W E B Griffin - Corp 09 - Under Fire

by Under Fire(Lit)

0405 19 AUGUST 1950

  "Have a look at that, Mr. McCoy," Captain Jones-Fortin said, pointing out the spray-soaked window of the bridge. "What is it they say, `all good things come to those who wait'?"

  There was a bright glow of light coming through the cloud cover.

  "Is that the northern edge of the storm?" McCoy said.

  "Not exactly," Jones-Fortin said. "We are in the northern edge of the storm-I'm sure you will not be much surprised to learn that the weather people have finally decided what we have been steaming through is a hurricane-and that light you see is dawn coming up over what I devoutly hope will be calm waters."

  "Me, too."

  The Charity didn't seem to be tossing as much as she had been for the past forty hours, but McCoy wasn't sure if this was the case, or wishful thinking.

  Ten minutes later, Jones-Fortin turned to McCoy again.

  "Master mariner that I am, Mr. McCoy, it is my profes-sional judgment that in, say, ten minutes, it will be safe to step into my shower and have a wash and a shave. If you feel a similar need, may I suggest you go to your cabin, and then join me for breakfast in the wardroom in twenty minutes?"

  "Thank you, sir."

  "If you'd be so kind, ask Mr. Taylor to join us."

  "Yes, sir, of course."

  Jones-Fortin raised his voice. "Number One, you have the conn. I will be in my cabin."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "If, in your judgment, the situation continues to im-prove, in ten minutes order the mess to prepare the break-fast meal."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  Twenty minutes later, McCoy and Taylor walked into the wardroom. Jones-Fortin was already there, wearing a fresh, crisply starched uniform of open-collared white shirt, shorts, and knee-length white socks. Taylor was in his usual washed soft khakis, and McCoy in Marine Corps utilities.

  A white-jacketed steward handed them a neatly typed breakfast menu the moment they sat down, and poured tea from a silver pitcher for them.

  A moment later, another steward delivered what McCoy at first thought was breakfast for all of them. But he set the entire contents of his tray-toast, six fried eggs on one plate, and a ten-inch-wide, quarter-inch-thick slice of ham on another-before the captain, then turned to McCoy and Taylor.

  "And what can I have Cooky prepare for you, gentle-men?"

  They gave him their order.

  "Shortly after joining His Majesty's Navy," Jones-Fortin said, as he stuffed a yolk-soaked piece of toast into his mouth, "I learned that the hoary adage, `If you keep your stomach full, you do not suffer from mal de mer,' did not apply at all to Midshipman the Honorable Darwin Jones-Fortin. Quite the contrary. If I eat so much as a piece of dry toast in weather such as we have just experienced, I turn green and am out of the game. I trust you will forgive this display of gluttony. I haven't had a thing to eat since we left Sasebo."

  "I haven't been exactly hungry myself, sir," McCoy said.

  "On the subject of food," Jones-Fortin said. "Is there anything we can give you from Charity's stores to better the fare on Tokchok-kundo?"

  "You're very kind, Captain," Taylor said.

  "Bread, sir," McCoy said. "The one thing I really miss when I'm... I really miss fresh bread."

  "I'll see to it."

  "When do you think we'll be getting to the Flying Fish, sir?" Taylor asked.

  "It's about two hundred twenty miles. The storm is mov-ing southward at about fifteen knots. That should put us off the lighthouse somewhere around 2100. It'll be dark then, and I think the seas will have subsided."

  "But how would we find Tokchok-kundo in the dark?" McCoy asked. "The original idea was to head for shore in the dark, but to arrive there as it was getting light."

  "And I think we had best stick to that, too," Taylor said. "I don't want to try running in the channel in the dark."

  "Then that means we'll have to arrange things to arrive at the original hour."

  "Three days late," McCoy said.

  "Unfortunately," Jones-Fortin agreed.

  "They'll be worried about us," McCoy said. "On Tokchok-kundo and in Tokyo."

  "They'll know, of course, about the storm," Jones-Fortin said. "Tokchok-kundo's been in it."

  "And General Pickering will be worried about that, too," McCoy said.

  "He does have quite a bit on his plate, doesn't he?"

  Jones-Fortin said.

  There was something in his voice that made McCoy look at him.

  "It came out somehow," Jones-Fortin said. "Fitz-Tony Fitzwater, my brother-in-law-said that Sir William had heard that General Pickering's son had gone down."

  "That's right," McCoy said.

  "That's rotten luck," Jones-Fortin said. "It must be really tough for a senior officer to lose a son. I mean, more so than for someone not in the service."

  "There's a chance that Pick-Major Malcolm Pickering, who's my best friend-"

  "Oh, God, I am treading on glass, aren't I?" Jones-Fortin interrupted.

  "-may walk through raindrops again," McCoy fin-ished.

  "Oh?"

  "There's some reason to believe he survived the crash," McCoy said. "I think he has. He's done that before. And is running around behind the enemy's lines waiting for some-one to come get him before the North Koreans capture him."

  "And they really can't go looking for him, can they?" Jones-Fortin said, sympathetically.

  "If I wasn't on my way to Tokchok-kundo, I'd be look-ing for him," McCoy said.

  "I thought, when we were in Pusan, that you told Dunston to ratchet up the search operation?" Taylor said. "You don't think that's going to work?"

  "That was a tough call," McCoy said. "I don't know who Dunston's agents are, or who they're working for. Agents have been known to change sides. Ratcheting up the search also ratcheted up the risk that the North Koreans will learn we're looking for someone, and they would know we would only be running an operation like this for someone important. All I may have done is ratchet up the search for him by the North Koreans, if they even had one going. Or, if they've already caught him, it would let them know they have an important prisoner."

  "And yet you ordered this... search?" Jones-Fortin asked.

  McCoy nodded.

  "I decided if I was in his shoes..."

  `Tough call, Ken," Taylor said. "But I'd have made the same one."

  "I rather think that I would have, too," Jones-Fortin said. "Thank God, I didn't have to."

  [SIX]

  ABOARD HMS CHARITT

  37 DEGREES 41 MINUTES NORTH LATITUDE,

  126 DEGREES 58 MINUTES EAST LONGITUDE

  (THE YELLOW SEA)

  0405 20 AUGUST 1950

  HMS Charity was dead in the water.

  Captain the Honorable Darwin Jones-Fortin, RN, in starched and immaculate white uniform, Lieutenant (j.g) David R. Taylor, USNR, and Captain K. R. McCoy, USMCR-both in Marine utilities-were on her flying bridge, looking down to the main deck where, in the glare of floodlights, a work gang was loading the supplies into the two lifeboats bobbing alongside.

  The work was being supervised by a wiry chief petty of-ficer, also in immaculate whites, who stood no taller than five feet three and weighed no more than 120 pounds, but whose bull-like "instructions" to his work detail could be easily heard on the flying bridge.

  "I've always felt," Captain Jones-Fortin said, "that this sort of thing is best handled by a competent petty officer; that the only thing an officer attempting to supervise the accomplishment of something about which he knows very little does is to create confusion."

  "How about `chaos,' sir?" McCoy replied.

  "The voice of experience, Captain?" Jones-Fortin asked dryly.

  "Unfortunately," McCoy said. "I can still remember some spectacular examples from my days as a corporal."

  The chief jumped nimbly into one of the lifeboats, started its engine, motioned for two of the Marines stand-ing on the deck to get into the boat, waited until they were in it, sitting where he thought they should be sittin
g, and then he nimbly moved to the second boat and-this time with some difficulty-got the engine started.

  He motioned for the other two Marines on deck to get into the boat, seated them, then looked up toward the flying bridge.

  "We seem to be ready for the officers, Captain," he called, in a deep voice that did not need the amplification of a bullhorn.

  "They will be down directly," Jones-Fortin called. "Good show, Chief!"

  Jones-Fortin offered his hand first to Taylor and then to McCoy.

  "Best of luck," he said. "We'll see you again soon."

  The chief watched from the deck as Taylor-nimbly-and McCoy-very carefully-both got into one boat.

  Taylor checked McCoy out on the engine controls again, then signaled to the chief to let loose the lines. Then, very carefully, he took the tiller and moved the boat alongside the second.

  "Just follow me, Ken," he said. "You steered the Wind of Good Fortune-you can steer this."

  McCoy nodded and took the tiller.

  Taylor jumped into the second boat, signaled for its lines to be let loose, and then shoved it away from Charity's hull with a shove with his foot. Then he took the tiller, ad-vanced the throttle, and moved away from Charity.

  McCoy waited until ten feet separated the boats, then advanced his throttle.

  The floodlights went out a moment later. It took Mc-Coy's eyes what seemed like a very long time to adjust to the darkness. When they had, he saw that Taylor's boat was getting farther away.

  He eased the throttle forward a hair.

  Moments after that, Jones-Fortin's amplified voice called, "Godspeed, gentlemen!" across the darkness.

  When McCoy looked over his shoulder, he could barely see HMS Charity.

  Thirty minutes later, a bump on the just barely visible hori-zon changed slowly into the lighthouse at the entrance to the Flying Fish Channel.

  And thirty minutes after that-by then it was light-the houses on the shore of Tokchok-kundo came into view. As they came closer, the damage the storm had caused became visible.

  The roofs of two of the houses were gone, and the doors and windows of most of them.

  They were almost at the wharf before anyone appeared, and then it was Master Gunner Ernest W. Zimmerman, USMC.

  He stood on the wharf and saluted as Lieutenant Taylor skillfully brought his lifeboat up it, and managed to keep a straight face when the boat conned by Captain McCoy rammed into Taylor's boat, knocking Taylor off his feet.

  Chapter Nineteen

  [ONE]

  THE DAI-ICHI BUILDING

  TOKYO, JAPAN

  0905 20 AUGUST 1950

  The two-starred red flag of a major general flew from a small staff on the right front fender of the glistening olive-drab Buick staff car. Even before it stopped before the main entrance of the Dai Ichi Building, a captain of what was usually referred to as the Honor Guard-or, less re-spectfully, as the Palace Guard, and, even less respectfully, as the "Chrome Domes"-sent two members of the guard trotting quickly down the stairs so they would be in posi-tion to open the staff car's doors when it stopped.

  The "Chrome Domes" appellation made reference to the chrome-plated steel helmets worn by the troops who guarded the headquarters of the Supreme Commander, and the Supreme Commander himself. The rest of their uni-forms were equally splendiferous. They wore infantry blue silk scarves in the open necks of their form-fitting and stiffly starched khaki shirts. Their razor-creased khaki trousers were "bloused" neatly into the tops of glistening parachutist's boots. This was accomplished by using the weight of a coiled spring inside the leg to hold the trousers in place.

  Not all of the Chrome Domes were parachutists entitled to wear Corcoran "jump" boots. The basic criteria for their selection was that they be between five feet eleven and six feet one in height, between 165 and 190 pounds in weight, and possessed of what the selection officers deemed to be a military carriage and demeanor.

  The standard-issue boot for nonparachutists was known as the "combat boot." It consisted of a rough-side-out ankle-high shoe, to which was sewn a smooth-side-out up-per with two buckles.

  The combat boot was practical, of course, but the rough-side-out boot was difficult to shine, and it was not really suited to be part of the uniform of the elite troops selected to guard the Supreme Commander and his headquarters, and jump boots were selected to replace them.

  The brown laces of the Corcoran boots were also re-placed, with white nylon cord salvaged from parachutes no longer considered safe to use. The "laces" were worn in an elaborate crossed pattern.

  Officers of the Palace Guard wore Sam Browne leather belts, which had gone out of use in the U.S. Army in the early days of World War II. Enlisted members of the Chrome Domes wore standard pistol belts, but they were painted white, as were the accoutrements thereof-the leather pistol holster, and two pouches for spare pistol magazines.

  The Buick stopped. The doors were opened, and three men got out. One of them was Colonel Sidney Huff, senior aide to General Douglas MacArthur. He was in his usual splendidly tailored tropical worsted tunic and blouse, from which hung all the especial insignia decreed for the uni-form of an aide-de-camp to a five-star general. Colonel Huff was not armed.

  The second man out of the Buick was wearing some-what soiled fatigues and mud-splattered combat boots, into which the hem of his trousers had not been stuffed. The chevrons of a master sergeant were sewn to his sleeves. He was armed with a Model 1928 Thompson.45 ACP caliber submachine gun and a Model 1911A1 Pistol, Caliber.45 ACP, worn in a shoulder holster. The pockets of his fatigue jacket bulged with spare magazines for both weapons.

  The third man was dressed identically to the master ser-geant-including jacket pockets bulging with spare maga-zines-with these exceptions: He was carrying a submachine gun, M3, caliber.45 ACP, instead of a Thomp-son. The M3, developed in World War II, was built cheaply of mostly stamped parts, and was known as a "grease gun" because it looked like a grease gun. And instead of chevrons indicating enlisted rank, there were two silver stars on each of his fatigue jacket collar points.

  Major General Ralph Howe, NGUS, returned the salute of the Chrome Dome holding open his door and started to follow Colonel Huff up the stairs and into the Dai Ichi Building. Master Sergeant Charley Rogers brought up the rear.

  Standing just outside the door itself were six more Chrome Domes and the Chrome Dome officer, already saluting, and two more were holding the door itself open.

  "Perhaps," Colonel Huff said, in the Supreme Commander's outer office, "it would be best if you left your weapons with your sergeant."

  "Colonel, I really hadn't planned to shoot General MacArthur," Howe said. He handed Rogers the grease gun, but made no move with regard to his pistol.

  "Colonel, how about seeing if you can have someone send something up here for Charley to eat? Neither one of us could handle the powdered eggs they were feeding at K-l."

  Huff's face tightened.

  "Yes, sir," he said, then went to the right of the double doors, knocked twice, and pushed it open before Howe heard a reply.

  "General, Major General Howe," Huff announced.

  He indicated that Howe should enter the office.

  MacArthur, who was behind his desk in his washed-soft khaki, tieless uniform, rose as Howe entered the room. Howe saluted. MacArthur returned it, then came around the desk and offered Howe his hand.

  "Thank you for coming so soon, General," MacArthur said. "I didn't think, frankly, it would be this soon."

  "I came right from the airport, sir. Your colonel, at Haneda, said you wanted to see me `at my earliest conve-nience.' Coming from you, I interpreted that you meant you wanted to see me immediately."

  "I would have understood certainly that you might have taken time to freshen yourself," MacArthur said.

  "If I had known that, sir, I would have stopped for break-fast," Howe said.

  "Can I get you something here?" MacArthur asked.

  "General, I would just about kill for a
fried-egg sand-wich, a glass of milk, and a cup of coffee."

  Howe saw the look of surprise that flashed across MacArthur's face.

  I was supposed to say, "No thank you, sir, but thank you just the same." Right? You're not supposed to order a snack in El Supremo's office, right?

  MacArthur turned and pushed a button on the desk.

  Colonel Huff appeared immediately.

  "Huff, have the mess send a fried-egg sandwich-make that two; no, make it three, I'm suddenly hungry myself- a glass of milk, and coffee up, will you, please?"