Griffin W.E.B. - The Corps 09 - Under Fire

"You were never a Marine, previously?" Almond asked, surprised.

"In the First World War, I was a teenaged Marine buck sergeant," Pickering said.

"And in the First World War, as a teenaged enlisted man, General Pickering was awarded the Navy Cross," MacArthur said, almost triumphantly, as if winning an ar-gument. "I really don't understand you, Fleming. Modesty is certainly a virtue, but denying that you're not every bit as much a soldier as anyone in this room is simply absurd." He paused and then drove home his point. "You're one of us, Fleming. Wouldn't you agree, Willoughby?"

"Yes, sir, I agree," General Willoughby said.

"Huff?"

"Absolutely, General," Colonel Huff said.

"You're all very kind to think of me that way," Pickering said.

And there is absolutely no chance of me getting MacArthur alone for a minute to talk to him about McCoy and the North Koreans. These three are going to be here all night-this is obviously a command performance for them.

I could, of course, ask him for a moment alone, and bring up the subject. But that would make it clear that Mc-Coy had gone "out of channels," and the fact is, I shouldn't know what I do. McCoy still thinks of me as "his general," but he's wrong. I'm not his general, and he should not have shown me that. Jesus H. Christ! What the hell am I going to do ?

[FOUR]

CONFERENCE ROOM B

THE HOTEL HOKKAIDO

TOKYO, JAPAN

1715 1 JUNE 1950

Charley Ansley was waiting for Pick in the corridor out-side the hastily rented room in which a tablecloth-draped table had been set up facing four rows of folding chairs.

When he saw Ernie Sage McCoy and Ken McCoy with Pick, he smiled. He had come to know both well in the early years of World War II, when, at Fleming Pickering's request, he had given them the use of his cabin cruiser in San Diego. Housing in San Diego at that time had been in very short supply, and absolutely unavailable to couples who were not legally joined in matrimony.

He had been at their wedding, when Ken came home from a hush-hush mission in the Gobi Desert with brand new major's leaves on his uniform.

"God, it's good to see you," he said, extending his left arm to embrace Ernie as he extended his hand to McCoy. "How's my favorite Marine?"

"I thought I was your favorite Marine," Pick said.

"No, you're my favorite Trans-Global pilot, and not only because you are going to go in there and smile, and be modest, and restrain your well-known tendency to be a wiseass."

"Nice to see you, Mr. Ansley," McCoy said, smiling.

"Maybe not `Uncle Charley,' like the prodigal son here, but at least `Charley,' Okay?"

McCoy nodded.

"Pick," Ansley asked, "do you think your father would mind if I called die Imperial and had them set up a bar, and hors d'oeuvres, in his suite?"

"Yes," Pick said, simply, smiling.

"The public relations guy says he'd like to get him in-volved in this, and I know damned well he wouldn't come here."

"No, he wouldn't," Pick said.

"So you're saying I shouldn't do it?"

"No, I think it's a good idea. What I said was he won't like it, and I agree that he wouldn't come here except at the point of a bayonet. But if I have to go in there and be charming and modest, the least the old man can do is smile at the press and whoever."

"The charm comes easily," Ernie said. "It's the modesty that gives him problems."

"Thank you, Killer, for taking this forked-tongue female off my hands," Pick said.

"Don't call him `Killer,' goddamn you!" Ernie snapped.

"It's okay, baby," McCoy said.

"We're ready for you, Captain," a man in a gray suit said.

"And now, I think Captain Pickering will take a few ques-tions," the man in the gray suit announced. "And then we've got cars arranged to take everybody to the Imperial for a little liquid courage."

Predictably, Pick thought, the questions were pre-dictable:

Q. (Fat little bespectacled fart) Isn't this really show-boating? Putting the passengers in danger?

A. The safety of our passengers is our primary concern; we have not and will not increase any risk to them.

Q. (Tall, thin, pasty-faced. Was probably a classroom monitor in high school) But speed records imply racing, racing is by definition dangerous, so how can you say this wasn't dangerous?

A. The aeronautical engineers of the manufacturer, Lockheed, and our own aeronautical engineers have come up with what they call an "envelope." It sets forth the con-ditions in which flight is safe. Airspeed, engine rpm, that sort of thing. We were never "out of the envelope"; if we had been, the record wouldn't have counted.

Q. (Pasty-face follow-up) But then why try to set speed records?

A. We didn't try to set a speed record. We tried to bring our passengers here as quickly-and comfortably-as pos-sible within the safe-flight envelope. We did that, and it happened to set a speed record.

Q. (Nice-looking. Great boobs) Aren't you a little young to be a captain?

A. Excuse me?

Q. (Great boobs follow-up. Nice face, too) The popular image of an airline captain-especially of one making across-the-ocean flights like this one-is, oh, forty-ish, fifty-ish, gray temples, a look of experience.

A. I must be the exception to that rule.

Q. (Nice boobs, plus nice teeth in a very nice mouth, follow-up) How did you get to be a captain? Did you fly transports or bombers when you were in the service?

A. No, ma'am, I did not fly multiengined aircraft, bombers or transports, in the service.

Q. (Nice boobs, face, teeth, nice everything, follow-up) Then how did you get to be a captain so young?

A. My daddy loaned me the money to start Trans-Global.

Q. (Nice, better than nice, everything, follow-up) I don't think you're kidding.

A. Boy Scout's honor, ma'am.

Q. (Nice everything follow-up) Who's your daddy?

A. His name is Fleming Pickering.

Q. There's a rumor floating that he's in Tokyo. True?

A. (Man in gray suit) We're going to have to cut this off, ladies and gentlemen, we're running out of time. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. The cars are waiting in front of the hotel, and will wait at the Imperial to bring you back here.

"Except for that crack about your daddy loaning you the money to start the airline, you did very well, Pick. I'm proud of you," Ernie said, as they walked along the street to where Pick had parked the Ford.

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Is that crap really important?" McCoy asked.

"According to Charley it is. It sells seats, and that's the name of the game."

"Hey, Captain Pickering, hold up a minute!"

Pick looked over his shoulder to find the source of the female voice. Nice Everything was coming down the side-walk toward them.

Nice legs, too. Damn nice legs.

"Believe it or not, that was a legitimate question," Nice Everything said.

"What was a legitimate question?"

"You are-at least you look-too young to be an airline captain."

"I don't think I caught the name," Pick said.

"Jeanette Priestly, Chicago Tribune," she said, giving him her hand.

Nice, soft, warm hand.

"My friends call me `Pick,'" he said. "These are my friends, Captain and Mrs. McCoy. Ken and Ernie."

"Which one's Ernie?"

"I am."

Nice Everything turned to McCoy.

"You're also a pilot?"

"I'm a Marine, not a pilot."

Jeanette turned to Pick.

"The public relations guy told me why you didn't fly `multiengine' planes when you were a Marine," Jeanette said. "You should have told me. It would have made a great lead: `Marine Fighter Ace Sets Trans-Pacific Airliner Speed Record.'"

"You have to understand," Ernie said, straight-faced, "that when you look in the dictionary under `modest,' you see our hero's picture."

The two women smiled at each other.