Captain MacNamara had spent a good deal of time on the way from the States writing a Standing Operating Procedure for the company that would make it absolutely impossible for anyone who didn't have a busted-up vehicle to turn in to get one from his pool.
He was looking over the SOP when he heard the fluckata-fluckata-fluckata of rotor blades.
He had heard the fluckata-fluckata-fluckata the day before, and had gone outside and seen two enormous helicopters—he didn't know they made them that big—flying over Inchon headed for Seoul.
He had wondered what the hell they were yesterday, and he wondered what the hell they were now.
And then he was more than a little surprised to see first that they seemed to be heading for the 8023d, and then even more surprised when the first of them, and the second, stopped fifty feet over the open area where he was going to store the turned-in vehicles, and then fluttered to the ground.
The sound of their engines died, and the rotors seemed to be slowing.
Captain MacNamara marched toward the machines, his experience telling him that the passengers on something like this were almost certainly going to be heavy brass.
He got, instead, a somewhat rumpled-looking major of the Transportation Corps.
"Good morning, sir," MacNamara said as he saluted.
"Good morning, Captain."
Then he got two more majors, who climbed down from the cockpit— one of them an Army major and the other a Marine. MacNamara saluted again.
"Captain MacNamara," he reported. "Commanding 8023d TC Company."
"You're the senior officer?" the Marine asked him.
"Yes, sir."
The major took a leather wallet from his pocket, unfolded it, and extended it for MacNamara to read. It identified the major as a field officer of the Central Intelligence Agency. It was Captain MacNamara's first contact with the CIA.
"Yes, sir?" he asked.
"Read this, please, Captain," Major McCoy said, extending a business-size envelope to him.
"Yes, sir," MacNamara said, opened the envelope, and took out a single sheet of paper. He read it.
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
JULY 8TH, 1950
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:
BRIGADIER GENERAL FLEMING PICKERING, USMCR, IN CONNECTION WITH HIS MISSION FOR ME, WILL
TRAVEL TO SUCH PLACES AT SUCH TIMES AS HE FEELS APPROPRIATE, ACCOMPANIED BY SUCH STAFF AS
HE DESIRES.
GENERAL PICKERING IS GRANTED HEREWITH A TOP-SECRET/WHITE HOUSE CLEARANCE, AND MAY, AT HIS
OPTION, GRANT SUCH CLEARANCE TO HIS STAFF.
U.S. MILITARY AND GOVERNMENTAL AGENCIES ARE DIRECTED TO PROVIDE GENERAL PICKERING AND HIS
STAFF WITH WHATEVER SUPPORT THEY MAY REQUIRE.
HARRY S TRUMAN PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
1st INDORSEMENT 1 SEPTEMBER 1950
THE UNDERSIGNED DESIGNATES THE FOLLOWING MEMBERS OF MY STAFF AS FOLLOWS, WITH THE ATTENDANT
SECURITY CLEARANCES AND AUTHORITY TO ACT IN MY BEHALF.
KENNETH R. MCCOY: EXECUTIVE OFFICER
ERNEST W. ZIMMERMAN: DEPUTY EXECUTIVE OFFICER
GEORGE F. HART, CAPT, USMCR: ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICER
Fleming Pickering
FLEMING PICKERING BRIGADIER GENERAL, USMCR
"Jesus H. Christ!" Captain MacNamara said.
"We're going to need some vehicles," McCoy said. "And right now. Is that going to cause any problems?"
Captain MacNamara looked at the lines of vehicles in his pool, then at the signature of the President of the United States, then back at the lines of vehicles in his pool, and then at Major McCoy.
He came to attention, licked his lips, and said, "Not with orders like those. No, sir."
"Good. May I have the orders back, please? And I won't have to tell you, will I, that you are not to reveal anything connected with this?"
"No, sir," MacNamara said, and then had a second thought. "But, sir, somebody will have to sign for the vehicles."
"That's what I'm here for, Captain," Dunston said.
"Sir, could I ask you for some identification?"
"Sure," Dunston said, and handed him an Army Adjutant General's Office photo identifying him as a major, Transportation Corps.
"Thank you, sir."
[TWO]
Detachment A
8119 Quartermaster Company (Forward)
Inchon, South Korea
1O2O 3O September 19SO
Major Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, who was sitting beside Major Alex Donald, USA, and Major William Dunston, USA, on the floor of the cargo compartment of one of the H-19s watching Master Gunner Zimmerman supervise the loading of rations, and other items, into a GMC 6x6, turned to Major Dunston and asked, "Do you think we'd be pushing our luck to try to get something from over there?"
He pointed across the Quartermaster Supply Point to an eight-man squad tent, before which was a corporal with a rifle sitting on a folding chair and a small wooden sign reading, "Class VI."
Class VI supplies are supposed to have—but usually don't have—the lowest priority for shipment to a combat area. The highest priority goes to medical supplies, followed by ammunition, rations, and so on, based on the military's best judgment of what is most essential.
Class VI supplies are bottled intoxicants, such as whiskey, gin, and rum. They are not issued, but purchased with "nonappropriated funds" intended for resale to officer and noncommissioned officer clubs. They are not subject to alcohol taxes of any kind. Their sale is rigidly controlled and only to "authorized entities."
"Why not?" Major Dunston replied. "We seem to be on a roll." Captain MacNamara had given them every vehicle they had asked for, including a tanker truck and five tank trailers, as well as enough trucks, weapons carriers, and jeeps to make both Baker Company, 5th Marines, "the aviation detachment," and the station fully mobile on the ground.
The officer in charge of the Quartermaster Supply Point had been even more dazzled than Captain MacNamara when three field-grade officers bearing orders personally signed by the President of the United States descended upon his unit in machines he had never heard of.
The men—the Marines and the Army Aviation people—in the bullet- and shrapnel-riddled hangar would that night have a hot meal prepared on field stoves, and everyone would sleep that night on a cot in a sleeping bag. The only thing they would not have was cold beer—a means of refrigeration was not available—but as Mr. Zimmerman pointed out, warm beer was far better than no beer at all.
"Mr. Zimmerman!" McCoy called out, and Zimmerman marched over to them. "Yes, sir?"
"I'm going to need some of our discretionary funds," McCoy said. "I saw the sign," Zimmerman said, taking an oilcloth wallet from his rear pocket. "How much do you want?"
"We don't want to be greedy," McCoy said. "Give Major Dunston two— better make it three—hundred dollars."
Zimmerman opened the wallet, took from it a packet of money labeled "$500—Twenty-Dollar Notes," and counted off two hundred dollars. He handed what was left to Dunston. "That should be three hundred," he said. "I guess I'm going to try to buy the booze?" Dunston said. "Uh-huh," McCoy said. "And into your capable hands, Major Dunston, I entrust the entire wagon train."
"Where are you going?"
"Major Donald is going to take Mr. Zimmerman and me on a reconnaissance mission."
"I'd like to go along," Dunston said.