SCAP would probably know.” He paused and added, “He’s a Mustang. ”
“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? Unless 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 direction 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. Communications. The problem with cryptography, sending encoded messages, Mrs. McCoy, is that the technicians who do the encoding obviously get to read the message. General Pickering 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 anything 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 Security 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 before 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 ‘return 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,” McCoy said, smiling. “And when I asked him why somebody as smart as he was wasn’t a Marine, he said he didn’t qualify 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 resonant. “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,’ ” Zimmerman 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.
XII
[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 outside the G-3 section had half a dozen young men like this one in it around the clock.