divided by fifteen is eighty hours’ running time at a reasonable cruising speed—say, twelve knots. Eighty hours—provided the winds and tides are not really against us—at twelve knots is 960 miles.”
“Major Kim, will you please excuse us for a minute?” McCoy said, as politely as he could. “I need a word with Lieutenant Taylor.”
“Yes, of course,” Kim replied, smiling. He came to attention for a brief moment, then went down the stairs.
McCoy waited until he appeared on the deck.
“In other words, we have enough fuel to reach the Tokchok-kundo islands?”
“Easily, even running at full bore,” Taylor replied.
“At regular cruising speed, how long will that take us?”
“It’s about four hundred miles from here. At twelve knots—I think we can do that without sweat, but I won’t know until we’re actually at sea—that’s four hundred divided by twelve: thirty-three point forever. Call it thirty-four hours.”
“And at fourteen knots?”
“Call it thirty,” Taylor said. “But I’d rather not push her unless I have to.”
“What I want to do as soon as we can is get to Tokchok-kundo, get ashore, have a look around, and get the SCR- 300 up and operating.”
Taylor nodded his understanding.
“Are you planning on staying?”
“I’m going to leave Zimmerman there, and Major Kim. If Kim’s there, he can’t tell Dunston what we have in mind.”
“Did the Marines come through with aerial photographs? ” Taylor asked.
“Lots of them,” McCoy said. “But until I can compare them against maps, I don’t know what I’m looking at.”
“Charts, Captain McCoy, charts.”
“I beg the captain’s pardon,” McCoy said, smiling.
“You’ll have thirty-four hours to do that,” Taylor said. “We can shove off in about an hour. That soon enough?”
“We have to wait for a passenger,” McCoy said.
“Am I allowed to ask who?”
McCoy reached into his pocket for Jeanette Priestly’s note, and handed it to Taylor.
“Jesus!” Taylor said when he read it. “This is that female war correspondent who wrote that piece about you and Zimmerman?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s her connection with Pickering’s son?”
“She knows him. The guy at K-1 thinks she has the hots for him. I don’t know how she found out what the general does for a living.”
“Do I understand this? You want to take her along?” McCoy nodded.
“Can I ask why?”
“Because I can’t think of anything else to do with her,” McCoy said. “I can’t let her write a story saying who Pickering’s father is.”
“What makes you think she’ll be willing to go?”
“She’ll be on board when we sail, Captain.”
Taylor looked at him a long moment, but said nothing.
“Captain,” Major Kim called, and both Taylor and McCoy walked to the railing and looked down at him.
“Captain, my sergeant reports the fuel tanks are full.”
“Tell him thank you, please,” Taylor called back, and then looked at McCoy.
McCoy turned from the railing and spoke softly, in English.
“He was talking to you. He picked up on me making it clear you’re the captain.”
“Good man, I think,” Taylor said.
“The trouble with good men is that they tend to be pissed when they find out you’ve been lying to them,” McCoy said.
“Your orders, Captain?” Major Kim called.
“Tell him to wait a minute,” McCoy said.
“Stand by, please, Major,” Taylor called, in Korean.
“We’ll be taking Major Kim, and a dozen of his people, and their equipment,” McCoy said. “Plus eight of the Marines and Zimmerman. And their equipment.”
“Plus the lady war correspondent,” Taylor interjected.
“Where do we put them all?”
“There’s three cabins below,” Taylor said. “One is the mess and kitchen for the officers. There’s a captain’s cabin, more or less—we can put the lady in there—and another cabin for you, me, Zimmerman, and Major Kim. The weather’s nice. If it stays that way, we can sleep on deck. The officers up here, the men on the main deck.”
“And if the weather is foul?”
“As soon as it starts to turn nasty, the men are going to have to go in the holds, with the hatch covers battened.”
“That’s not going to be much fun.”
“It’ll be more fun than capsizing,” Taylor said.
“What are you going to do for a crew?” McCoy asked.
“Three of Kim’s men were sailors. They can show the others what to do. There’s not much to know about the rigging on a junk. The sails are square—Okay, oblong—and they’re stiffened with bamboo. They’re like Venetian blinds, you open—raise—them by pulling on a rope. There’s no wheel, just this thing . . .”
He pointed to a six-inch-square handle, lashed to the stern.
“. . . the rudder. The rudder is huge; it also serves as the centerboard when you’re under sail. Sometimes—to turn sharply—you need more