“Where do we put them all?”
“There’s three cabins below,” Taylor said. “One is the mess and kitchen for the officers. There’s a captain’s cabin, more or less—we can put the lady in there—and another cabin for you, me, Zimmerman, and Major Kim. The weather’s nice. If it stays that way, we can sleep on deck. The officers up here, the men on the main deck.”
“And if the weather is foul?”
“As soon as it starts to turn nasty, the men are going to have to go in the holds, with the hatch covers battened.”
“That’s not going to be much fun.”
“It’ll be more fun than capsizing,” Taylor said.
“What are you going to do for a crew?” McCoy asked.
“Three of Kim’s men were sailors. They can show the others what to do. There’s not much to know about the rigging on a junk. The sails are square—Okay, oblong—and they’re stiffened with bamboo. They’re like Venetian blinds, you open—raise—them by pulling on a rope. There’s no wheel, just this thing . . .”
He pointed to a six-inch-square handle, lashed to the stern.
“. . . the rudder. The rudder is huge; it also serves as the centerboard when you’re under sail. Sometimes—to turn sharply—you need more than one man on it. Same thing when you’re under way with the engine. There’s one propeller, mounted forward of the rudder. All the power of the engine is directed at the rudder. If you can hold the rudder, you can make really sharp turns.”
“I don’t see any engine controls, or a compass,” McCoy said.
Taylor walked to the forward rail and pulled backward on what McCoy had thought was a sturdy support for the railing. Inside was a control panel for the Caterpillar diesel engine, and a compass. They were chrome-plated, and completely out of place on the junk.
“Like I said, McCoy, Macao shipbuilders know what they’re doing,” Taylor said.
He reached down into the small compartment and threw several switches. The compass and the engine instrument dials lit up and became active. There was a red light—obviously a warning light of some kind.
McCoy was about to ask what it was when it went out. Taylor reached into the compartment again and pressed a button. There was a rumble, and then the diesel engine started.
“I’ll be damned,” McCoy said. “Very nice.”
Taylor shut the engine off again.
“You’re confident we can use this to make the landings? ” he asked.
“Hell no, I’m not,” Taylor replied, shaking his head. “I don’t know much about the waters off Yonghung-do and Taemuui-do, but I’ve never seen a junk tied up at a pier either place. That makes me think the adjacent waters are too shallow, even at high tide, to take a junk’s rudder. We’re going to have to get boats somewhere.”
“Jesus!”
“I was thinking we could get some from the Navy,” Taylor said. “A couple of shore leave boats would be perfect.”
“And asking for them would make the Navy very curious about what we planned to do with them. . . .”
“And we’d have to tow them from Kobe or Yokohama or someplace.”
“We have to think about that,” McCoy said. “Goddamn it!”
Taylor shrugged.
“I’m going ashore to see if I can find out where Zimmerman and that goddamned woman are,” McCoy said. “And we better start loading everything we’re taking with us. You tell Kim.”
Taylor gave a thumbs-up sign, and McCoy started down the ladder to the main deck.
[SIX]
EVENING STAR HOTEL TONGNAE, SOUTH KOREA 1625 5 AUGUST 1950
Master Gunner Zimmerman drove right to the pier, followed by a Jeep with a WAR CORRESPONDENT sign mounted below the glass of its windshield. Zimmerman got out of his Jeep, and collected his Thompson and a canvas musette bag from the Jeep.
Miss Jeanette Priestly of the Chicago Tribune, who was dressed in U.S. Army fatigues much too large for her and had her hair tucked up inside her fatigue cap, got out of her Jeep, then leaned over the rear seat and took a notebook and a Leica camera from a canvas bag and walked toward McCoy, who was leaning on a pier piling.
“What’s going on, McCoy?” she greeted him, stopped, opened the Leica’s leather case, and raised the camera to take a picture of him with the Wind of Good Fortune in the background.
McCoy put one hand, fingers extended, in front of his face, then extended the fingers of the other hand in an obscene gesture.
“You sonofabitch!” she said. There was a tone of admiration in her voice, then, smiling, she asked: “How long are you going to stand there with your hand in front of your face?”
“Until you put the camera away,” he said.
After a moment, she closed the Leica’s case and he took his hand from his face.
“Tell me about Pick Pickering,” she said.
“If you take that camera out of the case again without permission, I’ll take it away from you,” he said.
“Jesus Christ!”
“Having said that, I think I can guarantee you some pictures for your newspaper,” he said.
“Are you going to tell me about Pickering, or not?”
“Once we get under way,” he said. “Get on the junk.”
“The hell I will!”
“Suit yourself,” he said, and started to walk down the pier.
After a moment, she went back to her Jeep, took a carbine and a musette bag from it, and trotted after him. When she caught up with him, he mockingly bowed, and gestured that she should climb the ladder ahead of him.
When she had started up the ladder, McCoy signaled for Zimmerman to get the rest of her things from her Jeep.
The Marines lining the rail of the Wind of Good Fortune watched the female war correspondent climbing the ladder with great interest.
When—not without effort, she had the carbine, the Leica, and her musette bag all hanging around her neck—she finally made it to the deck, she found herself facing Lieutenant David R. Taylor, USNR.
She flashed him a dazzling smile.
“I’m Jeanette Priestly of the Chicago Tribune,” she said.
“Welcome aboard,” he said.
Jeanette smiled and waved at the Marines.
McCoy came over the rail.
“Permission to get under way, sir?” Taylor asked.
“Granted,” McCoy said.
Taylor walked aft and went up the exterior ladder to the junk’s stern. Jeanette followed him. She did not see Zimmerman come aboard carrying the rest of her things.
Taylor began to issue orders in Korean.
McCoy came up the ladder.
“Permission to come on the bridge, sir?” he asked.
“Granted,” Taylor said.
Taylor opened the cover of the control panel and started the engine, which fascinated Miss Priestly.
Korean sailors, assisted by Marines, hauled on ropes, and three sails rose up their masts like so many venetian blinds.
Taylor unlashed the rudder, then engaged the engine. The Wind of Good Fortune moved almost sidewards away from the pier.
“What’s going on?” Jeanette asked, in her most charming voice.
No one replied.
Taylor got the Wind of Good Fortune headed out to deep water, then shut down the engine.
The Wind of Good Fortune’s sails filled with wind, and she began to act like a sailing vessel.
“Ah, come on, McCoy, tell me what’s going on,” Jeanette asked, entreatingly.
“In just a minute,” McCoy said. “I’ve got to have a word with Major Kim first. Enjoy the sights.”
He went down the ladder to the main deck and walked forward to Major Kim, who was standing midway between the stern and the forecastle. McCoy had given a lot of thought about how he was going to deal with Major Kim, and had finally decided that the old saw, “When in doubt, tell the truth,” seemed to be not only the best, but really the only, solution.
When he reached Kim, the Korean national police officer looked at
him expectantly.
“Major, we’re headed for Tokchok-kundo,” McCoy said.
Kim nodded, and waited for him to go on.
“There is a strong possibility that General MacArthur will make an amphibious invasion at Inchon,” McCoy said. “There are two islands in the Flying Fish Channel, now occupied by the enemy, from which the ships of the invasion fleet could be brought under artillery fire—”
“Yonghung-do and Taemuui-do,” Kim interrupted, nodding.
McCoy was surprised, even startled, that Kim knew of the islands.
“—and should be taken as quickly and as quietly as possible, ” McCoy went on, hoping that his surprise had not been evident on his face or in his voice.
It apparently had been.
“Major Dunston,” Kim said, sensing an explanation was in order. “When there was talk of Operation Bluehearts—”
McCoy was again surprised. This time he blurted: “You knew about Operation Bluehearts?”
Kim nodded. “When that looked possible—not likely, but possible—Major Dunston had me look into the Flying Fish Channel. We saw the danger Yonghung-do and Taemuui-do posed.”
“How do you mean, ‘saw’?”
“I went there on a fishing boat, Captain McCoy,” Kim said, “to both Yonghung-do and Taemuui-do, and looked around.”
“I didn’t know that,” McCoy said.
What the hell, McCoy, you decided this was “when all else fails, tell the truth” time.
“If Major Dunston filed an intel report . . .”
“He did,” Major Kim said.
“I didn’t see it. I got my—more importantly, my superiors got their—Yonghung-do and Taemuui-do intelligence from Lieutenant Taylor. I’m positive that General Pickering never saw Dunston’s report.”
“That’s curious,” Kim said.
“Dunston’s report was filed before General Pickering took over as CIA Assistant Director for Asia,” McCoy said, thinking aloud.
“Yes,” Kim agreed.
“General Pickering has ordered me to take Yonghung-do and Taemuui-do as quickly and as quietly as possible,” McCoy said.
Kim nodded.
“I decided,” McCoy went on, “that Major Dunston didn’t have the need to know about this operation, and I didn’t tell him about it. And I kept you in the dark, Major Kim, because I knew you worked for Major Dunston, and might feel duty-bound to tell him what we’re up to.”
Kim nodded.
“When he hears that the Wind of Good Fortune has sailed with you and your Marines and me and my men . . .”
“He will probably make a very good guess about what we’re doing,” McCoy said. “I’m sorry about that. But the fewer people who know about this operation, the lesser the chance that the North Koreans will hear about it.”
Kim nodded, but said nothing.
“I had to keep the Marines in the dark, too,” McCoy said.
“Sir?”
“Major, I’m a captain. I don’t think you should call me ‘Sir’—the other way around.”
“You are in command,” Kim argued. “Under that circumstance, I suggest we address one another as ‘Captain’ and ’Major.’ ”
“In front of the men,” McCoy said. “Between us, I would be pleased if you call me ‘Ken.’ ”
Kim looked into McCoy’s eyes for a moment.
“My given names are Pak Su. My friends call me ‘Su.’ I would be pleased if, between us, you called me ’Su.’ ”
He put out his hand.
One of the first things I learned in Shanghai was that when an Oriental smiles and offers you his hand, you should quickly put the other hand on your wallet.
I don’t think that applies here. I think this guy is an honorable man, an honorable officer, who has just come on board.
“Thank you, Su,” McCoy said.
“You were saying something about the Corps of Marines?” Su said.
It took McCoy a moment to remember what he had said.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “The Marine aircraft aboard our aircraft carriers are going to provide us, once a day, with aerial photographs of the islands in the Flying Fish Channel. I didn’t want to run the risk of a Marine pilot being captured and knowing that we were interested in any particular island. So I didn’t tell them about Yonghung-do and Taemuui-do.”
“When will you get the first photographs?”
“We already have the first photographs,” McCoy said, and gestured toward the stern.
“I think it would be useful if I saw them,” Su said.
“I know it would be useful if you could point out to me which of the islands are Yonghung-do and Taemuui-do,” McCoy said, and waved his hand as a signal for the South Korean officer to follow him to the stern.
Jeanette Priestly was waiting for McCoy at the head of the ladder.
“Now?” she asked.
“In just a minute,” McCoy said.
Visibly annoyed, she followed him as he went to his musette bag and took from it the envelope of photographs flown to Pusan on the Sicily’s COD Avenger.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Lieutenant Taylor was going to turn the captain’s cabin over to you,” McCoy said. “I’ve just decided we need it more than you do.”
“What am I going to need a cabin for?”
“Because it will be four—maybe five—days before we get back to Pusan,” McCoy said.
“What?” she asked, incredulously.
“Captain,” McCoy said to Taylor, “I suggest we turn your cabin into the operations room, and give Miss Priestly one of the other cabins.”
“Permission granted,” Taylor said, smiling.
“If you think I’m going to spend the night on this thing . . .”
“You’re a pretty good swimmer, are you?” McCoy asked, and waved his hand at the now far-off shore.
Zimmerman chuckled. Jeanette glared at him.
“Ernie, take Major Kim to the captain’s cabin and have him explain these photographs to you,” McCoy ordered.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Zimmerman said.
McCoy turned to Jeanette.
“Okay,” he said. “Now’s now. Would you rather talk here, or in your cabin?”
“What you’re going to do, McCoy, is tell this man to turn this thing around and let me off of it.”
“No, what I’m going to do now is go down and have a look at your cabin. If you want to come there to talk, fine. If you don’t, enjoy the view.”
Zimmerman chuckled again, and Jeanette glared at him again.
McCoy reached into his musette bag again and came out with a bottle of Famous Grouse wrapped in a clean T-shirt.
“What’s that for?” Jeanette asked.
“It’s 1700,” McCoy said. “The cocktail hour. Once a day on this voyage, we get one drink. I’m going to have mine now. You can have yours now, or you can stay up here and enjoy the view.”
Carrying the bottle, he went down the interior ladder and walked into the smallest of the three cabins.
A minute later, Jeanette walked into it after him.
He stepped around her and closed the door. She looked at him with her eyebrows raised.
“Zimmerman—no, Sergeant Jennings—got some air mattresses from the Army,” McCoy said. “This shouldn’t be too uncomfortable.”
She looked at him with mixed incredulity and anger.
He handed her the bottle of Famous Grouse.
“I don’t want a goddamn drink, goddamn you!”
“You may need one,” McCoy said. “Pick’s been shot down, behind North Korean lines, near Taegu. We don’t know whether he’s still alive.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then reached for the whiskey. She unscrewed the cap, took a pull, and handed it back to him.
“What happened?” she asked, levelly.
“He was shooting up locomotives. Best guess is he got hit by either antiaircraft or by pieces of the locomotive. Colonel Dunn flew over the site right afterward. I
t was on fire, but the cockpit was empty. We think he was probably in one piece when he put it down.”
“And is now a prisoner?” she asked calmly.
“The odds are . . . ,” McCoy began, and stopped when she took the whiskey bottle from his hand again. He didn’t say anything when she took another pull and handed the bottle back again.
“That’s my drink for tomorrow, Okay?” she said. “You were saying?”
“The odds are that the North Koreans would like to have a Marine aviator, a major, to interrogate.”
“Especially if they knew his father was the CIA guy for Asia,” she agreed.
“We don’t think they know that,” McCoy said. “And obviously, I could not permit you to write a story telling them.”
“What are you going to do, keep me a prisoner until the end of the war?”
He didn’t reply.
“Goddamn you, McCoy,” she went on. “All you had to do was tell me.”
“I couldn’t take that chance,” he said.
“And what is this, some kind of rescue operation?”
“There are two islands in the Flying Fish Channel leading to Inchon from which the North Koreans could bring artillery fire to bear on the invasion fleet headed for Inchon. What we’re going to try to do is take them now, very quietly, using South Korean national police, in such a way that they won’t guess it’s a prelude to an amphibious invasion. ”
She took a moment to consider that.
“That would be a good story,” Jeanette said. “And, under these circumstances, it would be an exclusive, wouldn’t it?”
He nodded.
“Not as good a story—not one that would get as much front-page play as ‘CIA Chief’s Marine Hero Son Shot Down in Korea,’ of course—but a pretty good little story.”
McCoy didn’t reply.
“But, obviously, I couldn’t write about Pick, could I?”
“Why ‘obviously’?”
“You dumb sonofabitch, you don’t understand, do you?”
“Understand what?”
“I’m in love with the sonofabitch!”
After a moment, McCoy asked: “When did that happen? ”
“It probably happened in the hotel, the night I met him,” she said. “Or maybe when he came back from that first sortie, kissed me, and I practically dragged him to bed.”
Under Fire Page 49
