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

There was always the potential threat of mines, but neither the macadam nor the cobblestones with which the road was paved showed signs of having been disturbed. The shoulders, too, had appeared undisturbed, although of course it would have been far easier to conceal the traces of mine-burying in dirt and clay than in macadam or cobblestones.

The thing to do, obviously, was stay off the shoulders, and they had done so. And neither had they driven very fast. They wanted to have plenty of time to stop in case they saw dislodged cobblestones or suspicious-looking disrup­tions in the macadam.

Major McCoy raised his left arm above his head to catch the attention of Sergeant Kim in the weapons carrier following, then braked.

He pointed to a copse of gnarled pine trees a hundred yards or so down the road.

"I don't think anyone'll see us in there," he said, adding, "I'm hungry." He slowed to a crawl as he approached the trees. Zimmerman first leaned out the side of the jeep, studying the shoulder, and then held his hand up in a signal to stop.

Then he got out of the jeep and intently studied the shoulder before mo­tioning to McCoy to come ahead. Then he walked carefully across the shoul­der and down a slope into a wide ditch. McCoy carefully eased the jeep after him, then Sergeant Kim followed with the weapons carrier.

McCoy took a Thompson from a rack below the windshield, got out of the jeep, and walked carefully southward along the ditch, looking for signs of dis­turbance in the mud—and for trip wires, booby traps, anything.

Finally, when he was about one hundred yards from the vehicles, he stopped and turned his attention to the grassy slope up to the road. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he scurried up the slope. From the road, he looked back to the copse of trees. He could not see anything but the top of the jeep's antenna and maybe eight inches of the flag.

He went back into the ditch and returned to the vehicles. When he got there, Sergeant Cole and two of the Koreans were waiting for him.

"See that they're fed," McCoy ordered, "and then post one up there. You can see where I climbed the slope."

"Aye, aye, sir," Cole said.

"And then post another one a hundred yards north. Watch out for mines and wires."

"Mr. Zimmerman's already been down there, sir."

"Then you really better be careful," McCoy said with a smile.

"Aye, aye, sir," Cole said, smiling back.

McCoy walked to the jeep. The hood was up, and Zimmerman was warm­ing cans on the radiator. McCoy grabbed the antenna, bent it nearly horizon­tal, and tied it down.

Without really thinking about it, he made sure that no part of the flag was touching the ground.

"I couldn't see anything from the north," Zimmerman said.

"I could see maybe eight inches of the flag," McCoy replied. "What are we eating?"

"Salisbury Steak and Beans and Franks," Zimmerman said. "Your choice."

McCoy laid the Thompson on the driver's seat, then reached for a ra­tion can.

"I wonder who they think they're fooling when they call hamburger 'Salis­bury Steak'?" he asked, not expecting an answer.

He leaned against the side of the jeep, took a fork from the baggy side pocket of the Army fatigues, and began to saw at the Salisbury Steak in the ra­tion can.

He had just about finished raising the final forkful to his mouth when there was a short, shrill whistle, and then a second. He laid the ration can between the rear of the jeep and the back of the radio as he looked toward the sound of the whistle.

Sergeant Cole, who had posted himself with the Korean to the south, made several hand signals, not all of them official, indicating that something of in­terest was happening and he thought Major McCoy should pay whatever it was his immediate attention.

"Heads up," McCoy ordered as he passed the jeep—picking up the Thomp­son and a pair of U.S. Navy binoculars as he did—and headed for Cole.

Zimmerman, similarly, made several hand signals to Technical Sergeant Jennings—these indicating that appropriate defense measures immediately be taken. Jennings indicated his understanding of his orders with a thumbs-up ges­ture. Zimmerman then trotted after McCoy, toward Sergeant Cole.

There was little -doubt in either McCoy's or Zimmerman's mind that what had caught Sergeant Cole's attention were elements of the army of the People's Democratic Republic of North Korea.

The questions were: How large an element and what were they up to? Had McCoy's two-vehicle convoy been spotted, and were the North Koreans in pur­suit of them? Or was it a unit trying to get away from the Eighth Army, which had broken out of the Pusan Perimeter and was in hot pursuit of the North Ko­reans up the peninsula?

Shattered, demoralized, whatever, if it was a company-strength unit—or a single tank, for that matter—McCoy & Company were going to be seriously outnumbered, or outgunned, or both.

"What have you got, Cole?" McCoy asked, handing him the Thompson.

"Looks like a couple of jeeps, sir," Cole said. "Russian jeeps."

McCoy crawled up the slope to the shoulder of the road and looked down it through the binoculars. He then handed them to Zimmerman, who had crawled beside him, and then slid down the slope. A moment later, Zimmer­man slid down and returned the binoculars to McCoy.

"Two jeeps, and I make it five Slopes," Zimmerman said. "Moving slow; probably looking for mines."

"The passenger in the second jeep has leather boots— shiny leather boots," McCoy said. "I'd really like to talk to him."

"What do we do, Killer?" Zimmerman asked.

"I don't think we could get across the road without being seen," McCoy said. So, Cole, run down there and tell Jennings what's going on, and to make sure if they get past Mr. Zimmerman and me, they don't get past him."

"Aye, aye, sir," Cole said. "You want me to come back here, sir?"

"No. Your BAR will be more useful there, if they get past us."

Cole nodded and took off at a run.

"How do you want to do this?" Zimmerman asked.

"You shoot out the tires of the first vehicle and watch what happens there. I'll deal with the second jeep." He paused. "I really want to talk to that officer, Ernie."

"Okay," Zimmerman said. "You going to call it?"

"I'm going to go another twenty-five yards that way, in case they turn around. When I hear your shots ..."

Zimmerman nodded.

McCoy moved quickly, but carefully, farther down the ditch, then stopped, examined the slope again, and climbed up it.

Four minutes or so later, McCoy could hear the exhaust of the engines of the Russian jeeps, and the whining crunch of their tires on the road. It grew slowly louder.

When the first vehicle passed McCoy, he began to count. When he reached ten, there were two bursts of fire—one of three shots, followed by a second of two. Then there was the squeal of worn-out brakes, and then a loud thump.

McCoy scrambled onto the road, going over the top of slope on his knees and left hand—he had the Thompson in the right—feeling for a moment a chill of helplessness until he gained his feet and could put his hand on the forestock of the Thompson.

He was very much aware that two hands were necessary to fire a Thompson.

It took him a moment to see and understand what had happened.

The Russian jeep with the North Korean officer in it was stopped, stalled sideward across the road, the driver grinding the starter. The front end of the other jeep was off the road, halfway into the ditch on the near side of the road. The frame had caught on the edge of the road, keeping it from going all the way down into the ditch.

McCoy had just time to wonder—in alarm—if by intention or accident the jeep had run over Zimmerman when he heard Zimmerman order, in Korean, "On your belly, you son of a whore."