Under Fire

"Two questions," Dunn said. "If you can't answer them, fine. You're going to... What was it you said?"

"The Tokchok-kundo islands," McCoy furnished. "Yeah, but keep that to yourself."

"How can you find out?"

"I have some sources, maybe," McCoy said. "Money- gold-talks, and I have some gold. All I can do is play it by ear."

"How's the general taking this?"

"Like a Marine," McCoy said.

"What does that mean? This Marine wept like a baby when Hotshot Charlie went down."

"He got the message, and stuck it in his pocket, and we finished the business at hand-setting up this operation- and then he took me into his bedroom and showed me the message."

"Tell him I'm sorry, Ken. Really sorry. It's my fault."

"No, it isn't, Billy. It's nobody's fault except maybe Pick's. And if he got the train, then maybe there was ammo on it that won't be shot at the brigade."

Dunn met his eyes, but didn't say anything for a long moment.

"What happens now? You, I mean?"

"I don't suppose there's some other way except that Avenger to get back to Pusan?"

"You didn't find that fun?"

"It scared hell out of me," McCoy said.

Dunn picked up the telephone on his desk and dialed a one-digit number.

"Colonel Dunn for the captain, please," he said to who-ever answered, then: "Captain, Dunn. I'd like permission to take Captain McCoy back to Pusan to set up the photo delivery procedure." He paused. "Aye, aye, sir," he said, and broke the connection with his finger.

"That was quick," he said. "What the captain said was `Get that sonofabitch off my ship; I don't care how'."

He dialed another number.

"Colonel Dunn. Get a COD Avenger ready for immedi-ate takeoff. I will fly."

He hung up.

He turned to McCoy.

"There's an enlisted crew chief," he said. "He rides in the aft position in the cockpit. I can't order him out of there, but I can suggest if he lets you ride upstairs, he prob-ably won't have to clean puke out of the cargo hold."

[FOUR]

USAF AIRFIELD K-l

PUSAN, KOREA

2155 4 AUGUST 1950

The runway lights went off even before Lieutenant Colonel Dunn turned the Avenger onto a taxiway. There really wasn't much chance of a North Korean attack on K-l, but on the other hand, the possibility existed, and runway lights would be as useful to an attacking aircraft as they would be to one landing.

A Jeep, painted in a checkerboard pattern, and with a follow me sign and a large checkerboard flag mounted on its rear, came out and led the Avenger to Base Operations. Dunn parked the airplane and shut it down, and he and Mc-Coy climbed down from the cockpit.

The crew chief, a slim, nineteen-year-old, blond crew-cutted aviation motor machinist's mate, came through the small door in the fuselage.

"Thanks for letting me ride on top," McCoy said.

"Anytime, Captain," the Navy crew chief said.

"Thank you, sir, for the ride," McCoy said.

"I'll go see the Marine liaison officer with you," Dunn said.

"I've already spoken with him, sir," McCoy said. "But thank you."

"But you're a captain, and I'm a lieutenant colonel," Dunn said. "It has been my experience that Marine cap-tains pay more attention to lieutenant colonels than they do to other captains. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, sir. I suppose that's true. Thank you, sir."

"This won't take long," Dunn said to the crew chief. "Why don't you see if anything important fell off, or is about to."

"Aye, aye, sir," the crew chief said, smiling.

As Dunn and McCoy walked to the Base Operations building, a Marine with a Thompson submachine gun stepped out of the shadows and walked up to them and saluted.

"Good evening, sirs," he said. "Captain McCoy, sir?"

McCoy returned the salute.

"I'm McCoy."

`Technical Sergeant Jennings, sir. Mr. Zimmerman sent me to meet you."

"Where is he?"

"In a warehouse on the pier, sir. With the others."

"You've got wheels?" McCoy asked.

"Yes, sir."

"I'll be with you in a minute," McCoy said.

There was someone else waiting for McCoy. When they entered the tiny room assigned to the Marine liaison offi-cer, there was a plump army transportation corps major sit-ting backwards in a folding metal chair talking across a small wooden desk to the Marine liaison officer, whose folding chair was tilted back against the wall.

Both got up when McCoy and Dunn entered the room.

"Captain McCoy?" the Army major said.

"Yes, sir."

"I'm Captain Overton, sir," the Marine officer said to Dunn.

Dunn nodded at him and looked curiously at the Army major.

"My name is Dunston, McCoy," the major said, and first handed McCoy a sheet of radio teletypewriter paper, and then before McCoy could unfold it to read it, extended a small, folding leather wallet, holding it so he could read it. It was the credentials of a CIA agent.

McCoy nodded, then said, "You better show that to Colonel Dunn."

Somewhat reluctantly, the major did so, while McCoy read the sheet of paper.

URGENT

SECRET

4 AUGUST 1950

FROM STATION CHIEF, TOKYO

MESSAGE TOKYO 4AUG50 05

TO STATION CHIEF, PUSAN

CAPTAIN K. R. MCCOY, USMCR, AND MASTER GUNNER E. ZIMMERMAN, USMC, OF THE PER-SONAL STAFF OF THE CIA ASSISTANT DI-RECTOR FOR ASIA ARE IN KOREA IN CONNECTION WITH A CLASSIFIED MISSION.

BY AUTHORITY OF BRIG GEN FLEMING PICK-ERING, USMCR, CIA ASST DIR ASIA, SHOULD EITHER OF THESE OFFICERS CON-TACT YOU FOR ANY ASSISTANCE IN CONNEC-TION WITH THEIR MISSION, YOU WILL FURNISH THEM WITH WHATEVER THEY ASK FOR FROM ASSETS UNDER YOUR CONTROL.

IF YOU ARE UNABLE TO PROVIDE WHAT THEY REQUEST, STATION CHIEF TOKYO WILL BE ADVISED BY URGENT RADIOTELETYPE, CLAS-SIFIED TOP SECRET, OF WHAT YOU ARE UN-ABLE TO PROVIDE, WHY, AND WHAT YOU HAVE DONE AND ARE DOING TO ACQUIRE THE UNAVAILABLE REQUESTED SUPPORT.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF RECEIPT OF THIS MES-SAGE WILL BE MADE TO STACHIEF TOKYO BY RADIO TRANSMISSION OF THE WORD SHOP-KEEPER REPEAT SHOPKEEPER.

LOWELL C. HAYNES

STACHIEF TOKYO

SECRET

McCoy handed the radio teletype to Dunn, then noticed that the major didn't seem to like this.

"Colonel Dunn is cleared for this operation," McCoy said.

"I don't even know what this operation is all about," the major said.

"Major, it looks to me that if you had the need to know, that would have been spelled out in that," McCoy said, nodding at the teletype message.

The major visibly didn't like that.

Dunn handed the major the teletype message.

"Have you seen that, Captain?" McCoy asked the Ma-rine liaison officer.

Marine captains are not required by protocol to use the term "Sir" when speaking with other Marine captains. But there was a certain tone of command in McCoy's voice that triggered a Pavlovian response in the liaison officer.

"Yes, sir," he said.

"Forget you ever saw it," McCoy ordered.

"Yes, sir," the liaison officer repeated.

"McCoy," Major Dunston said, "he wouldn't admit ever having heard your name until I showed him my credentials."

"What made you think he would know my name?" Mc-Coy asked.

"This is what I do for a living, Captain," the major said. "Figure things out. I figured you would be using K-l, and probably be dealing with the Marine liaison officer here."

"Captain," Billy Dunn said. "Let me explain your role in this."

"Yes, sir?"

`Tomorrow, probably before eleven hundred, a COD Avenger will land here. The pilot will hand you a sealed envelope. You will treat that envelope as if it contains Top Secret material, and secure it appropriately until either Captain McCoy or Master Gunner Zimmerman, only, re-peat only, either of those two officers relieves you of it. You will not, repeat not, log the envelope-or any message from McCoy going out to me on the Badoeng Strait-in your classified-documents log."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"If I have to say this, you will not comment on the mys-terious envelopes from and to the Badoeng Strait to any-one. Clear?"

"Aye, aye, sir."

"The idea is the fewer people who know about this, the better. Clear?"

"Understood, sir."

"That about take care of it, Captain McCoy?" Dunn asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Then I'd better be getting back to the Badoeng Strait," Dunn said.

"I'll walk you out to the plane, sir," McCoy said. "I'll be with you shortly, Major."

"Thank you, Billy," McCoy said when they were standing at the wing root of the Avenger, outside Base Operations, where he was sure no one could hear them. "That helped, and I appreciate it. I really need those pictures. I don't want to paddle up to those islands and find half the North Korean army waiting for us. But I really didn't want to have to show that captain the White House orders."

"I think he was sufficiently dazzled by that CIA fellow's badge," Dunn said. "And the message from Pickering."

"More by Colonel Dunn," McCoy said.

"Ken, what if there are more North Koreans on those islands than you think are there? Then what?" Dunn asked.

"I guess we'll have to play that by ear. With a little luck, your pictures will let us know, one way or the other."

"Ken, we have some pretty good photo interpreters on the Badoeng Strait. Maybe they'd be better at looking at the photos than you are."

"Maybe, hell," McCoy said. "But they'd have to be told what we're looking at, and for."

Dunn nodded. "I understand. I noticed you didn't tell that CIA guy much. What's his role in this?"

"I don't know. I wish the general hadn't done that. I know his intentions were good...."

"But?"

"I'm afraid he's clever and will be able to figure things out from what I ask him to get for me. And I'm afraid of who he will tell what's he's thinking."

"But, Christ, he's a CIA agent-an intelligence officer. He's not liable to talk too much, is he?"

"From the tone of the radio teletype, he's obviously sub-ordinate to the Tokyo station chief, which means he would like to prove how clever he is to his boss."

Dunn considered that for a moment, then touched Mc-Coy's shoulder.

"Take care of yourself, Ken," Dunn said. "If you hear anything... you'll let me know?"

"Absolutely," McCoy said.

"Get the bastard back for me," Dunn said. "I really want to burn him a new anal orifice."

"I'm sure as hell going to try," McCoy said, and then: "I'm glad you brought that up. I can turn the CIA guy onto that, and maybe away from what we're going to be doing."

Dunn squeezed McCoy's shoulder with his fingers, and then hoisted himself onto the Avenger's wing root.

McCoy waited until Dunn had started the Avenger's en-gine and was taxiing after the follow me Jeep to the run-way, then started back toward Base Operations, looking for the sergeant Zimmerman had sent to meet him....

Technical Sergeant Jennings found him first. He pulled a Jeep behind McCoy and flashed the headlights on and off to get his attention. McCoy got in beside him.

"Where did you say Mr. Zimmerman was?" McCoy asked.

"In a warehouse on the pier, sir."

"What's he doing there?"

"I really don't know, sir," Sergeant Jennings said, his tone telling McCoy that he knew what Zimmerman was doing but was a wise enough noncom not to be the one who told the new commanding officer.

"Where are we headed, sir?"

"Stop right here and rum the headlights off," McCoy said. "Before we go to the pier, I need some answers."

"Yes, sir?"

"You're going to be part of this operation?" McCoy said.

"Whatever it is, yes, sir."

"Welcome aboard," McCoy said. "Did Mr. Zimmerman tell you what we're going to do?"

"He said you'd get into that, sir."

"Is there a Navy officer with Mr. Zimmerman? Lieu-tenant Taylor?"

"Yes, sir."

"What else is there?"

"There's a dozen of us, sir."

"Mr. Zimmerman was trying to recruit ex-Marine Raiders," McCoy said, but it was a question.

"I was a Raider, sir."

"And that's why you volunteered for this?"

"Yes, sir," Sergeant Jennings said, then added, "Raiders are something special, sir."

"Yes, we are, aren't we? Women find us irresistible, and movie stars ask for our autographs."

Sergeant Jennings chuckled.

"You were a Raider, sir?"

"A long time ago. At the beginning. I was just out of OCS, a really bushy-tailed second lieutenant."

"There was a Lieutenant McCoy on the Makin Island raid...."

"I was at Makin," McCoy said.

"I thought...," Jennings said, and stopped.

"You thought what?"

"That you might be Killer McCoy, sir."

"Pass the word, Sergeant Jennings, that your new skip-per has the nasty habit of castrating, with a dull knife, peo-ple who call him that."

"Aye, aye, sir," Sergeant Jennings said. "But I have to say this. Knowing that makes me feel a lot better about volunteering for this... whatever it is."

"What we're going to try to do is, dressed up in Korean national police uniforms, take a couple of small islands off Inchon with as little fuss as possible. They're supposed to be lightly defended by second-class troops."

Sergeant Jennings considered that, but said nothing for several minutes.

"There's an army transportation corps major waiting for me in Base Operations," McCoy said. "He's actually a CIA agent, actually the CIA's station chief here. He's been or-dered to give us what support he can. But, I decided in the last couple of minutes, I want him to know as little as pos-sible about what we're doing. Make sure that word gets passed."

"Aye, aye, sir," Jennings said, then went on, somewhat hesitantly: "Mr. Zimmerman said you and he have been in Korea for a while, sir?"

"For a while."

"Why is the Army so fucked up, sir?"

"They didn't train," McCoy said. "It's as simple as that. And they're not all fucked up. There's one regiment-the 27th, they call themselves the `Wolfhounds'-that's first class. And there are others. But what it looks like to me is the brass just didn't expect a war, and just weren't prepared for this."

"Nobody thought this was coming?"

As a matter of fact, Sergeant, I told them it was coming. And they tried to get me kicked out of the Marine Corps be-cause they didn't want to hear it.

"Apparently not," McCoy said. "Okay, turn the lights on and drive me to Base Operations. Maybe this guy can get us someplace more comfortable to set up shop than a ware-house on the pier."

[FIVE]

Major Dunston was waiting for McCoy in a Jeep parked beside the base operations building.

McCoy got out of Jennings's Jeep and walked up to Dunston's Jeep.

"I have to go to the pier in Pusan," he announced. "We have to talk, obviously. Talking in the Jeep Okay with you?"

"Fine, get in," Dunston added. "I know where you're go-ing on the pier."

"You've got people on the pier?" McCoy asked.

Dunston nodded, started the Jeep, and drove off. McCoy made a follow me gesture with his arm, and Sergeant Jen-nings pulled his Jeep behind Dunston's.

"First things first, I suppose," McCoy said. "Are you a major?"

"I'm a civilian with the assimilated rank of major," Dun-ston said. "In War Two, I was an OSS captain in Europe. `Major' Dunston is a convenient cover."

"I'm a Marine captain who was a Marine major in the OSS during War Two," McCoy said. "In the Pacific."

"I know who you are, McCoy," Dunston said. "What do they say? `Your reputation precedes you.' I'm really look-ing forward to working with you."

What is that, soft soap?

What reputation precedes me? The Killer McCoy busi-ness? Or that I was sent home from Tokyo and almost booted out of the Corps?

"One of Colonel Dunn's Corsair pilots was shot down yesterday morning near Taejon, while shooting up a North Korean railroad train. Colonel Dunn flew over the crash site almost immediately afterward. He believes the pilot walked away from the crash."

"And?"

"Extraordinary measures are called for to get him back," McCoy said. "Or to determine beyond any doubt that he's KIA."

"Who is he, some congressman's son?"

"General Pickering's son," McCoy said.

"Jesus Christ!" Dunston exclaimed, genuinely sur-prised. "And the Marine Corps let him fly combat sorties?"

"Why not?" McCoy said. "Joseph Stalin's son was not only in the front lines as an infantry officer but was cap-tured by the Germans."

"I heard that," Dunston said. "He committed suicide in a POW camp by walking past the Dead Line. I also heard the Germans shot the two Germans on the Dead Line machine gun for gross stupidity."

"It would be gross stupidity on our part if we let the NKs know who they may have taken prisoner."

"Yeah."

"You have some reliable agents the other side of the line?"

"Some. A lot of them were caught up in the NKs shoot-anybody-who-even-might-be-dangerous occupation pol-icy."

"Gold talks," McCoy said. "You believe that?"

"Absolutely. What are you going to try to buy?"

"What do you think of putting a price on Pickering?"

"For what?"

"So much for locating him, so much more for hiding him from the North Koreans, so much more-a lot more- for getting him back."

"Let me think about that," Dunston said.

"Sure. But we don't have much time. In the meantime, I'm setting up a small unit to go after him, if he can be found...."

"That's the Marines on the pier?" Dunston asked.

"Right," McCoy said. "And I'm going to need a junk, a junk with a good engine."

"I have one," Dunston said, and added, somewhat smugly, "with a two hundred-horse Caterpillar diesel."

"No kidding?"

"It was used by smugglers," Dunston said. "The national police caught them-before the war started-and confis-cated it, and I swapped them a stock of Japanese small arms for it. Luckily, it was here when the war started-nor-mally I kept it up north, on the East Coast."

This guy seems like he's pretty competent. Which makes him all the more dangerous. If he puts together what we're really doing here, he'll sure as hell tell the station agent in Tokyo, who'll fall all over himself rushing to let Willoughby know.

`Two other things," McCoy said.

"Name them."

"I'm going to have to find someplace to keep my team. I don't want to operate out of a warehouse on the pier."

"And?"

"I need a senior national police officer, a senior one, ma-jor or lieutenant colonel, one who can be trusted."

"Kim Pak Su," Dunston said, immediately. "Major. Very bright."

"Can he be trusted?"

"He got out of Seoul by the skin of his teeth. His wife and kids didn't. They shot his wife, and he doesn't know what happened to the kids."

"The NKs might have gotten word to him that they have the kids, and will shoot them if he doesn't turn. And by shooting his wife, they've made the point they mean it."

"I considered that," Dunston said. "And fed him some al-most good intel to see if it turned up on the other side. It didn't."

Jesus, he is good!

"When can I see him?"

"Tonight, if you want. Tomorrow would be better."

"I'll also need a dozen national policemen for guards."

"No problem."

"And someplace to set up shop?"

"There's a place in Tongnae you could use," Dunston said.

"Where's Tongnae?"

"About twenty miles out of town," Dunston said. "On the water. It's where the junk is tied up, as a matter of fact."

"What's there?"

"It used to be a Japanese officer's brothel," Dunston said. "When our wives were here, we didn't tell them that. We said it used to be a Japanese officer's leave hotel."

"Are the NKs watching it?"

"I don't think so. If they are, they haven't seen anything. I haven't had a hell of a lot of time free lately. I would guess, if they are watching it, they think we're just sitting on it."

"Sounds good."

"If you use it, and like Major Kim, he could increase the security."

"Who's there now?"

"Kim and maybe three other national police officers."

"I thought you said it would be better to see Kim tomor-row?"

"That was before I thought about turning the place over to you. You want to go out there tonight?"

"Let's see what's going on at the pier," McCoy said.

This guy is good. He knew about the Marines at the pier. So he probably has had this ex-officer's whorehouse in mind all along. And Major Kim is his buddy, who therefore can be counted on to tell him what we're doing.

"Okay," Dunston said. "You married, McCoy?"

"Yeah."

"Your wife know what you do for a living?"

"Yes, she does."

"Don't misunderstand me, I love my wife. But she's a little flighty. Until twenty minutes before I didn't get on the plane with her when they flew the embassy people out of Suwon, she really thought I was a financial analyst in the office of the business attach‚ in the embassy in Seoul."

"Where's she now?"

"In Chevy Chase, Maryland, with her folks."

"Mine is in Tokyo," McCoy said. "Which is what they call a mixed blessing."

Dunston braked the Jeep abruptly, almost losing control, to avoid hitting an elderly white-bearded Korean in a white smocklike garment who came out of nowhere and ran, on stilted shoes, in front of them. Sergeant Jennings, behind them, almost ran into them.

"Goddamned poppa-sans," Dunston said. "They do that-"

"So the evil spirits chasing them," McCoy said, in Ko-rean, "will get run over."

"I heard that, too," Dunston replied, in perfect Korean, "That your Korean is five-five."

"What the hell does five-five mean?" McCoy asked, switching to English.

"If you're a civilian spook, and speak and read and write the indigenous tongue of the country in which you are working five-five-with absolute fluency-you get another hundred a month. When I came here, I was two-one, which means barely qualified, and you don't get no bonus pay."

McCoy chuckled.

"There is no such provision in Marine regulations," he said.

I like this guy. Which makes him twice as dangerous.

[SIX]

McCoy recognized the pier as the one at which the Attack Transports Clymer and Pickaway had been tied up to de-bark the First Marine Brigade (Provisional), but those ves-sels were gone. Three civilian merchantmen-one of them with the insignia of Pacific and Far East shipping on her smokestack-were tied up where transports had been.

Long lines of Korean longshoremen were manhandling cargo from all three.

Dunston drove the Jeep away from the quai side, and down a road before a second row of warehouses. A Marine staff sergeant, armed with a Thompson, was sitting on a stool in front of one of the sliding doors. He got to his feet when he saw the Jeeps stopping, and looked curiously at McCoy and Dunston.

"My name is McCoy, Sergeant," McCoy said.

The sergeant saluted.

"Good evening, sir," he said. "I was told to. expect you. But this other officer? I was told to let only you pass."

"Major Dunston's with me," McCoy said. "He's with the army transportation corps."

That announcement seemed to make the sergeant even more nervous.

"Yes, sir. Would the captain wait a minute, please?" he said.

He went to the sliding door and beat three times on it with his fist.

"Mr. Zimmerman!" he called. "Special visitors!"

There had been a crack of light at the side of the sliding door. The light went out, after a minute, and then the door slowly slid open just wide enough for Master Gunner Zim-merman's bulk.

He saluted McCoy.

"Good evening, sir," he said.

"Can we come in, Mr. Zimmerman?" McCoy asked.

"I'm not sure bringing that doggie officer in here is a good idea," Zimmerman said, quickly, softly, and in Ko-rean. Then he raised his voice and switched to English. "May I speak to the captain privately, sir?"

"This doggie officer," Dunston said, in Korean, "not only knows what you're doing in there, Mr. Zimmerman, but hopes that by now he has convinced Captain McCoy that he's one of the good guys."

"He's Okay, Ernie," McCoy said.

"If you say so," Zimmerman said, dubiously. "Open the door."

The sergeant slid the door fully open. It was pitch dark inside the warehouse. McCoy, Dunston, and Sergeant Jen-nings followed Zimmerman inside. Zimmerman then care-fully closed the door.

"Lights!" he ordered.

Ceiling mounted lights came on.

There were a dozen Marines in the room, plus a Dodge three-quarter-ton weapons carrier, two Jeeps, and trailers for all three vehicles. Lieutenant David R. Taylor, USNR, was sitting on a tarpaulin covering a five-foot-high stack of crates.

All three vehicles bore a fresh coat of Marine green paint.

Zimmerman looked at McCoy expectantly. "Major Dunston, may I present Lieutenant Taylor, of the Navy, and Master Gunner Zimmerman?"

Taylor and Zimmerman wordlessly shook Dunston's hand.

"May I suggest, Mr. Zimmerman," McCoy said, for-mally, "that you turn the lights off again, so that Sergeant Jennings can bring his Jeep in here for a little freshening up?"

"Lights!" Zimmerman ordered again. The lights went out, the door was opened, and a moment later, Jennings drove his Jeep into the warehouse. The door was then closed.

"Lights!" Zimmerman ordered. The lights came back on, and then there was the sound of an air-compressor starting. Two Marines went to the Jeep and started remov-ing the top, seats, and spare tire. A third Marine appeared with a paint spray gun in his hand and started to expertly over-paint the hood.

"How soon can we use any of these?" McCoy asked.

"We got the weapons carrier first," Zimmerman said. "It's had a couple of hours to dry. Besides, if it looks a lit-tle dirty-"

"It would probably look a little less suspicious than a fresh paint job," Dunston said, in Korean. "You seem to be everything I've heard about you, Mr. Zimmerman. That you are very good at what you do."

McCoy chuckled.

Zimmerman looked confused.

"May I see you a moment, gentlemen?" McCoy or-dered, gesturing toward a far corner of the warehouse, as he started walking to it.

Zimmerman and Taylor followed him.

"Who is that guy?" Zimmerman asked.

"The Pusan CIA station chief," McCoy said. "I sort of like him, but I don't want him to know about the Channel Islands. He thinks we're here to see if we can get Pick back."

Zimmerman nodded.

"You went to him?" Taylor asked.

"The general sent him a TWX telling him to give us any-thing we need. He went looking for me."

"How did he find you?" Zimmerman asked.

"He not only found me, he knew where to find you," McCoy said, chuckling. "I guess you could say he's very good at what he does."

"Okay."

"How much did you tell these guys?"

"I was waiting for you to do that."

"What's with Sergeant Jennings? Why did you send him to K-l?"

"I knew him at Parris Island," Zimmerman said. "Good man."

"Can he keep his mouth shut? My brain was out of gear when I landed at K-l and I told him what we're really go-ing to do."

"Yeah," Zimmerman said. "He can. I'll tell him right now."

"Dunston's going to be useful. He's got a place we can use outside of town, and a junk with a two hundred-horsepower Caterpillar, and a national police major he says can be trusted."

"Well, the junk will come in handy," Taylor said.

"Maybe he trusts this Korean to report on everything we do?" Zimmerman asked.

"Probably. So the thing we do is make the we're-going-to-try-to-rescue-Pickering story credible."

Zimmerman nodded.

"So what do we do now?"

McCoy pointed across the room, where a canvas tarpau-lin shrouded a five-foot-high stack of crates.

"What's in those?"

"Rations, some Japanese Arisaka rifles, ammo for them, beer, and a brand-new SCR-300 transceiver."

"Well, start loading that stuff in the weapons carrier and a trailer, and we'll go look at our new home. We can take Jennings with us, so he knows how to find this place. I want to get out of here before we all wind up in an Army stockade."

There was little sign of life in the village of Tongnae ex-cept for a Korean national policeman standing in the center of the major intersection. He had a Japanese Arisaka rifle hanging from his shoulder, and was wearing what McCoy recognized as a Japanese army cartridge belt. He was wearing rubber sandals, and he didn't move as Dunston's Jeep and then the weapons carrier drove past him.

"What's that awful stink?" Jennings asked from the backseat, where he was sitting with Taylor.

"Korea, the land of the morning calm and many awful stinks," Taylor said. "What we're smelling now is drying fish. They put their catches on racks on roofs and dry them. They don't rot, for some reason. I've wondered how they do that."

Dunston drove down deserted streets and finally stopped before a double door in a stone wall. He blew the horn, and after a moment the doors were opened by a national police sergeant who didn't look old enough to be wearing a uni-form, or large enough to be able to fire the Garand he held in his hands.

He took his right hand from the Garand and saluted awkwardly as Dunston drove the Jeep past him.

Inside the wall was a rambling one-story wooden build-ing with a wide verandah. As McCoy looked at it, a door slid open and a Korean appeared. He was slight, bare-chested, wearing only U.S. Army fatigue trousers and rub-ber sandals. He held a Thompson submachine gun in his hand. He saluted.

There was something about him that told McCoy he was looking at Major Kim Pak Su.

Dunston got out of the Jeep and walked to Major Kim.

"Who's here tonight besides you?" he asked, in Korean.

"No one's here but me," Kim said. "Who are these peo-ple?"

"They're working with me, or more accurately, I'm working with them," Dunston said, and switched to En-glish. "Captain McCoy, this is Major Kim."

"How do you do?" Kim said, in British-accented English.

"Very well, thank you," McCoy said, in Korean. "This is my deputy, Master Gunner Zimmerman, and Lieutenant Taylor, of the Navy."

Major Kim was visibly surprised that Taylor and Zim-merman also said the equivalent of "How do you do?" in Korean.

"Have you got somebody to help unload our gear?" Zimmerman asked, indicating the weapons carrier and its trailer.

"More important, someone reliable to guard it?"

"I have national policemen over there," Kim said, point-ing to an outbuilding. Then, surprising everybody, he put his fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly.

A moment later, a young Korean wearing only his un-derwear and sandals, and carrying a Garand, came trotting up to them.

"Unload the truck and trailer, put it in the garage, and put a guard on it," Major Kim said.

"Yes, sir," the Korean said.

"Why don't we go inside?" Major Kim asked. "I'm afraid there's not much I can offer you in the way of food or drink...."

Zimmerman put his fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly.

The Korean in his underwear returned.

"There are six cases of beer in the truck," Zimmerman announced. "Bring five in the hotel. The other is for you and your men. There are ten cases of rations. Take two for you and your men."

The Korean looked to Major Kim for guidance.

"You heard the officer," Kim said.

The Korean scurried off.

"Major, is there someone here who can cook?" Zimmer-man asked.

"Yes, there is."

"Wash clothes?"

"Yes."

"And is there a bath, with showers?"

"Yes. This was a Japanese officer's rest hotel...."

"You mean whorehouse?" Zimmerman asked.

"Yes."

"Then what I suggest we do, Captain McCoy, sir," Zimmerman said, "is go inside, have a shower, a couple of beers, something to eat, and call it a day. This has been a long day."

"Make it so, Mr. Zimmerman," Captain McCoy ordered.

Chapter Fourteen

[ONE]

THE DEWEY SUITE

THE IMPERIAL HOTEL

TOKYO, JAPAN

2200 4 AUGUST 1950

Brigadier General Fleming Pickering fully understood that drinking alone was not wise, but that's what he was do-ing-but slowly, he hoped-when the door chime to the Dewey Suite sounded.

Pickering was alone because General Howe had sensed he wanted to be alone, and had taken Master Sergeant Rogers out for dinner. Then, after Howe and Rogers had left, Hart had hung around, looking both morose and sym-pathetic, which Pickering had decided was the last thing he needed, so he had sent Hart to the movies.

He smiled at that memory as he walked to the door to answer it. It had been the only cause to smile all day.

He thought he had found a tactful way to get rid of George when he read in Stars and Stripes that a John Huston film, The Asphalt Jungle, starring Sterling Hayden and Louis Calhern, was playing at the Ernie Pyle Theater.

"George, why don't you go? Get out of here for a couple of hours?"

"Sir, I think I'll pass," George said. "The Asphalt Jungle sounds like a stupid movie."

"Captain Hart, when one of our own makes a movie, stupid or not, it behooves us to go see it, and whistle, cheer, and applaud loudly whenever he has a line."

"One of our own?" George had asked, baffled.

"Sterling Hayden is not only a Marine, but like yourself, a former agent of the Office of Strategic Services," Picker-ing had said.

"No shit?" Hart had asked, genuinely surprised.

"No shit. Go see the stupid movie. It's your duty."

"What about you, General? You were an OSS agent, too. We'll both go."

"No, I was an OSS executive, not a lowly agent, and be-sides I'm a general, and we get to make our own rules. Go on, George, I really would like to be alone."

"Aye, aye, sir," George had said, reluctantly.

Drink in hand, his tie pulled down, Pickering pulled the door open.

Colonel Sidney L. Huff, a tall, rather handsome officer, was standing there. The aiguillette of an aide-de-camp hung from the epaulette of his splendidly tailored tropical-worsted uniform, and on its lapels was a small shield with a circle of five stars.

Huff saluted.

"The Supreme Commander's compliments, General Pickering," Huff said. "The Supreme Commander desires that you attend him at your earliest convenience."

Pickering returned the salute a little uncomfortably. For one thing, Marines don't salute indoors, and for another, he was aware that he was standing there a little smashed with a drink in his hand.

"Come on in, Sid," he said. "I'll have to get my tunic."

"Yes, sir."

"I don't suppose you can tell me what's going on?" Pickering asked.

"Sir, the Supreme Commander sent me to present his compliments, that's all I know."

Pickering felt his chin.

"Fix yourself a drink, Sid," Pickering said. "I'll need a quick shave and a clean shirt."

"Thank you, sir, but no, thank you, General."

"I'll be right with you," Pickering said, and went into his bedroom.

The Supreme Commander's black 1941 Cadillac limousine was parked in the circular drive of the hotel. The red flag with five stars in a circle that normally flew from the left fender was now shrouded, but the small American flag on the right hung limply from its chrome pole. The chauffeur, a master sergeant in crisp khakis, stood by the rear door.

It was enough to attract a crowd of the curious-even reverent-who stood under the marquee and along the drive hoping to catch a glimpse of Mac Arthur.

The master sergeant saluted as Pickering and Huff en-tered the limousine, then walked around to the front of the car and slipped a red flag with one star-the flag to which Pickering was entitled-over the shrouded flag. Then he got behind the wheel and started down the drive.

"I think we have some disappointed people standing there, Sid," Pickering said.

"The Supreme Commander's car always attracts that kind of attention, sir," Huff said. "The Japanese people re-vere him."

"They really do, don't they?" Pickering agreed, thought-fully.

Huff led Pickering into what had been the U.S. Embassy and was now The Residence-and so called-of the Supreme Commander, Allied Powers, and now Supreme Commander, UN Forces, and to the MacArthur apartment.

He knocked at a double door, but did not wait for a re-sponse before pulling it open and announcing, "Brigadier General Pickering, United States Marine Corps."

General of the Army Douglas MacArthur carefully laid a long, thin, black cigar into the ashtray and then rose from a red leather armchair. He was wearing his usual washed-soft khakis.

He started toward Pickering, but before he reached him, Mrs. Jean MacArthur, in a simple black dress with a single strand of pearls, walked to Pickering, took his hand in both of hers, and said, "Oh, Fleming, we're so sorry."

She then stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

Pickering could smell her perfume.

I wonder if she can smell the scotch; I should have used Sen-Sen or something.

MacArthur came up and laid a hand on Pickering's shoulder.

"I got the word only now, just before I sent Sid to the ho-tel," he said. "I'm so very sorry, Fleming."

"Thank you," he said.

"You should have told us," Jean MacArthur said.

"Yes," her husband agreed.

What the hell was I supposed to do? Call up and say, "General, I thought you would like to know my son has just been shot down " ?

Pickering didn't reply.

MacArthur looked in his eyes, then patted his shoulder and turned and walked to a sideboard.

"I think a little of this is in order," he said, picking up a bottle of Famous Grouse by the neck.

"Thank you, sir," Pickering said.

Jesus, what's wrong with me? The last thing I need is another drink. Not here.

MacArthur poured an inch of scotch in a glass, walked to Pickering, handed it to him, and then returned to the sideboard, where he poured white wine in a glass, walked to his wife and handed it to her, then returned to the side-board a final time to pour scotch in a glass and then re-turned.

He solemnly touched his glass to Pickering's. His wife touched her glass to Pickering's.

"Major Pickering," MacArthur said, solemnly.

They all sipped at their glasses.

Not that I really give a damn, but how did he find out? He's not on a next-of-kin list-anything like that-and I can't believe he reads a report with the names of every-body who's KIA or MIA on it.

"General Cushman was at the Dai-Ichi Building... ," MacArthur said.

My God, is he reading my mind?

"... briefing General Almond and myself on the splen-did-absolutely splendid!-job Marine aviation is doing in the Pusan area. He concluded his briefing by saying that `sadly, our operations have not been without a price' and then told us what has happened to Major Pickering."

"General Cushman was kind enough to message me with the details," Pickering said, and took a pull at his drink.

"General Cushman also told me that Major Pickering flew the Marines' first combat sortie of this war, during which he destroyed an enemy train..."

"I understand that's the case, sir."

"... and is in complete agreement with me that Major Pickering's flying skill and valor entitle him without ques-tion to the Distinguished Flying Cross. The citation at this moment is being prepared."

What am I supposed to do, say "thank you"?

"Thank you."

"Thanks are not in order, Fleming. Your son upheld the finest traditions of the Marine Corps."

"Pick was a fine Marine officer," Pickering said.

"Indeed, he was."

"I don't know why I said that, past tense," Pickering heard himself say. "Colonel Billy Dunn flew over the site where Pick crashed his Corsair and said the cockpit was empty. It's entirely possible that he's alive. That was not the first Corsair he was shot down in."

You know better than that: "Never end a sentence with a preposition."

You're pissing in the wind, and you know it.

If he didn't get killed in the crash landing, the odds are that he was shot by the North Koreans.

MacArthur looked at him intently for a moment.

"Jean, darling," he said. "Would you give Fleming and me a moment alone?"

Jesus, what's this? Does he know something I don't? Did Cushman find Pick's body?

He imagined the exchange:

Does Pickering know that they found the body?

No, sir. I'd planned to go to the Imperial from here to tell him myself.

That will not be necessary. I will tell him. We are old friends.

"Of course," Mrs. MacArthur said, softly, touched Pick-ering's arm for a moment, and then walked out of the room.

"Let us speak as soldiers," MacArthur said.

Pickering waited for him to go. He was aware that his stomach ached.

"General Willoughby believes there is more than a seventy-thirty probability that Major Pickering survived the crash," MacArthur said.

"He does?"

"And, if that is the case, that there is an eighty-twenty probability that Major Pickering is now a prisoner of the enemy."

Pickering didn't reply.

"I know you're as aware as I am, Fleming, that the en-emy has been executing prisoners out of hand," MacArthur went on, "but-and this is Willoughby's professional judg-ment, not a clutching at straws-in this case, because (a) your son is an officer; and (b) a Marine aviator, about whom the enemy knows very little, it would be in the en-emy's interests to keep him alive."

"I see," Pickering said.

"As one soldier to another, Fleming, there is something that might happen to turn this situation."

"Sir?"

"As we speak, Ambassador Averell Harriman and Gen-eral Matt Ridgway are somewhere between San Francisco and Hawaii, en route here."

"General Howe told me, sir," Pickering said.

"Did he tell you why?"

"In general terms, sir."

"Harriman is coming because the President didn't quite understand my going to Taipei to meet with Chiang Kai-shek," MacArthur said. "I had no intention of asking for Chinese Nationalist troops for the war in Korea, and not only because all he would have to offer is poorly trained and poorly equipped troops. What I feared at the time was that the Chinese might see our difficulties in Korea as an opportunity for them to invade Formosa. I wanted to disa-buse them of the notion that the United States would per-mit them to do so without instant retaliation. My presence there made that point. I was prepared to send several fighter squadrons to Formosa, but intelligence developed by Willoughby has convinced me that will not be neces-sary. The Chinese Communists are not preparing to attack Formosa. They do not wish to go to war with us."

"I see."

"The President, as I say, apparently didn't quite under-stand my motives. When I meet with Harriman, I will be able to put any misunderstanding to rest once and for all."

"And General Ridgway?"

"General Ridgway is coming for two reasons, I believe. He is the prime candidate to become chief of staff. I think he wants to see for himself what's going on in Korea. There is-again, a question of not having firsthand knowl-edge of the situation-some concern with the manner in which General Walker is waging that war. There is also, in the Pentagon, far from the scene of action, a good deal of uneasiness about my plan to invade the west coast of Ko-rea, at Inchon, at the earliest possible date."

"You have decided to make the Inchon invasion?"

"I hope to convince General Ridgway, and through him the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the President, that not only would such an action bring this war to a satisfactory con-clusion very quickly, but also that it is the only way to avoid a lengthy and bloody conflict to drive the enemy from the Korean peninsula. The President committed the United States to the defense of South Korea, which means the defeat, total defeat, of North Korea's army. There is no substitute for victory, Fleming, as you are well aware."

"And you think that Ridgway is the key to JCS approval of Inchon?"

"Yes. And I don't see that as a problem. When I lay the operation on the table, he can't help but see-he has the reputation of being not only a fighter, but one of the finest brains in the Army-how it would cut the enemy's supply lines, leaving the troops now in South Korea unable to wage war, in a position where they can be annihilated."

"General, I'm way over my head here, but I understand there are problems involved in bringing an invasion fleet to Inchon."

"Ned Almond and I have considered them carefully," MacArthur said. "They can be overcome."

"Yes, sir," Pickering said.

"All of this is to bring a ray of hope-faint but real-into your painful situation," MacArthur said. "The situation as I see it is this: The North Koreans have failed to sweep us into the sea at Pusan. Walker's Eighth Army grows stronger by the day, and the enemy weaker. Willoughby believes, and I concur, that they are growing desperate. They will make every effort to continue their attack, and every day Walker will be better prepared to turn the attack. In that cir-cumstance, the movement of prisoners of war to North Ko-rea-if indeed they ever intended to do so-has a low priority.

"If Ned Almond can land with a two-division force at Inchon and cut the head of the dragon from its body-and I believe he can-then it is entirely possible that rapidly moving armored columns can sweep through the territory now held by the enemy and liberate our men from their prison compounds. In much the same way the First Cav-alry operated-you were there, you remember-when I returned to the Philippines."

"I remember," Pickering said.

That's more pissing in the wind. But right now, pissing in the wind is all I have.

"Your glass is empty, Fleming. Another?"

"Thank you, sir, but no."

"One more, Fleming, and then you can go. It will help you to sleep."

"All right," Pickering said. "Thank you."

[TWO]

Master Sergeant Charley Rogers was sitting in one of the armchairs in the lobby of the Imperial Hotel when Picker-ing walked into it. He was in civilian clothing, and there was a copy of Life magazine in his lap. He rose quickly and intercepted Pickering.

"Hello, Charley," Pickering said. "What's up?"

"General Howe thought maybe you'd feel up to a night-cap, General," Rogers said. "But he said it was a sugges-tion, not an order."

Howe has heard about MacArthur's limousine hauling me off.

"Sure," Pickering said. "Why not? How was dinner?"

"We went to a place that serves Kobe beef," Rogers said. "What that means is they massage the cattle to make it ten-der. The steaks were beautiful, cost an arm and a leg, and tasted like bread dough."

Pickering chuckled.

"I had ham and eggs for breakfast years ago in a hotel in-here, come to think of it, Yokohama-and it looked like a magazine advertisement. Just beautiful. But it was ice cold. They'd made it the night before and put it in the refrigerator."

Rogers smiled. "The CIA guy was here. Hart wasn't here, so I took the message. The CIA guy in Pusan got your message about McCoy."

"Thank you."

"How are you doing, General?"

Pickering shrugged.

"First, I feel sorry for my wife, then for me, and finally I get around to feeling sorry for my son. I think my priorities are screwed up."

"I lost a boy in War Two," Rogers said, and left it at that.

"Thank you for coming, Fleming," General Howe said. "Bullshit aside, I wondered what the Viceroy had to say." He turned to Rogers and signaled that he was to make Pickering a drink.

"He was very gracious about my son," Pickering said, "and I wondered how he found out. And then I got-now that I think about it-a very skillful pitch that I should do what I could to convince General Ridgway that Inchon makes sense."

"I got a message he and Harriman are in-I suppose were in-Hawaii. It was just a fuel stop," Howe said, and then asked, "What did he say about his going to see Chiang Kai-shek?"

"That the President misunderstood his intentions. He said he never wanted Chinese Nationalist troops because they'd have to be trained and equipped, and he went there solely to impress on the Communists that we were behind Chiang and wouldn't permit an invasion of Formosa."

"You believe him?"

Pickering nodded.

Master Sergeant Rogers handed him a drink. Pickering noticed that he'd made himself one.

Rogers is far more to Howe than an errand boy. What is that line, "Command is a lonely thing"? I guess the next step is "Even generals need friends."

I'll bet that when I get to my room, George Hart will be sitting there, waiting for me, wondering, worrying, where the hell I am.

"You mind if I message the President, and tell that to Harriman when he gets here?" Howe asked.

"No, of course not. I should have thought of messaging President Truman myself."

"You heard that, Charley," Howe said. "Find Sergeant Keller and have him get that off right now."

Rogers nodded.

"If you see Captain Hart, Charley," Pickering said. "He doesn't know where I went. Tell him I'm here."

"Ask him if he wants a drink, Charley," Howe ordered.

Rogers wordlessly left the room.

"You think he can carry it off, don't you?" Howe asked.

"The Inchon invasion?"

Howe nodded.

"Yes, I do," Pickering said.

"Right now, it's the Viceroy, that gang of sycophants around him, and you, versus the collective wisdom of the Joint Chiefs of Staff," Howe said.

"I thought the Bible salesman had made a convert of you," Pickering said.

"I've been thinking about that," Howe said. "I started thinking about McCoy and Taylor. What that is, really, Fleming, is two junior officers, a squad of Marines, and maybe two squads of Korean policemen taking two small islands. The invasion can't succeed unless they succeed. On solemn reflection, that seems to be a lousy way to stage an invasion."

"What makes it worse," Pickering agreed, "is that Tay-lor's idea makes a hell of a lot more sense than what the Dai-Ichi planners want to do: take the islands on D Minus One."

Howe looked at him intently for a moment.

"Having granted my point, you still think it will work?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Is that what they call `faith'? As in `faith in God' or `faith in the Viceroy'?" Howe challenged, pleasantly.

Or maybe I think it will work because I desperately want it to work, so that one of El Supremo's armored flying columns can liberate Pick from a POW camp?

No. That's not it. I think it will work because MacArthur says it will. I thought that before tonight, even before Pick got shot down.

"I'd like to think it's a calm, professional judgment, but since I'm not really a professional, and with my son miss-ing, I don't suppose I'm thinking very calmly-clearly- either."

Howe opened his mouth to reply, but stopped when the door opened and George Hart came in.

"That was quick, George," Pickering said.

"Something was said about a drink," Hart said, and then blurted, "When I came back from the movie, and you weren't in the suite..."

My God, he was really worried about me!

"You must be the only man in the hotel who didn't know that Colonel Huff carried me off to meet with MacArthur," Pickering said.

"That miserable sonofabitch!" Hart said, furiously.

"Captain," General Howe said, amused, "you are refer-ring to the very senior aide-de-camp to the Supreme Com-mander of all he surveys. A little respect might be in order."

"Very little," Pickering said.

Christ, that was a dumb thing to say. You must be more than a little plastered, Fleming Pickering.

"I'm talking about that CIC clown in the hall. I asked him if he had seen you, and he said he had no idea where you were."

"So you went looking for me?" Pickering asked, softly.

"Yes, sir. I thought maybe you took a walk, or some-thing."

"Or was having a belt or two in the hotel bar? You looked for me there?"

"Yes, sir. I was about to go to General Howe-I didn't know what the hell to do-when Charley... Sergeant Rogers... came in the suite."

"I'm all right, George. MacArthur heard about Pick and wanted to express his concern."

"Yes, sir."

"Make yourself a drink, George," Howe said.

He looked at Pickering as he spoke.

My God, he's thinking the same thing I am. George was really concerned, really worried. More than that, he saw that George's concern went far beyond that of an aide-de-camp/bodyguard for his general. It was-what?-loving concern? Well, maybe not loving concern, more like the concern of a son for his father. But isn't that, by definition, loving concern?

"No, thank you, sir," Hart said. "I'll just stick around un-til the boss decides to go to bed."

"The boss has just decided to do just that," Pickering said, and drained his glass. He looked at Howe. "By your leave, sir?"

"That sounded very military, Flem," Howe said. "Very professional, if you take my meaning. And just to keep things straight between us: I don't think you're capable of not thinking clearly. Goodnight, my friend."

When Pickering got out of the shower and went into his bedroom, a crack of light under the door to the sitting room made him suspect that George was still in there.

"Go to bed, Captain Hart!" he called.

"Aye, aye, sir," Hart called back. "In just a minute."

Pickering got in bed and turned out the light.

It was three full minutes before the crack of light under the door went out.

Well, if I think about it, it's not so strange that George thinks of me as a son thinks of a father. From the time the Killer re-cruited him from Parris Island, from the first day, he's been taking care of me. When I was sick in Washington. All through the war. After. I was his best man when he got mar-ried, because he'd lost his own father. His second son is Fleming Pickering Hart. And not to kiss my ass. On half a dozen occasions, I made it as clear as I could that I would be delighted to help-loan him money, give him money-and he always turned me down.

And he was really uncomfortable when Patricia and I set up the trust funds for his kids.

What does that mean?

It means that while I may have-probably have-lost one son, I still have another. Named George.

Jesus! Not one. Two! The Killer.

The three of them were like brothers.

Patricia was really upset when Ernie married the Killer and not Pick. I wasn't. As far as I was concerned, the Killer was family, and it didn't really matter whether Ernie married Pick or Ken McCoy.

My God! The Pickering line ends here. And the Foster line.

Now, obviously there is very little chance that there will ever be a squalling infant named either Malcolm S. Picker-ing Jr., or Fleming Pickering II. Or Foster Pickering. Any-thing like that.

Does that matter to me?

Pick being gone matters a hell of a lot. I really would have liked to see the family continue. Patricia will never be a grandmother of a child carrying her father's name.

And that thought opens the door to another problem I never considered before: What happens to PandFE and Fos-ter Hotels, now that Pick won't be around to inherit them, the way that Patricia and I did?

Jesus H. Christ, all the time and money we spent on lawyers to make sure that when Patricia and I were gone, Pick would get PandFE, and Foster Hotels, Inc., and not the goddamn government.

That's all down the tube.

What does it matter?

Who cares?

Something will have to be done.

I will be goddamned if the government gets PandFE and Foster. Or one of those goddamned charities of Greater San Francisco United Charities, Inc.!!!

Leave it to George and the Killer?

Suddenly dumping enormous sums of money on some-one whose previous experience with money is worrying about how to make the mortgage and the car payments is a sure blueprint for disaster.

If we split it between George and the Killer, Ernie could handle the Killer's share, but George?

That will require some thought. Just as soon as this mess is over-hell, before it's over-I'm going to have to get with the goddamn lawyers....

Jesus Christ, Pickering, you are drunk!

You don't even know that Pick is dead, and you're wor-rying about what's going to happen to his inheritance.

Oh, Pick, goddamn it!

Why you and not me? My life's about over, and yours was just starting!

He felt a sudden pain in his stomach, and he was having trouble breathing, and his throat convulsed, and his eyes watered.

Jesus Christ, I'm crying!

Dear God, please let Pick be alive!

[THREE]

EVENING STAR HOTEL

TONGNAE, SOUTH KOREA

0605 5 AUGUST 1950

Captain Kenneth R. McCoy went from sleep to full wakefulness in no more than five seconds. It had nothing to do with where he was, or any subconscious perception of dan-ger. That was just the way he woke. Sometimes it annoyed his wife, who took anywhere from three to thirty minutes to be fully awake, and was not prepared to report, for example, what the guy at the garage had said about the condition of the brakes on the car, the moment she opened her eyes.

Without moving his head, McCoy looked around the room, establishing where he was. Next he looked at his wristwatch, establishing the time, and a moment later, kicked off the sheet covering him and swung his legs out of the bed.

He had slept naked, anticipating a hot and humid night. That hadn't happened. The hotel was not only close enough to the water to get a breeze from it, but some clever Orien-tal-he wondered if it was a clever Japanese or a clever Ko-rean; but whoever had built the "rest house" for the officers of the Emperor's army-had rigged some sort of power-less device that directed the breeze into the rooms.

He was in one of the better rooms-perhaps the best-in the hotel. It had its own bathroom, toilet, washbasin, and tub and shower, as opposed to most of the others, which had only toilets and washbasins, according to Major Kim Pak Su while conducting a tour of the place the night before.

McCoy tested the water, and after a moment it turned hot. He got a safety razor from his duffel bag and shaved while showering. When he returned to the bedroom, the bed had been stripped, and a freshly pressed set of utilities had been laid on it. And a freshly pressed T-shirt and drawers.

He wondered how many Marines in the 1st Brigade would wear freshly washed-much less pressed-utilities and underwear today. -

And he was just a little uncomfortable with the knowledge that someone in the hotel was watching him closely enough to know when he'd gotten out of bed, and that he hadn't heard anyone enter the room while he was showering.

He put on the underwear, then strapped his Fairbairn to his lower left arm, put on the utilities, and supped his bare feet into rubber sandals. Then he went looking for the din-ing room.

There were five oblong, six-place tables in the room. Major Kim, Lieutenant Taylor, and Master Gunner Zim-merman were sitting at one of them. The chair at the head of the table was empty. McCoy wondered if that was a co-incidence or if it had been left empty for him, as recogni-tion that he was in charge. The Marines recruited from the 1st Brigade were spread among the other tables.

They were, McCoy noticed, all wearing freshly laun-dered utilities.

Zimmerman rose as McCoy approached the table. After a moment, Major Kim got up, and finally Taylor.

"Good morning, sir," Zimmerman said.

That explained the empty chair at the head of the table.

It was Zimmerman's method of making the pecking order clear to all hands.

"Good morning, gentlemen," McCoy replied, as he sat down at the head of the table. "Please take your seats."

A young Korean woman in a white ankle-length dress and white apron immediately appeared with a pitcher of coffee. She was no beauty, but she was female and young, and McCoy made a mental note to pass the word to the Marines that the help was off-limits.

Breakfast was in keeping with what were apparently the standards of life in the hotel; it was not at all like what the rest of the Marines in Korea were getting. They were eating powdered eggs with chopped Spam off stainless-steel trays and drinking black coffee from canteen cups. McCoy was served two fried eggs and two slices of Spam on a china plate. Another plate held toast. There was both orange mar-malade and butter.

It was too much for McCoy to let pass without com-ment.

"I'm delighted the Navy has taken over the mess, Mr. Tay-lor," he said. "We Marines are not used to living like this."

"But you can get used to it in a hurry, right?" Taylor said. "Actually, you have Major Kim to thank."

"Then thank you, Major Kim," McCoy said, in Korean.

Kim shrugged to suggest thanks were not necessary.

"Major Dunston said whatever I could do to..."

"Did he get into what we're supposed to do here?"

"No, sir."

"A Marine pilot has been shot down," McCoy said. "Near Taejon. There is reason to believe he survived the crash and may still be alive. For reasons I can't get into, it is important that we get him back. Or have proof that he's dead."

"If he has been taken prisoner," Kim said, immediately, "we can probably find that out, and also, probably, where he is being held. But... the Communists often do not take prisoners...."

"And they don't keep records of which prisoners were shot and where," McCoy finished for him.

Kim nodded.

"Right after breakfast," McCoy said, "you and I are going into Pusan. Major Dunston's been working on this overnight, and maybe you'll be able to help," McCoy said.

"Yes, sir."

I think he swallowed that.

"If we can locate him," McCoy went on. "My men here are trained to operate behind the enemy's lines. We may try to go get him."

Major Kim said nothing.

He thinks that's a stupid idea. But I think he believes me, which is important.

"The junk here, if we decide to go after this pilot, would be useful in infiltrating the team," McCoy said. "So while we are in Pusan, Lieutenant Taylor is going to see what shape it's in. If there's something wrong with it, it will have to be repaired. If it's seaworthy, we'll take it out for a dry run as soon as we can. Maybe as soon as this afternoon. Time is important."

Major Kim nodded.

"On the dry run-the practice run, the rehearsal run- we'll take half of the Marines and eight or ten of your men with us," McCoy said.

"May I ask why?"

"In the Marine Corps, we try to make a dry run as much like the real thing as we can," McCoy said.

"I will tell my lieutenant to prepare the men," Kim said.

And he swallowed that, too. So far, so good.

"I don't know how much, if any, fuel is aboard the junk," Taylor said. "Or available here."

"Give that problem to Sergeant Jennings, Mr. Zimmer-man," McCoy said. "Have it solved by the time we get back from Pusan."

"Aye, aye, sir," Zimmerman said.

McCoy looked down at his plate and was surprised to see he had finished eating.

He stood up.

"Let's get this show on the road," he said.

[FOUR]

MARINE LIAISON OFFICE USAF

AIRFIELD K-l

PUSAN, KOREA

1105 5 AUGUST 1950

"The Badoeng Strait's COD isn't here yet, McCoy," Cap-tain Kenneth Overton said when McCoy and Zimmerman walked into his office.

"Colonel Dunn said `by twelve hundred,'" McCoy replied.

"But you have an envelope," Overton said, smiling somewhat smugly, and handed McCoy a business-size en-velope, with "Capt K. McCoy, USMC" written on it in pencil.

McCoy took it and opened it. There was a note, written in pencil.

K-l, 0800 5 AUG

McCoy: I want to know what's happened to Pick Pickering.

I know what his father really does for a living.

The PIO at Eighth Army will know where I am.

If I don't hear from you, I will write my story on what I do know.

Jeanette Priestly Chicago Tribune

"Shit," McCoy said, and handed the note to Zimmer-man.

"Oh, Jesus!" Zimmerman said.

"When was she here?" McCoy asked of Captain Over-ton.

"She was here twice. Last night, right after you were. And again this morning. She was asking about a Major Pickering."

"What was she asking about Pickering?"

"If I'd heard anything about him."

"And had you?"

"Isn't he the guy who's been busting all the locomo-tives?"

"That's all you know about him?"

"I had the feeling the lady has the hots for him. She said he was aboard the Badoeng Strait, and she wanted a ride out to her."

"And?"

"Last night, I told her there wouldn't be a COD until first thing this morning. She was back here at oh seven hundred. A COD from the Sicily landed at oh seven thirty and she leaned hard on the pilot to take her out to the Ba-doeng Strait."

"And?"

"She's a persuasive lady. Good-looking lady, too. The Sicily pilot caved in enough to get the Air Force to radio for permission. It was denied. Then she asked if I ever saw you around here."

"And you told her `yeah'?" McCoy asked, icily.

"I told her you'd been here."

"And that I would be back before noon?"

"No. Just that you came by sometimes. And then she wrote that note and told me to give it to you."

"What are you going to do, Ken?" Zimmerman asked.

"I know what I'd like to do to her," McCoy replied.

"You and every other Marine in Korea," Captain Over-ton said.

"I'm not talking about nailing her," McCoy said.

He pointed to the telephone on Overton's desk.

"Can I get the Eighth Army PIO on that?"

"You can try," Overton said.

"Ernie, go to Eighth Army. Get her. Take her out to the Evening Star."

"What if she doesn't want to come?"

"Take her out to the Evening Star," McCoy repeated. "I don't care how you do it."

"How are you going to get back there?"

"Dunston said he would send Major Kim out there in a Jeep. I'll have Kim pick me up here. And I'll call Eighth Army-if I can get through-and get word to Miss Priestly that you're on the way."

"You want her to see the Evening Star?"

"I don't want her to write a story based on what she thinks she knows."

"And if she asks about Pick?"

`Tell her I'll tell her everything she wants to know," Mc-Coy said.

Captain Overton touched McCoy's arm and pointed out the window. An Avenger had taxied up in front of the Base Operations building.

"There's your Badoeng Strait COD," Overton said.

"Get going, Ernie," McCoy said.

[FIVE]

EVENING STAR HOTEL

TONGNAE, SOUTH KOREA

1215 5 AUGUST 1950

When McCoy and Major Kim drove around the hotel to the pier, there was a U.S. Army water trailer backed up to the shore end of the pier behind one of the freshly painted USMC Jeeps. A white legend on it read "Potable Water ONLY!!!" But what was coming out of the faucet and be-ing fed into five-gallon jerry cans was obviously not water. As soon as one of the jerry cans was full, one of the South Korean national policemen carried it onto the pier, to the side of the junk, and hoisted it high enough so that another Korean on the junk could reach it and haul it aboard. Then an obviously empty jerry can was lowered over the side to the man on the pier, who carried it back to the "water trailer" and took up his position in line.

There were four men engaged in filling the jerry cans and carrying them to the junk, and they wasted little effort. Still, the trailer held five hundred gallons, which meant the procedure would have to be repeated one hundred times. McCoy wondered how long they had been at it.

"They brought the diesel about twenty minutes ago," Lieutenant Taylor called out, as if he had been reading Mc-Coy's mind.

McCoy looked up and saw Taylor leaning on the rail of the high stern.

"This is going to take a little time," Taylor added, and pointed to a wood-stepped rope ladder on the side of the junk forward of the stern.

McCoy got out of the Jeep and went to the ladder. He was hoping Major Kim would wait for an invitation to join him-he needed to talk to Taylor privately-but Kim fol-lowed him to the ladder.

What the hell, he's just trying to make himself useful.

McCoy climbed the ladder to the deck. There were three hatches, and all were open. He walked down the deck and looked into each. The farthest aft hold was just about empty. The center hold held a Caterpillar diesel engine and its fuel tanks, one on each side. They each looked larger than the water trailer on shore, which translated to mean the fuel capacity was over one thousand gallons, informa-tion that was useless unless one knew how much fuel the Cat diesel burned in an hour, and how far the junk would travel in that hour.

The forward hold was half full. There were a dozen wooden crates with rope handles, all marked as property of the Japanese Imperial Army. Three of them had legends saying they held ten Arisaka rifles; the others held ammu-nition for them.

McCoy pushed open a door in the forecastle and saw that it was combination bunking space and a "kitchen." There were crude bunks, eight in all, mounted on the bulk-heads. Against the forward bulkhead was a table. In the center of the space was a square brick stove, on which sat three large, round-bottomed cooking pans.

Woks, McCoy thought. I wonder who invented that pan? The Chinese? The Japs? The Koreans? They're all over the Orient.

Under one of the bunks he saw a wicker basket full of charcoal.

He walked aft, and pushed open a hatch leading to space under the high stern. There were three doors off a center corridor, and crude sets of stairs leading down and up to the open area where he had seen Taylor. He started up those, aware that Major Kim was still on his heels.

Taylor, who was still leaning on the rail, looked over his shoulder as McCoy came onto the deck.

McCoy saluted him.

"Permission to come aboard, sir?" he said.

"Granted," Taylor said, returned the salute, and then asked, "Is that what they call McCoy humor?"

"No," McCoy said. "I wanted to make the point that knowing a hell of a lot less than a Marine officer should know about things that float, you're in charge, Captain."

"This your first time on a junk?" Taylor asked, smiling.

"No, but this is the first time I didn't pretend that I knew all about junks and wasn't particularly impressed with what I was seeing."

Taylor chuckled and smiled.

"You want a quick familiarization lecture?"

"Please."

"Okay. This one, according to her stern board, was chris-tened'-maybe Confucius-ed?-the Wind of Good Fortune. She's about ten years old, I would guess, and I suspect she was made somewhere in China. Good craftsmanship, good wood. You don't often find that in Korean junks. The Cater-pillar, I'll bet, was installed in Macao. I found some papers in Portuguese, and the Macao shipbuilders have been cater-ing to the smuggler trade since Christ was a corporal. Nice installation. It cost the former owners a fortune. I suspect she'll make maybe thirteen, fourteen knots."

"And we have enough fuel to go how far?"

"I'll guess that Cat will burn ten, twelve gallons an hour. Say twelve. Hell, say fifteen-her hull may be six inches deep in barnacles. I figure we have twelve hundred gallons in those two tanks. Twelve hundred gallons divided by fif-teen is eighty hours' running time at a reasonable cruising speed-say, twelve knots. Eighty hours-provided the winds and tides are not really against us-at twelve knots is 960 miles."

"Major Kim, will you please excuse us for a minute?" McCoy said, as politely as he could. "I need a word with Lieutenant Taylor."

"Yes, of course," Kim replied, smiling. He came to at-tention for a brief moment, then went down the stairs.

McCoy waited until he appeared on the deck.

"In other words, we have enough fuel to reach the Tokchok-kundo islands?"

"Easily, even running at full bore," Taylor replied.

"At regular cruising speed, how long will that take us?"

"It's about four hundred miles from here. At twelve knots-I think we can do that without sweat, but I won't know until we're actually at sea-that's four hundred di-vided by twelve: thirty-three point forever. Call it thirty-four hours."

"And at fourteen knots?"

"Call it thirty," Taylor said. "But I'd rather not push her unless I have to."

"What I want to do as soon as we can is get to Tokchok-kundo, get ashore, have a look around, and get the SCR-300 up and operating."

Taylor nodded his understanding.

"Are you planning on staying?"

"I'm going to leave Zimmerman there, and Major Kim. If Kim's there, he can't tell Dunston what we have in mind."

"Did the Marines come through with aerial photo-graphs?" Taylor asked.

"Lots of them," McCoy said. "But until I can compare them against maps, I don't know what I'm looking at."

"Charts, Captain McCoy, charts."

"I beg the captain's pardon," McCoy said, smiling.

"You'll have thirty-four hours to do that," Taylor said. "We can shove off in about an hour. That soon enough?"

"We have to wait for a passenger," McCoy said.

"Am I allowed to ask who?"

McCoy reached into his pocket for Jeanette Priestly's note, and handed it to Taylor.

"Jesus!" Taylor said when he read it. "This is that female war correspondent who wrote that piece about you and Zimmerman?"

"Yeah."

"What's her connection with Pickering's son?"

"She knows him. The guy at K-l thinks she has the hots for him. I don't know how she found out what the general does for a living."

"Do I understand this? You want to take her along?"

McCoy nodded.

"Can I ask why?"

"Because I can't think of anything else to do with her," McCoy said. "I can't let her write a story saying who Pick-ering's father is."

"What makes you think she'll be willing to go?"

"She'll be on board when we sail, Captain."

Taylor looked at him a long moment, but said nothing.

"Captain," Major Kim called, and both Taylor and Mc-Coy walked to the railing and looked down at him.

"Captain, my sergeant reports the fuel tanks are full."

`Tell him thank you, please," Taylor called back, and then looked at McCoy.

McCoy turned from the railing and spoke softly, in En-glish.

"He was talking to you. He picked up on me making it clear you're the captain."

"Good man, I think," Taylor said.

"The trouble with good men is that they tend to be pissed when they find out you've been lying to them," Mc-Coy said.

"Your orders, Captain?" Major Kim called.

`Tell him to wait a minute," McCoy said.

"Stand by, please, Major," Taylor called, in Korean.

"We'll be taking Major Kim, and a dozen of his people, and their equipment," McCoy said. "Plus eight of the Marines and Zimmerman. And their equipment."

"Plus the lady war correspondent," Taylor interjected.

"Where do we put them all?"

"There's three cabins below," Taylor said. "One is the mess and kitchen for the officers. There's a captain's cabin, more or less-we can put the lady in there-and another cabin for you, me, Zimmerman, and Major Kim. The weather's nice. If it stays that way, we can sleep on deck. The officers up here, the men on the main deck."

"And if the weather is foul?"

"As soon as it starts to turn nasty, the men are going to have to go in the holds, with the hatch covers battened."

"That's not going to be much fun."

"It'll be more fun than capsizing," Taylor said.

"What are you going to do for a crew?" McCoy asked.

"Three of Kim's men were sailors. They can show the others what to do. There's not much to know about the rig-ging on a junk. The sails are square-Okay, oblong-and they're stiffened with bamboo. They're like Venetian blinds, you open-raise-them by pulling on a rope. There's no wheel, just this thing..."

He pointed to a six-inch-square handle, lashed to the stern.

"... the rudder. The rudder is huge; it also serves as the centerboard when you're under sail. Sometimes-to turn sharply-you need more than one man on it. Same thing when you're under way with the engine. There's one pro-peller, mounted forward of the rudder. All the power of the engine is directed at the rudder. If you can hold the rudder, you can make really sharp turns."

"I don't see any engine controls, or a compass," McCoy said.

Taylor walked to the forward rail and pulled backward on what McCoy had thought was a sturdy support for the railing. Inside was a control panel for the Caterpillar diesel engine, and a compass. They were chrome-plated, and completely out of place on the junk.

"Like I said, McCoy, Macao shipbuilders know what they're doing," Taylor said.

He reached down into the small compartment and threw several switches. The compass and the engine instrument dials lit up and became active. There was a red light-ob-viously a warning light of some kind.

McCoy was about to ask what it was when it went out. Taylor reached into the compartment again and pressed a button. There was a rumble, and then the diesel engine started.

"I'll be damned," McCoy said. "Very nice."

Taylor shut the engine off again.

"You're confident we can use this to make the land-ings?" he asked.

"Hell no, I'm not," Taylor replied, shaking his head. "I don't know much about the waters off Yonghung-do and Taemuui-do, but I've never seen a junk tied up at a pier ei-ther place. That makes me think the adjacent waters are too shallow, even at high tide, to take a junk's rudder. We're going to have to get boats somewhere."

"Jesus!"

"I was thinking we could get some from the Navy," Tay-lor said. "A couple of shore leave boats would be perfect."

"And asking for them would make the Navy very curi-ous about what we planned to do with them...."

"And we'd have to tow them from Kobe or Yokohama or someplace."

"We have to think about that," McCoy said. "Goddamn it!"

Taylor shrugged.

"I'm going ashore to see if I can find out where Zim-merman and that goddamned woman are," McCoy said. "And we better start loading everything we're taking with us. You tell Kim."

Taylor gave a thumbs-up sign, and McCoy started down the ladder to the main deck.

[SIX]

EVENING STAR HOTEL

TONGNAE, SOUTH KOREA

1625 5 AUGUST 1950

Master Gunner Zimmerman drove right to the pier, fol-lowed by a Jeep with a war correspondent sign mounted below the glass of its windshield. Zimmerman got out of his Jeep, and collected his Thompson and a can-vas musette bag from the Jeep.

Miss Jeanette Priestly of the Chicago Tribune, who was dressed in U.S. Army fatigues much too large for her and had her hair tucked up inside her fatigue cap, got out of her Jeep, then leaned over the rear seat and took a notebook and a Leica camera from a canvas bag and walked toward McCoy, who was leaning on a pier piling.

"What's going on, McCoy?" she greeted him, stopped, opened the Leica's leather case, and raised the camera to take a picture of him with the Wind of Good Fortune in the background.

McCoy put one hand, fingers extended, in front of his face, then extended the fingers of the other hand in an ob-scene gesture.

"You sonofabitch!" she said. There was a tone of admi-ration in her voice, then, smiling, she asked: "How long are you going to stand there with your hand in front of your face?"

"Until you put the camera away," he said.

After a moment, she closed the Leica's case and he took his hand from his face.

`Tell me about Pick Pickering," she said.

"If you take that camera out of the case again without permission, I'll take it away from you," he said.

"Jesus Christ!"

"Having said that, I think I can guarantee you some pic-tures for your newspaper," he said.

"Are you going to tell me about Pickering, or not?"

"Once we get under way," he said. "Get on the junk."

"The hell I will!"

"Suit yourself," he said, and started to walk down the pier.

After a moment, she went back to her Jeep, took a car-bine and a musette bag from it, and trotted after him. When she caught up with him, he mockingly bowed, and ges-tured that she should climb the ladder ahead of him.

When she had started up the ladder, McCoy signaled for Zimmerman to get the rest of her things from her Jeep.

The Marines lining the rail of the Wind of Good Fortune watched the female war correspondent climbing the ladder with great interest.

When-not without effort, she had the carbine, the Le-ica, and her musette bag all hanging around her neck-she finally made it to the deck, she found herself facing Lieu-tenant David R. Taylor, USNR.

She flashed him a dazzling smile.

"I'm Jeanette Priestly of the Chicago Tribune," she said.

"Welcome aboard," he said.

Jeanette smiled and waved at the Marines.

McCoy came over the rail.

"Permission to get under way, sir?" Taylor asked.

"Granted," McCoy said.

Taylor walked aft and went up the exterior ladder to the junk's stern. Jeanette followed him. She did not see Zim-merman come aboard carrying the rest of her things.

Taylor began to issue orders in Korean.

McCoy came up the ladder.

"Permission to come on the bridge, sir?" he asked.

"Granted," Taylor said.

Taylor opened the cover of the control panel and started the engine, which fascinated Miss Priestly.

Korean sailors, assisted by Marines, hauled on ropes, and three sails rose up their masts like so many Venetian blinds.

Taylor unlashed the rudder, then engaged the engine. The Wind of Good Fortune moved almost sidewards away from the pier.

"What's going on?" Jeanette asked, in her most charm-ing voice.

No one replied.

Taylor got the Wind of Good Fortune headed out to deep water, then shut down the engine.

The Wind of Good Fortune's sails filled with wind, and she began to act like a sailing vessel.

"Ah, come on, McCoy, tell me what's going on," Jeanette asked, entreatingly.

"In just a minute," McCoy said. "I've got to have a word with Major Kim first. Enjoy the sights."

He went down the ladder to the main deck and walked forward to Major Kim, who was standing midway between the stern and the forecastle. McCoy had given a lot of thought about how he was going to deal with Major Kim, and had finally decided that the old saw, "When in doubt, tell the truth," seemed to be not only the best, but really the only, solution.

When he reached Kim, the Korean national police offi-cer looked at him expectantly.

"Major, we're headed for Tokchok-kundo," McCoy said.

Kim nodded, and waited for him to go on.

"There is a strong possibility that General MacArthur will make an amphibious invasion at Inchon," McCoy said. "There are two islands in the Flying Fish Channel, now oc-cupied by the enemy, from which the ships of the invasion fleet could be brought under artillery fire-"

"Yonghung-do and Taemuui-do," Kim interrupted, nod-ding. ,

McCoy was surprised, even startled, that Kim knew of the islands.

"-and should be taken as quickly and as quietly as pos-sible," McCoy went on, hoping that his surprise had not been evident on his face or in his voice.

It apparently had been.

"Major Dunston," Kim said, sensing an explanation was in order. "When there was talk of Operation Bluehearts-"

McCoy was again surprised. This time he blurted: "You knew about Operation Bluehearts?"

Kim nodded. "When that looked possible-not likely, but possible-Major Dunston had me look into the Flying Fish Channel. We saw the danger Yonghung-do and Taemuui-do posed."

"How do you mean, `saw'?"

"I went there on a fishing boat, Captain McCoy," Kim said, "to both Yonghung-do and Taemuui-do, and looked around."

"I didn't know that," McCoy said.

What the hell, McCoy, you decided this was "when all else fails, tell the truth" time.

"If Major Dunston filed an intel report..."

"He did," Major Kim said.

"I didn't see it. I got my-more importantly, my superi-ors got their-Yonghung-do and Taemuui-do intelligence from Lieutenant Taylor. I'm positive that General Picker-ing never saw Dunston's report."

"That's curious," Kim said.

"Dunston's report was filed before General Pickering took over as CIA Assistant Director for Asia," McCoy said, thinking aloud.

"Yes," Kim agreed.

"General Pickering has ordered me to take Yonghung-do and Taemuui-do as quickly and as quietly as possible," McCoy said.

Kim nodded.

"I decided," McCoy went on, "that Major Dunston didn't have the need to know about this operation, and I didn't tell him about it. And I kept you in the dark, Major Kim, because I knew you worked for Major Dunston, and might feel duty-bound to tell him what we're up to."

Kim nodded.

"When he hears that the Wind of Good Fortune has sailed with you and your Marines and me and my men..."

"He will probably make a very good guess about what we're doing," McCoy said. "I'm sorry about that. But the fewer people who know about this operation, the lesser the chance that the North Koreans will hear about it."

Kim nodded, but said nothing.

"I had to keep the Marines in the dark, too," McCoy said.

"Sir?"

"Major, I'm a captain. I don't think you should call me `Sir'-the other way around."

"You are in command," Kim argued. "Under that cir-cumstance, I suggest we address one another as `Captain' and `Major.'"

"In front of the men," McCoy said. "Between us, I would be pleased if you call me `Ken.'"

Kim looked into McCoy's eyes for a moment.

"My given names are Pak Su. My friends call me `Su.' I would be pleased if, between us, you called me `Su.'"

He put out his hand.

One of the first things I learned in Shanghai was that when an Oriental smiles and offers you his hand, you should quickly put the other hand on your wallet.

I don't think that applies here. I think this guy is an hon-orable man, an honorable officer, who has just come on board.

"Thank you, Su," McCoy said.

"You were saying something about the Corps of Marines?" Su said.

It took McCoy a moment to remember what he had said.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "The Marine aircraft aboard our air-craft carriers are going to provide us, once a day, with aerial photographs of the islands in the Flying Fish Channel. I didn't want to run the risk of a Marine pilot being captured and knowing that we were interested in any particular island. So I didn't tell them about Yonghung-do and Taemuui-do."

"When will you get the first photographs?"

"We already have the first photographs," McCoy said, and gestured toward the stern.

"I think it would be useful if I saw them," Su said.

"I know it would be useful if you could point out to me which of the islands are Yonghung-do and Taemuui-do,"

McCoy said, and waved his hand as a signal for the South Korean officer to follow him to the stern.

Jeanette Priestly was waiting for McCoy at the head of the ladder.

"Now?" she asked.

"In just a minute," McCoy said.

Visibly annoyed, she followed him as he went to his musette bag and took from it the envelope of photographs flown to Pusan on the Sicily's COD Avenger.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Lieutenant Taylor was going to turn the captain's cabin over to you," McCoy said. "I've just decided we need it more than you do."

"What am I going to need a cabin for?"

"Because it will be four-maybe five-days before we get back to Pusan," McCoy said.

"What?" she asked, incredulously.

"Captain," McCoy said to Taylor, "I suggest we turn your cabin into the operations room, and give Miss Priestly one of the other cabins."

"Permission granted," Taylor said, smiling.

"If you think I'm going to spend the night on this thing..."

"You're a pretty good swimmer, are you?" McCoy asked, and waved his hand at the now far-off shore.

Zimmerman chuckled. Jeanette glared at him.

"Ernie, take Major Kim to the captain's cabin and have him explain these photographs to you," McCoy ordered.

"Aye, aye, sir," Zimmerman said.

McCoy turned to Jeanette.

"Okay," he said. "Now's now. Would you rather talk here, or in your cabin?"

"What you're going to do, McCoy, is tell this man to turn this thing around and let me off of it."

"No, what I'm going to do now is go down and have a look at your cabin. If you want to come there to talk, fine. If you don't, enjoy the view."

Zimmerman chuckled again, and Jeanette glared at him again.

McCoy reached into his musette bag again and came out with a bottle of Famous Grouse wrapped in a clean T-shirt.

"What's that for?" Jeanette asked.

"It's 1700," McCoy said. "The cocktail hour. Once a day on this voyage, we get one drink. I'm going to have mine now. You can have yours now, or you can stay up here and enjoy the view."

Carrying the bottle, he went down the interior ladder and walked into the smallest of the three cabins.

A minute later, Jeanette walked into it after him.

He stepped around her and closed the door. She looked at him with her eyebrows raised.

"Zimmerman-no, Sergeant Jennings-got some air mattresses from the Army," McCoy said. "This shouldn't be too uncomfortable."

She looked at him with mixed incredulity and anger.

He handed her the bottle of Famous Grouse.

"I don't want a goddamn drink, goddamn you!"

"You may need one," McCoy said. "Pick's been shot down, behind North Korean lines, near Taegu. We don't know whether he's still alive."

She looked at him for a long moment, then reached for the whiskey. She unscrewed the cap, took a pull, and handed it back to him.

"What happened?" she asked, levelly.

"He was shooting up locomotives. Best guess is he got hit by either antiaircraft or by pieces of the locomotive. Colonel Dunn flew over the site right afterward. It was on fire, but the cockpit was empty. We think he was probably in one piece when he put it down."

"And is now a prisoner?" she asked calmly.

"The odds are... ," McCoy began, and stopped when she took the whiskey bottle from his hand again. He didn't say anything when she took another pull and handed the bottle back again.

"That's my drink for tomorrow, Okay?" she said. "You were saying?"

"The odds are that the North Koreans would like to have a Marine aviator, a major, to interrogate."

"Especially if they knew his father was the CIA guy for Asia," she agreed.

"We don't think they know that," McCoy said. "And ob-viously, I could not permit you to write a story telling them."

"What are you going to do, keep me a prisoner until the end of the war?"

He didn't reply.

"Goddamn you, McCoy," she went on. "All you had to do was tell me."

"I couldn't take that chance," he said.

"And what is this, some kind of rescue operation?"

"There are two islands in the Flying Fish Channel lead-ing to Inchon from which the North Koreans could bring artillery fire to bear on the invasion fleet headed for In-chon. What we're going to try to do is take them now, very quietly, using South Korean national police, in such a way that they won't guess it's a prelude to an amphibious inva-sion."

She took a moment to consider that.

"That would be a good story," Jeanette said. "And, under these circumstances, it would be an exclusive, wouldn't it?"

He nodded.

"Not as good a story-not one that would get as much front-page play as `CIA Chief's Marine Hero Son Shot Down in Korea,' of course-but a pretty good little story."

McCoy didn't reply.

"But, obviously, I couldn't write about Pick, could I?"

"Why `obviously'?"

"You dumb sonofabitch, you don't understand, do you?"

"Understand what?"

"I'm in love with the sonofabitch!"

After a moment, McCoy asked: "When did that hap-pen?"

"It probably happened in the hotel, the night I met him," she said. "Or maybe when he came back from that first sor-tie, kissed me, and I practically dragged him to bed."

"I didn't know," McCoy said. "I'm sorry."

"But I didn't know until just now," she said. "When you told me."

McCoy said nothing.

"Oh, Jesus, McCoy!" she said.

He reached out to touch her shoulder. He felt her shud-der, and the next thing either of them knew, she was sob-bing shamelessly in his arms, and he was patting her comfortingly.

Chapter Fifteen

[ONE]

ABOARD WIND OF GOOD FORTUNE

34 DEGREES 18 MINUTES NORTH LATITUDE,

126 DEGREES 30 MINUTES EAST

LONGITUDE

THE YELLOW SEA

0445 6 AUGUST 1950

They had not wanted to attract attention to themselves by leaving Pusan Harbor under power-McCoy guessed there were probably a hundred North Korean agents in Pusan-so they had sailed out into deep water. Once out of sight of Pusan, they'd lowered the sails, started the diesel, and "steamed"-Lieutenant Taylor's term-as fast as Taylor thought prudent, through the night.

McCoy volunteered to relieve Taylor at the tiller for however long he wanted, but Taylor said he'd catch up on his sleep when they reached Tokchok-kundo, and sug-gested that McCoy get as much sleep as he could.

When wakened by the first light that came through the small window-he couldn't think of it as a port, since it was wooden, thin-glassed, and even had a small curtain- McCoy went to the bridge and found both Zimmerman and Jeanette Priestly were already there.

A shoreline was just visible to starboard. He guessed the distance to be four miles. He thought he could smell bacon frying.

"Well, Captain Kidd has finally woken," Jeanette greeted him.

"I prefer to think of myself as Jean Lafitte," McCoy replied. "He was one of the good pirates, we won that war, and he was pardoned for his crimes, and lived happily ever after. They hung Captain Kidd."

Taylor chuckled.

"Is that bacon I smell?" McCoy asked. "And who do you have to know to get coffee?"

"Me," Zimmerman said, and pointed to the deck where an olive-drab Thermos chest on which was stenciled d co. 24TH inf was lashed to the railing.

McCoy went to it and opened it. It held two canteens, presumably full of coffee, and a stack of aluminum can-teen cups. He helped himself, then offered the canteen cup to Taylor, who nodded and smiled.

"Breakfast will be served shortly," Zimmerman said. "Bacon-and-egg sandwiches."

"All the comforts of home," McCoy said. "What else could anyone ask for?"

"A flush toilet would be nice," Jeanette said.

"Where are we?" McCoy asked, handing Taylor the cof-fee.

"Well, if we are where I hope we are, we made it through the Cheju Strait, and are now in the Yellow Sea, heading north, and it's decision time."

"Let me get myself a cup of coffee before I start making decisions," McCoy said, and went back to the Thermos chest. Then he went and stood by Taylor.

"I meant it, you know, when I said you were the cap-tain," McCoy said.

Taylor didn't reply directly.

"It's getting light," he said. "I don't know if we're going to meet anybody out here-and there would be less chance we would if we went another couple of miles offshore- but if we did meet somebody, using the diesel, questions would be asked. Our speed will be cut in half if we raise the sails. Decision time."

"We have to get to Tokchok-kundo as soon as we can," McCoy thought aloud. "Operative words: `have to get to' and `as soon as we can.' The options conflict."

"Your decision, McCoy."

"I think `as soon as we can' justifies a certain risk."

"In other words, keep the diesel running?"

"If we run into a navy vessel, ours, British, or South Ko-rean," McCoy said, "they'd probably fire a shot across our bow and stop us. We could talk our way out of that."

"All these waters are closed to all but local fishermen," Taylor said. "If we get spotted by a reconnaissance air-plane, all they're going to see is a junk under power. Local fishermen don't have powered junks. If I were a pilot, I'd think North Koreans."

"Why?"

"Because I would have been told if a friendly vessel was going to be in the area."

"Well, let's hope if we get spotted by one of our guys, he'll make a low and slow pass before blowing us out of the water. I don't see how we can justify moving at six knots when we can make twelve."

"What about her?" Taylor asked.

"She's a war correspondent, right? They get in the line of fire."

"I like her," Taylor said. "As a person, I mean."

"Yeah, me too," McCoy said, without thinking.

I'll be damned. I mean that.

McCoy saw that Taylor, with an effort, was making a major course change with the tiller, heading away from the coastline.

Ten minutes later, the Wind of Good Fortune made an-other course correction, and McCoy saw they were now headed north. He looked at the landmass.

"Mr. McCoy!" Taylor called, trying to sound like Charles Laughton in Mutiny on the Bounty.

McCoy turned and then walked to him.

"You called, Captain?"

"You have the conn, sir," Taylor said.

"You better tell me what to do with it, Captain."

"Steer the course we're on," Taylor said, pointing to the compass.

"Aye, aye, sir," McCoy replied, and put his hand on the smooth wood of the tiller.

Taylor went below and immediately returned with an air mattress and two sleeping bags, with which he quickly made himself a bed on the deck and lay down on it.

And then he went to sleep, without even waiting for their egg-sandwich breakfast.

When, a few minutes later, breakfast arrived, Jeanette took an egg sandwich from another Army Thermos chest and handed it to McCoy.

"Thank you."

"When are we going to get wherever we're going?" she asked.

He did the arithmetic in his head-so many miles to go at so many knots-and concluded that the voyage would take just about twenty-four hours.

"We're going-I thought I told you-to an island called Tokchok-kundo, and the way I figure it, we should get there between four and five tomorrow morning."

She nodded.

McCoy had another thought, and repeated it aloud.

"It'll still be dark at 0400, and I don't think Taylor will want to dock this thing in the dark, so it will probably be later, maybe a couple of hours later."

"And when we get off the Queen Mary, then what?"

"The first thing we do is get the SCR-300 up and running," McCoy said. "Kim says there is a diesel generator on the island, but probably little-or no-fuel. We brought fuel, and also a small, gas-powered generator that'll work-if we're lucky-for a couple of hours, if we have to use it."

"What does SCR stand for?"

"Signal Corps Radio," McCoy said.

Jeanette took a notebook from her pocket and wrote that down.

"And once it's up and running, then what?"

"We radio Tokyo and let them know we're here, and see if they have anything for us."

"Like maybe word about Pick?" she asked.

"If there's word about Pick, General Pickering will pass it on," McCoy said.

"And then?"

"We're going to unload the stuff we brought with us, take an inventory of what's on Tokchok-kundo that we can use, and start planning to take Taemuui-do and Yonghung-do."

"Those are the islands in the Flying Fish Channel," Jeanette asked.

McCoy nodded.

"You know how to spell them?" she asked, taking out her notebook again.

"The more information you have, the more I'm tempted to leave you on Tokchok-kundo until this operation is over."

She met his eyes.

"And you'd do just that, wouldn't you?" she asked. "How did a nice girl like Ernestine Sage get involved with a ruthless bastard like you?"

"She was lucky, I guess," McCoy said.

"I thought I had made it plain that I now have a personal interest in this war," Jeanette said.

"I don't know how far I can trust you," McCoy said. "If at all."

"Okay. Leave me on the fucking island if you think you have to. But spell the fucking islands for me now."

"When it gets light, Taylor has charts with the islands identified. I'm not sure of the spelling."

"You're going to invade islands you can't even spell?" she asked.

"We're Marines-we can do anything," McCoy said.

"The sad thing is you really believe that," she said. "And after you get the Queen Mary unloaded, and make your plans to invade the unspellable islands, then what?"

`Taylor and I go back to Pusan with a couple of Koreans for crew. Everybody else-probably including you-stays on the island, and starts training the Koreans for the opera-tion. Taylor and I've got a lot to do in Pusan, and maybe in Tokyo, too."

"For instance?"

"Well... Jeanette, you understand I'm serious about leav-ing you on Tokchok-kundo? And the more you know...."

"I'd stay on that fucking island forever if I thought it would help Pick," she said. "Okay?"

"Okay. That's settled. We're going to need boats to make the assault," McCoy said, "which means (a) we have to find boats, and (b) find some way to get them to Tokchok-kundo."

"What kind of boats? How many?" she asked.

What the hell, as long as I'm physically sitting on her, and she has no access to communications, it doesn't mat-ter how much she knows. And talking an operation like this through is always a good idea. You almost always come up with something you didn't think of.

So he told her what kind of boats, and how many of them, they were going to need. And everything else she asked him.

[TWO]

THE DEWEY SUITE

THE IMPERIAL HOTEL

TOKYO, JAPAN

1730 6 AUGUST 1950

When the knock at the door came, Captain George F. Hart, USMCR, was sprawled on a couch in the sitting room, reading a paperback copy of Mickey Spillane's My Gun Is Quick.

He went quickly to the door and pulled it open.

Major General Ralph Howe was in the corridor, dressed as Hart was, in a tieless uniform shirt and trousers.

"Professional reading, George?" Howe asked.

"I can't believe this thing," Hart said.

"Maybe that's why they call it fiction," Howe said. "Where's your boss?"

Hart pointed to the bedroom.

"I hope he's asleep," Hart said, and added: "The drinks I fed him at the cocktail hour were stiff ones."

Howe's eyebrows rose.

"Not drunk," Hart said. "I've never seen him drunk."

"I have to talk to him, George," Howe said.

"Yes, sir," Hart said, tossed My Gun Is Quick onto the couch, and went to Pickering's door. He knocked twice and then went in without waiting.

Pickering-also dressed in only a uniform shirt and trousers-was lying on his bed.

"Sorry to disturb you, boss," Hart said.

"No problem," Pickering said. "I've already counted the kimonoed ladies on the wallpaper twice. What's up?"

"General Howe, sir."

Pickering swung his feet out of bed and walked into the sitting room in his stocking feet.

"Sorry to wake you, Flem," Howe said.

"I was awake," Pickering said. "Would you like a drink?"

"I'd love one, but this may not be the time," Howe said.

"I had a telephone call from Harriman. They just landed at Haneda, and they're coming here to see us. They want to see us both, and separately."

"They meaning Harriman and Ridgway?" Pickering asked.

Howe nodded.

"Get us some coffee, George, while I put my shoes on," Pickering ordered.

"Aye, aye, sir."

"You all right, Flem?" Howe asked.

"Meaning am I plastered? No. I gave getting plastered some serious thought and decided it wasn't the smart thing to do."

Howe followed Pickering and leaned on the bedroom door as Pickering put his shoes on.

"The other day, McCoy's wife said she knew Harriman. Do you?"

Pickering nodded.

"That's probably why he said he wants to see you, first," Howe said.

"We're not pals," Pickering said. "I've met him, oh, a bunch of times over the years. My wife knows him better than I do. And can't stand him."

"What's he like?"

"You never met him?"

"Only briefly. Truman is impressed with him."

"Interesting man. His father died when he was eighteen, leaving him the Union Pacific Railroad. And the Southern Pacific. He was our ambassador to Russia during the Sec-ond War. I always thought that was Roosevelt playing Machiavelli again, sending one of the richest men in Amer-ica to be ambassador to the Communists."

"I got the feeling that he was one of the first-and very few-of that bunch around Roosevelt to warn Truman that Uncle Joe "The Friendly Bear' Stalin was a real sonofabitch," Howe said.

"Could be," Pickering said, grunting as he tied his shoelaces. "He's working for Truman. Most of the rest of that bunch, thank God, is gone."

He stood up and walked into the bathroom.

"Five o'clock shadow," he said. "I don't know if Ernie Sage thought that line up, but it's made him a hell of a lot of money."

"Ernie Sage?" Howe asked, walking across the bedroom to stand in the bathroom door.

"McCoy's father-in-law," Pickering said. "First, Ameri-can Personal Pharmaceuticals-that was actually Ernie's father-made men ashamed of having beards, and then started selling them safety razors and shaving cream. You ever think about how stupid shaving is?"

Howe chuckled.

"You ever have a beard?" he asked.

"I had a beard from the time I got out of the Corps after the First War until the day I got married. Literally, the day I got married. Patricia said she wouldn't marry me with `that fur on your face,' and I believed her. I should have held my ground."

"From what I've seen of her, she's a formidable lady," Howe said. "You said before she doesn't like Harriman?"

"Can't stand him."

"Why?"

"Patricia has always had the odd notion that men should not have carnal knowledge of ladies to whom they are not joined in holy matrimony," Pickering said, as he lathered his face.

"I wonder where they get that silly idea," Howe said.

"And the sin is compounded when the chap boffing the lady to whom he is not married is himself married."

"Of course," Howe said. "You're talking around Harri-man? He looks-and acts-like the Chairman of the Vestry."

"And he probably is," Pickering said.

"But?"

"During the war, Patricia was in London a good deal- she was on the War Snipping Board. She kept an apartment in Claridge's Hotel. Claridge's was where Ambassador Har-riman stayed when he flew in from Moscow to confer with Eisenhower and, incidentally, to boff Pamela Churchill."

"Pamela Churchill?"

"Winston's daughter-in-law," Pickering said. "His son Randolph's wife."

"I never heard this before," Howe said.

"Well, it was hardly a secret," Pickering said. "I heard about it over here, in one of Wild Bill Donovan's Top Se-cret monthly reports on Important World Events, before Patricia told me. And if Wild Bill knew about Harriman and his girlfriend, then Roosevelt did. You were in Europe during the war, Ralph. You ever hear about Eisenhower's `driver,' the English girl he had commissioned into the U.S. Army as a captain?"

Howe nodded.

"My God, I am running off at the mouth, aren't I?" Pick-ering said. "Maybe George's drinks were stronger than I thought."

"Indelicate question," Howe said. "You ever hear any-thing about the Viceroy?"

"Not a word. And I would have. Of course, it's a lot eas-ier to be faithful to your wife if she's with you. What did Oscar Wilde say, `Celibacy is the most unusual of all the perversions'?"

"If you don't ask me about my fidelity while overseas defending God, Mother, and Apple Pie," Howe said, "I won't ask you about yours."

Pickering chuckled.

"I think what really annoyed Patricia was that Harriman apparently didn't give a damn who knew about the Churchill woman, which had to be very embarrassing for Mrs. Harriman."

"What does it say in the Good Book, Flem? `Judge not, lest ye be judged'?"

"I've never met a woman who got that far in reading the Bible," Pickering said.

He splashed water on his face, wiped it with a towel, and then splashed on aftershave.

"Well, there we go. My shameful five o'clock shadow having been shorn, and smelling like a French whore, I am now prepared to meet with the ambassador. And Ken Mc-Coy's father-in-law is just a little bit richer."

"When do you expect to hear from McCoy?" Howe asked.

"When he has something to tell me," Pickering said. "He's very good at what he does, Ralph. My father taught me to get out of the way of people who know what they're doing, and let them do it."

Howe nodded.

"I'd better put a tie and my tunic on," Pickering said.

"I've been thinking about that," Howe said. "I didn't particularly like Harriman's tone of voice."

"What?"

"He was giving orders," Howe said. "As if he had that right."

"Doesn't he?"

"And if he walks in here and finds us all dressed up in our general's suits," Howe said, "shoes shined, et cetera- and one of us freshly shaved and smelling like a French whore-he will have established the pecking order as he wants it. Harriman will be the exalted ambassador dealing with a couple of unimportant lower-ranking generals who may have some information he may find useful."

"Isn't that what we are?"

"Flem, what it says on our orders-which are signed by Harry Truman-is that we are on a mission for him. I don't know about you, but I haven't had word from the President that I'm supposed to place myself at the disposal of this guy, just that he's coming."

Pickering didn't reply.

"What about you?" Howe pursued.

Pickering shook his head, "no."

"Harry Truman sent me here to do a job for him-this isn't Ralph Howe's ego in high gear-and I don't think I can do that job if Harriman thinks I am-we are-just a couple of guys whose function is to assist him in his mis-sion. More important, that he can listen to what we have to say, and ignore it if it's not what he wants to hear."

"Yeah," Pickering said thoughtfully.

"I think the word is agenda" Howe said. "And I don't think ours is necessarily locked in step with his."

Pickering nodded.

"You know him well enough to call him by his first name?" Howe asked.

Pickering considered that a moment.

"Why not?"

"Do you ever call the Viceroy `Douglas'?"

"Not often," Pickering said. "Sometimes, on private oc-casions, when no one, not even his wife, is there, I do. I call her Jean, which greatly annoys the Palace Guard."

"When you mention the Viceroy in conversation tonight, refer to him as `Douglas,'" Howe said. "Are we agreed on this, Flem?"

Pickering nodded again.

Howe smiled.

"And I will manage at least several times to forget my status in life and refer to our President and Commander-in-Chief as `Harry,'" Howe said.

[THREE]

When Master Sergeant Charley Rogers, wearing khakis, and with his tie pulled down, answered the knock at the door, Major General Ralph Howe, USAR, Brigadier Gen-eral Fleming Pickering, USMCR, and Captain George F. Hart, all in their shirtsleeves, all looked toward it from the table at which they were sitting, playing poker.

"Gentlemen," Colonel Sidney Huff announced, "Am-bassador Harriman and General Ridgway."

"Come on in, Averell," Pickering called. "How was the flight?"

Harriman came into the room, and Pickering remembered what Howe had said about Harriman looking like the Chair-man of the Vestry: He was a tall, slim, balding man with sharp features. His eyebrows were full and almost startlingly black.

He walked toward the table, and Pickering and Howe rose to their feet.

"Good to see you, Fleming," Harriman said, offering his hand. "When we can have a moment alone, I have a mes-sage and a small package from Patricia."

"You know Ralph, don't you, Averell?" Pickering asked.

"Yes, of course," Harriman said. "How are you, General?"

General Matthew B. Ridgway was now in the room, walking toward the table. He was a large and muscular man, and when Pickering met his bright and intelligent eyes, he remembered what MacArthur had said about Ridgway being "one of the finest brains in the Army."

Colonel Sidney Huff and a lieutenant colonel carrying a briefcase and wearing the aiguillette of an aide-de-camp came in and stood by the door.

"It's good to see you again, sir," Howe said, offering his hand to Ridgway.

"How are you, Ralph?" Ridgway said.

"You don't know Pickering, do you?" Howe said.

"No, I don't," Ridgway said, offering Pickering his hand. "How do you do, General?"

"How do you do, sir?" Pickering said, and then turned to `Harriman: "Are you hungry, Averell? Did they feed you on the plane? A drink, perhaps?"

"I could use a little taste," Harriman said.

"General?" Pickering asked Ridgway.

"Please," Ridgway said. "I don't know what time it is according to my body clock, but it's obviously 1700 some-where."

"Charley," Howe ordered. "Fix drinks, please."

"George, call downstairs and have them send up a large order of hors d'oeuvres," Pickering ordered. "We'll decide about dinner later." He turned to Huff. "Come on in, Sid," he said.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Ridgway said. "This is Colonel James, my aide."

"We're trying to come up with a term to describe Charley and George," Howe said. "Charley was my first sergeant when I was commanding a company, and George-who is a captain of homicide when he's not a Marine-was with Flem all through the second war. He was with Flem on the first plane to land in Japan after the Emperor decided to sur-render."

"With your permission, sir, I will leave now, and report to the Supreme Commander that you have been safely de-livered here."

Ridgway made a gesture with his hand signifying he could leave.

"You have my number, Colonel, in case you need any-thing at all. And the car will be here from 0800," Huff added, to Ridgway's aide.

"Yes, sir. Thank you," Colonel James said.

Huff left.

"Sid's been Douglas's chief dog-robber forever," Picker-ing said. "No offense, Colonel."

"None taken, sir," James said, smiling. "I'm familiar with the term."

"Gentlemen..." Charley Rogers said, and they looked at him. He was at a sideboard loaded with whiskey bottles.

"Scotch for me, please," Harriman said.

"I'm a bourbon drinker," Ridgway said.

"Colonel?" Rogers asked James, who looked at Ridg-way for guidance.

"Jack usually drinks scotch," Ridgway said.

"Scotch it is," Rogers said.

"You were on the first plane, were you, Captain?" Ridg-way asked Hart.

"Yes, sir."

"That must have been interesting," Ridgway said.

"The streets from the airport were lined with Japanese- soldiers, sailors, and civilians standing side by side. They bowed as the car drove us here," Hart said. "Very interest-ing."

"I presume both you and Master Sergeant Rogers have all the security clearances required?" Ridgway asked.

'Top Secret/White House," Howe answered for him. "And we have our own communications with the White House."

"You understand, I had to ask," Ridgway said. "Well, that means we can get right down to business, doesn't it?"

"Give me a moment alone with General Pickering first, please," Harriman said.

"Certainly," Ridgway said.

"We can use my bedroom," Pickering said, and pointed to that door.

Harriman opened the door and went through it, and Pickering followed him.

"I saw Patricia in the Foster Lafayette literally on my way to the airport," Harriman said. "She asked me to give you her love-and this."

He handed a small jewelry box to Pickering, who opened it.

The box had been designed for a ring. In it, stuck into the small slot designed to hold a ring, was a small silver object on a thin silver chain. There was also a sheet of jew-eler's tissue.

"My God, I thought this thing was long lost," Pickering said, taking the object in his hands. "It's an Episcopal ser-viceman's cross. Patricia gave it to me when I went off to World War Two."

"There's two more in the tissue," Harriman said. "I am under orders to tell you they are to be delivered to your son and a Captain McCoy."

"That may prove a little difficult," Pickering said.

"Excuse me?"

"Captain McCoy is now somewhere behind enemy lines," McCoy said. "And my son-our son-was shot down just after noon August second."

"Good God! My dear fellow, I didn't know!"

"There is some hope, some faint hope, that he is still alive. He went down behind the enemy's lines near Taegu. Another Marine flew over the site shortly afterward, and reported the cockpit was empty."

"You think he may have been captured?"

Pickering shrugged.

"Capture is better than the alternative," Pickering said. "The enemy has shot a lot of American prisoners-at least a thousand, almost certainly more-out of hand."

"If he is a prisoner... will that compromise you, Pick-ering?"

Pickering didn't reply.

"Forgive me, I should not have asked that."

"No, Averell, you shouldn't have asked that," Pickering said. "Thank you for bringing this to me."

He held up the serviceman's cross, then draped it around his neck. He closed the jewelry box and slipped it into his pocket, and then he walked back into the sitting room.

Harriman followed him a moment later.

"It has always been my experience when faced with a difficult situation to deal with it as quickly as possible," Harriman said.

Everyone looked at him curiously.

"General Ridgway," Harriman said. "General Pickering has just told me his son is missing in action."

"Oh, God!" Ridgway said. "General, I'm so sorry."

"Thank you," Pickering said.

"The President, in my judgment, under the circum-stances, will have to be informed," Harriman said.

"The President knows," Howe said.

"Indeed?" Harriman asked. "You're sure of that?"

"I called him myself and told him," Howe said.

"And his reaction?"

"He asked me how General Pickering was taking it, and I told him, and he said to use my judgment whether or not to express his deep personal regret. I decided that General Pickering didn't need any more expressions of sympathy."

"That's all?" Harriman asked.

"What Harry said to me, Mr. Ambassador," Howe said, coldly, "was `use your judgment, Ralph. If telling him I'm really goddamn sorry will help, tell him. If not, don't.' That's practically verbatim. And that's all he had to say. Is that clear enough?"

"Yes, of course," Harriman said. "I meant no offense."

There was a moment's awkward silence, and then Gen-eral Ridgway said, "The ambassador and I will be meeting with General MacArthur in the morning. There are some things that I think you should know, and may not, and there are some things I know you know that we don't know, and should, before that meeting. May I suggest we get on with this?"

There was a knock at the door. Hart opened it, and a waiter rolled in a cart on which an enormous display of hors d'oeuvres was arranged.

"Is this place secure?" Ridgway asked.

"Charley found some microphones," Howe said. "They may have been Japanese leftovers, or not. Anyway, both Charley and Sergeant Keller, our cryptographer, have gone over it-and keep going over it, and Charley's and my suite-and as far as we know, it's secure."

" `Or not'?" Ridgway quoted.

"I don't think the KGB has bugged this place, General," Howe said. "And I also don't think the KGB would be the only people interested in what might be said in this room."

"You don't have a safe house, Fleming?" Harriman asked.

"There doesn't seem to be any way to say this deli-cately," Pickering said. "So: The station chief here thinks of himself as a member of MacArthur's staff. I think any-thing said in the CIA safe house would be in the Dai Ichi Building within an hour."

"And there's no other place?"

"Ernie McCoy-Ernie Sage McCoy-has a place here," Pickering said. "Ralph and I have been using that."

"That's Ernest's daughter, right? She's married to a Ma-rine?"

Pickering nodded.

"And she's cleared for Top Secret/White House," Howe said. "I cleared her."

"And we could go there?" Harriman asked.

"George, call Ernie and tell her to expect guests," Pick-ering ordered. "And tell her not to worry about hors d'oeu-vres. We'll be bringing our own."

"They'll know we went there, Flem," Howe said.

"Perhaps the ambassador can casually mention he went to see the daughter of an old friend when he's with MacArthur," Pickering said.

[FOUR]

NO. 7 SAKU-TUN DENENCHOFU,

TOKYO, JAPAN

1905 6 AUGUST 1950

"I thought it might be you, Mr. Ambassador," Ernie Sage McCoy said when they walked up to her door. "It's nice to see you again, sir."

"Forgive the intrusion, Ernestine," Harriman said. "But we needed someplace to talk, and General Pickering sug-gested your home."

"There's coffee in the dining room, and I understand you've brought hors d'oeuvres?"

"George is getting them out of the trunk," Pickering said.

"... and I sent the help out. And now I'll get out of your way."

"You're very gracious, Ernestine," Harriman said.

"My name is Ridgway, Mrs. McCoy," Ridgway said. "Thank you for letting us intrude."

"No intrusion at all," she said. "My husband is-what should I say, `Out of town on business'?-and it's good to have something to do."

She led them into the dining room, then left them alone. Hart and Rogers carried in the hors d'oeuvres, and looked at Pickering and Howe for directions.

"Go keep Ernie company, George," Pickering ordered.

`Take some of the hors d'oeuvres with you, Charley," Howe ordered.

When they had left, Harriman picked up a shrimp, took a bite, and then said: "That's what the President was wor-ried about-that you two would get along too well, and that therefore it might be best to talk to you separately. He said you were two of a kind."

"We haven't had anything to disagree about," Howe said. "We see the same things-from our different perspec-tives-the same way. But we can make ourselves available to be interrogated separately, can't we, Flem?"

"Interrogation is not the word, General," Harriman said.

"That's what it sounded like you had in mind on the tele-phone," Howe said, bluntly.

"From my perspective," Ridgway said, quickly, as if to keep the exchange from getting more unpleasant, "given that both General Howe and General Pickering enjoy the confidence of the President, we could save a lot of time by just sitting down at the table and talking this out together."

"That's fine with me," Harriman said, sat down, and reached across the table for another shrimp.

The others sat down.

`This place is secure?" Ridgway asked.

"More so than the Imperial," Howe said.

"I defer to you, Mr. Ambassador," Ridgway said.

Harriman nodded, and touched his lips with a napkin.

"Marvelous shrimp," he said, and then went on, seri-ously: "The President is concerned-as something of an understatement-about several recent actions of General MacArthur. Let's deal with his trip to Formosa first. Two questions in that regard. One, does General MacArthur un-derstand that the President does not wish to have the Na-tionalist Chinese involved in Korea? Two, what was he doing in Formosa? General Howe?"

"I'll defer to General Pickering," Howe said. "MacArthur has not discussed that with me."

"And he has with you, Fleming?"

"I was at the Residence," Pickering replied. "General and Mrs. MacArthur had heard about my son, and wished to express their concern. The subject came up. He under-stands how the President feels about using Nationalist troops, and didn't want them in the first place because they would have to be trained and equipped. He went to Taipei, he told me, as a symbol that the United States would not

stand idly by if the Communists used the mess in Korea as an invitation to invade the island."

"And you believe him?"

"Yes, I do," Pickering said.

"And you think, when I broach the subject to him, that's what he will say?"

"I'm sure he will."

"When the President heard that General MacArthur had gone to see Chiang Kai-shek," Harriman said, "he was fu-rious. Several members of his cabinet, and others, made it clear that, in their opinions, it was sufficient justification to relieve General MacArthur."

Neither Pickering nor Howe responded.

"The question of relieving General MacArthur came up again with regard to his message to the Veterans of Foreign Wars, the VFW," Harriman said. "You're familiar with that?"

Pickering shook his head, no, and looked at Howe, who shrugged his shoulders, indicating he had no idea what Harriman was talking about.

"Neither of you is familiar with the message?" Harri-man asked.

"No," Pickering said. "What was in the message?"

"A disinterested observer would think that General MacArthur was not in agreement with the foreign policy of the United States," Harriman said, sarcastically. "A cynic might interpret it to be the first plank in the platform of presidential candidate Douglas MacArthur."

"There was nothing about a VFW message in the Stars and Stripes," Howe said.

"The message was `withdrawn' at the President's order,"

Harriman said.

"Then what's the reason for the pressure on the Presi-dent to relieve him?" Howe asked.

"There are those, I surmise," Harriman said, "who do not share General MacArthur's opinion of himself."

"You know what Frank Lloyd Wright said, Averell," Pickering said. "Something about it being rather difficult to be humble if you're a genius."

"But Wright is a genius," Harriman said.

"So is MacArthur," Pickering said. "He's flawed, cer-tainly. We all are. But he's a military genius, and that should not be forgotten."

"There are those who blame him for this mess we find ourselves in, in Korea," Harriman said.

"How about Acheson's speech?" Pickering said. "I took the trouble to read it. He made it pretty clear-maybe by accident-that Korea was not in our zone of interest. It was almost an invitation for North Korea to move south."

"MacArthur has been in command of any army here that is-as has been demonstrated-incapable of fighting a war," Harriman argued.

"I've talked to a lot of officers here since I got here," Pickering said. "They place the blame on Louis Johnson. Johnson's `defensive economies' went far beyond elimi-nating fat-they cut to the bone and scraped it. The First Marine Division was at half-half, Averell, half-wartime strength. And there's been almost no money for the Army. When there's no money, there's no training, and without training, armies cannot prepare to fight."

"By inference-Louis Johnson serves as Secretary of Defense at the President's pleasure-you're saying the of-ficers you spoke with, and perhaps you yourself, place the blame for this mess on the President."

"The last time I was in the Oval Office," Howe said, "there was a sign on Harry's desk that read `The Buck Stops Here.'"

" `Harry's desk', General?" Harriman asked. "General, you're referring to the President of the United States."

Howe looked uncomfortable.

Pickering laughed. Everybody looked at him in surprise.

"I just figured out what you're doing, Harriman," he said. "I'm an amateur playing your game. It took me a lit-tle while."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, General," Harriman said smoothly.

"You're collecting damaging quotes from me-and from Ralph-that you can use as aces in the hole with Harry Truman if we don't go along with what you have al-ready decided he should hear." "Now see here, Pickering..."

"Let me save some time for you," Pickering said. "I think Douglas MacArthur is a military genius; I've seen him at work. He's a soldier who fully understands how to obey an order, especially one that comes from the Commander-in-Chief. He thinks an invasion at Inchon is the best-and probably the only-way to avoid a very bloody and lengthy battle back up the Korean peninsula. I agree with him. If there are those who don't agree with him, in my opinion, they're wrong.

"What the President is going to have to do is decide who is best qualified to run this war: MacArthur, or someone half a world away in the Pentagon. That's obviously his right. But until he decides the brass in the Pentagon is right and MacArthur is wrong, what he should do is get out of the way-and keep his people out of the way-of MacArthur, and let him fight this war. Relieving him, or sending Pentagon brass here to look over his shoulder, nit-picking his plans, would be almost criminally stupid." Harriman's face tightened.

"Do you include General Ridgway in your definition of Pentagon brass, Pickering?" Harriman asked.

"I wish, Mr. Ambassador," Howe said icily, "to associate myself completely with General Pickering's comments. I shall so inform the President of the United States." Harriman looked at him with cold disdain. "Nothing personal, certainly, General Ridgway," Picker-ing said. "But the number-two man in the Army is by my definition `Pentagon brass.'"

"I never considered `Pentagon brass' to be a pejorative term," Ridgway said, smiling. "Becoming Pentagon brass is every second lieutenant's ambition. And I agree that General MacArthur is a military genius." That earned Ridgway a look of disdain from Harriman. "Thank you," Pickering said.

"On the other hand," Ridgway said, "there are certain members of the Pentagon brass-General Collins and myself among them-who are yet to be convinced than an amphibious landing at Inchon is either the best tactical move to make, or, indeed, that it's even possible. That's not saying we're against it. Just that right now we don't have sufficient information to take a pro or con position. I intend to ask General MacArthur to tell me in detail what he plans to do. I don't know if that could be deemed `nit-picking.'"

"He's prepared to tell you anything you want to know," Pickering said. "And he'll probably do it from memory."

"My mission here is to gather information for General Collins," Ridgway said. "And to solicit opinions, specifi-cally from General Howe and yourself, about General MacArthur and the situation here, not limited to the inva-sion at Inchon."

"I just thought of something, General Ridgway," Howe said. "If Truman fires MacArthur, you'd be the likely choice to take his place, wouldn't you?"

"I hope it doesn't come to that," Ridgway said. "Are you asking if that doesn't pose a conflict of interest for me?"

"That thought ran through my mind, frankly," Howe said.

"I'd like to think that I'm a soldier, obeying his orders," Ridgway said. "You'll have to take my word I didn't come here looking for MacArthur's job."

"Your word is good enough for me," Howe said.

"Thank you," Ridgway said.

"What other opinions of ours are you after?" Howe asked.

"There are those who wonder if General Walker is up to the challenge."

"Relieving General Walker would have enormous politi-cal implications," Harriman blurted.

Howe and Pickering looked at him.

Well, that's the first Harriman's heard of that, Howe thought.

I thought diplomats were supposed to have poker faces, Pickering thought.

"Like most Americans, Averell," Pickering said, "I like to think our senior officers consider political implications as little as possible when making military decisions."

"Frankly, Pickering, that's a little naive."

Pickering shrugged contemptuously.

"If you're asking whether I think he's `up to the chal-lenge,'" Howe said, "I wouldn't presume to make a judg-ment like that."

"Neither would I," Pickering said.

"The question in General Collins's mind-and mine- given that General MacArthur has never been reluctant in the past to relieve underperforming officers is why he hasn't relieved General Walker. Is it because he's satisfied with his performance? Or because he feels the same loy-alty to him he shows to those who were with him in the Philippines? Or because he doesn't want to be accused of looking for a scapegoat? Or because if he relieves him, he's likely to get a replacement not of his choosing?"

"Walker is not a member of the Bataan Gang," Pickering said. "I don't think MacArthur even likes him. MacArthur's not going to criticize a senior officer like Walker to a lowly part-time brigadier, but, having said that, I think I would have picked up on unspoken criticism, and there's never been even a suggestion of that."

"MacArthur's been trying very hard to get General Al-mond promoted."

"I'm not surprised. It would be well-deserved," Picker-ing said.

"I agree. Almond strikes me as a very competent officer," Howe said. "I've wondered why he's only a two-star."

"General Collins does not share those opinions of Gen-eral Almond," Ridgway said. "I don't know why. How does Almond get along with Walker?"

"They don't like each other," Pickering said. "But I don't know why."

"General Collins is particularly upset by General MacArthur's plans to have Almond command X Corps...."

"Why?" Howe said. "Isn't picking his subordinate com-manders MacArthur's prerogative?" Howe asked.

"And by MacArthur's frankly odd decision to have him command it as an additional duty," Ridgway went on with-out replying. "Without relieving him of his post as chief of staff, which is what normally would happen."

"He hasn't discussed that with me, either," Pickering said. "But that could damned well be because he doesn't want Almond replaced by someone he didn't choose."

"And X Corps will be established as a separate corps, not as part of Eighth Army," Ridgway said. "Not under General Walker's command. That also raises questions in General Collins's mind-and mine."

"There could be a number of reasons for that," Pickering said. "The first that comes to me is that Almond has been in on the Inchon invasion from the beginning, and Walker hasn't. Neither Walker nor Almond has amphibious inva-sion experience. I get the feeling that MacArthur, who has enormous experience, plans to command the invasion it-self, and that would be awkward if X Corps were under Eighth Army."

Ridgway nodded.

"If the Inchon invasion goes forward," Harriman said, "and fails-"

"I don't think it will fail," Pickering said.

"But if it does, it would be a monumental disaster, wouldn't you agree?"

"For which Douglas MacArthur would take full respon-sibility," Pickering said. "I think he would resign if it did. And that's another reason I think he wants to command it himself, so it will not fail."

"General, you've been asking all the questions," Howe said. "I'd like to ask one. What's the problem between Collins and MacArthur?"

Ridgway hesitated a moment before deciding to answer the question.

"Quick answer: I don't think General Collins thinks General MacArthur pays him, or the office he holds, the re-spect he and it deserve."

"Blunt response," Pickering said. "MacArthur respects the office of chief of staff-and understands its problems-because he served as chief of staff. He has five stars-he had them when General Collins had two. During World War Two, when Collins was a corps commander, MacArthur was a theater commander. He had more men under his command then-and I don't think anyone faults his command of them-than are now in the entire U.S. Army. Under those circumstances, I think it's understand-able that MacArthur is not as awed by the chief of staff as the chief of staff might prefer."

"But he's subordinate to the chief of staff," Harriman said.

"And he has been taking, and will take, his orders from the chief of staff," Pickering said. "That does not mean he has to be very impressed with the officeholder personally. So far as MacArthur is concerned, the officeholder is just one more general, junior to him in rank and experience."

"Is that how he will think of me?" Ridgway said.

"This may be violating a confidence, General: I hope not," Pickering said. "MacArthur referred to you admiringly as about the best brain in the Army, or words to that effect."

"I've never met him," Ridgway said.

"Then it will be an interesting experience for you," Howe said. "You're tempted to back out of his presence with your head bowed."

Pickering laughed.

"I have one more question for you, General Pickering," Ridgway said.

"Shoot," Pickering said.

"There has been some talk that Admiral Hillenkoetter will resign..."

"Voluntarily?" Howe asked.

Ridgway didn't reply.

"... and that you will be offered the position."

"I'm wholly unqualified to be Director of the CIA," Pick-ering said. "If I was offered the job, I wouldn't take it."

"That will disappoint the President," Howe said. "The last time I talked to him, he asked if I had come to know you well enough to have an opinion about you taking over the CIA. I told him I thought you'd do just fine."

"Then, obviously, you don't know me well enough," Pickering said.

"Gentlemen," Harriman said. "Doesn't this about con-clude our business?"

I think the sonofabitch has decided that since he can't control the meeting-meaning me, Howe, and Ridgway- there's no point to it.

They looked at each other, and Howe, Pickering, and Ridgway each shrugged or made other gestures indicating that he had nothing else to say or ask.

Harriman stood up.

"I'm going to stick around a little longer," Pickering said. "I want to spend a little time with Ernie McCoy."

"Me, too," Howe said.

"Shall we send the car back for you?" Ridgway asked.

"Please," Pickering said.

"Would you please tell Ernestine we very much appreci-ate her hospitality?" Harriman asked.

Pickering nodded.

"I'll walk you to the door," he said.

"Fleming," Harriman said. "I regret the... tone... this sometimes reached."

"Me, too," Pickering said.

"You're not going with us to meet General MacArthur tomorrow?" Ridgway asked.

"Pickering and I have heard the Viceroy's opinions," Howe said.

" `The Viceroy's'?" Harriman asked.

"There you go again, Averell," Pickering said. "Collect-ing quotes."

Howe chuckled.

Pickering gestured for Harriman and Ridgway to go ahead of him through the dining room door.

Surprising him, Howe followed them all out to the street, and watched as Ridgway and Harriman got in the staff car and drove off.

Pickering started to go back through the passage in the wall. Howe stopped him by touching his arm.

"That was interesting, wasn't it?" Howe said. "You made it pretty plain what you think of Harriman. What did you think of Ridgway?"

"Good man," Pickering replied instantly.

"Could he take over for the Viceroy?" Howe asked. "The President's going to want to know what we think about that."

"No man is indispensable," Pickering said thoughtfully. "I learned that when my father-whom I regarded much as I regard MacArthur-suddenly checked out and left me in change of PandFE. But I repeat what I said before: Relieving MacArthur would be criminally stupid."

"Harriman was right about one thing, Flem. You are naive. At this level, political considerations do matter to military brass."

"I had the feeling in there, again, Ralph, that I was out of my league," Pickering said.

"I was a buck general, a division artillery commander, when the division commander had a heart attack. My corps commander named me commander over two other guys, regular army guys, who I thought were far better qualified than me-not modesty, Flem. I had spent my life learning how to run a company that makes machines for the shoe in-dustry, with a little time out to be a captain in War One, and to be a weekend warrior between wars-I knew I was out of my league as a division commander. I took that division from the Rhine to the Elbe, and they gave me a second star and a medal. When, two days after Roosevelt died, Harry Truman told me he knew he was out of his league being President, I knew just how he felt."

Pickering looked at him, but didn't reply.

"The President sent the both of us over here to do a job for him," Howe went on. "I'm not sure how I did in that meet-ing, but you damned sure did what the President hoped you would."

"Thank you," Pickering said.

"Now let's go inside and have a drink," Howe said. "Or two drinks."

[FIVE]

USS BADOENG STRAIT

35 DEGREES 42 MINUTES NORTH LATITUDE,

130 DEGREES 48 MINUTES EAST

LONGITUDE

THE SEA OF JAPAN

1105 7 AUGUST 1950

There were large sweat stains on the flight suit of Lieu-tenant Colonel William C. Dunn, USMC, under his arms, down his back, and on his seat. When he opened the door to the photo lab, he almost instantly felt a chill as the air-conditioned air blew on him.

He had been flying all morning, and he had flown all day the day before. The fatigue was evident on his face.

Reinforcements had begun to flood into Pusan, enough for General Walker's Eighth Army to begin more serious counterattacks than had been possible a short time before. That was the official line. In Dunn's judgment, counterat-tacks with only a slight chance of success were a better al-ternative than allowing the North Koreans to push Eighth Army into the sea.

The proof of that seemed to be that the First Marine Brigade (Provisional) was being used as Eighth Army's fire brigade, putting out the fires either when American counter-attacks failed, or the North Koreans broke through Ameri-can lines anywhere along the still-shrinking perimeter.

The day before, for example, Walker had ordered coun-terattacks by the Army's 19th Infantry Regiment on North Korean positions on terrain south of a village called Soesil. Because of its shape, the area was known as "Cloverleaf Hill." The attack was to begin at first light.

The attack didn't begin on time, and when it finally be-gan, just before noon, the 19th learned that during the pre-vious night, the North Koreans had moved a battalion of troops across the Naktong River, and that this reinforce-ment of their positions-plus, Dunn believed, the delay in making the attack, which had given the enemy time to prepare their positions-was enough to defeat the counterat-tack.

To the south, an attack by the Army's 35th Infantry was at least partially successful. It started when planned, but three miles from the departure line, ran into a tank-supported North Korean position that took five hours to overwhelm.

Lieutenant Colonel Dunn, who had flown three strikes against the tanks, privately thought, Better late than never.

Even farther south, a counterattack by the Army's 24th Infantry against enemy positions in the Sobuk mountains simply failed.

And farther south than that, an attack by the Army's 5th Regimental Combat Team and a large portion of the 1st Marine Brigade had turned out to be, in Colonel Dunn's opinion, even more of a Chinese fire drill.

The 5th RCT, which was supposed to move west on the Chinju road, came to a road junction and took the wrong fork, down which the Marines had already passed. By noon, they were in positions on hills three miles south of the road fork, instead of on the hill where they were sup-posed to be, northwest of the fork.

The North Koreans promptly moved onto the unoccu-pied hill, and in the confusion, Fox Company of the 5th RCT found itself surrounded by the enemy on yet another hilltop, which was now dubbed "Fox Hill."

While this was going on, the enemy, with other troops, also managed to block the MSR (main supply route) from Masan.

All of this forced Eighth Army to order the Marines to halt, turn around-which meant abandoning the terrain they'd just taken-and go to work trying to put these fires out.

The 2nd Battalion of the brigade tried, and failed, to get through to the surrounded men of Fox Company of the 5th, and the 3rd Battalion of the brigade, together with some troops from the 2nd Battalion of the Army's 24th Infantry, tried-and failed-to destroy the enemy's roadblock of the MSR.

At dawn this morning-with Marine Corsairs lending support-the 2nd Battalion of the brigade had broken through to-a more honest phrase, Dunn thought, would be "saved the ass of-Fox Company, but another try at break-ing the roadblock of the MSR by the 3rd Battalion-with Marine Corsairs lending support-had failed again.

But the 3rd Battalion would try again to open the road-block just as soon as Dunn's Corsairs had been refueled and rearmed and were back overhead.

On the flight deck, after landing just now, Dunn had told Captain Dave Freewall-now commanding USMC Re-serve Fighter Squadron 243, following the loss of its com-mander-to ask the steward to make him some fried-egg sandwiches and put them in a bag. He was going to have to see the air commander, Dunn said, and go by the photo lab, and it was either fried-egg sandwiches in the cockpit, or no lunch.

Reporting to the air commander hadn't taken as much time as he thought it would, and unless there was a prob-lem in the photo lab, he would be out of there in two min-utes, so he probably could have had a sit-down lunch, even if a quick one.

The photo lab had what could have been a personnel problem. There was a Navy chief photographer's mate in nominal charge, but under orders to make his facilities avail-able to the Marines, which in fact meant to Master Sergeant P. P. McGrory, USMCR, who was not known for his charm.

Surprising Dunn, the two had apparently gotten along from the moment they'd met. Dunn, however, always waited to see if the other shoe had fallen every time he went into the photo lab.

He raised his hand in a gesture indicating they didn't have to come to attention.

"And how are things in your air-conditioned little heaven?" he asked.

"Morning, Colonel," they said, in unison.

"The pictures from up north?"

"They went to Pusan on the COD at 1020, sir," Sergeant McCrory said.

"Good, thank you very much. And now I will see if I can get something to eat before I go back to work."

"Chief Young's got something I thought you ought to have a look at, Colonel," McGrory said.

I should have known lunch would be egg sandwiches.

"What's that?"

McGrory went to a cabinet and came back with a stack of eight-by-ten-inch prints.

"There was a photo mission this morning-Air Com-mander's request-for pictures of a railroad bridge near Tageu," McGrory said. "Near where that goddamn fool Pickering went down."

Dunn knew no disrespect was intended. In civilian life, McGrory was a member of the ASC and a bachelor. The American Society of Cinematographers are those people en-gaged in the filming of motion pictures who have proved worthy of membership by their experience and skill. McGrory's skill was in making beautiful women seem even more so on the silver screen. He was well paid for the prac-tice of his profession, and maintained a beachfront home in Malibu, in which there often could be found an array of as-tonishingly beautiful women. And Captain Malcolm S. Pickering of Trans-Global Airways, who shared McGrory's interest in really good-looking women.

McGrory handed Dunn the aerial photographs.

"Young saw this when he was processing the film, and made extra copies," McGrory said.

"What am I looking at, Mac?" he asked.

McGrory pointed.

Dunn looked again, and shook his head.

"In the rice field, Colonel," Chief Young said. "It looks like it was drained. They bombed the hell out of that bridge, and it looks like they broke the dam, or whatever keeps the water in."

Dunn looked again.

"Have we got a magnifying glass, or whatever?"

Chief Young picked the picture up, took it to a desk, laid it down, and set up over it a device on thin metal legs.

"That's stereo," he said. "But it helps even when it's an ordinary picture."

Dunn bent over it. With some difficulty, he managed to get the picture in focus.

"I'll be damned," he said.

"Yeah," McGrory said. "That's no accident. Somebody stamped that out in the mud with his feet."

Dunn bent over the viewing device again.

And then he put his hand out to steady himself. The Badoeng Strait was turning sharply. She was turning into the wind.

"All hands, prepare to commence launching operations," the loudspeaker blared. "Pilots, man your aircraft. All hands, prepare to commence launching operations. Pilots, man your aircraft."

"Has anyone seen this?" Dunn asked.

"No, sir."

"Let's sit on it until I get back," Dunn said, and then asked a sudden question. "Which way is south on this?"

McGrory pointed.

"He's going the wrong way," Dunn said.

"It looks that way," McGrory agreed.

"You haven't told anybody about this?"

"No, sir. I figure if the word got out, everybody in VMF-243 would be out there looking for him."

"Keep it that way, please, Mac. Until I get back."

McGrory nodded, then appeared to be waiting for addi-tional orders.

And if you don't come back, Colonel?

"I should be back about 1500. If I'm delayed, give this to Captain Freewall."

"Aye, aye, sir," McGrory said. "I'll see you about 1500, then, sir."

"Right."

"How's things over there?"

"Would you believe a doggie regiment took the wrong fork on a road and wound up holding the wrong hill?"

"Jesus H. Christ!"

Dunn left the photo lab and rapidly climbed what seemed like endless steep ladders, ultimately reaching the level of the flight deck. He went, already starting to sweat a little, onto the flight deck itself, and saw that his Corsair, the engine running, was first in line to take off.

He stood at the wing root as his airplane captain told him about the airplane, and simultaneously helped him properly fasten the personal gear-the Mae West inflatable life preserver, the survival gear pack, and a.45 ACP pis-tol-he had unfastened when he landed.

He climbed up onto the wing, then into the cockpit. The airplane commander strapped him into his parachute, gave him a thumbs-up, handed him a small brown paper bag, and then got off the airplane.

Then Dunn waited to take off.

But he wasn't thinking about flying the aircraft.

It has to be Pick, he thought. Who the hell else would stamp out "PP" and an arrow in the mud of a ruptured Ko-rean rice field?

And who else but that dumb sonofabitch would be headed away from our lines?

Not quite forty-five seconds later, he was airborne.

Chapter Sixteen

[ONE]

ABOARD WIND OF GOOD FORTUNE

37 DEGREES 44 MINUTES NORTH LATITUDE,

126 DEGREES 59 MINUTES EAST LONGITUDE

THE YELLOW SEA

1155 7 AUGUST 1950

"That looks like a lighthouse," Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, said to Lieutenant David R. Taylor, USNR.

"God, you're a clever chap, Mr. McCoy," Taylor replied, in his best Charles Laughton Mutiny on the Bounty accent.

"That indeed is a lighthouse, marking the entrance to the Flying Fish Channel."

Jeanette Priestly laughed.

"That makes it three for Captain Bligh and two for Jean Lafitte," she said.

"A question, Captain, sir," McCoy said. "May I dare to hope that we will soon be at our destination?"

"I would estimate, Mr. McCoy, that we should be there within the hour, perhaps a little less."

The preceding twenty-four hours had passed slowly and uneventfully. The landmass of South Korea had always been in sight to starboard, but Taylor's course was far enough out to see so the Wind of Good Fortune would be practically invisible to anyone on the shore.

The flip side was that the people on the Wind of Good Fortune couldn't see anything on the shore. It was quiet and peaceful, and Jeanette Priestly had observed that it was hard to believe a war was going on.

They had seen a dozen small ships-probably fishing boats-but they had been far away, just visible on the hori-zon, and none had come close. They had seen no larger vessels, and if the naval forces of the United Nations Com-mand were patrolling the Yellow Sea, there had been no sight of them, except possibly for four aircraft-flying, McCoy had guessed, at about 10,000 feet, too high to iden-tify their types-none of which seemed to have noticed the Wind of Good Fortune.

During the day, Taylor had wakened every hour to take a quick look around. Once satisfied with what he had seen, he'd gone back to sleep. McCoy had been so intrigued with Taylor's ability to so easily and regularly stir himself that he asked him how he did it. Taylor had somewhat smugly held up his wristwatch and said, "Ding-a-ling." His wrist-watch was also a miniature alarm clock.

Using food from the cases of 10-in-l rations Sergeant Jennings had stolen from the Army warehouses on the pier in Pusan, and chickens, fish, eggs, pork loins, and vegeta-bles Major Kim's national policemen had bought in Tong-nae, two of the Marines and two national policemen had prepared a surprisingly tasty lunch, an even better dinner, and an evening snack on the charcoal-fired brick stove in the forecastle. It had to be eaten from mess kits, of course, and after Zimmerman reminded the Marines how the veg-etables had been fertilized, they lost their appeal, but aside from that, there was nothing whatsoever to complain about.

Jeanette had spent most of her time with the Marines, shooting several rolls of film in the process. The Marines thought she was a willing passenger, along to chronicle their mission for her newspaper, and they were flattered by the attention of the press.

Once darkness had fallen, there hadn't been much to do except post lookouts fore and aft and sleep, and by 1900 there were sleeping Marines and national policemen stretched out wherever they could find room on the deck.

Taylor took over the helm at nightfall, and shortly after 2000, McCoy had gone below to sleep.

When McCoy woke, his watch told him it was 0600 and the rolling of the Wind of Good Fortune told him they were still at sea. He went on deck, expecting to find they were approaching whatever kind of a port Tokchok-kundo had to offer.

He found instead that the South Korean landmass was now to port, and that the Wind of Good Fortune's sails had been raised.

"I thought Tokchok-kundo was that way?" McCoy said, pointing over the Wind of Good Fortune's stern.

"It is," Taylor replied. "What I'm doing now is trying to figure out the tides. They're not doing what the book says they should be doing. And running aground on the mud-flats would be awkward."

"By when do you think you'll be able to have the tides figured out?"

"Never," Taylor had said seriously. "But today, with the relatively shallow draft of this vessel, I think I can try to get into port about eleven."

"If we can see the lighthouse, they can see us," McCoy said.

"Another astute observation," Taylor said, still playing Charles Laughton. "I am amazed at your perspicacity, Mr. McCoy."

McCoy was forced to smile.

"You don't think the lighthouse keeper might report that a strange junk loaded with more people than usual, some of whom don't look very Oriental, just sailed past?"

"That would be a real possibility if (a) there was a light-house keeper at the lighthouse, and (b) he had a generator to power a radio to communicate with somebody," Taylor said. "But you may relax, Mr. McCoy. I have it from a reli-able source that there is neither."

"What reliable source?"

"Our own esteemed Major Kim," Taylor said, pointing to Kim, who was leaning against the stern railing.

Kim was wearing a baggy black cotton shirt and trousers. The last time McCoy had seen him, he had been in neatly pressed American khakis.

"When I was last on Tokchok-kundo," Major Kim said, "the lighthouse keeper was hiding out there," Major Kim said. "He told me that he had removed the important parts of the generator and the radio and took off when he saw the North Koreans were in Inchon."

"You don't think the North Koreans would try to get it up and running? What are they doing without a lighthouse? Taking their chances?"

"The enemy isn't running any deep-draft vessels into In-chon, Captain McCoy," Kim said. "They are using their own ports, which are protected by antiaircraft weapons. They'll wait until they have taken the Pusan perimeter to clean up this area.- They have more important things to do than fix a lighthouse that right now would do nothing more than help guide South Korean fishermen home."

"But won't our invasion fleet need it?" McCoy asked.

"If they start down the Flying Fish at night, they will," Taylor said. "And they're going to have to do just that."

"So we have to think about getting it up and running ourselves?"

"In the Dai-chi Building, the brass's idea was, when they sent you Marines to take Taemuui-do and Yonghung-do on D Minus One, the landing boats would drop half a dozen men off at the lighthouse with either a generator or enough gas and oil to make a fire."

"So that's why you didn't say anything?"

"I figured I'd wait to see if we got away with taking Taemuui-do and Yonghung-do," Taylor said. "If we do get away with that, and if they don't send people to take them back, there'll be plenty of time to think about what we want to do with the lighthouse."

" `If'?" Jeanette quoted. " `If? What do they call that, `confidence'?"

"Facing facts," Taylor said. Then he pointed. "There it is. To port?"

McCoy saw a rocky island, with what looked like thatch-roofed stone houses at the water's edge.

"Where's Taemuui-do and Yonghung-do?" McCoy asked.

"You can't see them from here; you can, just barely, from the other side of Tokchok-kundo. But from here in, I think we'd better get everybody below. That includes you, Jeanette. If you're going to stay up here, McCoy, put on a Korean shirt."

He pointed to Major Kim's floppy black cotton clothing.

"My Korean stuff is below. I'll go get it," McCoy said.

Major Kim touched his arm, and when McCoy turned to look at him, handed him a black cotton shirt and trousers.

"Thank you," McCoy said.

"With your permission, Captain," Kim said, addressing Taylor, "I will have my men prepared to deal with what-ever we find when we tie up."

"Like what, for example?" Jeanette asked.

"We have had no communication with Tokchok-kundo Island, Miss Priestly," Kim said. "The North Koreans may have decided to occupy it."

"Have at it, Major," Taylor ordered.

"And if they have, then what?" Jeanette pursued.

"Then we hope we have more men than they do," Taylor said. "Please get below, Miss Priestly."

[TWO]

The landing plan was simple. Taylor would sail the Wind of Good Fortune into Tokchok-kundo's harbor-actually nothing much more than an indentation in the shoreline with a crude stone wharf jutting out into it-and "see what happens."

In case "what happened" was a detachment of North Korean soldiers, he would have the diesel engine running, so if McCoy decided retreat was the smart thing to do, they could move quickly.

There was a strong possibility, however-depending on McCoy's assessment of the strength of the enemy force, if there was one-that the smart thing to do would be to take the detachment out before retreating.

If there was a North Korean detachment on the island, they would probably have a radio, with which they could call the mainland and report that an attempt by white men (read: Americans) was trying to take the island. That might send North Korean patrol vessels after them, and it would certainly tip the North Koreans that the Americans were showing an unusual interest in Tokchok-kundo.

Taking the detachment out would prevent that. If there were prisoners, they could be taken to Pusan. Any bodies could be buried at sea. By the time someone investigated why Tokchok-kundo hadn't been heard from lately, the Wind of Good Fortune would be far at sea.

And the plan for taking out the North Korean detach-ment-if there was one-was also simple. Major Kim, hoping to look like a sailor, was to stand on the deck to starboard just aft of the forecastle. His national policemen would be in the forecastle itself, ready to move onto the deck on his signal.

Captain McCoy would be aft on the deck to starboard, sitting on the deck, where he hoped the solid railing would keep him from being seen by anyone on the shore. He didn't look much like a Korean sailor.

Neither did Lieutenant Taylor, even though he was now also wearing a black cotton shirt and trousers, and had his hair and forehead wrapped in black cotton. He was in the best position to see what was on the wharf and shore, and was also in the worst position to try to pass himself off as a Korean sailor.

The Marines were to be in the passage below the bridge on the stern, ready to move at McCoy's order.

That order would come when either Major Kim or Lieu-tenant Taylor decided that it no longer mattered if someone on shore could see that McCoy was not a Korean seaman and would call his name.

McCoy would then stand up, have a look himself, and decide what was the smart thing to do.

A flash of reflected light struck the solid railing behind which McCoy was concealing himself. He looked and saw Jeanette Priestly, on her hands and knees, crawling toward him from the door to the passageway under the stern. Her Leica, its case open, hung from her neck and dragged along the deck.

"Okay?" she asked when she reached him, and was sit-ting on the deck, her back against the stern bulkhead.

"Fine. With a little luck, when the shooting starts, you'll catch a bullet."

"You don't mean that," she said.

"Don't I?"

"No," she said, and put the Leica up and took his picture.

"I told you the next time you took my picture without asking, I'd throw your camera over the side."

"You didn't mean that either," she said. "And anyway, you can't do that now. Anyone on shore would see it."

He shook his head.

"You looked very thoughtful, just now, before you saw me," Jeanette said. "Penny for your thoughts, Captain Mc-Coy."

"Jesus Christ!" he said, but he realized he was smiling.

"Well?"

"When I was a kid," he said, "my grandmother had a big plate-from China, I guess-in her dining room. It was painted with pictures of pagodas, and there was a junk, and trees-"

"Willows," she interrupted. "They were willow trees. They call those dishes `Blue Willow,' I think."

"If you say so," he went on. "And I used to look at the damn thing all the time. It fascinated me. Little did that lit-tle boy know that one day he would get to ride on a real junk in the Yellow Sea-"

"Maybe you are human after all," she said.

"-with a crazy lady who's likely to get herself killed, like the cat, from curiosity."

"I'm just trying to do my job," she said.

"Your job is interfering with me doing mine," he said. "When I stand up in a couple of minutes, you stay where you are until I tell you you can move. If you stand up, I'm going to knock you down. Got it?"

"That, I think you mean," she said. "Okay."

A minute later, McCoy gingerly raised his head alongside a stanchion, took a quick look, and dropped quickly back down.

"Remember the cat," Jeanette said. "What did you see?"

"We're fifty yards, maybe a little more, from the wharf. Aside from a couple of hungry-looking dogs on shore, I didn't see any sign of life at all."

Korean seamen lowered all but one sail.

McCoy waited for Taylor to start the engine, in case they had to make a quick exit.

And waited.

And waited.

"What?" Jeanette asked.

"Taylor said he was going to start the engine," McCoy said.

He looked down the deck to Major Kim, who met his glance, then shrugged and held both hands, palms up and out. The message was clear: I don't see anything.

McCoy stood up, as the Wind of Good Fortune scraped against the stone wharf.

Aside from the dogs, who had come from the shore out onto the wharf in curiosity, there was still no sign of life.

"Kim, get your men over the side, get us tied up," Mc-Coy ordered in Korean, and then switched to English. "Ernie, send four men down the wharf to see what they can see in the village."

Zimmerman came out of the passageway under the stern in a crouch, carrying his Thompson. He laid it on the deck and tossed a rope ladder over the side. By the time he had done that, two Marines, one armed with a Browning auto-matic rifle, the other with a Garand, came out of the pas-sageway and knelt behind the rail, training their weapons on the wharf.

Zimmerman, his Thompson slung over his back, started down the ladder and passed from sight. Sergeant Jennings, also with a Thompson, came out of the passageway and immediately went down the ladder. The Marine with the M-l then slung it over his back and went over the side. He was followed by the Marine with the BAR, who chose to toss his weapon over the side to one of the Marines on the wharf before getting on the ladder.

McCoy was pleased with the way that had gone. Not only did the Marines who had been recruited from the brigade seem to know what they were doing, but they were halfway down the wharf before Kim's national policemen managed to get the Wind of Good Fortune tied up to the pier.

"Can I stand up now?" Jeanette asked.

"In a minute," McCoy answered.

An elderly Korean man came out of one of the thatch-roofed stone houses as the Marines reached the shore. Zimmerman motioned for two of the Marines following him to go around him and into the houses nearest to the wharf.

Moments later, they came out of the houses, one of them making a thumbs-up gesture.

"Okay, you can stand up," McCoy said, slung his Garand over his back, and started down the ladder.

When he was on the wharf, and had turned toward the houses, he saw Major Kim, armed with a carbine, trotting down it, almost at the shore. One of his national policemen was right behind him, and as McCoy trotted toward shore, another ran past him.

Kim introduced the old man to McCoy as the village chief, and McCoy as the officer commanding. The old man didn't seem at all surprised that McCoy spoke Korean.

The old man told them that no North Koreans had been to Tokchok-kundo since Kim had last been there, and that he had seen no indication that the small garrisons on Taemuui-do and Yonghung-do had been reinforced with ei-ther men or heavier weapons.

"Okay, Ernie," McCoy ordered, "let's get the stuff off the boat."

The old man turned suddenly and walked, or trotted, as fast as he could on his stilted shoes toward the houses, and went inside first one of them, and then two others. Immedi-ately, people, men, women, and children, came out of the house and started down the wharf toward the Wind of Good Fortune, obviously to help carry whatever the Wind of Good Fortune held ashore. Then he came back to McCoy, Kim, and Zimmerman.

"Do you speak English?" McCoy asked, surprised.

The old man looked at him without comprehension.

"You were speaking Korean," Major Kim said, with a smile.

McCoy saw Jeanette kneeling on the wharf, taking pic-tures of the Koreans.

I didn't tell her she could come ashore, just that she could stand up. But I should have known what she would do.

"First priority, Ernie, is to get the SCR-300 on the air."

Major Kim asked the old man if the generator was run-ning, and where it was.

The generator was running, or would be, if there was fuel. And he pointed to a small stone, thatch-roofed build-ing. McCoy saw that there was a small electrical network coming out of it, with one wire leading to several of the houses and another leading out to the wharf.

McCoy walked to the building and went inside, with Kim following him. There was a small, diesel-powered generator. McCoy saw that it had been made in Germany. And there was room to set up the SCR-300, and he said so.

"I'll have them bring it here," Kim said.

"And then I think we should see if the mayor can see anything on the aerial photos we may have missed," Mc-Coy said. "And see about finding someplace my people can stay. I don't like the idea of them being at the water's edge-too easy to see if somebody comes calling."

"There's several houses up the hill," Kim said.

"Let's have a look at those. We can have the mayor look at the photos there."

The houses on the hill had two advantages. They were within range of the Marines' weapons should the North Koreans decide to have a look at Tokchok-kundo, but they were far enough away so that Marines wearing Korean clothing could probably pass for Koreans.

And one disadvantage. They had been placed where they were to facilitate the drying of fish on racks fastened to their thatched roofs.

What the hell, after a day, they'll probably not even no-tice the smell.

The houses were made of stone, basically round struc-tures, with small rooms with straight walls leading off them. In the center structure were platforms apparently used as beds against the outer wall. There was a place for a fire in the middle, apparently used both for cooking and to heat the floors and the platforms in winter. They were at once simple and sophisticated.

McCoy had been in similar huts on the mainland during the winter, and had never been able to figure out how the heating system worked.

A bare lightbulb-one of three strung over the plat-forms-glowed red for a moment and then shone brightly, signaling that the generator was now up and running. Mc-Coy laid out the aerial photographs on the platform, and told the old man he would be grateful if he would look at them.

Surprising McCoy not at all, the war correspondent of the Chicago Tribune came into the house as the old man was looking at the aerial photographs.

"Is this where I get to stay?" she asked.

"Probably," McCoy said. "Every maiden's prayer-the only girl sharing a seaside cottage with four handsome and virile Marines."

"What are you doing?" she asked, annoyed.

"These are aerial pictures of Taemuui-do and Yonghung-do," he said. "The islands we're going to have to take."

As she bent over them for a look, Zimmerman, Taylor, and Staff Sergeant Worley, the radio operator, a small, slim man in his late thirties, came into the house. All three were sweating.

They ran up the hill, McCoy decided. But they look more disgusted than angry or alarmed. Now what?

"Look at this goddamn thing," Zimmerman said, point-ing to a nearly square-about five inches on a side-olive-drab tin can in Worley's hand.

"What is it?"

"It's from the SCR-300...."

"It's a transformer, sir," Sergeant Worley said.

"Without which the SCR-300 won't work?"

Oh, shit!

"When we took it out of the crate, sir, I noticed oil," Worley said. "It came from here, I found out."

He pointed to a corner of the transformer, where the sol-dered joint had separated.

"The question was, the radio won't work without it?"

"No, sir."

"You can't fix it? Replace the oil, whatever?"

"I could maybe have done something," Worley said, em-barrassed. "But I burned the sonofabitch up when I fired up the transformer." He met McCoy's eyes. "Captain, I never had one of these fail on me before. But it's my fault, I should have checked."

Yeah, you should have. But there's no point in eating you out now. What's done is done.

"I told you getting that thing up was the first priority,"

McCoy said. "So you hurried. It's as much my fault as yours."

"No, sir, it's not," Worley said.

"So what do we do now?"

"I'll try to rig something, Captain, but I can't promise..."

"How long will that take?" McCoy asked.

"Longer than we have," Taylor said. "Unless you want to spend another twelve-maybe twenty-four-hours here."

"Those fucking tides?" McCoy asked angrily.

"Those... expletive deleted... tides," Taylor replied.

"Sorry, Jeanette," McCoy said. "That slipped out."

"I told you," Taylor said. "The data in the tide book is wrong."

"Is that the same tide book they're using in the Dai-Ichi Building?"

"That's where I got this one."

"And it's wrong?"

"I told you, this place has mixed tides. And this must be, for here, the worst part of the monthly cycle. This area was not supposed to be as low as it is. Or going out as fast as it is."

"And what about an invasion fleet?"

"We better have that radio up and running by the time they decide to try to come down the Flying Fish," Taylor said. "Or there's liable to be ships stuck in the mud from here to Inchon."

"How soon do we have to leave?"

"Now," Taylor said. "The sooner the better."

"Okay," McCoy said. "Worley, I'll get a transformer to you as quick as I can. How delicate are they?"

"They're usually built... hell, sir, look at it. What hap-pened to this one probably won't happen again for years."

"If we wrapped one up well, cushioned it good, could it be dropped from an airplane?"

"Yeah, but dropping it with a chute would probably be better, sir."

"Zimmerman, I'm going to take Jennings back with me. He's a world-class scrounger. And we have to do some fast and fancy scrounging."

Zimmerman nodded his understanding.

"I suggest you set up in these houses. Make firing posi-tions in case you need them. When you put out panels, put them between the houses. Start training the natives," Mc-Coy said. "And make sure the bad guys don't learn you're on the island."

Zimmerman touched his forehead in a gesture only vaguely resembling a salute. But that's what it was.

"You're going to drop supplies on here from an air-plane?" Jeanette asked.

"If I can," he said.

"And you're going to Tokyo?"

"Right."

"I need to talk to you a minute," she said.

"You heard what Taylor said. We have to get out of here now."

"It's important to me," she said.

"Okay," he said, gesturing to one of the small rooms opening off the center of the house.

He followed her into the room.

"Make it quick," he said when she didn't immediately start to talk.

"I don't know why the hell I'm so embarrassed," she said. "You're a married man, right? And you had those `personal hygiene' classes in high school, right?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Would you please ask your wife to go to the PX and get me sanitary napkins and tampons? And then drop them in here with that transformer for the radio?"

He didn't reply for a moment.

"Don't be clever about this, McCoy," she said. "I hadn't planned to make this trip."

"You really thought I was going to leave you here?"

She didn't reply.

"Jeanette, my Marines need all the strength they can conserve," he said. "I can't have you doing to them what Delilah did to Sampson. Get your ass on the Wind of Good Fortune."

"You sonofabitch!" she said.

The water level had dropped so far at the wharf that the deck of the Wind of Good Fortune was only four or five feet above it.

And, McCoy thought, she's riding high because just about everything we had aboard has been taken off.

Taylor clambered aboard and immediately started the engine, as Major Kim and two of his men untied the lines. The bottom of the Wind of Good Fortune noisily scraped the bottom twice as Taylor backed away from the wharf, and twice again as he turned her around and as they moved toward and then into the Flying Fish Channel.

[THREE]

pilot's ready room

the uss badoeng strait

39 degrees 06 minutes north latitude,

129 degrees 44 minutes east longitude

the sea of japan

0955 8 AUGUST 1950

When Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn walked up to him in the ready room, Lieutenant Commander Andrew McDavit, USNR, prepared for flight, was sitting in the rearmost of the rows of leather-upholstered chairs with a cigarette in one hand and an ice-cream cone in the other.

He started to push himself out of the chair, and Dunn gestured, telling him not to bother.

"Good morning, Colonel," McDavit said. He wasn't overly fond of most of the jarhead birdmen aboard Badoeng Strait, but he liked Dunn. "You're already back?"

"We took off at oh dark hundred," Dunn said. "The North Koreans tried to send a division-the Third, I think-across the Naktong starting at 0300."

" `Tried'? Don't tell me the Army held them?"

"The 5th Cavalry chewed them up pretty bad," Dunn said. "They had preregistered artillery, a lot of it. And pretty good fields of fire for their automatic weapons. Part of one NK regiment got across, but the other two took a pretty good licking from the air and went back to their side of the Naktong."

"Marine and Navy Air, you mean?"

Dunn nodded. "The brigade wasn't going to need us un-til this afternoon, so they released us to the Army."

"What happens this afternoon?"

"The 3rd Battalion of the brigade's going to attack up to-ward Chindong-Ni. They'll need us then."

"For my part, I can look forward to another exciting flight, dodging Air Force transports at K-l," McDavit said. "Did I ever tell you that I once was an honest Wildcat pilot?"

"Flying the Avenger is a dirty job, right, but someone has to do it?" Dunn said, sympathetically. "And you're wondering why you?"

"Even the name is obsolete," McDavit said. "That war's long over. We already avenged Pearl Harbor."

"Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Pearl Harbor?" McDavit joked, then: "What can this old sailor do for you, Colonel?"

"You're about ready to go to Pusan?"

"Just as soon as I get some sort of mysterious envelope for the Marine liaison at K-l, I am."

Dunn pulled the zipper of his flight suit down and indi-cated that he had the mysterious envelope.

"There's a fellow I really want to see in Pusan," he said. "And they're replacing some hydraulics on my Corsair, which means I have the time to go."

"There's plenty of weight on the way in," McDavit said, "and you're sure welcome to it. But I have no idea what I'll have to haul back. Maybe a couple of mailbags, maybe the Golden Gate Bridge in pieces. You're liable to get stuck there overnight."

"I'm checked out in the Avenger," Dunn said, simply. "I flew one as recently as last week."

McDavit met his eyes.

"I'd need the skipper's permission," he said.

"I've already asked. He said it's up to you."

"You must want to see this guy pretty bad. When the word gets out that you've been flying the truck, everyone will wonder how you fucked up."

"I do," Dunn said, simply.

"Sure, Colonel," McDavit said. "But please don't bend my bird. I'm not sure they even make parts for it anymore."

Lieutenant Colonel William C. "Billy" Dunn regarded be-ing devious as about as unacceptable-even despicable-a behavior for a Marine officer as bold-faced lying. He was being devious now, and it made him very uncomfortable, but he didn't know how else he could handle the situation.

It had started when he told Master Sergeant Mac McGrory to sit on the aerials of the rice field where someone had stamped "PP" and an arrow into the mud.

He just hadn't had time to think about it then-the loud-speakers had blared "Pilots, man your aircraft" while he was still looking at the aerials-but that didn't justify his subsequent behavior. Which, on sober analysis, had been both unprofessional and devious.

On that first mission, right after seeing the aerials, he had diverted from the mission plan, dropped down to the ground, and flown over the wreckage of Pick's Corsair. He knew where that was, but he didn't know where the muddy rice paddy was. The only thing McGrory had said was that it was "near" where Pickering had gone down, and he hadn't asked "how near?" or "in which direction?"

He thought that he could possibly find it because it was a muddy-as opposed to water-filled-rice paddy, and there probably wouldn't be too many of those.

There were. The bombing, and probably artillery as well, had ruptured the dirt walls of more than a dozen pad-dies near the wreckage of Pick's Corsair and let the water escape. And during his one pass at 200 knots-he could not fly over the area more than once-it had been impossi-ble to look for "PP" and an arrow in all of them.

He hadn't found the one he was looking for, but he had seen Korean fanners hard at work restoring the mud walls of several of the paddies.

When he overflew the location the next day, now armed by Chief Young with a more precise location of what he had come to think of as "Pick's rice paddy," he found proof of the industry of Korean paddy rice farmers, even in the middle of war: there was water in all the paddy fields. The bastards must have worked all night!

The only proof that someone had stamped out "PP" and an arrow was in the aerial photos.

The Marines have a long-standing tradition of not leav-ing their dead and wounded on a battlefield. It is almost holy writ.

There were several problems with that near-sacred tradi-tion in this circumstance.

The first was that Dunn didn't know that Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, had done the stamping.

And even if he had, the odds were that he had done so immediately after getting shot down. In the opinion of an expert in the field of operations behind the enemy's lines-Captain Kenneth R. McCoy-the odds were that Pick was now either a prisoner, or the North Koreans had shot him. It was unlikely that he was hiding out in the area, waiting to be rescued. For one thing, there didn't seem to be any place for him to hide.

If he took the photographs to General Cushman, he was sure that Cushman-probably after asking some very pointed questions about why Dunn hadn't brought the pho-tographs to him immediately, and not taken two days to do it, obviously lowering the chances of a successful rescue- would order an immediate rescue attempt.

Dunn doubted that Cushman would risk sending one of the four Sikorsky helicopters to look for Major Malcolm S. Pickering. There were only four of them-not enough- and when they weren't flying General Craig around the battlefield, they were transporting wounded Marines to medical facilities.

Pick Pickering would not want to be responsible for put-ting helicopters-and their pilots-at risk looking for him when they could be more gainfully employed carrying some shot-up Marine, who otherwise might die, to a hospi-tal.

That left the Piper Cubs. There were more of those, but not enough, either. Dunn couldn't fly helicopters, but he could fly a Cub. He was also a lieutenant colonel, and he knew that General Cushman was going to decide that while there were a number of lieutenants and captains who could fly Cubs, there were very few lieutenant colonels around commanding fighter squadrons. Dunn knew he would not be allowed to go looking for Pick in a Cub. Gen-eral Cushman would look askance at him for even asking if he could.

But the lieutenants and the captains would go flying low behind enemy lines, because the Corps didn't leave its dead and wounded on the battlefield. And very likely, at least one of them would get shot down.

It had to be considered, too, that Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, would not be where he was-if in-deed he was there-if he hadn't been trying to be the First Locomotive-Busting Ace in the history of Marine aviation.

And Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, had to be considered, too. Dunn really admired General Pickering and thought he knew him well enough to know that he had accepted the loss of his son and gone on doing his duty. Pick's father would be the first to agree that using the helicopters to carry the wounded and the Cubs to direct artillery fire, or otherwise make themselves useful to the First Marine Brigade (Provisional), had a higher priority than being put at risk to maybe be able to rescue one offi-cer.

And if he heard about the stamped-out PP and arrow, he would naturally want to believe it was Pick, and that would tear the scab off his wounded heart.

The flip side of all this, of course, was that Pick may have stamped out his initials and an arrow to show his planned course-or maybe that was disinformation; he knew where the American lines were-and might be hid-ing out somewhere, maybe literally up to his ears in a feces-fertilized rice paddy, and by now getting pretty hun-gry and discouraged.

And if one of Pick's pilots was down, and needed to be looked for with a Cub, Pick would be out there flying it, and worrying about what General Cushman would say about a squadron commander taking a risk like that later, not about the risk to his own skin.

I just can't leave the sonofabitch out there. Even if he deserves it. He wouldn't leave me out there, and I can't leave him.

Dunn had always heard there was no such thing as a hopeless situation. Until now, he had never believed it.

There was only one thing he could think of to do, and that was find Killer McCoy and dump the situation in his lap.

[FOUR]

K-l USAF AIRFIELD

PUSAN, KOREA

1105 8 AUGUST 1950

Captain James Overton, the Marine liaison officer at K-l, was surprised when Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn climbed down from the cockpit of the Avenger. But not too surprised to forget to take his shoes off his desk, stand up, and come to attention as Dunn came into his office.

"As you were," Dunn said, smiling, putting him at ease.

"Good morning, sir," Overton said. "Didn't expect to see you flying the COD."

"Well, Overton, life is full of little surprises, I've found," Dunn said.

He took the envelope of photos from inside his flight suit.

"You know what this is," Dunn said.

"Yes, sir."

"What time does Captain McCoy usually come by to pick it up?"

"Sir, a sergeant comes by and picks it up," Overton said, looked at his watch, and added, "usually between 1230 and 1300."

"I have to see Captain McCoy," Dunn said. "You think the sergeant would know where he is? Is there a phone where we can reach him?"

"I don't think so, sir," Overton said. "I get the feeling, sir, that they're out of town someplace."

"You mean out of town, as in away, or out of Pusan?"

"Out of Pusan, sir. But I don't know where."

"Damn it, it's really important that I get to see Captain McCoy. Do you have any idea who would know where he is, or how I can get in touch with him?"

Captain Overton lowered his voice.

"That CIA agent, Major Dunston, would probably know, sir."

"And how would I get in touch with Major Dunston?"

"I don't know, sir. Maybe the Army's G-2 would know. But they might not tell you if they did know."

"The G-2 would be the Eighth Army G-2, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"You have a Jeep. How long would it take me to drive there?"

"An hour, sir. Maybe a little longer."

And that means an hour and a half. Twice an hour and a half. I'd have to come back. And Overton is right. They might know where the CIA guy is-they might even know where McCoy is-but they probably wouldn't tell me. I don't have the need to know.

"Then I don't seem to have much choice, do I, except to wait here for McCoy's sergeant to show up."

"It doesn't look that way, sir," Overton said.

Thirty minutes later, the Avenger's crew chief came in and reported that since there "wasn't hardly nothing for the Badoeng Strait," they could take off whenever the colonel was ready.

Dunn decided to wait another thirty minutes for Mc-Coy's sergeant, and when that passed, decided to wait an-other thirty minutes.

Twenty-five minutes into the second thirty minutes, he took Captain Overton's arm and led him outside.

"Overton, I don't care how you do it, you discreetly- this is an intelligence situation-get word to Major Dunston, asking him to tell Captain McCoy to get in touch with me as soon as he can. It's very important. And call the ser-geant major at the brigade, same message. Or anyone else you can think of to ask. Discreetly."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Then Dunn went out and got into the Avenger and fired it up and flew back to the Badoeng Strait.

[FIVE]

K-l USAF AIRFIELD

PUSAN, KOREA

0905 9 AUGUST 1950

"Good morning, keep your seat," Major William Dunston, TC, USA, said to Captain James Overton, USMC, as he walked into Overton's tiny office. "Word is you've been looking for me?"

"Yes, sir. I have been. I called every place in Pusan I could think of."

Dunston made a joking gesture with his hands, signify-ing, Here I am.

"What's on your mind?"

"Sir, do you know how I can get in touch with Captain McCoy?"

Dunston shook his head, "no."

"Do you know where he is, sir?"

Dunston shook his head again.

"What's your interest in Captain McCoy?"

"Colonel Dunn..." Overton paused until Dunston nod-ded, signifying he knew who he meant. "... was in here yesterday, sir, from the Badoeng Strait. He said it's really important that he talk to Captain McCoy, and told me to find you, and ask you to tell him."