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 absolutely no idea what was going on.
Major Donald—subtly making it clear that he was privy to highly classified information that he could, of course, not share with a lowly Marine captain—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 reflecting 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 gathered 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 personnel, 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 classified Top Secret, and I don't know how many of you have that security clearance. 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 alone, please, Major," McCoy said to Donald, and started walking toward the rear of the hangar. Dunston, Zimmerman, and Jennings followed 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 powered by a Wright R 1340-57 550-horsepower engine, which gives them a maximum 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 walking 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.