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

McCoy opted for the high altitude. The priority was to get the helos to Socho-Ri intact and undetected. Even if they were spotted by only friendly forces—I ROK Corps—the sudden appearance of two black helicopters would very likely cause some South Korean commander to make a report of "unidentified, black, type previously not seen, rotary-wing aircraft" flying over his position.

There was also a chance that the two helos would be spotted by Air Force, Navy, or Marine fighters making an early-morning reconnaissance. Their pilots would more than likely—out of curiosity, if nothing else—make a pass at them before shooting them down. In that case, Donald said, he would get on the emergency radio frequency and try to contact them.

"You could enthusiastically sing 'The Marines' Hymn,'" Donald said.

Pick would just have to wait. There had been no word from the Badoeng Strait that any signs of Pick had been found, anyway.

But as it had grown light, turned into day, as they had flown eastward across the peninsula, McCoy rarely took his eyes from the ground far below them.

When the coastline appeared and Donald flew over it and above the Sea of Japan, McCoy wondered what was happening and looked at Donald, who read his mind.

"I'm going to fly a couple of miles out to sea before I make the descent," Donald explained. "And then approach Socho-Ri with our wheels just far enough above the water to keep them from getting wet."

McCoy gave him a thumbs-up.

"You're pretty good at this, Alex. A quick learner."

"I had another thought," Alex said. "Just now. How are you and Dunston going to get back to Seoul?"

"I thought we'd get in a jeep. Maybe we could talk somebody in I ROK Corps into giving us a ride. Dunston and I talked about it. He said they have a few L-4s and L-19s."

"And if they won't, it's a long ride back to Seoul," Donald said. "We need our own fixed-wing airplane," Donald said. "What we really need is an L-20, a Beaver, but I think we'd have a better chance of getting an L-19."

"What's a Beaver?"

"Single-engine, six-place DeHavilland. Canadian. Designed for use in the Alaskan bush. The Army bought a dozen—and ordered a hell of a lot more— off the shelf when this started. There were six of them on the baby aircraft car­rier with the H-19s. The brass will be fighting over them like a nymphomaniac at a high school dance."

"I think you had better get in the jeep with me, and see about getting us one or the other," McCoy said.

His stomach then rose in his chest as Donald put the H-19 into a steep de­scending turn.

As they approached the coastline, not fifty feet off the water, they came across a junk plodding slowly southward, maybe a mile and a half offshore and half a mile away from them.

"That has to be the Wind of Good Fortune," McCoy said.

"You want me to take a closer look?"

"God, no! There's an air-cooled .50 on the prow, and another on the stern.

By now—they've seen us—they've taken the covers off and fed ammo belts into both."

"Why is it leaving Socho-Ri?"

"She dropped off a generator, a good base station radio, and some other sup­plies," McCoy replied. "Chow, a couple of rubber boats, sandbags, stuff—I guess you call it 'thatch'—to put the roofs back on the hootches. And some of Dunston's Koreans. And then she got out of there before anyone could draw the right conclusion."

Donald took his hand off the cyclic control long enough to point. They were approaching Socho-Ri. As McCoy followed Donald's pointing, Donald put the H-19 into a steep turn to the left, then to the right, and then as suddenly straightened up. They were now lined up with the dirt strip.

McCoy could see enough of the activity on the ground to know that Zimmerman—and Dunwood's Marines—had done a lot of work even before the Wind of Good Fortune had brought them the supplies they needed.

He saw what had to be Marines in two emplacements overlooking the path from Route 5, and another emplacement facing out to the Sea of Japan.

And a patch of recently turned earth twenty-five feet by eight. Burying the bodies had obviously been a priority.

Jesus, that's a hell of a big hole to have to dig by hand!

The H-19 stopped forward movement, and a moment later its wheels touched the ground.

McCoy saw the second helo flutter to the ground to their right, and then Dunwood and Zimmerman walking out to them.

Donald began to shut the machine down. McCoy unfastened his seat and shoulder belts but made no move to get out until the rotor blades stopped turning.

He had just jumped to the ground from the wheel when the smell of pu­trefying flesh hit him.

Dunston and the pilot of the other helicopter started to walk over to them. The pilot didn't make it. He suddenly bent over and threw up.

Dunston ignored him and joined the others in time to hear McCoy snap at Zimmerman: "Jesus! When did you finally get around to burying the bodies?"

"We waited until this morning, of course, Killer, knowing you were com­ing," Zimmerman answered, not daunted by McCoy's anger.

"Jesus! It was the first thing we did. We could smell this place a mile off."

"How do we get rid of the smell?" McCoy asked.

"Sir," Dunwood said, "we don't think it's coming from the bodies, from the grave, but from the ground where they were lying. I was thinking maybe if we soaked the ground with gas, and then—"

"Do it," McCoy said.

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Some of the bodies were in the hootches, Killer. And they stink too."

"Well, use gas on them before we put the roofs back on," McCoy said. "That smell's got to go."

Zimmerman nodded.

He looked at Major Donald.

"I don't suppose we could just drape fishnet over those propellers, could we, Major?"

He made a swirling motion with his index finger, pointing at the helicopter.

"Rotors," Donald corrected him. "No. I don't think that would be smart."

"I was afraid of that," Zimmerman said, and pointed toward the side of the landward hill, one hundred yards from where they stood. "That's what I came up with."

Against two very steep parts of the slope, two enormous flies of fishnet had been erected. Their outer edges were supported by flimsy "poles" made of short, nailed, and tied-together pieces of wood. Vegetation of all sorts had been laced into the net.

McCoy thought: Boy, that's really a jury-rig!

"And they won't stay up long," Zimmerman said, reading McCoy's mind, "if you get close to them with the rotors turning."

"Collect some men and push them over and get them out of sight," McCoy ordered.

Zimmerman nodded.

Dunston walked away from them, toward the mass grave.

"You want some breakfast, Killer?" Zimmerman asked innocently. "Couple of fresh eggs, maybe? The Wind of Good Fortune brought some. And a couple of fresh suckling pigs, too, come to thing of it."

McCoy glowered at him.

"You want me to throw up, too, right?" he said, pointing toward the heli­copter pilot, who was now sitting, pale-faced, on the ground, trying to regain control of himself.

Zimmerman smiled at him.

McCoy, Dunston, Zimmerman, Dunwood, and Donald were sitting on the stone wharf, where the smell didn't seem as bad. There was a breeze from the sea, and the smoke of the fires built over where the dead had been left to rot had sort of diluted the smell of the bodies. "Then we're agreed?" Dunston asked.

McCoy looked at him and made a little come on gesture with his hand. Dunston began to lay out the plan of action. "The priority is to get some agents up north as quickly as possible, the more the better, but for right now, three teams is all that seems feasible.

"We call the Wind of Good Fortune back, to dock here an hour after dark. She picks up the agents and goes north. Using just one of the rubber boats— keeping the other in reserve; the Wind of Good Fortune can bring more boats on her next trip—she puts them ashore and then heads for Pusan. She has enough fuel aboard to run the diesel, balls to the wall, all night.