Retreat, Hell! tc-10

by W. E. B Griffin

  The translation of that, of course, was: "Do you think your leather jacket is appropriate when (a) General MacArthur's leather jacket has become his trademark and (b) General MacArthur has made it plain he would prefer that his staff offi­cers do not wear leather jackets or battered gold-bedecked uniform caps?"

  General Pickering had smiled at Colonel Huff.

  "Let me think about that, Sid. Thank you for bringing the subject up."

  After that, George's leather jacket—and of course his—were set in con­crete. Brigadier General Pickering, the Assistant Director of the CIA for the Far East, was not a lowly brigadier on the staff of the Supreme Commander, as much as the staff—and probably El Supremo himself—would like it so. He was, de jure, subordinate only to the Director of the CIA, Rear Admiral Roscoe Hillenkoetter, USN, but, de facto, only to President Harry S Truman.

  MacArthur's people had to be reminded of that every once in a while. If the petty nonsense about who could wear leather jackets and who couldn't served to accomplish this, so much the better.

  General MacArthur somewhat impatiently returned the salutes being of­fered and hurried up the stairway into the aircraft, trailed by Colonel Huff and some of the others.

  Air Force ground crewmen hurried to move the stairway away from the air­craft, and there immediately came the whine of an aircraft engine being started.

  MacArthur entered the cabin, knocked politely at the door of the VIP suite on the right, entered, and a moment later reappeared in the aisle.

  He looked around, spotted what he was looking for, and gestured for Brigadier General Pickering to join him.

  "I guess you get to sit on the right hand of God," Captain Hart said.

  "George, you're going to get us both in trouble," Pickering said, but he was smiling.

  Hart got out of the way, and Pickering made his way to the VIP cabin on the right.

  There were six leather-upholstered seats in the compartment, two double sets facing forward, and two against a bulkhead that faced to the rear. A table, on which sat a coffee thermos, cups and saucers, and a map case, was between the forward- and rear-facing seats.

  MacArthur was in the window seat of the first forward-facing row, in the process of fastening his seat belt. He waved Pickering into one of the seats op­posite him.

  Colonel Huff stepped into the compartment.

  "That will be all, Huff. Thank you," MacArthur said, dismissing him.

  There was the sound of a second engine starting, and the aircraft began to move.

  "Good morning, General," Pickering said.

  "Good morning, Fleming," MacArthur replied. "I'm pleased you could come with me."

  There was a discreet knock at the door, and then, without waiting for per­mission, an Air Force colonel entered.

  "Good morning, General," he said.

  "Storms, turbulence, and a bad headwind all the way, right?" MacArthur greeted him.

  "Quite the contrary, sir. Weather's fine en route and there."

  He laid a sheet of paper on the table and went on: "I think we'll be wheels-up at six thirty-five, which should put us in Seoul a few minutes before ten."

  "Splendid! Thank you, Colonel."

  The colonel left, and a white-jacketed airman came in with a plate of pastry.

  The Bataan taxied to the end of the runway, ran the engines up quickly, and then began to race down the runway.

  When the rumble of the wheels stopped and the whining of the gear being retracted ended, MacArthur said: "I think dignity and simplicity should be the style for this business in Seoul, Fleming. Do you agree?"

  "I would trust your judgment about that above anyone else's," Picker­ing said.

  I meant that, even if it made me sound like a member of the Palace Guard.

  "Let me make a note or two," MacArthur said. He reached for a lined tablet on the table, then changed his mind and instead picked up the coffeepot.

  He held it over a cup, then asked with a raised eyebrow if Pickering wanted some, and when Pickering said, "Please," poured coffee for him.

  He poured a second cup for himself, then picked up a pencil and slid the tablet to him.

  Pickering pulled the sheet of paper the pilot had left on the table to him.

  It was their routing. There was a simple but adequate map, and the data:

  Direct Haneda-Kimpo.

  Ground Miles: 739

  Estimated Air Speed en route 227 mph

  Estimated Flight Time 3 hours 16 min

  Rendezvous with fighter escort over Fukui (before reaching Sea of Japan)

  No Adverse Weather Expected.

  Presuming Haneda Take-Off 0635

  ETA Kimpo 0951

  Pickering thought: The Constellations cruise at 323; that's almost 100 knots faster than this. No wonder El Supremo wants one.

  General Pickering knew more about aircraft than he ever thought he would. In another life, he was chairman of the board of the Pacific and Far East Ship­ping Corporation. Among the wholly owned subsidiaries of P&FE was Trans-Global Airways.

  The first president of Trans-Global—Pickering's only child, Malcolm, then just out of Marine Corps service as a fighter pilot—had argued long, passion­ately, and in the end successfully that Trans-Global should start up with Lock­heed L-049 aircraft, rather than with surplus (and thus incredibly cheap) military aircraft.

  Pick's argument had been threefold:

  First, the maiden flight of the DC-4—Air Force designation C-54—had been in 1938, and the first Constellation flight in 1943, five years later. It had, thus, five years' design experience on the Douglas, longer really if you consid­ered the development money thrown at the aviation industry with war on the horizon.

  Second, Pick argued, the Connie had a range of 5,400 miles, more than twice the 2,500-mile range of the Douglas, which would permit them to open routes in the Pacific that the Douglas simply couldn't handle.

  And third, Pick had argued, if the fledgling Trans-Global acquired, as it could with the 323-knot Constellation, a reputation for providing the fastest transoceanic service, it would keep that reputation even after the other airlines smartened up and got Connies themselves.

  "Nobody, Pop, has ever accused Howard Hughes of being stupid." The legendary Howard Hughes was known to have had a heavy hand in the design of the Constellation, and Trans-World Airlines, in which he held a ma­jority interest, was equipping itself with Constellations as quickly as they could come off the Lockheed production line.

  Fleming Pickering had given in to his son's recommendations, in part be­cause he thought Pick was right and in part because he was—P&FE was—cash heavy from the sale of all but two of P&FE's passenger liners to the Navy dur­ing World War II.

  Shortly after Pearl Harbor, Flem Pickering had flown over the Boeing plant in Seattle and seen long lines of B-17 aircraft, each plane capable of flying across any ocean in the world. He had known that day that the era of the lux­urious passenger ship was over. Time was money.

  He had willingly sold seventeen of his passenger ships to the Navy, but flatly refused to sell them one P&FE merchantman. Airplanes were not about to haul heavy materials.

  When MacArthur ordered/invited Pickering to ride in his private compart­ment, Pickering had assumed MacArthur wanted to chat, either about military matters or the Good Old Days in Manila or Australia, or to perhaps deliver one of his lectures on strategy.

  But, surprising Pickering, he busied himself with his lined pad until, forty-five minutes later, Pickering said, "General," and pointed out the window.

  A Chance Vought Corsair fighter plane, with MARINES lettered large on its fuselage behind the cockpit, was on their wingtip. Others were visible else­where in the sky.

  "Our fighter escort," MacArthur said needlessly.

  The cockpit of the Corsair was open, and they could clearly see the pilot, a young redhead with earphones cocked on one ear. He saluted crisply, held his position a moment, then shoved the throttle to the firewall. The Cor
sair then pulled very rapidly ahead and upward, then turned and began to assume a po­sition above and just ahead of the Bataan.

  Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, had flown such an airplane in the Pacific, becoming an ace in the process, and had been flying such an airplane when he was shot down.

  Brigadier General Pickering vainly hoped that General of the Army MacArthur would not see the tears that came to his eyes.

  "Has there been any further word, Fleming?" MacArthur asked gently.

  Pickering waited until he was sure he had control of his voice before replying.

  "There was a message last night from Major McCoy, sir. He seems to feel that Pick is all right, and that he missed making contact with him by just a mat­ter of hours."

  "I would suggest, my friend, that McCoy is just the man for that job."

  "I agree, sir."

  "My heart goes out to you, Fleming," MacArthur said.

  "Thank you."

  MacArthur decided to change the subject.

  "I suppose you've read the dossier on Rhee?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir. Amazing man, apparently."

  "Who in his youth fell under the spell of a Viennese . . . lady of the evening . . . and married her."

  "I saw that," Pickering said. "I wonder how often a prominent man has done something like that without it becoming a matter of official record?"

  "I would hate to hazard a guess," MacArthur said.

  There was a discreet knock at the door.

  MacArthur frowned, then said, "Come."

  Colonel Sidney Huff came into the compartment.

  "General, we just had word that the helicopters have arrived safely at Kimpo."

  "What helicopters would that be, Huff?"

  "The large-capacity Sikorsky helicopters, sir. Two of them."

  "Is there some reason, Huff," MacArthur asked, not pleasantly, "why you felt I had to know that right now?"

  "General, I thought there might be a public relations value in photographs of you with these aircraft."

  "I would think photographs of me turning his capital back to Rhee would overshadow any photograph of me standing by an airplane."

  "Yes, sir, of course they would. But I really think it might be valuable in the future. It would take only five minutes or so. May I set it up, sir?"

  MacArthur looked thoughtful, shrugged, and then nodded.

  "Yes, Sid," he said. "You may."

  "Thank you, sir," Huff said, and backed out of the compartment, closing the door after him.

  "Fleming, do you have any idea how much I envy your anonymity?"

  "Douglas, that's the price of being a living legend," Pickering said.

  MacArthur considered that, and nodded.

  "Getting back to where we were before Huff," MacArthur said. "Youthful indiscretions. You know the old Cavalry dine-in toast, don't you?"

  "No, I'm afraid I don't."

  " 'Here's to our wives and the women we love,' " MacArthur quoted, hoist­ing an imaginary glass. "Pause. Long pause. 'May they never meet.' "

  Pickering chuckled.

  "Somehow, Douglas, I don't think my Patricia or your Jean would be amused."

  "Then we will just have to keep that between us, won't we?"

  Chapter Four

  [ONE]

  The House

  Seoul, Korea

  O74O 29 September 195O

  Major General Ralph Howe and Master Sergeant Charles A. Rogers walked into the garage behind the house looking considerably neater and cleaner than they had at breakfast. They were showered, shaved, and in starched and pressed U.S. Army fatigues.

  Major Kenneth R. McCoy and Master Gunner Zimmerman were examin­ing the hood of what now had become "McCoy's Russian jeep."

  Zimmerman spotted Howe and Rogers, stood erect, and opened his mouth.

  General Howe very quickly raised his hand, palm outward, to silence him. McCoy sensed something unusual and looked over his shoulder. General Howe turned his palm-outward hand toward him. He lowered it only when he was sure McCoy wasn't going to bellow an automatic "Attention on Deck!"

  "So this is the famous Russian jeep?" Howe said.

  "Yes, sir," McCoy said.

  "What are you doing to it?"

  McCoy answered by pointing. There was now a large white star on the hood, and on either side the stenciled-in-black legend usmc.

  "I'm impressed," Howe said. "Where did you get the stencils?"

  "I cut them," Zimmerman answered. "I cut one for you, too, Charley."

  "Excuse me?"

  "For chevrons," Zimmerman said, pointing at Rogers's bare sleeve. "You'll look like a Marine, but I thought you'd like that better than what the general said about you looking like the oldest private in the army."

  "He has a point, Charley," General Howe said.

  "Will the paint dry?" Rogers asked doubtfully. "We're going to have to get out to the airport."

  "It'll dry," Zimmerman said. "I'm a Marine. You can trust me."

  Rogers snorted but started to unbutton his fatigue jacket.

  "Ken," Howe said, gently but as a reprimand, "I thought you understood I wanted to hear what the North Korean colonel had to say."

  "Sir, they were supposed to tell me when you came downstairs."

  "There was a little confusion in there," Howe replied. "The rest of your men showed up, hungry and dirty."

  He took from his pocket a manila envelope, folded over and heavily sealed with Scotch tape, and handed it to McCoy. "Your sergeant said this was for you."

  "Thank you, sir," McCoy said, and began to remove the tape as he went on: "Well, sir, Ernie and I talked to both the prisoner and the South Korean colonel. Which puts me in the same spot Bill Dunston's in. We think we're onto some­thing, but we don't want to holler 'Fire' just yet, with nothing to back it up."

  "Neither you nor Ernie could get anything out of this fellow?" Howe sounded both surprised and disappointed.

  "All I can give you, sir," McCoy said carefully, "is what I think is one pos­sible scenario. I have nothing to back it up but my gut feeling."

  Howe made a let's have it gesture.

  "I think this colonel is important. I'm pretty much convinced he's an in­telligence officer. He had his own vehicles, for one thing, and he was obviously trying very hard to not get captured."

  McCoy realized that he was not going to be able to remove the Scotch tape from the manila envelope with his fingernails. He muttered, "Shit," slipped his right hand up the sleeve of his utility jacket, and came out with a blue steel dag­ger, then continued without missing a syllable: "I think he's one of the NK officers who've been trained by the Chinese Communists, or the Russians, or both. . . ." McCoy dug the point into the Scotch tape, gave a little shove, and then almost effortlessly sliced through the layers of tape. "I know he speaks Can­tonese, and I think he probably speaks—or at least understands—Russian." He wiped the blade of the dagger on his utility jacket, then replaced it in whatever held it to his left wrist. "If that's true—and that's a big 'if—"

  General Pickering had told General Howe about the knife McCoy carried on his left wrist. It was a Fairbairn, designed by the legendary Captain Bruce Fairbairn of the pre-World War II British-officered Shanghai Police. Fairbairn had taken a liking to a cocky young corporal of the 4th Marines, whom he had met at high-stakes poker games, had run him through his police knife-fighting course, and then given him one of his carefully guarded knives. Howe had never seen it before, although Pickering had told him McCoy was never without it.

  McCoy took two leather wallets from the now-sliced-open envelope, put them in his hip pocket, then tossed the third wallet the envelope had held to Zimmerman.

  "—then it's possible, I think likely—" McCoy went on.

  "What's that, your wallets?" Howe interrupted.

  His curiosity had gotten the best of him.

  "Yes, sir. And the CIA credentials. We left them with the 7th Division G-2 when we went south," McCoy said.

  Howe t
hought: Which suggests, of course, that you thought there was a very good chance you would have been captured—or killed—yourselves. In either event, you didn't want them to find the CIA identification.

  "Go on, Ken," Howe said.

  "If all three things are true, sir, then possibly he's had access to contingency plans which said the Chinese will intervene under such and such circum­stances. ..."

  "For example?"

  "Maybe something vague, like we get too close to the Yalu River, and they feel we're not going to stop on the south riverbank there. There's a big electric-generating plant, the Suiho, on the Yalu. If we interrupted service from there, it would cause the Chinese a lot of trouble. Or maybe, for example, something specific, like we look like we're about to take Pyongyang. I don't know, sir."

  "But you think this fellow has seen this, knows the trigger?"

  "I think he's cocky because he believes the Chinese will come in, sir. But this is another of those cases, sir, where I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. He may not know any more about Chinese intentions than I do."

  "If you were a betting man, Ken, what would the odds of Chinese inter­vention be?" Howe asked.

  "Seven-three," McCoy said, "that they will."

  "Can you think of anything that would increase the odds that they won't?"

  "If we destroy the NK Army, maybe by chasing it halfway to the Yalu, then stop, they may not—may not—feel threatened."

  "Two days ago, the Joint Chiefs authorized MacArthur to conduct military operations leading to the destruction of the North Korean armed forces north of the 38th Parallel," Howe said. "Did you hear that?"

  "No, sir."

  "Two caveats. Only South Korean troops can approach the Yalu, and our aircraft cannot fly over China or Russia."

  "The Chinese won't care if our troops on their border are South Korean or American," McCoy said.

  "You think that would change the odds?" Howe asked. "How bad?"

  McCoy didn't reply directly.

  "ROK troops on the Yalu would make it even worse," he said. "The Chi­nese would believe us, probably, if we said we weren't going across the river. But they don't know how much control we have of the ROKs, and would act accordingly."