"Is that happening, Ken?" Howe asked. "You have everything you need?"
"Yes, sir. It is. And I can't think of anything else I need. I've even managed to borrow an infantry company-actually about two platoons-from 1st Mar-Div, in case we need them."
"The backup people for the Flying Fish Channel operation?" Howe asked.
"Yes, sir. They're at Kimpo."
"Probably wondering what the hell is going on," Zimmerman offered.
"In case you need them how, Ken?" Howe asked.
"Nothing specific, sir. But if we have to go any farther from our lines to grab Pick than we have so far, I'd rather have more people along."
"When you say you have everything you need, you mean, 'except of course for the helicopters that we don't want to take from hauling the wounded,' right?" Howe went on, looked at McCoy for a moment, and then turned to Dunn.
"Okay, Colonel," Howe said. "You say you're an airplane driver. So, for the sake of argument, let's assume you have a helicopter-hell, say four helicopters-at your disposal. How would you, as an airplane driver, use them to get Major Pickering back?"
Dunn, visibly in deep thought, did not immediately reply.
"Add this unpleasant reality to your equation, Colonel," General Howe went on. "Stop thinking of Major Pickering as a Marine pilot. Start thinking of him as someone we simply cannot afford to have fall into the enemy's hands."
Dunn met his eyes but still did not instantly reply.
Finally, he exhaled audibly.
"The one sure way to keep Major Pickering out of the enemy's hands is to locate him positively within a one-hundred-yard circle and then napalm the hell out of the circle," he said.
"Jesus Christ, Billy!" McCoy exploded.
"General, I want you to understand that I understand what's at play here," Dunn said. "Pick Pickering was my wingman at Guadalcanal. I love the bas-tard. But I also understand he's General Pickering's son."
"Let's hope it doesn't come to napalm," Howe said. "And let's get back to your having four helicopters at your disposal."
"Sir, with respect, I drive airplanes. Other people-in this case, that would be Major McCoy-tell me what they would like me to do with them."
"Okay," Howe said. "Okay, Ken. You have four helicopters at your dis-posal. How are you going to use them?"
McCoy didn't immediately reply.
"Certainly, Ken," Howe said, not unkindly, "you've thought about it."
"If we can find him, precisely locate him-which, so far, we haven't been able to do-then the standard Marine Corps procedure would almost certainly work. We arrange for fighter cover, send in one helicopter, and pick him up. I've already got that set up."
"What do you mean, you've already got it set up?" Howe asked.
"I've talked to the helicopter pilots. If we locate him, they'll go after him."
"I thought the decision has been made that helicopters will not be diverted for that purpose."
"If we can locate him," McCoy repeated, "a helicopter will be available to pick him up."
"Against orders?"
"We'll have to worry about that later."
"You took it upon yourself to order the pilots to disobey their orders?"
"I asked a couple of them, 'What if I find Pickering? Could you help?' And the answer was very simple: 'Give us thirty minutes' notice, and precise coor-dinates, and we'll go snatch him.' "
"So you don't need more than one helicopter?"
"I'd like to have eight, ten of them," McCoy said. "But since that's out of the question-there aren't that many-all I can use is one."
"And if you had eight or ten of them, Ken?" Dunn asked.
"I'd take that many Marines to the last marker he left. They'd drop us off and leave us. Then we'd follow his tracks. I think we could find him. If so, then we could call the helicopters back and have everybody picked up. But that's wishful thinking. Six or eight helicopters aren't available."
Howe grunted thoughtfully.
"And even if they were, General, that probably wouldn't work."
"Why not?"
"There are North Korean soldiers all over this area. And North Korean spies. Six or eight helicopters landing someplace all at once would attract a lot of attention."
"One helo taking in six or eight people one at a time?" Dunn asked.
"I thought about that, too," McCoy said. "Same answer-it would attract too much attention. And then if the NKs saw how few people there were, and went after us..."
"You could not be evacuated," Howe said.
"No, sir," McCoy said. "Not with one helo."
"General," Master Sergeant Rogers said. Howe looked at him. Rogers tapped his wristwatch. Howe nodded, then stood up.
"Shower time," he said. "You said you have some clean fatigues for us, Bill?"
"Yes, sir, clean and starched, but I don't know what we'll do for chevrons for Charley."
"Well, then I guess he'll just have to look like the oldest private in the Army," General Howe said, then turned to McCoy. "Ken, I want to hear what you and Ernie think of what this North Korean colonel has to say about the prospects of Chinese intervention."
"I'll go down there right now, sir," McCoy said.
Everyone rose from the table as General Howe and Master Sergeant Rogers walked out of the room.
[FOUR]
Haneda Airfield
Tokyo, Japan
O62O 29 September 195O
One hundred yards away from the Bataan, General of the Army Douglas MacArthur's personal Douglas C-54, a very large MP sergeant, whose impeccable uniform included a chrome-plated steel helmet, a glistening leather Sam Browne belt, and paratrooper boots with white nylon laces, held up his hand to stop the 1950 black Buick Roadmaster.
The Buick had an oblong red plate with a silver star mounted to the bumper, identifying it as a car occupied by a brigadier general of the United States Ma-rine Corps.
The MP bent over to look into the rear seat as the window rolled down.
There were two men in the rear seat, both of them wearing fur-collared zippered leather jackets officially known as Jacket, Flyers, Intermediate Type G-l. The driver was a U.S. Army sergeant.
"General Pickering," the younger of the two men in the backseat said.
There was no insignia on the leather jacket, but the silver railroad tracks of a captain were visible on the collar points of his shirt. The captain, in his early thirties, was built like a circus strong man.
"Good morning, sir," the MP said, courteously, then added, a little uneasily, "Sir, the general is not on my list."
"Then your list is wrong, Sergeant," the captain said reasonably.
"Yes, sir," the MP said, straightened, came to attention, raised his hand in a crisp salute, and said, "Pass."
Both men in the back of the Buick returned the salute.
The Buick drove up to the mobile stairway to the glistening C-54, around which were gathered half a dozen officers and men, including two impeccably and ornately uniformed military policemen, one standing at parade rest at each side the ladder.
The driver of the Buick got out and hurriedly opened the rear door.
Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, a silver-haired man of six feet one, 190 pounds, who thought of himself as being one year past The Big Five Zero, got out of the car. The captain followed a moment later.
Colonel Sidney Huff, a large, somewhat plump fifty-year-old wearing the insignia of an aide-de-camp to a General of the Army, walked up and saluted.
"Good morning, General," he said. "I wasn't aware you were coming along."
Pickering and the captain returned the colonel's salute.
"Good morning, Sid," Pickering said, and added, "Neither was the MP back there."
"May I suggest you board, sir?" Colonel Huff said. "The Supreme Com-mander's due any moment, and you know he doesn't like to wait to board the Bataan."
Pickering nodded.
"See you on board, Sid," Pickering said, and started for the ladder, t
railed by the captain, who now had a web pistol belt with a holstered Colt Model 1911A1 pistol in his hand.
The MPs at the foot of the stairway saluted as the two Marines climbed the ladder.
There was an Air Force master sergeant standing inside the aircraft at the door.
"Captain Hart will be sitting with me," Pickering said.
The sergeant obviously didn't like to hear that, but sergeants do not argue with brigadier generals.
"Yes, sir," he said. "How about the fourth row back on the left of the air-craft, sir?"
Pickering found the row, slid in, and took the window seat. The captain opened the overhead bin, put the pistol belt in it, then sat down beside Pickering.
Pickering pointed out the window.
An olive-drab 1950 Chevrolet staff car had stopped at the foot of the stair-way. One of the Army officers hurried to open the rear door, as Colonel Huff stood by.
A slight, elderly, gray-haired Oriental in a business suit somewhat awk-wardly extricated himself from the car, then turned to offer his hand to the other passenger. This was a Caucasian woman in a black dress.
"Rhee?" Captain Hart asked softly.
Pickering nodded.
Colonel Huff saluted, then waved the couple to the stairway.
A moment later they appeared inside the aircraft. The Air Force master sergeant led them to one of the two VIP suites, the one on the right.
"So where does the Palace Guard get to sit?" Hart whispered.
Pickering smiled at him but held his finger in front of his lips, suggesting that further observations of that nature would be inappropriate. Then he pointed out the window again.
The Chevrolet staff car was gone, replaced by a black 1942 Cadillac lim-ousine, which had a small American flag mounted on the right front fender and a small flag with five stars in a circle mounted on the left fender.
Colonel Huff personally opened the passenger door.
General of the Army Douglas MacArthur, Supreme Commander, Allied Powers and United Nations Forces, got out.
MacArthur was wearing well-washed khakis, his famous battered, gold-encrusted uniform cap, and an Air Force A-2 leather flight jacket, not unlike the fur-collared Naval aviator's jackets Pickering and Hart were wearing.
Pickering was reasonably sure that his Naval aviator's jacket was not an authorized item of uniform for Marine officers, but he was equally sure that no one was going to call him on it. So far as he was concerned, his-and El Supremo's-leather jackets were a comfortable, practical garment for senior of-ficers, who were not likely to find themselves rolling around in the dirt. Fur-thermore, he had heard somewhere that as a privilege of rank, general officers were permitted to select their own uniforms. He thought that if this were true, it probably applied only to Army officers, but had decided on the jacket anyway.
And had extended the privilege to his aide-de-camp (and bodyguard), Cap-tain George F. Hart, as well.
"General, would it be all right if I got one of those leather jackets?" Hart had asked. "It would make hiding these a lot easier."
Hart had shown what he meant by first pulling up his trousers' leg and re-vealing a Smith & Wesson snub-nosed.38 Special five-shot revolver-his "backup" gun-in an ankle holster, then showing General Pickering his back and the Colt Model 1911-Al semiautomatic.45-ACP-caliber pistol he carried in a skeleton holster in the small thereof.
Captain Hart, who as a civilian commanded the Homicide Bureau of the Saint Louis, Missouri, Police Department, had brought the weapons with him when recalled to the Corps for the Korean Conflict. He was never either with-out the pistols or very far from Brigadier General Pickering.
It makes sense, and if the Palace Guard doesn't like it, sorry about that.
"Sure, George. Why not?" Pickering had replied.
Hart now carried the.45 in a shoulder holster and the snub-nose in the right side pocket of the leather jacket.
And, predictably, the Palace Guard hadn't liked the sight of Captain Hart in a Naval aviator's leather jacket identical to that of General Pickering's, and had used it to take a shot at what really bothered them-Marine General Pick-ering wearing a leather jacket much like the one worn by the Supreme Com-mander, Allied Powers and United Nations Forces.
"General," Colonel Sidney Huff had said, "I'm sure you won't take offense where none is intended, but do you think your aide's leather jacket is appro-priate?"
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 offi-cers 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 con-crete. 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 of-fered 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 air-craft, 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 op-posite 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 per-mission, 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?"
&
nbsp; "I would trust your judgment about that above anyone else's," Picker-ing 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.
W E B Griffin - Corp 10 - Retreat, Hell! Page 10