"Collins, to put it mildly, was not enthusiastic about an amphibious invasion at Inchon, and neither was the Navy. It's not like landing on some Pacific Island, or, for that matter, Normandy. There's a long channel the invasion fleet would have to pass through to get to the beach, and it's not far from North Korea, which could quickly send re-inforcements. But the question became moot after we lost Taejon. All the troops that MacArthur wanted to use for the invasion had to be sent to Pusan, or we were going to be forced off the Korean Peninsula.
"Everybody in the Pentagon sighed in relief when the invasion was called off, but now MacArthur's brought it up again-using the words `when I land at Inchon,' not `if we decide to land at Inchon.' So Ridgway is going to `confer' with him about Inchon. If we can get away with it, General Pickering and I are going to invite ourselves to that meet-ing; I don't think we can crash the one between Harriman and MacArthur.
"What the President sent me here to do is to find out what I can about Inchon and report to him directly what I think. That poses two problems. First, I don't know any-thing about Inchon except what General Pickering has told me-"
"Based on damned little," Pickering interjected, "except my memory of taking a PandFE freighter in there before the war-and aground on the mudflats."
"Sir, there's a guy," McCoy said. "A Navy officer-I talked to him a couple of times-who was in there a lot on an LST," McCoy said. "He knows all about Inchon, and the channel islands."
"You have his name?' Howe asked. "Where is he?"
`Taylor," McCoy said. "David R. Taylor, Lieutenant, USNR. I don't know where he is. Naval Element, SCAP would probably know." He paused and added, "He's a Mus-tang."
"A what?" Howe asked.
"He was an enlisted man, sir," McCoy said.
"Yeah, that's right, isn't it? That's what the Navy and the Marines call somebody who's come out of the ranks. `Mustang' seems to suggest they're not as well-bred as somebody from the Naval Academy, a little wild, maybe uncontrollable, likely to cause trouble to the established order of things."
McCoy and Hart looked uncomfortable. General Pickering was about to reply when General Howe went on: "Well, then, he'll be right at home with this bunch, won't he? Un-less I'm wrong, we all belong to that exclusive club."
He turned to Master Sergeant Rogers.
"Charley, call SCAP Naval Element and have this guy placed on TDY to us as soon as possible. Like as of eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Have him report to the hotel. He doesn't need to know about this place."
Master Sergeant Rogers nodded, and wrote on his lined pad.
General Howe saw the look on McCoy's face.
"Yeah, I can do that, McCoy," he said. "Before I came here, Admiral Sherman-the chief of naval operations- sent a commander to see the admiral, to tell him that by di-rection of the President, I'm to get whatever I ask for from the Navy, and that SCAP is not to be told what I asked for."
"Yes, sir," McCoy said.
"What's left?" Howe asked. "Oh, yeah. Communica-tions. The problem with cryptography, sending encoded messages, Mrs. McCoy, is that the technicians who do the encoding obviously get to read the message. General Pick-ering tells me that during War Two, when he was dealing with the MAGIC business, he had his own cryptographers."
"Including George," McCoy said, nodding at Hart.
"We talked about that," Howe said. "The equipment Hart used is no longer in service. And I'm concerned that any-thing we send through the SCAP crypto room will be read by people who'll pass it on to people here. I may be wrong, but I can't take that chance. Charley called the Army Secu-rity Agency, and they're going to send us a cryptographer, one we know won't share what he's read with anybody. But I don't know how long that will take-if he can get here be-fore we start to need him. Suggestions?"
"Ken," Zimmerman said. "Keller?"
"Who's Keller?" General Pickering asked.
"The crypto guy in Pusan," McCoy said. "Eighth Army Rear. Master Sergeant. The one you talked to... the 're-turn immediately, repeat immediately' message?"
"Very obliging," Pickering said. "What about him?"
"General, he just got to Pusan," Zimmerman said. "He's new, not part of the SCAP setup."
"Good man, I think," McCoy said.
"Why do you say that?" Howe asked.
"He talked me out of my National Match Garand," Mc-Coy said, smiling. "And when I asked him why somebody as smart as he was wasn't a Marine, he said he didn't qual-ify for the Corps; his parents were married."
Howe laughed.
"That's terrible," Mrs. McCoy said, smiling.
"Charley?" Howe asked.
"He'd have the right clearances, General," Master Sergeant Rogers said. His voice was very deep and reso-nant. "And I could have a word with him about keeping his mouth shut."
That's the first time he's said a word, McCoy realized.
"You have the number of the SCAP Army Security Agency guy?" Howe asked.
Rogers nodded.
"Call him and have him send this fellow here on the next plane," Howe ordered.
Rogers nodded, and wrote on his lined pad.
"Have the message say, `Bring Marine weapons,'" Zim-merman said.
"Weapons? More than one?" Rogers asked.
"He's got my Thompson, too," Zimmerman said.
"This has to be one hell of a man," Pickering said, "to talk these two out of their weapons."
Howe chuckled.
Chapter Twelve
[ONE]
THE DEWEY SUITE
THE IMPERIAL HOTEL
TOKYO, JAPAN
0755 3 AUGUST 1950
Lieutenant David R. Taylor, USNR, a stocky, ruddy-faced thirty-two-year-old, walked down the corridor of the hotel and raised his eyebrows in a not entirely friendly manner when the young American in a business suit rose from a chair in the corridor and blocked his way.
"May I help you, sir?"
"If you can show me where the Dewey Suite is, that'd help."
"And you are, sir?"
"Who're you?"
The CIC agent produced his credentials, a thin folding wallet, with a badge pinned to one half and a photo ID card on the other.
Taylor was not surprised. He had spent the last four days in the Dai-Ichi Building, working on the plans to stage an amphibious landing at Inchon. The corridor out-side the G-3 section had half a dozen young men like this one in it around the clock.
"My name is Taylor," he said.
"May I see some identification, sir?"
Taylor produced his Department of the Navy officer's identification card.
The CIC agent examined it.
"They're expecting you, Lieutenant," he said. "Second door on the left."
Taylor walked down the corridor, and knocked at the door.
Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, was in a crisp, tieless shirt, with the silver star of his rank on both sides of the collar.
I would have sworn they said Major General.