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

by Retreat, Hell!(Lit)

"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 any-thing, 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 wear-ing 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 ab-solutely no idea what was going on.

  Major Donald-subtly making it clear that he was privy to highly classi-fied information that he could, of course, not share with a lowly Marine cap-tain-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 re-flecting 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 gath-ered 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 person-nel, 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 classi-fied Top Secret, and I don't know how many of you have that security clear-ance. 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?"

  He took the time to make eye contact with everyone, including Major Donald, and then went on.

  "These aircraft, and all of you, have been assigned to the Central Intelligence Agency. You will continue to receive your orders from Major Donald, who will get his from the CIA station chief. Any questions?"

  One of the pilots raised his hand.

  "Okay," McCoy said.

  "Sir, I always thought you had to volunteer for something like this."

  "If you always thought that, Captain, you were always wrong," McCoy said.

  There were chuckles from most of them.

  Another hand went up.

  "Sir, can I ask what we'll be doing?"

  "Aside from flying those helicopters, no."

  More chuckles.

  A voice from somewhere called, jokingly, "How do we get out of this chickenshit outfit?"

  "In handcuffs, a coffin, or when you retire," McCoy said, smiling. Now there was laughter. "I'll tell you what I can when I can. But for the time being, that's it."

  "I'd like to see you alo
ne, please, Major," McCoy said to Donald, and started walking toward the rear of the hangar. Dunston, Zimmerman, and Jennings fol-lowed him, and in a moment, so did Donald and Dunwood.

  "Major," Donald said when they were out of earshot of the others, "if I'm... You can't tell me what we'll be doing, either?"

  "Because that hasn't been decided," McCoy said. "We didn't know we were getting you and these aircraft until seventeen thirty yesterday. I don't think you should share that information."

  "I understand."

  "We have some ideas, but we won't know if they're any good until we know what these machines can and can't do. I never saw one of them until I walked into the hangar. Can we start with that?"

  "Yes, sir. What would you like to know?"

  "Everything," McCoy said.

  Donald looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then began what McCoy quickly decided was a recitation he had given before.

  "These are Sikorsky H-19A helicopters," Donald recited. "They are pow-ered by a Wright R 1340-57 550-horsepower engine, which gives them a max-imum speed of 98 mph, a cruising speed of 80 mph, and a range of about 410 miles. The helicopter itself is 42 feet long and has a wingspan of 53 feet. The empty weight is 5,250 pounds and the maximum takeoff weight 7,500 pounds. There is a three-man crew, pilot, copilot, and crew chief. It can carry ten men, in addition to the crew."

  McCoy smiled.

  "I think you and Mr. Zimmerman will get along, Major. He, too, is a walk-ing encyclopedia of technical information." He paused and then went on. "On the other hand, I have to have things explained to me."

  "Ask away."

  "You said the empty weight was..."

  "Fifty-two hundred and fifty pounds," Donald furnished.

  "And the maximum takeoff weight 7,500 pounds. Does that mean these things will carry-what is that?-2,250 pounds?"

  "You have to deduct the weight of the fuel," Donald explained. "AvGas weighs about seven pounds a gallon."

  "Okay. You said it will carry ten men. Riflemen? With their weapons? Ammo? Rations?"

  "That figure is based on an average weight, man and equipment, of 180 pounds."

  "But these things will carry 1,800 pounds of whatever 180 miles someplace, and then be able to return?"

  "'That would be pushing the envelope a little," Donald said.

  "The what?" Zimmerman asked.

  "They call the capabilities of aircraft 'the envelope,' " Donald explained. "Just about everything affects everything else. The more you exceed the cruising speed, for example, the more fuel you burn and the less range you get."

  "What about carrying 1,500 pounds 150 miles and back?" McCoy asked.

  "That could usually be done," Donald said.

  "Do you need the crew chief?" McCoy asked. "If he weighs 180, that's twenty-five gallons of gas."

  "Crew chiefs are handy if the bird breaks," Donald said. "And they have other in-flight duties."

  "Essential, yes or no?" McCoy pressed.

  "Desirable, not absolutely essential."

  "And the second pilot? That's another twenty-five gallons of gas."

  "Same answer. There is also the possibility that pilots take hits, and a spare pilot is a nice thing to have."

  "Desirable, but not absolutely essential?" McCoy pressed again.

  "Right."

  "You can fly one of these?" McCoy asked.

  "Yes. I was the assistant project officer on this aircraft."

  "Can you fly it without help?"

  "If necessary. Why do you ask? If I can ask that."

  "I'd like to see what you can see from the pilot's seat. I don't think anybody can see very much looking out the side door."

  Donald nodded but didn't say anything.

  "Do you have another pilot who can fly one of these things by himself?"

  "They all can."

  "Are these things fueled up and ready to go?"

  "I had them topped off yesterday afternoon."

  "When you flew them here, did you fly over Inchon?"

  "I really don't know what route they took. I'll have to ask one of the pilots who did fly in here."

  "What's going on, Kil-Major?" Zimmerman asked.

  "I just had one of my famous inspirations," McCoy said. "Major, would you ask one of the pilots who flew over Inchon if he would join us?"

  "Sure," Donald said, walked to the nearest H-19, and returned with a young-looking captain.

  "This is Captain Schneider, Major," Donald said.

  McCoy shook his hand, then asked, "When you flew here yesterday, Cap-tain, did you fly over Inchon?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "There's supposed to be an Army vehicle depot there. Did you see it?"

  "I saw a motor park of all kinds of vehicles, sir."

  "Was there someplace in this motor park where you could land one of these aircraft?"

  "I'd have to make a couple of passes over it to make sure there's no telephone or power lines, but yes, sir, there was plenty of room to land the H-19s."

  "Okay. This is what I'm thinking. We need vehicles. We need them," he said, pointing to Dunston, Zimmerman, Jennings, and then himself. "And you need them. And the Marines need them. The original plan was to go there and dazzle whoever's in charge with our CIA identification and orders. We're authorized vehicles, but we get hung up in the bureaucracy. It just oc-curred to me that if we flew in there in these helos, showed them our or-ders, and said we needed the vehicles right now, they'd be double dazzled and we'd be out the gate before they had time to think things over-and try to get permission from somebody who would need three days to make a decision."

  Major Donald and Captain Schneider smiled.

  "How many vehicles are you going to need to support the helicopters and your men?" McCoy said. "Make a list right now. You, too, Dunwood."

  "Aye, aye, sir," Dunwood said.

  "If you had a tank truck, or tank trailers, could you get AvGas somewhere?" McCoy asked.

  "From the Air Force," Donald said. "I don't know if there's a tank park at Inchon or not."

  "Make sure you have tank trucks, or plenty of trailers, on your list," Mc-Coy said.

  "Yes, sir," Major Donald said.

  "On the helos, I want enough men to drive what vehicles we're going to take, plus enough to manhandle the food and whatever else we're going to draw from the Quartermaster Depot," McCoy said.

  [SIX]

  After the H-19s were pushed outside the hangar, Major McCoy managed with some difficulty to climb into the cockpit of one, and then-with some assis-tance from Major Donald-to strap himself into the copilot's seat.

  Donald then handed him a headset and a microphone, and showed him how to press the microphone button to talk, and the switch that allowed se-lection of TRANSMIT and INTERCOM.

  "Got it?" Donald's voice came through the earphones.

  McCoy checked to make sure the switch was set on intercom and then pressed the microphone button.

  "Got it," he said.

  Donald put his face to the open cockpit window.

  "Wind it up, Schneider," he called to the other H-19.

  A moment later, there came the whine of the engine cranking, a cloud of blue smoke, and a lot of vibration.

  For the first time, McCoy realized that he and Donald were practically sit-ting on the engine.

  The rotor blades began to turn very slowly, and then ever faster, over them. And produced more vibration.

  He looked around Donald at the other helicopter and saw Zimmerman, who looked as uncomfortable as he felt, sitting beside Captain Schneider.

  Donald checked a baffling array of instruments on the control panel and exercised the controls. McCoy had no idea what Donald was doing.

  After about a minute, Donald's voice came over the earphones.

  "You about ready, Schneider?"

  "Anytime, sir," Schneider's metallic voice replied.

  "K-16, Army 4003," Donald's voice said.

  "Go ahead, Army 4003,' a new voice responded.

>   "Army 4003, a flight of two H-19 helicopters, on the tarmac in front of the hangar across from base ops. Request takeoff permission for a low-level flight on a departure heading of 250 degrees."