in first, then followed him. Hart ran around and got in the front passenger seat.
Senator Richardson K. Fowler, a tall, silver-haired, regal-looking sixty-seven-year-old, was sitting on the right side. He and Pickering looked at each other but didn’t speak for a moment.
“I was just wondering, Flem,” the senator said finally, “if you’d had your breakfast. I suppose I have the answer before me.”
“Fuck you, Dick,” General Pickering said.
“My, we are back in the Marines, aren’t we?” Fowler said. “Such language!”
“Fuck you twice, Dick,” Pickering said.
“Is he always this way, George?” Fowler asked innocently. “Or has he been at the booze?”
“Not yet,” Pickering replied. “To what do I owe this dubious honor, Dick?”
Fowler shook his head in resignation and smiled.
“As a courtesy, one of Truman’s people called to tell me you were on your way, and when, but that they doubted there would be time to meet, as you were to be immediately transferred to Travis Air Force Base for your trip to Washington. An Air Force plane—”
“Not that again,” Pickering interrupted.
“Not what again?”
“The last time he sent for me, I flew across the country in the backseat of an Air Force jet.”
“Oh, yes, I remember. Today, I understand, we will travel in a backup airplane—one of the big Douglases—to the Independence.”
“We will travel?”
“We. I invited myself to go with you. I thought you might need some moral support. As I was saying, your aircraft awaits at Travis.”
“Sir,” Colonel Banning said, “if I may interrupt, I think you’d better take a look at this.”
He handed Pickering a sealed, business-size envelope.
Pickering opened the envelope, read the message it contained, and then handed it to Hart.
“That’s already in Washington, sir,” Banning said.
Hart put the message back in the envelope and handed it back to Banning, who put it carefully into his hip pocket.
“I suppose what that is is none of my business,” Senator Fowler said.
“Dick, you’re putting me on a spot,” Pickering said.
“And what the hell, I’m only a United States Senator, right?”
“Let him see it, Ed,” Pickering ordered.
Banning handed Fowler the envelope.
“That’s from General Howe to Truman,” Pickering said. "MacArthur plans to reembark X Corps and reland it far up the east coast.”
“I know you won’t believe this, Fleming, but I do know how to read,” Fowler said as he took the message from the envelope.
He read it, put in back in the envelope, and handed it to Banning.
“Thank you, Colonel,” Fowler said, then turned to Pickering. “What’s the significance of that?”
“I think Howe wants the President to know MacArthur may take his time ‘advising’ the Joint Chiefs of his intentions,” Pickering said. “They have a tendency to want to take time to consider things carefully, and MacArthur (a) likes to strike when the iron is hot and (b) does not like the idea of having to ask permission to do something in ‘his’ war.”
“And whose side are you on?”
“The Joint Chiefs were the opposite of enthusiastic about the landing at Inchon. MacArthur is difficult, but he’s one hell of a general.”
There was the sound of the trunk slamming.
“That’s the luggage, sir,” Hart said.
“Okay, Fred,” Senator Fowler said. “Travis Air Force Base.”
“No, Fred,” Pickering said. “Take us to the San Franciscan. ”
He turned to Fowler. “That’ll just have to wait. I need a bath, George needs a bath, and, as you were so kind to point out, I need a clean uniform.”
“You don’t think it behooves you to instantly comply with an order from your Commander-in-Chief?”
“Fuck you yet again, Dick,” Pickering said. “A whole cup of coffee went down my front. . . .”
“And some tomato juice,” Hart offered helpfully from the front seat.
Pickering pointed a threatening finger at Hart.
“The San Franciscan, please, Fred,” Pickering ordered.
Fowler nodded. The limousine started to move.
“What’s the President want from me, anyway, Dick?” Pickering asked. “What’s this all about?”
“I think he’s going to offer you the CIA,” Fowler said. “Actually, I’m pretty positive he will.”
“Well, we can handle that with a telephone call,” Pickering said. “I don’t want the CIA.”
“I don’t think ‘No, thank you’ is one of your options,” Fowler said. “What I can probably help you to do is get some concessions vis-à-vis what you’ll do with it, what your authority will be, when you get it.”
Pickering looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “That’s another reason I’m not going to jump on another airplane right now. We’re going to have to talk about this, Dick.”
Fowler nodded.
“Thank you,” Pickering said.
Fowler nodded again.
[TWO]
THE PENTHOUSE THE FOSTER SAN FRANCISCAN HOTEL NOB HILL, SAN FRANCISCO,