W E B Griffin - Corp 09 - Under Fire

by Under Fire(Lit)

  The green rice fields of Korea in the summer are fertil-ized with human feces, the smell from which tends to dampen romantic ardor.

  And since they had been together in Korea, she had never seen McCoy again, so he was added in her mind to her long list of missed opportunities.

  And sometimes, when everything else was right, some-thing in her psyche made her back off. There was no deny-ing that the Trans-Global Airways pilot, the one who had set the speed record, and whose father was a buddy of MacArthur, Pickering, was the legendary answer to a maiden's prayer. Tall, good-looking, wicked eyes, and with an undeniable charm. And rich.

  Pickering had obviously been smitten with her. If he'd been a horse, he would have been neighing and tearing up the carpet with his hooves. And, if she had been willing to drop her almost maidenly reticence, there would have been a soft bed in the Imperial Hotel, with room service cham-pagne. And she had heard somewhere that airline pilots could provide free tickets, which was something to think about, too.

  But there was something about Captain Pickering of Trans-Global Airways that turned on her alarm system. She had not become a foreign-now war-correspondent for the Tribune by making herself vulnerable. As the boys in the press club bar would phrase it, she knew how to keep her ass covered, literally and figuratively.

  She could have made an ass of herself over Pickering, and she rarely put herself in that position. And anyway, he was gone. Since it was unlikely that she would ever see him again, she put him out of her mind.

  Jeanette had learned that her best sources of information came from men who both lusted after her and were pissed off about something, who wanted to tell her something that she would write about, and put somebody else's ass in a crack.

  When she saw Major Lem T. Scott, Signal Corps, U.S. Army, smile at her as she walked into the press club bar, she knew that in addition to whatever lustful fantasies might be running through his head, he was really there to tell her something.

  Major Scott was a tall, rather good-looking man in his early thirties. He was an Army aviator, which gained him sort of unofficial membership in the press club. No journal-ist was going to kick an Army aviator out of the press club. Sooner or later, every journalist had to beg a ride in one of the Army's fleet of light aircraft. In the sure and certain knowledge that some journalist would stand drinks for them on the expense account, Army aviators often went to the press club bar.

  It took Jeanette about thirty minutes to get from Major Scott what he had obviously come to the press club bar to tell her, "accidentally, in conversation."

  Major Scott was attached to the Flight Section, Head-quarters, SCAP. Most of the light Army aircraft, and then-pilots, had been sent to Korea by General Almond. General MacArthur's personal light aircraft, a North American L-17 Navion, had not, and consequently neither had Major Scott, who was MacArthur's Navion pilot.

  Possibly, Jeanette thought somewhat unkindly, because he had not been there, Major Scott wanted to be in action in Korea. It wouldn't be so bad, he said, if he was actually flying the Supreme Commander around, but he wasn't even doing that. The Supreme Commander had loaned his Navion to the CIA, and he had absolutely nothing to do, except once in a while fly one of the two L-19s that were left at the SCAP flight section.

  Jeanette had long ago learned that letting a source think you know more than you actually do was a way to put them at ease. All she knew about the CIA in Japan was that it was rumored that MacArthur's economic advisor, Jonathan Loomis, was the CIA Tokyo station chief.

  "What do you suppose Jonathan Loomis is doing with the general's Navion?"

  "It's not Loomis," Scott said. "It's his boss, a Marine general named Pickering. He lives in the Imperial Hotel."

  This was the first Miss Priestly had heard that General Fleming Pickering had any connection with the CIA at all. He'd even denied being a general.

  The sonofabitch!

  "Well, what do you suppose that General Pickering's doing with the Supreme Commander's Navion?"

  "I don't know. He's got some Marine major flying it. He brings it back to Haneda for service. I know he's been in Korea. And all over Japan. I don't know who, if anybody, he's had with him.... The CIA doesn't say much."

  "Huh," Jeanette said, thoughtfully.

  "Just before I came here this afternoon," Scott added. "I found out this major is flying the Navion to Kobe first thing in the morning."

  That was interesting. Another source had told her that the aviation elements of the First Provisional Marine Brigade would arrive at Kobe two days from now. She had already made reservations to take the train to Kobe to meet them.

  "Anyone going with him?"

  "I don't know, but if you're thinking of trying to catch a ride with him, forget it. Whatever they're doing, they don't want anyone to know about it."

  In another five minutes, Jeanette was sure that she had extracted from Major Scott all that interested her, and, try-ing to sound as sincere as possible, told him she was really sorry she couldn't have dinner with him. Another time.

  It wasn't a long walk from the press club to the Imperial Hotel, but it was hotter than she thought it was, and she ar-rived at the Imperial sweaty.

  When she tried to call General Pickering on the house phone, the operator politely denied having a guest by that name. Jeanette took the elevator to the floor on which the Dewey Suite was located and started down the corridor.

  She was stopped by a young American in civilian cloth-ing who politely asked what she wanted. She took her press credentials from her purse, and while the young man-obviously a guard-was examining them, said that she was there to interview General Pickering.

  "Ma'am, this is a restricted area. I'll have to ask you to leave."

  "I want to see General Pickering."

  "Ma'am, this is a restricted area. I'll have to ask you to leave."

  With ten minutes to spare, Jeanette managed to make the train to Kobe. She arrived there after midnight, and took a cab to the U.S. Naval Base, Kobe.

  Lieutenant Commander Gregory F. Porter, USN, the public affairs officer, was disturbed and annoyed that she had heard that Marine aviation would be arriving in the very near future, and was afraid she would break the story-"Marine Aviation to Debark at Kobe"-before it happened. There was no censorship, he told her, but he re-ally hoped she could see her way clear to embargo the story until the Marines actually got there. The other way might really give aid and comfort to the enemy. If she would embargo the story, the Navy information officer would do everything he could to help her get the story once the Marines were actually there.

  Jeanette told him she understood completely, and would happily hold the story until told its publication would in no way give aid and comfort to the enemy. Lieutenant Com-mander Porter was grateful, and said that he would be hon-ored to buy her breakfast in the morning, at which time he might have some other news for her that she might find of interest.

  The dining room of the Kobe U.S. Naval Base Officer's Mess provided a good view of the airfield, and at 0815 the next morning, while she was eating a surprisingly good grapefruit, Miss Priestly saw a North American Navion touch down smoothly on the runway.

  "Oh, I didn't know the Army used this field," she said to Lieutenant Commander Porter. "General MacArthur has an airplane just like that."

  "Actually, Jeanette," the commander said. "That's his. But he's not in it."

  "Who is?" she asked, sweetly.

  "Right now, that's classified," Commander Porter said. "But if you'll give me another couple of hours, I'll tell you all about it. And I'll even get you some exclusive pictures of something I think you'll agree is one hell of a story."

  Jeanette had already decided that Commander Porter was no dope, and that he had told her all she was going to hear until he decided to tell her more, so she smiled sweetly at him, laid her hand on his and said, "Thank you."

  She looked to see if she could see who was in the Navion, but it taxied out of sight.

  At
1015, Commander Porter found Jeanette in the lounge of the Officers' Club and led her back to the table at which they had breakfast.

  "In a very few minutes, you're going to see something very interesting-perhaps even historic-out there. I'm not at liberty to tell you what now, but you have my word I will at the proper time, and I'll have those exclusive pic-tures I promised you."

  He's talking, probably, about the first Marine planes that will land here. But if I get the pictures first, and exclu-sively...

  "You're very kind, Greg," she said, softly, and touched his hand with hers.

  "I'll see you shortly," he said.

  At 1025, two Chance-Vought F4U Corsairs dropped out of the sky and landed. The word Marines was lettered large on their fuselages.

  "The Marines have landed," Jeanette said, out loud, and just slightly sarcastically, although there was no one in the dining room to hear her.

  The Corsairs parked on the tarmac and shut down. Ground crewmen approached them as a fuel truck drove up. First two Navy photographers, carrying Speed-Graphic press cameras, and then Lieutenant Commander Porter and another man, wearing those overalls pilots wear, walked up to the air-planes as their pilots got out.

  I'll be damned, if I didn't know better, that pilot looks just like Captain Pickering of Trans-Global Airways.

  The pilot of the first Corsair saluted the pilot who looked just like Captain Pickering of Trans-Global Airways and Commander Porter.

  Then Pick Pickering's doppelganger walked up to the pilot of the second Corsair and saluted him, then wrapped his arms around him, picked him off the ground, and kissed him on the forehead.

  The ground crewmen swarmed around the aircraft, refu-eling them, circling them, examining them.

  The pilot of the second Corsair and-damn it, that is him-Pick Pickering were herded reluctantly to the na-celle of one of the Corsairs and the Navy photographer took their picture.

  Then the pilot of the second Corsair climbed back into his aircraft, and Pickering climbed into the other one.

  What the hell is he doing?

  He looked down from the cockpit to make sure there. was a fire extinguisher in place, then made a I'm-gonna-wind-it-up motion with his hand, and then the propeller be-gan to turn slowly and a moment later, in a cloud of blue smoke, the engine caught.

  My God, he's going to fly that thing!

  A moment after that, with Pickering's Corsair leading, both aircraft taxied toward the runway.

  The Navy photographers trotted toward the runway so they would be in position to photograph the takeoff. Com-mander Porter and the pilot who was now without an air-plane walked toward the officers' mess.

  Jeanette could quite clearly see the takeoff of the two aircraft-including the pilot of the first aircraft, who had

  earphones cocked jauntily on his head, and was without any possibility of mistake whatever, Captain Pick Picker-ing of Trans-Global Airways.

  Commander Porter and the pilot came into the dining room.

  "What you have just seen, Jeanette," Commander Porter announced somewhat dramatically, "what you will within thirty minutes have the first, and exclusive, photos of, was the takeoff of the first Marine aviation combat sortie to Ko-rea."

  "Who was flying... who was the pilot who took his air-plane?" Jeanette demanded.

  "Major Malcolm S. Pickering, ma'am," the pilot said.

  "The other pilot was Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn," Commander Porter said.

  "Why did you give him your airplane?"

  "Pick's the skipper, ma'am," the pilot said. "Of VMF-243. He didn't ask me. Skipper's order, ma'am, they don't ask."

  "What happened, Jeanette," Commander Porter said, "was that Major Pickering came to the Far East before his squadron. And flew orientation missions to Korea..."

  "In MacArthur's Navion?" she asked, incredulously.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "And then Colonel Dunn and... excuse me, Jeanette, may I present Captain David Freewall of USMC Reserve Fighter Squadron 243? Freewall, this is Miss Jeanette Priestly of the Chicago Tribune."

  "I know," Captain Freewall said.

  "You do?"

  "Yes, ma'am," Captain Freewall said, smiling at her. "The last thing Ol' Pick said to me before he climbed in the airplane was that the penalty for treading on his turf was two broken legs."

  Jeanette looked at him wordlessly for a long moment.

  "Treading on his turf"? Does that arrogant sonofabitch actually think I'm his turf?

  She turned to Commander Porter.

  "You were saying, Commander?"

  "Well, when the Badoeng Strait-the aircraft carrier, Jeanette, that brought Marine Air Group 33 from San Diego-got close enough to fly Corsairs off her to here, Major Pickering communicated with Colonel Dunn..."

  "They're ol' pals, Miss Priestly," Captain Freewall said. "They go back to Guadalcanal. And for a regular, Colonel Billy's a pretty good ol' boy."

  "Colonel Billy, is that what they call him?" Jeanette asked.

  "... offering Colonel William C. Dunn," Commander Porter went on, "the opportunity, if he so desired, of making an orientation flight/cum sortie, of Korea three days before he would have otherwise have had the opportunity to do so. And Colonel Dunn-his first name is William; middle ini-tial C, and that's Dee You En En-accepted."

  "I see."

  "And very shortly, other aircraft from the Badoeng Strait and Sicily, the other aircraft carrier in the task force, will begin to land here to prepare for Korean service. But you saw, and will have exclusive photos of, the takeoff of the first combat sortie."

  "What kind of `combat sortie'?" Jeanette said.

  "In this case, it will be what they call targets of opportu-nity," Captain Freewall said. "Which means they'll take on anything that looks like the enemy."

  "I was under the impression that Major Pickering was an airline pilot-"

  "Captain," Captain Freewall corrected her. "Ol' Pick's an airline captain."

  "And is he qualified to go out and `take on anything that looks like the enemy'?"

  "I think you could say he is, ma'am," Freewall said. "Ol' Pick's capable of just about anything."

  Including, the arrogant bastard, of considering me his turf.

  "The other aircraft from the Sicily and the Badoeng Strait will shortly be arriving, Jeanette," Commander Porter said. "Perhaps you'd like to watch that from the control tower?"

  "Yes, I would, thank you very much," Jeanette said.

  "When did you say you thought Colonel Dunn and Major Pickering will be getting back?"

  `Two, two and a half hours," Commander Porter said.

  [THREE]

  K-l USAF AIR FIELD

  PUSAN, KOREA

  1137 29 JULY 1950

  Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn could see the Korean landmass approaching, was aware that Pick had had them in a gentle descent from 10,000 feet for the last couple of minutes, and knew that something was up.

  It was about 375 miles from Kobe to Pusan, which Pick had said was their "first destination in the Picturesque Land of the Morning Calm."

  They had been wheels-up at Kobe at 1040, and they had been indicating a little better than 400 miles per hour. That meant they would reach Pusan in a tittle under an hour, and just about an hour had passed.

  "K-l, Marine Four One One," Pick's voice came over the air-to-ground.

  "Four One One, K-l."

  "K-l, Marine Four One One, a two-plane F4-U flight, at five thousand, about five minutes east. Request permission for a low-speed, low-level pass of your airfield."

  My God, what's he want to do that for?

  And they're not going to let him.

  He said it was the only decent airfield in Korea. There-fore it will be crowded. Therefore they won't want two fighters buzzing the place.

  "Say again, One One?" the K-l tower operator asked, incredulously.

  "Request a low-speed, low-level pass over your field in about three and a half minutes."

  "One One,
be advised there is heavy traffic in the area. State purpose of low-level pass."

  "K-l, One One. Two purposes. Purpose one, visual ob-servation of possible emergency landing field. Purpose two, to confirm the rumors that the Marines are about to get in your little war."

  "One One, permission denied."

  "K-l, your other option is to let us land, following which we will want to taxi all over the field to have a look from the ground. If you grant permission for a low-level pass, we will be out of your hair in less than sixty seconds. Your call, K-l."