"Yes, sir. Would the colonel like a specific breakdown?"
"That won't be necessary," Colonel Kennedy said. "I didn't really realize there were that many."
"Yes, sir. And all ready for immediate exchange."
"I understand there was some difficulty in getting them off-loaded at Inchon when you came."
"The heavier stuff—the tank transporters, some of the larger wreckers— gave us a little trouble, sir. But we managed to get everything off-loaded without trouble."
"And the tides, too, I'm sure, posed a problem?"
"Yes, sir. We really had to push when the ship was at the dock to get as much off before the ship had to go back down the channel again."
"Somebody said, you know, that Inchon was the worst possible place, because of those tides, to stage a landing."
"Well, we did it, sir."
"And you think you learned from the experience?"
"Yes, sir. I'm sure we did."
"Well, perhaps that will make things a little easier for you now," Colonel Kennedy said.
"Sir?"
"As soon as you can, Captain, start moving your vehicles back to Inchon. Check with the port captain, and see where he wants you to operate for the on-loading."
"Yes, sir. I'll get right on it. I'm a little surprised that we're going back to Japan so soon."
"I didn't say anything about Japan, Captain," Colonel Kennedy said. "X Corps has been ordered to reembark to make another landing elsewhere."
"Yes, sir. Where would that be?"
"You'll be informed in good time,' Colonel Kennedy said. He put out his hand. "You've done a good job here, Captain. Keep it up."
"Yes, sir," MacNamara said.
Chapter Nine
[ONE]
Blair House
Pennsylvania Avenue
Washington, D.G.
1OO5 11 October 195O
There was a knock at the closed door of Harry S Truman's study, but the President, who was reading what he thought of as one more windy damned report, didn't pay much attention to it.
There were knocks at his study door all day and all night, followed a moment later by whoever was there—his secretary, usually—opening it and standing there waiting until she had his attention.
When, a full sixty seconds later, Truman raised his eyes to see who it was, the door was still closed. He watched the door, waiting for it to open. It didn't. He had just about decided that he hadn't heard a knock after all when there was another.
"Come in," the President called, not entirely cordially.
The door immediately opened and a Marine sergeant in dress blue uniform marched in, stopped precisely eighteen inches from the President's desk, saluted crisply, and barked, "An eyes-only message for the Commander-in-Chief, sir!" and extended a business-size white envelope toward the President.
"Thank you, son," Truman said, and returned the salute.
Harry S Truman knew very well that salutes were supposed to be only for members of the armed forces in uniform, but had rationalized that by reminding himself that not only was he Commander-in-Chief, but every month the Treasurer of the United States mailed a pension check to Colonel Harry S Truman, NG, Retired. He'd worn the uniform, and if he wanted to return this boy's salute, he damned well was going to.
The sergeant snapped to a Parade Rest position.
"Stand at ease," Truman said.
The sergeant snapped to a slightly—only slightly—less rigid position and stared eight inches over the President's head.
There was little question in the President's mind that he was about to read a message from Ralph Howe. All other messages were delivered by either his secretary or, in the case of Eyes-Only, by one of the Signal Corps officers or warrant officers in the message center.
Except for Eyes-Only messages from Ralph Howe and Fleming Pickering. These were invariably delivered by a Marine. Truman had finally figured out that the Marines had stationed two of their own in the message center, round-the-clock, a Marine cryptographer who got all the messages from Camp Pendleton addressed to the President, and decoded it, and another Marine in dress blues to personally deliver it.
It was just like the Marines, the President thought, to do something like that.
He realized and admitted that the thought was much less sarcastic than it had been before this damned Korean business started. He had not then been much of a fan of the United States Marine Corps, and had been quoted as saying he didn't see why the Navy needed its own army, and perhaps—to save the taxpayer's dollar—it was time to do away with it.
Korea had changed that. The Army had really dropped the ball over there, and the Marine Corps had saved their ass. That wasn't Marine Corps public relations talking. Ralph Howe had reported that from over there, and even General Walker had come right out and said that if it hadn't been for the Marines, he didn't think he would have been able to hold at the Pusan Perimeter.
Truman slit the envelope open with a small penknife, took out the contents—four sheets of neatly single-spaced typewriter copy—and read them twice. First, a quick glance, and then again, slowly.
Then he folded the sheets of paper and put them back in the envelope. He looked at the Marine sergeant.
"Sergeant . . ." The Marine snapped to attention like a spring. "That'll be all, son. Would you ask one of the Secret Service agents to come in, please? Thank you."
"Aye, aye, sir," the Marine barked, and snapped his rigid hand to his eyebrow.
Truman returned the salute again.
The Marine did a snappy About-Face movement and marched out of the office.
Truman picked up one of his telephones.
"See if you can get General Pickering for me, will you, please?" he said, and hung up.
There was another knock at the door, and the door opened and two Secret Service agents stepped into the room without waiting for permission.
"Yes, Mr. President?" one of them asked.
"I want one of you to take this," Truman said, holding out the envelope, "across the street to General Pickering in the Foster Lafayette. When he's finished reading it, bring it back."
The telephone buzzed. Truman reached to pick it up before the Secret Service agent could take the envelope from his hand.
"I have General Pickering, Mr. President," the White House Operator said.
"Pickering?" the President said.
"Yes, Mr. President?"
The President of the United States changed his mind.
That wasn't good news about his son. The least I can do is deliver it myself.
And I need to get him off the hook about the CIA anyway.
This is as good a time to do that as any.
"Have you got a few minutes for me? Right now?"
"I'll be there immediately, Mr. President."
"Hold your position, General," Truman said. "You're in your apartment, right?"
"Yes, Mr. President."
"Order up some coffee, General, if you'd be so kind. I'll be right there. I need the walk."
"It'll be waiting, Mr. President."
The President hung up and looked at the Secret Service agents.
"Organize the parade," he ordered. "I'm going across the street to the Foster Lafayette."
The parade, as Truman referred to his Secret Service bodyguard escort, was waiting when Truman came down the steps of Blair House, turned right, and walked briskly down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Foster Lafayette Hotel.
Truman looked across Pennsylvania Avenue at the White House. There were all sorts of signs of work on the "repairs" under way. It was more than repairs, Truman thought. The building, which had been literally at the point of collapse, had been gutted and was being rebuilt.
He waved and smiled at tourists, but completely ignored the questions called out to him by a dozen members of the press who had joined the parade the moment it was formed.