The S-3, the aide-de-camp, and the sergeant major, all of whom considered it part of their duties to protect the general from wasting his time dealing with people who could have their problems solved by somebody else, were all privately hoping that General Craig would emerge from his helicopter, learn that Captain McCoy had demanded to know when he would return to the CP, and eat him a new asshole.
Everyone more or less came to attention when the door of the helicopter opened and General Craig got out. The G-3 and Captain McCoy saluted.
“Reporting for duty, McCoy?” Craig asked, as he returned the salute.
“No, sir. I need a few minutes of your time.”
“I have very little of that,” Craig said. “What do you need?”
“Sir, I have to speak to you privately.”
“Okay, let’s go to the CP,” he said.
“Sir,” the S-3 said, “there’re several things. . .”
“First, McCoy gets three minutes, Okay?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The Jeeps made a little convoy as they drove to the command post, a rather spartan sandbag-reinforced collection of tents set up against a steep incline. Bringing up the rear was a Jeep whose bumper markings identified it as belonging to the signal company of the Army’s 24th Division. It held Captain McCoy and Master Gunner Zimmerman, who was driving.
General Craig’s “office” was a chair and a desk, on which sat two field telephones in the interior of one of the tents. With his sergeant major, the G-3, the G-2, his aide, his sergeant major and McCoy and Zimmerman on his heels, he walked to it.
General Craig mimed wanting coffee to one of the clerks, who said, “Aye, aye, sir,” and went to the stainless-steel pitcher sitting on an electric burner on the dirt floor.
“Okay, McCoy,” General Craig said. “I interpret ‘a few minutes’ to mean no more than three. Then you can get yourself a cup of coffee.”
“Sir, I must speak to you privately.”
“Captain, Colonel Fuster is my G-3. He has all the security clearances he needs.”
“With respect, sir, he doesn’t,” McCoy said.
Craig looked at him coldly for a moment.
“This had better be important, Captain,” Craig said, then, to the G-3, “Give us three minutes, please, Colonel.”
Lieutenant Colonel Fuster said, “Aye, aye, sir,” and gestured to the G-2, the aide, and the sergeant major to leave the general’s “office.”
“Okay,” Craig said. “What’s on your mind?”
“Sir, I need a dozen men, noncoms, staff sergeants, and weapons and ammunition. Zimmerman has a list.”
“Not that I have either men, weapons, or ammo to spare, but what for?”
“A clandestine operation, sir.”
“Simple answer, no,” Craig said. “Sorry.”
“Sir, I was instructed to show you this, by General Pickering, as his authority to conduct the operation.”
He took the White House orders from his utilities pocket and handed them to General Craig.
Craig read them and handed them back.
“Am I permitted to know the nature of this clandestine operation?”
“Yes, sir. But General Pickering directed me to tell you, sir, that this is classified Top Secret/White House, and is not to be divulged to anyone.”
“Understood,” Craig said.
“There are two NK-occupied islands in the Flying Fish Channel leading to Inchon, sir, from which artillery could be brought to bear on vessels attempting to reach Inchon. We intend to occupy them now, using South Korean national police.”
“I thought they called that invasion operation off—Operation Bluehearts was what they called it—when we lost Taejon,” Craig said. “Now it’s back on?”
“I don’t know if that operation is back on, sir, but General Pickering thinks there will be an amphibious operation at Inchon.”
“And you and a dozen noncoms are going to—invade is the wrong word; a dozen men can’t invade anything—infiltrate these islands and secure them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Won’t that tip the North Koreans that we’re going to land at Inchon?”
“We hope they will believe it is a South Korean national police operation, sir. What I’m going to do with the non-coms is train and arm South Koreans—”
“South Koreans already on the islands?”
“Yes, sir. And I understand there’s a lot of refugees from the mainland on the islands, too.”
“What makes you think they’ll volunteer?”
“When the North Koreans took Seoul and Inchon, they shot a lot of people they thought might cause trouble. The refugees want to pay them back.”
“Okay,” Craig said.
“South Koreans, recruited into the South Korean national police, will be the bulk of the landing force. The Marines will wear South Korean national police uniforms. . . .”
“I suppose wearing the uniform of a cobelligerent is permitted under the rules of land warfare, but I wonder what would