Retreat, Hell! tc-10

by W. E. B Griffin

  "I beg your pardon?" Colonel Kennedy said.

  "I said that's the last of those heavy fucking trucks that goes aboard the Cap­tain J.C. Buffett."

  "That's simply not acceptable," Colonel Kennedy said.

  " Acceptable'?" the seaman parroted. "Who the fuck are you to tell me what goes aboard the Captain J.C. Buffet?"

  "I think I had better discuss this with one of the ship's officers," Kennedy said. "Preferably with her captain. Presumably I can find him aboard?"

  "You are discussing this with her captain," the seaman said. "Who the fuck did you think you were talking to?"

  "You're the captain?"

  "Captain John F. X. Moran at your service, Colonel."

  "Captain, obviously I owe you an apology—"

  "Not yet," Captain Moran interrupted.

  "Thank you," Kennedy said. "Captain, the vehicles we're trying to load aboard your ship are essential to an operation. . . ."

  "Putting the X Corps ashore at Wonsan," Moran offered helpfully.

  Colonel Kennedy found that helpfulness disturbing. For one thing, that the invasion force was headed for Wonsan was classified Top Secret. Colonel Kennedy wasn't at all sure that Captain Moran had that kind of a security clearance, much less the Need to Know, at this point, the destination. He was sure that he was not supposed to casually introduce it into conversation the way he had.

  "Wonsan?" Kennedy asked. "Who said anything about Wonsan?"

  "Jesus Christ!" Moran said disgustedly. "If you really don't know about Wonsan, Colonel, what's going on here is the reloading of X Corps, which will then be transported around to the other side of the Korean Peninsula and landed at Wonsan."

  Colonel Kennedy decided not to respond directly.

  "The X Corps Operations Officer sent me here to see that the heavy vehicles, such as the wrecker you just loaded aboard, were loaded aboard last, so they may be unloaded first when you reach your destination."

  "Colonel, let me try to explain this to you. When I off-loaded those vehi­cles when we came here, I just about completely fucked up the motors, booms, winches, and other equipment aboard. I knew it would. My gear is not designed to handle such heavy loads. But I figured, what the hell, the important thing is to get these vehicles ashore—I can get the gear repaired when I'm back in San Diego. But now I'm told I'm going to Wonsan, not 'Diego, and I have to load all this stuff back aboard, and then unload it again at Wonsan—where I understand there will be no functioning shoreside equipment to unload me." He paused, then went on: "Still with me, Colonel?"

  Colonel Kennedy nodded and said, "Go on, please."

  "What I can do, Colonel," Moran went on, "is use the ship's gear to load the lighter stuff—the jeeps, three-quarter-ton ammo carriers, and the six-by-sixes. I can also probably unload them in Wonsan, presuming I don't fuck up my gear any more than it's already fucked up by loading the heavy stuff." He paused, and went on: "Am I getting through to you, Colonel?"

  "Yes, you are," Colonel Kennedy said. "There's absolutely no chance—"

  "Not a fucking chance. Now, do I start to see how much of the light stuff I can get aboard before the fucking tide starts going down and leaves me stranded in the fucking mud? Or what?"

  "Under the circumstances, I think it would be best to start loading the lighter vehicles," Colonel Kennedy said.

  "Believe it or not, I'm sorry as hell about this," Captain Moran said, and then walked back to where he had originally been standing.

  He looked up at the ship.

  "Okay, get those fucking lines down here," he called. "We're now going to start loading the light stuff."

  Colonel Kennedy turned to Captain MacNamara.

  "It looks as if we have a problem, Captain," he said. "What I suppose I'm going to have to do is see the Port Master, and see if these heavy vehicles can be loaded aboard another vessel."

  "Yes, sir," MacNamara said. "Colonel, can I make a suggestion?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Let me take them overland, across the peninsula," MacNamara said.

  "I don't think I follow you," Kennedy admitted.

  "Colonel, maybe I jumped the gun a little, but when Captain Moran told me that X Corps was going to be relanded at Wonsan, I looked at the maps."

  "And?"

  "Excuse me, sir, I have to get the line moving," MacNamara said, and trot­ted toward the lines of vehicles ready to be loaded. He jumped up on the run­ning board of a GMC 6x6, and a moment later Kennedy saw a soldier appear behind the wheel. He started the 6 X 6's engine and drove down the wharf to­ward where Captain Moran was impatiently waiting for the truck with Mac­Namara still on the running board.

  MacNamara dropped nimbly off the truck as it passed Kennedy.

  "Sorry, sir. That man was asleep," MacNamara said, as if he considered that a personal insult.

  "You were saying something, Captain, about moving the heavy vehicles overland?" Kennedy asked.

  "Yes, sir. Colonel, I've got a map in my jeep. Can I show you what I think?"

  "Why not?" Kennedy said.

  [FIVE]

  Office of the Chief of Staff

  Headquarters X U.S. Corps

  Seoul, South Korea

  172O 11 October 19SO

  "Kennedy," the chief of staff said, "this was not what I expected to hear from you when I told you to report on your progress."

  "I know," Colonel Kennedy said. "I wish it were otherwise."

  "Well, what do you want to do about it?"

  "If we could get an LST . . ."

  "Fine. See the Port Captain, and tell him I want these heavy vehicles avail­able as soon as possible at Wonsan."

  "Sir, I did that. He says there is no space on the available LSTs. They can't carry all the tanks we want to move as it is."

  "Jesus Christ! Kennedy, we've got to do something!"

  "Captain MacNamara has an off-the-wall idea—"

  "Who's he?"

  "He commands the vehicle exchange unit."

  "Let's hear it."

  "He suggests moving the wreckers and the tank retrieval vehicles by road."

  Kennedy was surprised when the chief of staff did not frown, snort deri­sively, or say "Jesus Christ!" disgustedly, as he was wont to do when presented with a wild and/or stupid idea. In fact, the chief of staff was apparently giving the idea some thought.

  The chief of staff snorted, but thoughtfully, not derisively.

  "Think of it as a chess game, Kennedy," he said. "As we move pieces around the board—in this case the landing beaches at Wonsan."

  "Okay," Kennedy said agreeably.

  "First the landing craft go in."

  "Right."

  "And right on the heels of the landing craft—sometimes right with them— come the LSTs."

  "Right."

  "And what happens to the LSTs after they land the tanks? They get out of the way, right?"

  "That's true."

  "They wait for the freighters to come in close and drop anchor, right, and then take on supplies and ferry them to the beach, right?"

  "Uh-huh."

  The chief of staff raised his voice: "Sergeant Miller! Bring me a map of the east coast."

  "Coming up, sir!" Sergeant Miller replied, and a moment later entered the chief of staff's office, removing a map from its tube as he walked. He laid it on the chief of staff's desk, anchoring its corners with two cans of Planters peanuts, a coffee cup, and a large stapler.

  The chief of staff stood up and leaned over the map. Colonel Kennedy walked around the desk and stood beside him.

  "We own Suwon,' the chief of staff said, pointing. "And we own Wonju and Kangnung. And Highway Four runs all the way from Suwon to Kangnung. And we're only talking about"—he made a compass with his fingers—"about 120, maybe 140 miles, tops. All of it on a paved highway."

  "That's about right," Colonel Kennedy agreed.

  The chief of staff used his fingers as a compass again.

  "And about that far, 120 miles or so, from Kangn
ung to Wonsan."

  "Uh-huh, that's about right."

  "The last I heard, the Capital ROK Division has moved at least this far"—he pointed—"close to Kansong, which is only seventy-five miles, give or take, from Wonsan, and on another paved highway."

  After a moment's hesitation, Colonel Kennedy said, "According to the map, the highway ends fifteen miles north of Kansong."

  Now Colonel Kennedy received one of the chief of staff s derisive snorts.

  "The highway does, Howard. But there are villages all along the coast here"—he pointed—"from Kuum-ni to Tokchong. I'll bet there are roads of some sort to all of them."

  "There probably are," Colonel Kennedy agreed.

  "Tokchong is only thirty-five miles south of Wonsan," the chief of staff said. "I think there is a good chance that by the time the invasion fleet arrives off Wonsan, we'll own that real estate."

  "That would seem a reasonable assumption," Kennedy agreed.

  "Worst case," the chief of staff said, "for some reason, the vehicles cannot make it over the highway to Kangnung. That seems unlikely."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Presuming they can make it Kangnung, they can't make it much farther north along Highway Five. That also seems unlikely, but let's take that for the purpose of argument. The LSTs dump their tanks at Wonsan and immediately head for Kangnung. They make about fifteen miles an hour, which would get them there in eight hours. An hour there to load the trucks and another eight hours back to Wonsan, where—since the vehicles would not have to be un­loaded by cranes, et cetera—they could simply be driven off the LSTs and be available."

  "Interesting," Colonel Kennedy said.

  "That's a lot better—getting them there seventeen hours after the landing— than not getting them there at all, right?"

  "Absolutely."

  "And the farther north they could go along Highway Five, the less travel time for the LSTs. And if the Capital ROK Division has by that time taken Wonsan, which I think is likely, we won't have to use the LSTs at all. Just drive these vehicles all the way to Wonsan, and set up shop, maybe even before X Corps lands there."

  "That's certainly a possibility," Colonel Kennedy agreed. "Okay. So the thing to do, I think, is see if the vehicles can make it to Kang­nung. I suggest the best way to do that is make a trial run. Send a couple of wreckers and a couple of tank retrievers and see what happens. It would prob­ably be best—the NKs may have some left-behinds in the area—to send a cou­ple of tanks with them." "I agree."

  "If the test run is successful, we can start moving all the heavy vehicles. Ob­viously, it would be better to have them on the east coast, however close to Won­san, than sitting on the wharf in Inchon, on the other side of the peninsula." "Obviously," Colonel Kennedy agreed.

  "Go see Bob and tell him I said to give you a couple of tanks, and then get your show on the road, Howard." "Right," Colonel Kennedy said.

  [SIX]

  Andrews Air Force Base

  Washington, D.C.

  11O5 13 October I95O

  There was already a line of limousines parked not far from the Independence, the President's Douglas C-54 transport, when Senator Richardson K. Fowler's Packard limousine was passed by the Secret Service agents and allowed to drive onto the tarmac.

  The dignitaries the other limousines had carried to the airport, and some of their aides, were gathered around the movable stairway leading up to the air­craft. Two USAF master sergeants stood at Parade Rest on either side of the stairs.

  When Fowler's Packard stopped, Captain George F. Hart, USMCR, got out of the front passenger seat and immediately went to the trunk, opened it, and took out two Valv-Paks and handed them over to another Air Force master sergeant, who was in charge of the luggage.

  Fred Delmore, Fowler's chauffeur, got from behind the wheel and opened the rear passenger door. Mrs. Patricia Fleming, in a thigh-length Persian lamb coat, got out first, followed by Senator Fowler and finally Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR.

  Fowler stood by the car, making no effort to join, or even greet, the digni­taries gathered at the stairway. After a moment, one of the dignitaries, a bald Army officer, broke away from the group and walked to the Fowler limousine.

  He was wearing an ordinary woolen olive-drab "Ike" jacket-and-trousers uniform, identical to those worn by enlisted men. The only differences were the solid gold piping on his overseas cap and a small circle of five stars pinned to each epaulet. General of the Army Omar Bradley had recently been promoted to the highest rank in the Army by Truman, the first—and, as it turned out, only—such promotion since World War II.

  After a moment, several of the others started after him.

  "Good morning, Senator," Bradley said, smiling and putting out his hand.

  "General Bradley, how are you, sir?" Fowler replied. "I don't think you know General and Mrs. Pickering, do you?"

  "I'm afraid I don't," Bradley said. He offered his hand to Patricia Fleming. "An honor, ma'am," he said.

  Pickering saluted, and Bradley returned it. They shook hands.

  "How do you do, sir?" Pickering said.

  "I've been looking forward to meeting you, General," Bradley said. "Gen­eral Smith has been saying all sorts of nice things about you, and I wanted you to know that I'm really pleased that the two of you will be running the CIA."

  "General Smith will be running it, General," Pickering said. "I'm just a temporary hired hand."

  Three other men had now walked up to them.

  "I don't think you know any of these people, do you, Flem?" Fowler said, then proceeded to introduce him to Secretary of the Army Frank Pace—whose youth surprised Pickering—and two State Department officers, Dean Rusk and Philip Jessup.

  There wasn't time to do more than shake hands as the Presidential caravan rolled up.

  Harry S Truman got out the black Cadillac first, and a moment later a tall, thin man in what Pickering thought of as a "banker's black" suit joined him. He was Averill Harriman, who was Truman's National Security Adviser. He held the personal rank of Ambassador-at-Large.

  Truman headed for the stairway, but then saw Fowler and the Pickerings and turned and walked toward them. After a moment, Harriman followed him.

  "Senator," Truman said, smiling. "How nice of you to come to see us off."

  "Your Majesty's loyal opposition could do no less," Fowler replied.

  Pickering saluted. Truman nodded and smiled at him.

  "I'm sorry he didn't have more time at home, Mrs. Pickering," Truman said.

  "A little time is better than none, Mr. President," Patricia Fleming replied.

  "How nice to see you, Patricia!" Harriman exclaimed, putting out his hand.

  Her face was stony, and she ignored the greeting and the hand.

  The smile vanished from Harriman's face, and he turned and walked directly toward the stairway.

  "Jesus, Pat," Pickering said.

  "Mr. President," Patricia Fleming said, "I'm not among Averill Harriman's legion of female admirers. . . ."

  "I somehow sensed that," the President said.

  "I'm one of those old-fashioned women who think husbands should not sleep with other people's wives, and if they can't manage that level of decency, they should at least not flaunt their infidelity in their wife's face."

  "I'm married, oddly enough," Truman said, "to a woman who shares that philosophy. I'm going to have to get you and Bess together, Mrs. Pickering." He paused, and added: "It was nice to see you again."

  He started toward the Independence.

  Pickering looked at his wife.

  "Was that necessary?"

  "I thought so," his wife replied.

  They looked at each other a moment.

  "Bring Pick home, Flem," she said softly.

  "I'll damned sure try, honey," he said.

  She nodded, then wrapped her arms around him.

  She stayed that way a moment, then raised her face to his and kissed him.

  Then he walked qu
ickly to the steps to the Independence, where George Hart was waiting for him.

  As soon as they had gone through the door, the steps were pulled away and there came the sound of an engine starting.

  [SEVEN]

  There were no layovers. The Independence stopped at San Francisco, but just long enough to take on fuel and food, and to give the President and his aides time to deal with the messages that had come in for him while they were fly­ing across the country. No one got off the airplane.

  There was a Presidential compartment—and two others, one occupied by General Bradley and the other by Ambassador Harriman—on the Indepen­dence and there was a steady stream of visitors to both. Pickering did not ex­pect to be summoned to any of the meetings, and he wasn't. He wasn't at all sure why Truman had ordered him to make the trip, and he suspected that Har­riman would probably do his best to have the President ignore him.

  At San Francisco—not surprisingly, it was Trans-Global's headquarters— there were four Trans-Global Lockheed Constellations, one of which sat, its en­gines idling, at the end of the runway when the Independence took off for Hawaii.

  Pickering thought that not only was it a far more graceful-looking aircraft than the Presidential Douglas, but also a hundred miles an hour faster. He wondered why the President wasn't furnished with the fastest aircraft available, and then he thought, again, how wise Pick had been in insisting that Trans-Global buy the Lockheeds, rather than take advantage of the surplus Air Force Douglas transports available so cheaply.

  He then thought that the war was making a good deal of money for Trans-Global. The Air Force had not only contracted for as many contract flights as Trans-Global could make aircraft available for but also was filling every seat made available on the regularly scheduled flights, and there were now far more of those than there had been when the war started.

  That was the good news, Pickering thought. The bad news was that Chief Pilot Pickering wasn't around to see how well his airline was doing. Worse than that, Pickering was growing less and less confident that Pick would be found. He refused to allow himself to dwell on the details of why that was likely, even probable, as all of them were unpleasant to contemplate.

  He had no idea how he was going to deal with Patricia if his growing fears turned out to be justified.