“He’s had no combat experience, sir.”
“Then, damn it, I want someone who has! And I want him now! I don’t want to go flying in there on a wing and a prayer with someone driving this thing who hasn’t seen a Flogger coming up his ass at Mach 2 through the blind spot.”
“Yes, sir, but we will have fighter escorts from here right on through to Seoul. Course, that doesn’t invalidate your point. I’ll get someone with combat experience.”
“How many fighters’ll be flying escort?”
“Twenty, sir. F-15s, Hornets…”
“What?” bellowed Freeman. “That’s not an escort, that’s a goddamned invitation. Draw the enemy like a bear to honey. Fewer aircraft around me, the better I like it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Norton, saluting from habit, even though the general was in civilian clothes.
“We own the Pacific from here to Japan, don’t we?” asked Freeman.
“With the exception of the Russian subs, yes, sir.”
“All right then, let’s keep the bulk of the fighters away from me. Japan to Korea’s a different story. It’s catch as catch can across the Sea of Japan. So here’s what we do when we enplane from — where will it be — Hiroshima?”
“Possibly, sir, or Matsue, if the weather’s bad on the east coast.”
“Well, wherever — when we leave, send fighters ahead on a northwesterly course. We’ll go a few minutes later with only three fighters escort, maximum. If the Russkis do know anything about me coming — which I sincerely hope they don’t— they’ll go for our big fighter formation while we slip into Seoul. And they’ll get their tails shot off.”
Norton, anxious to draw another pilot from the duty roster who had combat experience, nodded quickly in agreement to the general’s diversionary plan. It was typically “Freemanish”—deceptive but also putting himself in danger with little protection. All Freeman cared about was the importance of the presidential order to get to Korea as fast as possible and revive America’s military fortunes there. If he didn’t turn things around there, the entire Asian theater would collapse and give the Russians’ Far Eastern Command an unprecedented opportunity to direct all the forces it was holding in reserve against a possible American attack from Korea toward Vladivostok, toward the Aleutians — to hit America’s “back door.”
“Besides,” added Freeman, “if this play actor they’ve got impersonating me in Brussels does his job well enough, damn Russians won’t even know we’re coming and we can just fly across under the normal patrol umbrella of the Sixth Fleet.”
“Must say, General, that sounds like a much better way of seeing the Sea of Japan — with the Sixth Fleet below us.”
Freeman frowned, but Norton wasn’t sure whether it was something he said or whether the general, whose pride kept him from wearing eyeglasses for his myopia, was squinting, having difficulty making out the approach of Lieutenant Harlin, the new press aide, Freeman’s regular press officer having been left in Brussels to help coordinate the impersonation/deception plan.
“Jim, when we reach Japan, it’s no longer the Sea of Japan we’re going over. It’s the East Sea. Our South Korean allies are very touchy on that particular point. They wouldn’t give you a stick for a Nip. Historical enemies. Hadn’t been for Korean Admiral Yi in the twelfth century sinking all the emperor’s ships in the Tsushima Straits, they’d all be eating sushi in Seoul. Poor bastards. And that’s another thing, Jim. I don’t want any member of this flight — fighter pilots included — to leave the air base in Japan — wherever it is we land. They start eating all that raw fish crap, next thing we’ll have half of ‘em down with the Johnny runs.”
“Yes, sir. Talking of Japan, it’s been suggested by the State Department that a visit to the emperor wouldn’t go astray in the interest of interallied—”
“Goddamn it, Jim! I can’t go giving an order for everyone to stay put while I go out and eat seaweed with the emperor. Besides, what if somebody recognized me en route — never mind this Wall Street garb they’ve stuck me into. It’d compromise the whole operation. Besides, only emperor I wanted to see was Douglas MacArthur. Then he went and screwed it all up. Gave them brand-new factories — put them years ahead of Detroit, which is why the automobile industry in this country is a basket case.” Freeman paused. “You don’t agree?”
“Never said a word, General.”
“I can read it all over your face. Well, I’m no racist bucko. I’ll fight and the with those people. What they did for us in the early months of the war when our perimeter ‘round Pusan shrank till we didn’t have a pot to piss in was magnificent. Magnificent. But—” for a moment the general moved closer to the colonel, eyes intense “—I’ll tell you this, Jim. If there’s anything left of a command in Korea and I do push Premier Lin Zhou’s boys back across the Yalu and the Tamur, I won’t be giving Beijing new automobile factories so they can pull another economic ‘miracle’ on us. Hell, I’d give ‘em democracy, too, but they’d have to rebuild from the rubble.”
Norton felt a flush of alarm — the “rubble” in Japan’s case had come from an atomic bomb. “You don’t mean you’d drop the bomb on the Chinese, General?”
“When are those jokers going to have my plane ready?”
“Excuse me, General.” Freeman turned to see his press aide and the U.S. Navy pilot, name tag “Maj. F. Shirer.”
“You have combat experience, Major?” asked Freeman.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where?”
“Aleutians, sir. Pyongyang.”
“Pyongyang?”
“Yes, sir. I flew off the Salt Lake City.”
“Cover!” said Freeman. “For my choppers?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Shirer, adding in a tone that spoke of pride with a flush of uncharacteristic immodesty, “Led the wing in twice.”
“That where you got that Navy Star, Major?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, hell, son, what are you doing here?” There was a sudden tension in the air, Norton knowing that if the general thought for a moment anyone was goldbricking, he’d just as soon shoot him.
“Beats me, sir,” Shirer told him honestly. “Apparently I’m a replacement for one of the Air Force One teams. Told me they wanted someone with combat hours, though why they chose—”
Freeman extended his hand. “I’ve got a more important job for you than ferrying the president around.”
The young press secretary shot a worried glance at Norton as if there might be some hidden microphone or reporter in the hangar, despite the fact that no one from the press would have been allowed anywhere near Andrews if there’d been even a suspicion that Freeman was in town.
“What’s the mission, sir?” asked Shirer, barely able to contain his excitement at the possibility of returning to active service, maybe even the Aleutians.
“Back to Korea,” explained Freeman, beaming. “As my pilot.”
Shirer hesitated. “You mean — a 747?”
“That’s right.”
“Yes, sir.”
Norton tried to send an eye code to Shirer to the effect that it wasn’t just anyone who got the job of flying the legendary Freeman back to the scene of his first glory. But the truth was that Shirer had had enough honor since he had come to Washington. What he wanted was combat. Instead he’d be jockeying the big, slow 747. If a fighter was a sports car, the 747 was a Mack truck — fully loaded. Besides, it wouldn’t take him anywhere near Lana. He also didn’t like the general calling him “son.” Though only in his late twenties, it wouldn’t be that long before they’d be retiring him from fighter duty.