This is a work of fiction based on historical events and personalities. The author has taken liberties with certain events, historical facts and personalities.

Abrupt braking, a jolt from the right front tire and the sound of rubber scuffing against the curb signaled the end of a wild ride for Captain Hal Kirby, USN. The trip from Haneda Airport to the Dai–ichi Building in Tokyo was unnerving even for a Navy combat pilot. The driver, an Army corporal, fearlessly weaved through cars, trucks, bicycles and pedestrians. To drive in Tokyo, one had to assume that using the horn was sufficient warning and that your way would be cleared even if it was at the very last possible moment. The corporal hurriedly set the hand brake and rammed his shoulder into the door he knew would be stubborn. It opened with a sound that a graveyard gate would be proud to claim. He hurried to the passenger side and pulled the right side door open. Hal Kirby was a tall lanky man and had to pry himself out of the old two–door coupe’s cramped back seat. He drank in the scene around him while the driver got his bags out of the trunk.

It was a beautiful sunny day with a warm refreshing breeze. Across the street was the shimmering outer moat of the Imperial Palace, home of the Emperor of Japan. Two stately snow-white swans were giving their chicks swimming lessons among large milk-colored water lilies on the far side. The water's edge was near to ground level and abutted a narrow strip of grass and trees that ran along the sidewalk for many blocks. It was hard for Hal to imagine that just five years ago he was waging a fierce war against Japanese naval forces. Hiroshima had not been bombed at that point, but Tokyo and most large cities in Japan had been reduced to ashes by General LeMay's incendiary bombing campaign. Kirby flashed back to a horrifying twenty–minute slice of a mission flown from the USS Hancock, near Okinawa. The mission had produced no excitement for an hour. Then suddenly, Japanese fighters swarmed down out of the sun. One of their new Kawasaki KI–100s managed to outmaneuver him, riddled his engine compartment and left a diagonal trail of holes across his starboard wing. The canopy was immediately bathed in thick black oil and the engine quit. Up to that time it had been an impersonal war, his machine against their machines. Hanging from the parachute shrouds that day, praying like hell that they wouldn’t come around and strafe him, Hal's hatred for Japan became intense. A Japanese pilot had taken him within an inch of his life. Today he stood on the very soil of the land of the rising sun—at the doorstep of the Emperor no less. Japanese citizens were walking dispassionately by him. A chill ran down his spine.

"Your bags are just inside the doorway Colonel," said the corporal, interrupting Hal's daydreaming.

He returned the corporal’s perfunctory salute but responded in kind for being called a Colonel. "Thank you seaman," he said and walked down the sidewalk to take a tourist's look at the side of the impressive Dai–ichi Building. General of the Army Douglas MacArthur chose this building as his headquarters. The noble Dai–ichi could well have been one of the gray granite government buildings in Washington, DC. It had the same kind of presence and authority. Each side of the building had insets in the facade that rose from the ground to the fifth floor of seven, creating the effect of majestic columns. He lifted his hat and smoothed his hand over the prickly stubble of a fresh crew cut. Enough sight seeing Kirby. It’s time to go to work.

He returned the salutes of the sentries on either side of the two massive entrance doors to the Dai–ichi as he passed between them. An Army sergeant was sitting slumped half-onto a wooden stool at the ‘Officer Reception Desk’ in the grand lobby. He had a huge potbelly, a deeply wrinkled face and a bored, distant expression. Hal studied him as he approached the desk. Jeezus, he must be the oldest sergeant on active duty. Looks miserable. Hal presented the manila envelope that carried his orders and service record. Without a word, the sergeant checked Hal's ID card, imprinted several copies of the orders with a black rubber stamp and filled in blank lines with the date and time.

"Sir, have a seat while I contact your organization," said the sergeant in coarse monotone Brooklynese while motioning generally toward several varnished unstained oak wood benches on the wall of the lobby. The ancient warrior grabbed a telephone and studied a phone list taped to the top of the desk. Anticipating a long wait for the Army’s administrative wheels to turn, Hal went to his bag and pulled out a novel. A bench that was bathed by sunlight from a large side window caught his eye. He sat next to a young WAC corporal who was talking the ear off of an American civilian wearing a press tag on his suit pocket.

She glanced at Hal's book cover, "Oh, For Whom the Bell Tolls. You'll love that book sir. Hemingway is my favorite author and that’s a wonderful story."

Hal smiled at her politely, "I like him too." While she thought about what she might say next, she demonstrated a pair of cute dimples in her cheeks that elaborated when she smiled. She promptly went back to work on the press reporter. Somewhere on page 11 a sound captured Hal’s attention. It was the clacking sound of high heels coming down a wide staircase at the rear of the lobby. He began to conjure up a vision of the person wearing those shoes. He didn't look up. Rather, he stared blankly at the open book, putting together the image stimulated by the sounds. The sounds changed to clicks as they left the stairs and moved across the highly polished marble floor. He mentally followed them to the reception desk counter and then after a short pause, through a squeaky swinging door into the waiting area. They seemed to be approaching his side of the lobby. When he realized that the sounds were perhaps only twenty feet away he was unable to wait any longer to compare the imaginary with the real. He looked up; his eyes went straight to the sound his ears were tracking. He scanned up slowly from her brown and black two–toned strapped high heels. A natty milk chocolate linen suit fit her statuesque five–foot–ten frame perfectly. Below the skirt hem were insurable, gorgeous legs like those on his Betty Grable calendar. Jeezus, Look at that. That's not a walk, that's a parade. With each step her ample but firm breasts jounced slightly under a tan silk blouse. Natural honey-blonde hair—abundant fine, straight strands—flowed loosely past her shoulders and appeared to reach completely down her back. Large emerald eyes were set in a cheery cover-girl face with a lustrous complexion and shapely red lips. Glamourlovely! Thirtyish – dynamite! Could pass for Rita Hayworth's younger sister. Solid confidence. His eyes panned down again, then returned to her face; he suddenly realized that she had been looking straight at him with a Hollywood smile since he first set eyes on her. Hal blushed, caught in the act of ogling.

"Captain Kirby?" she inquired with a sweet medium toned southern drawl.

"Yes ma'am, the very one," he said, springing to his feet.

She held out her hand, "I'm Marmette Clements, Admiral Joy's Admin Division Head. Very nice to meet you. Don't you have any bags?"

"Pleased to meet you. Yes I do," he said, pointing toward the doorway. "Sorry for the stare - I've been at sea too long and you're a very pretty lady." He was surprised at the firmness of the grip delivered by such warm soft hands.

A mild blush filled her cheeks, "Uh, thank you for the compliment. I'll have someone take your bags to your quarters. I understand you and Admiral Joy have not met," she said, as they walked briskly toward the inner lobby.

"That's right ma'am, I've never had the pleasure." They navigated through the half-door at the reception counter and headed for the staircase. He caught a whiff of her perfume. It smelled like the Plumeria blossoms he had in his yard when he lived in Hawaii—a unique bouquet that was pleasant and captivating. Her hair flowed down below her belt in perfect straight strands. The ends were trimmed precisely even.

"You look very fit," she said, "Do you mind taking the stairs? It’s faster."

"Not at all ma'am, it'll be good exercise."

"Please call me Marmette. What do your friends call you?"

"Lots of things, but I prefer Hal." She giggled. "Where you from Marmette?"

"New Orleans. You're from Texas, right?" she asked.

"Affirmative, Mineral Wells. How'd you know?"

"A little bird told me," she said with a teasing smile. "I know where that is. My father used to go to Dallas a lot on business and took us out in that direction often."

"What was in Mineral Wells?" he asked.

"My father's brother was a banker in Dallas and he had a small ranch near Mineral Wells."

Hal thought for a minute, "The name doesn't ring a bell."

"Oh his name isn't Clements, it's LaFayette. Clements was my late husband's name."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

She interrupted him, "It's not a sensitive subject, really. It's been a little over three years. Ever been to New Orleans?"

"Oh yes," he said, "New Orleans is one of my favorite cities. I used to rent light planes and fly over there on weekends from Pensacola with Alice, my wife. The jazz was terrific and the Café du Monde in the French Quarter was great fun. We used to spend hours sitting by the river, drinking cafe au lait."

"I miss it very much," she said. "But there's so much of this exciting world I haven't seen yet. Where’s the wife and kids living? Oh, sorry, that little bird has a big mouth."

"Marmette, you haven’t opened those records up yet, just who is this little bird?" asked Hal.

"In due time Hal," she said, smiling. "Where did you say they are?"

Hal laughed, "Alice and the kids stayed in Great Falls, Virginia. When I got orders to the USS Valley Forge, Alice was looking forward to moving back to Hawaii, but Susan and Joe didn’t want to change high schools."

They seemed to run out of small talk and the silence bothered him. "This is a handsome building Marmette, very impressive," he said.

"It was built in 1938; they say that it was the fourth largest building in Japan at the time. Interestingly, it was designed to be bombproof—it worked."

"I counted seven stories," he said.

"You're very observant," she said, "and there’s also four floors below ground. General MacArthur's suite is on the top floor and his senior staff officers are on the sixth and seventh. We're headed for the sixth." As they climbed the stairs, his mind wandered. No engagement or wedding ring? I can't believe she could last three years with a face, body and personality like hers. Those eyes are lethal.

She motioned for him to turn right at the sixth floor landing. The first door on the left was marked Commander, Naval Forces, Far East (COMNAVFE). Marmette took him directly to the Admiral's inner office; the door was open.

"Admiral, this is Captain Hal Kirby—Captain, please meet Admiral Joy."

"I'm very happy to meet you Captain Kirby," he said, coming from behind an antique cherry wood desk to shake hands. "Would you like coffee?"

"I haven't had any since 0600. Yes sir, I sure would, thank you."

"I'll get the steward, Admiral," said Marmette." She gave Hal a bright smile as she closed the door behind her. The breeze from the closing door wafted another sample of her fascinating fragrance past his nose.

They sat in dark green leather chairs opposite a beautiful colonial cherry butler's table with brightly shined brass fittings.

"That’s a fine piece of furniture," said Hal, "must be yours personally."

"Thank you; yes it was a gift from my wife when I was selected for Rear Admiral. Welcome to Japan. Glad to have you aboard. I sorely need your experience. You're doing a great job on the Valley Forge despite the challenges you’re facing. By the way, congratulations on your early selection to Captain. What's BUPERS going to do with you?"

"Thank you sir. Well, I hope they let me stay in the Air Group Commander’s slot on the Valley Forge for a normal length tour. I've only been in it for three months."

"Good luck," the Admiral said with a tinge of sarcasm and a grin, "the Bureau of Personnel doesn't always seem to be logic driven."

Hal laughed, "I can’t think of an assignment BUPERS gave me that I had on my dream sheet."

The Admiral handed Hal a message he brought from his desk, "About twenty minutes ago I received the post-mission report from your ship's second mission today. Here, take a minute and read it."

As Hal read, a smile appeared on his face and grew wider with each paragraph. When he finished reading he looked up, "Looks like the Top Secret special intelligence message you sent us paid off, Admiral. The detail on their order of battle and logistic supply system was surprising."

"We have covert sources in Inchon and Seoul. It’s a Navy Eyes Only source Hal, so please don’t let this slip to anyone else. Especially the egotist who is MacArthur's G–2—Major General Willoughby. Only a few other people here at HQ know about this source beside you and me. I feel you need to be aware of that source and his information in order to have a complete picture, for planning purposes. Enough said on that. I have a meeting to attend shortly. I have extended my appreciation to Admiral Hawkins for sending you here this week. Let me give you a quick summary on what you're here to do. My Chief of Staff, Rear Admiral Al Morehouse, will expand on this later this afternoon when he returns from a meeting in Yokosuka."

Marmette knocked on the door and brought in the Admiral's steward. The young Filipino sailor quietly set a silver service on the butler table, poured two cups of delicious smelling coffee, set out sugar, cream, napkins and spoons, and departed.

Admiral Joy resumed, "OK. Now, Operation Chromite is classified Top Secret. It is the plan to land the X Corps at Inchon. X–Corps is the landing force and will consist of the 1st Marine Division and the Army's 7th Division. The Joint Chiefs of Staff are making us designate three alternative landing sites. The General hates the thought of them running the war from the Pentagon, but he's playing along with JCS so they don’t kill it before he’s had a chance to make the Inchon landing site a fait accompli."

"Is there a problem with Inchon?" asked Hal.

Joy laughed, "When you take a look at Inchon, you'll see. It's not just one problem, it's many. It may well be the worst place to attempt an amphibious landing in all of Korea. But, if you know anything about General MacArthur, you know that we'll land at Inchon and for damn good reasons. At any rate, we have, through the efforts of an airdale on Struble's staff and my own people, put together a straw man for the air support section of the operation plan. It got us this far, but it's time we take it from the conceptual level to a higher level of detail and merge it with the rest of the operation."

A gleaming brass ship's clock on the wall by the Admiral's desk began sounding bells. "1130—I have fifteen minutes," said the Admiral, "You are personally responsible for the air section of the op-plan. Nothing is sacred in the existing version. I understand you pulled a tour with Plans and Programs in the Pentagon. Struble and Hawkins tell me you're the man for this job. So, I have every confidence that you can give me a thorough, sailor-proof first draft of your plan for Inchon by Friday night. Do as much as you can on the other three options, but NOT at any expense of the Inchon plan. You'll brief General MacArthur Saturday morning at 1030. I realize that you can’t develop a smooth plan in this short period of time, but you’ve got to come as close as you can within this time frame. When it is time to go to the next level, we’ll pull you off the USS Valley Forge again, no matter where it is or what it is doing. Operation Chromite is that important. Any questions?"

"No sir." He lied. There were hundreds of questions, but this was not the time.

"Good. Starting tomorrow, brief me on your progress at least once a day. Al Morehouse and I are available to you any time. I told Marmette that you have direct access to us."

"Aye, aye sir, thank you."

"Plan to be in my office at 1115 tomorrow, we're going topside to see the 'old man.' I'm glad to have you aboard. Please excuse me, but I must run."

Marmette intercepted Hal as he came out of the Admiral's office. "Captain, I have a few things for you to do, then I'll take you down and introduce you to the rest of the Navy staff. By the way, there's a man down there who says he's anxious to get his hands on you."

Hal thought for a minute. Well, it's not Luther Garr—I left that slimy son of a bitch back on the ship. "I don't think I know anyone here—any hints?" he asked.

She smiled and playfully explained, "No, he wants you to stew for a while. Have a seat, I have some security papers for you to read and sign."

When he placed his autograph on the last of the documents she shoved under his nose, she said, "OK, Captain, let's go visit the pit." She noted his expression, smiled and said, "Don't ask how it got its name; it just happened."

As they walked down the hallway to the staircase, exchanging small talk, his sense of smell was treated to more of the mesmerizing perfume. She led him down one flight of stairs and along the hallway to the door marked COMNAVFE OPS. It was a large austere room with no windows, filled with a couple dozen desks and some file safes. One wall was covered with maps, some of which bristled with color headed pins. A small conference area and table occupied one end of the room, where some officers were huddled, busily pursuing something.

"I'd like you all to meet THE Captain Hal Kirby," she announced loudly.

"Ring knocking whale shit from the bottom of the sea," growled someone from the end of the room opposite the conference area.

Marmette chuckled, "Time for me to go, the party's getting rough."

Hal's eyes immediately spotted the source of the slur—a large green Marine uniform. "Dusty!"

"Sir, Lieutenant Colonel Dusty Rhodes, USMC, sir, at your service, Captain sir," he bellowed irreverently as he rushed toward Hal. Dusty was one year behind Hal at the Naval Academy. They were on the rowing team and became close friends during their academy years. They had not seen each other since Hal's wedding after graduation, but wrote intermittently during the ensuing years. "I've been reading your mission reports from the bird farm, wondering if we’d run into each other. Damn those eagles look mighty fine on you. Congratulations!" he said, giving Hal a bear hug. It was obvious that Dusty had maintained his weight training program since Annapolis. He was huge and rock solid. A little gray hair streaked what little black there was in his crew cut with white sidewalls. His handsome face belied his age.

"As I recall, last Christmas you were at Twenty–Nine Palms," said Hal.

"Yeah and as I recall, your ass was wallowing in the luxuries of the Pentagon. It's so strange that after all these years we would meet in Tokyo. It's good to see you. You look great. Speaking of things that look great, what do you think of Miss Iron Pants?"

"You mean Marmette?" asked Hal rhetorically, "Four point oh. Why do you call her that?"

Dusty laughed, "It's her nickname around here. Nobody's ever had a second date—plenty tried. Only a few have gotten the first one. One of the Navy guys in this office got his ass in a jam because he wouldn't stop asking her out. Weird duck, name’s Tullis, Tyler Tullis. He’s the Lieutenant Commander standing by the map over there. She complained about him following her around and caught him sneaking a picture once—he’s a photography nut. He just wouldn't let her alone; he was obsessed. Admiral Joy personally ordered me to counsel and reprimand him. No wonder Seventh Fleet loaned him to us – a real asshole, that guy."

"That would make two assholes that Seventh Fleet pawned off. Remember that yellow-bellied bastard I had all the trouble with six years ago? Luther Garr? Well guess who just reported aboard the ship from the Seventh Fleet flagship as our new Flag Intelligence Officer? Dusty, the entire Navy’s not big enough for him and me, let alone us both being on the same aircraft carrier."

"Is that the guy who threatened you?" asked Dusty.

Hal nodded, "Several times. The jackass doesn’t realize that he’s no match for me. I’m going to have his ass – once and for all. Anyway, as you were saying, what's Miss Iron Pants’ problem?" asked Hal.

"No problem. Actually she's a real good friend of LouAnn and me. So I can tell you that she is a fine person and quite normal."

"So why hasn't she remarried?"

"She doesn't like the idea of going out with coworkers. But I think it goes beyond that. Maybe she's still not over it. Don't know. She's a looker though. Nice scenery and a good sport. We tease her a lot."

"Ran my engine up to red-line," said Hal.

"Damn horny-ass fleet sailor." They laughed heartily. "Let me introduce you to the staff," said Dusty, motioning toward the other end of the room where the others were huddled. Dusty provided personal introductions to everyone. None of them wore wings, which explained Admiral Joy's problem with the air support planning. Hal noted that Tullis had a distant manner and a cold fish handshake.

Dusty slammed Hal’s shoulder, "Let's get you squared away—these guys need to get back to figuring out how we're going to steal some of the Atlantic Fleet ships and get some mothballed ships overhauled and sent over here."

"Are you top dog here?" asked Hal.

"Damn tootin'. Our operations boss, a senior Captain, transferred to Seventh Fleet a few weeks ago without replacement. He was a friend of Admiral Ewen. Don't get any ideas of pushing me off the hill. You're just on TAD here," Dusty said kidding.

Hal plowed a clenched fist into Dusty's dense shoulder. "So, boss, where's my office?" asked Hal.

"See that clean desk next to mine? That was the Captain's—now it's your home sweet home."

Hal went to his desk and sat down; he immediately listed thirty degrees to the right—one wheel was missing from the three caster chair. Dusty broke into a hearty laugh.

"Is this the way you treat all your guests?" asked Hal.

"Hell no! We don't offer our guests chairs," Dusty said, still chuckling as he left the office. A few minutes later he returned holding a chair above his head. "Now stop your pissing and moaning and get to work. Where do you want to start?"

"Give me a copy of the entire op-plan as it stands now and let me spend the rest of the afternoon reading."

"I had a yeoman put one together for you this morning. It's in the bottom drawer of file safe number three over there. That whole bottom drawer is yours."

After lunch Hal acclimated to the distractions of his new environment and concentrated deeply on the draft Operation Chromite plan. He lost track of time passage.

Dusty tapped his shoulder, "It's 1830. We have a rule here; everyone quits at 1900 unless there's an emergency. Why don't you go check out your quarters? I'll stop by about 1915 and introduce you to my main squeeze. We're taking you to supper tonight."

"Oh damn, I just realized that I don't know where I'm staying. Marmette said she'd have someone take my bags there but didn’t say where. I hope she’s still topside."

Dusty laughed, "Details, details. You'll learn that she never does anything half-assed. Since you're a high muckety-muck O–6 now, she got you a bunk in the senior visiting officer quarters in the building. Don't get your hopes up, it's more of a convenience than a palace." Dusty opened his middle desk drawer and pulled out a key attached to a large oval brass tag with 'VOQ–6' crudely imprinted by repeated hammering with a nail punch. "You’re down below on the G2 level."

Hal looked at the monstrosity Dusty handed him and said, "For God’s sake, I'll need a seaman just to carry this damn thing around for me. I'll find it. Where's your tent?"

"The Army commandeered, I should say leased, the Imperial Hotel a couple blocks from here. It's a beautiful place—designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, believe it or not. Somehow it managed to escape the bombing. They made a few interior modifications and combined some rooms into BOQ suites for senior officers. It's small but real comfortable and the Japanese staff is terrific. See you in a little while."

"Tim this is Bradbury. It’s official—I’m the new Chairman of the Defense Appropriations Subcommittee." Bradbury pushed his short chubby body deep into his brown leather judge's chair, stretching the telephone cord to its limit. A slippery grin formed on his round puffy face.

"Congratulations," said Colonel Tim Yardley, USAF, "Say, I have someone in the office, can I call you back?"

Bradbury leaned forward and planted his elbows onto the desk, "That won’t be necessary Tim. I just wanted to give you the news and tell you that we can now move forward with our plan. Get in touch with Will Crandall and tell him we’ll meet at his house Thursday evening at 9. Oh, one more thing quickly, I received a letter from Logan Bennett yesterday. He definitely wants in on the deal."