But it had been a long day, and the beer looked so good.
The tall man found a glass—
That's a highball glass, a crystal highball glass!
Where are they getting all these creature comforts?
—filled it carefully with beer, and handed it to Lieutenant Colonel Raymond.
"There you go, sir."
"Thank you."
Raymond was on his second sip when three other men came into the room. They were also wearing crisp, clean white T-shirts. One was lithe and trim, the second barrel-chested and muscular—Raymond decided he, too, was an enlisted man, probably a senior sergeant—and the third was sort of pudgy and rumpled.
"What can we do for you, Colonel?" the pudgy one asked. He walked to the champagne cooler, poured beer, and handed glasses to the others.
"I have a message for the station chief from General Almond," Raymond said. "Is that you, sir?"
"Who are you, Colonel?" the pudgy one asked.
"Lieutenant Colonel Raymond, sir. I'm the assistant X Corps G-2."
"You work for Colonel Schneider, right?" the pudgy one said.
"No, sir, for Colonel Scott."
The pudgy one nodded at the trim one and confirmed, "That's the name of the X Corps G-2."
"Are you the station chief, sir?" Raymond asked the pudgy one.
The pudgy one pointed at the lithe one, and the lithe one pointed at the pudgy one.
Station Chief William R. Dunston had pointed at Major Kenneth R. McCoy for two reasons. First, he was always reluctant to identify himself to anyone—even an Army G-2 light bird—as the station chief, and second, he considered Ken McCoy to be de facto the senior CIA officer in South Korea.
There was no question in Dunston's mind that if there was an argument between him and McCoy, and General Pickering had to choose between them, McCoy would prevail. He had served under Pickering in the OSS in the Second World War, and they were personal friends as well.
Major McCoy had pointed at Dunston because Dunston was the station chief, even though both of them knew McCoy was calling the shots.
The chunky, muscular enlisted man chuckled when he saw the exchange.
"Mr. Zimmerman, it is not nice to mock your superiors," the lithe one said, which caused the other two enlisted men to laugh.
"May I presume that one of you is the station chief?" Lieutenant Colonel Raymond said. He realized he was smiling.
What did I expect to find in here? A Humphrey Bogart type in a trench coat?
"You may," the lithe one said, and put out his hand. "My name is McCoy. That's Major Dunston," he added, pointing, "and Master Gunner Zimmerman, Technical Sergeant Jennings, and Sergeant Cole."
"What's your message, Colonel?" Dunston asked.
Raymond ran it through his brain first before reciting, " 'Classification Top Secret. As of 1445 hours this date, by order of the Supreme Commander, Allied Powers, two H-19 helicopters, together with their crews, maintenance personnel, and all available supporting equipment, have been transferred to you. The officer-in-charge has been notified and is awaiting your orders in the hangar across from base operations at Kimpo Airfield. Signature, Almond, Major General, Chief of Staff, Allied Powers.' "
"Jesus!" Zimmerman said. "Helos? Two helos?"
"Could you do that again, please, Colonel?" McCoy asked.
Raymond did so.
"Did General Almond say what we're supposed to do with these helicopters?" Dunston asked.
"If these are the two big Sikorskys that flew into Kimpo this morning, I know what we can do with them," McCoy said.
"Yeah," Zimmerman said.
"That's General Almond's entire message, sir," Raymond said.
"Colonel, have you had your supper?" McCoy asked.
"Excuse me?"
"For two reasons, I hope you can have it with us," McCoy said. "The first is to thank you for the helos, and the second is that I think you're just the actor we need for a little amateur theatrical we're staging."
"Yeah," Zimmerman said. "And, Killer, if we can find Howe's stars—and I’ll bet there's a spare set in his luggage—we can pin them on him."
"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 yesterday Sergeants Jennings and Cole toured Inchon Harbor, swapping North Korean 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 Commander 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. Pickering saw his black Buick Roadmaster sitting alone in front of the hangar, facing in the opposite direction from the others.