W.E.B. Griffin - Retreat, Hell!

"As you were," Pick said.

McGrory smiled.

"Does that mean I can sit down now?" he asked.

"Be my guest, Mr. McGrory," Pick said.

"Actually, that's Dr. McGrory, sir."

"Be my guest, Dr. McGrory."

"I'm a psychiatrist," McGrory said as he sat and motioned for Pick to do the same. "And you are in the psychiatric ward of the U.S. Naval Hospital, San Diego. This is our initial—sometimes called 'the welcoming'—interview."

"I never would have guessed, with the locked doors and the steel screens on the windows."

McGrory smiled at him.

"Funny, nobody told me I was nuts in Japan," Pick said. "They told me— rather unnecessarily—that I was a little underweight and that my teeth are loose in my gums, but the word 'nuts' never came up. At least until yesterday when the guy on the airplane threatened to stick a needle in my arm unless I got on his gurney and allowed myself to be strapped in."

"I heard about that," McGrory said. "And I understand you said rude things to the nurse when she wouldn't let you use the telephone."

"I wanted to call my mother," Pick said. "And I am unable to understand why I couldn't."

"Well, for one thing, you had just got in, and you hadn't had your initial interview, in which the rules are explained. You can call your mother as soon as we're finished here."

"And when will that be?"

"Shortly."

"Tell me about the rules," Pick said.

"They vary from patient to patient—"

"Tell me about the ones that apply to me."

"—depending on that patient's problems."

"My problems are my teeth are a little loose in my gums and I'm a little underweight."

"You have gone through what I understand is one hell of an ordeal. Do you want to tell me about that?"

"No."

"Any reason why not?"

"I'd prefer to forget about it."

"That's understandable," McGrory said. "But from my viewpoint, the Navy's viewpoint, we have to wonder what damage your ordeal caused."

"We're back to the loose teeth and lost weight," Pick said.

"The lost weight we can deal with by giving you a lot to eat. The food here's pretty good. And, I'm told, as you get your weight back, the loose teeth prob­lem will gradually go away."

"Then why am I locked up in the booby hatch? That's all that's wrong with me."

"And I hope to be able to soon certify, after we've talked some, that there are fifty-two cards in your deck."

"Plus a couple of jokers. Take my word for it."

"There are three categories of patients here. You—because you just got here and have not been evaluated—are in Category One, which means that you are restricted to the ward. If you need anything from the Ship's Store, for example, you give a list to the nurse, and she'll see that you'll get it. You're not allowed to have money in your possession. When you move up to Category Two . . ."

"Let me guess. I can have money in my possession?"

"With which you can settle your Ship's Store bill. Which brings that up. When was the last time you were paid?"

"I guess four months ago, something like that." McGrory made a note on a lined pad.

"When you move up to Category Two, they'll give you a partial pay," he went on. "It will take some time before your records catch up with you."

"What other great privileges go with Category Two?"

"You have freedom of the building, which means that you can go to the Ship's Store, and the movies—"

"Whoopee!"

"—and the Officers' Club for your meals, if you so desire, and where, I un­derstand, intoxicants of various types are on sale."

"You trust the loonies with booze, do you?"

"Until they demonstrate they can't be trusted with it," McGrory said. "The uniform for Category Two patients is the bathrobe and pajamas. That's so we can easily recognize them if they give in to temptation and walk out the door. Then they're brought back and it's Category One all over again."

"Fascinating! And Category Three?"

"When you work your way up to Category Three, you are permitted passes. That means you can go, in uniform, on little tours of the local area we orga­nize. Free bus service, of course. And, sometimes, when accompanied by a re­sponsible family member or friend—have you got a girlfriend?"

"Not anymore."

"Pity. What happened?"

"None of your goddamn business, Doctor."

"Well, in Category Three, if you had—or get—a girlfriend, and we thought she was responsible, you could get a six-hour, sometimes an all-day, pass with her."

"No girlfriend."

"As I said, a pity."

"Is there a Category Four?"

"No. If we don't think you're going to hurt yourself or someone else, there's no sense in keeping you here."

"Why don't we just start with that? I'm not going to hurt myself or anyone else. I'm probably at least as sane as you are. So why do we have to play this game?"

"It's policy."

"Fuck your policy."

"You're fond of that phrase, aren't you? That's what you told the doctor on the med-evacuation flight."

"It's a useful phrase."

"Any questions, Major?"

"How do I get out of this chickenshit outfit?"

McGrory laughed.

"By working your way up through Category Three. That means we're going to have to talk."

"About. . . what was it you said, my 'ordeal'?"

"Uh-huh."

"Don't hold your breath, Doctor."

"I hadn't intended to," McGrory said. "Well, that's it. You can go back to your room and fill out your Ship's Store list. And call your mother. If she wants to come see you, that can be arranged. The nurse'll explain the rules, visiting hours, et cetera. I'll see you later."

"I don't have any choice there, do I?"

"No. Afraid not. For what it's worth, Major: You can make this as easy or hard as you want. Your choice."

Pick stood up, looked at Dr. McGrory for a moment, and then started out of the office.

His right foot came out of the slipper. He looked down, then kicked off the left slipper and walked down the corridor barefoot.

[FOUR]

The Race Track

Seoul, South Korea

123O 28 October 195O

Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, jumped nimbly to the ground from the rear door of the Beaver, exchanged salutes with Lieutenant Colonel D. J. Vandenburg, USA, and then looked back at the airplane. Major Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, was climbing down from the copilot's seat.

McCoy could not conceal that stretching his leg to get his foot onto the step mounted on the landing gear strut was painful, or that it hurt like hell when he jumped the rest of the way to the ground.

Pickering glanced at Vandenburg and saw on his face that he had seen the same thing he had.

McCoy saluted Vandenburg crisply and smiled.

"I see the colonel has appropriated my vehicle," he said, gesturing toward the Russian jeep.

"I didn't expect to see you back so soon," Vandenburg said.

"He says he's fine," Pickering said. "I have very serious doubts about that."

"I'm all right, sir," McCoy said.

"In a pig's ass, you are," Vandenburg said.

Major Alex Donald, who had flown to Pusan to pick up Pickering and McCoy, finished shutting down the airplane and climbed down from the cockpit.

He saluted Vandenburg and said, "Every time I come in here in the Beaver, I devoutly hope there is truth in that crack that the best place to hide some­thing is in plain sight."

"I'm told General Walker remains convinced his missing airplane is some­where in Korea," Vandenburg said. "The last I heard, he was looking around Pusan." He paused and then looked at Pickering. "We're going to have to talk about that, sir. The Beaver is assigned to the Presidential Mission, and General Howe—"

"Let's talk about it at lunch," Pickering said. "Is there going to be any trou­ble about the airplane while it's here?"