W E B Griffin - Corp 09 - Under Fire

by Under Fire(Lit)

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

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

  "Jesus!" Zimmerman said, disgustedly.

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

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

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

  "What's in it for you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  This time McCoy laughed.

  "Keep your pistol, Ernie," McCoy ordered.

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

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

  United States Air Force

  Military Air Transport Service

  U.S. Air Force Station K-1

  Pusan, Korea

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

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

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

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

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

  "Forget it, Captain."

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

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

  "Thank you, Number Two," McCoy said.

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

  "Can I help you, Captain?"

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

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

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

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

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

  The sergeant's eyes went up.

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

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

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

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

  The major read the orders. His eyebrows went up.

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

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

  He went down the list with a finger.

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

  "Yes, sir," the sergeant said.

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

  "Thank you, sir."

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

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

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

  [FIVE]

  HANEDA AIRFIELD

  TOKYO, JAPAN

  1305 2 AUGUST 1950

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

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

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

  McCoy shrugged.

  "I have no idea," he confessed.

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

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

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

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

  He saluted.

  "Hello, Ken," he said. "Ernie."

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

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

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

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

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

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

  McCoy and Zimmerman shook their heads, "no."

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

  "General Howe is here?" McCoy asked.

  Hart nodded. "We got in yesterday afternoon-"

  " `We'?" McCoy interrupted.

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

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

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

  The driver got behind the wheel.

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

  "Yes, sir," the sergeant said.

  "My quarters?" McCoy asked, confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  [SIX]

  NO. 7 SAKU-TUN DENENCHOFU,

  TOKYO, JAPAN

  1420 2 AUGUST 1950

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

  It seems like a hell of a lot longer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She bowed, in the Japanese manner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She caught his hand and directed it to her stomach.

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

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

  "Going on about what?"

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

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

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

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

  "Actually, it's ours," Ernie said.

  "What do you mean, `ours'?"

  "We own it," she said.

  "How come we own it?"

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

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

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

  "All of it," he said.

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

  "You said you bought it?"

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

  "Jesus!"

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

  McCoy said nothing.

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

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

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