"And if they won't, it's a long ride back to Seoul," Donald said. "We need our own fixed-wing airplane," Donald said. "What we really need is an L-20, a Beaver, but I think we'd have a better chance of getting an L-19."
"What's a Beaver?"
"Single-engine, six-place DeHavilland. Canadian. Designed for use in the Alaskan bush. The Army bought a dozen—and ordered a hell of a lot more— off the shelf when this started. There were six of them on the baby aircraft carrier with the H-19s. The brass will be fighting over them like a nymphomaniac at a high school dance."
"I think you had better get in the jeep with me, and see about getting us one or the other," McCoy said.
His stomach then rose in his chest as Donald put the H-19 into a steep descending turn.
As they approached the coastline, not fifty feet off the water, they came across a junk plodding slowly southward, maybe a mile and a half offshore and half a mile away from them.
"That has to be the Wind of Good Fortune," McCoy said.
"You want me to take a closer look?"
"God, no! There's an air-cooled .50 on the prow, and another on the stern.
By now—they've seen us—they've taken the covers off and fed ammo belts into both."
"Why is it leaving Socho-Ri?"
"She dropped off a generator, a good base station radio, and some other supplies," McCoy replied. "Chow, a couple of rubber boats, sandbags, stuff—I guess you call it 'thatch'—to put the roofs back on the hootches. And some of Dunston's Koreans. And then she got out of there before anyone could draw the right conclusion."
Donald took his hand off the cyclic control long enough to point. They were approaching Socho-Ri. As McCoy followed Donald's pointing, Donald put the H-19 into a steep turn to the left, then to the right, and then as suddenly straightened up. They were now lined up with the dirt strip.
McCoy could see enough of the activity on the ground to know that Zimmerman—and Dunwood's Marines—had done a lot of work even before the Wind of Good Fortune had brought them the supplies they needed.
He saw what had to be Marines in two emplacements overlooking the path from Route 5, and another emplacement facing out to the Sea of Japan.
And a patch of recently turned earth twenty-five feet by eight. Burying the bodies had obviously been a priority.
Jesus, that's a hell of a big hole to have to dig by hand!
The H-19 stopped forward movement, and a moment later its wheels touched the ground.
McCoy saw the second helo flutter to the ground to their right, and then Dunwood and Zimmerman walking out to them.
Donald began to shut the machine down. McCoy unfastened his seat and shoulder belts but made no move to get out until the rotor blades stopped turning.
He had just jumped to the ground from the wheel when the smell of putrefying flesh hit him.
Dunston and the pilot of the other helicopter started to walk over to them. The pilot didn't make it. He suddenly bent over and threw up.
Dunston ignored him and joined the others in time to hear McCoy snap at Zimmerman: "Jesus! When did you finally get around to burying the bodies?"
"We waited until this morning, of course, Killer, knowing you were coming," Zimmerman answered, not daunted by McCoy's anger.
"Jesus! It was the first thing we did. We could smell this place a mile off."
"How do we get rid of the smell?" McCoy asked.
"Sir," Dunwood said, "we don't think it's coming from the bodies, from the grave, but from the ground where they were lying. I was thinking maybe if we soaked the ground with gas, and then—"
"Do it," McCoy said.
"Aye, aye, sir."
"Some of the bodies were in the hootches, Killer. And they stink too."
"Well, use gas on them before we put the roofs back on," McCoy said. "That smell's got to go."
Zimmerman nodded.
He looked at Major Donald.
"I don't suppose we could just drape fishnet over those propellers, could we, Major?"
He made a swirling motion with his index finger, pointing at the helicopter.
"Rotors," Donald corrected him. "No. I don't think that would be smart."
"I was afraid of that," Zimmerman said, and pointed toward the side of the landward hill, one hundred yards from where they stood. "That's what I came up with."
Against two very steep parts of the slope, two enormous flies of fishnet had been erected. Their outer edges were supported by flimsy "poles" made of short, nailed, and tied-together pieces of wood. Vegetation of all sorts had been laced into the net.
McCoy thought: Boy, that's really a jury-rig!
"And they won't stay up long," Zimmerman said, reading McCoy's mind, "if you get close to them with the rotors turning."
"Collect some men and push them over and get them out of sight," McCoy ordered.
Zimmerman nodded.
Dunston walked away from them, toward the mass grave.
"You want some breakfast, Killer?" Zimmerman asked innocently. "Couple of fresh eggs, maybe? The Wind of Good Fortune brought some. And a couple of fresh suckling pigs, too, come to thing of it."
McCoy glowered at him.
"You want me to throw up, too, right?" he said, pointing toward the helicopter pilot, who was now sitting, pale-faced, on the ground, trying to regain control of himself.
Zimmerman smiled at him.
McCoy, Dunston, Zimmerman, Dunwood, and Donald were sitting on the stone wharf, where the smell didn't seem as bad. There was a breeze from the sea, and the smoke of the fires built over where the dead had been left to rot had sort of diluted the smell of the bodies. "Then we're agreed?" Dunston asked.
McCoy looked at him and made a little come on gesture with his hand. Dunston began to lay out the plan of action. "The priority is to get some agents up north as quickly as possible, the more the better, but for right now, three teams is all that seems feasible.
"We call the Wind of Good Fortune back, to dock here an hour after dark. She picks up the agents and goes north. Using just one of the rubber boats— keeping the other in reserve; the Wind of Good Fortune can bring more boats on her next trip—she puts them ashore and then heads for Pusan. She has enough fuel aboard to run the diesel, balls to the wall, all night.
"Unless they come across something really interesting, the agents will not get on the radio for twenty-four hours, or forty-eight. If they get in trouble, they will yell for help. If they do—Donald makes the decision whether or not the risk is manageable—we'll send one of the helicopters after them and see what happens.
"Presuming they don't get in trouble: Donald, Dunwood, and Zimmerman will start preparing to use the choppers as flying trucks to take a squad of men wherever they have to go. As I understand you, Alex, most of that training will be pretty basic.
"First, Zimmerman decides how they'll be armed and equipped. Then we'll find out how many men we can load on a chopper. Then we practice their getting out of the chopper in a hurry. None of this will require flying the choppers. When they get pretty good at that, we'll start making dry runs, first just taking off and landing here, and finally, flying inland a little to practice insertion and withdrawal on the kind of terrain they'll find up north.
"By the time we do all this, maybe the war will be over. If not, the Wind of Good Fortune will be back here, and we'll decide what to do next." He paused. "That's about it."
"Ernie?" McCoy asked.
"Sounds fine to me," Zimmerman said.
"Donald?"
"What about me going back with you, McCoy? We talked about that. To see about getting a fixed-wing airplane? I'd rather stay here, but. . ."
"Let's see what Dunston and I can do, begging on our knees," McCoy said.