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

Vandenburg let that sink in, then smiled.

"That shook you up a little, didn't it, Killer?" he asked.

McCoy didn't reply.

"Come on, fess up," Vandenburg said.

"I heard an Army officer went in later," McCoy said. "I wasn't there long."

"Let me tell you why I'm here, Killer," Vandenburg said. "You know what happened to General Dean of the 24th Division?"

"He was captured, early on, in Taejon."

"Well, the Army—the Chief of Staff of the U.S. Army—wants him back. I work for him, despite what those orders say, not Willoughby. My primary mission here is to spring Dean from durance vile. The first thing I have to do is find out where he is, and then I want to mount a mission to spring him. To find out where he is, I have to put agents into North Korea. And to spring him, I need some method of grabbing him by surprise. It occurred to me on the way over here that using those Sikorskys is the best way to do both. When I got to where they were supposed to be, in a hangar at K-16, the base commander—very reluctantly—told me that CIA had them and had flown them out. He didn't know where to. So I came here to see Major Dunston. You with me so far?" "Yes, sir."

"There's two ways we can handle this, Killer," Vandenburg said. "We can wage a turf war, which will neither help me get Dean back nor you do what­ever it is you're doing. Or we can cooperate. Most of the Army doesn't like peo­ple like me any more than most of the Marine Corps likes people like you. We're social pariahs. But between us, I think we could probably do one hell of a job, even if there would be damned little appreciation down the road." McCoy didn't reply.

"I went looking for your boss, General Pickering. He's not at the Imperial Hotel. You want to tell me where he is?" McCoy hesitated before replying. "He's in the States. The President sent for him."

"And left you minding the store?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then the decision to cooperate, or not, is really yours to make, isn't it?"

"I don't know how you're defining 'cooperate,' Colonel. I don't want— General Pickering absolutely does not want—anyone around here who's going to report what he sees to General Willoughby."

"I don't like the sonofabitch any more than you do," Vandenburg said.

"You could be expected to say something like that."

"No I wouldn't," Vandenburg said indignantly, then chuckled. "Yeah, of course I would. But that happens to be the truth."

"I wish I could believe that," McCoy said.

"I wish you could, too. What about it—do we cooperate?"

"I still don't have your definition of the word."

"Very basic. You scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours."

"We have plans for the helos," McCoy said. "We're going to use them to insert and extract agents up north. There's a few of us who aren't so sure this war will be over in two weeks. We have to know what's going on."

"I don't think it will be, either," Vandenburg said. "You already have peo­ple up north?"

"We're going to make the first insertions tonight, by boat, if we get lucky," McCoy said. "We're also in the first stages of training some fire teams to use the helos. But I can't see any reason—with the understanding I don't lose con­trol of them—why you couldn't have the helos, and for that matter, the fire teams, to make a raid to spring General Dean. Presuming you can find him. We haven't heard anything, and I wouldn't be surprised to finally learn he's in Peking."

"Either would I," Lieutenant Colonel Vandenburg said. "Okay. It looks like we have a deal. I was wondering where I could get the men for the snatch op­eration and get them trained. Right now, my entire command is me and Harry. Aside from West Point and having had a Chinese nanny who taught him Cantonese, he doesn't have many qualifications for the sort of thing you and I do."

McCoy nodded.

"Your turn, Killer. What can I do for you?"

"You can stop calling me 'Killer,' " McCoy said.

Vandenburg laughed.

"I wondered when you were going to get around to that. Fertig told me you hate it. That's all?"

"You know what a Beaver is?"

"The airplane?"

McCoy nodded. "I need one. I would also like to have an L-19."

"There's a couple in Pusan. You have somebody who knows how to fly one?"

"I think so. Half a dozen pilots came with the helicopters. One of them should be able to fly a Beaver."

"I'll see what I can do," Vandenburg said. "I only promise what I know I can deliver. Chances are I can get you a Beaver and an L-19. I'll give it my best shot. Okay?"

"Thank you," McCoy said.

"Does this also mean Harry and I can stay in this palace of yours?"

"Like you said, Colonel. We're social pariahs. We have to stick together."

Chapter Eight

[ONE]

The Marquis de Lafayette Suite

The Foster Lafayette Hotel

Washington, D.C.

O9O5 S October 195O

Mrs. Patricia Foster Fleming, a tall, shapely, aristocratic-looking woman whose silver hair was simply but elegantly coiffured, was in the living room of the suite when Pickering, Hart, two bellmen, and the on-duty manager entered.

She was at a Louis XV escritoire, talking on the telephone.

She held up a finger as an order to wait.

She talked another thirty seconds on the telephone, then abruptly an­nounced that she would have to call back later, hung the phone up, and walked across the room to her husband and Hart.

"Hello, George," she said to Hart, "it's good to see you."

She kissed him on the cheek, then turned to her husband and kissed him on the cheek.

Pickering thought that he had been kissed by his wife with all the enthusi­asm with which she had kissed George Hart.

Honey, that's not fair. I didn't want Pick to get shot down.

"Okay," Pickering said to the manager and Hart. "We have an under­standing, right? All calls to me except from the President, Senator Fowler, and Colonel Banning go through Captain Hart, who'll be operating out of the Monroe Suite. All calls to Mrs. Pickering go on line three, which I will not an­swer. Right?"

"That's already set up, General," the manager said.

"Captain Hart will need the car to go to the airport to pick up his family at two-fifteen. Which means he will have to leave here at one-thirty."

"The car will be available."

"Okay, George. Take whatever time you need to get settled, then hop in a cab and go over to the CIA. Give my compliments to Admiral Hillencoetter and tell him I'm at his disposal, and that I've sent you there to get the latest briefing."

"Aye, aye, sir. Sir, Louise is perfectly capable of getting a cab at the air­port. ..."

"Do what you're told, George." Pickering said, not unkindly. "How are you fixed for cash?"

Hart hesitated, then said, "Just fine, sir."

Pickering pointed at the manager.

"Give Captain Hart five hundred dollars. Charge it to me."

"Certainly, Mr. Pickering."

"That's General Pickering, Richard," Mrs. Pickering said to the manager. "You can tell by the uniform and the stars all over it and by the way he gives orders with such underwhelming tact."

"Sorry, General," the manager said. "I really do know better."

"Forget it," Pickering said.

General and Mrs. Pickering looked at each other, but neither spoke or touched until they were alone in the suite.

Then Pickering's eyebrow went up as he waited.

"God, I really despise you in that uniform," Patricia said finally. "I think I hate all uniforms."

"They make it easy to tell who's doing a job that has to be done, and who's getting a free ride," Pickering said.

"You did your job when you were a kid in France, and you did your job in World War Two. When does it stop? When does somebody else take over and start doing your job?"