possible observation" as possible.

He dipped his wings as Marines on the ground, recognizing the gull-winged fighters, came out of the thatch-roofed, stone-walled houses and waved at them.

Then he climbed to 5,000 feet and headed for the Badoeng Strait.

He landed last, as was his custom, caught the second wire, and was jerked to a halt.

As he hauled himself out of the cockpit, he saw one of the ship's officers on the deck, obviously waiting for him.

The officer, a blond-headed lieutenant j.g., saluted as Dunn jumped from the wing root to the deck.

"Shooting back, were they, Colonel?"

"Excuse me?" Dunn asked as he returned the salute.

The j.g. pointed to the rear of the Corsair's fuselage and its vertical sta­bilizer.

"I'll be damned!" Dunn said. There were seven holes in the Corsair—five in the fuselage and two in the vertical stabilizer. They looked like .50-caliber holes.

"I didn't see any tracers coming close," Dunn said, as much to himself as to the j.g.

"The captain's compliments, Colonel. The captain would be pleased if you would take lunch with him."

"Would the captain be pleased to see me immediately, or more pleased after I've had a shower?"

"I think the captain would prefer the latter, sir," the j.g. said, smiling.

"My compliments to the captain, Lieutenant."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Dunn went to the pilot's ready room and listened as Captain Jack Derwinski and Lieutenant Sam Williams, the two pilots who had flown the sortie with him, were debriefed by an air intelligence officer.

Finally, the AIO turned to him.

"Colonel?"

"I have nothing to add," Dunn said.

That was true. They had flown an observation/interdiction mission, seen nothing of interest, and engaged targets of opportunity—small units of North Korean ground troops—and then come home. Then he remembered, and added: "There was some antiaircraft fire from the ground, probably .50-caliber machine gun."

"How do you know that, Colonel? For the record."

"Because there are seven half-inch holes in my fuselage and vertical stabi­lizer," Dunn said, "that I know weren't there when I took off."

"No shit, Colonel?" Jack Derwinski said, obviously surprised. "I didn't see any tracers."

"Either did I, Captain Derwinski," Dunn said with a smile, "which, as a devout believer in the adage that the one that gets you is the one you don't see, I find just a wee bit disconcerting."

"You didn't feel anything?" Derwinski pursued.

Dunn shook his head no.

"They must have just gone through the skin without hitting anything else," Dunn said, then turned to the AIO. "You better make that fourteen holes in my airplane. Seven in and seven, thank the good Lord, out."

"Yes, sir," the AIO said, smiling. "Fourteen holes."

Dunn filled a china mug with coffee from the machine and carried it with him to his cabin.

He showered, shaved, put on fresh khakis, and made his way to the bridge.

The captain waved him onto the bridge.

"I understand the bad guys have been shooting back at you, Colonel," he said.

"Worse than that, sir," Dunn said. "Somebody has apparently been teach­ing them how to shoot."

"Ready for a little lunch?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

The captain pushed himself out of his chair and led Dunn off the bridge to his cabin, where a white-jacketed steward and a table set for two were wait­ing for them.

"We can serve ourselves, Danny. Thank you," the captain said to the stew­ard as he waved Dunn into a chair.

He waited for the steward to leave them, then said, "You went pretty far north today, did you?"

"Yes, sir."

"See anything interesting? Of the sort your friend in the black pajamas was talking about?"

"No, sir."

"He stared me with that talk of six hundred thousand Chinese," the cap­tain said. "You think he was right?"

"Killer McCoy, over the years, has been right most of the time," Dunn said.

The captain lifted a dome off one serving plate and then another, and low­ered this domes to the table. Lunch was pork chops, mashed potatoes, and green beans.

"Help yourself," the captain said as he forked a pork chop to his plate.

Dunn, filling his plate, said: "I was thinking—today, as a matter of fact, on our way back to the ship, when I didn't see a sign of a Chinese platoon, much less a field army—that if I had to bet, I'd bet on McCoy. He doesn't say some­thing unless he believes it."

"I hope he's wrong now," the captain said. "This part of the world is a lousy place to have to fight a war in the winter."

"The troops seem to think they'll be home for Christmas," Dunn said.

"Let's hope they're right," the captain said, then: "Changing the subject, you have a message straight from CNO."

"I have a message from CNO?"

"Yeah," the captain said, then took it from his pocket and handed it to him.

"I thought you were pulling my chain, sir," Dunn said as he unfolded the single sheet of teletypewriter paper.

SECRET

URGENT

WASHINGTON DC 0945 16 OCTOBER 1950

FROM: CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS

SUBJECT: CITATION FOR DECORATION FOR MAJOR M.S. PICKERING, USMCR

TO: COMMANDING OFFICER MAG 33 ABOARD BADOENG STRAIT

INFO: CHAIRMAN JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF

NAVAL LIAISON OFFICER TO THE PRESIDENT

SUPREME COMMANDER UNITED NATIONS COMMAND TOKYO

COMMANDANT USMC COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF PACIFIC

1. IT IS THE DESIRE OF THE PRESIDENT THAT MAJOR MALCOLM S. PICKERING, USMCR, BE AWARDED THE NAVY CROSS FOR HIS HEROISM AND VALOR ABOVE AND BEYOND THE CALL OF DUTY DURING THE PERIOD HE SPENT BEHIND ENEMY LINES BETWEEN HIS BEING SHOT DOWN AND HIS RESCUE.

2 . IT IS DIRECTED THAT YOU

A. ACKNOWLEDGE RECEIPT OF THIS MESSAGE BY URGENT MESSAGE.

B. IMMEDIATELY PREPARE A SUITABLE CITATION FOR THIS AWARD AND FORWARD IT BY THE MOST EXPEDITIOUS MEANS THROUGH APPROPRIATE CHANNELS TO CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS, ATTN: CHIEF, AWARDS BRANCH.

C. FURNISH CNO A COPY OF THE PROPOSED CITATION BY URGENT MESSAGE AT THE TIME YOU BEGIN TO FORWARD IT THROUGH APPROPRIATE CHANNELS. (SEE 2.A. ABOVE)

FOR THE CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS

WALLACE T. GERARD

VICE ADMIRAL

DEPUTY CNO

SECRET

"No," Dunn blurted. "I won't do it."

"Excuse me?"

"I won't do it," Dunn repeated.

"What are you talking about, Billy?" the captain asked.

"Pickering did nothing that merits the award of the Navy Cross," Dunn said.

"The President seems to think he does," the captain said.

"Pickering did what he was expected to do," Dunn said. "He evaded cap­ture until he was able to get back. That's all."

"Colonel," the captain said formally, then reached over and took the mes­sage from Dunn's hand and read from it: " 'It is the desire of the President that Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, be awarded the Navy Cross.' That seems to/settle the question, wouldn't you agree?"

"Let the President write the citation. I won't."

The captain dropped his eyes to the message and read from it again: " 'You will immediately prepare a suitable citation for this award. ..." That sounds pretty clear to me."

“Not only was Pickering not doing anything more than any shot-down pilot is expected to do, but it was his fault—and mine—that he got shot down in the first place."

"You want to explain that to me, Colonel?" the captain asked somewhat coldly.

"What he was doing when he was shot down was trying to become the first locomotive ace in the Marine Corps," Dunn said. "I knew what he was doing, and I didn't stop him."

"What do you mean, 'locomotive ace'?"

"He wanted credit for shooting up five locomotives; in his mind that would make him a locomotive ace. He'd already checked with the Air Force to see if any Air Force pilot was credited with more locomotives in World War Two."

The captain looked at him, shook his head, but said nothing.

"It was a joke to him," Dunn said. "The whole war is a joke to him. And I knew what he was doing and didn't stop him."

"I thought you were old pals."

"He was my wingman at Guadalcanal," Dunn said. "I love the sonofabitch, but I am not going to go through with this nonsense of giving him the Navy Cross. What he did was cause a lot of good people to put their dicks on the chopping block to save his sorry ass, and I am not going to help him get a medal like that for being a three-star horse's ass and, for that matter, a lousy Marine officer."

"Calm down, Colonel," the captain said.

"I beg your pardon for my language, sir," Dunn said. "But I am not going to go along with this bullshit."

The captain raised his hand in a gesture that meant take it easy. "Jesus!" Dunn said disgustedly. The captain said nothing.

"There was a standing order at Fighter One on the 'Canal," Dunn said. "No buzzing the field, period. We couldn't risk the airplanes. Pick used to do full-emergency-power barrel rolls over the field every time he shot down an airplane," Dunn said. "And sometimes just whenever the hell he felt like it. That's when I should have pulled the wiseass bastard up short."

"When you have your emotions under control, Colonel, let me know," the captain said coldly.

Dunn looked at him for a long moment.

"My apologies, sir," he said finally.

"What are you going to do?" the captain asked. "You have been ordered by the Chief of Naval Operations to immediately prepare a suitable citation.' "

"I'm unable to comply with that order, sir."

The captain said nothing.

"A lot of good men have earned the Navy Cross—" Dunn began.

"Including you, Colonel," the captain interrupted. "Is that what this is about?"

"—and giving Major Pickering the decoration for having done nothing be­yond what he was expected to do," Dunn went on, "would be an insult to every one of them."

"Be that as it may, the Commander-in-Chief 'desires' that Pickering be awarded the Navy Cross. You can't fight that, Colonel. You have an order. You have no choice but to obey it."

"I am unable to do that, sir," Dunn said.

Thirty minutes later, a message went out from the Badoeng Strait.

SECRET

URGENT

BADOENG STRAIT 1405 17 OCTOBER 1950

FROM: COMMANDING OFFICER MAG 33

TO: CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS ATTN: CHIEF, AWARDS BRANCH

REFERENCE PARA 2. MSG CNO SUBJ: CITATION FOR DECORATION FOR MAJOR M.S. PICKERING, USMCR

DATED 16 OCTI1950

2. THE UNDERSIGNED IS UNABLE TO COMPLY.

WILLIAM C. DUNN

LIEUTENANT COLONEL,

USMC COMMANDING

SECRET

[TWO]

U.S. Naval Hospital

U.S. Navy Base, Sasebo

Sasebo, Japan

1625 18 October 19SO

Lieutenant (j.g.) Rosemary Hills, Nurse Corps, USNR—a five-three, one-hundred-fifteen-pound twenty-three-year-old from Chicago—had the duty, which placed her at a desk in the nurses' station of Ward 4-G between 1600 and 2400 hours.

There were six Corpsmen always on duty in Ward 4-G, and usually two or three of them could be found at the nurses' station. They dealt with the rou­tine operations of Ward 4-G, and turned to Lieutenant Hills only when some­thing required the attention of the ward nurse on duty, a registered nurse, or a commissioned officer, or any combination thereof.

She was a little uncomfortable when she glanced up from her desk and saw a Marine standing on the other side of the counter, obviously wanting some­thing, and saw there was no Corpsman behind the counter—or anywhere in sight—to deal with him.

Lieutenant Hills had not been in the Navy very long, and was not com­pletely familiar with all the subtleties of Navy rank and protocol, and was even less familiar with those of the Marine Corps.

She knew from the rank insignia on his collar points and shoulders that the man standing before her was a master gunner, which was the equivalent of a Navy warrant officer, which meant that he ranked between the senior enlisted Marine and the junior Marine officer.

She remembered, too, from orientation at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center, that Marine master gunners were special, as lieutenants—Marine and Navy—were ordinary. There were very few master gunners, and they were all ex-senior enlisted Marines with all sorts of experience that qualified them to be master gunners.

The ribbons and other decorations on this one's tunic—she recognized only a few of them—seemed to attest to that. Judging by just the number of them, this master gunner had been in every war since the American Revolution, and wounded in all of them.

One of the medals on his chest she did recognize was the Purple Heart, awarded for having been wounded in action. She had seen enough of them pinned on hospital gowns here in the ward to know what that was. The master gunner's Purple Heart medal was just about covered with little things—Lieu­tenant Hills had forgotten what they called the little things—pinned to it. But she knew that each one of the little things meant a different award of the Pur­ple Heart for getting wounded in action.

Lieutenant Hills saw that he was carrying a small canvas bag in his left hand, as a woman carries a bag. She wondered what was in it.

Then she realized that she had no idea how master gunners were addressed.

Do you call them "Master Gunner," as you would call a major "Major"? If not, then what?

"May I help you, sir?" Lieutenant Hills finally asked, even though she knew that as a lieutenant j.g. she outranked the master gunner and therefore he was no; entitled to be called "sir."

"Major Pickering," the master gunner said.

"What about Major Pickering?" she asked.

"Where is he?"

I think he was supposed to say, "Where is he, ma'am?"

"He's in 404," Lieutenant Hill said. "But he's on Restricted Visitors. If you want to visit him, you'll have to go to ..."

The master gunner nodded at her, then turned and marched down the cor­ridor toward room 404.

"Just a minute, please," Lieutenant Hills called after him as firmly as she could manage. "Didn't you hear me? Major Pickering is on Restricted Visitors. You have to have permission of the medical officer of the day—"

When she realized she was being totally ignored, she stopped in mid-sentence.

She came from behind the nurses' station counter and looked down the cor­ridor in time to see the gunner enter room 404.

Master Gunner Ernest Zimmerman, USMC, marched to the foot of the cranked-up hospital bed in which Major Malcolm S. Pickering was sitting and looked at him without speaking.

"Look what the goddamn tide washed up!" Pick cried happily. "I'll be god­damned, Ernie, it's good to see you!"

"You won't think so in a minute, Pick," Zimmerman said. "Can you han­dle some really shitty news?"

There was a just-perceptible pause, long enough for his bright smile to van­ish before Pickering asked, "Jesus Christ, not the Killer?"

"Not the Killer," Zimmerman said.

"Dad? Has something happened to my father?"

Zimmerman opened the straps on his canvas bag and extended it to Pick­ering.

"What's this?" Pick asked, but looked, and then reached inside without waiting for an answer.

He came out with a fire-blackened object that only after a moment he rec­ognized as a camera.

"Jeanette's camera," Zimmerman said, and then when Pick looked at him curiously, went on: "I picked it up yesterday near where the plane went in."

"Jeanette's?" Pick asked. "What plane?"

"An Air Force Gooney Bird headed for Wonsan," Zimmerman said. "It clipped a mountain and blew up. Nobody got out."

"Jeanette was on the Gooney Bird?"

"Yeah."

"You're sure?" Pick asked softly.

"Yeah."

"How can you be sure? How did you get involved?"

"From the top?"

"From the fucking top, Ernie," Pickering said, struggling to keep his voice from breaking as a tear slipped down his cheek. "Every fucking tiny little fuck­ing detail."

Lieutenant Hills went back behind the nurses' station aware that she had two choices. She could ignore what had happened, or she could report it. She had just decided to ignore the breach of orders—

What harm was really being done? It wasn't, after all, as if Major Pickering was at death's door. What they were trying to do for him was fatten him up, and making sure the dysentery wouldn't recur. And having a visitor might make him feel better. He looked so unhappy, which was sort of funny because he was just back from escaping from the enemy, and you'd think that would make someone happy.

—when she was forced to reverse it. The hospital commander, Captain F. Howard Schermer, MC, USN, was now standing at her nurses' station.

With him was a very pretty, very pregnant young woman.

"Good afternoon, sir," Lieutenant Hills said.

"This is Mrs. McCoy, Lieutenant," Captain Schermer said. "She is to be the exception to the Restricted Visitors on Major Pickering. They're old friends, and she just came from Tokyo to see him."

Schermer had received a telephone call that morning from Major Pickering's father, who was a Marine brigadier, saying that Mrs. McCoy, "the wife of one of my officers," was on the way to Sasebo to see his son.

"They're very close, they grew up together. They're like brother and sister."

"We'll be happy to take care of her, General."

"You may have to. She's very pregnant and traveling against medical advice."

"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Hills said.

"Four oh four, right?" Captain Schermer asked.

"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Hills said. "Captain, Major Pickering already has a visitor."

"Who would that be?" Captain Schermer asked, not very pleasantly. "You were aware, were you not, of the Restricted Visitors?"

"Sir, I tried to tell him, but he just ignored me."

"A journalist? Was the person who ignored you a journalist? Is that why he thought he could ignore you? Because he was a journalist?"

"No, sir. Sir, it's a Marine, a master gunner Marine. . . ."

"About this tall?" Mrs. McCoy said, holding up her hand. "Built like a tank?"

Lieutenant Hills smiled and nodded.

"That has to be Ernie Zimmerman," Mrs. McCoy said. She turned to Cap­tain Schermer and added, "He works for General Pickering."

"I see," Captain Schermer said with a somewhat strained smile. "Well, why don't we ... ?" He waved Mrs. McCoy down the corridor toward 404.

Master Gunner Zimmerman stopped in midsentence as the door swung open. Major Malcolm S. Pickering looked angrily at Captain F. Howard Scher­mer, USN, and was about to say something when Mrs. K. R. McCoy brushed past the captain.

I've seen you looking better," she said, and went to the bed and bent over him and kissed him. "But I'm glad to see you anyway."

"I guess you haven't heard, huh?" Pick said.

"Heard what?" Ernie replied, and turned to Zimmerman. "What's going on, Ernie?"

"Obviously, you haven't," Pick said. "Carry on, Mr. Zimmerman. Maybe you better start from the top again." Then he looked at Ernie McCoy and added: "I think maybe you better sit down, mother-to-be. I don't think you're going to like this." He gestured toward a folding chair, then made a go on ges­ture to Zimmerman.

"Well," Zimmerman began, "we don't know how she got from Pusan to Seoul—"

"She being Jeanette?" Ernie McCoy asked. "You mean Jeanette doesn't know we've got Pick back yet? Jesus Christ, why not?"

"Let him finish, Ernie," Pick said. "And I meant it, sit down."

"I think I will," Ernie said, and lowered herself into the folding chair.

"—whether on the Air Corps medical Gooney Bird or some other way," Zimmerman went on. "She wasn't on any manifest that we could find."

"Okay," Pick said. "But clever fucking OSS agent that you are, you have de­duced that she was on the fucking medical Gooney Bird when it took off from Seoul for Wonsan, right? Because she was on it when it crashed?"

"Oh, my God!" Ernie said. "Is she all right?"

Zimmerman looked at her.

"Sorry, Ernie," Zimmerman said.

"You were saying, Mr. Zimmerman?" Pick said.

"What Dunston did was, when the general found out we hadn't told her about you and sent him to find her, was go out to K-16 and ask the Air Corps guy what possibilities there were," Zimmerman said. "The only thing he could think of was that maybe she'd hitched a ride aboard the Gooney Bird that had gone missing. Then he—the Air Force guy—found out they'd located the crash site."

"What made him think Jeanette was on this plane?" Ernie McCoy asked.

Zimmerman ignored the question.

"They'd gone looking for it after it had gone missing," he went on. "There were no Maydays or anything. Anyway, they found the crash site near the top of a goddamn mountain, but (a) they hadn't been able to get anybody to it, be­cause it was in middle of nowhere, and (b) it had exploded and burned, and there were no signs of survivors, and it was . . . Getting to the site could wait until they'd been to other crash sites where there could be survivors."

"So?" Pick asked.

"So Dunston called me—"

"Where's the Killer been all this time?" Pick interrupted.

Zimmerman took a look at Captain Schermer, then shrugged.

"He's in North Korea, listening to the Russians," Zimmerman said. "We're going to pick him up tomorrow morning at first light."

"You had to tell her that, right?" Pick snapped. "Sometimes you have the sensitivity of an alligator."

"I'm a big girl, Pick," Ernie said. "I know what Ken does."

"Captain," Zimmerman said to Schermer. "With respect, do I have to tell you that whatever is said in here has to stay here?"

"I understand," Schermer said.

"So Dunston called me, gave me the coordinates, and at first light this morning, we went to the site."

"We is who?" Ernie McCoy asked. "And I thought you said getting to the site was difficult?"

"We is me, a doggie major—real good guy—named Alex Donald, who flew the Big Black Bird, and four Marines in case they were needed."

"By which, Ernie, he means a great big Sikorsky helicopter painted black," Pick said. "Your husband has a couple of them."

"And?" Ernie replied, impatience in her voice.

"Well, we found the crash site. The Gooney Bird clipped the top of a moun­tain, went in, exploded, and then slid down the mountain. Nobody walked away from the crash. And it was quick. No question about that."

"Well, that's comforting," Pick said sarcastically. "To know it was quick. And you found—what's the euphemism?—the remains of those on board?"

"We found four bodies," Zimmerman said. "There was a three-man crew on the Gooney Bird. We figured, even before I found the camera, that the fourth had to be Jeanette."

"You couldn't tell?" Ernie asked.

"There was a lot of fuel on the Gooney Bird," Zimmerman said. "They topped off their tanks at K-16. They were planning to go on to Pusan, and maybe all the way to Japan, after Wonsan. There wasn't much left of the bodies."

"So where are the remains?" Pick asked.

"We took them to Seoul, to Eighth Army Graves Registration. It'll take them at least a couple of days to identify them."

"Well, that's no problem, really, is it?" Pick said. "There's no rush, right? As a matter of fact, who the hell cares?"

"Pick," Ernie McCoy said. "Oh, Pick, I'm so sorry."

“Yeah, so am I," Pick said unpleasantly. "But I should have known better. Something that good was never really going to happen to me."

"Pick," she said, and started to push herself out of the chair. Her face suddenly showed pain and went pale. "Oh, for Christ's sake!" she said faintly but angrily.

"Mrs. McCoy, are you all right?" Captain Schermer said as he walked across the room to her.

"No, I don't think I am," Ernie said. "Goddamn it all to hell!"

Captain Schermer took a close, if brief, look at her.

"Young woman, you stay right where you are," he ordered, and then went to the door.

"Nurse!" he called loudly. "Get a gurney in here!"

He went back to Ernie.

"Doctor, I don't want to lose this baby," she said softly.

"Of course you don't," Captain Schermer said. "And we're going to do everything we can to see that you don't.'

"Jesus H. Christ!" Pick said.

"Hang in there, Ernie!" Pick called as the gurney rolled out the door.

"Oh, shit," Ernie Zimmerman said when the gurney was gone and the door had swung closed. "Why the hell did I tell her about Jeanette?"

"She would have found out," Pick said. "If you are looking for the culprit in this little tragedy, you have to look no further than me."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Zimmerman asked.

"Think about it, old buddy," Pick said. "If I hadn't been engaged in trying to become the first locomotive ace in Marine Corps history, I wouldn't have been shot down, would I?"

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Pick," Zimmerman said.

"And if I hadn't been shot down, then Ernie wouldn't have been worried about me for all that time, would she?"

"We were all worried about you," Zimmerman said.

"Yeah, but I don't think you love me, old buddy, and, more to the point, you are not with child," Pick said. "This is the fourth time she's tried to make the Killer a daddy. Did you know that?"

"He told me."

"And having been shot down, and not having the balls to do the decent thing, I hung around for all that time, until God, in his infinite wisdom, made that Army convoy make a wrong turn, so I could find them and thus save my miserable ass."

"Jesus!"

"And if I had not been flown here, then Ernie would not have felt obliged to take a daylong train ride in her delicate condition to come all the way down here to welcome the hero home, would she?"

"Coming here was dumb," Zimmerman agreed.

"Where, upon arrival, you told her that the hero's girlfriend, her friend be­cause of me, was now a corpse burned beyond recognition. . . ."

"Jesus, I told you I feel sorry as hell about that. I should have known better."

"And I told you she would have found out," Pick said. "This isn't your fault, old buddy, it's mine."

The door opened and Lieutenant (j.g.) Rosemary Hills entered the room.

"Mrs. McCoy has been taken to the women's ward," she announced. "There are several very skilled gynecologists on staff—"

"Whoopee!" Pickering said sharply.

"Captain Schermer says that you are to wait here for him," Lieutenant Hills said to Zimmerman. "He wants to talk to you."

"Okay," Zimmerman said.

"And he wants the telephone number of her sponsor."

"What the hell is a sponsor?" Pick asked.

"Her husband, for example."

"Her husband doesn't have a telephone right now," Zimmerman said.

"He's in Korea?" Lieutenant Hills asked. Zimmerman nodded. "Then we'll want to send a message to his unit," she said.

"That's not possible," Zimmerman said.

"Why not?" she asked.

"I can't get into that," Zimmerman said.

"You're going to have to explain that," she said.

"I don't have to explain anything to you," Zimmerman said flatly.

"What would you say, Florence Nightingale," Pick asked, "if I were to tell you that the lady's husband, as we speak, is in enemy territory, behind the lines, so to speak, eavesdropping on the Russians?"

She looked at him almost in horror.

"And if it's all the same to you," Pick went on, "I would rather not have him learn right now that the man the poor bastard thinks of as his best friend has caused his wife to have another miscarriage."

"Pick, shut the fuck up," Zimmerman said.

Lieutenant Hills looked between them, then fled the room.

[THREE]

The USS DeHaven (DD 727)

39 Degrees 36 Minutes North Latitude

128 Degrees 43 Minutes East Longitude

The Sea of Japan

O72S 19 October 195O

The vessels transporting the X United States Army Corps from Inchon to Wonsan—attack transports, cargo ships, tankers, and the "screening force" to pro­tect them against any potential danger—were spread out over miles of the Sea of Japan.

At the head of the screening force as it steamed north was the destroyer DeHaven. Her commander, Commander J. Brewer Welsh, USN, a lithe thirty-seven-year-old with closely cropped brown hair, was on the bridge.

"Captain," the officer of the deck said. "I have a radar target five miles dead ahead."

Captain Welsh was interested but not alarmed. There was no reason to be­lieve the target in any way posed a danger to the invasion fleet. Carrier aircraft were patrolling the area. They would have reported the presence of any naval force long before the DeHaven’s radar picked it up.

Captain Walsh looked at the radar screen.

"Probably a fishing boat of some kind," he opined. "He's about to get a sur­prise, isn't he?"

He nevertheless reached for the ship-to-ship microphone.

"McKinley, DeHaven, "he said.

The USS Mount McKinley was the command vessel of the convoy. It car­ried aboard both the senior Naval officer of the convoy and the senior officer of the Army and Marine Corps troops who were to be landed.

"Go, DeHaven" an officer on the bridge of the McKinley replied.

"I have a radar target at about five miles, probably a fishing vessel."

"And?"

"I'm waiting until I have him in sight until I do anything."

"There's some Corsairs overhead. I'll have them take a look, and advise."

"Roger, thank you. DeHaven out."

O728 19 October 195O

Two Navy Corsairs approached the DeHaven from dead ahead at less than a thousand feet, dipped their wings, and then began to climb.

O729 19 October 195O

"DeHaven, McKinley, the Corsairs report it's a junk. I think that they probably woke them up, and they'll get out of the way." "Thank you, McKinley."

O731 19 October 195O

"McKinley, DeHaven, I have the junk in sight. Unless they're blind, they have to see us, but they are not changing course. And it looks to me as if she's under power."

"Junks don't have power, DeHaven. They are propelled by what are called 'sails.' "

"Thank you so much."

"They'll probably get out of the way when they see more than one vessel headed their way. Advise."

"Will do."

O735 19 October 195O

"McKihley, DeHaven, my junk is not changing course."

"Well, we don't want to run over him, do we? The admiral says to get him to change course."

"Understand. I'll make a run across his bow."

O741 19 October 195O

"McKinley, you're not going to believe this, but my junk just hoisted a large American flag. And she is not changing course."

"The admiral does not want the junk to approach the convoy."

"What am I supposed to do, fire a shot across her bow?"

A new voice came over the ship-to-ship.

"DeHaven, this is Admiral Feeney. If putting a shot across her bow is nec­essary, then that's what you should do."

"Aye, aye, sir. Sir, it is my intention to come alongside the vessel and signal an order to her to change course."

"Proceed," the admiral said.

O746 19 October 195O

"McKinley, DeHaven is alongside the junk. She is under power. A man in what looks like black pajamas has hailed DeHaven with a loudspeaker and says he is a Marine major named McCoy and desires to approach McKinley. Request guidance."

"DeHaven, Admiral Feeney. The junk is not, repeat not, to approach the McKinley. Take whatever action is appropriate."

"Aye, aye, sir."

[FOUR]

The Bridge, USS Mount McKinley (LCC-2O)

39 Degrees 34 Minutes North Latitude

128 Degrees 43 Minutes East Longitude

The Sea of Japan

O747 19 October 195O

"I think I know who that is," Major General Edward M. Almond, USA, said to Rear Admiral Ignatius Feeney, USN.

"You what?"

"I suggest you give him approval to approach your ship," Almond went on.

"It might prove very interesting."

"You're serious, Ned, aren't you?" Admiral Feeney asked, surprised.

Almond nodded. "Remember the islands in the Flying Fish Channel that were cleared before we got there?" he asked. "Unless I'm mistaken, that's the man who cleared them. OSS."

"OSS? Really?" Rear Admiral Feeney said. He reached for the ship-to-ship microphone. "DeHaven, permit the junk to approach the McKinley."

Both Navy reconnaissance aircraft and minesweepers on the scene had reported that there were still enough mines in the approaches to the harbors of both Wonsan and Hamhung to preclude the movement of oceangoing vessels into the harbors.

The invasion fleet, both to conserve fuel and because there was no point in making speed when the anticipated course for the next thirty-six hours was one large circle after another, was moving at ten knots.

Ten knots was still considerably faster than what Admiral Feeney—who, with General Almond, was now on the McKinleys flying bridge—understood the maximum speed of a junk under sail to be, and he was thus more than a little surprised when the junk approached the McKinley head-on, made a quick 180-degree turn, and then pulled alongside.

"I'll be damned," Admiral Feeney said. "That junk is motorized."

A man wearing black pajamas stood on the forecastle of the junk, holding an electric megaphone in his hand.

"Ahoy, McKinley. Can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear," Admiral Feeney said into the microphone of his electric megaphone.

"I have three wounded aboard," the man in the black pajamas called.

"Including Major McCoy, apparently," General Almond said. "Look at his leg."

The left leg of the pajamas was torn off above the knee. A bloody compress was on the upper thigh.

"Is that your OSS man?" Admiral Feeney asked.

Almond nodded. "Admiral, you are looking at the legendary Killer McCoy, U.S. Marine Corps," he said.

"I don't want that junk crashing into the hull," Admiral Feeney said almost to himself, then took the few short steps onto the bridge.

"The admiral is on the bridge!" a talker called out.

Admiral Feeney approached Captain Joseph L. Farmer, USN, the captain of the McKinley, and asked, "Have you a minute for me, sir?"

"You have the conn," Captain Farmer said to his executive officer, then followed Feeney out onto the flying bridge.

Admiral Feeney began, "The master of that vessel—"

"Jesus, he's been wounded!" Captain Farmer blurted.

"—reports that he has three wounded aboard. I was wondering what you think of lowering a lifeboat to the junk—not into the water—and transferring the wounded to the lifeboat from the junk as a means of getting them aboard."

"I think we can do that, sir," Captain Farmer said.

He went back onto the bridge.

A piercing whistle and then Captain Farmer's voice came over the ship's loudspeakers a moment later. "Attention all hands. All, repeat all, nonessential personnel will immediately leave the port-side boat deck immediately. Port-side Lifeboat One Crew report to your station immediately. Medical Emergency Team report to port-side Lifeboat One immediately."

The captain came back on the flying bridge.

A much younger voice—that of the talker—repeated the orders he had just broadcast.

The admiral, the general, and the captain watched silently from the flying bridge as the port-side Number One lifeboat's davits swung the lifeboat away from the ship, and then—after an ensign and three white hats got aboard— lowered it slowly toward the sea.

When the lifeboat was even with the forecastle of the junk, the man with the bandage on his upper left thigh threw a line to a white hat in the lifeboat, who hauled on it and pulled the junk slowly sidewards to the lifeboat.

Five men in black pajamas, all Orientals, appeared on the deck of the junk, then began to move three wounded men up onto the forecastle. Two of them had to be carried. The third was able, with help, to make it up the ladder on his feet.

Balancing precariously on the forecastle, they managed to manhandle the two more seriously wounded men into the lifeboat. Then the man who could walk and finally the American jumped into the lifeboat.

The line holding the junk to the lifeboat was cut, and the junk's helmsman turned her away from the Mount McKinley.

Electric motors whirred and the lifeboat began to rise against the McKinley's hull, and then was swung inboard.

The American with the bloody compress on his thigh jumped to the deck first.

He winced in pain, then saluted an officer on the deck.

"Permission to board, sir?" he asked.

"Granted," the officer said, visibly surprised.

The man saluted the colors aft.

A Navy doctor and half a dozen Corpsmen began to take the wounded from the lifeboat and to place them on aluminum stretchers.

"How are you, Major McCoy?" General Edward M. Almond asked. "That is not pro forma. What's with your leg?"

McCoy saluted him.

"I took a piece of shrapnel, sir," he said. "I don't think it's serious."

"Take Major McCoy to sick bay," Almond ordered.

"Sir, with respect, I need to get a message off as soon as I can. Sick bay will have to wait."

"What sort of a message?"

"We lost our radios, sir," McCoy said. "I don't want them mounting a res­cue mission when they don't hear from us."

Almond turned to Admiral Feeney.

"The Navy can accommodate the major, can it not?" he asked. "Admiral, this is Major McCoy."

"Welcome aboard, son," Admiral Feeney said. "If you're able to walk, I know the way to the radio room."

"I can walk, sir. Thank you."

McCoy gave the chief radioman the frequency, then eased himself into a plas­tic upholstered metal chair before a rack of communications equipment. The chief handed him a microphone and headset.

"Fishbase, this is Flying Fish," McCoy said into the microphone. "Fishbase, Flying Fish."

The reply came immediately: "Go, Flying Fish."

"Flying Fish is three clicks as of 0530."

"Understand three clicks as of 0530. What are your coordinates?"

"Aboard a Navy vessel at sea. If Bail Out is under way, cancel. If Bail Out is underway, cancel. Acknowledge."

"Acknowledge cancel Bail Out. Bail Out was just about to launch."

"Who’s this?"

"Car Salesman."

"Killer here. Where Fat Kraut?"

"Sasebo."

“Say again?”

"Fat Kraut Sasebo. Big Daddy en route Sasebo."

"What’s up?"

"From Big Daddy. Killer will proceed Sasebo ASAP. Acknowledge."

"Acknowledge proceed Sasebo ASAP. What's up?"

"Little Daddy is in Sasebo. Lady Friend bought farm. Fat Kraut carrying bad news."

"Say again?"

"Fat Kraut carrying bad news, Lady Friend bought farm, to Little Daddy in Sasebo."

"Understand Lady Friend bought farm. Where's Beaver?"

"Beaver here."

"Send Beaver Korean Marine. Wait for me. Acknowledge."

"Acknowledge Beaver to wait for you at Korean Marine."

"Contact Wild Bill Junior. Arrange transportation for me Seoul Sasebo. ETA Korean Marine 1200. Acknowledge."

"Acknowledge Killer ETA Korean Marine 1200. Wild Bill Junior to arrange transportation Seoul Sasebo."

"What happened to Lady Friend?"

"Gooney Bird went in on way to Wonsan."

"Advise Big Daddy I'm en route Sasebo. Acknowledge."

"Acknowledge advise Big Daddy Killer en route Sasebo."

"Send replacement crew for Wind on Beaver. We took two KIA, three WIA. Acknowledge."

"Acknowledge replacement crew on Beaver. How Killer?"

"Killer fine. Mind the store, Car Salesman. Flying Fish out."

"Fishbase clear."

McCoy laid the microphone on the desk and took off the headset.

"About the only thing I understood about all that, Major McCoy," General Almond said, "was 'Killer fine.' And that's just not so. You're bleeding all over the linoleum."

He pointed. There was a small puddle of blood on the linoleum under McCoy's chair.

"Can you make it to sick bay under your own power? Or shall we get you onto a stretcher?" Almond asked.

"I've got to get to Wonsan, sir. I'm all right."

"You're not going anywhere until they have a look at your leg. Clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, there's nothing in there," Lieutenant Warren Warbasse, MC, USNR, said to Major McCoy, who was lying prone on a medical table in sick bay. "And no serious muscle damage that I can see."

"They got lucky," McCoy said. "Hitting something with a mortar from a small boat under way isn't easy. I think I actually saw the round coming in."

"A half inch the other way, and what sliced your thigh would not have bounced off," Dr. Warbasse said.

"Four inches the other way, and I'd be a soprano," McCoy said.

"The sutures I'm going to put in will disappear," Dr. Warbasse said. "There is a danger of infection, of course. The penicillin I'll give you will probably take care of that. You need a day on your back, and when you get up, it will hurt like hell every time you put weight on it."

"I don't have time to spend a day on my back. Can you give me something for the pain that won't turn me into a zombie?"

"I can give you something—reluctantly—that will handle the pain," Dr. Warbasse said as he started the first stitch. "The more you take of it, the more you'll become a zombie."

"Fair enough," McCoy said evenly, then: "Jesus, that hurt!"

"If I don't put these in right, they won't stay in. Understand?"

"May I come in?" Major General Almond asked from the doorway.

Dr. Warbasse looked up from McCoy's thigh.

"Yes, sir," he said.

"How is he?"

"He was very lucky," Dr. Warbasse said. "And what he should do is spend at least a day on his back."

"Unfortunately, Major McCoy is not subject to my orders," Almond said.

Almond held an olive-drab shirt, and trousers and a field jacket, in his hands.

"A present from Al Haig, McCoy," he said. "You're pretty much the same size."

"Thank you, sir. Tell him thank you, please."

As Almond watched, Dr. Warbasse finished the installation of the last of half a dozen sutures, painted the area with a purple antiseptic, covered the sutured area with an/adhesive bandage, and then wrapped the leg with gauze.

"If you get off that table, Major," Dr. Warbasse said, "you are doing so against medical advice."

"Thank you, Doctor," McCoy said, and sat up.

Dr. Warbasse prepared a hypodermic and stabbed McCoy three times, twice in the thigh and once in the arm.

"With that much of this stuff in you, if you were so inclined, Major, you could carouse all night with little chance of acquiring a social disease," Dr. Warbasse said. "I will now go get you a bottle of zombie pills."

"Thanks," McCoy said.

When he left the treatment room, Dr. Warbasse left the door open. Almond went to it and closed it.

"You want to tell me what's happened, McCoy?" Almond said. "Officially, or otherwise?"

McCoy did not immediately respond.

"Where were you when this happened?" Almond asked.

"A couple of miles offshore of Chongjin," McCoy said.

"You had been ashore?" Almond asked.

McCoy nodded.

"Doing?"

"Listening to Red Army low-echelon radio chatter," McCoy said.

"And?"

"I don't think the Russians are going to come in, at least now," McCoy said.

"And the Chinese?"

McCoy didn't answer.

"Why do I suspect your analysis of the situation is again not in agreement with that of General Willoughby?"

"The Chinese are going to come in, General," McCoy said. "I think there's probably as many as fifty thousand of them already in North Korea, and I now know there's five, maybe six times that many just across the border waiting to come in."

"Waiting for what?"

"Waiting for the Americans to get close to the Yalu," McCoy said.

"You have anything to substantiate that belief? Something hard?"

"No, sir."

"Nothing that would get General Willoughby to reconsider his analysis?"

"No, sir."

"Inasmuch as General Walker is about to, or already has, taken Pyongyang, the initial purpose of X Corps landing at Wonsan and striking across the penin­sula is no longer valid. Under those circumstances, I suspect that I will get or­ders to strike with all possible speed toward the border. You think there will be Chinese intervention when we get close?"

"Yes, sir. That's what I think they'll do."

"Who have you told of your analysis?"

"I will tell General Pickering when I see him at Sasebo, sir."

"What's he doing at Sasebo?"

"I don't know, sir. Captain Dunwood just told me he's on his way there. It probably has to do with Major Pickering, sir. I think they moved him to the Navy hospital there."

"Who's Captain Dunwood?"

"He commands the Marines we borrowed from First MarDiv, sir. He's at a little base we have at Socho-Ri, on the coast."

"What was that business about a lady?"

"I didn't pick up much more than Major Pickering's girlfriend, the war cor­respondent, Jeanette Priestly? ..."

"I know her."

"... was killed in a plane crash on her way to Wonsan. One of my officers— Master Gunner Zimmerman, 'Fat Kraut'—was somehow involved in finding that out, and went to Sasebo to tell Major Pickering."

"That's tragic," Almond said. "The poor fellow. All that time . . . and when he's finally out of it, they have to tell him . . ."

"Yes, sir. It's a bitch." He paused, then added: "I suspect—I don't know— that's why General Pickering is headed for Sasebo."

"And why does he want you there?"

"I don't know, sir. But he wouldn't have sent for me unless he thought it was important." He reached for Al Haig's trousers and shirt. "Which means, sir, I have to get back aboard the Wind of Good Fortune."

"That's that powered junk?"

"Yes, sir. And head for Wonsan. We have a Beaver that will pick me up at the Capital ROK Division airstrip and take me to Seoul. I'll catch a plane there. Maybe a direct flight to Sasebo, if not through Tokyo."

McCoy pushed himself off the surgical table. There was pain, and he winced. He turned his back to Almond and slid the black pajama trousers down, and then, with effort, put his leg into the Army trousers.

"What happened this morning, McCoy? How did you take the hit?"

"Bad luck, sir. We had just gotten aboard the Wind of Good Fortune when all of a sudden there was a floodlight on us, and a North Korean—or maybe a Russian—patrol boat out there. We had .50 Brownings fore and aft, and we shot it up pretty quickly. But not until after they got their machine gun—and the damned mortar that got me—into action."

McCoy put on Captain Haig's shirt, then tucked it into the trousers.

"Tell Al thanks, please, sir," he said. "I really didn't want to have to go find a uniform somewhere."

"He will be pleased he could help," Almond said. "You're sure you're all right to get back on the junk?"

"Once I get aboard, I'll be all right, General. I was thinking maybe they could rig a bosun's chair and lower me into her."

"I'm sure they can," Almond said. "Thank you, McCoy."

"No thanks necessary, sir," McCoy said. "I'm just glad they don't shoot the messenger with the bad news anymore."

Ten minutes later, McCoy was lowered without incident in a bosun's chair onto the forecastle of the Wind of Good Fortune. As soon as he was aboard and out of the chair, she turned away from the Mount McKinley and headed west­ward toward Wonsan.

"Admiral, how much trouble is it going to be to get a message to the com­manding officer of the hospital at Sasebo?" General Almond asked of Rear Ad­miral Feeney.

"No problem at all. What's the message?"

Almond handed him a sheet of paper fresh from Captain Al Haig's portable typewriter.

URGENT UNCLASSIFIED

COMMANDING OFFICER, NAVY HOSPITAL, SASEBO

TO BE DELIVERED TO BRIGADIER GENERAL FLEMING PICKERING, USMC, AS SOON AS POSSIBLE

PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM MAJOR GENERAL ALMOND, X CORPS PERSONAL MESSAGE BEGINS

DEAR FLEMING,

YOU KNOW WHERE I AM. I HAVE JUST MET WITH MAJOR MCCOY, WHO IS EN ROUTE TO SASEBO PER YOUR ORDERS.

HE GAVE ME SOME DISTRESSING INFORMATION WHICH I AM SURE HE WILL SHARE WITH YOU. IT IS A GREAT PITY THAT HE HAS NOTHING SOLID ENOUGH TO BACK IT UP TO FORCE A CHANGE OF ANALYSIS BY THOSE WHO HAVE TO BE CONVINCED. I AM CONVINCED HE IS RIGHT, BUT THAT DOESN'T MATTER, DOES IT?

MAJOR MCCOY IS TRAVELING AGAINST MEDICAL ADVICE, HAVING SUFFERED WOUNDS IN AN EARLY MORNING ENGAGEMENT TODAY. HE DID THE NEXT THING TO REFUSING MEDICAL TREATMENT IN ORDER TO COMPLETE HIS MISSION AND COMPLY WITH YOUR ORDER THAT HE GO TO SASEBO.

INASMUCH AS I STRONGLY SUSPECT THAT HE WILL NOT MENTION THIS TO YOU, AND THUS IT WILL NOT BECOME A MATTER OF OFFICIAL RECORD, I TELL YOU SO THAT HE MAY AT LEAST BE AWARDED THE PURPLE HEART.

IT SHOULD GO WITHOUT SAYING THAT I AM DELIGHTED THAT YOUR SON IS BACK FROM HIS UNIMAGINABLE ORDEAL.

WHERE DO THESE FINE YOUNG MEN COME FROM? I LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING YOU SOON.

BEST PERSONAL REGARDS.

NED

END PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM GEN ALMOND TO GEN PICKERING

Chapter Fourteen

[ONE]

Fishbase Communications Hootch

Socho-Ri, South Korea

O747 19 October 19SO

"Cancel Bail Out, sir?" Staff Sergeant Al Preston, USMC, asked just as soon as Captain Dunwood had taken off his headset and turned from the radio.

Staff Sergeant Preston was wearing black pajamas and a black headband, and his face was smeared with black and dark brown grease. He had a Thompson .45-ACP-caliber submachine gun slung from his right shoulder. A canvas bag bulging with spare Thompson magazines and hand grenades hung from his left shoulder.

"Bail Out will not be necessary. Major McCoy is aboard 'a Navy vessel at sea,' " Dunwood said. "He couldn't say which one in the clear, but more than likely one of the ships carrying First MarDiv to Wonsan."

"What did they do, lose their radio?" Preston asked.

I really can't tell, Dunwood thought, if Preston is relieved that Bail Out has been canceled, or disappointed.

"That, too, I'm sure. Something went wrong," Dunwood said. "Major McCoy didn't say what, but he said there are two KIA and three WIA. We're to send a replacement crew for the Wind of Good Fortune to Wonsan. On the Beaver."

"Sir, is there any reason I couldn't get in on that?"

"You surprise me, Preston,' Dunwood said. "Here you are, a Marine with over six years' combat experience, and a staff sergeant. You're supposed to be bright enough to know that volunteering is something smart Marines just don't do."

"Sir, this is different," Preston said a little uncomfortably.

"How so?" Dunwood asked.

"This isn't like the regular Corps, sir. You know?"

Preston gestured around the communications hootch.

"You mean because of the refrigerator?" Dunwood asked innocently.

The hootch—because of the generator powering the radios, and because there was always an officer or senior noncom on duty—also housed a bright white Kenmore refrigerator that they had flown in on the Beaver from The House in Seoul.

"The refrigerator?" Preston asked, confused.

"You're right," Dunwood said. "I don't think even the commanding general of First MarDiv has a refrigerator full of Asahi beer."

"I wasn't talking about the refrigerator, sir," Preston said. "Jesus!"

"I'm a little confused, Preston. What are you talking about?"

"Sir, this isn't the Pusan Perimeter, is it?"

"No, it's not. I can't ever remember getting a cold beer when we were in the perimeter. Or, for that matter, a warm one."

Preston looked at him in bafflement for a long moment. Finally, he asked, "Sir, is there any particular reason the captain is pulling the sergeant's chain?"

"Oddly enough, Preston, there is."

"What's that, sir?"

"It can't go any further than this hootch," Dunwood said.

"Yes, sir."

"I've been thinking of volunteering myself," Dunwood said.

"For what, sir?"

"What I have been thinking is that sooner or later, they're going to send us back to the 5th Marines, and I don't really want to go back."

"I've been wondering how long this detail will last," Preston said.

"And I really don't want to go back to the 5th Marines," Dunwood went on. "Where one of two things would happen. They'd bring the company back up to strength, run us through some kind of training cycle, and put us back on the line. It would be the perimeter all over again. Or the war will be over, and they'll bring the company back up to strength, run us through a longer train­ing cycle, and it would be Camp Pendleton all over again."

"Yeah," Preston said. "I've been thinking about that, too. So what are you thinking of volunteering for?"

"The CIA⁷," Dunwood said.

"How would you do that?"

"I don't really know. What I do know is that Major McCoy and Gunner Zimmerman are Marines—good ones, they were both Marine Raiders—and they're in the CIA. And we work for General Pickering, who's a Marine. I don't know how it works, but I'm really thinking seriously about asking Major McCoy what he thinks."

Sergeant Preston looked at him for a long time, expressionless, before he fi­nally asked, "Sir, is there any way I could get in on that?"

"I'm not pulling your chain now, Preston. I'm serious about this."

"I sort of like this operation," Preston said.

"Major McCoy—I just told you—said he took two KIA and three WIA. To which his reaction was, send a replacement crew. You like that?"

"I'm not saying this is fun, sir. Don't get me wrong. But I know what we're doing here is important. I suppose when we were running around the perime­ter saving the Army's ass, that was important, too. But if I'm going to get blown away, I'd rather it was because I fucked up, not because I was trying to un-fuck-up what some stranger's fucked up. You know what I mean?"

"Yes, I do," Dunwood said.

"What I really like about this operation is that the major and Gunner Zim­merman get things done. And they tell you what to do and don't stand over your shoulder making sure you do it. Shit, when the gunner left here after we found that lady's crispy corpse, all he said was, 'Take over, Captain Dunwood.' "

" 'Crispy corpse'? Jesus Christ, Preston! Show a little respect!"

"I wasn't being disrespectful, sir. That's what it was. When we put them bod­ies in the shelter halves, they was crisp. Like a barbecued pig."

"You know what I thought when the gunner left me in charge?" Dunwood asked, as much of himself as Preston. "I was happy, proud, like a second lieu­tenant getting his first platoon. And then I thought I must be crazy. I'm not a real Marine. I'm a weekend warrior, a goddamned car salesman—where do you think Major McCoy got Car Salesman as my call sign? Gunner Zimmerman is fat and German, and he's Fat Kraut, and I'm Car Salesman, because that's all I really am, a car salesman that got called up—"

"You're a Marine, sir, a goddamned good one," Preston interrupted. "Don't tell me different. I was in the perimeter with you from day fucking one until they pulled us out."

"What I was about to say," Dunwood went on after a moment, "was that the proof of that was that here I was, a captain, taking orders from a master gun­ner, and it didn't bother me at all. And then I realized I liked being here, doing what we're doing, a hell of a lot more than I ever liked selling cars."

"How the hell do you think I feel?" Preston asked. "Christ, sir, I was on re­cruiting duty. One minute telling some pimply-faced high school kid that once he gets to put on dress blues, he won't be able to handle all the pussy that'll be coming his way, and the next minute telling his mother that Sonny Boy not only will have a chance to further his education in the crotch, but will receive, just about every day, moral counseling from a clergyman of his choice of faith."

Dunwood laughed out loud.

"Are you suggesting, Sergeant Preston, that when I raise the question of CIA service to Major McCoy, I should mention your name?"

Preston considered that for a long moment.

"No, sir," he said finally. "I don't want you to do that."

"Change your mind, all of a sudden?"

"If the rest of the guys heard I did that, they'd all be pissed. I can't think of a one of them that really wants to go back to the 5th Marines. What I'll do, if you tell me what Major McCoy tells you, and it looks at least possible, is go see him myself."

Dunwood didn't reply.

"Or . . ." Preston had a second thought. "How much time do we have be­fore the major gets back and you talk to him?"

"I have no idea when he'll be back. Or Gunner Zimmerman."

"I can ask the guys, who wants to go back to the crotch, and who wants to stay here . . . and get in the CIA official. And then everybody who wants the CIA can go see the major together."

"All right," Dunwood said. "I'll let you know what Major McCoy says."

"What about me going as replacement crew on the boat?"

"Take someone with you—another Marine. The rest Koreans. If Major McCoy or Gunner Zimmerman says you can go on the Wind of Good Fortune, it's okay with me. But get that grease off your face and get out of the pajamas before you go. You better take a replacement radio, too."

"Aye, aye, sir," Staff Sergeant Preston said.

[TWO]

Office of the Chief, Awards Branch

Office of the Chief of Naval Operations

Washington, D.C.

164O 19 October 195O

The duty day at CNO/CAB ended at 1600, but when Commander John T. Davis, USN/went to the office door of Captain Archie M. Young, USN, the chief, and/found him still hard at work at his desk, he was not at all surprised.

There were gold aviator's wings on Captain Young's breast, and submariner's gold dolphins on Commander Davis's breast. They pinned them on each day— as they had every right to do—even though Commander Davis had left the silent service four years before, and Captain Young had last sat in a cockpit eight years before.

Both had "busted the physical" and been disqualified for further service in the air/beneath the sea. Captain Young had told his career counselor in the Bureau of Personnel that he would really rather find anything else useful to do around the Navy than be a grounded aviator at a Naval air station or aboard a carrier, and Commander Davis had told his career counselor that he would rather do anything but stand on a wharf somewhere and watch a boat head out on patrol.

Neither wanted a berth in the surface Navy, either. That didn't leave much— unless they wanted to go back to school and get a law degree, or something along that line—but supply and personnel. They had each given personnel a shot, and to their surprise learned that it was really not as boring as they thought it would be—actually, sometimes it was a hell of a challenge—and that they were very good at their new specialty.

Today, Commander Davis thought, was one of those times when it ap­peared there was going to be a hell of a challenge.

Captain Young raised his eyes from his desk and took off his glasses.

"What have you got, Jack, that has kept you from rushing home to a cold martini?"

"I thought I would seek your wise guidance on this one, sir," Davis said. "Commander MAG-33 has been heard from."

He walked into the office and laid the message from Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn on Captain Young's desk.

"I'll be damned," Young said when he'd read the message, then read from it: " 'The undersigned is unable to comply.' "

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Start out, Commander, by having faith in your fellow man," Young said. "It may mean just what he says. He is unable to comply. That is different, wouldn't you agree, from 'unwilling to comply'?"

"Yes, sir."

"And then, Commander, we must consider the circumstances. Actually, these circumstances should be considered first. The President has spoken. He thinks this officer should be awarded the Navy Cross. He desires that this offi­cer be awarded the Navy Cross. What the President of the United States desires has the force and effect of a lawful order."

"Yes, sir," Commander Davis said, smiling.

"Furthermore, this jarhead obviously deserves a medal. Jesus Christ, he was shot down, and then evaded capture . . . three months?"

"About that, sir."

"Furthermore, when the Commander-in-Chief desires something, he desires it right then. He is not interested—and indeed, should not be—with admin­istrative problems that get in the way of his desires. Agreed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Given (a) and (b) above, we cannot let a little thing like a misplaced cita­tion get in the way of our carrying out what is clearly our duty, can we?" Cap­tain Young asked reasonably.

"No, sir, we cannot."

"Why don't we ask Harrison to step in here for a minute, Commander?"

"Excellent idea, sir," Commander Davis said, and walked out of the office.

He returned a moment later with Chief Personnelman Robert C. Harrison, a slight thirty-five-year-old with eighteen years' naval service and a perfectly manicured pencil-line mustache.

"Yes, sir?" Harrison asked.

"Chief, we have a small problem that requires your literary skills," Captain Young said.

"Commander Davis showed me the TWX, Captain," Harrison said.

"Since the citation has been misplaced, Chief," Captain Young said, "we're going to have to duplicate what it must have said here so we don't keep the CNO—and indeed, the President—waiting. You take my meaning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you got your pad?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let's go over this together," Captain Young said. "What do we know, Com­mander Davis?"

"We know the major was shot down, sir."

"Okay. Let's go with that. To get shot down, he had to go up, right?"

“Yes, sir.”

"Despite severe weather conditions that in other circumstances would not have permitted flight operations, Major . . . What's his name?"

"Pickering, sir, Major Malcolm S., USMCR," Harrison furnished.

"Hereafter Pickering," Captain Young went on, ". . . took off from the USS Badoeng Strait to render air support'—make that 'desperately needed air sup­port'—'to/U.S. Marine forces then engaged in combat'—make that 'outnum­bered U.S. Marine forces' and 'fierce combat' . . ."

"Sir, I get the idea," Chief Harrison said. "Why don't you give me the ba­sics and let me fill in the blanks?"

"Okay. He was shot down while doing this."

"Wounded?"

"I don't think so, but he almost certainly suffered painful injuries making the crash landing. . . ."

"Because he crash-landed the airplane away from civilian houses?" Chief Harrison asked.

"Good thought, Harrison!" Captain Young agreed. "And if he got shot down, the plane had to be on fire, right?"

"Got it," Harrison said. "Then what?"

"While he was supporting the troops on the ground, he encountered fierce antiaircraft fire. . . ."

"Which, at great risk, he ignored?"

"Right."

"Then what?"

"He spent the next . . . what?"

"Find out when he was shot down and when he was rescued. That many days. 'Avoiding the determined efforts of the enemy to capture him,' et cetera. . . ."

"Got it, sir."

"We need that now, Harrison."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Length is a criterion here, too. Make sure that the citation fills a sheet of paper, and that the signature block goes on the next page," Captain Young said.

"Signature blocks sometimes get lost, sir, right?"

"I guess they do," Captain Young said.

"Take me thirty or forty minutes, sir."

"Good man, Harrison!"

[THREE]

U.S. Naval Hospital

U.S. Navy Base, Sasebo

Sasebo, Japan

22O5 19 October 195O

Security for U.S. Naval Hospital, Sasebo—the guards at the gate and around the perimeter—was provided by a five-man detachment of U.S. Marines who set up and supervised the system, using sailors from the hospital staff—Corps-men, others—assigned to "Shore Patrol" duty on a roster basis to man the var­ious posts.

Sergeant Victor C. Wandowski, USMC, very rarely spent any time at all at Post Number One, which was the guard shack at the main gate, but tonight was an exception. He had been given a heads-up that a Marine major, named McCoy, was going to arrive at the hospital either sometime tonight or—probably— early tomorrow morning. The major was to be sent immediately to see the med­ical officer of the day, and the hospital commander, Captain Schermer himself, was to be notified of Major McCoy's arrival, no matter what the hour.

Under these circumstances, Sergeant Wandowski had decided, it behooved him to be at the main gate around 2200. He knew there was a courier flight arriving at the airfield around 2130, and it seemed likely this Major McCoy would be on it.

When he saw an Air Force jeep approaching just after 2200, Sergeant Wandowski congratulated himself on his foresight. If one of the swabbie pecker-checkers fucked up meeting this major—which was very likely—it would have been his ass in the crack, not theirs.

"I'll handle this one," he said to the swabbie on duty, and stepped out of the guard shack, crisply raising his hand to stop the jeep.

An Air Force buck sergeant was driving the jeep. If his passenger was a Ma­rine major, he goddamned sure didn't look like it.

He was coverless, insignia-less, and wearing an Army field jacket.

Whatever it was, it did not rate a salute, and Sergeant Wandowski did not offer one.

"What can I do for you?" he demanded.

"You can tell me where I can find Brigadier General Pickering," McCoy said.

"Never heard of him," Sergeant Wandowski said, both truthfully and as sort of a challenge.

"Trust me, Sergeant," McCoy said. "He's somewhere around here. How about getting on the horn and calling the officer of the guard and asking?"

"I'm the officer of the guard," Wandowski said.

"Then call the officer of the day," McCoy said patiently.

"Can I ask who you are?"

"My name is McCoy," McCoy said.

"You're Major McCoy?"

McCoy nodded.

Sergearit Wandowski was unable to accept that.

"Sir, have you got any identification?"

"Get on the horn—and right now, Sergeant," McCoy said icily. "Call the OD and tell him to get word to General Pickering that Major McCoy is at the gate."