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

"They may not have had the time," McCoy said, "or there may have been a political officer who decided that rotting bodies would really send the mes­sage he wanted to send."

Donald blurted what he was thinking. "You don't seem overly upset about this."

"Alex, you have no idea how close I am to tossing my cookies," McCoy said. "Let's get the fuck out of here!" They trotted back to the L-19.

[SEVEN]

Near Seoul, South Korea

O93S 1 October 195O

McCoy pressed the black button on his microphone and asked Donald, "Is there some reason we can't land at Kimpo, K-16?"

"No. You want to go to the hangar?"

"I've just decided I'm going to use some of the Marines there before they take them away from me," McCoy said.

"I thought the general said he was going to speak to the CG of the Marine Division about them."

"He did. And the 1st MarDiv CG may say, 'Not only no, but hell no.' Take us to the hangar."

"Captain," Major McCoy said to Captain Howard C. Dunwood, USMCR, as they stood outside the hangar, "I don't know what, if any, authority I have over you and your Marines, but—"

"Sir, I can answer that question."

"Okay, Captain, answer it."

"There was a captain from 1st MarDiv G-3 here yesterday, sir. He said my orders, until I hear to the contrary, are to take my orders from you."

"Yesterday, you said? Not today?"

"Late yesterday afternoon, sir."

"Never look a gift horse in the mouth, Captain. Write that down."

Dunwood smiled.

"Aye, aye, sir."

"There's a tiny fishing village on the east coast called Socho-Ri. I want you to leave enough men here to keep the curious away from the helos, and make for this village with the rest. Take everything with you we got from the dumps. Don't take any chances. If you run into North Koreans, turn around and run. Getting to this village is the priority. By the time you're loaded up, Master Gunner Zimmerman will be here. He'll have maps, radios, et cetera."

"Yes, sir."

"When you get to the village, clean it up—there's bodies all over it. Find someplace to bury them, and do what you can to collect identification, et cetera."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Then set up a perimeter guard, and stay there. I'll be in touch. "Can I ask what this is all about, Major?" "Not yet. I'll tell you when I can."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Chapter Seven

[ONE]

San Francisco International Airport

San Francisco, California

1145 3 October 195O

Two cars, a black Chevrolet with the insignia of the U.S. Immigration and Nat­uralization Service painted on its doors and a black Lincoln limousine bearing the California license plate US SEN 1, followed a Ford truck with stairs mounted in back toward the City of Los Angeles as the aircraft shut down its engines.

An INS officer and an officer from the Bureau of Customs got out of the Chevrolet, and a Marine colonel got out of the limousine. As soon as the stairs had been put in place against the Constellation and the rear door had been opened, they all went up the stairs.

They found Brigadier General Fleming Pickering in seat 1 -A.

"That's all the hell I need," Pickering said to the Marine colonel as he put out his hand, "a full bull colonel of the Regular Marine Corps to look askance at my appearance."

Two hours into the final Honolulu—San Francisco leg of his flight, as he was having his breakfast, there was unexpected turbulence, and the front of his uniform jacket still showed—despite the frenzied, even valiant efforts of two stewardi—the remnants of most of a cup of coffee, a half-glass of tomato juice, and two poached eggs.

"You look shipshape to me, General," Colonel Edward J. Banning, an erect, stocky, six-foot-tall, 200-pound forty-five-year-old, said with a straight face.

Pickering snorted, then asked, "What's going on here, Ed? Isn't that Sena­tor Fowler's car?" "Yes, sir, it is."

"Fowler's car? Or Fowler himself?" Pickering asked.

"Senator Fowler himself, General."

"What the hell does he want?" Pickering asked rhetorically.

"General," the customs officer said, extending a printed form to him. "If you'll just sign this, sir, it will complete the Customs and Immigration pro­cedure."

Pickering scrawled his signature on the form and handed it and the pen back to the customs officer.

"What about our luggage?" Pickering asked, looking at Banning.

"It'll be off-loaded first, sir. While you're still on the tarmac."

"Well, at least that will limit the number of people who'll get a look at this," Pickering said, gesturing with both hands toward the mess on his tunic. "Let's go, George."

"Had a little accident, did you, sir?" the INS officer asked sympathetically.

" 'Little' isn't the word," Pickering said sharply, and then added: "But it cer­tainly wasn't your fault. I didn't mean to snap at you."

The INS officer raised both hands, palms outward, indicating the apology wasn't necessary, then stepped out of the way so Hart and Pickering could pre­cede him off the airplane.

Fred Delmore, a tall, gray-haired black man who had been Senator Fowler's chauffeur for twenty years, had the rear door of the limousine open before Pickering reached it. Pickering motioned for Banning to get in first, then fol­lowed him. Hart ran around and got in the front passenger seat.

Senator Richardson K. Fowler, a tall, silver-haired, regal-looking sixty-seven-year-old, was sitting on the right side. He and Pickering looked at each other but didn't speak for a moment.

"I was just wondering, Flem," the senator said finally, "if you'd had your breakfast. I suppose I have the answer before me."

"Fuck you, Dick," General Pickering said.

"My, we are back in the Marines, aren't we?" Fowler said. "Such language!"

"Fuck you twice, Dick," Pickering said.

"Is he always this way, George?" Fowler asked innocently. "Or has he been at the booze?"

"Not yet," Pickering replied. "To what do I owe this dubious honor, Dick?"

Fowler shook his head in resignation and smiled.

"As a courtesy, one of Truman's people called to tell me you were on your way, and when, but that they doubted there would be time to meet, as you were to be immediately transferred to Travis Air Force Base for your trip to Wash­ington. An Air Force plane—"

"Not that again," Pickering interrupted.

"Not what again?"

"The last time he sent for me, I flew across the country in the backseat of an Air Force jet."

"Oh, yes, I remember. Today, I understand, we will travel in a backup airplane—one of the big Douglases—to the Independence."

" We will travel?"

" We. I invited myself to go with you. I thought you might need some moral support. As I was saying, your aircraft awaits at Travis."

"Sir," Colonel Banning said, "if I may interrupt, I think you'd better take a look at this."

He handed Pickering a sealed, business-size envelope.

Pickering opened the envelope, read the message it contained, and then handed it to Hart.

"That's already in Washington, sir," Banning said.

Hart put the message back in the envelope and handed it back to Banning, who put it carefully into his hip pocket.

"I suppose what that is is none of my business," Senator Fowler said.

"Dick, you're putting me on a spot," Pickering said.

"And what the hell, I'm only a United States Senator, right?"

"Let him see it, Ed," Pickering ordered.

Banning handed Fowler the envelope.

"That's from General Howe to Truman," Pickering said. "MacArthur plans to reembark X Corps and reland it far up the east coast."

"I know you won't believe this, Fleming, but I do know how to read," Fowler said as he took the message from the envelope.