"You're okay, Keller," Zimmerman said. "For a god-damn doggie."
"Thank you very much, sir," Keller said, straightfaced.
This time McCoy laughed.
"Keep your pistol, Ernie," McCoy ordered.
The pistols Master Gunner Zimmerman had drawn for them from a fellow master gunner at Camp Pendleton were also National Match, far more accurate and reliable than a standard-issue Pistol, 1911A1, Caliber.45 ACP. They were worth trying to sneak past the Air Force.
As they approached the base operations building at K-l, there was a new sign, neatly painted on a four-by-eight sheet of plywood.
United States Air Force
Military Air Transport Service
U.S. Air Force Station K-1
Pusan, Korea
There was an Air Force C-54, a four-engine Douglas transport, sitting in front of the building, with a ladder leading up into it.
"Looks like you got here just in time," Keller said.
"When we come back, Keller," Zimmerman said, "and there's rust on my Thompson, I will turn you into a so-prano."
They shrugged out of their field gear and put their Na-tional Match.45's in the small of their backs, under their utilities jackets, which they wore outside their trousers.
"In case you do wind up owning that Garand, Keller," McCoy said. `Take care of it. And thank you for every-thing."
"Forget it, Captain."
"Forget what? The thanks or the M-l?"
"Maybe both, sir," Keller said. "I'll wait until you're air-borne, then call General Pickering and tell him you're on the way."
"Thank you, Number Two," McCoy said.
Keller saluted. McCoy and Zimmerman returned it, and went into the terminal building, where there was an Air Force staff sergeant behind a counter.
"Can I help you, Captain?"
"If that C-54's headed for Tokyo, we need to be on it."
"Not a chance, sir. It's full. There may be another flight late this afternoon, but I think you'd better find a bed in the BOQ. I know I can get you on the flight first thing tomor-row."
"We need to be on that one," McCoy said, and took the Dai-Ichi orders from his pocket and handed them to the sergeant.
"Sorry, Captain," the sergeant said. "Just about every-body on that airplane has SCAP orders, and a priority, like yours. And the junior one is a major-"
"How about these orders?" McCoy said, and handed him the CIA orders.
The sergeant's eyes went up.
"I'll have to show these to the duty officer," he said, and turned from the counter.
"I don't let those orders out of my sight, Sergeant. Why don't you go fetch the duty officer?"
The sergeant shrugged, handed McCoy the CIA orders, and went to an office at the end of the room. An Air Force major came out and went to the counter.
"Sir, we need to be on that airplane," McCoy said. "Here's the authority."
The major read the orders. His eyebrows went up.
"You have the manifest, Sergeant?" he asked.
The sergeant handed him a clipboard, on which had been typed the names of the passengers.
He went down the list with a finger.
"There's a bird colonel on here with a Triple A," he said, "Minor, George P. And the junior officer with a Quadruple A is apparently Major Finney, Howard T. Go out there, Sergeant, and tell them they've been bumped. They are not going to like it."
"Yes, sir," the sergeant said.
"As soon as they get off," the major went on, "you two get on. While they're in here, raising hell with me, I'll have the pilot close the door and taxi away from here until he gets his takeoff clearance."
"Thank you, sir."
"I never saw orders like that before," the major said.
Three minutes later, Colonel Minor and Major Finney, in khaki uniforms, came down the ladder from the C-54, saw the two Marine officers in sweat- and dirt-stained util-ities waiting at the foot of the ladder, returned the Marines' salutes, and walked toward the passenger terminal.
Colonel Minor looked over his shoulder as he entered the building and saw McCoy and Zimmerman climbing the stairs. Then he hurried into the building.
[FIVE]
HANEDA AIRFIELD
TOKYO, JAPAN
1305 2 AUGUST 1950
As the MATS C-54 taxied toward the terminal, McCoy and Zimmerman saw a long line of staff cars and several small buses obviously waiting to transport the passengers from the airfield into Tokyo.
"The question now is how we get into Tokyo," McCoy said.
"My question is what the hell is going on?" Zimmerman said. " `Immediately. Repeat immediately.' What the hell is that all about?"
McCoy shrugged.
"I have no idea," he confessed.
When they finally reached the door of the aircraft and stepped out onto the platform at the head of the stairway, Zimmerman said, "Hey, there's a Marine officer."
McCoy looked where Zimmerman was pointing, and saw the Marine officer just as Zimmerman added, "Jesus, that's George Hart, or his twin goddamn brother!"
"I'll be damned," McCoy said, and waited impatiently for the SCAP brass to get off the stairway.
Captain George F. Hart, USMCR, or his doppelganger, in a crisp uniform, pushed himself off the front fender of a 1950 Chevrolet U.S. Army staff car and walked to the stair-way.
He saluted.
"Hello, Ken," he said. "Ernie."
"Jesus, George, I thought you'd be running around the hills of Pendleton," McCoy said, reaching for Hart's hand.
"So did I," Hart said. "Delicate subject. I'll tell you later."
"You're here to meet us?" McCoy asked.
Hart nodded. "Old times, huh?" he said. He gestured to-ward the staff car, and they started walking to it.
"What's going on, George?" Zimmerman asked. "What's this return immediately, repeat immediately' all about?"
"I don't know much," Hart said, interrupting himself to ask, "You have luggage, gear?"
McCoy and Zimmerman shook their heads, "no."
"I don't know much about what's going on," Hart re-peated. "It's got something to do with an Army two-star, a guy named Howe."
"General Howe is here?" McCoy asked.
Hart nodded. "We got in yesterday afternoon-"
" `We'?" McCoy interrupted.
"Same plane," Hart said. "I think it was a coincidence, but with Colonel Banning involved, you're never sure."
They reached the car. The driver, an Army sergeant, got from behind the wheel and opened the rear door on the dri-ver's side.
"I'll get in front," Hart said, and got in beside the driver. McCoy and Zimmerman got in the back.
The driver got behind the wheel.
"Take us to Captain McCoy's quarters, please," Hart said.
"Yes, sir," the sergeant said.
"My quarters?" McCoy asked, confused.
Hart turned on the seat, held his right hand in front of his face, nodded toward the driver, and put his left index finger on his lips.
"Your orders, gentlemen," Hart said, "are to shower, shave, put on uniforms, and join General Pickering as soon as possible. You, Captain, under the circumstances, may have thirty minutes of personal time-no more; the general was quite specific about that-with Mrs. McCoy."
McCoy didn't speak, but asked with his eyes and eye-brows if he had heard correctly. Hart nodded.