Retreat, Hell! tc-10

by W. E. B Griffin

  "I would suggest, Doctor, that the trait may be genetically inherited from both parents," Fowler offered. "Has he spoken of his father?"

  "No. Right now, he's not talking to me at all."

  "What, exactly, is wrong with him?" Patricia Fleming demanded.

  "Physically, he's thirty, forty, maybe more pounds underweight. He appar­ently didn't get much to eat while he was evading capture. His teeth are a little loose in his gums, but a dental surgeon assures me that the situation will clear itself up as we fatten him up. He looks like a scarecrow; be prepared for that when you see him."

  "He's in the Neuro-Psychiatric Ward," Patricia Fleming stated, making it a question. As McGrory framed his response, she impatiently demanded, "Why?"

  "Well, despite what healthy, hearty, courageous young men like your son like to think, Mrs. Pickering, experience has shown that no one goes through what your son has gone through without some psychological effect."

  "And in his case, what is that effect?" she snapped.

  "Just so we understand one another, Mrs. Pickering," McGrory said, "I'm on your son's side. I'm going to help him. I'm one of the good guys."

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  "Okay. Right now he's acting like a perfectly normal young man. That doesn't mean he is perfectly normal. And I won't be able to judge what dam­age he's suffered, or begin to deal with it, until he tells me what he went through, and he's told me that's none of my business."

  "There's something I think I should tell you, Doctor," Fowler said. "For the first time in his life, I think, he was in love. I mean, his father tells me that he was in love."

  "You mentioned his father before," McGrory said. "Is there something you think I should know about him, about Major Pickering's relationship with his father? Have there been problems there?"

  "They're two peas from the same pod," Patricia Fleming said. "They are so alike, it's frightening."

  "His father is Brigadier General Pickering, US Marine Corps," Fowler said. "The Deputy Director of the CIA for Asia."

  "He didn't get into that at all, and I certainly would have remembered that," McGrory said. "What about this love affair? Did that give him problems?"

  "The day before Pick was rescued," Fowler said, "his girlfriend—she was more to him than 'girlfriend' implies—who was a war correspondent . . . Jeanette Priestly, of the Chicago Tribunet . . ."

  McGrory nodded, indicating that he knew who she was.

  ". . . was on an Air Force medical supply airplane. Trying to get into Wonsan, North Korea, it crashed, exploded, and burned. There were no survivors."

  "Oh, the poor bastard!" McGrory said, and sighed audibly. And then, hav­ing heard himself, he quickly added: "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Pickering."

  "Doctor, the way you said that proved to me that you meant what you said about being on Pick's side. You are one of the good guys, and I apologize for my rudeness to you before."

  "Okay," McGrory said after a moment. "We're friends. That will help a good deal."

  "May I ask what happens now?" Patricia asked.

  "Well—don't misunderstand this; I'm grateful to hear about anything that's given him a problem—we first have to get him to talk about what he went through, and then about the girl." He paused, visibly in thought, and then went on. "Just before I was summoned here from the club, with three, four drinks in me, I had just about decided that the standard technique for dealing with patients who won't talk probably won't work with Major Pickering."

  "I don't understand," Patricia said.

  "The carrot and the stick," McGrory said. "If they're cooperative, they get to go to the club, even on passes—short, four- or six-hour passes, with a re­sponsible person—and if they don't, we keep them in the ward in their bathrobes and slippers." '

  "I see," she said. "He's not going to like that. But it's also likely to get his back up, and—"

  "The thought occurred to me," McGrory interrupted her, "that if he could evade capture for as long as he did, escaping from the ward would be child's play for him. We'd catch him, eventually, of course, but that would only serve to increase his resentment. And what we're trying to do is help him, not make him obey the rules. Let me think about that some more. If he understands that he's not going back to duty until I say so, then maybe he will start talking to me. Maybe a couple of stiff belts every afternoon at seventeen hundred is medically indicated."

  He looked between them.

  "Okay. Do you want to see him now?"

  "Can we?" Patricia Pickering said.

  "He's outside. He doesn't know why. But I know him at least well enough to know that having you two see him in the NP Ward would not be good for him." He looked at Captain Unger. "May we use your office for about five min­utes, Captain?"

  "Of course," Unger said. "Would you like me to leave?"

  "No, sir, I'd rather that you stayed," McGrory said. "Mrs. Pickering, you heard the five minutes?"

  "I'm grateful for that, Doctor," Patricia Pickering said.

  "You can come back tomorrow, of course, but I really wish you wouldn't come every day."

  "Whatever you say, Doctor."

  McGrory got to his feet and walked to the door.

  "You may come in now, Major Pickering," he said, and stepped out of the way.

  Pick marched somewhat warily into the room and saw his mother.

  He stopped.

  Fowler thought: Jesus Christ, he looks like a cadaver. I hope Patty can keep a straight face.

  "Boy, I thought we'd done this for the last time," Pick said. He raised his voice to a teenage falsetto: "Momma, Uncle Dick, I don't care what they told you I did, I didn't do it."

  Fowler chuckled. "Dr. McGrory," he explained, "I have often found myself accompanying Mrs. Pickering to one of Pick's boarding schools when he had some difficulty with the rules."

  "How are you, son?" Patricia Pickering asked.

  "Well, now that they've stopped beating me, taken off the chains, and let me out of the straitjacket, not so bad, really. How about yourself?"

  "Am I going to get a kiss and a hug?"

  "Sure. You're still my best girl," Pick said, and went to his mother and put his arms around her. Then he hugged her very tight.

  Fowler saw that tears were running down Pick's cheeks. He looked at Dr. McGrory, caught his eye, then quickly pointed to his own cheeks.

  McGrory nodded, smiled, winked, and gave him a thumbs-up.

  Pick let go of his mother. He put out his hand to Fowler.

  "How are you, Uncle Dick?" he asked.

  [SIX]

  Fishbase

  Socho-Ri, South Korea

  1535 28 October 195O

  The message exchange had been in the clear and cryptic. Captain Howard C. Dunwood, USMCR, had taken it himself.

  "Fishbase, this is House. How read?"

  "House, Fishbase. Read you five by five," Dunwood had replied into the mi­crophone in the commo hootch.

  "Killer en route Fishbase. ETA fifteen-twenty. Acknowledge."

  "Fishbase acknowledges Killer ETA fifteen-twenty."

  "House, clear."

  "Fishbase, clear."

  That had been a little over an hour ago. Dunwood figured if it was going to take the Killer—Major McCoy—about an hour, and the message had come from the house, that made it pretty clear that McCoy was coming from Seoul, and in the Beaver.

  Dunwood was a little surprised that McCoy was returning to Socho-Ri so soon. Both Master Gunner Zimmerman and Major Alex Donald had told him McCoy had taken a fairly serious hit while exfiltrating from up north on the Wind of Good Fortune, and the last word Dunwood had had was that he was in the Naval Hospital in Sasebo.

  He wondered if Master Gunner Zimmerman had heard McCoy was com­ing and hadn't, intentionally or otherwise, told him. Dunwood thought—and it was not a criticism—that Zimmerman was the High Priest of Need to Know. Since there was no reason why Dunwood needed to be told McCoy was com­ing back, if Zimmerman knew, he hadn't told Dunwoo
d.

  But when Dunwood left the commo hootch and went to Zimmerman— who was inspecting the two teams who would be practicing insertions at twi­light—and told him, Zimmerman looked surprised.

  He didn't say anything, he just looked surprised and nodded. Zimmerman, it could be fairly said, was the opposite of loquacious. For that reason, Dunwood had not discussed his thoughts about having himself—and as many of his Marines as wanted to—officially transferred to the CIA. He didn't think he would get any answer beyond "you better talk to the Killer" out of Zimmerman.

  From the time he'd first told Staff Sergeant Al Preston, USMC, about his idea—the day McCoy had finally called in to say he was okay, just as Dunwood was about to launch the Bailout Mission—he'd given it a lot of thought. There was a lot to think about.

  He realized there was a real possibility that when he finally said some­thing—not knowing when, or even if, McCoy was coming back, he had Major Dunston in mind as the man to talk to—he would be told, politely or other­wise, "No, thanks, Dunwood. We're about through with you and your men, and you'll soon be back with the 5th Marines."

  With that possibility in mind, Dunwood had given a lot of thought to counterarguments.

  For one thing, he had been running Fishbase since Zimmerman had been ordered to Sasebo, even before they thought McCoy had probably been detected and gone missing up north. He had had the Bailout Mission up and ready to go. That was a hell of a lot different than running a perimeter guard around the hangar at K-16.

  While Dunwood liked what for lack of a better word was the "informality" of Fishbase, he had to admit that the absolute absence of an official chain of command posed some problems.

  There was an unofficial chain of command, of course. Master Gunner Zim­merman, USMC, gave the orders, and Captain Dunwood, USMCR, and Major Alex Donald, USA, obeyed them. In the normal military scheme of things, ma­jors give orders to captains who give them to warrant officers, not the other way around.

  At least Alex Donald and the pilots and crews of the Big Black Birds—and now the "borrowed" Beaver, and the two L-19s—knew where they stood. By command of General MacArthur himself they had been transferred to the CIA. By stretching it a little, you could say that Donald was getting his orders from the Army lieutenant colonel, Vandenburg, at The House in Seoul.

  But the facts there were that Zimmerman told Vandenburg only what he thought Vandenburg had the need to know, and so far as Dunwood knew, Vandenburg hadn't even offered a suggestion about what the people at Fishbase should be doing.

  Officially, Charley Company, 5th Marines, Captain Howard C. Dunwood, USMCR, commanding, was, by verbal order of the Commanding General, 1st MarDiv, on temporary duty of an unspecified nature for an indefinite period. And there were problems with that.

  For one thing, Dunwood very seriously doubted if anyone in the 5th Marines—for that matter, the entire 1st MarDiv—had any idea where they were. He knew the division had landed at Wonsan.

  He knew no one in 1st MarDiv knew what they were doing. Which lately had been practicing insertions and extractions using the Big Black Birds, which nobody was supposed to know about. And practicing for what? The shot-down Marine pilot they had been looking for had been found. Or he had found the Army. Anyway, he didn't need to be found, so what were they doing with the practice insertions/extractions?

  The latest wrinkle in that was the idea of one of his Marines. Instead of jumping out of the door of the H-19s as they hovered several feet off the ground, they made the insertion by half sliding, half climbing down a twenty-foot-long knotted rope from the door of the Big Black Birds.

  What the hell were they practicing for, night after night?

  When Captain Dunwood had posed, as tactfully as he knew how, that ques­tion to Master Gunner Zimmerman, the response had been succinct but not very illuminating: "Because that's what the Killer said to do."

  There were administrative problems, too. Every other day or so, when the Beaver made a supply run, it carried with it a bag of mail from home, and took out the letters the Marines had written. No stamps were necessary; you wrote "Free" on the envelope where the stamp would normally go.

  Among his other duties, Captain Dunwood had been appointed censor for Fishbase, not only for his Marines but for everybody else, including the Army Aviation people. Master Gunner Zimmerman had made the appointment, and his accompanying orders had been brief.

  "You read anything about where we are, what we're doing, or the Big Black Birds, anything, burn the letter."

  Presumably, everybody's service records were with the 5th Marines. That meant that no one was getting paid. No one had been paid since they went to Sasebo from Pusan, before the Inchon invasion.

  It didn't matter, practically. There was nothing on which to spend money, or for that matter anywhere to spend it. And the Beaver—and trucks—brought in a steady stream of supplies, including creature comforts, cigarettes, cigars, shaving cream, and the like, and of course beer, all of which was free. There had even been a shipment of utilities, underwear, winter clothing, and boots.

  In the just over an hour between the heads-up from The House and the ar­rival of the Beaver, Captain Dunwood made up his mind. The first thing he was going to do when Major McCoy got out of the airplane was ask for a minute of his time.

  He didn't know exactly what he was going to say, but he would think of something.

  He could always think of something to say. Being able to think on his feet, say the right thing, was what had made him "Salesman of the Month" at Mike O'Brien's DeSoto-Plymouth Agency in East Orange, New Jersey, month after month.

  Major Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, climbed down somewhat awkwardly from the right side of the Beaver and surveyed his staff—Captain Dunwood and Mas­ter Gunner Zimmerman—who were on hand to greet him.

  "You're back?" Zimmerman asked. "What's with the leg?"

  "I'm all right," McCoy said. "We brought two pigs and three crates of chick­ens, which have made a real mess of the airplane. Get it cleaned up before that—'shit' is the word—has a chance to dry."

  "Okay," Zimmerman said.

  "Use Koreans; I need to talk to the Marines. Your Marines, Dunwood."

  "Yes, sir," Dunwood said. "Sir, may I have a minute or two?"

  "Just as soon as I finish talking to your Marines," McCoy said. "Get them under the camouflage."

  "Aye, aye, sir," Dunwood said. "I just need a couple of minutes, sir."

  "When I'm finished talking to your Marines," McCoy said, not very pleasantly.

  "Yes, sir."

  Jesus Christ, is he going to tell us, "Thank you. And give my regards to the 5th Marines when you get back there"?

  "Can everybody hear me?" Major McCoy asked five minutes later, as he stood on the landing-gear strut of one of the H-19s under the camouflage netting.

  There were murmurs that he could be heard.

  "I don't really know where to begin," McCoy said. "Okay. Say what's on my mind. One of the first things I learned when I came in the Corps was never to volunteer for anything. So what I'm looking for here is volunteers."

  There was laughter.

  "Major, we heard you was shot?" a voice called.

  "I took a piece of shrapnel," McCoy said. "I was almost a soprano, but aside from that, I'm okay."

  He looked around the Marines gathered in a half-circle around him.

  "From here on, what I say is Top Secret," he said. "If the wrong people hear what I'm about to say, people will die. I want that clearly understood."

  There had been murmurs and whispered conversation. Now there was silence.

  "X Corps has landed farther north," McCoy began. "Their orders are to strike northward, past the Chosin Reservoir, to the Manchurian border. There is a very good chance the Chinese are going to come into the war just as soon as we get close to the border.

  "I think there are several hundred thousand of them. I don't think many people agree with me. I know they don't. But that's what I believe. So what I n
eed to do is put people out ahead of our forces—both 1st MarDiv and the Army's 7th Infantry Division—to find out where the Chinese are, so that our people at least have some warning.

  "The way to do that, I think, is to insert people, listening posts, in enemy territory. That's what you've been practicing to do. There are lots of problems with this, starting with the fact that if the Chinese detect you there, that'll be it. We can't risk losing one or both of the Big Black Birds trying to rescue peo­ple. The two we have is all there is.

  "And I can't either send you on missions like these as Marines, even as vol­unteers. Marines don't abandon people to the enemy. We're going to have to do just that. And since this whole thing is secret, we can't afford to have some well-meaning Marine wanting to live up to 'we're Marines, we don't leave peo­ple, dead or alive, behind,' and asking questions we can't answer."

  "So what are you asking, Major?" a voice called.

  "The rules don't apply to Marines serving in the CIA," McCoy said. "So I need people to volunteer for the CIA."

  Now there were murmurs.

  Captain Dunwood, who had been standing to one side of the half-circle, walked toward the center.

  "Sir?"

  McCoy silenced him with a hand raised, palm outward.

  "There will be no pressure on anybody to volunteer. I'm not sure I would. But now that the cat's out of the bag—and this isn't a threat—what happens now is that we're all in the bag. Mail will come in, but none goes out, except for a final letter saying you'll be out of touch for a while. And when this is over, those who don't think going into the CIA makes sense will be sent to the States. If there's a leak, Naval Intelligence will find out, and there'll be court-martials. But if you keep your mouth shut, no one will even know you were asked to volunteer."

  "Sir?" Dunwood said again.

  McCoy glared at him.

  "You have something to say, Captain?"

  "Yes, sir. Sir, the thing is, some of us, the noncoms and me, and the noncoms and the Marines, having been trying to think of a way to ask you how we could transfer to the CIA."

  "It's not all air-delivered live pigs and cold beer, Captain. You're aware of that?"

  "Yes, sir, we know that."