Under Fire - By W.E.B. Griffin Page 0,83

on, “Captain McCoy thinks it would be a good idea to get a third set, issued by SCAP.”

“Saying what, Captain?” Almond asked McCoy.

“Saying that Mr. Zimmerman and I are on a liaison mission—or something like that—from SCAP, sir,” McCoy said. “Preferably signed by you, sir.”

“Reason?” Almond asked.

“White House and CIA orders, sir, and orders signed by General MacArthur are likely to call more attention to us than we want.”

“Point taken,” Almond said. “When we finish here, Al, get with Captain McCoy and give him what he needs.”

“Yes, sir,” Haig said.

Almond looked at McCoy.

“I presume you’re going to Korea?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“As soon as we have the orders from here, sir.”

“You’re going to need some field equipment,” Almond said. “And weapons. Things are pretty primitive over there. Lieutenant Haig can help you there.”

“We have what we’ll need, sir,” McCoy said. “But thank you.”

“I wish I had an interpreter to send with you. I don’t.”

“McCoy speaks Korean, General,” Pickering said. “Reads and writes it, too.”

“If I had known that, Captain, when you were here, I would have done my best to steal you from the Naval element. I’m surprised General Willoughby didn’t,” Almond said. Then he paused and looked at Pickering. “General Willoughby would of course be interested in whatever intelligence Captain McCoy turns up. It’s an admission of failure on our part, obviously, but the truth is this Korean business caught us completely by surprise.”

“I’m sure something can be worked out, General,” Pickering said. “But I’m sure you’ll understand that McCoy and Zimmerman have to do their job independently.”

“Yes, of course,” Almond said. He looked at his watch. “It might be a good idea if we walked down the corridor to the Supreme Commander’s office. He doesn’t mind if people are early. Late is an entirely different matter.”

“Ken, don’t leave until I see you,” Pickering ordered, as he got to his feet.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

[FIVE]

The Supreme Commander, Allied Powers, General of the Army Douglas MacArthur, rose from behind his desk and walked toward Brigadier General Fleming Pickering with his hand extended.

“My old friend is once again my comrade-in-arms, I see,” he said, patting Fleming on the shoulder as he shook his hand.

“Good morning, General,” Pickering said.

“Ned took good care of you on your arrival, I trust?” MacArthur said, nodding toward Major General Almond.

“General Almond has been very obliging, sir,” Pickering said.

“Your quarters are all right? Everything you need?” MacArthur pursued.

“General Pickering took care of himself,” Almond said. “He’s at the Imperial.”

“But you did meet the MATS flight?” MacArthur asked, a tone of annoyance in his voice. MATS was Military Air Transport Service.

“We came on Trans-Global,” Pickering said. “It was faster, and I didn’t want to take up space on an Air Force flight.”

“And you knew that the Imperial would be a little nicer than the Menzies, right?” MacArthur said, chuckling.

“Yes, sir,” Pickering said.

“Ned, in June of 1942, Supreme Headquarters, Southwest Pacific Command—all of it, including quarters for the senior officers—was in the Menzies Hotel in Melbourne, ” MacArthur explained. “The Menzies is not about to appear on a list of great hotels of the world.”

Almond laughed dutifully.

“Those black days seem like a long time ago, don’t they, Fleming?” MacArthur asked.

“Yes, sir, they do,” Pickering agreed.

“Ned, if you’ll excuse us, I’m sure General Fleming would like a little time in private with me.”

“Yes, of course, sir,” Almond said, smiled, nodded at Pickering and left the office.

If it bothers Almond—El Supremo’s chief of staff—to be excluded from this conversation, it didn’t show on his face.

MacArthur walked to his desk, picked up a humidor, and carried it to where Pickering stood. It held long, rather thin black cigars, which Pickering suspected were Philippine. He took one.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Philippine,” MacArthur confirmed. “I think they’re better than the famed Havanas.”

“They’re good,” Pickering said, as he took a clipper from the humidor. “I remember.”

MacArthur returned the humidor to his desk, and returned with a silver Ronson table lighter. They finished the ritual of lighting the cigars.

“If I promise beforehand not to have the messenger executed, ” MacArthur said, with a smile, “perhaps you’ll tell me what message you bear from the President.”

“The only real message I have, sir, is that the President wants you to know he has full—absolute—confidence in you,” Pickering said.

MacArthur nodded, as if he expected a statement like this.

“And his concerns?” he asked.

“He doesn’t want Korea to start World War Three,” Pickering said.

“There’s not much chance of that,” MacArthur said. “We have nuclear superiority.”

“He was concerned that this has taken us completely by surprise,” Pickering said.

“And