"That will enough, Colonel," Pickering interrupted him, coldly.
Banning was visibly surprised by both the order and the tone of Pickering's voice.
"He's right, General," Dunston said. "I guess I dropped the ball."
"I don't look at it that way," Pickering said. "You did what you thought had to be done. But I'm open for suggestions."
"I'll go out to K-16 and check with the Air Force," Dunston said. "The base commander is a pretty good guy. And while I'm doing that, Jennings is first going to get on the horn to Zimmerman, and then start calling all the division public information officers. She has to be here somewhere."
"When are you going to do this?" Pickering asked.
"That whoosh you hear, General, is me going out the door," Dunston said. He put his champagne glass on the table. "I'll finish this," he said, "when I have put my hands on the lady."
He walked out of the dining room. Zimmerman followed him.
Pickering looked at Banning.
"Come with me, please, Colonel," he said.
He walked out of the dining room with Banning on his heels, and led him out of the building into the courtyard. He stopped in the middle.
"Okay, Ed," he said. "You've got a hair up your ass. Tell me what it's all about."
"Sir, I don't know what you—"
"You've been pissing everybody off with your attitude since you got here, and I want to know why."
"With respect, sir, I don't—"
"You can either tell me what's bothering you, Ed, or I'm going to tell George to get you a seat on the first flight out of here tomorrow, and that will be the first leg of your flight to the States. I like you, we're—I have always thought— old and good friends, but I cannot afford to have you come in here with an attitude that's pissing off good people. You understand me?"
They locked eyes.
"That was a question, Colonel," Pickering said.
Banning exhaled audibly.
"Milla's in the hospital," he said softly.
"Milla's in the hospital? When did this happen?"
"She went in yesterday, or the day before—I don't even know what day it is in the States, much less what time—to have a lump removed from her breast. Or maybe the whole breast, depending on what they find."
"Then what the hell are you doing here?" Pickering said.
"You sent for me," Banning said simply.
"Jesus H. Christ! If I had known about your wife . . ."
"I'm a Marine officer," Banning said.
"And a good one. But as a human being, you're a goddamn fool," Pickering said.
"I'm sorry you feel that way, sir," Banning said.
"Where is she? What hospital?"
"Charleston," Banning said.
"These are your orders, Colonel. You are to go up to the third floor of this building. There you will find a Korean woman named Di-san. You will order her to send an Urgent Message to the Commanding Officer, Marine Barracks, Charleston. Quote—Urgently require report status Mrs. Milla Banning, presently in Whateverthehell Hospital Charleston. Update hourly or more frequently, as necessary, until notified otherwise. Signature, Pickering, Brig. Gen. CIA Deputy Director for Asia—Unquote."
"General, with respect, that's . . ."
"What? Not authorized?"
"No, sir."
"Well, maybe not, Colonel. But the only person who can challenge me is a retired Army general named Smith, and I don't think he will. You have your orders, Colonel."
After a long moment, Ed Banning said, "Aye, aye, sir."
He started back toward the entrance and then turned.
"Sir, I'd really be grateful if you could keep this between us."
"You'd rather appear to be a horse's ass than admit you have human emotions? Like hell I will."
Banning didn't reply, but neither did he continue toward the house.
"Get moving, Ed," Pickering said. After a moment, Banning nodded and then walked quickly toward the house.
Chapter Thirteen
[ONE]
USS Badoeng Strait (CVE-116)
39.58 Degrees North Latitude
128.33 Degrees East Longitude
The Sea of Japan
1125 17 October 195O
The Badoeng Strait was at sea about fifty miles east of a midpoint between Hungnam and Wonsan.
There had not been much call for air strikes from any of the units of I ROK Corps, which was pursuing the retreating North Korean army up the rugged east coast of the Korean Peninsula.
With about two-thirds of his fuel remaining, Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn, USMC, had decided to take his three-Corsair flight north of Chongjin, which would place them close to the borders between North Korea and China, and North Korea and Manchuria.
He could then take a look around, then fly down the east coast of the peninsula, looking for targets of opportunity on the way back to the Badoeng Strait.
For a number of reasons, starting with the fact that he was a good Marine officer who obeyed his orders, he was very careful not only not to cross the border but to keep far enough south of it so that it could not be credibly charged that he had violated either Chinese or Russian territory, even by mistake.
But he did take the flight inland far enough and high enough so that over extreme Northern Korea, he could look down and across the borders into both China and Manchuria.
He saw nothing that suggested the presence of troops massed on either side of the border prepared to enter the conflict. He had in mind, of course, what McCoy had told him and the skipper in the captain's cabin on the Badoeng Strait about 600,000 Chinese either on their side of the border, or already starting to cross into North Korea.
It was possible, of course, that McCoy was dead wrong. It was also possible that McCoy was right. Again.
On the way back down the coast, they found the targets of opportunity they knew would be there, and made strafing passes at North Korean troops either on the roads or hiding on either side of them. They stopped this only when the fuel available became sort of questionable and most of their ammunition had been expended. It made no sense to either run out of fuel or to return to the Badoeng Strait with a lot of ammunition unfired.
Colonel Dunn brought the flight down pretty close to the deck and flew over Socho-Ri. The H-19As were not in sight, which meant either that their camouflage was very good or that they were off someplace. He decided it was the camouflage, because Major Donald, the Army pilot, had told him they preferred to make their flights in the very early hours or just before nightfall, so as to provide as small a "window of possible observation" as possible.
He dipped his wings as Marines on the ground, recognizing the gull-winged fighters, came out of the thatch-roofed, stone-walled houses and waved at them.
Then he climbed to 5,000 feet and headed for the Badoeng Strait.
He landed last, as was his custom, caught the second wire, and was jerked to a halt.
As he hauled himself out of the cockpit, he saw one of the ship's officers on the deck, obviously waiting for him.
The officer, a blond-headed lieutenant j.g., saluted as Dunn jumped from the wing root to the deck.
"Shooting back, were they, Colonel?"
"Excuse me?" Dunn asked as he returned the salute.
The j.g. pointed to the rear of the Corsair's fuselage and its vertical stabilizer.
"I'll be damned!" Dunn said. There were seven holes in the Corsair—five in the fuselage and two in the vertical stabilizer. They looked like .50-caliber holes.
"I didn't see any tracers coming close," Dunn said, as much to himself as to the j.g.
"The captain's compliments, Colonel. The captain would be pleased if you would take lunch with him."