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

"What's that all about?"

"I really don't know. But he's the President, Ernie. I do what he tells me to do."

"Don't tell Jeanette?"

"She's a reporter."

"She's Pick's ... I was about to say girlfriend, but she's much more than that."

"I know," he said. "But I still don't want you to tell her."

"About you going to Washington, or about anything?"

"This will sound cruel, perhaps, but the less Jeanette knows about any­thing, the better. Let me, or Ken, decide what she can know."

"You're going to Washington, and Ken's in Korea," Ernie replied.

"Come to Washington with me," Pickering said.

"No."

"You could see your parents for at least a couple of days."

"No."

"And then come back here, if you'd like."

"No, Uncle Flem. Thank you, but no."

"You want to tell me why?"

"Ken's here. This is our home."

"A couple of days with your parents would be good for all concerned," Pickering argued.

"They would spend all their time arguing that I should stay with them, and then be really hurt when I wouldn't. It's better the way it is."

"You don't want your mother here when the time comes?"

"Not unless Ken's here, too. Then, sure."

"If she decides to come, you can't stop her, Ernie."

"She knows how I feel. Can we get off this subject?"

"Got your Minox, George?" Pickering asked. Yes, sir.

"Then take a couple of pictures of me and the hardheaded pregnant lady in the kimono."

"Okay," Ernie said, and smiled.

"And then we have to get out of here, sweetheart," Pickering said. "If you need anything, tell Paul. And if he can't get what you need, he knows how to contact General Howe, and Howe will get it for you."

"Thanks, Paul."

"Anything you need, Ernie," Paul Keller said. "Anything."

Pickering stood up and put his arm around Ernie's shoulders, and George Hart took three shots of them with the tiny Minox.

[FIVE]

Hangar 13 Kimpo Airfield

Seoul, South Korea

O815 3O September 19SO

Captain Howard C. Dunwood, USMCR, was having breakfast—ham chunks with raisin sauce, out of a can—with Major Alex Donald, U.S. Army, when the small door in the left hangar door opened and a Marine corporal, a very large fair-skinned man in his early twenties, his field cap perched precariously on his head, came through, followed by four other men.

"Heads up!" Major Donald whispered. "That must be the people I was told to expect."

Captain Dunwood said nothing.

After a moment, he recognized two of the men. He had seen them before, the last time when Baker Company had landed on Tokchok-Kundo Island in the Flying Fish Channel leading to Pusan. At that time, both had been wear­ing black cotton pajamas, with bands of the same material wrapped around their foreheads. The tall and lanky one was now dressed in crisply starched utilities, with the chevrons of a technical sergeant painted on the sleeves. The other character who had been wearing black pajamas on the island was now in crisp utilities, with the gold leaves of a major pinned to his collar points.

Dunwood had seen that one once before Tokchok-Kundo.

At Haneda. On 15 August, the day I arrived in Japan from the States. Six weeks ago. It seems like a hell of a lot longer.

At Haneda the major had been wearing a tropical worsted uniform and the insignia of a captain. A Marine brigadier general and a strikingly beautiful woman had put him and a Navy lieutenant on a C-54 bound for Sasebo.

And I was half in the bag, and pegged him as a candy-ass chair warmer and made an ass of myself on the airplane, for which I paid with a dislocated thumb that still hurts sometimes. I suppose it's too much to hope he doesn't remember that incident.

Dunwood had no idea who the other two were—a Marine master gunner and an Army Transportation Corps major in a rumpled uniform—and ab­solutely no idea what was going on.

Major Donald—subtly making it clear that he was privy to highly classi­fied information that he could, of course, not share with a lowly Marine cap­tain—had told him only that "there had been a change of plans" and that "sometime in the immediate future, I will be contacted with further orders re­flecting that change."

Major Donald put down his can of ham chunks in raisin sauce and marched to meet the newcomers. The crews of the two helicopters, who were also having their breakfast, sitting on the floor of their aircraft, watched with interest.

Dunwood shrugged, put his can of ham chunks in raisin sauce down, and walked after Major Donald. When Donald became aware he was being trailed, he turned to look at Dunwood.

And here's where the sonofabitch tells me to butt out.

"Hello, Dunwood. How are you?" McCoy said.

Dunwood saluted.

"Good morning, sir."

"You know Sergeant Jennings," McCoy said. "That's Gunner Zimmerman and that's Major Dunston."

"My name is Donald, Major."

"You're in charge of these aircraft?" McCoy asked.

“Yes, I am.”

"And I understand you were told you'd be contacted about them?"

"Yes, I have."

"Well, here we are," McCoy said. "My name is McCoy."

"I wonder if I might see some identification?" Donald said.

"Ernie," McCoy said.

Zimmerman took a small leather wallet from his breast pocket, opened it, and held it so Donald could see it.

"Thank you," Donald said, then looked at McCoy. "I'm at your orders, sir."

"How much have you told anybody about any of this?" McCoy asked.

"Not a word to anyone, Major."

"I'd like to speak to the aircraft people right now," McCoy said. "Dunwood, you listen, and you decide which of your Marines you can tell, and what."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Donald walked to the closest of the H-19s and gestured for the men gath­ered around the second helicopter to come over.

When they were finally assembled, McCoy saw there were four pilots, two enlisted men also wearing flight suits, and half a dozen maintenance person­nel, all noncoms but one, who was a warrant officer.

Donald barked "Atten-hut" and, when everybody was at attention, said, "This is Major McCoy."

"Stand at ease," McCoy ordered. "I'm sure you're all wondering what's going on. I'll tell you what I know, which frankly isn't much. What follows is classi­fied Top Secret, and I don't know how many of you have that security clear­ance. For the time being, it should be enough to tell you that nothing about this operation is to be told to anyone. As I'm sure you all know, divulging Top Secret information will see you standing before a General Court-Martial. I'm dead serious about that. You don't tell your pals about this, and you don't write home telling your mother, your wife, or anyone else. If you do, we'll find out about it and you'll find yourself in front of a General Court. No second chances. We cannot afford to have loose mouths. Pay attention. The lives you'll save by keeping your mouths shut will be your own." He paused. "Any questions?"

He took the time to make eye contact with everyone, including Major Donald, and then went on.

"These aircraft, and all of you, have been assigned to the Central Intelligence Agency. You will continue to receive your orders from Major Donald, who will get his from the CIA station chief. Any questions?"

One of the pilots raised his hand.

"Okay," McCoy said.

"Sir, I always thought you had to volunteer for something like this."

"If you always thought that, Captain, you were always wrong," McCoy said.

There were chuckles from most of them.

Another hand went up.

"Sir, can I ask what we'll be doing?"

"Aside from flying those helicopters, no."

More chuckles.

A voice from somewhere called, jokingly, "How do we get out of this chickenshit outfit?"