“He now commands Marine Barracks, Charleston, and teaches at the Citadel,” Cates said. “Do you think he would be useful to you in the CIA?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s yours. Anyone else?”
“There’s a master gunner at Parris Island, also ex-4th Marines, also ex-OSS. Ernie . . . Ernest W. Zimmerman. He speaks Japanese and two kinds of Chinese. I don’t know about Korean, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Spelled the way it sounds?” Cates asked, his pencil poised.
“Yes, sir,” Pickering said. “General, I’m a little uncomfortable with this. I may have no responsibilities at all at the CIA and—”
“On the other hand, you may have great responsibility,” Cates cut him off. “Let me tell you, between two old Belleau Woods Marines, my greatest concern right now is for the Corps. First, of course, is the beating we’re going to take when we go to war understrength and under-equipped. Right on the heels of that primary concern are A and B. A: We’ll be sent to Korea, and, once we get there, will be unable, because of the cuts-through-the-bone economies of Mr. Johnson, to do what people expect the Marine Corps to do.” Secretary of Defense Louis Johnson, a Truman crony, had proudly announced he had “cut military excess and waste to the bone.” “And B: When that happens, when the Corps can’t do the impossible, it will prove what a lot of people—including our Commander-in-Chief—have been saying, that the United States doesn’t need a Marine Corps.”
“Truman said that?” Pickering asked, surprised.
“Words to that effect,” Cates said. “And unfortunately, I think he really believes the Marine Corps is not needed.”
“It’s not a pretty picture, is it?” Pickering asked.
“I have faith the Corps will come through,” Cates said. “But if I can raise the odds slightly in our favor by assigning three people to you . . .”
“Frankly, I think the best help I could provide will be to talk to Senator Fowler, give him these figures . . .”
“He knows the figures. I think he agrees with Truman.”
“He never suggested anything like . . . putting the Corps out of business to me,” Pickering protested loyally.
“He’s a politician,” Cates said. “Politicians never say anything to people that they suspect might be offensive.”
Pickering didn’t reply.
Cates rose from behind his desk and put out his hand.
“Flem, I have a meeting. They’ve prepared a draft order to organize a Marine Brigade at Pendleton, and I want to go over it.”
“Of course,” Pickering said.
“Stay in touch, please,” Cates said.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Pickering said.
The Commandant’s gunnery sergeant was waiting for him in the outer office.
“If you’ll come with me, please, General, they’re waiting to take your photo for the ID card. And whenever you get to the hospital at Anacostia, they’re waiting for you to take your physical. Have you got wheels, General, or should I get you a car?”
ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE WASHINGTON, D.C. 1305 30 JUNE 1950
“Air Force Eight Eight Three, take taxiway three right to the Base Operations tarmac. You will be met.”
“Understand taxiway three right. Do you mean a follow-me? ”
“Eight three, negative. Your passenger will be met.”
“Got it,” the pilot of USAF F-94, tail number 490883, said, then switched to intercom. “You hear that, Captain?”
“I heard it. I don’t know what it means,” McCoy said.
The F-94 was met at Base Operations by a ground crew, who signaled for it to stop on the tarmac itself, rather than in the VIP parking area, and then rolled a ladder up to the side of the aircraft.
“Thanks for the ride,” McCoy said.
“I loved it,” the pilot replied. “That was the first cross-country I made in a long time without being ordered to watch my fuel consumption.”
Not without some difficulty, McCoy unplugged the connections to his helmet, unfastened his shoulder harness, then the parachute connections, and then crawled somewhat ungracefully out of the rear seat and down the ladder.
Two muscular young men in gray suits were waiting for him on the ground.
“Captain McCoy?” the shorter of the two asked.
McCoy nodded.
“Will you come with us, please, Captain?”
“Who are you? Come with you where?”
The shorter man held out a leather credentials wallet for McCoy to see.
“We’re Secret Service, Captain.”
“You couldn’t give me a better look at that badge, could you?”
Visibly displeased with the request, the Secret Service agent again displayed his credentials.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Fine. Now, where are we going?” McCoy asked.
“The car is over here,” the Secret Service agent replied. “You