“Otis?”
“Huh?”
“Otis, damnit.”
Something clicked and DeWitt focused. “Yes, this ship was custom built for the General. She’s a converted B-17E. Her armor plate’s been removed and we have long-range tanks in the bomb bay. All of the machine guns have been stripped except for a thirty caliber in the nose and the twin fifties in the top-turret. And that’s because MacArthur wants it to look as if he’s cruising around in a fighting B-17 like any other jerk.” He’d sounded like a jaded tour guide.
Like many in MacArthur's inner circle, DeWitt referred to Douglas MacArthur, the Supreme Commander in the Southwest Pacific Ocean Area simply as The General. “It's a replacement for one that's pretty well clapped-out.” He flung a hand forward, toward the nose. “The radio compartment has been converted to a command center and in here, where the ball turret and waist machine-gun positions were situated, is where the powers-that-be conduct war plans when they’re airborne.”
The B-17 dipped to a halt and Ingram knew they were poised near the runway's end. The pilot locked the brakes and ran the engines up one by one, checking the magnetos, fuel and oil pressure, manifold pressure, and a hundred other things.
As the pilot cycled through his run-up, Ingram's mind was flooded with dozens of reasons to yell 'stop,' or simply unlatch the window, jump out and dash into darkness like a terrorized rabbit. He peered out again, seeking a last glimpse of his beloved United States of America. There was nothing but swirling white vapor.
With no one close-by to bid farewell, a pang of loneliness ran through him. He'd called his mother and father in Echo, Oregon day before yesterday and said his goodbyes. To them, he wasn’t allowed to say anything more than he was ‘shipping out.’ For security reasons, he couldn’t say where he was going except that he would be somewhere in the Pacific. With Toliver gone, he really didn't know anyone else except DeWitt and the Russian. Maybe it was because he inadvertently snubbed others who hadn’t been there. They hadn't seen what he’d seen. They hadn't heard the screams of the dying. They hadn't felt--
With a jerk, the brakes released and the B-17 bounced onto the runway, turned, and drew to a stop, its engines confidently rumbling. Ingram and DeWitt exchanged glances as they waited for what was to come; that this B-17 would carry them once again into the Pacific maelstrom.
Ingram looked out the window again, only to see the damned white vapor. What the hell is taking so long?
“Todd?” DeWitt’s voice was low.
“Yeah?”
“Can you spare a Belladonna?”
“Okay.” Ingram reached in his pocket, but just then, the pilot firewalled the throttles while standing on the brakes. All at once, the four Wright R-1820-91, 1,000 horsepower engines bellowed as they strained at their mounts, their three bladed propellers scything the air at full pitch. The roar was incredible, and it seemed every bolt shook, every window rattled, and each rivet vibrated, as if the plane would tear itself apart.
Then the brakes popped off and the B-17 rolled, slowly at first, but soon picked up speed. White runway lights flicked past in the vapor as the Flying Fortress lunged into the early morning.
With escape cut off and his return to the Pacific inevitable, Ingram dug into his pocket to fish out the Belladonna for DeWitt. Instead, his hand found Helen's ring. He took it out and clasped it with both hands. Tightly.
The B-17 thundered into the fog, the pilot coaxing her through a small crosswind, the mains bouncing. With a final hop, her wheels broke free, and the plane lifted through the mist toward the Golden Gate.
PART TWO
I, Alton C. Ingram, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear the true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter; so help me God.
U .S. Naval Officer’s Oath Of Office
* * *
God sends you the weather, kid. What you do with it or what it does to you depends on how good a sailor you are.
Nelson DeMille
Gold Coast
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
11 October, 1942
U.S.S. Howell (DD 482)
New Georgia Sound (The Slot)
It was close to midnight as Ingram stood atop the pilothouse watching the men on the bridge below. Wearing helmets, their shirts were soaked with sweat, their faces gaunt: Captain, Officer Of The Deck, talkers, signalmen, quartermaster: All stepped silently in macabre practiced movements, bracing their elbows on the bridge bulwarks, peering through binoculars, speaking softly into sound-powered phones. Outwardly, they seemed composed, determined, but Ingram wondered if their chests felt as tight as his. At the officer’s noon meal, they’d laughed and spoken with bravado. At the evening meal, with the prospect of meeting the enemy, it had been quiet. And they ate lightly: soup and sandwiches. Nobody wanted anything else.
Ingram poked at his diaphragm with his fist. All knotted up. For the third time in the last fifteen minutes, he forced himself to think of Helen. It didn’t work. All he could think of was the blood pumping through his system, feeling like ninety weight lubricating grease.
Waiting. Every time the TBS loud-speaker crackled with a bit of static, they stopped and turned to it as if in worship to this gray-painted steel cone, mounted on the pilot houses’ aft bulkhead. Come on, come on. The waiting, the damned waiting. Why doesn’t the commodore order commence fire? The last radar range on the Japanese column was close: ten thousand yards. Only five miles.
The Howell had been at general quarters since sunset. And for the past five hours, Leo Seltzer had stood beside Ingram, fidgeting and grumbling that they hadn’t made him a mount captain. Wearing sound-powered phones, Seltzer walked in aimless circles, tangling the phone cord around his feet. Ingram only hoped Seltzer wouldn’t figure out how scared he was. That would pop the bubble. Spruance and his damned Navy Cross! He never wore his ribbons, and yet everyone seemed to know he had it. The medal made it twice as difficult. Ever since he’d stepped aboard the Howell they treated him with a quiet respect, even the Skipper. Hero of Corregidor, they looked up to Todd Ingram, obviously expecting him to exude some sort of courageous example in the enemy’s face. Yet, he knew if he could find a hole in the deck, he would crawl into it.
Ingram’s teeth chattered in spite of the fact that the temperature was at least seventy-five, the humidity making it feel ninety-five. But the relative wind generated by the Howell slicing through a calm sea at twenty-four knots made it tolerable. It was a clear and moonless night with a balmy, light breeze out of the southeast. And if Ingram choose to do so, he could have taken a deep breath and smelled the soft scent of honeysuckle drifting from Guadalcanal, just ten miles off their port bow. But he didn’t. This close to action, he had great difficulty even breathing. He exhaled, realizing his respiration rate was near zero. It was a deliberate act of will to take inhale. Never before had he thought so hard about anything as simple as taking a deep breath.
Newly formed under Rear Admiral Norman Scott, the force of eleven ships was designated Task Group 64.2. After sunset, they changed their formation from a bent-line screen to a column, and ran north through the Coral Sea, closing Guadalcanal. In the van were the destroyers Farenholt, Duncan, and Laffey. Next, were the cruisers San Francisco, Boise, Salt Lake City and Helena. Behind them were four more destroyers, Buchanan and McCalla. Joining up only yesterday were Howell and Toliver’s ship, the Riley, new arrivals from Noumea, tacked on to the column’s end, almost as an afterthought.
They had stood into the passage between The Russell Islands and Guadalcanal at about eleven that evening. Fifteen minutes later, they left Guadalcanal’s northwestern tip, Cape Esperance (French for hope) off their starboard beam. Then they swung right and dashed northeast across the New Georgia Sound (nicknamed �
�The Slot”) toward Savo Island. As it neared midnight, they sighted the enemy on radar and reversed course. Steaming in a southwesterly direction, Scott looked to intercept the column of Japanese cruisers and destroyers heading down The Slot to once again bombard U.S. Marines on Guadalcanal. The course reversal seemed a brilliant move, with Scott trying to cross the “tee” in front of the enemy, a classic move dating from the days of Lord Horatio Nelson. Peering into the gloom, Ingram hoped Scott knew what he was doing.
Except for the main battery director, Ingram was on the highest point of the ship, yet he couldn’t see a damn thing. His mouth was dry and his stomach jumped at every new sound. Pressing his binoculars to his eyes he searched the western horizon, sweeping from south to north, seeking the enemy. Nothing, damnit! But, like Scott in his flagship the Salt Lake City, the Howell had also picked up the Japanese on their SG radar, the newest in electronic marvels. The distance had quickly run down to twelve thousand yards--well within range of their five-inch guns. All they needed was the order to open fire.
Commander Jeremiah T. Landa stepped out on the bridge-wing, looked up and shrugged. Landa was thirty-three, stout, weighed one ninety-five, and had dark wavy hair. A pencil thin moustache outlined impossibly white teeth that gleamed as brightly as the phosphorescent white wake shooting down the Howell’s sides. Throughout the fleet, Landa was known by the nickname ‘Boom Boom.’ Ingram didn't know why. He asked once if it was connected with his love of gunnery, but Landa changed the subject.
“Any closer and they’ll have us for breakfast,” Landa grumbled. “Why can’t we see ‘em?”
“Star shells should do it, Captain.”
Landa nodded, as if this were the wisest thing he’d heard in 1942. “What's the range, now?”
“I’ll check.” Jabbing his talk button, Ingram called down to the combat information center (CIC), “Combat. Gun Control. What’s the range, Luther?”
The microphone clicked; Ingram heard yelling in the background.
“Luther? What’s going on?”
Lieutenant Luther Dutton's cultured MIT tones wafted over the line. “Radar’s down.” He sounded as if it were a huge encumbrance to report such a thing.
“Shit!”
Dutton’s voice was testy, as if it were a major effort to talk. “It’s the magnetron. Installing a new one right now. Three minutes.” His inflection was as if he had added 'Dope.'
“Luther. We have Japs in our face!”
Dutton’s answer was, “Yes.”
“Control, aye.” It took all of Ingram’s will power to keep from saying, ‘Step on it you trade school jackass.’ But Dutton was doing everything possible. Even now, the young Lieutenant was most likely on his back, surrounded by schematic diagrams, spare parts, and innumerable tools, tweaking wires in a mysterious tributary of the radar console. A thin man with a pouting mouth, Dutton was imbued with an aggravating calm. Nevertheless, even he would be sweating profusely at this moment, something easily done in the tropics.
Ingram was all too aware of the Japanese’ reputation for devastating night torpedo attacks, especially after the Savo Island debacle two months ago. He took little comfort when Landa told him that he would never see the torpedo that struck at night. Just one loud ‘smack’ and the Howell would be vaporized in a gigantic conflagration of exploding magazines.
As the ship’s executive officer, Ingram would normally have been stationed in CIC for general quarters. Likewise, Dutton, the gunnery officer, would be where Ingram now stood: At the gun control station on the pilot house. But Dutton, with his electrical engineering degree from MIT, was a genius with black boxes. Landa, not bound by protocol, swapped them, subsequent SG radar breakdowns proving his wisdom. His phone circuit was also connected to Jack Wilson in the gun-fire control director. With six men inside, the tank-like cupola rotated just above him. It looked like a small gun turret except, there was no gun barrel, just optics and radar equipment for directing the aim of the five five-inch guns throughout the ship. Also on his line were the forty-millimeter and twenty millimeter battery captains and main battery plot, a space two decks below the waterline manned by Chief Skala, a Fire Controlman. Seltzer, his talker, was connected to the captain’s talker on the bridge, the ship’s engineering spaces and damage control parties.
“Todd, damnit! What's going on?” demanded Landa.
Ingram must have been daydreaming. “Radar’s down, Captain. Magnetron.”
“Sonofabitch!”
“Luther said we'll have it back in three minutes.”
“What’s the last range?”
“Ten thousand yards.”
“Screw this radar stuff. Let’s make sure the star shells go with--”
Inside the pilothouse, the TBS speaker screeched with, “GILLESPIE, THIS IS CRABTREE. EXECUTE TO FOLLOW. DOG ITEM. I SAY AGAIN, DOG ITEM. STANDBY, EXECUTE. OUT.” The squadron commander had signaled all ships: commence fire -- begin with illumination rounds.
Landa urged, “Go gettum, Todd.”
Ingram barked into his sound-powered phone, “Director 51, gun control. Commence illumination shoot!”
Jack Wilson’s voice resonated inside the main battery gun director. “Mount fifty-five. Load and shoot one star!” He had ordered the after five-inch mount to fire a starshell.
Mount fifty-five’s captain, must have already stuffed a round in the breech, for his gun immediately erupted with an earsplitting ‘CRACK.’ At a muzzle velocity of 2,600 feet per second, the projectile streaked toward the western horizon, seeking out the enemy. The other ships, cruisers and destroyers, opened up as well, their star shells paralleling the Howell’s. Five hundred yards behind the Howell, the Riley’s after five-inch roared as she cranked out her own illumination rounds.
Thirteen seconds later, the incendiaries popped from their shells to ignite six miles distant, where they dangled from little parachutes about 2,000 feet above the water. Lighting the western sky with a ghostly silvery-white brilliance, the flares danced on the wind, leaving a sinuous trail of ivory smoke. Swaying beneath their parachute, the stars slowly floated to the ocean’s surface, lighting up the sea. Their journeys done, they blinked out, only to be replaced by another starshell popping open. Then another. That was illumination mount’s job. Keep pumping out the stars, fifteen rounds a minute. Turn night into day. Find the enemy. With that, it was up to your main battery to kill him before he killed you.
Ingram jammed his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the horizon.
Nothing.
CRACK! Mount fifty-five pounded the night with another star shell, the flashless powder barely illuminating the fantail.
The stars danced on the wind as Ingram caught a glance of three destroyer-size ships off their starboard bow steaming on a parallel course. His blood ran cold as he tightened the focus on his binoculars. What are they doing there?
Landa must have seen it too, for he shouted, “Todd! Who the hell is that?”
Ingram’s nostrils caught the harsh scent of cordite left by the ships ahead. “They must be ours.” He hoped his voice didn’t sound too plaintive.
“I hope so.”
CRACK! Another round streaked from mount fifty-five.
“Maybe they’re Japs!” Landa walked to the bulwark, yanked a phone from its bracket and started yelling. In a way, Ingram felt sorry that Dutton was on the receiving end, but what if those were Japs out there? In short time, the Howell could likewise be on the receiving end of something far more unpleasant than a tongue lashing. Except for the McCalla’s wake, Ingram had no idea who was where. Had the Japanese, with their superior night tactics, hauled in among them? Visions of torpedoes exploding in the Howell’s magazine coursed through his mind.
The rate of gunfire almost doubled. Tracers ripped the night, and there was a constant pounding from the heavies. And yet, the starshells dangling from their parachutes illuminated...nothing.
“Todd. Damnit,” Landa bellowed. “Hear that? Someone up there is firing for effect. Find
us a target!”
Ingram tried to think of something. But nothing came to mind as the thunderous roar deepened, the smoke growing thicker, the odor raking his lungs.
Luther Dutton grunted into his phone. “Gunboss, CIC. We just copied a message from San Francisco. Remember when we reversed course?”
“Yes.”
“Looks like Farenholt, Duncan, and Laffey came around properly in column. But then the cruisers turned at the same time.”
“All four?”
“Sounds like it. Dumb bastards turned inside. What you see out there is the Farenholt, Duncan, and Laffey. They're between us and the Japs.”
“Well, how do you like that?” gasped Ingram, watching as tracers joined the other shells screeching toward the enemy. He leaned down and told Landa what had happened. This meant the formation was snafued, with nobody having any idea of who was where. And with each round fired, the cacophony grew louder and louder. Then to Ingram’s dismay, tracers reached for him out of the west: Japanese!
A voice rasped on the circuit with, “Okay.”
“Gun Control, who is this? Who is ‘Okay?’“ demanded Ingram.
“Sorry, Sir. It’s Dutton, er, Combat. Radar’s up.”
Ingram imagined Luther Dutton getting off the deck and arranging himself on a padded stool. Like Superman, he had changed from electronic genius, to Combat Information Center Officer, assuming command of eleven men responsible for gathering and disseminating information to properly fight the ship.
Ingram couldn't resist a bit of Dutton's sarcasm. “I'm so pleased the radar is functioning again. Now when you're ready, tell me what you see.”
“Lots of contacts. Radar screen looks like it has measles. Ranges are close. Can’t tell one from the other.”
“How close?”
“Three, four thousand yards.”
My God, near point blank. Ingram leaned on the rail and relayed Dutton’s information down to Landa.
A CODE FOR TOMORROW: A Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 2) Page 19