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

DISSEMINATE INFORMATION ABOVE TO OTHERS AND ON AGREEMENT BE NOTIFIED OF SUBJECT OFFICER'S

RETURN AND CONDITION.

MRS FLEMING PICKERING C/O FOSTER HOTELS SAN FRANCISCO CAL

MRS K.R. MCCOY, TOKYO, JAPAN

MISS JEANETTE PRIESTLY C/O PRESS RELATIONS OFFICER, SUPREME HEADQUARTERS UNITED NATIONS

COMMAND, TOKYO

MCCOY MAJ USMCR

MESSAGE ENDS

IN PRESUMPTION YOU WILL INFORM GENERAL PICKERING I WILL NOT DO SO

W.B. SMITH DIRECTOR

Pickering picked it up and read it.

There was the sound of the door being unlocked.

Fleming Pickering swallowed hard and stood up, but did not turn around for a moment, until he felt he had his voice and himself under control.

"Ready for some coffee, General?" LeMoine asked.

"Thank you," Pickering said.

LeMoine set a coffee mug on the table.

"A little sugar for your coffee, General?" LeMoine asked. He held a silver pocket flask over the cup.

"Can I do that myself?" Pickering asked.

LeMoine handed him the flask.

Pickering put it to his lips and took a healthy swig.

"Thank you," he said after a moment.

"Have another. There's more where that came from," LeMoine said.

Pickering took another pull, then handed the flask to LeMoine.

"Thank you," he said again.

"Oh, look what I did!" LeMoine said. He picked up the decrypted message. "I really should have put this in the envelope for the President."

"I didn't see it," Pickering said.

LeMoine met his eyes and nodded.

"I don't think anyone's going to question the Assistant Director of the CIA for Asia coming in here to ask if I had anything for him," LeMoine said. "But, after I told you I didn't, they might wonder why you hung around. Will you excuse me, please, General?"

"Thank you for the coffee," Pickering said.

"When you see Sergeant Keller," LeMoine said, "tell him I asked about him."

"I'll do that," Pickering said as he walked to the door.

As he walked back to the coffee-and-doughnuts building, Pickering saw that the people who had been on the Independence and the Bataan were now— in separate knots—gathered around a Quonset hut. As he walked toward it, the door of the Quonset opened and first Truman and then MacArthur came out.

General Bradley walked up to them, then led them toward another of the identical frame buildings.

Pickering decided that since he had not been invited to attend the official conference, he would just stay in the background. He was glad for the oppor­tunity: That Pick was coming home didn't seem quite real yet. He realized that he had really given up hope, and was ashamed that he had. He knew he needed a couple of minutes to set himself in order.

He walked between two of the frame buildings and leaned against the wall of one of them. He became aware that his forehead was sweaty, and took a hand­kerchief from his pocket to mop it.

Jesus Christ, he's really alive! And unhurt. Thank you, God!

"General, the President would like to see you, sir," an Army colonel said. Pickering hadn't seen him come between the buildings.

"Right away, of course," Pickering said, and pushed himself off the building.

"General, are you all right? Sir, you look—"

"Colonel, I couldn't possibly be any better," Pickering replied. When he turned the corner of the building, he saw the President standing with General Bradley and MacArthur in front of the conference building. When Truman saw Pickering, he motioned him over.

Pickering wasn't sure what the protocol was, whether he was supposed to salute or not. He decided if he was going to err, it would be on the side of cau­tion. He saluted, which seemed to surprise both Bradley and MacArthur, who nevertheless returned it.

"Delbert," the President began, ". . . the cryptographer? . . . has had time to decode only a couple of messages. One of them is this one. I thought you'd be interested."

The President handed him the message.

"General, I can't tell you how happy that message made me," Truman said as Pickering read the message again.

"Thank you, sir," Pickering said.

"May I show it to General Bradley and General MacArthur?" the President asked.

"Yes, sir. Of course." Bradley read it first.

"That's very good news, indeed," he said as he handed the message to MacArthur.

MacArthur's left eyebrow rose in curiosity as he read the message. Then he wrapped an arm around Pickering's shoulder.

"My dear Fleming!" he exclaimed emotionally. "Almighty God has answered our prayers! A valiant airman will be returned to the bosom of his family! Jean will be so happy!"

Bradley could not keep a look of amazement off his face.

"I'd like a word with General Bradley before we go in here," Truman said. "I think if you two went in, the others would follow suit."

"Of course, Mr. President," MacArthur said.

"I'm to be at the meeting?" Pickering blurted.

"Of course," Truman said. "You're really the middleman, General. You're the only one who knows everybody."

MacArthur entered the building with Pickering on his heels. Truman waited until they were out of earshot, then until the others who would participate in the conference had entered the building, and then turned to Bradley.

"General, I want that young officer returned to the United States as soon as he's fit to travel. And I want to make sure the people Major McCoy named are notified as soon as possible, by an appropriate person. Have you got some­one who can handle that for me?"

"Yes, sir," Bradley said. He raised his voice, just slightly. "General Mason!"

An Army major general walked quickly to them.

"General," Bradley said. "I want you to read this."

General Mason read the message and raised his eyes curiously to Bradley.

"General," Bradley began, "the President desires—"

"What the President desires," Truman interrupted, "is that Major Pickering— as soon as he is physically up to it—be flown to the United States to whichever Naval hospital is most convenient for his mother. And I want the people listed in that message to be notified personally—without anything said to them about keeping this a secret—by a suitable person just as soon as that can be arranged. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you," the President said.

"May I keep this message, sir?"

"Why not?" Truman said, then gestured for Bradley to precede him into the conference building.

Truman slipped into an ordinary wooden office chair at the head of a table around which the participants had arranged themselves, those who had come with the President on one side, and MacArthur and those who had come from Tokyo with him on the other.

Everyone was standing, in deference to the President.

"Take your seats, please," Truman said. "General Bradley will take notes, and each of you will later get a copy, but it is for your personal use only, and not to be shared with anyone else. Clear?"

There was a chorus of "Yessir."

"But before we get started, I want to tell you that General Pickering has just been informed that his son, a Marine pilot, who was shot down early in the war . . . How long ago, General?"

"Seventy-seven days ago, Mr. President," Pickering said softly.

". . . who was shot down seventy-seven days ago," the President went on, "and has gone through God only knows what evading capture, was rescued be­hind the lines yesterday and is as we speak aboard the carrier USS Badoeng Strait.'"

There was a round of applause.

"Mr. President," MacArthur said. "If I may?"

Truman gestured for him to go on.

"Perhaps only I know nearly as much as General Pickering does about what Major Pickering was facing and has come through. One of the unpleasant things I have had to do recently is compose the phrasing of the citation for the decoration it was my intention to award—posthumously, I was forced to think—to this heroic young officer. I would like your permission, Mr. Presi­dent, to—"