“The odds are . . . ,” McCoy began, and stopped when she took the whiskey bottle from his hand again. He didn’t say anything when she took another pull and handed the bottle back again.
“That’s my drink for tomorrow, Okay?” she said. “You were saying?”
“The odds are that the North Koreans would like to have a Marine aviator, a major, to interrogate.”
“Especially if they knew his father was the CIA guy for Asia,” she agreed.
“We don’t think they know that,” McCoy said. “And obviously, I could not permit you to write a story telling them.”
“What are you going to do, keep me a prisoner until the end of the war?”
He didn’t reply.
“Goddamn you, McCoy,” she went on. “All you had to do was tell me.”
“I couldn’t take that chance,” he said.
“And what is this, some kind of rescue operation?”
“There are two islands in the Flying Fish Channel leading to Inchon from which the North Koreans could bring artillery fire to bear on the invasion fleet headed for Inchon. What we’re going to try to do is take them now, very quietly, using South Korean national police, in such a way that they won’t guess it’s a prelude to an amphibious invasion. ”
She took a moment to consider that.
“That would be a good story,” Jeanette said. “And, under these circumstances, it would be an exclusive, wouldn’t it?”
He nodded.
“Not as good a story—not one that would get as much front-page play as ‘CIA Chief’s Marine Hero Son Shot Down in Korea,’ of course—but a pretty good little story.”
McCoy didn’t reply.
“But, obviously, I couldn’t write about Pick, could I?”
“Why ‘obviously’?”
“You dumb sonofabitch, you don’t understand, do you?”
“Understand what?”
“I’m in love with the sonofabitch!”
After a moment, McCoy asked: “When did that happen? ”
“It probably happened in the hotel, the night I met him,” she said. “Or maybe when he came back from that first sortie, kissed me, and I practically dragged him to bed.”
“I didn’t know,” McCoy said. “I’m sorry.”
“But I didn’t know until just now,” she said. “When you told me.”
McCoy said nothing.
“Oh, Jesus, McCoy!” she said.
He reached out to touch her shoulder. He felt her shudder, and the next thing either of them knew, she was sobbing shamelessly in his arms, and he was patting her comfortingly.
XV
[ONE]
ABOARD WIND OF GOOD FORTUNE 34 DEGREES 18 MINUTES NORTH LATITUDE, 126 DEGREES 30 MINUTES EAST LONGITUDE THE YELLOW SEA 0445 6 AUGUST 1950
They had not wanted to attract attention to themselves by leaving Pusan Harbor under power—McCoy guessed there were probably a hundred North Korean agents in Pusan—so they had sailed out into deep water. Once out of sight of Pusan, they’d lowered the sails, started the diesel, and “steamed”—Lieutenant Taylor’s term—as fast as Taylor thought prudent, through the night.
McCoy volunteered to relieve Taylor at the tiller for however long he wanted, but Taylor said he’d catch up on his sleep when they reached Tokchok-kundo, and suggested that McCoy get as much sleep as he could.
When wakened by the first light that came through the small window—he couldn’t think of it as a port, since it was wooden, thin-glassed, and even had a small curtain— McCoy went to the bridge and found both Zimmerman and Jeanette Priestly were already there.
A shoreline was just visible to starboard. He guessed the distance to be four miles. He thought he could smell bacon frying.
“Well, Captain Kidd has finally woken,” Jeanette greeted him.
“I prefer to think of myself as Jean Lafitte,” McCoy replied. “He was one of the good pirates, we won that war, and he was pardoned for his crimes, and lived happily ever after. They hung Captain Kidd.”
Taylor chuckled.
“Is that bacon I smell?” McCoy asked. “And who do you have to know to get coffee?”
“Me,” Zimmerman said, and pointed to the deck where an olive-drab Thermos chest on which was stenciled D CO. 24TH INF was lashed to the railing.
McCoy went to it and opened it. It held two canteens, presumably full of coffee, and a stack of aluminum canteen cups. He helped himself, then offered the canteen cup to Taylor, who nodded and smiled.
“Breakfast will be served shortly,” Zimmerman said. “Bacon-and-egg sandwiches.”
“All the comforts of home,” McCoy said. “What else could anyone ask for?”
“A flush toilet would be nice,” Jeanette said.
“Where are we?” McCoy asked, handing Taylor the coffee.
“Well, if we are where I hope we are, we made it through the Cheju Strait, and are now in the Yellow Sea, heading north, and it’s decision time.”