Hammond rode the elevator up from his basement abode and stopped on the main floor. He took a quick look outside just so he could say he had seen daylight for the day, even though it was 5:30 am. Just the hint of a dawn was good enough for him. He walked briskly down the corridors and out the west wing toward the offices surrounding the Oval Office. He stopped by communications and picked up the “Early Bird,” the daily newspaper clippings sheets. The top sheet was always colored yellow and had the words “Early Bird” across the top. He glanced across the front sheet where the most important stories were. As he was about to leave, a Marine captain stopped him. “Captain, the Chief of Staff was looking for you, sir. He said to have you come in and see him right away.”
Hammond grunted. “Another minor crisis no doubt,” he said with a faint smile. He retraced his steps a few yards and turned down another corridor near the Oval Office. Butler’s door was open and Hammond saw Butler reading the Washington Post, sipping on some black coffee. Another Navy captain was in the office. Hammond knocked slightly on the door.
“Come on in, Roger,” Butler said with a grin. He pointed to the other captain who was now getting out of his chair. “Roger, meet Eric Matthews,” he said. The two men shook hands. “Eric is your relief.”
That stopped Hammond in his tracks. He looked at his friend. “My relief?”
Butler laughed. “Yeah, the President and I have been getting tired of looking at your ugly face,” he said. Then he handed Hammond a sheet of paper.
Hammond read the message slowly. “…proceed immediately to San Francisco, CA and report aboard USS (name withheld) and assume the duties of commanding officer….” Hammond’s face broke into a grin. “My god, I never would have believed it,” he said slowly. “What ship? It’s been removed from the orders.”
Butler was beaming. The President and Admiral Johnson both had come up with this idea. He wasn’t about to blow it. “Roger, the boss wants that kept a secret for now. You are to proceed this morning to San Francisco and take command. Some people will meet you at the airport and take you to her.”
“Yeah, but is it a destroyer, a cruiser, some barge — what is it?”
“Probably some supply ship. The boss knows you really wanted to go to sea, but you’ve made a few enemies around here. He did the best he could. Just get out there and command again,” Butler said. “In the mean time, Eric and I have a little work to do. So get back to your hole and pack up. Your plane leaves in about four hours. Just be happy you get to leave this funny farm,” he said extending his hand. Hammond shook it warmly. “Thanks, Jim. Can I drop by and thank the boss?”
“You can try, but he’s on the Hill all morning. Don’t worry. We’ll be in touch. Besides, if this guy doesn’t work out, I may recall you,” he joked winking at Matthews.
Hammond shook their hands again. “Tell the President I said thanks.”
“Get out of here, squid.”
Hammond walked out of the office and back down the corridor. Several of the people stepped out to congratulate him on his new command. No one could say what it was, but they knew it was something he wanted. Back at his quarters, he was surprised to see several staff members packing up the last of his belongings. The staff arranged for his things to be sent up and a car brought around. Hammond stopped briefly by the command center where he picked up his records and his orders along with the transportation documents. Being from the White House, everything had already been arranged.
As he prepared to leave, he stopped by Butler’s office again to find it empty. He walked over to the desk and placed a set of keys to his Oldsmobile in the center of the blotter with a short note. Take care of her, it said. Then he made his way through the corridors again and out the entrance. A limousine was waiting for him. He sat in the front with the driver and the big presidential machine exited the gate and made its way to 14th Street and Reagan International Airport. The driver went to the private plane section where a Cessna business jet was waiting. Inside he found three other officers, all heading for the west coast. Within 20 minutes the jet was climbing steadily into the morning sky.
The North Koreans had tried one additional push along the road. Two old T-59 tanks pressed through the narrow passage and started shooting at the rock outcropping where the Claymores had gone off. They couldn’t know that no one had ever really been there. After several rounds each with no return fire, the tanks with infantry following close behind eased out of the gap and around the corner of the road. They were half way along the near side of the hill before the Major opened up with the light artillery he had. The M102 howitzer had been around a while. It was on wheels, fairly light, and shot a 105mm round. Major Peterson had two of them, and both were positioned where they could shoot down at anything along the road. Peterson loved the things, but whenever they fired there was a puff of smoke to give the position away. He had kept them silent until this moment.
Firing armor piercing rounds, the M102s cut through the armored bubble top of the old Russian tanks like they were butter. Immediately both tanks were knocked out and the mortars opened up again to take care of the infantry.
After knocking out the tanks, the M102s opened up on the far side of the hill, eventually knocking off enough dirt and rock to completely block the road, while also cutting off any means of escape. The North Koreans were trapped. They desperately tried to find cover, but none was to be found. Then they tried to climb the hill the Americans were on. They made it to just above the base when the .50 caliber machine guns and other small arms opened up. Within minutes, nothing was alive in the valley floor. Peterson again moved his equipment to new emplacements. The heavier guns were moved just over the top of the hill. No one would be coming along the road any time soon.
By 9 pm the sun was well below the horizon and Major Peterson’s men were firmly in place. All had been fed and they were fairly well rested, even after all the hard work of moving the equipment. Because they no longer had night vision glasses, Hufman had set some of the men to work laying noisemakers in the bushes and wire well ahead of the positions to give warning of an enemy’s approach. Unfortunately the crickets tended to mask the sound of someone moving around. Ricks reminded them that crickets fell silent when someone approached, helping some of the soldiers feel better.
Hufham was sitting in his foxhole looking out across the valley. There was a little moon, but not much. Nothing was moving. “Where would you come from?” he whispered to Ricks.
Ricks moved slightly and pointed. “Along the ridgeline from that low hill to ours. A lot easier than climbing it,” he said. “But I’m not worried about those guys coming in. I’m worried that they start raining some mortar rounds over here from the tops of those far hills. It will be tough watching for the bad guys when you’re trying to keep your head from being blown off.”
“True enough. Now that it’s dark, we really can’t see what’s going on over there,” Hufham agreed. Through the field telephone in his hand he could hear the Major giving orders to the mortar batteries. So far, there was nothing. One could only hope they had given up, but Hufham knew that would never happen.
Shortly after 10 pm flashes of dim light could be seen coming from the far hill. Mortar rounds began dropping all along the promontory next to the road. Round after round landed in the positions they had been firing from and even spread out along the length of the hill. Fortunately the Major had anticipated the move and their final emplacements were closer to the back end of the hill away from the tip. No rounds were fired in return that might give away their final positions. After thirty minutes of sustained mortar fire in the wrong place, the hills fell silent again.