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

He read it, put in back in the envelope, and handed it to Banning.

"Thank you, Colonel," Fowler said, then turned to Pickering. "What's the significance of that?"

"I think Howe wants the President to know MacArthur may take his time 'advising' the Joint Chiefs of his intentions," Pickering said. "They have a ten­dency to want to take time to consider things carefully, and MacArthur (a) likes to strike when the iron is hot and (b) does not like the idea of having to ask permission to do something in 'his' war."

"And whose side are you on?"

"The Joint Chiefs were the opposite of enthusiastic about the landing at In­chon. MacArthur is difficult, but he's one hell of a general."

There was the sound of the trunk slamming.

"That's the luggage, sir," Hart said.

"Okay, Fred," Senator Fowler said. "Travis Air Force Base."

"No, Fred," Pickering said. "Take us to the San Franciscan."

He turned to Fowler. "That'll just have to wait. I need a bath, George needs a bath, and, as you were so kind to point out, I need a clean uniform."

"You don't think it behooves you to instantly comply with an order from your Commander-in-Chief?"

"Fuck you yet again, Dick," Pickering said. "A whole cup of coffee went down my front. ..."

"And some tomato juice," Hart offered helpfully from the front seat.

Pickering pointed a threatening finger at Hart.

"The San Franciscan, please, Fred," Pickering ordered.

Fowler nodded. The limousine started to move.

"What's the President want from me, anyway, Dick?" Pickering asked. "What's this all about?"

"I think he's going to offer you the CIA," Fowler said. "Actually, I'm pretty positive he will."

"Well, we can handle that with a telephone call," Pickering said. "I don't want the CIA."

"I don't think 'No, thank you' is one of your options," Fowler said. "What I can probably help you to do is get some concessions vis-a-vis what you'll do with it, what your authority will be, when you get it."

Pickering looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then said, "That's an­other reason I'm not going to jump on another airplane right now. We're going to have to talk about this, Dick."

Fowler nodded.

"Thank you," Pickering said.

Fowler nodded again.

[TWO]

The Penthouse

The Foster San Franciscan Hotel

Nob Hill, San Francisco, California

125O 3 October 195O

The husband of the chairwoman of the board of the Foster Hotel Corporation entered the Foster San Franciscan Hotel through the rear basement door nor­mally used to remove garbage from the kitchen, and rode to what for tax purposes was known as "The Foster Hotel Corporation Executive Conference Cen­ter" in the service elevator.

There was a large conference room in what everyone called "The Pent­house," and two or three times a year it was actually used for that purpose. With that exception, however, The Penthouse was de facto the Pickering's San Fran­cisco apartment.

Pickering started to get out of his soiled uniform the moment he stepped off the service elevator into the kitchen. He was trailed by Hart—carrying their two Valv-Paks—and Fowler and Banning.

Pickering laid his tunic on the kitchen table and started to untie his necktie.

"George," he said, turning to Hart, "in this order. Get on the horn and call Travis Air Force Base and tell them we'll be delayed, probably overnight."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Then get on the house phone and tell the manager we have urgent need of the valet, coffee, and some lunch. . . ."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"And then get on the horn to P&FE, ask for Mr. Kensington—he handles transportation—and tell him I said to get you on the next plane to Saint Louis. Call me at the Lafayette in Washington tomorrow night, and I'll let you know how long you can stay."

"No, sir," Hart said. "Thank you, sir, but no thank you."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't want to go home, sir. I can't."

"Why the hell not?"

"I wouldn't be able to look any of the families of my Marines in the face," Hart said.

"What the hell is he talking about, Ed?" Pickering demanded of Colonel Banning.

"I think I know, sir. This has to do with disestablishment of your company, right, George?"

"Yes, sir," Hart said.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Pickering demanded. "What company?"

"George had a company, an infantry company, in the Marine Corps re­serve," Banning explained. "It was activated, and ordered to Camp Pendleton. As soon as they got there, it was disestablished—broken up—and the men sent as fillers to the 1st Provisional Marine Brigade."

"I trained those Marines, General," Hart said. "And I told their families I'd take care of them."

"Why did they do that?" Pickering asked. "Break up his company?"

"I have no goddamn idea," Hart said bitterly. "They just did it. The fuck­ing Marine Corps!"

"Hey!" Banning said warningly, holding up his hand.

Captain Hart was silent, but he did not seem repentant.

"It was a cold-blooded, necessary decision," Banning explained. "The pri­ority was finding bodies to fill up the Provisional Brigade, find them anywhere, and George showed up with two hundred bodies. It was as simple as that."

"I should have been with them in the Pusan Perimeter, and I should have been with them at Inchon," Hart said. "They were my Marines!"

"George," Senator Fowler said, "in the big picture, you're making a greater contribution, meeting a greater responsibility, in taking care of General Pick­ering than you would have been able to do—"

"Sir," Banning turned on him. "With respect—"

"Dick," Pickering interrupted, "you don't understand. George is a Marine officer. There is no greater responsibility, no greater privilege, than leading Marines in combat. I know exactly how George feels."

Fowler shrugged as if to say, I was only trying to help.

Pickering turned to Hart.

"You didn't mention any of this to me, George."

"You said it, General, I'm a Marine officer. Marine officers go where they're sent and do what they're told to do. But I am not going to go home to Saint Louis so long as my Marines are in Korea."

Pickering looked at him for a long moment.

"Okay, Captain," he said finally, "change of orders. After you call Travis and tell them we'll be delayed—"

"I'll take care of that, Fleming," Senator Fowler interrupted.

"Okay. Then—and this is an order, Captain—you will get on the horn and tell your wife to pack her bags because in the next hour or two a man named Kensington is going to call her and tell her on which flight she and your kids are booked for Washington."

"General—" Hart said, almost visibly trying to frame his objections.

"Captain Hart," Pickering interrupted him, "the proper response from a Marine officer who has been given an order is Aye, aye, sir,' which translates to mean 'I understand the order and will comply.' "

"Aye, aye, sir," Hart said.

"Good," Pickering said. "And just for the record, George, Fowler's right. What you do for me is important. I don't know what the hell I would do with­out you."

Hart nodded.

"General," Banning said, "have you got anything for General Howe? Or McCoy? I've got to get back to Pendleton."

Pickering thought it over.

"Message them Hart and I made it this far and will be in Washington to­morrow," he said. "But that's about it."

"Aye, aye, sir."

[THREE]

Fleming Pickering marched into the kitchen of The Penthouse, freshly bathed, shaven, and attired in a fresh white T-shirt, boxer shorts, and stockings held up with garters.

"I still don't have a uniform?" he demanded of Captain Hart. "For Christ's sake, all they had to do was press the spare in the suitcase."