Under Fire
Page 15
The President nodded but said nothing.
“Mr. President, there is something else,” Hillenkoetter began.
“Let’s have it,” the President said.
“Several weeks ago, on June eighth, Mr. President, Senator Fowler asked for an appointment as soon as possible. The next morning, he came to my office with a man named Fleming Pickering.”
Truman shrugged, showing the name meant nothing to him.
“And what did the head cheerleader of Eisenhower-for-President want, Admiral?” Truman asked. “The last I heard, he was not on the Senate Intelligence Oversight Committee.”
“The name Pickering means nothing to you, Mr. President? ”
“Not a damned thing,” the President said.
“He was Deputy Director of the OSS for the Pacific in World War Two. He’s quite a character.”
“Never heard of him,” the President said. “One of Donovan’s Oh-So-Socials?”
“Well, that, too, sir, I suppose. He owns Pacific and Far East Shipping, and he’s married to the daughter of the man who owns the Foster Hotel chain.”
“And that, obviously, made Donovan decide he was OSS material?”
“Mr. President, President Roosevelt commissioned Pickering a brigadier general in the Marine Corps, and named him, I have been reliably informed, Deputy Chief of the OSS for the Pacific over Mr. Donovan’s strong objections. ”
“The Marines must have been thrilled to have some socialite millionaire shoved down their throat as a brigadier general,” Truman said.
“There was not, as I understand it, much problem with that at all, Mr. President. Not only did Pickering win the Navy Cross as a Marine enlisted man in France in World War One, but he’d gone ashore with the First Marine Division on Guadalcanal, and become—when the G-2 was killed in action—General Vandegrift’s intelligence officer.”
“He was a reserve officer between the wars?” Truman asked.
Hillenkoetter was aware that Captain Harry Truman had gone into the Missouri National Guard after World I, and risen to colonel.
“He was a Navy reserve captain when he went to Guadalcanal, Mr. President, working as sort of the eyes of Navy Secretary Knox. And when Secretary Knox ordered a destroyer to take him off Guadalcanal, it was attacked, her captain killed, and Pickering assumed command of the vessel, despite his own pretty serious wounds. Admiral Nimitz gave him the Silver Star for that.”
“I really am tired, Admiral,” Truman said after a moment. “Can we get to the point of this?”
“Mr. Pickering—General Pickering—and Senator Fowler are very close, Mr. President.”
“I suppose every sonofabitch in the world has one friend,” Truman said.
“General Pickering had just come from Tokyo, Mr. President, ” Hillenkoetter said, “with an intelligence assessment concluding the North Koreans were preparing to invade South Korea.”
“How did he get an intelligence assessment like that? Whose intelligence assessment?”
“He wouldn’t tell me, Mr. President, but I have every reason to believe that it was prepared by a Captain McCoy, who was on General Pickering’s staff when they were both in the OSS.”
“Another Oh-So-Social, this one a Navy captain?”
“A Marine Corps captain, sir. He’d been a major and was reduced to captain after the war.”
“I don’t have a thing in the world against captains,” Truman said. “But wasn’t this one out of his league? Captains usually don’t prepare assessments predicting the beginning of a war.”
“This one did, sir,” Hillenkoetter said. “And so far, everything he’s predicted has been on the money.”
“Why didn’t this assessment . . . You’re telling me you knew nothing about this assessment?”
“I had never seen it before, Mr. President. And when I read it, it went counter to everything my people had developed, Mr. President.”
“Who did he do this assessment for?”
“Captain McCoy was assigned to Naval Element, SCAP, sir. He submitted it to his superior, who passed it on to General Willoughby, General MacArthur’s G-2. . . .”
“And?”
“According to General Pickering, General Willoughby ordered it destroyed.”
“He didn’t place any credence in it?”
“Apparently not, Mr. President.”
“And now it turns out this captain was right on the money?”
“It looks that way, Mr. President.”
“And when General Willoughby ordered this assessment destroyed, this captain gave it to General Pickering?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who brought it to you? Accompanied by Senator Fowler?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Which means Senator Fowler’s seen it, knows the story?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Which means, if we’ve just gone to war, and I’m very much afraid that we have, that the story is going to get out that we should have known it was coming, because of this captain’s assessment, which MacArthur ignored. My God, it’ll be another Pearl Harbor scandal!”
“I’m afraid that’s a real possibility, Mr. President.”
“And what did you do when this assessment came to your attention?”
“I decided that it deserved further investigation, Mr. President.”
“Meaning you sat on it?”
“I sent my Deputy for Asiatic Activities, David Jacobs, to Hong Kong on the next plane with orders to light fires under everybody we have over there to check it out.”
“And?”
“Well, there hasn’t been much time, Mr. President, but what feedback I got tended—until yesterday—to make me question the assessment.”
Truman looked at him for a long moment.
“I appreciate your honesty, Admiral,” he said. “Thank you.”
He looked as if he was in thought, then asked, “Where is this captain now? What else has he got to tell us that no one wants to hear?”
“That was some of the first feedback I was given, Mr. President,” Hillenkoetter said. “Captain McCoy was returned to the United States for involuntary separation from the service.”
“Kill the messenger, huh? That sounds like something Emperor MacArthur would do.”
“Mr. President, General Pickering led me to believe that General MacArthur is unaware of the assessment.”
“How the hell would he know that?”
“He and MacArthur are friends, Mr. President. He had dinner with the MacArthurs when he was in Tokyo.”
“Then, since he had it, why didn’t he give the damned assessment to MacArthur?”
“The way General Pickering put it, Mr. President, is that General MacArthur’s loyalty to those officers who served with him in the Philippines and throughout World War Two is legendary.”
“The ‘Bataan Gang,’ ” the President said. “I’ve heard about that, about them.” He paused and looked at Hillenkoetter. “Where is the captain now?”
“I have no idea, sir. In the States, someplace. Maybe at Camp Pendleton, that’s a separation center.”
“What about General Pickering?”
“He lives in San Francisco.”
The President looked at his watch.
“It’s half past ten here,” he said. “What’ll it be in San Francisco?”
Hillenkoetter did the arithmetic.
“Half past seven, Mr. President.”
Truman turned to the sideboard behind him and picked up the telephone.
“This is the President,” he said. “In this order, get me General Fleming Pickering, in San Francisco, California.”
He looked at Hillenkoetter.
“Have you got a number?”
“No, sir. And I should have one. I’m sorry, Mr. President. ”
Truman waved a hand to show that it didn’t matter, and turned his attention back to the telephone.
“Start looking for him at Pacific and Far East Shipping. When I’m through talking to him, ge
t me Senator Fowler. I don’t know where he is.”
He put the telephone back in its cradle.
“If you have the time, Admiral, stick around until I make these calls.”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
“Do I have to tell you the fewer people who know about this, the better?”
“No, sir.”
“You said you sent Dave Jacobs to the Far East. How much does he know?”
“Under the circumstances, Mr. President, I told David that I had reason to question the most recent data I was getting, and wanted it thoroughly checked. I didn’t tell him why.”
“Don’t,” the President said.
He pushed a button on a pad on the conference table.
A white-jacketed Navy steward appeared.
“I’m about to have a drink,” the President said. “You?”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
[THREE]
THE PENTHOUSE THE FOSTER SAN FRANCISCAN HOTEL NOB HILL, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA 1935 25 JUNE 1950
The chairman of the board of the Foster Hotel Corporation was about to dine with the chairman of the board of the Pacific & Far East Shipping Corporation in what was known as the Foster Hotel Corporation Executive Conference Center. When dealing with the Internal Revenue Service the center was treated as a reasonable and necessary business expense. It consisted of seven rooms atop the Foster San Franciscan, including a large conference room, three bedrooms, a lounge, a sauna, and a kitchen.
When the telephone rang, the chairman of the board of P&FE, attired in a bathrobe, swim trunks, and rubber sandals, was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, watching the chairman of the board of the Foster Hotel Corporation, who was attired in a swimsuit and sandals, and standing at the kitchen stove.
Both executives had just come from the hotel’s swimming pool, and on the elevator ride, the Foster Chairman had inquired of the P&FE Chairman what he wanted to do about dinner.
“You know what I really would like is a crab omelet,” he replied.
“Good idea. And I think there’s a bottle of champagne in the fridge.”
“May I interpret that to mean you would not be averse to a little fooling around?”
“Flem, you’re supposed to be too old for that sort of thing.”
“I’m not.”
“Thank God.”
A telephone call had quickly produced a one-pound tub of lump crabmeat and a loaf of freshly baked French bread from the hotel kitchen. By the time it arrived, the champagne had been opened, and the P&FE chairman—who really didn’t like champagne—had brought a bottle of Famous Grouse from the lounge to the kitchen.
When the telephone rang, the Foster chairman had inquired, “I wonder who the hell that is.”
Very few people had the number of the penthouse.
“If you picked it up, you could probably find out,” Fleming Pickering suggested.
Patricia Fleming turned from her skillet and looked at her husband with what could be described as wifely loving contempt/affection and reached for the wall-mounted phone.
“Hello,” she said, then: “Hold on a minute.”
She extended the phone, which had a long cord, to her husband.
“Who is it?”
“Another of your legion of pals with a sophomoric sense of humor,” Patricia said.
He walked across the kitchen, holding his whiskey glass, and took the telephone from his wife.
“Hello?”
“Brigadier General Fleming Pickering?” a female voice inquired.
“Who wants to know?”
“Brigadier General Fleming Pickering?” the woman asked again.
“This is Fleming Pickering.”
“Hold one, please, General, for the President.”
Fleming Pickering looked at his wife, who was shaking her head in disbelief at the childish humor of some of her husband’s cronies.
“Sure,” Pickering said, smiling as he wondered what was to come next.
“General Pickering?” a male voice inquired.
“You got him. Come to attention when you speak with me.”
“This is President Truman, General.”
I’ll be goddamned.
“Yes, sir?”
“General, at four in the morning yesterday, North Korea launched an invasion of South Korea.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that, sir.”
Patricia Fleming’s facial expression changed to one of concern. She pushed the skillet off the fire and went to her husband, putting her head next to his so that she could hear the conversation. She heard:
“There are very few details at this time, but enough to know that it’s more than a border incident.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Admiral Hillenkoetter has told me of your visit to him,” Truman said.
“Yes, sir?”
“Who?” Patricia asked. “Admiral who? What visit?”
“I would very much like to see you and Senator Fowler as soon as possible,” Truman said. “Would you be willing to come to Washington?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Of course.”
“And Captain McCoy. No one seems to know where he is. Do you?”
Well, Christ, Hillenkoetter didn’t have to be a nuclear scientist to figure out the only place I could have gotten that assessment was from the Killer.
“To the best of my knowledge, Mr. President, he and his wife are driving from Charleston to Camp Pendleton, probably stopping off in St. Louis on the way.”
“You don’t know how to get in touch with him?”
“No, sir. I don’t. He’s due in Camp Pendleton on June twenty-ninth.”
“What about in St. Louis? Have you got a number there?”
“Not here, sir, I’m sorry. I’m at home. If they stop off at St. Louis, it will be to see Captain George Hart, who’s a policeman, head of the Homicide Bureau.”
“They can deal with that,” Truman said, as if to himself. “General, if you’re willing to come, I’ll have someone in the Air Force contact you very shortly about getting you on a plane.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I would be grateful, General, if this conversation, and anything about your meeting with Admiral Hillenkoetter, did not become public knowledge.”
“Of course, sir. I understand, Mr. President.”
“Thank you. I look forward to seeing you shortly, General. ”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, again,” Truman said, and the line went dead.
Pickering, deep in thought, put the telephone back in the wall rack.
“What the hell was that all about?” Patricia Fleming asked.
“It would appear, sweetheart, that we have just gone to war in Korea,” he began.
They had just finished the crab omelet, and Pickering a second, stiff drink of Famous Grouse, when the phone rang again.
Pickering walked to it and answered it.
“Hello?”
“General Pickering?”
“Yes, speaking.”
Goddamn it, you’re not General Pickering.
“General, this is Brigadier General Jason Gruber, U.S. Air Force.”
“Yes?”
“My orders, General, are to get you to Andrews Air Force Base as quickly as possible. How would you feel about making the trip in an F-94? It would mean getting into a pressure suit. . . .”
“I don’t even know what an F-94 is,” Pickering said.
“We just started taking delivery 1 June,” General Gruber said. “It’s a follow-on to the Lockheed Shooting Star, the F-80. . . .”
“That’s a fighter,” Pickering said. “Is there room for a passenger in a fighter?”
“There’s room for a radar operator in the rear cockpit. You give the word, I can be at Alameda Naval Air Station in about an hour.”
“Where are you now?” Pickering asked, and before General Gruber could answer, asked, “You’ll be flying me?”
“I’m at Nellis Air Force Base, an
d yes, I’ll be driving.”
“I thought Nellis Air Force Base was in Las Vegas.”
“It is,” General Gruber said.
“And you can fly here in an hour?”
“If I kick in the afterburners, and I probably will, I can make it in thirty-five, forty minutes.”
“My God!”
“The alternative is some kind of transport, General. That, of course, will take a lot longer to get you to Washington. It’s up to you.”
“I’ll need more than an hour,” Pickering said. “There’s something I have to do before I leave here.”
“In two hours, it’ll be twenty-two hundred. By then, I’ll be refueled and ready to go. How big a man are you, General?”
“Six-one, a hundred ninety.”
“And all we’ll have to do is squeeze you into a pressure suit, and we can take off.”
“How do I get into the Navy base?”
“Alameda will be waiting for you. You’re traveling DP, General. Everything is greased. Believe me.”
“What’s DP?”
“Direction of the President. You didn’t know?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I’ll see you at Alameda, General,” General Gruber said, and hung up without saying anything else.
Pickering hung up the telephone and turned to Patricia.
“What was that all about?”
“I’m to be flown to Washington by an Air Force brigadier in a fighter I never heard of. We leave in two hours from the Alameda Naval Air Station.”
Patricia Fleming considered that.
“I’ll drive you,” she said. “It won’t take us two hours to get to Alameda, Flem.”
“The Air Force guy’s coming from Las Vegas. He says he can do that in forty minutes. But I told him two hours,” Pickering said.
“Why?”
“I have something—something important—I want to do here first.”
“What could possibly be more important than—?” She stopped in midsentence, having taken his meaning.
“The same thing I had in mind when we got on the elevator thirty, forty minutes ago,” he replied.
She looked at him for a moment, then smiled.
“Oh, Flem, I hope you never grow up.”
[FOUR]
THE PRESS CLUB TOKYO, JAPAN 1130 26 JUNE 1950