Everyone but Howe made some movement to stand. Pickering signaled for them to stay where they were.
"I will claim the privilege of rank, Flem," Howe said, "and be the first to tell you how delighted I am your son's safe."
"Thank you," Pickering said.
"I suppose I'd better do the introductions," Howe said. "General, this is Colonel D. J. Vandenburg . . ."
Pickering offered him his hand.
"How are you, Colonel?"
"Sir, we're all happy Major Pickering is back with us."
"Thank you," Pickering said.
". . . and this is Captain Lew Miller," Howe went on, "who flies the Beaver."
"I've heard about the Beaver," Pickering said, smiling at Vandenburg. "How are you, Captain?"
"How do you do, sir?" Miller said.
"And J. M. Jennings," Howe said, "who has the dubious distinction of having been a Marine Raider with McCoy and Zimmerman."
" 'Dubious distinction'?" Jennings said, and then: "How do you do, sir?"
"The phrase, General Howe," Pickering said, "is great distinction."
"Thank you, sir," Jennings said.
"I'm sorry, Sergeant," Pickering said, "that you've had to be alone with all these dogfaces, but that's changed. Ed Banning and I have landed, and the situation is well in hand."
"Oh, God!" Howe said, shaking his head. He put out his hand to Banning. "I've heard a lot about you, Colonel, all good. And this is Charley Rogers, who the jarheads around here refer to—behind our backs, of course—as the 'Retread Doggie General's Retread Dog Robber.' "
"How do you do, General?" Banning said to Howe, and shook his hand. He shook Rogers's hand but said nothing to him.
Howe said, "I don't know if Marines drink champagne—for that matter, if they even know what it is—but when Bill Dunston heard about your son and you coming, he put a couple of bottles in the refrigerator in case a celebration was in order, and I suggest one is."
"My God!" Pickering said. "A house like this, with champagne in a refrigerator, in what my favorite journalist refers to as 'the battered capital of this war-torn nation'? Pay attention, Ed, these doggies really know how to live. See if you can find out how they do it!"
There was laughter from everyone but Banning, who came up with a somewhat restrained smile.
Dunston went through the door to the kitchen, and a moment later Lai-Min, the housekeeper, came through it carrying a tray with two bottles of champagne in coolers and champagne glasses on it. She set it on the table, went back into the kitchen, and came back with another tray. This one held hors d'oeuvres.
"I will be damned!" Pickering said.
"More than likely," Howe said, mock serious.
Dunston came back into the room, and he and Hart opened the champagne and poured.
Howe raised his glass. "Major Malcolm S. Pickering," he toasted. "Who has proved he's as good a Marine as his father, and probably a lot smarter."
Pickering took a swallow and then raised his glass again.
"How about to Major Ken McCoy and whoever was with him when he found Pick?" he said.
"Well, I'll drink to the Killer anytime," Howe said. "But that's not exactly what happened, Flem."
"Excuse me?"
Howe gestured to Jennings, whose face showed he would much rather not have to tell the story.
"Sir, what happened was that we were coming back to Socho-Ri in a Big Black Bird after having picked up a recon patrol—"
"You're talking about a helicopter?" Banning interrupted.
"Yes, sir," Jennings said. "And we heard somebody—'Road Service'—calling for any U.S. aircraft—"
"Road Service?" Banning parroted. Pickering looked at him sharply.
"Yes, sir," Jennings went on. "We found out later it was an Army convoy, a couple of tanks and some heavy vehicles, trying to find a land route to Wonsan. We even knew them. Anyway, we didn't reply, of course—"
"Why not?" Banning interrupted.
"Ed, for Christ's sake, let Sergeant Jennings finish," Pickering snapped, and immediately regretted it.
The remark earned him a look of gratitude from Jennings and a look of astonishment, even hurt, from Banning.
"But an Air Force P-51 did," Jennings went on. "And Road Service told him they'd just picked up a shot-down pilot and needed to get him to a hospital. The Air Force guy asked for a location, and it was about five miles from where we were, so the Kil . . . Major McCoy told Major Donald to go there, and see if we could land, and so we did. What we found was that the Army was lost, and Major Pickering had seen them and come out from where he was hiding."
Pickering saw Jennings smile.
"What's funny, Sergeant?" he asked.
"Well, sir, what Major Pickering did was come down the road to the doggie convoy with his hands over his head, singing 'The Marines' Hymn' as loud as he could and shouting 'Don't shoot' between lines."
"Jesus Christ!" Pickering said, smiling at the image.
"Anyway, sir, we could get in where they were, so we loaded Major Pickering on the Big Black Bird—they left me behind to show the Army the road to Wonsan—and flew on to Socho-Ri, took on fuel, and then flew him out to the aircraft carrier. But we didn't find him, sir, although God knows we sure looked hard for him—the major found the Army."
Pickering smiled and shook his head.
"What difference does it make, Flem?" Howe asked. "He's back. That's all that counts."
"There's a small problem," Pickering said, smiling. "It has been decided at the highest level—by that I mean agreement between El Supremo, General of the Army Omar Bradley, and the President himself—that McCoy gets the Silver Star for his valor in finding Pick—"
"Goddamn!" Jennings said, chuckling.
"And everybody with him gets the Bronze Star," Pickering went on. He stopped himself as he was about to add "and the President agreed with MacArthur that Pick gets the Navy Cross."
Why did I stop? So Proud Papa won't be boasting?
No, it's something else.
Because I don't see where what he did deserves the Navy Cross?
I didn't think I deserved mine, either. I was just doing what a Marine is supposed to do.
Isn't that what Pick did? What a Marine is supposed to do?
How the hell did I get on this line of thought?
"General," Jennings said, "I didn't do anything that should get me the Bronze Star."
"I'll straighten it out," Pickering said. He raised his champagne glass to Jennings and smiled.
"I'm about to send a message I think you ought to see," Howe said. "Can we go upstairs for a minute?"
"Sure," Pickering said. "What's upstairs?"
"The communications," Howe said. He smiled. "I keep forgetting the laird of this manor has never been here before. I'll have to show you around."
"It's not what I expected," Pickering said.
"Very few things ever are," Howe said with a smile as he waved Pickering out of the room ahead of him.
They went through the foyer and up the stairs. Pickering was not surprised to find Koreans armed with Thompson submachine guns blocking entrance to the corridors on both the second and third floors, but he was surprised when Howe knocked on a door on the third floor and it was answered by a Korean woman holding a .45-ACP-caliber Grease Gun.
"Di-san," Howe said, "this is General Pickering."
She smiled. In perfect English, she said, "General, we were happy to hear your son has been rescued."
"Thank you," Pickering said.
"I want to show General Pickering my message," Howe said.
She nodded, motioned them into the room, and took several sheets of typewriter paper from a table.
TOP SECRET/PRESIDENTIAL
OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN