Pick's argument had been threefold:
First, the maiden flight of the DC-4—Air Force designation C-54—had been in 1938, and the first Constellation flight in 1943, five years later. It had, thus, five years' design experience on the Douglas, longer really if you considered the development money thrown at the aviation industry with war on the horizon.
Second, Pick argued, the Connie had a range of 5,400 miles, more than twice the 2,500-mile range of the Douglas, which would permit them to open routes in the Pacific that the Douglas simply couldn't handle.
And third, Pick had argued, if the fledgling Trans-Global acquired, as it could with the 323-knot Constellation, a reputation for providing the fastest transoceanic service, it would keep that reputation even after the other airlines smartened up and got Connies themselves.
"Nobody, Pop, has ever accused Howard Hughes of being stupid." The legendary Howard Hughes was known to have had a heavy hand in the design of the Constellation, and Trans-World Airlines, in which he held a majority interest, was equipping itself with Constellations as quickly as they could come off the Lockheed production line.
Fleming Pickering had given in to his son's recommendations, in part because he thought Pick was right and in part because he was—P&FE was—cash heavy from the sale of all but two of P&FE's passenger liners to the Navy during World War II.
Shortly after Pearl Harbor, Flem Pickering had flown over the Boeing plant in Seattle and seen long lines of B-17 aircraft, each plane capable of flying across any ocean in the world. He had known that day that the era of the luxurious passenger ship was over. Time was money.
He had willingly sold seventeen of his passenger ships to the Navy, but flatly refused to sell them one P&FE merchantman. Airplanes were not about to haul heavy materials.
When MacArthur ordered/invited Pickering to ride in his private compartment, Pickering had assumed MacArthur wanted to chat, either about military matters or the Good Old Days in Manila or Australia, or to perhaps deliver one of his lectures on strategy.
But, surprising Pickering, he busied himself with his lined pad until, forty-five minutes later, Pickering said, "General," and pointed out the window.
A Chance Vought Corsair fighter plane, with MARINES lettered large on its fuselage behind the cockpit, was on their wingtip. Others were visible elsewhere in the sky.
"Our fighter escort," MacArthur said needlessly.
The cockpit of the Corsair was open, and they could clearly see the pilot, a young redhead with earphones cocked on one ear. He saluted crisply, held his position a moment, then shoved the throttle to the firewall. The Corsair then pulled very rapidly ahead and upward, then turned and began to assume a position above and just ahead of the Bataan.
Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, had flown such an airplane in the Pacific, becoming an ace in the process, and had been flying such an airplane when he was shot down.
Brigadier General Pickering vainly hoped that General of the Army MacArthur would not see the tears that came to his eyes.
"Has there been any further word, Fleming?" MacArthur asked gently.
Pickering waited until he was sure he had control of his voice before replying.
"There was a message last night from Major McCoy, sir. He seems to feel that Pick is all right, and that he missed making contact with him by just a matter of hours."
"I would suggest, my friend, that McCoy is just the man for that job."
"I agree, sir."
"My heart goes out to you, Fleming," MacArthur said.
"Thank you."
MacArthur decided to change the subject.
"I suppose you've read the dossier on Rhee?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. Amazing man, apparently."
"Who in his youth fell under the spell of a Viennese . . . lady of the evening . . . and married her."
"I saw that," Pickering said. "I wonder how often a prominent man has done something like that without it becoming a matter of official record?"
"I would hate to hazard a guess," MacArthur said.
There was a discreet knock at the door.
MacArthur frowned, then said, "Come."
Colonel Sidney Huff came into the compartment.
"General, we just had word that the helicopters have arrived safely at Kimpo."
"What helicopters would that be, Huff?"
"The large-capacity Sikorsky helicopters, sir. Two of them."
"Is there some reason, Huff," MacArthur asked, not pleasantly, "why you felt I had to know that right now?"
"General, I thought there might be a public relations value in photographs of you with these aircraft."
"I would think photographs of me turning his capital back to Rhee would overshadow any photograph of me standing by an airplane."
"Yes, sir, of course they would. But I really think it might be valuable in the future. It would take only five minutes or so. May I set it up, sir?"
MacArthur looked thoughtful, shrugged, and then nodded.
"Yes, Sid," he said. "You may."
"Thank you, sir," Huff said, and backed out of the compartment, closing the door after him.
"Fleming, do you have any idea how much I envy your anonymity?"
"Douglas, that's the price of being a living legend," Pickering said.
MacArthur considered that, and nodded.
"Getting back to where we were before Huff," MacArthur said. "Youthful indiscretions. You know the old Cavalry dine-in toast, don't you?"
"No, I'm afraid I don't."
" 'Here's to our wives and the women we love,' " MacArthur quoted, hoisting an imaginary glass. "Pause. Long pause. 'May they never meet.' "
Pickering chuckled.
"Somehow, Douglas, I don't think my Patricia or your Jean would be amused."
"Then we will just have to keep that between us, won't we?"
Chapter Four
[ONE]
The House
Seoul, Korea
O74O 29 September 195O
Major General Ralph Howe and Master Sergeant Charles A. Rogers walked into the garage behind the house looking considerably neater and cleaner than they had at breakfast. They were showered, shaved, and in starched and pressed U.S. Army fatigues.
Major Kenneth R. McCoy and Master Gunner Zimmerman were examining the hood of what now had become "McCoy's Russian jeep."
Zimmerman spotted Howe and Rogers, stood erect, and opened his mouth.
General Howe very quickly raised his hand, palm outward, to silence him. McCoy sensed something unusual and looked over his shoulder. General Howe turned his palm-outward hand toward him. He lowered it only when he was sure McCoy wasn't going to bellow an automatic "Attention on Deck!"
"So this is the famous Russian jeep?" Howe said.
"Yes, sir," McCoy said.
"What are you doing to it?"
McCoy answered by pointing. There was now a large white star on the hood, and on either side the stenciled-in-black legend usmc.
"I'm impressed," Howe said. "Where did you get the stencils?"
"I cut them," Zimmerman answered. "I cut one for you, too, Charley."
"Excuse me?"
"For chevrons," Zimmerman said, pointing at Rogers's bare sleeve. "You'll look like a Marine, but I thought you'd like that better than what the general said about you looking like the oldest private in the army."
"He has a point, Charley," General Howe said.
"Will the paint dry?" Rogers asked doubtfully. "We're going to have to get out to the airport."