The Buick—and his and George Hart's fur-collared Naval aviators' leather jackets—were more or less subtle statements that he was not subordinate to Supreme Headquarters, Allied Powers.
The Buick was his. He owned it.
When he had first come to Japan, he had been provided with an olive-drab Chevrolet staff car and a sergeant to drive it, and asked when it would be convenient for him to have the housing officer show him what government quarters were available for an officer of his rank, so that he could make a choice between them.
There was no question in Pickering's mind that the staff car drivers—three of them, on a rotating basis—were agents of the Counter-intelligence Corps, and thus reporting to Major General Charles A. Willoughby, MacArthur's chief intelligence officer.
He had politely thanked the Headquarters Commandant for the offer of government quarters, but said that would prefer to stay where he was, in a suite in the Imperial Hotel. And he had sent an urgent radio message to Colonel Ed Banning, who was at Camp Pendleton, ordering him to immediately buy a small Buick or Oldsmobile and have it placed aboard the very next P&FE freighter bound for Japan, even if he had to drive to San Francisco to get it on the next ship.
Colonel Banning had, with the word "immediately" in his mind, looked at the small Buicks and Oldsmobiles available in San Diego, decided "The General" would really not like any of them—he could not imagine "The General" riding around Tokyo in a bright yellow little Olds, or a two-tone, mostly lavender little Buick—and instead, eight hours after getting his orders, had stood on a wharf watching the black Buick Roadmaster being lifted aboard the Pacific Clipper, which he had been assured was among the fastest vessels in the P&FE fleet.
As soon as the car arrived, Pickering had told the Headquarters Commandant he would no longer need the staff car; he would drive his own car. The Headquarters Commandant told him he'd really be more comfortable if he continued to provide drivers, just in case Pickering might find them useful.
Pickering could not think of a reason to decline the "courteous, innocent" offer, so the "drivers" remained assigned to him. They usually spent their entire tour of duty reading newspapers and magazines while sitting on a couch in the corridor outside his suite. But sometimes he did use them. One of them had driven the Buick to Haneda in the morning, and had brought the car back to carry him to the hotel now.
That had solved the problem of the CIC agent drivers reporting his every move to Willoughby, and McCoy had solved what Pickering knew was a major problem—how to keep the messages he and Howe were sending to Truman really secret.
Despite the TOP SECRET EYES ONLY THE PRESIDENT classification, eyes other than Truman's would see the messages both in Tokyo, where they would be encrypted and transmitted, and at Camp Pendleton, California, where they would be decrypted, typed, and dispatched by Marine officer courier to the White House.
Pickering was confident that there would be no leaks at Pendleton, where a Marine cryptographer working only for Colonel Ed Banning would handle the decryption, and just about as sure their messages would be read in the Dai Ichi Building communications center by people other than the cryptographers. An army sergeant was unlikely to chase away a colonel with all the security clearances—or, for that matter, Major General Charles Willoughby himself— when he was reading over his shoulder.
In Pusan, McCoy had run across a just-rushed-from-Germany-to-Korea Army Security Agency cryptographer, Master Sergeant Paul T. Keller, who didn't even know any of the Dai Ichi Building cryptographers. A message from General Howe to the Army Chief of Staff in Washington had seen Keller the next day transferred to the CIA, with a further assignment to the staff of the Assistant Director of the CIA for Asia.
Keller was told—more than likely unnecessarily—that if there were any leaks of EYES ONLY THE PRESIDENT messages they would know who had done the leaking.
Pickering also suspected that Willoughby was entirely capable of both tapping the telephones in his hotel suite and bugging the suite itself. Master Sergeant Keller had "swept" the hotel suite and found several microphones, which might, or might not, have been left over from the days of the Kempai-Tai, the Japanese Imperial Secret Police.
There was no way of finding out for sure without tearing walls down to trace the wires, so they had left them in place. When Pickering had something to say he didn't want Willoughby to hear, he held the conversation in the bathroom, with the shower running, the toilet flushing, and a roll of toilet tissue around the microphone in the left of the two lights on either side of the mirror.
Most of the time, however, when there was a meeting they didn't want overheard, they held the meeting in McCoy's house in Denenchofu. Keller swept the house on a regular basis.
The Bataan stopped, and the engines died.
General MacArthur looked at his watch, then stood up and stretched.
"Jean and I would be pleased if you could come for dinner, Fleming. No one else will be there. Would eight be convenient for you?"
"Thank you," Pickering said. "I'd be delighted."
There was a discreet knock at the compartment door, and Huff's voice calling, "We're ready for you anytime, General."
MacArthur nodded at Pickering, pushed the door open, and went through it.
Pickering looked out the window again. Master Sergeant Keller was leaning on the Buick's fender.
That means he either has a message for me, or that he got a little bored in the hotel and decided to drive the Buick out here himself.
Pickering waited until all the brass had deplaned and gotten into their cars, then stood up and went into the aisle. Captain George F. Hart and Miss Jeanette Priestly were waiting for him.
"Keller's driving the car," Hart said.
"I saw," Pickering said.
"George said you were going to see Ernie," Jeanette said. "Can I bum a ride?"
"Your wish is my command, Fair Lady," Pickering said.
"Despite what people say about you, I think you'll be a fine father-in-law," she said.
If we get him back, Pickering thought, but said, "Was there ever any doubt about that in your mind?"
Hart chuckled.
They went down the staircase and walked to the Buick. Hart got in the front beside Keller. Keller started the engine, then turned and handed Pickering a sheet of paper, folded in thirds.
"Came in an hour ago, General," Keller said.
Pickering shifted in the seat so that Jeanette could not see what it was when he unfolded it.
TOP SECRET PRESIDENTIAL
SPECIAL CHANNEL
ONE COPY ONLY
EYES ONLY BRIG GEN FLEMING PICKERING USMCR
BLAIR HOUSE 0235 28 SEPTEMBER 1950
IN THE ABSENCE OF A REALLY COMPELLING REASON PRECLUDING YOUR TRAVEL, I WOULD LIKE TO SEE
YOU HERE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. BEST PERSONAL REGARDS HARRY S TRUMAN
TOP SECRET PRESIDENTIAL
Pickering refolded the message and handed it to Hart.
"Read that, don't comment," he ordered, "and then do the magic trick for Jeanette."
"Magic trick?" Jeanette asked. "What was that? Am I allowed to ask?"
"No, you're not. Show her, George."
Hart turned to the backseat. He waved the sheet of paper in his hand.
"Now you see it, Jeanette . . ." he said.
He produced a Zippo lighter, flicked it open and touched the flame to the sheet of paper. There was a sudden white flash and a small cloud of smoke.
The sheet of paper disappeared.
". . . and now you don't," Hart finished unnecessarily.
"Jesus Christ, what was that?" Jeanette asked.
"That would be telling, Jeanette," Pickering said. "When we get to McCoy's house, set that up, please, George, including the appropriate reply."
"Yes, sir. When do we go?"
"I thought it said, 'as soon as possible,' " Pickering said. Yes, sir.
[FOUR]
Mo. 7 Saku-Tun Denenchofu,
>
Tokyo, Japan
1915 29 September 195O
A middle-aged Japanese woman in a black kimono came through the steel gate in the wall around McCoy's house, bowed to the black Buick, then went back inside the wall. A moment later, the double gates farther down the wall opened, and Keller drove the car inside.
Mrs. Ernestine Sage McCoy, who was standing outside the door of the sprawling, one-floor Japanese house, was also wearing a black kimono.
Pickering decided she was wearing it as a maternity dress rather than a cultural statement of some kind. He also thought that it was true that being in the family way did indeed give women sort of a glow. Ernie looked radiant.
She came down the shallow flight of stairs as Fleming, Jeanette, Hart, and Keller got out of the Buick.
As Ernie hugged Fleming, he could feel the swelling of her belly against him.
"How are you, sweetheart?" he asked.
"I'm fine," she said. "The question seems to be, How are the men in our extended little family?"
"Ken's fine," Jeanette answered for him. "He looked like a recruiting poster when I saw him. Pick is still among the missing."
"Ken told me they had missed him by no more than a couple of hours yesterday," Pickering said. "They'll find him, I'm sure."
"Well, come on in the house, all of you, and have a drink. I didn't know how many of you were coming, or when, so dinner will have to be started from scratch."
"Then I'll have time to take a shower?" Jeanette asked. "Shower, hell, a long hot bath?"
"Come on with me," Ernie said. "Uncle Flem, you know where the bar is."
She put her arm around Jeanette and started to lead her into the interior of the house.
"Wow," Ernie said, first sniffing and then wrinkling her nose. "You really do need a bath, don't you?"
"You can go to hell," Jeanette said.
The middle-aged Japanese woman and a younger Japanese woman were already in the living room when Pickering led the others in. There were four bottles on the bar: bourbon, scotch, vodka, and beer.
The men indicated their choices—two scotches and a bourbon—by pointing. The young woman made the drinks, and the older woman put them on a tray and served them. The younger woman left the room, returning in a moment with a tray of bacon-wrapped smoked oysters.
Ernie came in as the oysters were being served.
"I would really like a very stiff one of those," she said. "But I am being the perfect pregnant woman."
"Good for you, sweetheart," Pickering said. "How about an oyster and a glass of soda?"
"Take what you can, when you can get it," Ernie said, and said something in Japanese to the younger woman, who started to fill a glass with soda water.
She turned to Pickering.
"Was Ken telling Jeanette the truth about Pick? Or whistling in the wind to make her feel good?"
"The truth, I'm sure," Pickering said.
"I really feel sorry for her," Ernie said.
"Ernie, two things. Thank you for dinner, but no thank you. MacArthur has invited me for dinner, and George and Paul have got things to do."
"Things that won't wait until they can eat?"
"That's the second thing. No, they can't wait. Don't tell Jeanette, but there's been a message from the President; he wants me in Washington as soon as I can get there."
"What's that all about?"
"I really don't know. But he's the President, Ernie. I do what he tells me to do."
"Don't tell Jeanette?"
"She's a reporter."
"She's Pick's ... I was about to say girlfriend, but she's much more than that."
"I know," he said. "But I still don't want you to tell her."
"About you going to Washington, or about anything?"
"This will sound cruel, perhaps, but the less Jeanette knows about anything, the better. Let me, or Ken, decide what she can know."
"You're going to Washington, and Ken's in Korea," Ernie replied.
"Come to Washington with me," Pickering said.
"No."
"You could see your parents for at least a couple of days."
"No."
"And then come back here, if you'd like."
"No, Uncle Flem. Thank you, but no."
"You want to tell me why?"
"Ken's here. This is our home."
"A couple of days with your parents would be good for all concerned," Pickering argued.
"They would spend all their time arguing that I should stay with them, and then be really hurt when I wouldn't. It's better the way it is."
"You don't want your mother here when the time comes?"
"Not unless Ken's here, too. Then, sure."
"If she decides to come, you can't stop her, Ernie."
"She knows how I feel. Can we get off this subject?"
"Got your Minox, George?" Pickering asked. Yes, sir.
"Then take a couple of pictures of me and the hardheaded pregnant lady in the kimono."
"Okay," Ernie said, and smiled.
"And then we have to get out of here, sweetheart," Pickering said. "If you need anything, tell Paul. And if he can't get what you need, he knows how to contact General Howe, and Howe will get it for you."
"Thanks, Paul."
"Anything you need, Ernie," Paul Keller said. "Anything."
Pickering stood up and put his arm around Ernie's shoulders, and George Hart took three shots of them with the tiny Minox.
[FIVE]
Hangar 13 Kimpo Airfield
Seoul, South Korea
O815 3O September 19SO
Captain Howard C. Dunwood, USMCR, was having breakfast—ham chunks with raisin sauce, out of a can—with Major Alex Donald, U.S. Army, when the small door in the left hangar door opened and a Marine corporal, a very large fair-skinned man in his early twenties, his field cap perched precariously on his head, came through, followed by four other men.
"Heads up!" Major Donald whispered. "That must be the people I was told to expect."
Captain Dunwood said nothing.
After a moment, he recognized two of the men. He had seen them before, the last time when Baker Company had landed on Tokchok-Kundo Island in the Flying Fish Channel leading to Pusan. At that time, both had been wearing black cotton pajamas, with bands of the same material wrapped around their foreheads. The tall and lanky one was now dressed in crisply starched utilities, with the chevrons of a technical sergeant painted on the sleeves. The other character who had been wearing black pajamas on the island was now in crisp utilities, with the gold leaves of a major pinned to his collar points.
Dunwood had seen that one once before Tokchok-Kundo.
At Haneda. On 15 August, the day I arrived in Japan from the States. Six weeks ago. It seems like a hell of a lot longer.
At Haneda the major had been wearing a tropical worsted uniform and the insignia of a captain. A Marine brigadier general and a strikingly beautiful woman had put him and a Navy lieutenant on a C-54 bound for Sasebo.
And I was half in the bag, and pegged him as a candy-ass chair warmer and made an ass of myself on the airplane, for which I paid with a dislocated thumb that still hurts sometimes. I suppose it's too much to hope he doesn't remember that incident.
Dunwood had no idea who the other two were—a Marine master gunner and an Army Transportation Corps major in a rumpled uniform—and absolutely no idea what was going on.
Major Donald—subtly making it clear that he was privy to highly classified information that he could, of course, not share with a lowly Marine captain—had told him only that "there had been a change of plans" and that "sometime in the immediate future, I will be contacted with further orders reflecting that change."
Major Donald put down his can of ham chunks in raisin sauce and marched to meet the newcomers. The crews of the two helicopters, who were also having their breakfast, sitting on the floor of their aircraft, watched with interest.
Dunwood shrugged, put his can of
ham chunks in raisin sauce down, and walked after Major Donald. When Donald became aware he was being trailed, he turned to look at Dunwood.
And here's where the sonofabitch tells me to butt out.
"Hello, Dunwood. How are you?" McCoy said.
Dunwood saluted.
"Good morning, sir."
"You know Sergeant Jennings," McCoy said. "That's Gunner Zimmerman and that's Major Dunston."
"My name is Donald, Major."
"You're in charge of these aircraft?" McCoy asked.
“Yes, I am.”
"And I understand you were told you'd be contacted about them?"
"Yes, I have."
"Well, here we are," McCoy said. "My name is McCoy."
"I wonder if I might see some identification?" Donald said.
"Ernie," McCoy said.
Zimmerman took a small leather wallet from his breast pocket, opened it, and held it so Donald could see it.
"Thank you," Donald said, then looked at McCoy. "I'm at your orders, sir."
"How much have you told anybody about any of this?" McCoy asked.
"Not a word to anyone, Major."
"I'd like to speak to the aircraft people right now," McCoy said. "Dunwood, you listen, and you decide which of your Marines you can tell, and what."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Donald walked to the closest of the H-19s and gestured for the men gathered around the second helicopter to come over.
When they were finally assembled, McCoy saw there were four pilots, two enlisted men also wearing flight suits, and half a dozen maintenance personnel, all noncoms but one, who was a warrant officer.
Donald barked "Atten-hut" and, when everybody was at attention, said, "This is Major McCoy."
"Stand at ease," McCoy ordered. "I'm sure you're all wondering what's going on. I'll tell you what I know, which frankly isn't much. What follows is classified Top Secret, and I don't know how many of you have that security clearance. For the time being, it should be enough to tell you that nothing about this operation is to be told to anyone. As I'm sure you all know, divulging Top Secret information will see you standing before a General Court-Martial. I'm dead serious about that. You don't tell your pals about this, and you don't write home telling your mother, your wife, or anyone else. If you do, we'll find out about it and you'll find yourself in front of a General Court. No second chances. We cannot afford to have loose mouths. Pay attention. The lives you'll save by keeping your mouths shut will be your own." He paused. "Any questions?"
Retreat, Hell! tc-10 Page 15
