Under Fire

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF RECEIPT OF THIS MESSAGE WILL BE MADE TO STACHIEF TOKYO BY RADIO TRANSMISSION OF THE WORD SHOPKEEPER REPEAT SHOPKEEPER.

  LOWELL C. HAYNES

  STACHIEF TOKYO

  SECRET

  McCoy handed the radio teletype to Dunn, then noticed that the major didn’t seem to like this.

  “Colonel Dunn is cleared for this operation,” McCoy said.

  “I don’t even know what this operation is all about,” the major said.

  “Major, it looks to me that if you had the need to know, that would have been spelled out in that,” McCoy said, nodding at the teletype message.

  The major visibly didn’t like that.

  Dunn handed the major the teletype message.

  “Have you seen that, Captain?” McCoy asked the Marine liaison officer.

  Marine captains are not required by protocol to use the term “Sir” when speaking with other Marine captains. But there was a certain tone of command in McCoy’s voice that triggered a Pavlovian response in the liaison officer.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “Forget you ever saw it,” McCoy ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” the liaison officer repeated.

  “McCoy,” Major Dunston said, “he wouldn’t admit ever having heard your name until I showed him my credentials.”

  “What made you think he would know my name?” McCoy asked.

  “This is what I do for a living, Captain,” the major said. “Figure things out. I figured you would be using K-1, and probably be dealing with the Marine liaison officer here.”

  “Captain,” Billy Dunn said. “Let me explain your role in this.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Tomorrow, probably before eleven hundred, a COD Avenger will land here. The pilot will hand you a sealed envelope. You will treat that envelope as if it contains Top Secret material, and secure it appropriately until either Captain McCoy or Master Gunner Zimmerman, only, repeat only, either of those two officers relieves you of it. You will not, repeat not, log the envelope—or any message from McCoy going out to me on the Badoeng Strait—in your classified-documents log.”

  "Aye, aye, sir.”

  “If I have to say this, you will not comment on the mysterious envelopes from and to the Badoeng Strait to anyone. Clear?”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “The idea is the fewer people who know about this, the better. Clear?”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “That about take care of it, Captain McCoy?” Dunn asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I’d better be getting back to the Badoeng Strait,” Dunn said.

  “I’ll walk you out to the plane, sir,” McCoy said. “I’ll be with you shortly, Major.”

  “Thank you, Billy,” McCoy said when they were standing at the wing root of the Avenger, outside Base Operations, where he was sure no one could hear them. “That helped, and I appreciate it. I really need those pictures. I don’t want to paddle up to those islands and find half the North Korean army waiting for us. But I really didn’t want to have to show that captain the White House orders.”

  “I think he was sufficiently dazzled by that CIA fellow’s badge,” Dunn said. “And the message from Pickering.”

  “More by Colonel Dunn,” McCoy said.

  “Ken, what if there are more North Koreans on those islands than you think are there? Then what?” Dunn asked.

  “I guess we’ll have to play that by ear. With a little luck, your pictures will let us know, one way or the other.”

  “Ken, we have some pretty good photo interpreters on the Badoeng Strait. Maybe they’d be better at looking at the photos than you are.”

  “Maybe, hell,” McCoy said. “But they’d have to be told what we’re looking at, and for.”

  Dunn nodded. “I understand. I noticed you didn’t tell that CIA guy much. What’s his role in this?”

  “I don’t know. I wish the general hadn’t done that. I know his intentions were good. . . .”

  “But?”

  “I’m afraid he’s clever and will be able to figure things out from what I ask him to get for me. And I’m afraid of who he will tell what’s he’s thinking.”

  “But, Christ, he’s a CIA agent—an intelligence officer. He’s not liable to talk too much, is he?”

  “From the tone of the radio teletype, he’s obviously subordinate to the Tokyo station chief, which means he would like to prove how clever he is to his boss.”

  Dunn considered that for a moment, then touched Mc-Coy’s shoulder.

  “Take care of yourself, Ken,” Dunn said. “If you hear anything . . . you’ll let me know?”

  “Absolutely,” McCoy said.

  “Get the bastard back for me,” Dunn said. “I really want to burn him a new anal orifice.”

  “I’m sure as hell going to try,” McCoy said, and then: “I’m glad you brought that up. I can turn the CIA guy onto that, and maybe away from what we’re going to be doing.”

  Dunn squeezed McCoy’s shoulder with his fingers, and then hoisted himself onto the Avenger’s wing root.

  McCoy waited until Dunn had started the Avenger’s engine and was taxiing after the FOLLOW ME Jeep to the runway, then started back toward Base Operations, looking for the sergeant Zimmerman had sent to meet him. . . .

  Technical Sergeant Jennings found him first. He pulled a Jeep behind McCoy and flashed the headlights on and off to get his attention. McCoy got in beside him.

  “Where did you say Mr. Zimmerman was?” McCoy asked.

  “In a warehouse on the pier, sir.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “I really don’t know, sir,” Sergeant Jennings said, his tone telling McCoy that he knew what Zimmerman was doing but was a wise enough noncom not to be the one who told the new commanding officer.

  “Where are we headed, sir?”

  “Stop right here and turn the headlights off,” McCoy said. “Before we go to the pier, I need some answers.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You’re going to be part of this operation?” McCoy said.

  “Whatever it is, yes, sir.”

  “Welcome aboard,” McCoy said. “Did Mr. Zimmerman tell you what we’re going to do?”

  “He said you’d get into that, sir.”

  “Is there a Navy officer with Mr. Zimmerman? Lieutenant Taylor?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What else is there?”

  “There’s a dozen of us, sir.”

  “Mr. Zimmerman was trying to recruit ex-Marine Raiders,” McCoy said, but it was a question.

  “I was a Raider, sir.”

  “And that’s why you volunteered for this?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sergeant Jennings said, then added, “Raiders are something special, sir.”

  “Yes, we are, aren’t we? Women find us irresistible, and movie stars ask for our autographs.”

  Sergeant Jennings chuckled.

  “You were a Raider, sir?”

  “A long time ago. At the beginning. I was just out of OCS, a really bushy-tailed second lieutenant.”

  “There was a Lieutenant McCoy on the Makin Island raid. . . .”

  “I was at Makin,” McCoy said.

  “I thought . . . ,” Jennings said, and stopped.

  “You thought what?”

  “That you might be Killer McCoy, sir.”

  “Pass the word, Sergeant Jennings, that your new skipper has the nasty habit of castrating, with a dull knife, people who call him that.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Sergeant Jennings said. “But I have to say this. Knowing that makes me feel a lot better about volunteering for this . . . whatever it is.”

  “What we’re going to try to do is, dressed up in Korean national police uniforms, take a couple of small islands off Inchon with as little fuss as possible. They’re supposed to be lightly defended by second-class troops.”

  Sergeant Jennings considered that, but said nothing for several minutes
.

  “There’s an army transportation corps major waiting for me in Base Operations,” McCoy said. “He’s actually a CIA agent, actually the CIA’s station chief here. He’s been ordered to give us what support he can. But, I decided in the last couple of minutes, I want him to know as little as possible about what we’re doing. Make sure that word gets passed.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Jennings said, then went on, somewhat hesitantly: “Mr. Zimmerman said you and he have been in Korea for a while, sir?”

  “For a while.”

  “Why is the Army so fucked up, sir?”

  “They didn’t train,” McCoy said. “It’s as simple as that. And they’re not all fucked up. There’s one regiment—the 27th, they call themselves the ‘Wolfhounds’—that’s first class. And there are others. But what it looks like to me is the brass just didn’t expect a war, and just weren’t prepared for this.”

  “Nobody thought this was coming?”

  As a matter of fact, Sergeant, I told them it was coming. And they tried to get me kicked out of the Marine Corps because they didn’t want to hear it.

  “Apparently not,” McCoy said. “Okay, turn the lights on and drive me to Base Operations. Maybe this guy can get us someplace more comfortable to set up shop than a warehouse on the pier.”

  [FIVE]

  Major Dunston was waiting for McCoy in a Jeep parked beside the base operations building.

  McCoy got out of Jennings’s Jeep and walked up to Dunston’s Jeep.

  “I have to go to the pier in Pusan,” he announced. “We have to talk, obviously. Talking in the Jeep Okay with you?”

  “Fine, get in,” Dunston added. “I know where you’re going on the pier.”

  “You’ve got people on the pier?” McCoy asked.

  Dunston nodded, started the Jeep, and drove off. McCoy made a follow me gesture with his arm, and Sergeant Jennings pulled his Jeep behind Dunston’s.

  “First things first, I suppose,” McCoy said. “Are you a major?”

  “I’m a civilian with the assimilated rank of major,” Dunston said. “In War Two, I was an OSS captain in Europe. ‘Major’ Dunston is a convenient cover.”

  “I’m a Marine captain who was a Marine major in the OSS during War Two,” McCoy said. “In the Pacific.”

  “I know who you are, McCoy,” Dunston said. “What do they say? ‘Your reputation precedes you.’ I’m really looking forward to working with you.”

  What is that, soft soap?

  What reputation precedes me? The Killer McCoy business? Or that I was sent home from Tokyo and almost booted out of the Corps?

  “One of Colonel Dunn’s Corsair pilots was shot down yesterday morning near Taejon, while shooting up a North Korean railroad train. Colonel Dunn flew over the crash site almost immediately afterward. He believes the pilot walked away from the crash.”

  “And?”

  “Extraordinary measures are called for to get him back,” McCoy said. “Or to determine beyond any doubt that he’s KIA.”

  “Who is he, some congressman’s son?”

  “General Pickering’s son,” McCoy said.

  “Jesus Christ!” Dunston exclaimed, genuinely surprised. “And the Marine Corps let him fly combat sorties?”

  “Why not?” McCoy said. “Joseph Stalin’s son was not only in the front lines as an infantry officer but was captured by the Germans.”

  “I heard that,” Dunston said. “He committed suicide in a POW camp by walking past the Dead Line. I also heard the Germans shot the two Germans on the Dead Line machine gun for gross stupidity.” "It would be gross stupidity on our part if we let the NKs know who they may have taken prisoner.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have some reliable agents the other side of the line?”

  “Some. A lot of them were caught up in the NKs shoot-anybody -who-even-might-be-dangerous occupation policy. ”

  “Gold talks,” McCoy said. “You believe that?”

  “Absolutely. What are you going to try to buy?”

  “What do you think of putting a price on Pickering?”

  “For what?”

  “So much for locating him, so much more for hiding him from the North Koreans, so much more—a lot more— for getting him back.“

  “Let me think about that,” Dunston said.

  “Sure. But we don’t have much time. In the meantime, I’m setting up a small unit to go after him, if he can be found. . . .”

  “That’s the Marines on the pier?” Dunston asked.

  “Right,” McCoy said. “And I’m going to need a junk, a junk with a good engine.”

  “I have one,” Dunston said, and added, somewhat smugly, “with a two hundred-horse Caterpillar diesel.”

  “No kidding?”

  “It was used by smugglers,” Dunston said. “The national police caught them—before the war started—and confiscated it, and I swapped them a stock of Japanese small arms for it. Luckily, it was here when the war started—normally I kept it up north, on the East Coast.”

  This guy seems like he’s pretty competent. Which makes him all the more dangerous. If he puts together what we’re really doing here, he’ll sure as hell tell the station agent in Tokyo, who’ll fall all over himself rushing to let Willoughby know.

  “Two other things,” McCoy said.

  “Name them.”

  “I’m going to have to find someplace to keep my team. I don’t want to operate out of a warehouse on the pier.”

  “And?”

  “I need a senior national police officer, a senior one, major or lieutenant colonel, one who can be trusted.”

  “Kim Pak Su,” Dunston said, immediately. “Major. Very bright.”

  “Can he be trusted?”

  “He got out of Seoul by the skin of his teeth. His wife and kids didn’t. They shot his wife, and he doesn’t know what happened to the kids.”

  “The NKs might have gotten word to him that they have the kids, and will shoot them if he doesn’t turn. And by shooting his wife, they’ve made the point they mean it.”

  “I considered that,” Dunston said. “And fed him some almost good intel to see if it turned up on the other side. It didn’t.”

  Jesus, he is good!

  “When can I see him?”

  “Tonight, if you want. Tomorrow would be better.”

  “I’ll also need a dozen national policemen for guards.”

  “No problem.”

  “And someplace to set up shop?”

  “There’s a place in Tongnae you could use,” Dunston said.

  “Where’s Tongnae?”

  “About twenty miles out of town,” Dunston said. “On the water. It’s where the junk is tied up, as a matter of fact.”

  “What’s there?”

  “It used to be a Japanese officer’s brothel,” Dunston said. “When our wives were here, we didn’t tell them that. We said it used to be a Japanese officer’s leave hotel.”

  “Are the NKs watching it?”

  “I don’t think so. If they are, they haven’t seen anything. I haven’t had a hell of a lot of time free lately. I would guess, if they are watching it, they think we’re just sitting on it.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “If you use it, and like Major Kim, he could increase the security.”

  “Who’s there now?”

  “Kim and maybe three other national police officers.”

  “I thought you said it would be better to see Kim tomorrow? ”

  “That was before I thought about turning the place over to you. You want to go out there tonight?”

  “Let’s see what’s going on at the pier,” McCoy said.

  This guy is good. He knew about the Marines at the pier. So he probably has had this ex-officer’s whorehouse in mind all along. And Major Kim is his buddy, who therefore can be counted on to tell him what we’re doing.

  “Okay,” Dunston said. “You married, McCoy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your wif
e know what you do for a living?”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me, I love my wife. But she’s a little flighty. Until twenty minutes before I didn’t get on the plane with her when they flew the embassy people out of Suwon, she really thought I was a financial analyst in the office of the business attaché in the embassy in Seoul.”

  “Where’s she now?”

  “In Chevy Chase, Maryland, with her folks.”

  “Mine is in Tokyo,” McCoy said. “Which is what they call a mixed blessing.”

  Dunston braked the Jeep abruptly, almost losing control, to avoid hitting an elderly white-bearded Korean in a white smocklike garment who came out of nowhere and ran, on stilted shoes, in front of them. Sergeant Jennings, behind them, almost ran into them.

  “Goddamned poppa-sans,” Dunston said. “They do that—”

  “So the evil spirits chasing them,” McCoy said, in Korean, “will get run over.”

  “I heard that, too,” Dunston replied, in perfect Korean, “That your Korean is five-five.”

  “What the hell does five-five mean?” McCoy asked, switching to English.

  “If you’re a civilian spook, and speak and read and write the indigenous tongue of the country in which you are working five-five—with absolute fluency—you get another hundred a month. When I came here, I was two-one, which means barely qualified, and you don’t get no bonus pay.”

  McCoy chuckled.

  “There is no such provision in Marine regulations,” he said.

  I like this guy. Which makes him twice as dangerous.

  [SIX]

  McCoy recognized the pier as the one at which the Attack Transports Clymer and Pickaway had been tied up to debark the First Marine Brigade (Provisional), but those vessels were gone. Three civilian merchantmen—one of them with the insignia of Pacific & Far East shipping on her smokestack—were tied up where transports had been.

  Long lines of Korean longshoremen were manhandling cargo from all three.

  Dunston drove the Jeep away from the quai side, and down a road before a second row of warehouses. A Marine staff sergeant, armed with a Thompson, was sitting on a stool in front of one of the sliding doors. He got to his feet when he saw the Jeeps stopping, and looked curiously at McCoy and Dunston.