Why do I always suspect that Pick will do something crazy?


What he's doing here makes sense. I can see all I really need to know about this airfield making a low and slow. You can't see much from the cockpit of a Corsair on the ground.


This made sense.


They flew straight down the main runway. They were al-most at the end of it and Dunn had reached the gear control when Pick's Corsair, its wheels and flaps going up, raised the nose and gained speed.


"Thank you, K-l," Pick's voice came over the air-to-ground. "You may now tell all your friends that the Marines are here and almost landed."


That's why. He didn't have to get on the air like that.


There's something about Pick that makes him show his ass.


"Having seen just about all the Pusan offers," Pick's voice came over the air-to-air, "we will take a quick look at picturesque Chinhae, not far from here, which will take Piper Cubs and those helicopters, but where landing a Cor-sair would be a little hairy."


Chinhae was maybe thirty miles from Pusan, and Pick- with Dunn copying him-lowered his flaps and gear and flew over it. There was a single runway, with a half dozen Army light aircraft parked on the west side of it.


Dunn saw enough of it to be able to report to General Cushman that it would be usable by the Piper Cubs and helicopters of the brigade's observation squadron when they arrived.


"And now to Taegu," Pick's voice came over the air. "The second-largest city in unoccupied South Korea."


It was a flight of just a few minutes. Pick had climbed to 3,500 feet, and Dunn could see from the exposed, raw earth where trenches and other positions had been built southeast of the city, as if in anticipation that the enemy would take Taegu.


"And the war, Billy, begins just a little farther north." He switched to the air-to-ground.


"Marine Four One One. Any air controller in the area."


There was no reply, and Pick repeated the call. And again there was no reply.


"Aw, come on, fellas, any air controller in the area. We have two Marine F4-U's up here ready, willing, and able to shoot up anything you think deserves a shot."


And again, there was no reply.


Pick switched to the air-to-air frequency.


"Can you believe that, Billy? You think they're asleep? Maybe too proud to call on the Marines?"


"There has to be a reason," Dunn replied.


When he'd heard Pick calling, Dunn had thought there would be far more calls from the ground than they could possibly respond to.


`To hell with it," Pick said. "Let's go shoot up a choo-choo."


A "choo-choo"? Now, what the hell?


"Say again?"


"You never saw those wing camera shots of the Air Corps shooting up trains in Europe? I always wanted to try that, but I never saw one damned choo-choo in all of War Two."


"There was one on the `Canal," Dunn said, with a clear memory of an ancient, tiny, shot-to-pieces steam locomo-tive in his mind's eye, "but somebody shot it up before I had a chance. Is there a rail line around here?"


"I found a couple in my trusty Navion," Pick reported. "Let's hope we get lucky."


Ten minutes later, they got lucky.


"Nine o'clock, Billy," Pick's voice came over the air-to-air.


Dunn looked.


A train, a long train-mixed boxcars, flatcars, and tank cars-powered by two steam locomotives, was snaking along a river.


"I'm going to break left and get pretty close to the deck, and then turn back," Pick said. "I've got dibs on the loco-motive. In the unlikely event I miss, you can try on a sec-ond pass."


"Dibs on the locomotive"! Are you never going to grow up? Good God, you're a Marine field-grade officer!


"I'll be on your tail, Pick," Dunn said over the air-to-air.


And then Pick surprised him again, by rapidly picking up speed, as soon as he had broken to the left.


You can hit a lot more if your throttles aren't at the fire-wall. You know that. What the hell is the matter with you?


Pick completed his turn, and not more than 500 feet above the undulating terrain, turned back toward the train-


-from three or four cars of which came lines of tracer shells.


My God! Why didn't I think about antiaircraft fire?


You make a much harder target if you're flying as fast as it will go.


You knew there would be counterfire.


How?


My God, Pick, did you do a dry run in that little Navion?


You did. You crazy sonofabitch, that's exactly what you did!


Streams of tracers erupted from Pick's Corsair's wing-mounted.50-caliber Brownings.


Dunn saw them walking across the rice paddies and the river toward the locomotives. Steam began to come from the rearward locomotive's boiler. He moved the nose of his Corsair to the rear of the train and pressed the firing button on the stick. The Corsair shuddered with the recoil.


Just as he picked up his nose, the locomotive exploded.


"Goddamn, Billy! Look at that!" Pick's delighted voice came over the air-to-air.


A second later, there was an orange glow from one of the tank cars, and a split second after that, an enormous explo-sion.


Dunn flew for half a second through the fireball, and then was on the other side.


He saw Pick's Corsair climbing steeply and got on his tail again.


"Did you see that sonofabitch blow up?" Pick's voice asked, excitedly.


"I saw it. We also got what had to be a gasoline tank car."


"You got the tank car," Pick said. "I got the choo-choo."


"Whatever you say," Dunn replied.


"Your ADF working?" Pick asked.


Dunn checked.


"Affirmative," he said.


"Mine isn't," Pick replied matter-of-factly. "I guess I lost that antenna."


"Any other damage?"


"The gauges are all in the green," Pick said. "There's some openings in the wing I don't remember seeing be-fore, but I don't see any gas leaking. Do you think you can find Kobe, Colonel?"


"Get on my wing, Pick," Dunn ordered.


He advanced his throttle and pulled his Corsair beside Pick's.


Pick's canopy was open. He had a long cigar in his mouth, and was using the cockpit lighter to fire it up. The lighter was technically called "the spot heater," because smoking was supposed to be forbidden in the cockpit. Ig-noring all that, Pick had the cigar going, then he raised his eyes to Dunn and waved cheerfully.


Dunn shook his head and moved ahead of him, on a course for Kobe.


[FOUR]


In her capacity as a journalist, Miss Priestly decided it was her duty to meet the two Corsairs when they returned from the first Marine aviation combat sortie in Korea.


The first thing she thought was that she was really going to pay the arrogant sonofabitch back for that "his turf" crack.


The second thing she thought was My God, he looks tired.


The third thing she thought was My God, there's holes all over the fuselage. He was hit. He could have been shot down!


Major Pickering jumped off the wing root of the Corsair.


"Well, what an unexpected pleasure. How are you, Miss Priestly?"


"You knew I was here," she snapped. And then was sur-prised to hear herself ask, "Pick, are you all right?"


"Couldn't be better, except after when I have a double scotch, when I'll really be in good shape."


"There's bullet holes in your airplane!"


"No. I don't think so. I think that's part of a locomotive."


"A locomotive?"


"I got one. Billy got a gasoline tank car," he said.


"A locomotive?"


"Yeah. And there's an old Marine Corps custom about that. Every pilot who gets a locomotive gets to kiss the first pretty girl he sees."


"Good luck," she said. "I hope you find one."


And then he put his hand on her cheek and shrugged.


"What the hell," he said. "It might have worked. And I really wanted to kiss you."


He dropped his hand and started to turn from her.


She caught the sleeve of his flight suit. It was damp with sweat.


He probably smells like a horse.


Then she raised her face and kissed him, and it lasted much longer than she intended, and while she was kissing him, she realized that there probably wouldn't be a double bed and room-service champagne, but this was going to be one of those rare times when the urge and the opportunity had really come together.


[FIVE]


REPLACEMENT BATTALION (PROVISIONAL)


CAMP PENDLETON, CALIFORNIA


0705 29 JULY 1950


At the time it had been asked for and promised, Marine Corps assistance in the production of the motion picture film Halls of Montezuma, which would star Richard Widmark, had seemed like a splendid idea.


The script had been reviewed, and while there was a cer-tain melodramatic aspect to it, there was nothing in it that would in any way reflect adversely on the United States Marine Corps. To the contrary, Richard Widmark's charac-ter manifested traits of selfless heroism in keeping with the highest traditions of the Marine Corps.


And it was to be a major film, which would appear on the screens of at least half the motion picture theaters in the United States.


As one senior officer put it privately to Marine Corps Commandant Cates, "What we get, for loaning them a cou-ple of companies of infantry, the use of the boondocks at Pendleton, and letting them take pictures of amphibious landings under close air support-which we're going to run anyway-is really a two-hour recruiting film. I think it's a win-win situation for the Corps, and I recommend we do it."


That was then, nine months before the Army of the Peo-ple's Democratic Republic of North Korea had crossed the 38th Parallel and started for Pusan.


Now was now. The last thing the United States Marine Corps needed at Camp Pendleton now was a civilian army of motion picture production people running around the reservation, and expecting-demanding-what they had been promised, "full cooperation."


One of the problems that crossed the desk of Brigadier General Clyde W. Dawkins shortly after it had been made clear the Corps was going to war again was in the form of a succinct note from the sergeant major.


General:


The Hollywood Marines are starting to arrive.


Maj L. K. Winslow (Pub Info) has been assigned to 1st Prov Brigade.


Sgt Major Neely.


Major L. K. Winslow, who had been on the staff of the G-3, had been detailed to the Public Information Office to deal with the Halls of Montezuma motion picture produc-tion company. He was a good officer. When Brigadier General Craig had begun to staff the 1st Provisional Marine Brigade, one of the first officers he'd asked for was Major L. K. Winslow.


That meant there was no officer now charged with deal-ing with the movie people.


General Dawkins had summoned Sergeant Major Neely to his office.


"What do we do about this?"


"Sir, we have a major who is now spending most of his time inventorying supply rooms."


"A major doing what?" Dawkins had blurted, then re-membered hearing that Major Macklin-having somehow irked the G-l-had been sent to contemplate his sins while he inventoried supply rooms. "You mean Major Macklin?"


Sergeant Major Neely nodded.


"I don't know..."


"The PIO is up to his ass in alligators," Neely said. "Somebody has to deal with the Hollywood Marines."


There is no reason, Dawkins decided at the moment, that Macklin can't contemplate his sins, whatever they were, while dealing with the Hollywood Marines.


"Send for Major Macklin, please, Sergeant Major," Dawkins ordered.


"Aye, aye, sir."


In the forty-five minutes it took to notify Major Macklin that the deputy commanding general wished to speak to him personally, and for Macklin to reach Dawkins's office, Dawkins had a little-very little-time to ruminate on his decision.


He was aware that he was not one of those who thought the Richard Widmark cinematic opus was a great thing for the Marine Corps. He was further aware that he had heard somewhere that this Macklin character was a three-star asshole. He was forced to draw the conclusion that he had allowed his personal feelings to color his decision; that he had sent an asshole to deal with the Hollywood assholes.


That was not the thing to do. The Marine Corps had de-cided the movie was in the best interests of the Marine Corps, and that being the case, it behooved him to support the movie as best he could, which obviously meant he shouldn't send this asshole major to deal with the Holly-wood assholes.


He would have to find some really competent officer, on a par with Major L. K. Winslow, to assist the Hollywood people in their production.


Just about at the time he had reached this conclusion, Sergeant Major Neely stuck his head in the door and re-ported that Major Robert B. Macklin, USMC, had arrived.


"Send him in, please," Dawkins had ordered. Since he had summoned him, courtesy required that he at least talk to him.


Major Macklin-who was, Dawkins was somewhat sur-prised to see, a good-looking, trim, shipshape Marine offi-cer-entered the office, walked to precisely eighteen inches from General Dawkins's desk, and came to atten-tion.


"Major Macklin, Robert B., reporting as ordered, sir."


"At ease, Major," Dawkins said.


Macklin stood at ease.


"This may sound like a strange question, Macklin, but do you have any public relations experience?"


"Yes, sir, I do."


That's not what I expected to hear.


"In the Corps?"


"Yes, sir."


`Tell me about it," Dawkins ordered.


"Sir, when I returned from the `Canal-"


"You were on Guadalcanal?" Dawkins asked.


I'll be damned.


"Actually, sir, I was on Gavutu."


"Then why did you say `Guadalcanal'?"


"I've found, sir, that it's easier to say Guadalcanal than have to explain that Gavutu was a nearby island."


That's true. Gavutu is not well-known.


"What were you doing on Gavutu?"


"Actually, sir, I didn't get a chance to do much on Gavutu. I went in with the ParaMarines and took a hit be-fore I reached the beach."


The ParaMarines were decimated-literally, they lost ten percent of their men-landing on Gavutu.


"I see," Dawkins said. "And?"


"I was on limited duty, sir, and the Corps assigned me to a war bond tour. It had several aces from Guadalcanal."


"Oddly enough, I'm familiar with that tour. Several of those aces were mine. And you were the public relations guy for that tour?"


"Yes, sir, and*-I was still on limited duty, sir-for oth-ers that followed."


"And that's how you spent the war? On public relations duties?"


"No, sir. When it became obvious that I wasn't going to be able anytime soon to pass the full duty physical, I vol-unteered for the OSS. I was sent on to Mindanao, which the Japs then held-"


Goddamn it! I don't need a spy. I need somebody to deal with the Hollywood Marines and Richard Widmark.


Well, at least he has some public relations experience.


"Major," Dawkins interrupted, "the Marine Corps is co-operating with a Hollywood motion picture company. They're making a movie to be called Halls of Montezuma, which will star Richard Widmark."


"Yes, sir?"


"The coordinating officer was assigned to the 1st Marine Provisional Brigade, and I have to find someone to take his place, and do so right now-the Hollywood people have already begun to arrive here. Do you think you could han-dle something like that?"


"Sir, if I have a choice between going to Korea or this, I really would prefer going to Korea."


"Most of us would prefer to be going to Korea, Major," Dawkins said. "My question was do you think you could handle something like that?"


"I'm sure I could, sir, if that's what the Corps wants me to do."


"Okay. Just as soon as you can wind up whatever you're doing now, report to Colonel Severance in public rela-tions."


"Aye, aye, sir."


"That will be all, Major. Good luck."


"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."


Before Major Macklin was out of the building, General Dawkins got Colonel Severance on the horn and told him that he was sending him an experienced public relations officer to take the place of Major Winslow.


He also told Colonel Severance that he wanted "the Hol-lywood project" to go smoothly-that the Corps had promised "full cooperation," and full cooperation was what they were going to get.


"Unless it actually interferes with our movements to Ko-rea, see that they get everything they want."


Colonel Severance said, "Aye, aye, sir," and General Dawkins put the Hollywood Marines out of his mind.


Major Macklin was delighted with his new assignment. He would have gone willingly to Korea, of course, and still would. But the facts were that his previous service had de-nied him the privilege of command. He had never been a company commander, and service as a company com-mander as a captain was at least an unofficial prerequisite to serving as a battalion executive officer as a major.


Neither had his intelligence service prepared him for duty with a brigade as an intelligence officer. He had spent most of his OSS service on the Japanese-occupied island of Mindanao. That was certainly valuable service-and certainly dangerous service-but it wasn't the sort of thing that had given him the experience to assume duties as a regimental intelligence officer.


So the situation was that even if he was ordered to Korea with the brigade-or later, with the 1st Marine Division- he more than likely would have been given duties in personnel or supply. That was certainly important work, but looking at the big picture, he could make a far larger con-tribution to the Marine Corps by doing an outstanding job supporting the filming of Halls of Montezuma.


And his work would certainly be noticed by senior offi-cers, which was important, if he looked down the road to selection time for promotion to lieutenant colonel.


When he reported to Colonel Severance, Severance re-peated to him what General Dawkins had said about the importance of the project, and told him to guide himself accordingly. He also told him that the "senior members" of the production company were putting up at the Coronado Beach Hotel, and that he should establish contact with the producers and the director there.


He was given a copy of the "shooting script" and a long list of things, from Jeeps and trucks to telephone service, the production company would require. He was also asked to escort the "location manager" around the Camp Pendleton reservation to find suitable sites for various "scenes" and "shots" in the film.


He got right on that, and returned the same evening to the Coronado Beach to report his progress to the director and producers. While he was at Camp Pendleton, he sug-gested to Colonel Severance that since he was going to have to be on twenty-four-hour call to take care of the re-quests of "the company," he thought it would be a good idea if he took a room at the hotel. That would mean that he would have to be put on temporary duty, so that he could draw per diem and quarters pay. Colonel Severance said he would take care of it.


Two things happened the very first day. When he told the producer that he had arranged to stay in the hotel so that he would be available around the clock, the director said the least the company could do in return was pick up the hotel bill.


That meant that he would be drawing quarters pay but would not have to spend it.


The second thing that happened the very first day was that he got to meet the star, Mr. Richard Widmark. Widmark had, of course, a suite in the Coronado Beach, but he had come to San Diego on his yacht, which was a con-verted Navy PT-Boat.


They met on the yacht. Mr. Widmark was more than charming, and told him that he would be sleeping on the yacht, rather than in the hotel, and that Macklin should feel free to come aboard whenever he pleased.


"We party a little out here," Widmark said. "On the boat, nobody notices."


That was certainly an interesting prospect, and over the next ten days, Major Macklin learned that many-perhaps most-of the beautiful women associated with a motion picture company were not actresses, but technicians and assistants of one kind or another. And many of these, he quickly learned, were drawn to a real-life Marine major, who had been wounded on a real battlefield, and then been a real OSS agent doing his fighting behind enemy lines.


In order to carry out his duties, he requested first-and got-a staff car. After two days, he decided that what he really needed was a station wagon, and a driver, and Colonel Severance got that for him, too.


On 28 July, the production company's extras casting di-rector came to Major Macklin, and said that as of six-thirty in the morning, 30 July, the company was going to shoot some "filler shots" of utilities-clad Marines crawling through the terrain, and he thought he could get by with forty or fifty people, although more would be better.


"You just tell me how many Marines you need," Major Macklin said, in the spirit of full cooperation.


"What I really would like to do is see if I can't come up with some interesting faces."


"How can I help you with that?"


"Do you suppose you could line up a bunch-say, a hun-dred or so-of your guys, and let me pick the ones I think would fit with the concept we're trying for?"


"No problem at all. I'll get right on it, and get right back to you."


Major Macklin then called the commanding officer of the provisional replacement battalion he knew had been formed to deal with the inflow of Marines to Camp Pendleton. He explained to him what he wanted.


"There's hardly anybody here," he said. "The casuals we had, the regular Marines sent here to fill out the 1st Divi-sion, are just about gone, and there's only one reserve company here.... They weren't expected until August first, but they got in this morning."


"How many men are we talking about?"


"A little over two hundred, plus five officers."


"Have them standing by at 0700 tomorrow. A casting di-rector will select from them the fifty or so men he needs for the Halls of Montezuma project."


"What exactly does that mean?"


"It means for two days-possibly three, whatever it takes-the men selected will be used as extras in the mo-tion picture."


"Christ, Macklin, I don't know. For one thing, there's in-processing to be done, you know, for reclassification and assignment. And then their company commander has re-served the known distance range so they can zero their in-dividual weapons...."


"That will have to be put on hold, I'm afraid, until after the filming is completed."


"By whose authority?"


"General Dawkins has said this project has the highest priority. Are you willing to accept that, or should I call General Dawkins and tell him you're telling me we can't provide the full cooperation Headquarters Marine Corps has promised these Hollywood people?"


The provisional reception battalion commander did not want to discuss anything with the assistant commanding general.


"They'll be standing by at 0700, Macklin," he said.


"Thank you," Major Macklin said, and then went to find the production company's extras casting director to tell him what had been arranged.


When Captain George F. Hart was informed that the 29 July breakfast meal would be served to his company at 0430, as at 0700, he was to have his company formed in front of battalion headquarters, in field gear, and carrying their assigned weapons, he perhaps naturally assumed that battalion headquarters was where the trucks would pick up Baker Company to transport them to one of the known dis-tance firing ranges.


Company B, 55th Marines, was formed at 0655. At that point, the commanding officer of the Replacement Battal-ion (Provisional) appeared at the door to his headquarters, and when he had caught Captain Hart's attention, signaled him to join him.


Hart turned his company over to his exec and walked to the battalion headquarters. Since they were both out of doors and under arms, Hart saluted.


"Good morning, sir," he said.


"Good morning, Captain," the battalion commander said. "You and your officers aren't going to be needed for this little exercise. Turn the company over to the first ser-geant."


"Excuse me, sir?"


"Turn your company over to your first sergeant, Captain, and dismiss your officers from the formation."


"Aye, aye, sir," Captain Hart said. He complied with his orders and then returned to the Replacement Battalion (Provisional) commanding officer.


"Sir, may I ask what's going on?"


"Fifty of your men are going to be in the movies, Cap-tain. A talent scout will shortly appear to determine which ones."


"Sir, I don't understand...."


"That must be them now," the battalion commander said, nodding with his head toward a Plymouth station wagon coming down the street.


The station wagon was driven by a sergeant. In the rear seat were two men, a Marine officer and a plump, wavy-haired blond man the far side of forty. The sergeant opened the door and the two men got out.


"Jesus Christ," Captain Hart said. "Macklin!"


"Are you acquainted with Major Macklin, Captain?"


"Yes, sir, I am."


The last time I saw that cowardly sonofabitch was when we loaded the bastard on the sub Sunfish to go to Min-danao. Killer McCoy had authority to blow the bastard away if he interfered with anything, and I was actually dis-appointed when Killer came out and told me Macklin was still alive; that he'd decided the best way to deal with the sonofabitch was just leave him on Mindanao and hope the Japs caught him.


"Major Macklin is the action officer for the Halls of Montezuma movie project," the Replacement Battalion (Provisional) commander said.


"With respect, sir," Captain Hart said, "I don't really give much of a damn about Major Macklin or his movie project. Sir, my company was scheduled to go to the known distance range..."


"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, in this way, Captain," the replacement battalion commander said, "but you no longer have a company."


"Sir?"


"As of 0001 this morning, Company B, 55th Marines was disbanded, and its officers and men transferred to the Replacement Battalion (Provisional) for reassignment. They-and you-will be reassigned within the Marine Corps-mostly likely as replacements to the 1st Marine Division-where they are needed."


"I'm not sure I understand," Hart said.


"Company B, 55th Marines, no longer exists. It was dis-banded as of 0001 this morning. Its personnel-including you-are now assigned to the Replacement Battalion. You will be reassigned where the Marine Corps thinks you will be of the greatest value to the Marine Corps."


"That's absolutely fucking outrageous!" Hart exploded.


"Watch your mouth, Captain," the major said.


"Goddamn it!" Hart went on. "I trained those men. I'm responsible for them. I promised their families I would look out for them!"


"Be that as it may-"


"I'll be a sonofabitch if I'll put up with this!"


"All right, Captain, that's quite enough. You will go to your room, and you will stay there until I send for you. That's an order."


Hart glowered at him for fifteen seconds, which seemed much longer.


"I request permission to see the Inspector General, sir," he said.


"You will go to your room and stay there until I send for you. When I do, I will consider your request to see the In-spector General."


"Sir, I believe it is my right to see the Inspector General with or without your permission."


At this point, the commanding officer of the Replace-ment Battalion (Provisional) lost his temper.


"All right, goddamn it, go to the IG. And when the IG throws you out on your ass, you will then report to me, and I'll deal with your insubordinate behavior. Just get the hell out of my sight!"


Hart walked away from the major, took a final look at Major Robert B. Macklin, USMC, who was walking slowly down the lines of Baker Company following the civilian, and writing down the names of those members of his company of which the civilian apparently approved on a clipboard.


Then he walked angrily away.


He walked for three blocks without any real idea of where he was going.


Then he stopped a passing corporal and asked him where the office of the Inspector General was.


"On the main post, sir," the corporal said. "In the head-quarters building."


"How do I get to the main post?"


"It's down this road, sir," the corporal said. "Too far to walk."


"Thank you," Hart said, and went to the side of the road, and when the first vehicle approached, held up his thumb to hitchhike a ride.


The captain in the office of the Inspector General wasn't much more help than the commanding officer of the Re-placement Battalion (Provisional) had been.


"Captain, that decision has been made. The men of your reserve unit will be assigned where they will be of most use to the Marine Corps."


"I can swallow that, I suppose," Hart said, his voice ris-ing. "I don't like it, but I can swallow it. But they should be getting ready to go to war, not fucking around with some bullshit movie!"


"Calm down, before you get yourself in trouble," the captain said.


"Where's the commanding general's office? On this floor?"


"You really don't want to go there, Captain."


"The hell I don't! Where's his fucking office?"


The captain did not reply.


Hart glowered at him, then stormed out of his office.


There was a sign in the lobby of the building. The offices of the commanding general and the deputy commanding general were on the second floor.


Hart took the stairs to the second floor two at a time.


There were three people in the outer office: Sergeant Major Neely, Corporal Delbert Wise, and Colonel Edward Banning.


"Well, I'll be damned!" Colonel Banning exclaimed. "How are you, George?"


"Pretty goddamned pissed off is how I am!"


"About what?"


"They took my company away from me, and that miser-able sonofabitch Macklin is using them as extras in some bullshit movie!"


"George, calm down," Banning said.


Banning looked at Sergeant Major Neely and Corporal Wise, and indicated with a nod of his head that they should make themselves absent. When they had left the office, he turned to Hart.


"Okay. Now start at the beginning, George."


Seven minutes later, Brigadier General Clyde W. Dawkins entered the outer office, a look of annoyance on his face that neither his sergeant major nor the clerk-typist had answered his two pushes of the intercom button, signaling that the deputy commanding general wished coffee.


The look of annoyance on his face changed to one of cu-riosity when he saw Colonel Banning and Captain Hart.


"What's going on, Colonel?"


"May I see the general a moment, sir?" Banning asked.


Dawkins considered that a moment, then signaled Ban-ning to follow him into his office. Banning did so, closing the door after him.


"Okay, now what's going on, Ed?" Dawkins asked.


"General, you have one highly pissed-off captain out there," Banning said.


"Pissed off about what?"


"He had a reserve infantry company in St. Louis, which they just took away from him and turned over to Major Macklin to make a Richard Widmark movie."


Speaking very rapidly, General Dawkins replied: "One, breaking up the units was a tough decision. It was the right one. Two, Eighth and Eye ordered that we support that movie. Understand?"


"General, unless some action is taken, there will be a headline in tomorrow's St. Louis Post-Dispatch reading, `Over Bitter Objections of Commanding Officer, St. Louis Marine Reserve Company Broken Up; Men Scattered Through Marine Corps.' Or words to that effect."


"Oh, Christ! Is that guy some kind of nut? Doesn't he know how to take orders?"


"I don't think that he would obey an order not to talk to the press. It's the only option he sees to right what he really considers a wrong."


"Jesus!"


"Will you trust me on this, General?"


"Okay. Why not?"


"May I use your phone, sir?"


Dawkins waved at the telephone on his desk.


Banning dialed the operator.


"Get me the Commandant in Washington, please. Colonel Edward Banning is calling."


"Jesus Christ!" Dawkins exclaimed.


Someone in Washington answered the telephone.


"No, Major, I don't wish to tell you what I wish to speak to the Commandant about. Please tell him I'm calling in a matter connected with General Pickering."


There was another pause.


"Sir, I wouldn't bother you with this personally, except that I feel it's necessary."


Pause.


"Sir, Captain George F. Hart, who was General Picker-ing's aide-de-camp-actually bodyguard-in the last war has just reported on active duty. I can think of nowhere else in the Corps where he would be of more use than serving with General Pickering again, and I'd like to get him over there as soon as possible."


Pause.


"Yes, sir, there is. I'm in General Dawkins's office. Hold one, sir."


He handed the telephone to Dawkins.


"General Dawkins, sir."


Pause.


"Aye, aye, sir. Do you wish to speak to Colonel Banning again, sir?"


The Commandant of the Marine Corps apparently had nothing else to say to Colonel Banning, for General Dawkins put the telephone back in its cradle.


He looked at Banning, and then went to his office door and issued an order.


"Come in here, please, Sergeant Major," he said. "You, too, Wise. Bring your pad." He paused and added. "You, too, Captain. You might as well hear this."


The three trooped into the office.


"Wise, take a memorandum, record of telecon."


"Aye, aye, sir."


"This date, this hour, between the Commandant of the Marine Corps and the Deputy Commanding General, Camp Pendleton. The Commandant desires..." He paused. "What does the Commandant desire, Colonel Ban-ning?"


"That appropriate orders be issued immediately detach-ing Captain George F. Hart from Replacement Battalion (Provisional) Camp Pendleton and attaching subject officer to the Central Intelligence Agency, Washington, D.C., with further detachment to the staff of the Assistant Director of the CIA for Asia, and directing subject officer to proceed by the first available air transportation to Tokyo, Japan. You get all that, Corporal?"


"Yes, sir."


"Any questions, Captain Hart?" Banning asked.


"Who is the... What did you say, Assistant Director of the CIA? What am I going to do there?"


"That will be up to General Pickering, Captain. I'm sure that he can find something useful for you to do."


"I'd like to say goodbye to my men," Hart said.


"That can be arranged," Banning said.


"You go with him, Sergeant Major," General Dawkins ordered. "See if you do a better job of explaining why the Corps has been forced to disband the reserve units than anybody else over there has."


"Aye, aye, sir."


"I'll go, too," Banning said.


"I wish I had the time," General Dawkins said. "But..." He put out his hand to Hart. "My compliments to General Pickering, Hart. And good luck."


Chapter Eleven


[ONE]


COMMUNICATIONS CENTER


EIGHTH UNITED STATES ARMY (REAR)


PUSAN, KOREA


0730 2 AUGUST 1950


Master Sergeant Paul T. Keller, twenty-nine years old, had been drafted into the U.S. Army almost immediately upon graduation from high school in June of 1942. After basic training, he had been trained as a high-speed radio opera-tor, and had been assigned to Major General I. D. White's 2nd Armored "Hell on Wheels" Division, ending up the war as a technical sergeant on the banks of the Elbe.


A recruiter had argued that if he went home now-as his points entitled him to-and got out, he was going to find himself just one more ex-GI looking for a job. On the other hand, if he reenlisted, he would immediately be promoted to master sergeant. Moreover, he could go home by air-in-stead of on a troop ship-and go on a sixty-day reenlistment leave. After that, he could have his choice of both any course he wanted to attend at the Army Signal School at Fort Monmouth, and any post, camp, or station in the United States or around the world.


Midway through his leave, Master Sergeant Keller elected to attend the Cryptographic School. He didn't know the first thing about cryptography, except what he'd seen in the movies, and had never heard of the Army Secu-rity Agency, but it sounded interesting-even exciting- and he'd had enough of supervising a room full of radio operators sitting at typewriters with cans on their ears. And he suspected that Germany was going to be a good place to be stationed, now that the war was over.


Orders came assigning him to the Army Security Agency, and his parents and brother told him the FBI had been asking questions of everybody about him, "in con-nection with a high-level security clearance."


The clearance-Top Secret, Cryptographic I-came through when he was at Fort Monmouth taking Phase I of the course. By then he'd learned once you were in the ASA, had been granted the clearance, you stayed in the ASA. That meant that although he would be in Germany, he wouldn't be assigned there. He would be assigned to the ASA Head-quarters, in Vint Hill Farms Station, Virginia, outside Wash-ington, with "duty station wherever."


It turned out that he had a flair for cryptography. After be-ing the honor graduate of Phase II of the course, at Vint Hill Farms, he was sent to work at Headquarters, U.S. Forces, European Theater, in the Farben Building in Frankfurt, Ger-many. After two months there, the ASA changed his "duty assignment" to "Crypto NCO for the U.S. Element, Allied Commandatura, Berlin."


That was really good duty. He had his own apartment, and there were none of the annoying details usually associ-ated with Army life, standing formations, pulling staff duty NCO, that sort of thing. All he had to do was let them know where he was twenty-four hours a day in case something hot had to go out, or came in.


And the Berlin girls were beautiful. So beautiful that he really had to take care not to fall for one of them. The CIC kept a close eye on everybody in the ASA and especially on crypto people. Keller didn't know if it was true, but the CIC thought the Russians were using good-looking frauleins to put ASA/Crypto people in compromising posi-tions. If it looked to the CIC that you were getting too close to a fraulein, you got your security clearance jerked-by then his clearance was Top Secret/Crypto IV, which meant he was cleared to en- and decrypt anything-and losing that meant it would be back to some radio room.


The ASA assigned him temporary duty stations all over Europe-Vienna, Budapest, Moscow-filling in for other crypto people on leave or sick or whatever.


He was really unhappy when in late 1949, the ASA called him back to Vint Hill Farms to be an instructor. But even that proved to be very good duty. It was a good place to be stationed, near Washington, and he could go home to Philadelphia just about whenever he wanted.


Two weeks before, the First Soldier had called him in. With a five-day delay-en-route leave, he was to report to the transportation officer, Fort Lewis, Washington, for fur-ther shipment by air to Headquarters, Eighth United States Army, which had an urgent priority for crypto people.


This was not like Frankfurt or Berlin. They took him from the airport outside Tokyo, to Camp Drake, where they took his personal possessions from him for storage, and is-sued him two sets of fatigues, field gear, combat boots, and an Ml Garand, the first one he'd held in his hands since 1943. And then put him on another airplane the same day and flew him to K-l, the airport outside Pusan.


He quickly learned the Eighth Army (Rear) really did have "an urgent need" for crypto people. Things were fucked up beyond description. When he got there, he saw that Operational Immediate messages, which were supposed to get encrypted and transmitted right then, took hours- even days-to get out.


It would take him a couple of days to straighten things out, but he knew he could do it.


It was going to be a lousy assignment, living in a god-damn tent, sleeping on a no-mattress cot, eating off stainless-steel trays, taking a crap in a wooden-holer GI outhouse, but that's the way it was. It was payback, he de-cided philosophically, for all the good times.


The first thing he did was get rid of the Garand. Crypto centers needed to be protected, sure, but not by the NCOIC carrying a Garand. There were guards on the door, armed with Thompson submachine guns. Keller got a Thompson for himself, plus a.45 pistol.


The second thing he did to speed things up was to get the signal officer to agree that since Operational Immediates-and for that matter, Urgents-should really get im-mediate encryption and transmission, the authority to classify messages should be restricted to officers senior enough to know what an Operational Immediate really was. Henceforth, the signal officer agreed, Operational Immediates would require the signature of a full bull colonel, or better, and Urgents, the signature of at least a light colonel.


Within twenty-four hours-once the backlog had been cleared-Operational Immediates and Urgents were going out in minutes. Which meant that before senior officers had started to sign off on them, most of the messages with that priority really shouldn't have been Operational Immediate and Urgent.


Master Sergeant Keller was surprised when the door opened and two Marines came in. After a moment, he saw that one of them had captain's bars painted in black on the collar points of his fatigue jacket. He remembered that the Marines called fatigues "utilities." The other one had metal warrant officer's bars pinned on his collar points.


Keller knew the 1st Provisional Marine Brigade was coming to Pusan-he had personally decrypted the Top Secret Urgent from the convoy commander, saying when they would arrive, and the reply from the Marine general saying they should be prepared to get off the ships ready to fight-but they'd been scheduled to arrive in thirty min-utes.


And these two looked like they'd been in Korea for weeks, and up with the infantry, not as if they'd just gotten off a ship. They were sweat-soaked, looked tired, and the captain had a Garand slung from his shoulder, with two spare clips clipped on the strap. Grenades bulged in the warrant officer's pockets.


Whenever they'd gotten here, they should not be in here. What the hell's the matter with the guards?


"Good morning, Sergeant," the captain said.


"Good morning, sir," Master Sergeant Keller replied. "Sir, you really shouldn't be in here. How'd you get in?"


"Through the door," the captain replied, somewhat sar-castically. "I just want to use the landline."


There was a secure landline, connected to the Commu-nications Center in the Dai Ichi Building in Tokyo. But it wasn't really secure, and it was intended primarily to keep the technicians in Pusan in touch with the technicians in Tokyo.


"Sir, there's no landline available," Keller said. "And, sir, I'm going to have to insist that you leave. This is a re-stricted area."


"Yeah, I know," the captain said. "Maybe you better call your officer, Sergeant."


Master Sergeant Keller went into the encryption room itself, and signaled the duty officer, Captain R. C. "Pete" Peters, SigC, USA, that he needed a word with him.


The captain went into the outer room.


"Hey, McCoy," Captain Peters greeted the two Marines with a smile. "What can we do for the Marines this morn-ing?"


"You might want to thank God, Pete," the captain said. "The Marines are about to land."


"That's not funny, McCoy," Captain Peters said. "I hope to Christ they got here in time. What can I do for you?"


"I need to make a quick call on your landline," Captain Kenneth R. McCoy said.


"Help yourself," Captain Peters said, and then saw the look on Master Sergeant Keller's face. "It's okay, Keller," he said. "He and Master Gunner Zimmerman are cleared for whatever they ask for."


"Yes, sir," Keller said.


Captain McCoy picked up the telephone. It was a direct line, and when the receiver was lifted, the communications switchboard operator in Tokyo answered.


"Patch me through to the Hotel Imperial, please," Mc-Coy said. A moment later, he added, "Captain McCoy for General Pickering."


And a moment after that, he repeated those exact words, then: "When will he be back, do you know?" Another pause, then: "No. No message, thank you."


He turned to the other Marine.


"Not there, and no ETA."


"Oplmmediate him," the Marine warrant officer sug-gested.


"Yeah," McCoy said, and picked up a lined pad, wrote quickly on it, and handed it to Master Sergeant Keller.


Operational Immediate


Unclassified


HqSCAP


Eyes only Brig General Pickering, USMC


Telephoning failed 0730 2 Aug.


Going to pier to meet 1st Provisional Marine Brigade. Request permission for Zimmerman and me to tem-porarily attach ourselves to Gen Craig to make ourselves useful. Will continue to report.


McCoy, Capt, USMCR


"You want this to go Operational Immediate?" Master Sergeant Keller asked, a little dubiously.


"He has the authority," Captain Peters said. "I guess I should have said there's an exception to the colonel's rule. Captain McCoy."


"And Mr. Zimmerman," McCoy said.


"And Mr. Zimmerman," Captain Peters echoed.


"I'll get this right out," Keller said, and went into the ra-dio room. When he came out, the two Marines were gone.


"What's with those two?" Keller asked.


"CIA," Captain Peters said.


He was not really surprised. He'd handled a lot of traffic for CIA agents when he was in Europe, especially in Berlin.


"They're not Marines?"


"They're Marines, and they're CIA. If you really want to know what's going on here, you ought to encrypt their re-ports yourself."


"Interesting."


Keller decided he would do just that.


[TWO]


PIER THREE


PUSAN, KOREA


0805 2 AUGUST 1950


Captain McCoy found Brigadier General Edward A. Craig, USMC-in utilities, sitting in a U.S. Army Jeep that he was apparently driving himself-on the wharf, looking more than a little unhappy as he watched the USS George Clymer (APA-27) being tied up, her rails lined with utilities-clad Marines acting for all the world as if they were being docked at a liberty port.


McCoy and Zimmerman got out of their "borrowed" U.S. Army Jeep-the lettering on the bumpers of which identified it as belonging to Fox Company, 21st Infantry- and approached Craig's Jeep. Craig heard them coming and looked over his shoulder.


McCoy and Zimmerman saluted.


"Good morning, sir," McCoy said.


Craig returned the salute.


"You two look like you need a bath," he said.


"We were up at Taejon, sir," McCoy said. "We wanted to see this," he gestured at the Clymer and the USS Pickaway (APA-222), another attack transport, which was tying up farther down the pier, "and there's something else...."


`Take a good look at those happy tourists, McCoy," General Craig said, a little bitterly. "Would you suspect that I sent them a radio ordering that ammo be issued and they debark prepared to fight?"


McCoy was trying to frame a reply to that when Zim-merman laughed, and said, "Jesus, will you look at that!"


A military unit was marching down the pier, between the warehouses and the ships. There was a color guard, in mussed and baggy khakis, carrying the flags of the United States, Korea, and the United Nations. Marching behind them, in U.S. Army fatigues, was a Korean Army military band, playing what could have been-and then, on the other hand, might not have been-the Marine Hymn.


General Craig smiled.


"In the interests of international cooperation, Mr. Zim-merman," he said. "I think we should commend those splendid musicians for at least trying."


"Yes, sir," Zimmerman said.


They could hear guffaws and laughter from the Marines hanging over the rails of the decks and gun positions of the Clymer.


"You said there was something else, McCoy?" General Craig asked.


"Yes, sir," McCoy said. "Sir, I just asked General Pick-ering for permission for Zimmerman and myself to attach ourselves temporarily to the brigade. I thought we could be useful. If nothing else, as interpreters."


"And General Pickering's reply?"


"I couldn't get through to him, sir. But I can't think of any reason he'd object. I told him we'd continue to report."


"Subject to General Pickering's approval, I accept," General Craig said. "For the time being, consider your-selves attached to me."


"Aye, aye, sir. Thank you," McCoy said, and went on: "We were at Headquarters Eighth Army last night, sir. They hadn't decided where the brigade will be sent."


It was a statement that was also a question.


"They still haven't," Craig said. "What do you know about Masan, McCoy?"


"It looks to me like the next North Korean objective, sir," McCoy said. "And a couple of prisoners Zimmerman and I talked to last night were the 6th NK Division. So far the 6th has done very well. One of them had this in his pocket."


He handed General Craig a small sheet of flimsy paper, crudely printed.


"What's it say?"


McCoy translated it in a matter-of-fact voice.


"Comrades, the enemy is demoralized. The task given us is the liberation of Masan and Chinju..."


"That sort of spells it out, doesn't it?" Craig said.


"There's more, sir. Shall I-"


Craig signaled him to go ahead.


"... the liberation of Masan and Chinju and the annihi-lation of the remnants of the enemy. The liberation of Chinju and Masan means the final battle to cut off the windpipe of the enemy. Comrades, this glorious task has fallen to our division!"


He raised his eyes to Craig to show that he had finished.


Craig looked at McCoy for a moment, and said, "I de-cided late last night that in the absence of orders from General Walker to the contrary, I'm going to move the brigade by truck and train up toward Masan. I borrowed two companies of six-by-six trucks from the Army Trans-portation Corps. If I can break up the parties on the attack transports, and get those ships unloaded today and tonight, we'll move out in the morning."


"The 6th Division has T-34 tanks, sir."


"Just before we left Pendleton, we drew new M-26s," Craig said. " `Pattons.' I suppose we are about to learn if they're as good as Fort Knox thinks they are."


"Sir, the T-34 looks as if it's vulnerable to the 3.5-inch bazooka. The 27th Infantry managed to stop a column-"


Craig held up his hand to silence him, then pointed to the Pickaway. A ship's ladder had been put over the side, and a dozen Marines were hurrying down it.


"Save it, McCoy," General Craig said. "I'm going to gather the officers in the mess. I was going to brief them on enemy intentions and capabilities. I just decided you're better qualified to do that than I am."


"Aye, aye, sir."


Craig got out of his Jeep, motioned for McCoy and Zim-merman to follow him, and walked down the pier, toward the officers now approaching him.


Salutes were exchanged, then handshakes.


"Has ammunition been issued?" General Craig asked.


"No, sir."


"I sent a message to do so," Craig said. "Apparently it went astray."


The officers looked uncomfortable.


Craig turned to one of the enlisted Marines-a young PFC, obviously a runner.


"Son, have you ammunition for that piece?"


"Yes, sir," the Marine said, and patted his cartridge belt.


"Well, then, here's your first lesson in how things are in Korea. Load and lock, son. And then guard those two Jeeps down the pier. Unguarded Jeeps get stolen here. Isn't that right, Captain McCoy?"


"Yes, sir."


"Assign one lieutenant per company to supervise the is-sue of basic ammunition loads," Craig ordered. "All other officers will assemble now in the mess of the Clymer for a briefing by Captain McCoy on enemy locations, inten-tions, and capabilities. After that, we will begin to unload the ships. We move to the lines in the morning."


The ship's ladder of the Clymer was dropped to the dock. Marines started to climb down it.


Craig went to the foot of the ladder and held up his hand to stop them, then started up the ladder.


"As pissed as he was," Zimmerman said softly to Mc-Coy, "about them not being ready to fight, I expected to see some brass getting a real ass-chewing."


McCoy chuckled.


"Ernie, General Craig can chew ass better with a raised eyebrow and a little disappointment in his voice than you and I can shouting ourselves hoarse."


Zimmerman shrugged. There was immediate confirma-tion of McCoy's theory.


"Anytime you're ready, Captain McCoy," General Craig called politely from near the top of the ship's ladder.


"Coming, sir," McCoy said. "Sorry, sir," and trotted to-ward the ladder.


[THREE]


COMMUNICATIONS CENTER


EIGHTH UNITED STATES ARMY (REAR)


PUSAN, KOREA


0730 2 AUGUST 1950


The secure landline telephone between the communications center of Eighth United States Army (Rear) in Pusan and the communications center of Headquarters, Supreme Commander Allied Powers and United Nations Command was intended solely to provide communications between the technicians in the two commo centers.


So when Master Sergeant Paul T. Keller heard it buzz, he answered it cryptically before it could buzz again, won-dering what the hell else somebody in Tokyo was going to announce was wrong with the crypto machines, the radio or radio-teletype circuits, or all three, what would have to be fixed, how much would have to be retransmitted.


On another telephone line, he would have said "Eighth Army Rear ComCenter, Sergeant Keller, sir." Now he just said, "Keller."


"Who's speaking, please?" the caller asked.


"Master Sergeant Keller. Who's this?"


"Sergeant, my name is Pickering. Brigadier General, Marine Corps."


The addressee of that Oplmmediate that Marine captain sent. How did he get access to this line?


"Yes, sir?"


"A short time ago, there was a message, an Operational Immediate, sent from Pusan by Captain K. R. McCoy. A Marine officer."


"Yes, sir, I'm familiar with it."


"Is he still there, anywhere near, by any chance?"


"No, sir."


"Have you any idea where he went?"


"Sir, I believe he's going to the pier."


"I have to get a message to him. To him and Brigadier General Craig, the commanding general of the 1st Provi-sional Marine Brigade. How can I do that?"


"General Craig'll be no problem, sir. They're setting up a commo center for the Marines right now."


"Right now is when I need to send this message. It may be necessary to send someone to hand-deliver it. Can you do that, or would you rather I spoke with an officer?"


"I can arrange that, sir," Keller said. "What's the mes-sage?"


"Permission denied. Repeat denied. Return immedi-ately. Repeat immediately. Signature Pickering Brigadier General. Got that?"


"Yes, sir."


"And I'll want you to message me, either by tele-phone-they'll patch you through to me at the Imperial Hotel-or by Operational Immediate that the message has been delivered."


"Yes, sir."


"You're very obliging, Sergeant, and I realize this will foul up your schedule. But if it wasn't important, I wouldn't ask you to do it."


"No problem, sir."


"I'll be waiting to hear from you. Thank you again."


"Yes, sir."


Master Sergeant Keller stuck his head in the radio room and caught Captain Peter's eye.


"Captain, I've got an errand to run. I'll be back as soon as I can."


Captain Peters nodded, and Keller pulled his head back out of the door before Peters could ask him, "What kind of an errand?"


He picked up his Thompson and went outside the build-ing and commandeered one of the message center Jeeps and told the driver to take him to the pier.


"You can't get on the piers, Sergeant. The Marines are getting off their boats, and they put up a guard."


"Just take me there," Keller said.


On the way through Pusan's narrow, filthy streets, crowded with military vehicles too large to pass side by side, Keller wondered why he had been so obliging.


Because the caller was a general, and generals-even Marine Corps generals-get what they ask sergeants to do for them?


Because, in addition to being a general, this guy had ob-viously had access to the SCAP/UN commo center and the landline?


Or maybe because Peters had told him the captain was CIA?


And Captain Peters, who's a good guy, is obviously go-ing to be pissed because I didn't tell him what was going on.


There was a guard post at the entrance to the wharf area, and three Marines, a sergeant, and two PFCs, all of them in field gear, one of them with a Browning automatic rifle hanging from his shoulder.


The sergeant stepped into the road and held up his hand in a casual but very firm gesture meaning "stop."


"Off-limits, Sergeant," he said. "Sorry."


"I'm from the Eighth Army ComCenter," Keller said. "I have a message for General Craig."


"Let's have it. I'll see it gets to him."


"It's an oral message, Sergeant." Keller said.


"An oral message?" the Marine sergeant asked, dubi-ously.


"Is there an officer of the guard?" Keller asked.


"Of course there's an officer of the guard," the Marine sergeant said.


"Send for him," Keller said.


"What?"


"Send for him."


"Why should I do that?"


"Because I have six stripes and you have three, and that's what they call an order."


The Marine sergeant looked at Keller for a long mo-ment, then gestured to one of the PFCs, who started off at a trot down the dock.


Two minutes later, a Marine captain walked up, trailed by the PFC.


Keller and the Marine sergeant saluted him.


"What's up?" the captain asked.


"Sir, I've got a message for General Craig," Keller said.


"An oral message," the Marine sergeant said.


"What is it, Sergeant?" the captain said. "I'll get it to him."


"Sir, it is oral, and I was ordered to deliver it personally," Keller said.


"By who?" the captain said.


"Brigadier General Pickering, sir," Keller said, then added: "U.S. Marine Corps."


"Never heard of him," the captain said, matter-of-factly. "But I can't imagine why a master sergeant would... Come with me, Sergeant."


The captain started walking down the wharf, and Keller started to get back in the message center Jeep.


"The Jeep stays," the Marine sergeant said.


"Wait for me," Keller said to the driver, who nodded.


The reason the captain was walking and the Jeep denied access to the wharf became immediately clear.


The wharf was jammed with men, equipment, and sup-plies. Lines of Marines-their rifles stacked using the stacking swivels near the muzzles, something Keller hadn't seen since Germany-waited for cargo nets jammed with supplies being lowered from the two ships to touch the dock, then began to carry the individual cartons and crates to waiting U.S. Army GMC 6x6 trucks.


Other booms lowered Marine 6 x 6s, and trailers for them, many of them stacked high with supplies, to the dock. The trucks were joined with their trailers, and then quickly driven off to make room for other trucks, trailers, and other piles of supplies dumped from cargo nets.


The closest ship was the USS Clymer. The captain started up her ladder. There was a Navy officer and a sailor in a steel helmet at the top of the ladder. As the captain was explaining to the Navy officer who Keller was, Keller could see, farther down the wharf, the USS Pickaway, and past her-too far away for him to read her name-some kind of a Navy freighter unloading artillery pieces and M-26 "Patton" tanks.


"This way, please, Sergeant," the captain said, and Keller followed him onto the deck of the Clymer and then down a passageway and a narrow stairway and then an-other passageway until they reached a door guarded by two Marines. A sign read "Mess and Wardroom II."


"Wait here, Sergeant," the captain said, and went through the door.


A moment later, a tall, silver-haired man in Marine fa-tigues came through the door.


"My name is Craig," he said. "You have a message for me?"


"Yes, sir," Keller said. "General Pickering called from Tokyo and first asked if Captain McCoy was available. When I told him I believed Captain McCoy was on the pier, he gave me a message for you and Captain McCoy, and asked if I could deliver it personally."


He paused. Craig waited for him to go on.


"The message is `Permission denied. Repeat denied. Re-turn immediately. Repeat immediately. Signature, Picker-ing, Brigadier General, USMC "


"I'll see that he gets the message, Sergeant. Thank you."


"Sir, General Pickering asked me to confirm that the message was delivered. To call him, sir."


Craig looked at him for a moment, then went into the mess.


"Gentlemen," Keller heard him say, loudly enough to be heard, "Captain McCoy will take one more question. We have to get on with the off-loading. Please join me, Captain McCoy, after the next question."


Then he came back into the passageway.


"He will be here shortly, Sergeant," he said. "How is it you-a master sergeant-are doing this personally?"


"I told General Pickering I would, sir."


A minute later, he heard someone in the mess call "At-ten-hut," and there was the sound of scraping chair legs.


Then McCoy, followed by Zimmerman, came into the corridor.


Craig steered him to the right of the door.


"The sergeant has a message for you, McCoy," Craig said. "For us. Go ahead, Sergeant."


"Permission denied. Repeat denied. Return immedi-ately. Repeat immediately. Signature, Pickering, Brigadier General, USMC "


McCoy's face showed surprise, then regret.


"I'm sorry, sir," he said to General Craig.


"Never be sorry when you've tried to do a good thing, Captain," Craig said. "At least we got a splendid briefing out of you before other duty called."


"Thank you, sir," McCoy said.


"I presume General Pickering's order includes Mister Zimmerman?"


"I believe it does, sir."


"How will you get to Tokyo? You have orders?"


"Yes, sir, we do. We'll catch a ride out to K-l...."


"You have a Jeep."


"Sir, I'd just have to leave it at K-l for somebody to steal, and I wouldn't be surprised if that Jeep was already wearing some kind of Marine insignia."


"I'll get you a ride out to K-l," Craig said.


"Captain," Master Sergeant Keller said. "I've got a Jeep. I'll run you out to K-l."


"By your leave, sir?" McCoy said, coming to attention.


"Carry on, Mister McCoy," General Craig said.


[FOUR]


"I'll drive," Master Sergeant Keller said to the driver of the message center Jeep.


"Sergeant, I don't think you're supposed to do that."


"What I know you're supposed to do is what I tell you," Keller said. "Get in the back."


Keller got behind the wheel. McCoy got in beside him, and Zimmerman clambered over the back to sit beside the driver.


"Captain, before we go out there," Keller asked, "what are you going to do with that rifle, and Mr. Zimmerman's Thompson, when we get to K-l?"


"I don't understand the question," McCoy said.


"The Air Force... K-l is now a MATS terminal," Keller said. "They won't let you get on a plane with a weapon."


"Jesus!" Zimmerman said, disgustedly.


With our orders, McCoy thought, I could load a 105-mm howitzer on the plane. But that would mean using the CIA orders, and I don't really want to do that.


"What do you suggest, Sergeant?" McCoy asked.


"Well, if you're coming back, sir, I could keep them for you."


"What's in it for you?"


"You might not come back..." Keller said.


"In which case, you end up owning a first-rate Thomp-son and a National Match M-l?" (Standard M-l rifles that demonstrated especial accuracy, and were fine-tuned by master gunsmiths, were set aside for use in the annual National Matches rifle competition.)


"Yes, sir. It looks to me like your choice is maybe get-ting your weapons back from me, or for sure losing them to the Air Force," Keller said.


"Ernie, we're going to leave the Thompson and the Garand with this doggie," McCoy said. There was a tone of approval in McCoy's voice. "How come a smart guy like you didn't join the Marines?" he asked.


"I couldn't, sir. I didn't qualify. My parents were mar-ried, sir," Keller said.


McCoy's eyebrows went up. Zimmerman guffawed, then laughed out loud.


"You're okay, Keller," Zimmerman said. "For a god-damn doggie."


"Thank you very much, sir," Keller said, straightfaced.


This time McCoy laughed.


"Keep your pistol, Ernie," McCoy ordered.


The pistols Master Gunner Zimmerman had drawn for them from a fellow master gunner at Camp Pendleton were also National Match, far more accurate and reliable than a standard-issue Pistol, 1911A1, Caliber.45 ACP. They were worth trying to sneak past the Air Force.


As they approached the base operations building at K-l, there was a new sign, neatly painted on a four-by-eight sheet of plywood.


United States Air Force


Military Air Transport Service


U.S. Air Force Station K-1


Pusan, Korea


There was an Air Force C-54, a four-engine Douglas transport, sitting in front of the building, with a ladder leading up into it.


"Looks like you got here just in time," Keller said.


"When we come back, Keller," Zimmerman said, "and there's rust on my Thompson, I will turn you into a so-prano."


They shrugged out of their field gear and put their Na-tional Match.45's in the small of their backs, under their utilities jackets, which they wore outside their trousers.


"In case you do wind up owning that Garand, Keller," McCoy said. `Take care of it. And thank you for every-thing."


"Forget it, Captain."


"Forget what? The thanks or the M-l?"


"Maybe both, sir," Keller said. "I'll wait until you're air-borne, then call General Pickering and tell him you're on the way."


"Thank you, Number Two," McCoy said.


Keller saluted. McCoy and Zimmerman returned it, and went into the terminal building, where there was an Air Force staff sergeant behind a counter.


"Can I help you, Captain?"


"If that C-54's headed for Tokyo, we need to be on it."


"Not a chance, sir. It's full. There may be another flight late this afternoon, but I think you'd better find a bed in the BOQ. I know I can get you on the flight first thing tomor-row."


"We need to be on that one," McCoy said, and took the Dai-Ichi orders from his pocket and handed them to the sergeant.


"Sorry, Captain," the sergeant said. "Just about every-body on that airplane has SCAP orders, and a priority, like yours. And the junior one is a major-"


"How about these orders?" McCoy said, and handed him the CIA orders.


The sergeant's eyes went up.


"I'll have to show these to the duty officer," he said, and turned from the counter.


"I don't let those orders out of my sight, Sergeant. Why don't you go fetch the duty officer?"


The sergeant shrugged, handed McCoy the CIA orders, and went to an office at the end of the room. An Air Force major came out and went to the counter.


"Sir, we need to be on that airplane," McCoy said. "Here's the authority."


The major read the orders. His eyebrows went up.


"You have the manifest, Sergeant?" he asked.


The sergeant handed him a clipboard, on which had been typed the names of the passengers.


He went down the list with a finger.


"There's a bird colonel on here with a Triple A," he said, "Minor, George P. And the junior officer with a Quadruple A is apparently Major Finney, Howard T. Go out there, Sergeant, and tell them they've been bumped. They are not going to like it."


"Yes, sir," the sergeant said.


"As soon as they get off," the major went on, "you two get on. While they're in here, raising hell with me, I'll have the pilot close the door and taxi away from here until he gets his takeoff clearance."


"Thank you, sir."


"I never saw orders like that before," the major said.


Three minutes later, Colonel Minor and Major Finney, in khaki uniforms, came down the ladder from the C-54, saw the two Marine officers in sweat- and dirt-stained util-ities waiting at the foot of the ladder, returned the Marines' salutes, and walked toward the passenger terminal.


Colonel Minor looked over his shoulder as he entered the building and saw McCoy and Zimmerman climbing the stairs. Then he hurried into the building.


[FIVE]


HANEDA AIRFIELD


TOKYO, JAPAN


1305 2 AUGUST 1950


As the MATS C-54 taxied toward the terminal, McCoy and Zimmerman saw a long line of staff cars and several small buses obviously waiting to transport the passengers from the airfield into Tokyo.


"The question now is how we get into Tokyo," McCoy said.


"My question is what the hell is going on?" Zimmerman said. " `Immediately. Repeat immediately.' What the hell is that all about?"


McCoy shrugged.


"I have no idea," he confessed.


When they finally reached the door of the aircraft and stepped out onto the platform at the head of the stairway, Zimmerman said, "Hey, there's a Marine officer."


McCoy looked where Zimmerman was pointing, and saw the Marine officer just as Zimmerman added, "Jesus, that's George Hart, or his twin goddamn brother!"


"I'll be damned," McCoy said, and waited impatiently for the SCAP brass to get off the stairway.


Captain George F. Hart, USMCR, or his doppelganger, in a crisp uniform, pushed himself off the front fender of a 1950 Chevrolet U.S. Army staff car and walked to the stair-way.


He saluted.


"Hello, Ken," he said. "Ernie."


"Jesus, George, I thought you'd be running around the hills of Pendleton," McCoy said, reaching for Hart's hand.


"So did I," Hart said. "Delicate subject. I'll tell you later."


"You're here to meet us?" McCoy asked.


Hart nodded. "Old times, huh?" he said. He gestured to-ward the staff car, and they started walking to it.


"What's going on, George?" Zimmerman asked. "What's this return immediately, repeat immediately' all about?"


"I don't know much," Hart said, interrupting himself to ask, "You have luggage, gear?"


McCoy and Zimmerman shook their heads, "no."


"I don't know much about what's going on," Hart re-peated. "It's got something to do with an Army two-star, a guy named Howe."


"General Howe is here?" McCoy asked.


Hart nodded. "We got in yesterday afternoon-"


" `We'?" McCoy interrupted.


"Same plane," Hart said. "I think it was a coincidence, but with Colonel Banning involved, you're never sure."


They reached the car. The driver, an Army sergeant, got from behind the wheel and opened the rear door on the dri-ver's side.


"I'll get in front," Hart said, and got in beside the driver. McCoy and Zimmerman got in the back.


The driver got behind the wheel.


"Take us to Captain McCoy's quarters, please," Hart said.


"Yes, sir," the sergeant said.


"My quarters?" McCoy asked, confused.


Hart turned on the seat, held his right hand in front of his face, nodded toward the driver, and put his left index finger on his lips.


"Your orders, gentlemen," Hart said, "are to shower, shave, put on uniforms, and join General Pickering as soon as possible. You, Captain, under the circumstances, may have thirty minutes of personal time-no more; the general was quite specific about that-with Mrs. McCoy."


McCoy didn't speak, but asked with his eyes and eye-brows if he had heard correctly. Hart nodded.


"My uniforms are in the Imperial Hotel," Zimmerman said.


"Not any longer, Mr. Zimmerman," Hart said.


Zimmerman opened his mouth to speak, and McCoy laid a hand on his leg to silence him.


They rode the rest of the way to Denenchofu in silence.


[SIX]


NO. 7 SAKU-TUN DENENCHOFU,


TOKYO, JAPAN


1420 2 AUGUST 1950


The wooden sign reading "Capt. K. R. McCoy, USMCR" that had hung on the stone wall was gone, but what he could see of the house through the gate-Why is the gate open?-looked very much the same as it had when it had been home to Ken and Ernie. That surprised McCoy, until he realized that it had been only two months-exactly two months-since he had left here more or less in disgrace, about to be booted out of the Marine Corps.


It seems like a hell of a lot longer.


"Wait for us," Hart ordered the driver. "We won't be very long."


McCoy had a lot of questions to ask, but Hart had made it clear that they shouldn't be asked in the hearing of the


CIC agent/staff car driver Willoughby had assigned to "en-sure General Pickering's security."


He got out of the car and walked through the gate toward the house.


The door to the house slid open. A female that Captain Kenneth R. McCoy sincerely believed was the most beau-tiful woman in the world came out.


Maybe you can't gild a lily, but Jesus, Ernie never looked that good before!


Mrs. Ernestine McCoy was wearing an ankle-length elaborately embroidered black silk kimono.


She bowed, in the Japanese manner.


"Welcome home, most honorable husband," she said.


I am so goddamned dirty it would be obscene to get close to, much less hug, something that beautiful.


"Hey, baby," he said. His voice sounded strange.


Ernie turned and reached through the open door and came back with what looked very much as if it was a dou-ble scotch.


"I hope my humble offering of something to drink pleases my honorable husband," Ernie said and, bowing again, handed him the drink.


"What's with the Japanese-woman routine?" McCoy asked, taking the drink.


"I hoped that my honorable husband would be pleased," Ernie said.


"Your honorable husband is delighted," McCoy said. "Have you got one of those for Zimmerman?"


"For Zimmerman-san and Hart-san, honorable hus-band," Ernie said, and signaled through the door.


A Japanese woman came out with two drinks on a tray. Ernie took them one at a time and, bowing to Zimmerman and Hart, gave them to them.


"Hey, Ernie," Zimmerman said. "Could you get Mae-Su to think along these lines?"


"You'll have to do that yourself, Honorable Zimmerman-san," Ernie said.


"Baby, I really need a bath," McCoy said. "You don't want to know where Ernie and I have been."


"I can make a good guess from the way you smell, hon-orable husband," Ernie said.


"The only difference between a Korean outhouse and a Korean rice field," Zimmerman said, "is that some of the outhouses have roofs."


Ernestine Sage McCoy, still playing the Japanese wife, put her hands in front of her chest, palms together, stood to one side, bowed, and indicated that her husband was sup-posed to go into the house.


The living room, too, was unchanged from the last time he'd been in the house. McCoy had presumed their furni-ture was in a shipping crate somewhere, but he didn't know. Ernie took care of the house and everything con-nected with it.


He walked through the living room into the bedroom, also unchanged. The sheets on the bed were even turned down. He stuck his head in the bathroom, saw towels on the racks, and went inside and started to undress. He really wanted to put his arms around Ernie, and he couldn't do that reeking of the mud of human feces-fertilized Korean rice fields.


When he was naked, he turned the shower on, stepped into the glass walled stall, and let the water run over him for a full minute before even trying to soap himself.


He closed his eyes when he soaped his head and hair and was startled after a moment when he felt Ernie's arms around him, her breasts pressing against his back.


He raised his face to the showerhead, and after a mo-ment opened his eyes and turned in his wife's arms and held her to him. She raised her face to his, and they kissed.


She caught his hand and directed it to her stomach.


"You want to tell me what's going on?" Ken McCoy asked.


Ernie was lying with her head on his chest, her legs thrown over his.


"Going on about what?"


"It's starting to show," she said, softly. He caressed her stomach for a moment, and then, with a groan, picked her up and carried her out of the shower to the bed.


"About everything," he said. "The house, the Japanese-wife routine. Everything."


"Well, they're sort of tied together," Ernie said.


"Start with the house," he said. "How did we get it back? General Pickering?"


"Actually, it's ours," Ernie said.


"What do you mean, `ours'?"


"We own it," she said.


"How come we own it?"


"Well, when I went to the housing office when we first came to Japan, what they were going to give us was a cap-tain's apartment-a captain/no children's apartment. They give out quarters on the size of the family. A captain/no children gets one bedroom and a bedroom/study. I didn't like what they showed me, and I knew you wouldn't, so I went house-hunting...."


"And bought this, and didn't tell me?"


"I didn't tell you because you thought our having money was going to hurt your Marine Corps career," she said. "I was willing to go along with that, but the quarters were dif-ferent. I didn't want to live in that lousy little apartment. You really want to hear all of this?"


"All of it," he said.


"Okay. If you don't like what they offer you, you can `go on the economy,' and if you can find something to rent that your housing allowance will pay for, they'll rent it for you."


"You said you bought it?"


"What you can rent on a captain's housing allowance is just about what they have, a dinky little apartment. So I made a deal with the Japanese real estate guy. I would buy this place. He would say he was renting it to me. They would send him a check for your housing allowance, which he would turn over to me."


"Jesus!"


"Then, when they sent us home, I figured it would sell better with furniture in it... No, that's not true. I wanted to sell the furniture, except for a few really personal things- that Ming vase we bought in Taipei, for example. When we started our new, out-of-the-Marine-Corps life, I didn't want you to remember, every time you sat on the couch or something, how they had crapped all over you."


McCoy said nothing.


"So it didn't sell while we were in the States," she said. "So when you and Uncle Flem came back, I called the real estate guy and told him to take it off the market. Then I de-cided, what the hell, since we have a house in Tokyo, there's no point in me staying in the States all by my fuck-ing lonesome." She paused. "Are you really pissed, honey?"


"I'm shocked, is what I am," he said. " `Fucking lone-some'? `Crapped all over you'? `Pissed'? What happened to that innocent lady I married?"


"She married a Marine, and she now knows all the dirty words," she said. "Answer the question."


He exhaled audibly.


"No," he said. "I can never be... pissed at you."


"Good, because there's more," Ernie said. "Now that we know how the Marine Corps paid you back for all your loyal service, I don't care if the goddamn Commandant himself knows we're well off-"


"You're well off," McCoy interrupted.


"-we're well off," Ernie repeated, firmly, even angrily. "Don't start that crap again, Ken. I've had enough of it."


"Yes, ma'am," he said.


"And we're going to live like it," Ernie said, firmly.


"Okay," he said.


"Okay?" she asked, as if she had expected an argument.


"Okay," he repeated.


"Starting tonight with dinner in the best restaurant in Tokyo," she said.


"Fine," he said.


"Well, with that out of the way," Ernie asked, "whatever shall we do now?"


Her hand moved sensually down from his neck over his chest and stomach.


"Hart said Pickering said I get thirty minutes, no more, `personal time' with my wife."


"Fuck him," Ernie said. "He can wait a couple of minutes. The whole fucking world can wait a couple of minutes." "My thoughts exactly," McCoy said.


[SEVEN]


Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMC, came out of his bed-room in a crisp uniform fresh from the dry-cleaning plant of the Imperial Hotel.


He was just a little light-headed. It was probably due, he thought, to the sudden change of uniform, from foul utili-ties to clean greens, from foul and heavy boondockers to highly shined low-quarter shoes, which felt amazingly light on his feet, and he was, of course, freshly bathed and shaved.


And freshly laid, he thought somewhat crudely. Freshly laid twice. It'll be a long goddamn time before those guys on the Clymer and Pickaway get to share any connubial bliss again. If they ever do.


Master Gunner Ernest W. Zimmerman, USMC, simi-larly attired, was sitting in one of the armchairs in the liv-ing room with Captain George F. Hart. They both had a drink dark with scotch in one hand, and a bacon-wrapped oyster on a toothpick in the other.


"Do I live here now, or what?" Zimmerman asked. "From the way the room I took a shower in looks, it looks that way."


"There's plenty of room," McCoy said. "You, too, George."


"The boss wants me in the hotel, but thanks."


That's the difference between a reservist and a regular. I never think of General Pickering as anything but "the gen-eral," and neither does Zimmerman. George thinks of him as "the boss." And George is perfectly comfortable with that drink in his hand at three o `clock in the afternoon, and I was just about to jump Ernie's ass about it.


Fuck it. We're entitled to a drink.


He walked to the bar and made himself a drink.


"How come we never came here before?" Zimmerman asked.


"I didn't know until fifteen minutes ago that Ernie owns this place," McCoy said. "Until then, I thought it was GI quarters; that we'd given them up when they sent me to the States."


"Ernie bought this?" Hart asked.


"Ernie didn't like the GI quarters," McCoy said.


"Good for her," Zimmerman said. "Mae-Su got us out of officer's housing at Parris Island just as soon as she could get a house built in Beaufort."


"Duty calls," McCoy said. "Should I gulp this down, or trust that CIC spook to drive slowly?"


"Gulp it down," Zimmerman said, stood up, finished his drink, burped, and walked toward the door.


As he did, the doorbell-actually, a nine-inch brass bell hung on the wall just inside the gate-rang.


"Our driver getting impatient?" McCoy asked. "Who else knows we're here?"


"Maybe something for Ernie?" Zimmerman asked.


McCoy shook his head "no"-there was a rear entrance to the property, with its own bell; tradesmen used that- and went to the front door, carrying his glass with him.


Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, was halfway between the gate in the wall and the house. On his heels was Major General Ralph Howe, U.S. Army, and a large, muscular man in civilian clothing. He was carrying a briefcase. There was something about him that made Mc-Coy suspect he was a soldier, a noncom, or maybe a war-rant officer.


There being nothing else to do with it, McCoy shifted what was left of his double Famous Grouse on the rocks to his left hand, and saluted with his right.


Pickering and Howe returned the salute.


"You look pretty natty for someone fresh from the rice paddies of Korea, Captain," General Howe said. "Please forgive the intrusion. General Pickering said you wouldn't mind."


"We were just about to go to the Imperial, sir."


"Who's here, Ken?" Pickering asked.


"Hart, Zimmerman, and Ernie, sir," McCoy said. "And-I guess-the housekeeper and a maid."


"Well, if you don't mind, Captain, after you fix us all one of those, why don't you send them shopping?" Howe said.


"Yes, sir."


"Just the Japanese," Howe said. "Mrs. McCoy's going to have to be brought in on this. Your home just became what I understand you CIA people call a `safe house.'"


"Yes, sir," McCoy said.


"Charley," General Howe said to the muscular man in civilian clothing. "This is the legendary Killer McCoy-"


"Who really doesn't like to be called that, Ralph," Pick-ering said.


He's calling him "Ralph"?


"Sorry," Howe said. "Captain McCoy, Master Sergeant Charley Rogers."


Master Sergeant Rogers wordlessly shook McCoy's hand.


Hart and Zimmerman came more or less to attention as everybody entered the living room.


Howe made a gesture indicating they should relax. He went to Zimmerman.


"You look like what a Marine gunner should look like," he said. "Zimmerman, right?"


"Yes, sir," Zimmerman said.


"My name is Howe. This is Master Sergeant Charley Rogers. We go back to his being my first soldier when I was a company commander."


The two shook hands wordlessly.


Ernie McCoy, in the kimono she had worn earlier, came into the room.


"Nice to see you again, Mrs. McCoy," Howe said. "Sorry to barge in on you like this. We just couldn't take a chance that the ears in the walls in the Imperial might be active."


"Excuse me?" Ernie said.


"Charley found three microphones in General Picker-ing's suite. They might be Kempe Tai leftovers, and then again they might not be."


"Oooh," Ernie said, then: "Welcome to our home, Gen-eral."


"Ernie, send the help shopping for a couple of hours," Pickering ordered.


"Just the servants?"


"I think you're going to have to be in on this, Mrs. Mc-Coy," Howe said.


Ernie nodded and headed for the kitchen.


"McCoy, if you'll point out the booze to Charley?" Howe said.


"I'm the aide," Hart said. "I'll make the drinks. What will you have, sir?"


"What's that in your glass? Pickering's brand of scotch?"


"Yes, sir. Famous Grouse."


"Sergeant?" Hart asked.


Master Sergeant Rogers nodded his head.


Ernie McCoy came back into the room two minutes later.


"I told them to buy enough pressed duck to feed us all for dinner," she said. "Not to come back for two hours- and to ring the bell when they came in."


Howe looked at her a little surprised.


"This is not the first time I've sent the help shopping, General," Ernie said.


"I'm not surprised," Howe said. "And I think you'll un-derstand what it means when I tell you that you're about to be made privy to some national security information that it is not to leave this room."


"I understand," Ernie said.


"Can we talk here?" Howe asked.


"There's the dining room," Ernie said. "In case anyone wants to write, or take notes."


"The dining room, please, then," Howe said.


Ernie led them into the dining room, and indicated that Howe should take a seat at the end of the table.


"This is your house, Mrs. McCoy," Howe said. "That's your husband's chair. I'll sit here."


He pulled out the first chair next to the head of the table, and gestured for McCoy to sit at the head. Master Sergeant Rogers took the chair across from General Howe, and set his briefcase on the floor. He reached into it and came out with three pencils and a pad of yellow lined paper. McCoy saw that the briefcase also held a 1911A1 Colt and what looked like the straps of a GI tanker's shoulder holster.


Pickering sat down beside McCoy; Zimmerman beside Rogers, and Hart beside him.


"I had the maid start coffee," Ernie McCoy said. "It'll be ready in a minute."


"That's very kind," Howe said. "But I'm doing fine with this."


He raised his whiskey glass.


Ernie sat down beside Pickering.


"Okay," Howe said. "Where to begin?"


He thought about that for a moment.


"At the beginning is always a good place. Harry S. Tru-man. Our President and the Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces of the United States. I work for him, and so does everybody else in uniform, but sometimes people have trouble really understanding that.


"He's a very good man. If he had his druthers, when War Two started he would have gone on active duty as a colonel-we both made colonel on the same National Guard promotion list-and probably would have made two stars, as I did. But he was in the Senate, doing important work, and they talked him into not going on active duty, and retired him as a colonel.


"That's important to keep in mind. You don't get to be a colonel unless you know something about soldiering, more important, soldiers, and more important than that, officers.


"If I forget, and refer to our commander-in-chief as `Harry,' no disrespect is intended. I have picked up a lot of respect for him since the time we were both captains. He was a good captain, and he was a good colonel, and he was a damned good senator. He wasn't vice president long enough to make any judgments about that, but since he's been President, he's done a good job, and I wouldn't be surprised if a hundred years from now, he's regarded by the historians as being in the same league as Washington and Lincoln.


"Having said that, Harry S. Truman is no saint. He's got a temper, and he holds a grudge, and once he makes up his mind, he finds it hard to admit his original decision was wrong. I honest to God don't know what he's got against the Marine Corps, but it's pretty obvious he really doesn't like it.


"He's got a lot against the professional officer corps generally. Probably some of that goes back to our National Guard days, when the regular army used to rub their supe-riority in our faces. And some of it, I'm sure, goes back to when he had the Truman Committee in the Senate, and a lot of brass thought they could get away with lying to him.


"The President told me that right now there are two gen-eral officers-two only-he trusts completely. Both of them are at this table. And he told me why: He knows I don't have a personal agenda, and he doesn't think General Pickering does, either.


"The truth seems to be that the military services are loaded with prima donnas, and I'm not only talking about General MacArthur, although he can certainly give lessons to the others in that regard.


"Okay. All of this is to explain what I'm doing here, and what you all have to do with it. The day after tomorrow, Ambassador W. Averell Harriman and General Matthew B. Ridgway are going to get on a plane and come here. Item one on Harriman's agenda is to tell MacArthur that he is absolutely not, not, going to use any of Chiang Kai-shek's troops, and item two is Inchon. That has to be resolved-"


"My feelings won't be hurt-" Ernestine McCoy inter-rupted.


Howe looked at her in surprise.


"-if you tell me I'm not supposed to ask questions. But I don't understand..."


Captain Kenneth R. McCoy looked at his wife in disbelief. General Howe's eyebrows went up. General Pickering smiled tolerantly, and waited for General Howe to more or less politely put her in her place.


"Ask away, Mrs. McCoy," Howe said, surprising every-body. "I meant it when I said I think you have to be in-volved in this, and the more you understand, the better."


"Well, I know who Ambassador Harriman is," she said. "I know Ambassador Harriman. He and my father are friends. My father told me he's President Truman's ambassador-at-large. But who's General Ridgway? And what's Inchon?"


"Harriman is also the President's national security advi-sor," Howe said. "'Ambassador-at-large' is a personal rank; when Harriman goes someplace, it means he speaks for the President.


"MacArthur really wears two hats. The senior American someplace is the U.S. ambassador. There's no U.S. ambas-sador here; MacArthur fills that role. The decision about using Chiang Kai-shek's soldiers in this war is a diplo-matic decision, so Harriman will give him his orders about that.


"But MacArthur is also the senior military officer in the Pacific. Wearing that hat, he takes-at least in the-ory-his orders from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General-General of the Army, five stars, like MacArthur-Omar Bradley. MacArthur is not only se-nior to Bradley-time in grade-but outranks the Army chief of staff, General `Lightning Joe' Collins, who has only four stars. So Collins has to `confer' with MacArthur, since he can't tell him what to do. Matt Ridgway is an-other four-star general. He's the deputy chief of staff for administration, number two to Collins, and his likely suc-cessor as chief of staff, unless Truman decides to fire MacArthur, when he would be candidate number one to replace him."


"Fire General MacArthur?' Hart blurted.


"We're back to what I said before: What's said here stays in this room," General Howe said. `Truman doesn't want to fire MacArthur, for several reasons, including the fact that he's a military genius and a military hero and the political repercussions would be enormous. But if MacArthur keeps ignoring him, firing him is a genuine possibility."


"I didn't know about Chiang Kai-shek," Ernie said.


"He offered us thirty thousand troops," Howe said. "On the advice of General Bradley, Truman decided they would be more trouble than they would be worth, both because they would have to be trained and equipped, and because it would cause serious problems with the mainland-com-munist-Chinese. We don't want them in this war. Collins sent MacArthur a message ordering him not to take them. MacArthur acknowledged the message, and then-the next day-flew to Taipei to `confer' with Chiang Kai-shek. I was there when Truman found that out. He was furious. Bradley wanted him fired. Harry decided to send Harriman to bring him into line. Understand?"


Ernie nodded.


"Inchon?" she asked.


"It's the port for Seoul," Howe said.


"Ken and I have been there," Ernie said.


"Okay. What happened is that when General Collins, and General Vandenburg-the Air Force chief of staff- were here... July seventeenth, right, Charley?"


Master Sergeant Rogers nodded.


"July seventeenth. Three weeks after we got in this mess," Howe went on. "MacArthur told them he'd `come up with a plan' to stage an amphibious operation at Inchon, which would cut the North Korean line of supply. When I got here, General Pickering told me that MacArthur had told him the idea had occurred to him earlier than that, that when he went to Suwon a couple of days after the North Koreans invaded, he had thought about an amphibious in-vasion at Inchon, and had directed Almond to start the ini-tial planning.


"Collins, to put it mildly, was not enthusiastic about an amphibious invasion at Inchon, and neither was the Navy. It's not like landing on some Pacific Island, or, for that matter, Normandy. There's a long channel the invasion fleet would have to pass through to get to the beach, and it's not far from North Korea, which could quickly send re-inforcements. But the question became moot after we lost Taejon. All the troops that MacArthur wanted to use for the invasion had to be sent to Pusan, or we were going to be forced off the Korean Peninsula.


"Everybody in the Pentagon sighed in relief when the invasion was called off, but now MacArthur's brought it up again-using the words `when I land at Inchon,' not `if we decide to land at Inchon.' So Ridgway is going to `confer' with him about Inchon. If we can get away with it, General Pickering and I are going to invite ourselves to that meet-ing; I don't think we can crash the one between Harriman and MacArthur.


"What the President sent me here to do is to find out what I can about Inchon and report to him directly what I think. That poses two problems. First, I don't know any-thing about Inchon except what General Pickering has told me-"


"Based on damned little," Pickering interjected, "except my memory of taking a PandFE freighter in there before the war-and aground on the mudflats."


"Sir, there's a guy," McCoy said. "A Navy officer-I talked to him a couple of times-who was in there a lot on an LST," McCoy said. "He knows all about Inchon, and the channel islands."


"You have his name?' Howe asked. "Where is he?"


`Taylor," McCoy said. "David R. Taylor, Lieutenant, USNR. I don't know where he is. Naval Element, SCAP would probably know." He paused and added, "He's a Mus-tang."


"A what?" Howe asked.


"He was an enlisted man, sir," McCoy said.


"Yeah, that's right, isn't it? That's what the Navy and the Marines call somebody who's come out of the ranks. `Mustang' seems to suggest they're not as well-bred as somebody from the Naval Academy, a little wild, maybe uncontrollable, likely to cause trouble to the established order of things."


McCoy and Hart looked uncomfortable. General Pickering was about to reply when General Howe went on: "Well, then, he'll be right at home with this bunch, won't he? Un-less I'm wrong, we all belong to that exclusive club."


He turned to Master Sergeant Rogers.


"Charley, call SCAP Naval Element and have this guy placed on TDY to us as soon as possible. Like as of eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Have him report to the hotel. He doesn't need to know about this place."


Master Sergeant Rogers nodded, and wrote on his lined pad.


General Howe saw the look on McCoy's face.


"Yeah, I can do that, McCoy," he said. "Before I came here, Admiral Sherman-the chief of naval operations- sent a commander to see the admiral, to tell him that by di-rection of the President, I'm to get whatever I ask for from the Navy, and that SCAP is not to be told what I asked for."


"Yes, sir," McCoy said.


"What's left?" Howe asked. "Oh, yeah. Communica-tions. The problem with cryptography, sending encoded messages, Mrs. McCoy, is that the technicians who do the encoding obviously get to read the message. General Pick-ering tells me that during War Two, when he was dealing with the MAGIC business, he had his own cryptographers."


"Including George," McCoy said, nodding at Hart.


"We talked about that," Howe said. "The equipment Hart used is no longer in service. And I'm concerned that any-thing we send through the SCAP crypto room will be read by people who'll pass it on to people here. I may be wrong, but I can't take that chance. Charley called the Army Secu-rity Agency, and they're going to send us a cryptographer, one we know won't share what he's read with anybody. But I don't know how long that will take-if he can get here be-fore we start to need him. Suggestions?"


"Ken," Zimmerman said. "Keller?"


"Who's Keller?" General Pickering asked.


"The crypto guy in Pusan," McCoy said. "Eighth Army Rear. Master Sergeant. The one you talked to... the 're-turn immediately, repeat immediately' message?"


"Very obliging," Pickering said. "What about him?"


"General, he just got to Pusan," Zimmerman said. "He's new, not part of the SCAP setup."


"Good man, I think," McCoy said.


"Why do you say that?" Howe asked.


"He talked me out of my National Match Garand," Mc-Coy said, smiling. "And when I asked him why somebody as smart as he was wasn't a Marine, he said he didn't qual-ify for the Corps; his parents were married."


Howe laughed.


"That's terrible," Mrs. McCoy said, smiling.


"Charley?" Howe asked.


"He'd have the right clearances, General," Master Sergeant Rogers said. His voice was very deep and reso-nant. "And I could have a word with him about keeping his mouth shut."


That's the first time he's said a word, McCoy realized.


"You have the number of the SCAP Army Security Agency guy?" Howe asked.


Rogers nodded.


"Call him and have him send this fellow here on the next plane," Howe ordered.


Rogers nodded, and wrote on his lined pad.


"Have the message say, `Bring Marine weapons,'" Zim-merman said.


"Weapons? More than one?" Rogers asked.


"He's got my Thompson, too," Zimmerman said.


"This has to be one hell of a man," Pickering said, "to talk these two out of their weapons."


Howe chuckled.


Chapter Twelve


[ONE]


THE DEWEY SUITE


THE IMPERIAL HOTEL


TOKYO, JAPAN


0755 3 AUGUST 1950


Lieutenant David R. Taylor, USNR, a stocky, ruddy-faced thirty-two-year-old, walked down the corridor of the hotel and raised his eyebrows in a not entirely friendly manner when the young American in a business suit rose from a chair in the corridor and blocked his way.


"May I help you, sir?"


"If you can show me where the Dewey Suite is, that'd help."


"And you are, sir?"


"Who're you?"


The CIC agent produced his credentials, a thin folding wallet, with a badge pinned to one half and a photo ID card on the other.


Taylor was not surprised. He had spent the last four days in the Dai-Ichi Building, working on the plans to stage an amphibious landing at Inchon. The corridor out-side the G-3 section had half a dozen young men like this one in it around the clock.


"My name is Taylor," he said.


"May I see some identification, sir?"


Taylor produced his Department of the Navy officer's identification card.


The CIC agent examined it.


"They're expecting you, Lieutenant," he said. "Second door on the left."


Taylor walked down the corridor, and knocked at the door.


Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, was in a crisp, tieless shirt, with the silver star of his rank on both sides of the collar.


I would have sworn they said Major General.


"My name is Taylor, sir," he said. "I was ordered to re-port to Major General Howe."


"We've been expecting you, Lieutenant," Pickering said. "Come on in. General Howe's taking a shave." He pointed into the room, where Howe, draped in a white sheet, was being shaved by a Japanese barber, a woman. "My name is Pickering."


Pickering offered Taylor his hand, and was pleased but not surprised at the firmness of his grip. He had decided the moment he'd seen Taylor at the door that he was prob-ably going to like him.


Taylor's khaki uniform was clean but rumpled. The gold strap and the insignia on his brimmed cap was anything but new. It looked, Pickering decided, one sailor judging an-other, that Taylor would be far more comfortable on the bridge of a ship than he would be sitting at a desk, and cer-tainly more comfortable on a bridge than reporting-rea-son unstated-to an Army major general in one of the most luxurious suites in the Imperial Hotel.


"Be with you in a minute," Howe called from his chair. "Have you had breakfast?"


"Yes, sir."


"Well, there's coffee, and if you change your mind, there's stuff on a steam table in the dining room."


Pickering smiled at Taylor, and motioned for him to fol-low him.


"You're the first to show up," Pickering said. "The oth-ers will be here soon."


Pickering went to a silver coffee service, poured two cups of coffee, and handed one to Taylor.


"Black okay?"


"I'm a sailor, sir. Sailors get used to black coffee."


"I know," Pickering said. "Once upon a time, I was an honest sailor-man myself."


What the hell does that mean?


"Yes, sir," Taylor said.


The first of "the others" to arrive was a Marine captain, who walked into the dining room and headed straight for the coffee.


"You got him, George?" Pickering asked when he had finished pouring coffee.


"Sergeant Rogers is having a word with him," the Ma-rine captain said.


Lieutenant Taylor was surprised that the captain had not said, "Sir," and even more surprised when he took off his tunic and pulled down his tie, and then still more when he saw that the captain had a.45 ACP pistol in a skeleton hol-ster in the small of his back.


General Howe came into the dining room.


"Did you get him, George?" he asked.


"Yes, sir. Charley's having a word with him," Hart replied.


"McCoy and Zimmerman?" Howe asked.


"They should be here now, Ralph," Pickering said.


"Should I call?" the captain asked.


"What Ernie's going to say," Pickering replied, "is that they're on the way, and should be here now."


The captain went to a telephone-one of four-on the sideboard and dialed a number.


"Could you get him out of bed, Ernie?" he said when someone answered.


Howe chuckled.


"Okay, sorry to bother you," the captain said, and hung up.


"And?" Pickering asked.


"They left early because of the traffic and should be here any minute," Hart reported.


Pickering spread his hands in a What did I tell you? ges-ture.


Howe chuckled again.


"We'll wait," he said. "Then we'll only have to do the welcoming ceremony once."


"I thought that's what Charley was doing to Keller," Hart said.


"No, what Charley is doing to Sergeant Keller is im-pressing upon him the wisdom of paying close attention to the welcoming ceremony," Howe said. He looked at Taylor and walked over to him. "My name is Howe, Lieutenant."


"Yes, sir."


A barrel-chested Marine master gunner with a chest full of ribbons came into the dining room.


"We got stuck in traffic," he announced. "Sorry."


"No problem, you're here," Howe said. "Zimmerman, this is Lieutenant Taylor."


Zimmerman wordlessly shook Taylor's hand.


Now this is the kind of jarhead with whom a wise sailor does not get into a barroom argument. And this kind of jarhead is the last kind of jarhead you expect to find in a room in the Imperial Hotel with two generals.


Another Marine captain came in the room.


Christ, I know who he is. He's the guy-McCoy is his name-who asked me, two, three times-once in Taipei, another time in Hong Kong, and some other place, places, I forget, the sonofabitch was all over the Far East-always the same question, Had I seen any unusual activity in North Korea, or along the China Coast?


And I told him yeah, I had. Why not? He had an ID card that said he was with Naval Element, SCAR


But then there was some scuttlebutt that they gave some Marine captain in Naval Element SCAP the shitty end of the stick when he tried to tell them this goddamn war was coming, and I figured it had to be the guy asking the ques-tions. The scuttlebutt was that he pissed off, big time, some big brass, and they sent him home; kicked him out of the Marine Corps. So what the hell is he doing here with an Army general? What the hell is going on here?


"Sorry, sir," McCoy said. "The traffic-"


Howe gestured that it was not important.


"Hart, go get Charley and the sergeant," he ordered.


"Hello, Taylor, how are you?" McCoy said.


"McCoy," Taylor replied.


McCoy had just enough time to pour himself a cup of coffee before the other Marine captain returned with two Army master sergeants in tow.


The one in the Class A uniform looks old enough to have been at Valley Forge; the one in fatigues doesn't look old enough to be a master sergeant. And fatigues in a fancy suite in the Imperial?


"My name is Pickering, Sergeant Keller," the Marine one-star said. "We've talked on the telephone. This is Gen-eral Howe, and I think you know everybody else but Lieu-tenant Taylor."


Everybody shook hands.


"You have the weapons, Keller, right?" McCoy said. "You can look forward to spending the rest of your life singing baritone?"


"I've got them, sir," the young master sergeant said.


Everybody but Taylor-who had no idea why this was funny-chuckled.


"Okay," General Howe said. "Let's get this started. Sergeant Keller, did Sergeant Rogers clue you in on what's going on here?"


"Yes, sir," Keller said.


"Did he show you our orders?"


"No, sir," Keller said.


Howe reached into his shirt pocket and came out with a squarish white envelope. He handed it to Keller.


"When you're through, show that to Lieutenant Taylor," Howe said.


"Yes, sir."


There was a knock at the door.


"Jesus, now what?" Howe asked, in great annoyance.


Hart went to the door.


The CIC agent was standing there with an Army signal corps captain.


"This officer has an Urgent for General Pickering," the CIC agent said.


Pickering motioned for the captain to enter the room. He entered, saluted, and handed Pickering a sealed eight-by-ten-inch manila envelope, on which SECRET was stamped, top and bottom, in red ink.


Pickering tore the envelope open, took the carbon of a radio teletype message from it, read it, and then slipped it back in the envelope.


"Anything important, Fleming?" Howe asked.


"No, sir. It will wait," Pickering said. Then he added, to the Signal Corps officer, "Answer is, Thank you. Picker-ing, Brigadier General, USMCR."


"Yes, sir, I'll get that right out," the Signal Corps captain said. He saluted and left the room.


"Lieutenant?" Master Sergeant Keller said and, when he had his attention, handed him the squarish envelope.


Taylor took it and read it.


THE WHITE HOUSE


WASHINGTON, D.C.


JULY 8, 1950


TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:


MAJOR GENERAL RALPH HOWE, USAR, IN CONNECTION WITH HIS MISSION FOR ME, WILL TRAVEL TO SUCH PLACES AT SUCH TIMES AS HE FEELS APPROPRIATE, ACCOMPA-NIED BY SUCH STAFF AS HE DESIRES.


GENERAL HOWE IS GRANTED HEREWITH A TOP SECRET/WHITE HOUSE CLEARANCE, AND MAY, AT HIS OPTION, GRANT SUCH CLEARANCE TO HIS STAFF.


U.S. MILITARY AND GOVERNMENTAL AGEN-CIES ARE DIRECTED TO PROVIDE GENERAL HOWE AND HIS STAFF WITH WHATEVER SUP-PORT THEY MAY REQUIRE.


Harry S. Truman


HARRY S. TRUMAN


PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES


"Jesus Christ!" Taylor blurted.


Howe said, "General Pickering has identical orders, with only the name changed."


"Yes, sir," Taylor said, and handed the orders back.


"As far as Sergeant Keller is concerned," Howe said, "he's on indefinite temporary duty to us. `Us' is defined as what-ever General Pickering and I decide that it means. You're also on indefinite temporary duty to us, Lieutenant, but right now I don't know for how long that may be. But so far as both of you are concerned, so long as you are assigned to us, that means your chain of command is directly through either General Pickering or myself, and then the President of the United States. You are not subordinate to the orders of any-one but General Pickering and myself. Anyone else includes General MacArthur and any and all members of the SCAP headquarters and subordinate units. Is that clear?"


Master Sergeant Keller said, "Yes, sir."


Howe looked at Taylor, who said, "I understand, sir."


"You will consider anything you hear or see in connec-tion with your duties here to be classified Top Secret/White House, and you will not share that information with any-one, repeat anyone, who doesn't have a Top Secret/White House clearance, and I have been informed that no one in SCAP, including the Supreme Commander, has such a clearance. Is that clear?"


This time the two said "Yes, sir" almost in unison.


"Okay. Early tomorrow morning, Ambassador W. Averell Harriman and General Matthew B. Ridgway are going to get on an airplane in Washington to fly here. Am-bassador Harriman is going to inform General MacArthur, in his role as Supreme Allied Powers-and now UN Com-mand-Commander that the President does not wish Gen-eral MacArthur to employ in any shape or manner Chiang Kai-shek's Nationalist Chinese troops. Ambassador Harri-man will report to the President his assessment of how General MacArthur receives this order, and probably what he thinks MacArthur will do. I think it highly probable that after receiving the Ambassador's report, the President will wish to comment on it, and perhaps give the Ambassador supplemental orders.


"Obviously, neither the President nor Ambassador Har-riman wants anyone to be privy to this interchange of in-formation. If the customary cryptographic channels were used, SCAP cryptographers would have to read the ex-change. The possibility of a leak is there. That's where you come in, Sergeant Keller. In Sergeant Rogers's briefcase, there is a special code that will be used solely for the com-munications between the Ambassador and the President. Getting the picture?"


"Yes, sir," Keller said. "There's a story going around that the President used a system like this at Potsdam, sir."


"You crypto people gossip, do you?"


"Only about techniques, sir, not message content."


"I'll give you the benefit of a large doubt on that, Keller. But no, the President did not use this system at Potsdam. I was there with him. He started using it after Potsdam, when he suspected that his `eyes only' messages to and from Potsdam had been read by a large number of senior military and State Department officers who knew how to cajole-or intimidate-crypto people into sharing infor-mation with them."


"You were at Potsdam, Ralph?" Pickering asked.


"Lovely place," Howe said. "Even right after the war. It's now in the Russian zone."


He turned to Keller.


"This one you don't gossip about, clear?"


"Yes, sir."


"General Ridgway is going to confer with General MacArthur about Inchon," Howe went on. "That's where you come in, Lieutenant Taylor. Both General Pickering and I have been charged by the President to come up with opin-ions-independent opinions-of whether MacArthur-who is now using the phrase `when I land at Inchon'-can really carry that off."


"That's what I've been doing at SCAP, General," Taylor said. "Working on that plan. They pulled me off my LST right after this war started, and put me to work on that."


"Gut feeling, Mr. Taylor? Is it possible?" Pickering asked.


"Gut feeling, sir: It's a hell of a gamble."


"I'd never even heard of the place a month ago," Howe said, "and aside from what General Pickering has told me, I still know virtually nothing about it."


General Pickering told you? What the hell does a Marine general know about Inchon? was written all over Taylor's face, and both Howe and Pickering saw his confusion.


"I was a sailor, a long time ago," Pickering said. "I told you." He chuckled, and added: "Who once ran the Pacific Wanderer aground at Inchon."


Pacific Wanderer? That's a PandFE freighter. This gen-eral was master of a PandFE freighter?


Oh, Jesus Christ. This guy's name is Pickering. PandFE is owned by the Pickering family. There has to be a connec-tion. So what's he doing in a Marine general's uniform?


"You look as if you have a question, Mr. Taylor," Picker-ing said.


"Ran aground, sir? Or got caught by the tides?" Taylor asked.


"Caught by the tides," Pickering said. "The effect is the same. The question is, how is MacArthur's invasion fleet going to deal with Inchon's infamous tidal mudflats?"


"Let's start with that," Howe said. "What mudflats? What are we talking about? Show me. Charley, have we got that map?"


Master Sergeant Rogers took a map from his briefcase and laid it on the table.


"You tell us, Taylor," Howe ordered. "Remembering that you and General Pickering are the only sailors in the room. Keep it simple."


"Yes, sir," Taylor said.


He took a lead pencil from his pocket and used it as a pointer.


"Here's Seoul," he said. "And here's Inchon. This is the Yellow Sea. The channel into Inchon from the Yellow Sea-it's called the Flying Fish Channel-starts here, about thirty air miles from Inchon, at this group of little is-lands, called the Tokchok. There's a lighthouse there on a little island called Samni.


"Flying Fish meanders along through here. The distance by water is about forty-five nautical miles from the light-house to Inchon."


"And that's the only way you can get into Inchon?" Howe asked.


"Yes, sir. That's one of the problems the invasion fleet is going to face, moving forty-five miles, and moving slow- the channel twists and turns, and in some parts you have to move at steerage speed-"


"Which is?" Howe asked.


"The slowest speed at which you have steering ability," Pickering answered for him. "And the channel is not very wide; it'll mean moving the ships most of the way in a col-umn."


"And that means, sir," Taylor said, "the chances of sur-prising anyone at Inchon are pretty slim."


"Just for openers, it seems like a lousy place to stage an amphibious invasion," Howe said.


"And we haven't even touched on the tides yet," Picker-ing said.


`Tell me about tides," Howe ordered, "in very simple terms."


"You know, sir, that tides are cyclic?" Taylor asked.


"Not enough. Tell me," Howe said.


"In the Atlantic Ocean, there're two tides a day-they call that semidiurnal. A tidal day is twenty-four hours and fifty minutes. When the tides are semidiurnal, that means you get high tide at, say, six o'clock in the morning, low tide a little after noon, and another high tide at about six-twenty-five that night, and another low tide six hours and twelve minutes af-ter that.


"In the Pacific, there're both semidiurnal tides and diurnal, which means that you get high tide at six in the morning, low tide twelve hours and twenty five minutes after that, and an-other high tide the next morning at ten minutes to seven."


"And that's what it is at Inchon?"


"Not exactly, sir. What they have at Inchon is mixed tides, which means that sometimes the moon and the sun are both acting on the water at the same time. And what that means is that the tides are huge. At Inchon, high tide is sometimes thirty feet above normal sea level, and at low six feet below normal. That means a difference of thirty-six feet. That's at the high end of the cycle."


"What does that mean?" Howe asked. "High end of the cycle?"


"There's a monthly cycle to tides, twenty-eight days, like the lunar cycle," Taylor explained. "At the high end of the cycle, at Inchon, high tide is sometimes thirty feet above sea level, and low, six feet below. At the low end of the cycle, high tide is maybe twenty feet above normal, and maybe four feet above at low tide." Taylor paused. "This is twice a day, you understand?"


"You may have to explain it all over again, but go on, what does this mean?"


"Sir, it means that at low tide, all these areas here, from the mainland shore, and around the islands, don't have any water over them...."


"Mudflats, Ralph, miles and miles of mud," Pickering said.


"Which means," Taylor explained, "that the invasion would have to take place at high tide at the high end of the monthly cycle. Maybe a day, either way, but no more than a day."


"I don't understand that," Howe said.


"You need the highest tide you can get, to get the ships through the channel into Inchon, and then get them out again," Pickering said. "And you have the highest tides only on one day a month."


"Jesus!" Howe said.


"Even then, there's no way that I can see that they can get every vessel in and out, sir," Taylor said. "Maybe they can get one or two attack transports in there, unload them, and get them out on one tide, but there're going to be LSTs and everything else stuck in the mud."


"I agree," Pickering said. "Stuck until the tide comes in again and refloats them."


"When do we get a high tide? Is that the correct term?" Howe asked.


"August eighteen is the next one, sir, and the one after that is 15 September. That's what they're shooting for, 15 September."


Howe looked at Pickering.


"So `when I will land' at Inchon is September fifteenth?"


"It would appear to be," Pickering said.


"Is there more bad news, Mr. Taylor, about this brilliant invasion idea? Or have I heard it all?"


"Not quite, sir," Taylor said.


"Jesus! What else can go wrong?"


"Sir, if you look here," Taylor said, pointing at the map. "You see this little island here, Paega-do? It's about five miles off the mainland. The water between it and the main-land is fifteen, sometimes twenty, feet deep at high tide. At low tide, it's a mudflat. From the west side of Paega-do, it's about five miles to Yonghung-do. The Flying Fish Channel, half a mile wide, runs north-south through there, mostly right in the middle. That's the only place where, at high tide, the channel is deep enough for the attack transports."


"Okay," Howe said after he'd studied the map a moment.


"The channel there is within artillery range of guns on either island," Taylor finished.


"Which means they'd have to be taken out before the at-tack transports-or anything else-could use the chan-nel?" Pickering asked, but it was really a statement rather than a question.


"And taking them out would be a pretty good signal of our intentions, wouldn't it?" Howe said, thoughtfully.


"Yonghung-do, Paega-do, and all these islands east of there are held by the North Koreans," Taylor said, pointing.


"And west of there?" McCoy asked. It was the first ques-tion he had asked.


"The South Korean national police holds them," Taylor said. "I don't mean..."


"You said `police'?" General Howe asked.


"Yes, sir. They hold the major islands, sir, is what I mean. They don't have people on every island."


"The front, the battle line, is way down the peninsula, al-most to Pusan," Howe said. "Why don't the North Koreans at least try to run the South Koreans off those islands?"


"I can only guess, sir, that they don't consider them a major threat; that they're waiting until they take Pusan. Once that happens, they'll have the means to clean up-"


"Hey," McCoy said. "They're not going to take Pusan."


"They're not?" Taylor asked, dubiously.


"The Marines have landed, haven't you heard?"


"You really think the Marines can hold Pusan, McCoy?" General Howe asked. "Or are you just parroting the official Marine Corps line?"


"Not by themselves, sir, I didn't mean to suggest that. But if they can help the Army hold on to it a little longer, until the Army can get some more troops in there... The last prisoners Ernie and I talked to not only looked beat, but admitted they were running out of food, ammunition- everything. That's a long supply line they're running."


"Why should the Marines do any better than the Army has? It looks to me like the more men the Army sends to Korea, the further Eighth Army has to retreat."


"Sir, most of the Provisional Brigade officers and non-coms have combat experience in the Second War. And-at least down to company level-they've trained together."


"How do you know that?"


"General Craig told me, sir."


"The Provisional Brigade commander?"


"Yes, sir."


"You two had a little chat? In my experience-and re-member, Captain, I used to be Captain Howe-generals don't have many conversations with captains."


"You're having one right now, General," General Picker-ing said.


"Point taken," Howe said, with a smile.


"I spoke with General Craig in San Diego, sir," McCoy said. "When the brigade was getting on the transports, and yesterday..." He paused. "Yeah, that was only yesterday. It seems a lot longer. I saw General Craig and the brigade debarking in Pusan."


Howe looked at him.


"You were about to say something else," he said. "Say it."


"The Marines in the Brigade looked like... Marines, sir."


"You mean they looked to you as if they could fight?"


"Yes, sir," McCoy said.


"Well, let's hope you're right, McCoy," General Howe said. "Now, where were we?"


"You were talking about the islands from which artillery could be brought to bear on the invasion fleet," General Pickering said.


"Right," Howe said. "So what does General MacArthur plan to do about them?"


"I believe the current plan is to take them on D Minus One, sir," Lieutenant Taylor said.


"You mean twenty-four hours before the actual landing at Inchon?"


"Yes, sir."


"Which would certainly tell the North Koreans we were going to land at Inchon, and give them twenty-four hours to bring up reinforcements, right?"


"Yes, sir," Taylor said.


"Nobody had a better idea than that?" Howe asked.


"Sir," Taylor said, and stopped.


"Go on," Howe ordered.


"Sir, I've given that some thought-"


"You have an idea, ideas?"


"Yes, sir," Taylor said. "I think it would be possible-"


Howe stopped him by holding up his hand.


"Not now," he said. "Later."


"Yes, sir."


"No, I mean later. I want to hear them. But right now, I have to send the President what I have so far about MacArthur's idea to land two divisions of men he doesn't have some place where an invasion can be held on only one or two days a month, and where the tides are thirty feet. Let's go, Charley, and you, too, Keller."


He got to his feet, gestured for the others to keep their seats, and walked out of the room, with Master Sergeants Rogers and Keller on his heels.


"Taylor," General Pickering asked, "these ideas of yours, have you put them on paper?"


"No, sir."


"I'm sure General Howe meant it when he said he wanted to hear them. Step one to do that is get them on pa-per-just the rough idea, or ideas."


"Yes, sir. How much time do I have?"


"See how much you can get down by seventeen hundred," Pickering said. "General Howe and I are going to be at SCAP most of the afternoon. Have you got someplace to work?"


"Only at SCAP, sir, or in my BOQ."


"George, get him a typewriter and a desk, and put him in one of the rooms here."


"Aye, aye, sir," Hart said.


Pickering looked at McCoy and motioned for him to fol-low him into his bedroom. McCoy motioned for Zimmer-man to wait.


Pickering closed the bedroom door after McCoy en-tered.


"Sir?" McCoy said.


Pickering handed him the large envelope marked "Secret" the signal corps had given him, then went to his window and looked out of it, his back to McCoy. McCoy looked at him curiously for a moment and then went into the envelope and took out the carbon copy of the radio teletype message.


SECRET


URGENT


1650 2 AUGUST 1950


FROM: ASST COMMANDER


1ST AIRCRAFT WING


TO: EYES ONLY BRIG GEN FLEMING PICKER-ING USMC


HQ SUPREME COMMANDER, ALLIED POW-ERS


DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT AT SHORTLY AFTER 1220 THIS DATE MAJOR MALCOLM S. PICKERING, USMCR, WAS FORCED TO MAKE AN EMERGENCY LANDING IN HIS F4-U AIRCRAFT BEHIND ENEMY LINES IN THE VICINITY OF TAEJON SOUTH KOREA AND HIS WHEREABOUTS AND CONDITION ARE PRESENTLY UNKNOWN.


AT APPROXIMATELY 1220 HOURS THIS DATE, MAJOR PICKERING, WHO WAS FLYING ALONE ON A RECONNAISSANCE MISSION OFF USS BADOENG STRAIT, MADE A MAYDAY RA-DIO CALL STATING HE WAS APPROXIMATELY FIFTEEN MILES NORTH NORTHEAST OF TAE-JON, AND THAT HE HAD BEEN STRUCK BY ANTI-AIRCRAFT FIRE, HAD LOST HYDRAULIC PRESSURE, HAD AN ENGINE FIRE AND WAS GOING TO DITCH.


LT COL WILLIAM C. DUNN, USMC, WHO WAS LEADING A THREE F4-U AIRCRAFT FLIGHT FROM THE USS BADOENG STRAIT IN THE VICINITY, HEARD THE MAYDAY AND IM-MEDIATELY WENT TO THE AREA. LT COL DUNN FIRST SPOTTED A HEAVY COLUMN OF SMOKE COMING FROM A DESTROYED BUT STILL BURN-ING ENEMY RAILROAD TRAIN AND THEN AP-PROXIMATELY THREE MILES NORTH OF THE TRAIN A COLUMN OF SMOKE FROM A BURNING F4-U AIRCRAFT. IN THREE LOW LEVEL PASSES OVER THE DOWNED AND BURNING AIR-CRAFT LT COL DUNN WAS ABLE TO DETERMINE THE COCKPIT WAS EMPTY. THERE WAS NO SIGN OF MAJOR PICKERING, AND LT COL DUNN DID NOT SEE A DEPLOYED PARACHUTE.


LT COL DUNN BELIEVES THAT MAJOR PICKERING WAS ENGAGING THE ENEMY RAIL-ROAD TRAIN AS TARGET OF OPPORTUNITY AND THAT HIS AIRCRAFT WAS STRUCK BY.50 AND 20-MM ANTI-AIRCRAFT FIRE FROM THE TRAIN AND/OR DEBRIS CAUSED BY THE DETONATION OF EXPLOSIVE AND/OR COM-BUSTIBLE MATERIALS ABOARD THE TRAIN.


FIXED AND ROTARY WING AIRCRAFT OF 1ST MAW WERE IMMEDIATELY DIRECTED TO THE CRASH SITE, ARRIVING THERE AT APPROXIMATELY 1335. THEY REPORTED THAT MAJOR PICKERING'S AIRCRAFT HAD BEEN CONSUMED BY FIRE AND THERE WAS NO SIGN OF MAJOR PICKERING.


6. IN CONSIDERATION OF THE ABOVE, MA-JOR PICKERING IS NOW CLASSIFIED AS MISSING IN ACTION. HQ USMC HAS BEEN NOTIFIED. FURTHER INFORMATION WILL BE FURNISHED AS DEVELOPED.


THOMAS J. CUSHMAN BRIG GEN, USMC


SECRET


"Goddamn it!" McCoy said, and then raised his eyes to look at General Pickering. Pickering had turned from the window and was leaning against the windowsill, facing McCoy.


"Goddamn this war," Pickering said, almost conversa-tionally. "Goddamn wars in general."


"Nothing was said about spotting a body," McCoy said.


"I'm going to have to call his mother," Pickering said, "and now. Before some unctuous chaplain gets to her with the usual nonsense about God's mysterious ways."


"Nothing was said about spotting a body," McCoy re-peated. "Billy Dunn said the aircraft was on fire and the cockpit empty. It obviously burned up later. Pick had time to get out of it."


Pickering didn't reply.


"This was not Pick's first emergency landing," McCoy said. "He's a hell of a pilot, and you know it. And this would not be the first time he's run around behind the lines."


Pickering looked into McCoy's eyes for a long moment.


"You tell me what you think happened, Ken."


"He got out of the airplane and got away from it."


"Or he got out of the airplane and the NK's got him. And shot him."


"More likely, they would have taken him prisoner," Mc-Coy said.


Pickering looked at McCoy for another long moment.


"If you're going to call Mrs. Pickering," McCoy said, "why don't we go out to my place?"


Pickering considered that for a long moment.


"One of the reasons I was less than overjoyed when Ernie came over here was because I knew that if you didn't come back from one of your Korean commutes, I knew I was going to have to be the one to tell her," Pickering said. "Now you're going to have to tell her about Pick."


"Come out to the house anyway," McCoy said.


"Thank you, but I don't have the time right now. Later, maybe."


"Sir?"


"General Howe and I are going to meet with MacArthur; he's going to tell us all about his Inchon landing. I don't want to miss that."


McCoy nodded but didn't reply.


"Best possible pissing-in-the-wind scenario," Pickering went on. "Phase one: Pick survived the crash in reasonably good shape..."


"And we will shortly hear that he's been spotted by the Air Force, or one of the Marine helicopters..."


"More likely he was captured. With a little luck, the North Koreans decide to keep him alive-he's a Marine major, and I'm sure they would like to learn as much about the Marines and Marine aviation as they can. Any officer would know that and keep him alive."


McCoy nodded his agreement.


"Phase two of the pissing-in-the-wind scenario," Picker-ing went on. "MacArthur's generally believed-to-be-insane notion of a Corps-strength amphibious landing at Inchon goes off without a hitch. We cut the peninsula in half and- the word is `envelop'-envelop North Korean forces in the south, including their POW enclosures. In one of which we find Pick."


"Is that what you think, sir? Inchon's an `insane no-tion'?"


"No. I just asked myself that question. And I was aware that my emotions would probably cloud my judgment. But no, I don't think it's insane. Whatever else can be said about Douglas MacArthur, he is a military genius. I've seen him in action, Ken. When ordinary mortals look at a projected military operation, it's like-trying to shave in a steam-clouded mirror. For him, there's no steam on the glass. He sees things, things the rest of us can't see, and he sees them clearly. He proved that time and again in War Two. If he thinks Inchon's the answer, I'll go with him."


"Is that what you're going to tell the President?"


"Yes, that's what I'm going to tell the President."


"And what's General Howe going to tell him?"


"In the message he's writing right now, I'm sure he's go-ing to use a phrase like `insane notion.' But he's never had a personal meeting like this with MacArthur. MacArthur can sell iceboxes to Eskimos. I think that will happen this afternoon. I hope it does."


"And if it doesn't?"


"If, as a result of what Howe tells the President, or for any other reason, MacArthur is forbidden to do the Inchon operation, there's a good chance he'll quit."


"Quit?" McCoy asked, more than a little surprised. "What the hell would he do if he wasn't El Supremo?"


"Run for commander-in-chief," Pickering said.


"Jesus! You really think so?"


"This goes no further, Ken," Pickering said. "Not even to Ernie."


McCoy nodded his agreement.


"Senator Fowler tells me either Eisenhower or MacArthur can have the Republican nomination if they want it."


"Not both," McCoy thought aloud.


"No. Whoever acts first. Try this on. Truman kills the In-chon landing. MacArthur resigns, very publicly, saying he cannot in good conscience serve under a president who is soft on communism, and doesn't recognize the threat it poses. He'd probably believe that, too."


"Truman's not soft on communism," McCoy argued. "He sent the Army to Greece, and now this...."


"I agree, but the Republicans keep accusing him of it. Anyway, MacArthur knows that unless he acts to get the nomination, it will go to Eisenhower. El Supremo has de-scribed Eisenhower as the best clerk he ever had. In his mind, it would be his duty to become President, to get Tru-man out of office, and to keep Eisenhower from getting it."


"Jesus!"


"I think he really believes the Inchon landing will end this war. The flip side of that is that if there is no Inchon landing, there will be a long war to take South Korea back. MacArthur believes that, and so do I, as a matter of fact.


"So the election is held, and we're still fighting here, and MacArthur will make it clear that if Truman had had the good sense to let him-the experienced general who won World War Two in the Pacific-invade Inchon, it would be over. And as soon as he's President, he will end the war. Who do you think would win?"


"I don't like the idea of him being President," McCoy thought aloud.


"Neither do I," Pickering said. "But it could happen."


McCoy could think of nothing to say.


"So that's why I can't go to your house, Ken, as much as I would really like to. What I'm going to do this afternoon is what I can to convince Howe that MacArthur is right about Inchon, and everybody else wrong. The trouble with doing that is Howe is likely to decide that I'm just one more MacArthur worshiper, and so inform the President."


"Are you going to let me know what happens?"


"I won't know," Pickering said. "This is hold your breath and cross your fingers time."


He pushed himself off the windowsill, walked to Mc-Coy, and touched his shoulder.


"One bit of advice before you go to tell Ernie," he said.


"Yes, sir?"


"From you, Ken."


"Sir?"


"Do I tell Howe about Pick?"


McCoy thought that over for a full fifteen seconds.


"If you don't, and he finds out, and he will find out, he'll wonder what else you haven't told him."


"That's what I've been thinking. I'll tell him now, and then I'll call my wife. Get out of here, Ken."


[TWO]


NO. 7 SAKU-TUN DENENCHOFU,


TOKYO, JAPAN


1330 3 AUGUST 1950


"Aunt Patricia," Mrs. Ernestine McCoy said, "now, I want you to listen to me...."


She was on the telephone, standing by the couch's end table in the living room. Tears were running down her cheeks.


Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, in his shirtsleeves, was sit-ting on the couch, leaning over the coffee table, idly stirring a large ice cube in his drink with his finger, and looking at his wife.


She loved him, McCoy thought. Christ, I loved him. Goddamn it. Present tense. She loves him. I love him. We don't know he's dead.


"The only thing you would accomplish by coming here would be getting in the way," Ernie went on. "If there's anything that can be done, Uncle Flem and Ken will do it."


The doorbell rang.


"Who the fuck is that?" McCoy exploded.


"Watch your mouth," Ernie said, and then, a moment later, into the telephone: "Ken spilled his drink."


"Shit!" McCoy said, softly.


The truth is, it doesn't matter who rang the goddamn bell. Kon San was told "no visitors, nobody."


He picked up his drink and took a healthy swallow.


The truth is, I don't want this goddamn drink.


He heard the door open and close.


Kon San will now come in here and tell us it was the goddamned butcher or somebody, and she sent him away, and is there anything else we need?


The couch on which he was sitting faced away from the sliding door giving access to the foyer. He turned on it, so that when Kon San slid it open, he could signal her not to say anything and to go away.


Smile when you do that. She's trying to be helpful.


The sliding door-of translucent parchment-slid open.


Kon San was standing there, a look of discomfort on her face. And so were Captain George F. Hart, USMCR, Mas-ter Gunner Ernest Zimmerman, USMC, and Lieutenant David R. Taylor, USNR.


Goddamn it, they didn't take their shoes off! Ernie will blow a gasket!


And what the fuck are they doing here? Hart and Zim-merman want to help. But Taylor?


He got quickly to his feet, nodded at Ernie, put his finger over his lips to signal silence, and went to the door.


He grabbed Zimmerman by the arm and led him down the corridors to the foyer.


"Take off your goddamn shoes," McCoy ordered, not pleasantly. "What the hell's the matter with you? You know better!"


"Ken..." Zimmerman started.


McCoy cut him off with an angry finger in front of his lips.


The three removed their shoes and slipped their feet into slippers.


McCoy gestured for them to follow him, and led them through corridors to the kitchen.


"Ernie's on the phone with Pick's mother," he said.


"I'm sorry about Pick, Ken," Hart said.


"You could have told me that on the phone," McCoy said. "Ernie's pretty upset. They're like brother and sister."


"Yeah, I know," Hart said. "I wouldn't have come, but I thought this was important."


`Taylor, a friend of ours is MIA."


"General Pickering told me," Taylor said. "Sorry."


Then what the fuck are you doing here? What the fuck is wrong with Hart and Zimmerman, bringing you here?


"What's important, George?" McCoy asked.


"He asked me," Zimmerman said. "Hart did. We thought we should come."


"To do what?"


Watch your goddamn temper. They're just trying to be helpful. .


"Lieutenant Taylor has some ideas about the islands in the Flying Fish Channel," Hart said.


"Right now, I don't give a rat's ass about the islands in the Flying Fish Channel," McCoy said.


"You better hear him out, Ken," Zimmerman said.


McCoy, just in time, bit off what came to his lips-"Go fuck yourself-and said nothing.


Instead, he opened one cabinet after another until he found the liquor supply, found a bottle of Famous Grouse-


"You drink scotch, Taylor? There's everything."


"Scotch is fine," Taylor said.


-set it on the butcher's block, and then went back to cabinets to find glasses. He put the glasses on the butcher's block, poured Famous Grouse an inch deep in each, and wordlessly passed them out.


"To Pick, wherever he is," he said.


The others raised their glasses. Zimmerman and Hart said, "Pick."


"The general said he's probably a prisoner," Zimmer-man said.


"That's good news?"


"Considering the alternatives," Zimmerman said, "yeah."


"So what's so important?" McCoy said.


"If you want to be pissed at somebody, be pissed at me," Hart said. "This was my idea."


"What was your idea, goddamn it, George?"


"I asked Taylor what sort of a plan he had, and he said it was sort of like a Marine Raider operation in War Two," Hart said. "So I told him he ought to talk to Zimmerman and you; you were in the Raiders."


"For a cop, George, you have a big mouth," McCoy said.


"So I got Zimmerman in the room, and Taylor told him what he was thinking, and Zimmerman said, `We got to show this to Kil-McCoy.'"


"Why?" McCoy asked.


"Because Taylor has to show it to the boss and that Army general, and probably by seventeen hundred," Zim-merman said. "And the first thing the boss is going to do- and you know it, Killer-is ask you what you think."


"I think the idea will work," Taylor said.


"So do I," Zimmerman interjected.


"You do, huh?" McCoy said.


"... and I don't want the idea shot down just because some Army colonel or Annapolis captain didn't think of it first, or it's not according to the book," Taylor finished.


Mrs. Ernestine McCoy came into the kitchen. There was no sign of the tears that had run down her cheeks, but her mascara and eye shadow were mussed, and her eyes were red.


"Hey, Ernie," Zimmerman said. "Sorry about Pick."


He went to her and with surprising delicacy, put his arms around her and kissed her on the cheek.


"I heard someone come in," she said. "I didn't know who it was." She put her hand out to Lieutenant Taylor. "I'm Ernie McCoy."


"Sony to barge in like this, Mrs. McCoy. I'm David Tay-lor."


"Hello, George," Ernie said. "Rotten news, huh?"


"What am I, the only one in the room who hasn't given up on him? Christ, he walks through raindrops. He always has. You know that."


"I haven't given up on him, goddamn it," McCoy said.


"None of us have, George," Ernie McCoy said. "I just talked to his mother. She wanted to come over here."


"Did you manage to talk her out of it?" McCoy asked.


"Yes, I did. I told her she'd only be in the way; that you and Uncle Flem... General Pickering... were already working on the problem. Is that-I hope-what this is?"


"Not exactly," McCoy said. "Taylor has an idea about a major problem with the Inchon landing, and these two think I should have a look at it." He saw the look of sur-prise on Taylor's face, and added: "General Howe has granted my wife a Top Secret/White House, Mr. Taylor."


"Probably because he knows you can't keep a secret from a woman," Zimmerman said.


"Screw you, Zimmerman," Ernie McCoy said, conversa-tionally. "I think I'll have one of those," she added, and reached for the bottle of Famous Grouse. "And then, if you don't think I should know about this, I'll fold my tent and silently steal away."


Fuck it, why not? If she walks out of here, she'll go to the bedroom and start crying again. I can't stand to hear her cry.


"OK, Taylor, let's hear the idea," McCoy said. "Honey, will you take notes?"


"You want to do it in here, or in the dining room?" Ernie asked.


"The dining room," McCoy said.


"I'll send Kon San and the others shopping," Ernie said. "And get a pad and pencil. If you're going to drink in there, you bring the bottle and glasses."


[THREE]


"Let's start from scratch," Taylor said, pointing with a pen-cil at a map laid out on the dining room table. "Here's Taemuui-do Island and here's Yonghung-do Island, both of which have to be taken before the invasion fleet can make it into Inchon.


"If they're taken on D Minus One, as the brass wants to do, that means the North Koreans will know about the in-vasion twenty-four hours before it happens, and damned sure will be waiting for the invasion. So the thing to do, it seems to me, is take them just as soon as we can."


"Wouldn't that give the North Koreans even more notice of the invasion?" Ernie McCoy asked.


It was evident on Taylor's face that he was not accus-tomed to having a woman-even an officer's wife-just join in a discussion of a military operation.


"It would, Mrs. McCoy-"


"Please call me `Ernie,'" she interrupted.


"Okay. It would, Ernie, if the Army did it. Or the Marines. But if they thought it was a South Korean operation, they might-probably would-think it was just that. And if their intelligence didn't come up with any unusual Naval activity in the next week, ten days, they'd probably relax again."


"I see a couple of problems with that," McCoy said, "starting with the fact that the South Koreans don't have any forces to spare, and if they did, they wouldn't know to attack an island."


"I'm not thinking of the South Korean Army, McCoy," Taylor said. "I want to do this with irregulars, guerrillas, militia, whatever the right word is."


"Where are they going to come from?" McCoy said.


"We recruit them, train them..."


"Who's we?" McCoy asked. "You and me?"


"Give me a chance with this, will you, McCoy?" Taylor said.


"Go ahead," McCoy said. "Convince me."


"There are hardly any troops on these islands. Maybe a platoon, maybe a reinforced platoon on Taemuui-do, and even fewer men on Yonghung-do. And they're not first-class troops, either. Some of them are North Korean na-tional police."


"How do you know that?"


"I know," Taylor said.


"As of when?"


"As of ten days ago," Taylor said.


"That's what's known as old intelligence," McCoy said. "A lot can happen in ten days."


"Mr. Taylor, he's always doing that," Zimmerman said. "Looking for the worst thing. Trust me, he's good at this sort of sh-operation."


"But keep in mind, Taylor," Hart said, "that his bite is re-ally worse man his bark."


There were chuckles.


"On the Tokchok-kundo islands...," Taylor said, point-ing at the map again, "here, in addition to the natives, there're a lot of refugees from the mainland. And fisher-men from Inchon, and up and down the coast, are always going there. Going off at a tangent, the fishermen should


be put to work keeping us aware of what's going on in the area; they're always going in and out of Inchon, and the North Koreans leave them alone, by and large."


"Are you talking about recruiting the natives and the refugees?" McCoy asked.


"Something wrong with that? Those people don't want the North Koreans to win. They know what will happen to them."


"I didn't say there was anything wrong with it," McCoy said.


"Ken, you and I could go have a look," Zimmerman said.


"Yeah," McCoy said, thoughtfully.


"If we could recruit these people, quietly," Taylor urged, "arm them, train them, and maybe get a destroyer to pro-vide some naval gunfire-it wouldn't take much-we could-they could-take both Taemuui-do and Yonghung-do, and the North Koreans would think the South Koreans were doing it because they thought they could get away with it."


"And not as step one in an amphibious invasion of In-chon," Ernie McCoy said, agreeing with him. "Ken?"


"I could probably talk General Craig out of enough Marines to train these people.... You're talking about training them right on those islands, right?"


"Right."


"Killer, there're South Korean marines," Zimmerman said.


"Yeah, we saw them on the pier in Pusan, right?" Mc-Coy replied. His tone made it clear that he didn't want to employ South Korean marines in this operation.


"They wouldn't need anything heavy," Taylor said. "Carbines and.30-caliber air-cooled machine guns. Maybe a couple of mortars."


"The problem is going to be getting this past Whitney and the other clowns on the SCAP staff. From painful per-sonal experience, I know they don't think much of opera-tions like this."


"But you think it would work?" Taylor asked.


"Well, hell, it's worth a shot. But Ernie-the Ernie with the beard-is right. We'll have to take a look at these is-lands ourselves."


"The question, Killer, is what are you going to say when the boss asks you what you think of the idea?" Zimmer-man said.


"It makes sense," McCoy said. "It's worth a shot. Any-thing that will change the odds at Inchon in our favor is worth a shot."


"How are you going to get to those islands?" Ernie Mc-Coy asked.


"I don't know yet. We must have some Navy vessels op-erating in that area that could sneak us in at night."


"They don't have PT boats anymore, do they?" Zimmer-man asked.


"No. They'd be ideal, too," McCoy said. "There must be something."


"There's some junks around with diesel engines in them," Taylor said.


"That would do it," McCoy said. "How do we get one?"


"Have the South Korean Navy commandeer one," Hart suggested.


"No. That would attract too much attention. Maybe we could buy one."


"Buy one?" Taylor asked.


"Now, that opens a whole new line of interesting thoughts," McCoy said. "If the boss would go along, we could run this as a CIA operation, and we wouldn't have to ask SCAP's permission. Just, when the time is right, hand them the islands."


"I'm new to all this," Taylor said. "Would there be money for something like this?"


"Oh, yeah. The one thing the CIA doesn't have to worry about is money. I'm going to go to the boss and see if he can't give me some money to buy information about Pick. Money is not a problem."


"He won't want special treatment for Pick, honey," Ernie said.


"I'm going to tell him he doesn't have any choice," Mc-Coy said. "I'd like to get Pick back before the North Kore-ans find out his father is the Assistant Director for Asia of the CIA."


"I didn't think about that," Ernie said.


"You sound as if you're pretty sure he's alive," Taylor said.


"Yeah. Probably because I do," McCoy said. "Okay. If we have to show this to the boss and General Howe by sev-enteen hundred, we're going to have to get off the dime. There's a typewriter here, honey, right?"


"Yes," Ernie said, simply.


"You make coffee, and I'll type, okay?"


"You think Pick's alive?" she asked.


He met her eyes and nodded.


"George," she said, "I'm a delicate woman. You can carry the typewriter."


[FOUR]


THE DEWEY SUITE


THE IMPERIAL HOTEL


TOKYO, JAPAN


1905 3 AUGUST 1950


"I'd like a word with General Pickering," Howe said.


Captains McCoy and Hart, Master Gunner Zimmerman, Lieutenant Taylor and Mrs. Kenneth McCoy started to get up from their chairs at the table of the dining room.


"Keep your seats," General Howe said. "This won't take long. Can we use your bedroom, General?"


"Of course," Pickering said, got up, and led the way out of the dining room.


Howe closed the door of Pickering's bedroom behind them, walked to the desk against the wall, and leaned on it.


"There wasn't much-damned near nothing-in the CIA reports I read in Washington about these islands," he said. "Is there any more that you know of?"


Pickering shook his head, "no."


"I've been going damned near blind since I got here, reading the files," he said. "I didn't see anything. It looks like all we know about them is what Taylor is telling us."


"We can't go on that alone, Fleming," Howe said.


"I don't know what you mean by `go,' Ralph," Pickering said.


"Earlier today, I messaged the President that I thought the Inchon invasion was idiotic," Howe said. "The phrase I used was `from my understanding of its feasibility, the risks involved would seem to make the invasion inadvis-able.' If I had had him on the phone, I would have said, `It looks like a dumb idea to me, Harry.'"


Pickering didn't reply.


"And then we had our afternoon with General MacArthur," Howe said. "After which I tried to call the President. He was not available. So I left a message with his secretary. `Last judgment Inchon premature. Sorry. More follows soonest.'"


"MacArthur changed your mind?" Pickering said.


"He should have been a door-to-door salesman," Howe said. "He could have made a fortune selling Bibles to athe-ists."


Pickering chuckled.


"When he's in good form, he's really something."


"If you don't want to answer this, don't," Howe said. "What did you message the President?"


" `I have concluded that despite the obvious problems, the Inchon invasion is possible, and the benefits therefrom outweigh the risks,'" Pickering said. It was obvious he was quoting himself verbatim.


"You think he can carry it off?"


"I've seen him in action, Ralph. That military genius business is not hyperbole."


"What do you think of Taylor's idea?"


"I think the bunch around MacArthur-and maybe MacArthur himself, if it ever got that high-would reject it out of hand-"


"Maybe not `out of hand,'" Howe interrupted.


Pickering looked at him a moment.


"You're right," he said. "They would `carefully con-sider' the proposal, such careful consideration lasting until it would be too late to put it into execution."


"As I understand the role of the CIA, Fleming," Howe said, "it is an intelligence-gathering operation."


"So I understand."


"Taylor suggested that the people on the islands are pos-sessed of knowledge of intelligence value..."


"He did say that, didn't he?"


"And unless I'm mistaken, the Assistant Director of the CIA for Asia doesn't need MacArthur's approval to con-duct what could be considered a routine intelligence-gathering operation...."


"As a matter of fact, I don't even have to tell El Supremo what I'm doing," Pickering said. "Or have done."


"How annoyed do you suppose he'd be if-when-he found out later?" Howe asked.


"If we can take those bottleneck islands quietly, with McCoy and a dozen or so Marines in the next couple of weeks, MacArthur will thereafter refer to it as `my clan-destine operation.' If this blows up in our faces-which would, obviously, signal the North Koreans that we plan to land at Inchon-Whitney and Willoughby would recom-mend public castration, prior to my being hung by the neck until dead, and he'd probably go along."


"You don't sound particularly worried."


"I have the gut feeling that Taylor knows what he's talk-ing about, and I know McCoy is just the man who could organize and execute an operation like this."


Howe met Pickering's eyes for a moment, then nodded.


"Okay," he said. "How about this? `Have just learned Pickering is conducting a clandestine operation, which, if successful, will remove my primary objection to an inva-sion at Inchon. I believe the operation will be successful. More follows.'"


"That's what you're going to send?"


"I'm afraid if I call again, he'll take my call," Howe said.


"And if President Truman calls you?"


"By then, I suspect, Captain McCoy and Lieutenant Taylor and Mr. Zimmerman... is Zimmerman going?"


"They're a team," Pickering said.


"... will be en route to the Flying Fish Channel islands, and, since we have no means of communicating with them, until they reach the islands-and maybe not then-it will be too late to call the operation off."


Chapter Thirteen


[ONE]


HEADQUARTERS, 1ST MARINE BRIGADE (PROVISIONAL)


NEAR CHINDONG-NI, SOUTH KOREA


1505 4 AUGUST 1950


The helicopter pad at Brigade Headquarters consisted of a flat area more or less paved with bricks, brick-size stones and gravel, and a windsock mounted on what looked like two tent poles lashed together.


Ten Marines, five enlisted men-a sergeant major and four Jeep drivers, ranging from private to buck sergeant- and five officers-a lieutenant colonel, a major, two cap-tains, and one master gunner-stood to one side and watched as the HO3S-1 helicopter made its approach and fluttered to the ground.


U.S. Marine Corps HO3S-1, tail number 142, was one of four Sikorsky helicopters that had been quickly de-tached from HMX-1 (H for Helicopter; X for Experimental) at Quantico, Virginia, and assigned to the 1st Marine Brigade's observation squadron, VMO-6, when the brigade was ordered to Korea. VMO-6 had four other aircraft, Piper Cub-type fixed-wing aircraft called OY-2 by the Marine Corps, and L-4 by the Army.


The HO3S-1 was manufactured by the Sikorsky Aircraft Corporation, and had in fact been designed by Igor Sikor-sky, a Russian refugee from communism himself. Sikorsky had also earlier designed the-then huge-Sikorsky Fly-ing Boats, which had permitted the first intercontinental passenger travel.


The HO3S-1 was powered by a nine-cylinder, 450-horsepower radial Pratt and Whitney engine. It had a three-blade main rotor, which turned in a 48-foot arc. It could lift just over 1,500 pounds (fuel, cargo, and up to three passen-gers, plus pilot, in any combination) and fly that much weight at up to 102 miles per hour in ideal conditions for about 250 miles.


For the first time, commanders had a means to move lit-erally anywhere on the battlefield at 100 miles per hour. Brigadier General Edward A. Craig, who had begun to use the helicopters the moment they had arrived in Korea, later said that without the helicopters he doubted they "would have had the success we did" in Korea.


Three of the five officers awaiting the helicopter were members of General Edward A. Craig's staff. The lieu-tenant colonel was his G-3, the major his G-2, and one of the captains his aide-de-camp. The second captain and the master gunner were not.


Aside from the briefing Captain McCoy had given the assembled officers on the attack transport the day they ar-rived in Pusan, the S-3 had never seen him before, and frankly doubted the sergeant major's belief that the clean-cut young officer was the legendary "Killer" McCoy who had single-handedly stabbed twenty Japanese to death in Shanghai, or some such bullshit. For one thing, he didn't look old enough, and for another, he didn't believe the story about twenty stabbed-to-death Japanese.


What he thought was that McCoy was an intelligence officer with an exaggerated opinion of his own importance and his role in the Marine Corps scheme of things.


Marine captains customarily answer any question lieu-tenant colonels put to them. When he had asked Captain Mc-Coy why he wished to see the general, McCoy had-politely, to be sure-told him that he was not at liberty to discuss that.


The S-3, the aide-de-camp, and the sergeant major, all of whom considered it part of their duties to protect the general from wasting his time dealing with people who could have their problems solved by somebody else, were all privately hoping that General Craig would emerge from his helicop-ter, learn that Captain McCoy had demanded to know when he would return to the CP, and eat him a new asshole.


Everyone more or less came to attention when the door of the helicopter opened and General Craig got out. The G-3 and Captain McCoy saluted.


"Reporting for duty, McCoy?" Craig asked, as he re-turned the salute.


"No, sir. I need a few minutes of your time."


"I have very little of that," Craig said. "What do you need?"


"Sir, I have to speak to you privately."


"Okay, let's go to the CP," he said.


"Sir," the S-3 said, "there're several things..."


"First, McCoy gets three minutes, Okay?"


"Aye, aye, sir."


The Jeeps made a little convoy as they drove to the com-mand post, a rather spartan sandbag-reinforced collection of tents set up against a steep incline. Bringing up the rear was a Jeep whose bumper markings identified it as belong-ing to the signal company of the Army's 24th Division. It held Captain McCoy and Master Gunner Zimmerman, who was driving.


General Craig's "office" was a chair and a desk, on which sat two field telephones in the interior of one of the tents. With his sergeant major, the G-3, the G-2, his aide, his sergeant major and McCoy and Zimmerman on his heels, he walked to it.


General Craig mimed wanting coffee to one of the clerks, who said, "Aye, aye, sir," and went to the stainless-steel pitcher sitting on an electric burner on the dirt floor.


"Okay, McCoy," General Craig said. "I interpret `a few minutes' to mean no more than three. Then you can get yourself a cup of coffee."


"Sir, I must speak to you privately."


"Captain, Colonel Fuster is my G-3. He has all the secu-rity clearances he needs."


"With respect, sir, he doesn't," McCoy said.


Craig looked at him coldly for a moment. "This had better be important, Captain," Craig said, then, to the G-3, "Give us three minutes, please, Colonel."


Lieutenant Colonel Fuster said, "Aye, aye, sir," and ges-tured to the G-2, the aide, and the sergeant major to leave the general's "office."


"Okay," Craig said. "What's on your mind?"


"Sir, I need a dozen men, noncoms, staff sergeants, and weapons and ammunition. Zimmerman has a list."


"Not that I have either men, weapons, or ammo to spare, but what for?"


"A clandestine operation, sir."


"Simple answer, no," Craig said. "Sorry."


"Sir, I was instructed to show you this, by General Pick-ering, as his authority to conduct the operation."


He took the White House orders from his utilities pocket and handed them to General Craig. Craig read them and handed them back.


"Am I permitted to know the nature of this clandestine operation?"


"Yes, sir. But General Pickering directed me to tell you, sir, that this is classified Top Secret/White House, and is not to be divulged to anyone."


"Understood," Craig said.


"There are two NK-occupied islands in the Flying Fish Channel leading to Inchon, sir, from which artillery could be brought to bear on vessels attempting to reach Inchon. We intend to occupy them now, using South Korean na-tional police."


"I thought they called that invasion operation off-Op-eration Bluehearts was what they called it-when we lost Taejon," Craig said. "Now it's back on?"


"I don't know if that operation is back on, sir, but Gen-eral Pickering thinks there will be an amphibious operation at Inchon."


"And you and a dozen noncoms are going to-invade is the wrong word; a dozen men can't invade anything-infil-trate these islands and secure them?"


"Yes, sir."


"Won't that tip the North Koreans that we're going to land at Inchon?"


"We hope they will believe it is a South Korean national police operation, sir. What I'm going to do with the non-coms is train and arm South Koreans-"


"South Koreans already on the islands?"


"Yes, sir. And I understand there's a lot of refugees from the mainland on the islands, too."


"What makes you think they'll volunteer?"


"When the North Koreans took Seoul and Inchon, they shot a lot of people they thought might cause trouble. The refugees want to pay them back."


"Okay," Craig said.


"South Koreans, recruited into the South Korean national police, will be the bulk of the landing force. The Marines will wear South Korean national police uniforms...."


"I suppose wearing the uniform of a cobelligerent is per-mitted under the rules of land warfare, but I wonder what would happen to a Marine who was caught on these islands dressed as a Korean national policeman."


"Realistically, sir, they'd shoot him."


"I can't order Marines to do something like this, McCoy. They'll have to be volunteers, and they'll have to know what they're getting themselves into. How do you plan to handle that?"


"Sir, I don't know, but I'll bet there's some old Raiders in the brigade," Zimmerman said. "They'd volunteer, I'm sure, for something like this, and they'd be ideal."


"There'd be no way to find them without going through all the records," General Craig said.


"Sir, what about passing the word that all former Marine Raiders are to report here now?" McCoy asked.


"I said they would have to volunteer, McCoy," Craig said.


"I will ask whatever old Raiders who show up to volun-teer-"


" `For a classified mission, unspecified, involving great personal risk to life?'"


"Yes, sir."


"And if you don't get a dozen volunteers, then what?"


"We'll get some, sir, I'm sure," Zimmerman said.


"Why are you sure?"


"If I'd been a Raider, and somebody gave me a choice between doing a small-unit operation, and what I was go-ing to have to do here..."


"Meaning what, Mr. Zimmerman?"


"Saving the Army's ass, sir," Zimmerman said, a little uncomfortably. "That's liable to be really dangerous."


General Craig seemed about to reply, but didn't.


After a moment, Zimmerman went on: "And say I come up with four ex-Raiders who are willing to go-"


"You're going to be the recruiting officer for this, I gather?" Craig interrupted.


"Yes, sir. Captain McCoy's got other things to do. So if I get four ex-Raiders, I'll ask them who else they know who would like to go along. What might be a problem is getting their commanding officers to let them go."


"You get the volunteers, Mr. Zimmerman. I'll deal with their commanding officers."


"Aye, aye, sir. Thank you."


Craig looked at McCoy.


"The idea, then, is to seize this island and make it look as if the South Korean national police did it on their own? Is that about it, McCoy?"


"Yes, sir. And if we do it now, and an invasion doesn't immediately follow, we think they'll relax."


"That's a long shot, isn't it?"


"Sir, the alternative is taking the islands on D Minus One. That would really tip them off that an invasion was coming."


Craig nodded his agreement, then raised his voice: "Sergeant Major!"


The sergeant major walked very quickly down the tent to them.


"Sir?"


"Get on the horn right now. Call the battalions-make sure they know the order came from me-and have them send anybody who was once a Marine Raider here, and right now."


"Aye, aye, sir."


"We've been levied for twelve noncoms," General Craig said. "Ex-Marine Raiders would be ideal, according to Mr. Zimmerman. If he can't turn up a dozen of them, we'll have to look elsewhere. He's also going to need some weapons and ammunition. He'll tell you what."


"Aye, aye, sir. Can I ask what he needs them for? For how long?"


"I'm sorry, but that's classified," General Craig said. "It's important, Sergeant Major. I can tell you that much. Some very senior Marines think so, and so do I."


"Yes, sir."


"Mr. Zimmerman is concerned that their commanders won't want to give up the kind of really good Marines he has to have."


"I can deal with that, sir," the sergeant major said.


"Let's see how many Raiders we come up with, and play it by ear from there," General Craig said. "Captain McCoy and Mr. Zimmerman get anything they ask for. Clear?"


"Aye, aye, sir," the sergeant major said.


"Anything else, McCoy?"


"That's about it, sir. Thank you, very much."


"Good luck, McCoy," General Craig said. "You, too, Zimmerman."


General Craig raised his voice again.


"Colonel Fuster, you wanted to see me?"


Colonel Fuster came down the tent as McCoy, Zimmer-man, and the sergeant major went the other way.


The sound-reflecting characteristics of the tent were such that all three heard General Craig say, "Don't ask me what that was all about, Fuster. I can't tell you."


[TWO]


USAF AIRFIELD K-l


PUSAN, KOREA


1635 4 AUGUST 1950


K-l was a busy airport.


Lieutenant Commander Andrew McDavit, USNR, in his TBM-3G Avenger, (The Grumman TBF- and TBM-series aircraft (most of which were actu-ally built by the Eastern aircraft division of General Motors) were single-engine torpedo bombers with a three-man crew. Powered by a 1,900-horsepower Wright engine, it had a top speed of 275 mph, and could carry 2,000 pounds of bombs or torpedoes, etc. It served in that role throughout World War II. Some Avengers were COD (Carrier On Board Delivery) modified to serve as small transport aircraft able to operate from aircraft carriers, by the addition of seats in the torpedo/bomb bay.


During World War II, the youngest aviator in the U.S. Navy was forced to crash-land his combat-damaged Avenger in the sea. Rescued almost im-mediately by a submarine improbably in the area, Ensign George Herbert Walker Bush, USNR, survived to become the forty-first President of the United States and father of the forty-third) was third in the landing pattern behind a C-54 of the Air Force air transport command, and an R5D of the Naval air transport command. Behind him was a Marine F4-U from the Sicily, then a two-plane flight of USAF P-51 Mustangs, and, he thought, maybe half a dozen other aircraft.


"K-l, Marine Double Zero Four," the pilot of the F4-U called.


"Double Zero Four, go ahead."


"I have a fuel warning light blinking at me. Could you get those elephants to let me in ahead of them?"


"Double Zero Four, are you declaring an emergency?"


"Negative at this time. Ask me again in sixty seconds."


"Air Force Four Oh Nine, you are clear to land on One Six," the K-l tower operator ordered. "Navy Six Six Six, you are number two after the C-54. Acknowledge."


"Four Oh Nine, understand Number One. Turning on fi-nal at this time."


"Six Sixty-six understands Number Two behind the Air Force."


"Navy Five Niner Four."


"Niner Four."


"Five Niner Four, turn ninety degrees right, climb to five thousand, and reenter the landing pattern after an Air Force C-47. I have a Marine F4-U with low fuel. Acknowledge."


"Shit," Lieutenant Commander McDavit said, then pushed the button on his microphone. "Niner Four making a right ninety-degree at this time. Understand climb to five thou-sand to reenter pattern after an Air Force Gooney-Bird."


"Marine Double Zero Four, you are number three on One Six after the two transports."


"Thank you kindly, K-l. And sorry about this, Navy Niner Four."


"Fuck you, jarhead," Lieutenant Commander McDavit said, without pressing his microphone button.


Goddamn hotshot jarheads do this all the goddamn time-linger so long looking for something to shoot at that they don't have the fuel to make it back to the carrier.


It was another fifteen minutes before Lieutenant Com-mander McDavit was able to land.


Which will make me fifteen fucking minutes late getting back to the Badoeng Strait. Which means that I will proba-bly get back to her just in time to have the sun right in my fucking eyes when I line up on final.


Ground control directed Navy Five Niner Four to the tarmac in front of Base Operations.


Lieutenant Commander McDavit shut the aircraft down and then he and Aviation Motor Machinist's Mate 2nd Class Richard Orwell climbed down to the ground.


"You start unloading the mail," Commander McDavit ordered. "And I'll see about getting us a Jeep or some-thing."


"Right," Orwell said.


The proper response to an order was "Aye, aye, sir," but Orwell was a good kid, and meant no disrespect, so Mc-Davit decided to let it pass.


Somewhere on K-l was a small Navy detachment charged with dealing with the mail. It came from San Diego-sometimes San Francisco-on a Navy R5D. R5Ds could not land on "Jeep" carriers such as the Sicily and the Badoeng Strait, so a COD Avenger had to fly to K-l and pick it up.


Commander McDavit was directed to the fleet post of-fice detachment, told "sorry, no Jeep," and walked to it, wondering how the hell he was supposed to get the Bado-eng Strait's outgoing mailbags from the Avenger to the FPO, and the incoming mailbags from the FPO to the Avenger, without a Jeep.


There was a Marine captain, in utilities, leaning on an Army Jeep in front of the FPO. A Garand rifle was hanging from its strap, hooked on the corner of the windshield.


The Marine captain stood straight and saluted.


"You're the COD from the Badoeng Strait?" the Marine captain asked.


"Right."


"I need a ride out to her, Commander," the Marine said.


"You're reporting aboard?"


"Not exactly," the Marine captain said, and showed Mc-Davit a set of orders from SCAP, signed by some Army three-star general, saying he was authorized to go just about any place he wanted to go.


"I'll tell you what I'll do, Captain," McDavit said. "You help me get the mailbags I brought from the Badoeng Strait here, and the mailbags that are going to the Badoeng Strait out to my airplane, and if I have the weight left, I'll take you out."


"I'll help you with the mail," the Marine captain said, as he produced another set of orders, this one-Jesus Christ!- signed by the Commander-in-Chief himself, "but if it's a question of me or the mail going, the mail will have to wait."


[THREE]


THE USS BADOENG STRAIT


35 DEGREES 60 MINUTES NORTH LATITUDE,


130 DEGREES 52 MINUTES EAST LONGITUDE


THE SEA OF JAPAN


1945 4 AUGUST 1950


"Badoeng, Badoeng, Niner Four at 5,000, five miles east. I have Badoeng in sight."


"Niner Four, Recovery operations under way. You are number two to land after an F4-U on final approach."


"Roger, I have him in sight. Badoeng, be advised I have aboard a passenger traveling on Presidential orders."


"Say again, Niner Four?"


"Be advised I have aboard a passenger traveling on Presidential orders."


Commander McDavit set his Avenger down on Badoeng Strait's deck more or less smoothly, and the hook caught the second cable, which caused the aircraft to decelerate very rapidly.


Which caused Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, to utter a vulgarity instantly followed by an obscenity, and then a blasphemy.


There were no windows in the passenger/cargo area of the Avenger, and very little light. The seat faced the rear, which had produced a certain feeling of unease in Captain McCoy, especially during the last few moments of Com-mander McDavit's landing approach, during which he had abruptly moved the aircraft to the right, and then even more abruptly to the left, and then raised the nose sharply in the second before he touched down.


Captain McCoy was recovering from this traumatic ex-perience when the hatch in the fuselage suddenly opened, filling the interior with brilliant light from the setting sun. It took Captain McCoy's eyes a long moment to adjust to the change in light intensity, but when they had, he saw a Marine corporal, in dress blue trousers, khaki shirt, and brimmed cap with white cover, standing at attention by the door, his right arm raised in a rigid salute.


Captain McCoy unstrapped his harness and started to go through the hatch, then remembered the National Match Garand and backed into the passenger/cargo compartment to unstrap it.


When he finally passed through the door and stood in the bright sunlight of the deck, he saw that he was being met by a welcoming party. There was a Navy lieutenant, in the prescribed regalia identifying him as the officer of the deck. There was also a commander, a lieutenant com-mander, a Marine lieutenant colonel-wearing aviator's wings-and a Marine staff sergeant.


What's going on? Who the hell are all these people?


The Badoeng Strait's captain, having been advised that an officer traveling on Presidential orders was about to come aboard, and not knowing that it was a lowly jarhead captain, had ordered that the distinguished guest be greeted with appropriate ceremony, and sent the Badoeng Strait's executive officer, the senior Marine officer aboard, and the two Marine orderlies on duty to do so.


Captain McCoy remembered the protocol.


He saluted the officer of the deck.


"Permission to come aboard, sir?"


"Granted."


McCoy faced aft and saluted the national colors, then faced left and saluted the Navy commander and the Marine lieutenant colonel, who returned his salute.


"Welcome aboard, sir," the officer of the deck declared. "May I ask to see the captain's orders, sir?"


This time, McCoy decided, the White House orders first.


He handed them to the officer of the deck, who read them, then handed them to the executive officer, who read them, handed them to the Marine lieutenant colonel, who read them and handed them back.


"The captain's compliments, Captain," the executive offi-cer said. "The captain asks that you join him on the bridge."


"Aye, aye, sir," McCoy said.


A little parade was formed and marched to the island, entered it, and then wended its way up several ladders to the bridge.


The Badoeng Strait's captain rose from his swivel chair when he saw the little parade file onto the bridge.


"Captain McCoy, Captain," the executive officer said, "who is traveling under authority of the President."


The captain looked amused.


"Welcome aboard, Captain," he said. "What can we do for you?" and then, before McCoy could reply, he added: "I've never seen Presidential orders."


McCoy handed him the White House orders.


"Very interesting," he said. "How can we help you, Cap-tain?"


"Sir, I'm going to need some aerial photos of the Inchon area," McCoy said. "Updated every day or two."


"I'm sure Colonel Unger can handle that," the captain said, nodding at the Marine lieutenant colonel.


"Just tell me what you need," Lieutenant Colonel Unger said, and stepped to McCoy and offered his hand.


"Anything else?" the captain asked.


"I'd like a few minutes with Lieutenant Colonel Dunn, sir," McCoy said.


The captain turned to the Marine corporal.


"My compliments to Colonel Dunn," he said. "Would he please join me immediately in my sea cabin?"


"Aye, aye, sir," the Marine corporal said, and marched off the bridge.


"You have the conn, sir," the captain said to the officer of the deck, then turned to McCoy. "Why don't we go to my cabin, Captain? You look as if you could use a cup of cof-fee and somewhere to sit down."


"Thank you, sir."


"And since I doubt you'll need it in my cabin, may I suggest you give the sergeant your rifle for the time be-ing?"


"Aye, aye, sir," McCoy said, and handed it over. Then he had another thought. "You better unload it, Sergeant," he said.


Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn, USMC, stood at the open door of the Badoeng Strait's captain's sea cabin until the captain saw him, and motioned him inside.


"You wanted to see me, Captain?"


"This officer wants to see you," the captain said, nod-ding at McCoy. "Captain McCoy, this is Colonel Dunn."


"I know the captain, sir. How are you, Ken?"


"Colonel," McCoy said, taking Dunn's proffered hand.


"Captain McCoy needs some photographs of islands in the Flying Fish Channel off Inchon," the captain said. "And he has a very interesting authority directing us to make them for him-the Commander-in-Chief."


"Sir, McCoy and I go back a long way," Dunn said. `To Guadalcanal. Nothing he does surprises me."


There were some chuckles at that.


"And before that, I just remembered," Dunn said, "he was in Major Pickering's OCS class."


"Oh, really?" the captain said. "You've heard, McCoy, that Major Pickering went down?"


"Yes, sir, I have."


"We all feel bad about that," the captain said.


He shook his head, then went on: "It would probably be useful, Captain, if we knew why you wanted the photo-graphs," the captain said.


"Sir," McCoy said. "The problem there is that I can't take the risk of another aviator going down with that knowledge."


"Obviously, it has to do with an amphibious operation in the Inchon area," the captain said. "On our way here-be-fore the First Marine Brigade was diverted to Pusan-I was given a preliminary alert that such an operation-"


"Operation Blueberry," his executive officer furnished.


The captain flashed him a displeased look and then went on: "-was being planned. And then it was called off. Since you come here asking for photographs of the Flying Fish Channel islands, it would then seem logical to me that the operation is back on, or another operation with the same purpose is being planned. My point, Captain, is that if I can figure that out, so can the enemy."


This guy doesn't like getting his marching orders from a lowly captain. If I were the captain of an aircraft carrier, I wouldn't either.


McCoy didn't respond directly. Instead, he dipped into the cavernous pockets of his utilities, came out with a map, and laid it on the captain's chart table.


"My superiors feel, sir," he said, "that during routine re-connaissance flights-or flights seeking to engage targets of opportunity-along the coastline here, photographs could be taken of the Flying Fish Channel, and the islands along it, without unduly raising the enemy's suspicions."


"Captain, as you're doubtless aware, the First Marine Brigade is already engaged in the Pusan area," the captain said. "The aircraft aboard the Badoeng Strait are charged with close air support of the brigade. What if there is a con-flict between what the brigade needs and your photographic mission?"


"Sir, I would hope that this requirement would not con-flict with the requirements of the brigade-"


"But if it does?" the captain asked, not very pleasantly.


"This mission, sir, requires photographs as I have de-scribed at least once in every twenty-four-hour period until further notice," McCoy said.


"Even if that means the brigade doesn't get what it asks for?"


"Yes, sir."


"How am I to explain that to General Craig?"


"General Craig is aware of this operation, sir."


"In detail?"


"Yes, sir."


"And, if I understand you correctly, Captain, I am not to be made `aware' of the details of this operation?"


"Yes, sir."


"Those are your orders? Not to tell me?"


"Sir, I was told that only General Craig was to be in-formed of the details."


"Captain, I'll be very frank. If those orders you have just shown me were not signed by the Commander-in-Chief, I'd tell you to go to hell," the captain said. He turned to his executive officer: "See that it's done, Mr. Grobbley."


"Aye, aye, sir."


The captain started to walk out of his sea cabin. The oth-ers watched him uncomfortably until someone on the bridge called out, "Captain on the bridge!" then Lieutenant Colonels Unger and Dunn-the two Marine aviators- bent over the map McCoy had spread on the captain's chart table.


"Charley," Dunn said. "We'll just have to squeeze this into the schedule. It can be done."


Lieutenant Colonel Unger snorted.


Dunn raised his eyes to McCoy.


"How do we get the pictures to you, McCoy?"


"The first ones, sir, on the COD flights to K-l. In a sealed envelope, classified Top Secret, to be delivered to the Marine liaison officer at K-l. He'll be expecting them, and I'll get them, somehow, from him."


Dunn nodded. ,


"In a week, sir," McCoy went on, walking to the chart table, then pointing, "maybe less, they'll have to be air-dropped onto one of the Tokchok-kundo islands, here. I'll get the signal panel display to you. And there will be ground-to-air radios."


"You're going to be on those islands, are you?" Dunn asked.


McCoy didn't reply.


"The colonel asked you a question, Captain," Lieutenant Colonel Unger said, unpleasantly.


"Which question, obviously," Dunn said, "Captain Mc-Coy is not at liberty to answer. Easy, Charley."


"I don't like diverting aircraft from the brigade for any purpose," Unger said.


"And I know Captain McCoy doesn't like it any more than you do," Dunn said. "You said you wanted to see me privately, McCoy?"


"Yes, sir, I do."


"Why don't we go to my cabin?" Dunn suggested. "And get out of the captain's sea cabin?"


He gestured for McCoy to precede him into a passageway.


The Badoeng Strait-and the Sicily-on which the Ma-rine air wing had been transported from the United States and from which the wing was now operating, were offi-cially "escort carriers," often called "Jeep carriers." They were smaller than "a real carrier," and everybody believed they were in service because they were far cheaper to oper-ate than "real" carriers.


While they were perfectly capable of doing what they were doing now, they were smaller all over, which also meant "the creature comforts," such as officers' state-rooms, were fewer in number and less spacious than those on a "real carrier."


Even senior officers often had to share their staterooms with another officer. There was a cardboard sign in a slot on the door of the stateroom to which Dunn led McCoy, white letters stamped on a blue background. It read:


Lt Col W. C. Dunn, USMC


Maj M. S. Pickering, USMCR


Dunn pushed the door open and motioned for McCoy to precede him inside, then gestured for him to sit in one of the two chairs in the stateroom. He closed the door and leaned against it.


`Taking care of his gear is another little task Pick left behind for me to take care of," Dunn said, pointing to a packed canvas bag sitting on one of the bunks.


McCoy didn't reply.


"It has been decided that Major Pickering will become a Marine legend," Dunn said. "An ace, a hero of Guadalcanal and other places, a reservist who rushed to the sound of the guns when they blew the trumpet, who flew the first Ma-rine combat sortie of this war, and died nobly in the glori-ous traditions of the Corps while engaging a target of opportunity. The sonofabitch should have been court-martialed for disobeying a direct order, and I'm the sono-fabitch who should have court-martialed him."


McCoy looked up at him.


Tears were running unashamedly down Lieutenant Colonel Dunn's cheeks.


"What happened?" McCoy asked.


Dunn went to the desk and took from it an envelope and handed it to McCoy. There were three eight-by-ten-inch color photographs in it. At first glance, McCoy thought they were three copies of the same photograph, but then he saw there were differences. In each, Pick, smiling broadly, was pointing up at the cockpit of his Corsair. But Pick was dressed differently in each photo. In one of the photos, he was wearing a.45 in a shoulder holster; in the others he was not. And he was wearing different flight suits. Then McCoy saw what he was pointing at.


Below the cockpit canopy track there was the legend "Major M. S. Pickering, USMCR," and below that, nine "meat balls," representations of the Japanese battle flag, each signifying a downed Japanese aircraft.


And then, on one photograph, below the meatballs, there was a rather clever painting of a railroad locomotive blow-ing up.


There were two blowing-up locomotives painted on the fuselage in the second picture, and three in the third.


"The sonofabitch told me he was going to be the first `locomotive ace' in the history of Marine aviation," Dunn said. "He even wrote a letter to the Air Force asking if they had kept a record of who had blown up how many locomo-tives in the Second War."


"Jesus Christ!" McCoy said.


"He was like a fourteen-year-old with a five-inch fire-cracker on the Fourth of July after he got the first one," Dunn said. "The first time, debris got his ADF, and there were holes all over his wings. That should have taught him something. It didn't."


"That's what he was doing when he got shot down?"


"In direct disobedience of my order not to go locomo-tive hunting. Said direct order issued after he got his sec-ond locomotive, the debris from which took out the hydraulics to his left landing gear, which made it necessary for him to crash-land on the deck. I ordered him (a) not to go locomotive hunting-"


"You don't consider them important targets?" McCoy asked.


"There's plenty to shoot at out there. The idea, McCoy, is to fly over the area, and establish contact with the ground controller. He knows what needs to be hit. If he doesn't have an immediate target you wait-they call it `loiter'- until he has a mission. If the controller didn't have a mis-sion, Pick then went locomotive-hunting."


McCoy didn't reply.


"Sure, locomotives, trains, are legitimate targets. We regularly schedule three-plane flights to see what's on the railway. When three planes attack a train, their antiair-craft fire, ergo sum, is divided between the three air-planes. A single plane gets all the antiaircraft, which multiplies the chances of getting hit by three. Pick knew all this, and..." He stopped. "I (a) ordered him not to go locomotive hunting; (b) if he happened on a train, he was not to attack it without permission, and not try himself. The train's not going to go anywhere in the time it would take to have a couple of Corsairs join up...."


"I get the picture," McCoy said. "It sounds like Pick."


"My God, Ken, he's not twenty-one years old anymore, fresh from Pensacola, thinking he can win the war all by himself. He was a goddamn major, a squadron com-mander, supposed to set an example for the kids. He set an example, all right. When he didn't come back, the pilots in his squadron were ready to take off right then and shoot up every locomotive between Pusan and Seoul. Remember that football movie? Ronald Reagan? `Get one for the Gipper!' Now they want to `Bust one for the skipper'!"


Dunn exhaled audibly.


"I don't know how the hell I'm going to stop that," he went on. "What we are supposed to do here is provide close air support, on demand, for the brigade. Not indulge some childish whim to see a locomotive explode, as if Ko-rea is a shooting gallery set up for our personal pleasure."


"You said `was,' Billy," McCoy said. "You think he's dead?"


Dunn shrugged.


"I don't know," he said. "As he himself frequently an-nounced, `God takes care of fools and drunks, and I qualify on both counts.'" He paused again. "I think he probably survived the crash. When I thought about it, that was the seventh Corsair he's dumped. What happened afterward, I don't know. The North Koreans obviously went looking for him. If they found him..."


"If he survived, and was captured alive, they might want to see what they can find out about Marine aviation from a Marine major," McCoy said. "What worries me is that they might make the connection between Major Pickering and Brigadier General Pickering..."


"I didn't think about that," Dunn said.


"... who is the Assistant Director of the CIA for Asia," McCoy went on. "I don't think there are many North Ko-rean agents reading The Washington Post for their order of battle, but the Russians certainly do. That information was in Moscow within twenty-four hours of the time that story was printed. Did the Russians already pass it on to the North Koreans? I don't know."


"Is there some way you can find out? If he's a prisoner, I mean. An extra effort?"


"When I get back to Pusan, and when I get to Tokchok-kundo, I'll see what I can do."

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