"Aye, aye, sir."
"Then set up a perimeter guard, and stay there. I'll be in touch. "Can I ask what this is all about, Major?" "Not yet. I'll tell you when I can."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Chapter Seven
[ONE]
San Francisco International Airport
San Francisco, California
1145 3 October 195O
Two cars, a black Chevrolet with the insignia of the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service painted on its doors and a black Lincoln limousine bearing the California license plate US SEN 1, followed a Ford truck with stairs mounted in back toward the City of Los Angeles as the aircraft shut down its engines.
An INS officer and an officer from the Bureau of Customs got out of the Chevrolet, and a Marine colonel got out of the limousine. As soon as the stairs had been put in place against the Constellation and the rear door had been opened, they all went up the stairs.
They found Brigadier General Fleming Pickering in seat 1 -A.
"That's all the hell I need," Pickering said to the Marine colonel as he put out his hand, "a full bull colonel of the Regular Marine Corps to look askance at my appearance."
Two hours into the final Honolulu—San Francisco leg of his flight, as he was having his breakfast, there was unexpected turbulence, and the front of his uniform jacket still showed—despite the frenzied, even valiant efforts of two stewardi—the remnants of most of a cup of coffee, a half-glass of tomato juice, and two poached eggs.
"You look shipshape to me, General," Colonel Edward J. Banning, an erect, stocky, six-foot-tall, 200-pound forty-five-year-old, said with a straight face.
Pickering snorted, then asked, "What's going on here, Ed? Isn't that Senator Fowler's car?" "Yes, sir, it is."
"Fowler's car? Or Fowler himself?" Pickering asked.
"Senator Fowler himself, General."
"What the hell does he want?" Pickering asked rhetorically.
"General," the customs officer said, extending a printed form to him. "If you'll just sign this, sir, it will complete the Customs and Immigration procedure."
Pickering scrawled his signature on the form and handed it and the pen back to the customs officer.
"What about our luggage?" Pickering asked, looking at Banning.
"It'll be off-loaded first, sir. While you're still on the tarmac."
"Well, at least that will limit the number of people who'll get a look at this," Pickering said, gesturing with both hands toward the mess on his tunic. "Let's go, George."
"Had a little accident, did you, sir?" the INS officer asked sympathetically.
" 'Little' isn't the word," Pickering said sharply, and then added: "But it certainly wasn't your fault. I didn't mean to snap at you."
The INS officer raised both hands, palms outward, indicating the apology wasn't necessary, then stepped out of the way so Hart and Pickering could precede him off the airplane.
Fred Delmore, a tall, gray-haired black man who had been Senator Fowler's chauffeur for twenty years, had the rear door of the limousine open before Pickering reached it. Pickering motioned for Banning to get in first, then followed him. Hart ran around and got in the front passenger seat.
Senator Richardson K. Fowler, a tall, silver-haired, regal-looking sixty-seven-year-old, was sitting on the right side. He and Pickering looked at each other but didn't speak for a moment.
"I was just wondering, Flem," the senator said finally, "if you'd had your breakfast. I suppose I have the answer before me."
"Fuck you, Dick," General Pickering said.
"My, we are back in the Marines, aren't we?" Fowler said. "Such language!"
"Fuck you twice, Dick," Pickering said.
"Is he always this way, George?" Fowler asked innocently. "Or has he been at the booze?"
"Not yet," Pickering replied. "To what do I owe this dubious honor, Dick?"
Fowler shook his head in resignation and smiled.
"As a courtesy, one of Truman's people called to tell me you were on your way, and when, but that they doubted there would be time to meet, as you were to be immediately transferred to Travis Air Force Base for your trip to Washington. An Air Force plane—"
"Not that again," Pickering interrupted.
"Not what again?"
"The last time he sent for me, I flew across the country in the backseat of an Air Force jet."
"Oh, yes, I remember. Today, I understand, we will travel in a backup airplane—one of the big Douglases—to the Independence."
" We will travel?"
" We. I invited myself to go with you. I thought you might need some moral support. As I was saying, your aircraft awaits at Travis."
"Sir," Colonel Banning said, "if I may interrupt, I think you'd better take a look at this."
He handed Pickering a sealed, business-size envelope.
Pickering opened the envelope, read the message it contained, and then handed it to Hart.
"That's already in Washington, sir," Banning said.
Hart put the message back in the envelope and handed it back to Banning, who put it carefully into his hip pocket.
"I suppose what that is is none of my business," Senator Fowler said.
"Dick, you're putting me on a spot," Pickering said.
"And what the hell, I'm only a United States Senator, right?"
"Let him see it, Ed," Pickering ordered.
Banning handed Fowler the envelope.
"That's from General Howe to Truman," Pickering said. "MacArthur plans to reembark X Corps and reland it far up the east coast."
"I know you won't believe this, Fleming, but I do know how to read," Fowler said as he took the message from the envelope.
He read it, put in back in the envelope, and handed it to Banning.
"Thank you, Colonel," Fowler said, then turned to Pickering. "What's the significance of that?"
"I think Howe wants the President to know MacArthur may take his time 'advising' the Joint Chiefs of his intentions," Pickering said. "They have a tendency to want to take time to consider things carefully, and MacArthur (a) likes to strike when the iron is hot and (b) does not like the idea of having to ask permission to do something in 'his' war."
"And whose side are you on?"
"The Joint Chiefs were the opposite of enthusiastic about the landing at Inchon. MacArthur is difficult, but he's one hell of a general."
There was the sound of the trunk slamming.
"That's the luggage, sir," Hart said.
"Okay, Fred," Senator Fowler said. "Travis Air Force Base."
"No, Fred," Pickering said. "Take us to the San Franciscan."
He turned to Fowler. "That'll just have to wait. I need a bath, George needs a bath, and, as you were so kind to point out, I need a clean uniform."
"You don't think it behooves you to instantly comply with an order from your Commander-in-Chief?"
"Fuck you yet again, Dick," Pickering said. "A whole cup of coffee went down my front. ..."
"And some tomato juice," Hart offered helpfully from the front seat.
Pickering pointed a threatening finger at Hart.
"The San Franciscan, please, Fred," Pickering ordered.
Fowler nodded. The limousine started to move.
"What's the President want from me, anyway, Dick?" Pickering asked. "What's this all about?"
"I think he's going to offer you the CIA," Fowler said. "Actually, I'm pretty positive he will."
"Well, we can handle that with a telephone call," Pickering said. "I don't want the CIA."
"I don't think 'No, thank you' is one of your options," Fowler said. "What I can probably help you to do is get some concessions vis-a-vis what you'll do with it, what your authority will be, when you get it."