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

"This is the most interesting one, General," Keller said, handing him a sheet of paper. "And it was delivered by a Jap on a bicycle."

FROM TRANSGLOBAL HONOLULU TO TRANSGLOBAL TOKYO

PLEASE PASS TO GENERAL PICKERING THAT COLONEL EDWARD BANNING, USMC, IS ABOARD TGF 1022 DUE TO ARRIVE IN TOKYO 12 3 0 TOKYO TIME OCTOBER 16.

WILLIAMSON TG HONOLULU

"Well, I guess we'd better be at Haneda to meet him, hadn't we, Paul?" Pickering said.

Chapter Twelve

[ONE]

The Imperial Hotel

Tokyo, Japan

1115 16 October 19SO

Captain George Hart knocked lightly on the door to Brigadier General Pick­ering's bedroom, and then, as was his custom, without waiting for a reply, opened the door wide enough to look inside.

Pickering's bedroom was actually a suite within a suite. There was a bed­room, a private bath, and a small room holding a desk and chair and a leather-upholstered chair with a footstool.

Pickering was sitting in the chair, holding a cup of coffee. He was not on the telephone, which meant that his conversation with Mrs. Pickering was over.

Hart signaled with a wave of his hand for Master Sergeant Paul Keller to follow him into the small room.

Pickering didn't seem to notice their presence.

"It's about that time, boss," Hart said. "We better get out to Haneda. Trans-Global may surprise us all by arriving on time."

Hart got neither the laugh nor the dirty look he expected from Pickering. Instead, Pickering looked at them thoughtfully.

"Sir?" Hart asked.

"I want a straight answer from you two," Pickering said. "You listening, Paul?"

"Yes, sir?"

"A lot has gone on in Korea that I don't—we don't, and especially Colonel Banning doesn't—know much about. The helicopters, for one thing, and this Army lieutenant colonel who apparently has not only stolen a Beaver from the Eighth Army Commander but seems to have taken over our villa in Seoul," Pickering said. "Right?"

"That's right, sir," Hart said. "Are you worried about Colonel Vandenberg?"

Pickering didn't respond.

"George," he went on, "you and I have never been inside the Seoul villa, and all we know about it is what Bill Dunston has told us about it."

"The Killer seems impressed with this Vandenburg guy," Hart said.

Again, Pickering didn't respond.

"Neither have we been to Socho-Ri," Pickering said.

"No, we haven't," Hart agreed.

"And obviously, Banning should meet Dunston and Vandenburg, and have them and McCoy and Zimmerman bring him up to speed on what's going on. All of these things would seem to indicate that we get Banning and ourselves to Seoul as quickly as possible, even if Ed Banning's ass is dragging after hav­ing flown halfway around the world."

"Makes sense to me, boss," Hart said.

"Okay, here's the question, and kindness should not color your answer: Who made that decision, your steel-backed, cold-blooded commander think­ing of nothing but the mission, or a father who desperately wants to see his son?"

There was silence.

"You first, Paul," Pickering said.

"Jesus, General," Keller said. "If it was me, and if my son, if I had one, was just coming back from wherever the hell he's been, I'd be on the next plane to Korea, and I wouldn't even think of Dunston and Socho-Ri and the rest of it."

Pickering met his eyes for a moment, then looked around for Hart. Hart was across the room, on the telephone.

"Whoever that it is, George, it'll have to wait," Pickering said. "I want an answer."

Hart covered the telephone microphone with his hand.

"Where are we going? Pusan or Seoul?" he asked.

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning if we can get on the 1500 courier plane to Seoul, you'll have time to meet Colonel Vandenburg this afternoon and tonight, then fly to Socho-Ri in the morning and see the Killer and Zimmerman, and then be in Pusan prob­ably four, five hours before the tin can can get Pick off the carrier and deliver him there. Which means, your choice, you can have Dunston fly to Seoul from Pusan this afternoon—my suggestion—or have him wait for you in Pusan."

"That's not an answer to my question," Pickering said.

"Yes it is, boss," Hart said softly but firmly. "I kept my mouth shut when you and the Killer were going through that 'we can't use a helicopter that's needed to transport the wounded to look for him' noble Marine Corps bull­shit, but enough's enough. You have valid reasons to go to Korea. Be glad you do. You and Pick are entitled to get together. Now, where are we going, Pusan or Seoul?"

After a long pause, Pickering said, "Seoul."

Hart nodded and returned to the telephone.

"Brigadier General E Pickering, USMC, will require three seats on the 1500 courier to Seoul," he said.

Whoever he was talking to said something.

"Hey, Captain!" Hart barked into the phone, interrupting the person on the other end. "Whoa! Save your breath! I don't give a good goddamn if you have seats available or not. We have a priority that'll bump anybody but Douglas MacArthur, and we intend to use it. Am I getting through to you?"

Hart turned to Pickering, intending to smile at him. He saw that Pickering had stood up and was looking out the window. As Hart watched, Pickering blew his nose loudly.

"We're on the 1500, boss," Hart said.

General Pickering nodded his understanding, but he didn't trust his voice to speak.

[TWO]

USS Mansfield (DD 728)

37.54 Degrees North Latitude

13O.O5 Degrees East Longitude

The Sea of Japan

15O5 16 October 195O

Lieutenant Commander C. Lewis Matthews III, USN, a very large, open-faced thirty-nine-year-old, took a final look out the spray-soaked window of his bridge, then walked to the rear of the bridge and pressed the announce lever on the public-address system control panel mounted on the bulkhead.

"Attention all hands. This is the captain speaking," he announced. He knew that within seconds he would have the attention of every man aboard.

On being given command of the Mansfield, he had received advice from both his father and grandfather. In addition to a good deal else, they had both told him to stay the hell off the PA system unless he had something important to say.

"Don't fall in love with the sound of your own voice," Vice Admiral Charles L. Matthews, USN, Ret., his grandfather, had told him. "Remember the little kid who kept crying 'wolf.' "

Rear Admiral C. L. Matthews, Jr., his father, had put much the same thought this way: "Stay off the squawk box, Lew, unless you have something really important to say. When you say 'This is the captain speaking,' you want everybody to pay attention, not groan and say, 'Jesus Christ, again?' "

Lew Matthews had taken that advice, and right now was glad he had.

"We're about to pull alongside the Badoeng Strait" Captain Lew Matthews announced. "We are going to make an underway transfer of two officers from Badoeng Strait. One of them is a physician. The other is a Marine pilot who was shot down right after this war started, and has been behind the enemy's lines until his rescue yesterday. Once we have them aboard, we will make for Pusan at best speed, where a hospital plane will be waiting to fly the Marine to the hospital at Sasebo. Do this right. The one thing this Marine doesn't need after all he's gone through is to take a bath in the Sea of Japan."

He let go of the announce lever and walked to the spray-soaked window of the bridge, took a look at the seas and the gray bulk of the Badoeng Strait dead ahead, and shook his head.

He turned and caught the attention of the officer of the deck, then pointed to himself.