W E B Griffin - Corp 10 - Retreat, Hell!

by Retreat, Hell!(Lit)

  "Even better," McCoy said.

  "I have no idea what you're talking about," Lieutenant Colonel Raymond confessed.

  "Colonel, we have a prisoner in the basement. A North Korean colonel," McCoy explained. "We're just about convinced (a) he's a high-level intelligence officer and (b) that he knows something about either a planned Chinese Communist intervention or the situation which will trigger such an intervention. We've been working on him without much success. The one thing we do know for sure is that he has an ego. He wants us to know how important he is. What we've got set up for tonight is a dinner-"

  "A dinner?" Raymond asked in disbelief.

  "Roast beef, potatoes, rice, wine-lots of wine-and all served with as much class as we can muster."

  Raymond had been eating his meals-prepared from Ten-In-One rations- off of a steel tray. There had been an infrequent beer, but it had been warm and in a can.

  "Can I ask where you're getting all... of this?" he asked.

  McCoy looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then smiled. He said: "Dunston's people managed to hide a lot of the crystal and silver and even some of the wine before the North Koreans took Seoul, and the day before yes-terday Sergeants Jennings and Cole toured Inchon Harbor, swapping North Ko-rean souvenirs-flags, weapons, et cetera-with the crews of the cargo ships. You'd be surprised what a good Marine noncom can get for a Sudarev PPS-43 submachine gun."

  Raymond chuckled.

  "Jennings and Cole," McCoy went on, "came back with a weapons carrier- and its trailer-full of frozen food and beer. The freezers and the reefers here still work, so we're in pretty good shape for a while."

  "So the idea is, you're going to feed this NK colonel and try to get him drunk?"

  "I don't think he'll let us get him drunk, but he might take a little more wine than he should,' McCoy said. "Enough to let something slip. Particularly if he thought he was impressing someone important. You're a distinguished-looking man, Colonel. Asiatics-who don't have much facial hair-are impressed with large mustaches. If we pin General Howe's stars on you, I think he'll buy you as a general officer."

  "He speaks English?"

  "I think he does, but won't admit it. Dunston, Zimmerman, and I speak Korean. I suppose it's too much to hope-"

  "Nothing but German-I was there for four years-and not very good German."

  In German, McCoy asked, "But if I said 'Look doubtful,' you'd understand?"

  "Yes."

  "And you could say, in German, 'What did he say?' when I give you the nod?"

  "Yes, I guess I could."

  "Colonel, I really hope you can stay for supper," McCoy said.

  Why not? Raymond thought. As long as I get back to the CP by twenty-four hundred, so I can relieve the colonel....

  "If you think it would be useful, I will," Lieutenant Colonel Raymond said.

  "You're really going into the general's luggage and borrow his insignia?" Dunston said.

  "Unless you've got a better idea where we can get a set of general's stars," McCoy said.

  Lieutenant Colonel Raymond decided that the lithe one, McCoy, wais the station chief. He was the one giving the orders.

  [THREE]

  Haneda Airfield

  Tokyo, Japan

  18O5 29 September 195O

  Fleming Pickering glanced out the window as the Bataan taxied toward the hangar that served as the departure and arrival point for the Supreme Com-mander and his entourage.

  He saw the line of staff cars lined up awaiting the Bataan's passengers. MacArthur's black Cadillac limousine was first, and the cars of the other brass were behind it, strictly according to the rank of their intended passengers. Pick-ering saw his black Buick Roadmaster sitting alone in front of the hangar, fac-ing in the opposite direction from the others.

  Pickering knew this would annoy the Palace Guard, who would have greatly preferred to have his car with the others. His single star would have seen his car five or six cars behind MacArthur's limousine, reminding him that he was ac-tually just a minor planet revolving around MacArthur.

  MacArthur's staff-and, for that matter, El Supremo himself-really didn't like having anyone in their midst who did not have a precisely defined place in the hierarchy of the Supreme Commander, Allied Powers.

  There were two such burrs under the saddles of the Supreme Commander and the Palace Guard, Major General Ralph Howe, NGUS, and Brigadier Gen-eral Fleming Pickering, USMCR. Neither was subordinate to MacArthur, and both reported directly to the President of the United States.

  Pickering had not been at all surprised when he came to Tokyo that the Palace Guard had immediately begun to attempt to get some degree of control over him-the more the better, obviously, from their point of view-and had been prepared to fight that battle, confident that he could win it again, as he had in the Second War.

  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 con-venient for him to have the housing officer show him what government quar-ters 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 Gen-eral" 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 laven-der 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 Com-mandant 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 re-ally secret.

  Despite the TOP SECRET EYES ONLY THE PRESIDENT classifica-tion, 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 sergean
t 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 Gen-eral 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 Assis-tant 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 tap-ping 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 call-ing, "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 lean-ing 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 cul-tural 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 yes-terday," 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 al-ready in the living room when Pickering led the others in. There were four bot-tles on the bar: bourbon, scotch, vodka, and beer.

  The men indicated their choices-two scotches and a bourbon-by point-ing. 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 mo-ment 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."