"I said the Wind of Good Fortune Wind of Good Fortune looks like a typical junk," McCoy said. "But she was prepared for the smugglingtrade by some very good shipwrights in Macao. You know, near Hong Kong?" looks like a typical junk," McCoy said. "But she was prepared for the smugglingtrade by some very good shipwrights in Macao. You know, near Hong Kong?"

Donald nodded.

"How prepared?" he asked.

"Wind of Good Fortune has a 200-horse Caterpillar diesel, and fuel tanks therefore in her holds," McCoy said. "And some basic, but pretty reliable, radio direction finder equipment. She'll make thirteen, fourteen knots, even with her sail acting as a windbreak." has a 200-horse Caterpillar diesel, and fuel tanks therefore in her holds," McCoy said. "And some basic, but pretty reliable, radio direction finder equipment. She'll make thirteen, fourteen knots, even with her sail acting as a windbreak."

"Sounds like something out of Terry and the Pirates, Terry and the Pirates," Donald said, referring to Milton Caniff's popular comic strip.

"Why Socho-Ri?" McCoy asked. "Why there?"

Dunston went to the stack of aerials, searched through them, and slipped one under the viewing device.

"For several reasons," he said. "For one thing, it's tiny. For another, it's about fifteen miles south of the 38th Parallel. Highway Five runs up to the border, but-since it had nowhere to go beyond the border-the closer it got to the border it was less traveled and not maintained. And even better, between the highway and the sh.o.r.eline"-he took a pencil and used it as a pointer on the aerial-"there's this line of hills. You can't tell from the aerial, but they're (a) too steep-sided to build rice paddies on them and (b) from 100 to 200 feet high, so that you can't see the village from Highway 5."

McCoy touched Donald's shoulder. Donald moved his head out of the way, and McCoy studied the aerial.

"I'm surprised I don't see much of a road," he said.

"We didn't use the road-actually just a path-unless we had to. We supplied the place using the Wind of Good Fortune. Wind of Good Fortune."

"Okay," McCoy said.

"When I found Socho-Ri," Dunston went on, "there were about a dozen fishermen and their families in the village. They not only hated the North Koreans but were delighted to find someone willing to buy their dried fish from them, and at a better price than they had been able to get after having to take it by oxcart south to Kangnung, the closest 'city,' thirty miles to the south.

"So I hired the fishermen to build four more stone, thatch-roofed houses, and to repair the existing, fallen-into -disrepair-because-their-small-boats-didn't-need-it wharf so the Wind of Good Fortune Wind of Good Fortune could tie up to it," Dunston went on. "And then went to work." could tie up to it," Dunston went on. "And then went to work."

"How did it work?" McCoy asked.

"The Wind of Good Fortune Wind of Good Fortune called on Socho-Ri on an irregular basis. Sometimes once a week, sometimes twice, sometimes not for two weeks. She sailed into Socho-Ri late in the afternoon, unloaded rice, live chickens, the occasional porker, and started taking aboard dried fish. And, at first light the next morning, sailed away." called on Socho-Ri on an irregular basis. Sometimes once a week, sometimes twice, sometimes not for two weeks. She sailed into Socho-Ri late in the afternoon, unloaded rice, live chickens, the occasional porker, and started taking aboard dried fish. And, at first light the next morning, sailed away."

"And during the night . . ." McCoy began admiringly.

Dunston smiled.

"We fired up her diesels and did our business up north. Always being careful to be back at Socho-Ri before dawn."

"And you never got caught?" Zimmerman asked.

"Honestly, Zimmerman, I don't think they suspected a thing," Dunston said. "Not even when we built the new buildings. They were visible from the sea."

"And used for what?" Donald asked.

"They housed a diesel generator, radios, weapons, and a detachment of from four to six agents."

"And what do you see when you look at these aerials?" McCoy asked.

"Twenty burned-out hootches, and no people," Dunston said.

"Alex," McCoy asked. "Are these aerials going to help you find this place?"

"Oh, sure."

"Well, then, I guess we'll find out what happened at Socho-Ri in the morning, won't we?" McCoy said.

[SEVEN].

NEAR SOCHO-RI, SOUTH KOREA 0805 1 OCTOBER 1950.

The view afforded the observer-Major Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR-in the backseat of the high-winged, two-place, single-engine L-19 was all that could be asked for. But despite looking very carefully, and twice making the pilot-Major Alex Donald, USA-turn around for a better, lower-level look, McCoy didn't see any sign of Major Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, in the one hour and twenty minutes it took them to fly from the Munic.i.p.al Race Track in Seoul to the east coast just above Kangnung.

There, north of the city on Highway 5, they could look down on what were apparently elements of the South Korean army, but attempts to make radio contact with what they saw failed, and there didn't seem to be a place where Donald could safely land the airplane.

They flew north.

"There it is," Donald said, pointing.

"Can you land there?" McCoy asked.

"I'll make a couple of pa.s.ses and see," Donald said. "But I have to tell you, when we leave, we're going to have to fly straight back to Seoul. We have less than half fuel."

"Okay."

Alex made two low-level pa.s.ses over the tiny village, then turned a final time and touched down smoothly on a narrow, half-sand, half-gra.s.sed field.

McCoy raised the side window of the L-19, then opened the door, got out, and reached back inside and came out with a Thompson submachine gun. Then he waited for Donald to get out.

Donald nodded at the Thompson.

"If we're going to be doing more of this sort of thing, I'd be more comfortable if I had one of those."

"Can you shoot one?"

"I had, you know, familiarization."

"I'll have Jennings get you an automatic carbine," McCoy said. "Thompsons are a lot harder to shoot than it seems in the movies."

He started walking toward the burned-out hootches.

Before they reached it, there was the smell of putrefying flesh, and then they came across the first, near-skeletal body.

"Jesus Christ!" Donald exclaimed, fighting back nausea.

McCoy didn't reply.

He walked into the village, where there were more bodies, including three with their hands tied behind them.

"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 fishing 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 shipshape 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."