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

"How do you know that?" Pickering asked, as if the question amused him.

"Colonel Huff mentioned it, sir."

"Good ol' Sid," Pickering replied, his tone suggesting that he didn't think of Huff that way at all. There was im-mediate confirmation of this: "He's still El Supremo's head dog robber, I gather?"

Colonel Stanley's face-just for a moment-showed that the question both surprised him and was one he would rather not answer directly. He took a notebook from his tu-nic pocket, wrote a number on it, and handed it to Picker-ing.

"That's Colonel Huff's private number, sir. Perhaps you could call him?"

"I didn't mean to put you on a spot, Colonel," Pickering said. "I go a long way back with Colonel Huff."

"I understand, sir," Stanley said.

He took a token sip from his drink and set it down.

"With your permission, General?" he asked.

"You don't need my permission to do anything, Colonel. It's been a long time since I was a general. And I under-stand you must have a busy schedule."

Stanley offered his hand to Pick.

"A pleasure to meet you, sir," he said. "And congratula-tions on the speed record."

"The thing to keep in mind, Colonel," Pick said, smiling, "is that my dad's bite is worse than his bark."

Stanley smiled, offered Pickering his hand, and left the suite.

Father and son exchanged glances. "Something amuses you, Captain?" Pickering asked. "Something awes me," Pick said. "I just realized I'm in the presence of the only man in Japan who would dare to tell Douglas MacArthur's aide that he'll see if he can fit the general into his schedule."

"I like Douglas MacArthur," Pickering said. "And Jean. And I'll see them while I'm here, but I came here to see Ernie and Ken. Now, how do we do that?"

"Something wrong with the limo? Mom set that up, too. I'm reliably informed it's one of the two 1941 Cadillac limousines in Japan. And at this moment it's parked out-side waiting to take you to Ken's house." "You're not going with me?"

"Charley Ansley wants me to come to the Hotel Hokkaido-that's where the conference is-to make sure all the Ts are crossed and the Is dotted on the certification. Be-fore we rub our new speed record in Trans-Pacific's face. He said something about a press conference. I'll come out to Ken's place as soon as that's over." He paused. "Unless you want to go to the Hokkaido with me?"

Pickering considered that a moment. "I'm not going to show up at the Killer's door in a chauffeur-driven limousine. If you've got his address, I'll take a cab."

"Great. I'll take the limo to the Hokkaido. I laid on a Ford sedan for me. You can use that."

Pickering considered that a moment, then nodded. He had a fresh thought.

"I didn't think about bringing anything for them."

"There's a case of Famous Grouse in the trunk of the limo. You want me to have it moved to the Ford, or should I bring it when I come?"

"Put it in the Ford."

"You're going out there right now?"

"Just as soon as I shower and change my clothes."

"Pop, remember not to call him `Killer.'"

"He doesn't mind. I'm one of the privileged few."

"Ernie minds."

"I stand corrected. And you remember to try to look humble at the press conference."

"You know what Frank Lloyd Wright said about that: `It's hard to be humble when you're great.'"

"He is great. What you are is an aerial bus driver who caught a tailwind."

Pick smiled at his father.

"Wright designed this place, didn't he?" he asked, ges-turing around the suite.

"Yes, he did."

[FOUR]

NO. 7 SAKU-TUN

DENENCHOFU, TOKYO, JAPAN

1705 1 JUNE 1950

When the 1946 Ford Fordor pulled to the curb of a narrow, cobblestoned street before a stone wall bearing a wooden sign-"Captain K. R. McCoy USMC"-the driver practi-cally leapt from behind the wheel, dashed around the front of the car, pulled Pickering's door open, and, smiling broadly, bowed to his passenger.

Pickering smiled at him, then went to the trunk to get the case of Famous Grouse. The driver wrestled it away from him after a thirty-second tug-of-war, and Pickering went to the steel door in the fence, where he finally found a wire loop that might be a doorbell.

When he pulled on it, there was a muted jangling. Sixty seconds later, a middle-aged Japanese woman in a black kimono opened the steel door and, first bowing, looked at him curiously.

"I'd like to see either Captain or Mrs. McCoy," Picker-ing said.

It was obvious that she didn't know a word of English.

"Captain McCoy," Pickering repeated very slowly.

Then there was the sound of a female voice. It was a young voice, and speaking Japanese, probably asking a question.

Pickering took a chance. He raised his voice.

"Ernie?"

There was no reply.

"Ernie! It's Hem Pickering!"

Now the female voice spoke English.

"Oh, my God!"

A moment later a strikingly beautiful young woman, her black hair cut in a pageboy, ran through the door and threw herself into his arms.

"Uncle Flem!" she cried.

Her voice sounded broken.

Jesus, I hope that's happiness!

A moment later, over Ernie's shoulder, Pickering saw her husband. He was a well-built-but lithe, rather than muscular-even-featured, fair-skinned crew-cutted man in Marine Corps khaki shirt and trousers.

"How are you, Ken?" Pickering asked, getting free of Ernie to offer him his hand.

"You're the last person in the world I expected to see, General," McCoy said.

" `General' was a long time ago, Ken," Pickering said.

There's something wrong here. What did I do, walk into the middle of a family squabble?

"Did I drop in uninvited at an awkward time?"

"Don't be silly, Uncle Flem," Ernie said. "Come on in the house."

"It's just that... you're the last person in the world I ex-pected to see," McCoy repeated.

"Pick'll be along in a while," Pickering said. "He just set another speed record getting us here, and he and Charley Ansley are in the process of making it official."

"Great!" McCoy said.

His enthusiasm and his smile seemed strained.

That's strange. You usually never know what he's thinking.

That's the mark-not being able to tell what they're thinking-of good poker players and intelligence officers. And Ken McCoy is both.

What did Ed Banning say that day in Washington ?

"It's as if he was born to be an intelligence officer."

Obviously that doesn't apply to poker players or intelli-gence officers when they're fighting with their wives.

Well, what the hell, married people fight. This is just an-other example of your lousy timing, showing up in the mid-dle of one.

Ernestine Sage McCoy was the closest thing Fleming Pick-ering had to a daughter. Her mother and Patricia Foster Fleming had been roommates at Sarah Lawrence. He had literally walked the floor of the hospital with Ernie's father the night she was born.

Although he had never put it into words, Pickering thought of Kenneth R. McCoy as a second son, and he was sure that Pick thought of Ken as his brother. Patricia Flem-ing liked Ken, but she was never quite able to forgive him for marrying Ernie. Elaine Sage, Ernie's mother, and Patri-cia had decided, when both of their children were still in diapers, that Ernie and Pick would-should-marry.

But Pick had met Ken in Marine Corps Officer Candi-date School, and become buddies, and then Pick had intro-duced his buddy to Ernie, and that had blown the idea of Ernie marrying Pick out of the water.

Fleming Pickering had inherited newly promoted First Lieutenant Kenneth R. McCoy when he had been given command of the U.S. Marine Corps Office of Manage-ment Analysis.

And quickly learned far more about him than Pick had ever told him, probably because Pick had decided the less said about Ken's background the better.