“No, of course not. I should have thought of messaging President Truman myself.”
“You heard that, Charley,” Howe said. “Find Sergeant Keller and have him get that off right now.”
Rogers nodded.
“If you see Captain Hart, Charley,” Pickering said. “He doesn’t know where I went. Tell him I’m here.”
“Ask him if he wants a drink, Charley,” Howe ordered.
Rogers wordlessly left the room.
“You think he can carry it off, don’t you?” Howe asked.
“The Inchon invasion?”
Howe nodded.
“Yes, I do,” Pickering said.
“Right now, it’s the Viceroy, that gang of sycophants around him, and you, versus the collective wisdom of the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” Howe said.
“I thought the Bible salesman had made a convert of you,” Pickering said.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Howe said. “I started thinking about McCoy and Taylor. What that is, really, Fleming, is two junior officers, a squad of Marines, and maybe two squads of Korean policemen taking two small islands. The invasion can’t succeed unless they succeed. On solemn reflection, that seems to be a lousy way to stage an invasion.”
“What makes it worse,” Pickering agreed, “is that Taylor’s idea makes a hell of a lot more sense than what the Dai-Ichi planners want to do: take the islands on D Minus One.”
Howe looked at him intently for a moment.
“Having granted my point, you still think it will work?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Is that what they call ‘faith’? As in ‘faith in God’ or ‘faith in the Viceroy’?” Howe challenged, pleasantly.
Or maybe I think it will work because I desperately want it to work, so that one of El Supremo’s armored flying columns can liberate Pick from a POW camp?
No. That’s not it. I think it will work because MacArthur says it will. I thought that before tonight, even before Pick got shot down.
“I’d like to think it’s a calm, professional judgment, but since I’m not really a professional, and with my son missing, I don’t suppose I’m thinking very calmly—clearly— either.”
Howe opened his mouth to reply, but stopped when the door opened and George Hart came in.
“That was quick, George,” Pickering said.
“Something was said about a drink,” Hart said, and then blurted, “When I came back from the movie, and you weren’t in the suite . . .”
My God, he was really worried about me!
“You must be the only man in the hotel who didn’t know that Colonel Huff carried me off to meet with MacArthur,” Pickering said.
“Captain,” General Howe said, amused, “you are referring to the very senior aide-de-camp to the Supreme Commander of all he surveys. A little respect might be in order.”
“Very little,” Pickering said.
Christ, that was a dumb thing to say. You must be more than a little plastered, Fleming Pickering.
“I’m talking about that CIC clown in the hall. I asked him if he had seen you, and he said he had no idea where you were.”
“So you went looking for me?” Pickering asked, softly.
“Yes, sir. I thought maybe you took a walk, or something. ”
“Or was having a belt or two in the hotel bar? You looked for me there?”
“Yes, sir. I was about to go to General Howe—I didn’t know what the hell to do—when Charley . . . Sergeant Rogers . . . came in the suite.”
“I’m all right, George. MacArthur heard about Pick and wanted to express his concern.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make yourself a drink, George,” Howe said.
He looked at Pickering as he spoke.
My God, he’s thinking the same thing I am. George was really concerned, really worried. More than that, he saw that George’s concern went far beyond that of an aide-de-camp /bodyguard for his general. It was—what?—loving concern? Well, maybe not loving concern, more like the concern of a son for his father. But isn’t that, by definition, loving concern?
“No, thank you, sir,” Hart said. “I’ll just stick around until the boss decides to go to bed.”
“The boss has just decided to do just that,” Pickering said, and drained his glass. He looked at Howe. “By your leave, sir?”
“That sounded very military, Flem,” Howe said. “Very professional, if you take my meaning. And just to keep things straight between us: I don’t think you’re capable of not thinking clearly. Goodnight, my friend.”
When Pickering got out of the shower and went into his bedroom, a crack of light under the door to the sitting room made him suspect that George was still in there.
“Go to bed, Captain Hart!” he called.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Hart called back. “In just a minute.”