Part 25 (2/2)
”Jesus, what happened here?” Donald asked.
”If I had to guess, I would guess that a North Korean patrol, covering the flanks, or maybe just coming down the coastline, came here, found something-the generator, the radios, anything-that suggested these people had some government connection.”
”You mean, they knew what this place was used for?”
”No. I mean they thought it was a government outpost of some sort. So, to make everybody understand the rules of the liberation, they shot everybody they could find, then burned the place down.”
”And didn't bury the bodies.”
”They may not have had the time,” McCoy said, ”or there may have been a political officer who decided that rotting bodies would really send the message he wanted to send.”
Donald blurted what he was thinking. ”You don't seem overly upset about this.”
”Alex, you have no idea how close I am to tossing my cookies,” McCoy said. ”Let's get the f.u.c.k out of here!”
They trotted back to the L-19.
[EIGHT].
NEAR SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA 0935 1 OCTOBER 1950.
McCoy pressed the black b.u.t.ton on his microphone and asked Donald, ”Is there some reason we can't land at Kimpo, K-14?”
”No. You want to go to the hangar?”
”I've just decided I'm going to use some of the Marines there before they take them away from me,” McCoy said.
”I thought the general said he was going to speak to the CG of the Marine Division about them.”
”He did. And the 1st MarDiv CG may say, 'Not only no, but h.e.l.l no.' Take us to the hangar.”
”Captain,” Major McCoy said to Captain Howard C. Dunwood, USMCR, as they stood outside the hangar, ”I don't know what, if any, authority I have over you and your Marines, but-”
”Sir, I can answer that question.”
”Okay, Captain, answer it.”
”There was a captain from 1st MarDiv G-3 here yesterday, sir. He said my orders, until I hear to the contrary, are to take my orders from you.”
”Yesterday, you said? Not today?”
”Late yesterday afternoon, sir.”
”Never look a gift horse in the mouth, Captain. Write that down.”
Dunwood smiled.
”Aye, aye, sir.”
”There's a tiny fis.h.i.+ng village on the east coast called Socho-Ri. I want you to leave enough men here to keep the curious away from the helos, and make for this village with the rest. Take everything with you we got from the dumps. Don't take any chances. If you run into North Koreans, turn around and run. Getting to this village is the priority. By the time you're loaded up, Master Gunner Zimmerman will be here. He'll have maps, radios, et cetera.”
”Yes, sir.”
”When you get to the village, clean it up-there's bodies all over it. Find someplace to bury them, and do what you can to collect identification, et cetera.”
”Aye, aye, sir.”
”Then set up a perimeter guard, and stay there. I'll be in touch.”
”Can I ask what this is all about, Major?”
”Not yet. I'll tell you when I can.”
”Aye, aye, sir.”
VII.
[ONE].
SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA 1145 3 OCTOBER 1950.
Two cars, a black Chevrolet with the insignia of the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service painted on its doors and a black Lincoln limousine bearing the California license plate US SEN 1, followed a Ford truck with stairs mounted in back toward the City of Los Angeles City of Los Angeles as the aircraft shut down its engines. as the aircraft shut down its engines.
An INS officer and an officer from the Bureau of Customs got out of the Chevrolet, and a Marine colonel got out of the limousine. As soon as the stairs had been put in place against the Constellation and the rear door had been opened, they all went up the stairs.
They found Brigadier General Fleming Pickering in seat 1-A.
”That's all the h.e.l.l I need,” Pickering said to the Marine colonel as he put out his hand, ”a full bull colonel of the Regular Marine Corps to look askance at my appearance.”
Two hours into the final Honolulu-San Francisco leg of his flight, as he was having his breakfast, there was unexpected turbulence, and the front of his uniform jacket still showed-despite the frenzied, even valiant efforts of two stewardi-the remnants of most of a cup of coffee, a half-gla.s.s of tomato juice, and two poached eggs.
”You look s.h.i.+pshape to me, General,” Colonel Edward J. Banning, an erect, stocky, six-foot-tall, 200-pound forty-five -year-old, said with a straight face.
Pickering snorted, then asked, ”What's going on here, Ed? Isn't that Senator Fowler's car?”
”Yes, sir, it is.”
”Fowler's car? Or Fowler himself?” Pickering asked.
”Senator Fowler himself, General.”
”What the h.e.l.l does he want?” Pickering asked rhetorically.
”General,” the customs officer said, extending a printed form to him. ”If you'll just sign this, sir, it will complete the Customs and Immigration procedure.”
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