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

"Are the NKs watching it?"

"I don't think so. If they are, they haven't seen anything. I haven't had a hell of a lot of time free lately. I would guess, if they are watching it, they think we're just sitting on it."

"Sounds good."

"If you use it, and like Major Kim, he could increase the security."

"Who's there now?"

"Kim and maybe three other national police officers."

"I thought you said it would be better to see Kim tomor-row?"

"That was before I thought about turning the place over to you. You want to go out there tonight?"

"Let's see what's going on at the pier," McCoy said.

This guy is good. He knew about the Marines at the pier. So he probably has had this ex-officer's whorehouse in mind all along. And Major Kim is his buddy, who therefore can be counted on to tell him what we're doing.

"Okay," Dunston said. "You married, McCoy?"

"Yeah."

"Your wife know what you do for a living?"

"Yes, she does."

"Don't misunderstand me, I love my wife. But she's a little flighty. Until twenty minutes before I didn't get on the plane with her when they flew the embassy people out of Suwon, she really thought I was a financial analyst in the office of the business attach‚ in the embassy in Seoul."

"Where's she now?"

"In Chevy Chase, Maryland, with her folks."

"Mine is in Tokyo," McCoy said. "Which is what they call a mixed blessing."

Dunston braked the Jeep abruptly, almost losing control, to avoid hitting an elderly white-bearded Korean in a white smocklike garment who came out of nowhere and ran, on stilted shoes, in front of them. Sergeant Jennings, behind them, almost ran into them.

"Goddamned poppa-sans," Dunston said. "They do that-"

"So the evil spirits chasing them," McCoy said, in Ko-rean, "will get run over."

"I heard that, too," Dunston replied, in perfect Korean, "That your Korean is five-five."

"What the hell does five-five mean?" McCoy asked, switching to English.

"If you're a civilian spook, and speak and read and write the indigenous tongue of the country in which you are working five-five-with absolute fluency-you get another hundred a month. When I came here, I was two-one, which means barely qualified, and you don't get no bonus pay."

McCoy chuckled.

"There is no such provision in Marine regulations," he said.

I like this guy. Which makes him twice as dangerous.

[SIX]

McCoy recognized the pier as the one at which the Attack Transports Clymer and Pickaway had been tied up to de-bark the First Marine Brigade (Provisional), but those ves-sels were gone. Three civilian merchantmen-one of them with the insignia of Pacific and Far East shipping on her smokestack-were tied up where transports had been.

Long lines of Korean longshoremen were manhandling cargo from all three.

Dunston drove the Jeep away from the quai side, and down a road before a second row of warehouses. A Marine staff sergeant, armed with a Thompson, was sitting on a stool in front of one of the sliding doors. He got to his feet when he saw the Jeeps stopping, and looked curiously at McCoy and Dunston.

"My name is McCoy, Sergeant," McCoy said.

The sergeant saluted.

"Good evening, sir," he said. "I was told to. expect you. But this other officer? I was told to let only you pass."

"Major Dunston's with me," McCoy said. "He's with the army transportation corps."

That announcement seemed to make the sergeant even more nervous.

"Yes, sir. Would the captain wait a minute, please?" he said.

He went to the sliding door and beat three times on it with his fist.

"Mr. Zimmerman!" he called. "Special visitors!"

There had been a crack of light at the side of the sliding door. The light went out, after a minute, and then the door slowly slid open just wide enough for Master Gunner Zim-merman's bulk.

He saluted McCoy.

"Good evening, sir," he said.

"Can we come in, Mr. Zimmerman?" McCoy asked.

"I'm not sure bringing that doggie officer in here is a good idea," Zimmerman said, quickly, softly, and in Ko-rean. Then he raised his voice and switched to English. "May I speak to the captain privately, sir?"

"This doggie officer," Dunston said, in Korean, "not only knows what you're doing in there, Mr. Zimmerman, but hopes that by now he has convinced Captain McCoy that he's one of the good guys."

"He's Okay, Ernie," McCoy said.

"If you say so," Zimmerman said, dubiously. "Open the door."

The sergeant slid the door fully open. It was pitch dark inside the warehouse. McCoy, Dunston, and Sergeant Jen-nings followed Zimmerman inside. Zimmerman then care-fully closed the door.

"Lights!" he ordered.

Ceiling mounted lights came on.

There were a dozen Marines in the room, plus a Dodge three-quarter-ton weapons carrier, two Jeeps, and trailers for all three vehicles. Lieutenant David R. Taylor, USNR, was sitting on a tarpaulin covering a five-foot-high stack of crates.

All three vehicles bore a fresh coat of Marine green paint.

Zimmerman looked at McCoy expectantly. "Major Dunston, may I present Lieutenant Taylor, of the Navy, and Master Gunner Zimmerman?"

Taylor and Zimmerman wordlessly shook Dunston's hand.

"May I suggest, Mr. Zimmerman," McCoy said, for-mally, "that you turn the lights off again, so that Sergeant Jennings can bring his Jeep in here for a little freshening up?"

"Lights!" Zimmerman ordered again. The lights went out, the door was opened, and a moment later, Jennings drove his Jeep into the warehouse. The door was then closed.

"Lights!" Zimmerman ordered. The lights came back on, and then there was the sound of an air-compressor starting. Two Marines went to the Jeep and started remov-ing the top, seats, and spare tire. A third Marine appeared with a paint spray gun in his hand and started to expertly over-paint the hood.

"How soon can we use any of these?" McCoy asked.

"We got the weapons carrier first," Zimmerman said. "It's had a couple of hours to dry. Besides, if it looks a lit-tle dirty-"

"It would probably look a little less suspicious than a fresh paint job," Dunston said, in Korean. "You seem to be everything I've heard about you, Mr. Zimmerman. That you are very good at what you do."

McCoy chuckled.

Zimmerman looked confused.

"May I see you a moment, gentlemen?" McCoy or-dered, gesturing toward a far corner of the warehouse, as he started walking to it.

Zimmerman and Taylor followed him.

"Who is that guy?" Zimmerman asked.

"The Pusan CIA station chief," McCoy said. "I sort of like him, but I don't want him to know about the Channel Islands. He thinks we're here to see if we can get Pick back."

Zimmerman nodded.

"You went to him?" Taylor asked.

"The general sent him a TWX telling him to give us any-thing we need. He went looking for me."

"How did he find you?" Zimmerman asked.

"He not only found me, he knew where to find you," McCoy said, chuckling. "I guess you could say he's very good at what he does."

"Okay."

"How much did you tell these guys?"

"I was waiting for you to do that."

"What's with Sergeant Jennings? Why did you send him to K-l?"

"I knew him at Parris Island," Zimmerman said. "Good man."

"Can he keep his mouth shut? My brain was out of gear when I landed at K-l and I told him what we're really go-ing to do."

"Yeah," Zimmerman said. "He can. I'll tell him right now."

"Dunston's going to be useful. He's got a place we can use outside of town, and a junk with a two hundred-horsepower Caterpillar, and a national police major he says can be trusted."

"Well, the junk will come in handy," Taylor said.

"Maybe he trusts this Korean to report on everything we do?" Zimmerman asked.

"Probably. So the thing we do is make the we're-going-to-try-to-rescue-Pickering story credible."