A CODE FOR TOMORROW: A Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 2)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Landa nodded. “Keep cranking out stars.”

  “Yessir,” said Ingram. Ingram shouted into his sound powered phone to Jack Wilson, “Jack. Keep pumping out illumination ‘til we say to stop. And set fuses for five thousand yards. The Japs are much closer.”

  Wilson’s ‘roger’ was obliterated as mount fifty-five hammered the night with another star shell. Except Ingram couldn’t see through this smoke. It became more acrid and he coughed, wishing for a drink of water. His lips were dry, his heart thumped in his chest...

  Once again, he swept with his binoculars. Nothing. Except a fire suddenly erupted aboard one of the ships forward, then just as suddenly, went out. Bent over with a racking cough, Ingram wondered if he should call for gas masks. That was it. The Japs have fired mustard gas! Jesus! “Captain!”

  “Todd! We have to find a target. Train aft.” Landa was shrieking now..

  Not aft. He means forward, thought Ingram. He pressed his talk button. “Jack, train mount fifty-five thirty degrees forward and light up that sector.”

  There was a ten second delay as Mount fifty-five trained to the new bearing, then the next star shell rang out, its blast louder, as the muzzle was closer to them. As Ingram studied the blackness, his teeth chattered. He felt exposed and...lonely.

  WHAM. Another round left mount fifty-five, soon bursting among the other stars, dancing and swaying its way to the ocean where it would expire.

  And for some reason, Ingram had to pee--even though he’d emptied his bladder ten minutes ago. Shifting his weight from one foot to another, he was tempted to walk aft, unzip his pants and whizz off the pilot house. But signalmen were grouped down there. He would have to wait for a break in the action and dash below for the head in the captain’s sea cabin. But right now, there was no time.

  Ingram giggled to himself. No time to pee. Sounds like a song he once heard in a Manila bar. Except those weren’t the lyrics. It was something about gonorrhea and not being able to peee-ya. Yet a ditty sprang to his mind. Nooo time to peee. Where do I go when there’s no time to peee...

  “Gun control, CIC,” replied Dutton. “Something’s coming at us.”

  “What?” said Ingram, Wilson, and Skala simultaneously.

  The line was silent as muzzle blasts cascaded through the night like rolling thunder. All around them now, detonating projectiles, large and small, flashed in a brilliant kaleidoscope of hell.

  Just then, there was an enormous explosion off their bow. The night became day. A gun turret spun lazily toward the sky, people tumbling, twirling alongside, sucked into the vaporous maelstrom of orange-brown smoke before they began their journey back to earth and darkness.

  “What was that?” gasped Dutton.

  “Ship. Looks like her magazines blew.” Ingram’s ears rang. Enormous chunks of debris smacked the water and he forced himself to sweep the horizon. Like Landa, he was desperate to find a target, as mount fifty-five faithfully pumped out star shell after star shell, one every four seconds, back-breaking work.

  Nothing, damnit! “Luther, where’s your target?” called Ingram.

  “Lost in clutter.” Dutton’s voice was suddenly devoid of pomp.

  Ingram tried to make sense of the fire-fight’s stroboscopic confusion that enveloped him. But he gave up, as thunderous explosions flashed everywhere, momentary fires shot high into the sky, then, inexplicably, extinguished themselves. The loudspeakers on the bridge rang with human voices, hideously distorted as they yelled and screeched.

  Suddenly a loud, high-pitched voice squealed on the phone circuit. Clamping his earphone to his head Ingram shouted, “Whoever it is, say your last.”

  No wonder the voice was unrecognizable. It was Dutton, shrieking, “Target! Big bastard. Right in front of us!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  11 October, 1942

  U.S.S. Howell (DD 482)

  New Georgia Sound (The Slot)

  “Luther! For God’s sake, calm down!” Ingram shouted. “Where is he?”

  Dutton wheezed, “Two...two-eight-five, 4,500 yards.”

  In spite of the relative wind blasting his face, Ingram felt the hairs on his neck stand. Whatever it is, it’s on top of us. And it’s close. For some reason, he thought about his bladder. Now he didn’t have to go. In fact--

  Landa croaked, “Todd!”

  “What?”

  Landa pointed to starboard.

  Ingram looked. Suddenly--”My God!” Outlined by a starshell, an enormous pagoda shaped superstructure loomed before them. And it was close, steaming on a perpendicular course, the ship looked as if she would cut them in half. Even as he watched, the ship’s forward guns loosed a thundering salvo toward the American cruisers.

  Thick, cordite-laden smoke swirled around Ingram, making tears run. But he had to relay the target data to the director. He punched his talk button and rasped, “Jack! Damnit. Target. Cruiser, I’d say. Bearing two-seven-five, range four thousand. Target angle three-four-five, target speed twenty-five knots.”

  “On target and tracking!” said Wilson.

  Ingram heaved a sigh of relief. Wilson’s crew had acquired the target quickly. “Plot! Do you have a solution?”

  The wind whistled in Ingram’s headphones for a moment, then Chief Skala bellowed, “Plot solution. Target course, one-two-zero. Target speed, twenty-seven knots!”

  Rapidly, Ingram did some rough math. With the alacrity of two cheetahs after same prey, the ships closed one another at a relative speed of over forty knots.

  Quickly looking fore and aft, he checked to make sure the guns didn’t point at their superstructure. Then he stooped and yelled down to Landa. “Solution, Captain.”

  Landa, overcome by smoke, was coughing into a handkerchief. Finally, he looked up and jabbed a finger in the air, “Shoot the son-of-a-bitch!”

  “Commence fire!” barked Ingram to Wilson.

  Wilson’s order caromed through the director hatch, “Mounts one, two three, four, director control. Match pointers. Standby. Commence Fire!”

  The four five-inch mounts instantly belched their fifty-four pound common ammunition projectiles in a single salvo, their base detonating fuses designed to explode after punching through a ship’s interior. The combined muzzle blast hurled Ingram against the director. “Sonofabitch.” He fumbled at a hand grip, and was surprised when Seltzer grabbed him under the armpits and pulled him up in one jerk.

  “Deck’s slippery,” Ingram muttered.

  “Your secret’s safe with me, Mr. Ingram.”

  Ingram ignored it and watched two white-hot flashes erupt on the cruiser’s upperworks. Just then, the Riley opened up, the multiple ‘cracks’ from her barrels stabbing the night like lightning bolts.

  Thrusting a fist into the air, Landa shouted, “Fire for effect.”

  Ingram relayed the order to Wilson who cranked out another salvo at the cruiser which, by this time, was backlighted by starshells. Three rounds splattered into the cruiser’s superstructure. But Ingram was astounded that the Japanese cruiser, like a four hundred pound sumo wrestler, seemed to shrug them off and plow on, gunfire still spitting from her main battery.

  Landa yanked off his helmet and waved it in the air. “Yeeeehaw!” Then he called to the torpedo director on the aft end of the bridge. “Standby torpedoes.”

  A fire broke out just forward of the cruiser’s number one main gun turret. Two figures ran toward the ship’s prow, their clothes afire. Within seconds, both leaped overboard. The smoke cleared, the outline of destroyer McCalla was barely visible as she blasted out a salvo. Beyond her was the rumble of a full nine-barrel salvo from Helena’s six inch guns.

  Another Howell salvo ripped into the Japanese ship. The fire on her main deck lighted her upperworks, her lifeless deadights looking like skeleton’s eyes.

  All but one of the starshells had gone out. But it was enough to see that the cruiser heeled to starboard. “Looks like she’s turning, Captain.”

  “Stick it to the bastards!” s
houted Landa.

  Ingram’s heart thumped. The cruiser’s two forward turrets had trained forward, their six barrels pointed right at him. He hoped that at this range, the guns couldn’t depress low enough. He keyed his mike, but fell into a racking cough as gunsmoke once again swept around him. Finally, he wheezed, “Captain. They’re going to--”

  Landa yelled in the pilot house. “I have the conn. Evasion course. Right five degrees rudder!” Then, “Rudder amidships!”

  The star shells went out. Ingram couldn’t see a damn thing and yet the Howell’s guns still fired. At what? He was thinking of calling a cease fire when one of mount fifty-five's star shells burst on the horizon, once again illuminating the cruiser.

  “Jeez.” The cruiser was closer, but still turning to port. Soon, they would pass on reciprocal courses.

  Ingram found his voice and ordered the ship’s forty millimeter cannons to commence fire. They let go instantly, the guns pumping with a deliberate, methodical, cadence.

  “Todd,” Landa yelled up to him. Red lights inside the pilot house cast a soft glow to his face. His pupils glistened as Wilson fired another four-round salvo. Landa’s lips twisted into a grin. “Give the sonofabitch everything we got.”

  At this range, why not? So Ingram ordered the twenty millimeter cannons to commence fire. Soon, the Howell was engulfed in a world of hammering, thudding gunfire, smoke and flame spitting from muzzles of all calibers.

  “Ingram!”

  “Sir?”

  “I said everything, damnit.” Even in the dark, Ingram could see Landa’s fist shaking at him.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Take mount fifty-five off illumination. Switch ‘em to common ammunition.”

  “What about--?”

  “Do it, damnit!”

  “Yes, Sir.” Ingram keyed his mike and relayed the order to Wilson.

  “How the hell do we see the target?” yelled Wilson.

  “Captain’s orders.”

  “Director fifty-one, aye.” Wilson said dryly.

  With three stars still up, Ingram could see white smoke pour from the cruiser’s superstructure. And at twenty-seven knots, she heeled so far, it seemed her pagoda-shaped upperworks would topple right into Ingram’s lap. Sliding past at a dizzying speed, her forward gun turrets belched a soft-orange flame.

  Before Ingram knew it, projectiles ripped overhead, sounding like express trains. Without thinking, he was on the deck, his fingers frantically scratching for something like a fox-hole surrounded by a three-foot thick belt of armor. He looked up to see Seltzer lying beside him, his arms over his head. They looked at one another with stupid grins, then regained their feet.

  “I swear that one had my street address on it.” Seltzer’s teeth chattered.

  Expelling a long breath, Ingram wondered how long he had been holding it. “Take me six months to clean my underwear after that one,” he agreed.

  “Mount One. Fire torpedoes!” roared Landa.

  At two second intervals, five bursts of black powder charges kicked the five Mark 15 torpedoes from their tubes. Ingram looked for their wakes but they were lost in the darkness.

  “What the hell?” It was Dutton.

  “What?” shouted Ingram, just as Wilson fired another five-gun salvo.

  Dutton’s had found some composure, for his voice was again coated with frost. “Looks like the Riley is out of column. In fact, hold on--let’s watch the next sweep--yes, she’s pulled out. To starboard.”

  Ingram looked aft, but the Riley wasn’t visible. To port, he couldn’t see Savo Island any more. Just smoke.

  “You sure, Luther?”

  “Absolutely. They’re about a thousand yards off our starboard quarter, now. The interval between the cruiser and her is now about fifteen hundred yards. And I think she’s increased speed.”

  “Ollie,” Ingram mouthed.

  The TBS receiver crackled in the pilot-house. “LITTLE JOE, LITTLE JOE. THIS IS CRABTREE. INTERROGATIVE YOUR INTENTIONS.” Little Joe was the Riley; Crabtree was Destroyer Squadron Twelve’s Commodore.

  The response from the Riley was garbled, “...BIG DOPE...MINE...”

  “What do you think the Riley is doing?” Landa yelled up to Ingram.

  Wilson loosed yet another salvo, all five mounts firing common ammunition. “I wish I knew. Do you suppose--”

  “Quiet.” Landa leaned in the pilot house and cocked an ear to the TBS loudspeaker. “Looks like she’s reversing course.”

  The voice on the TBS was desperate, “LITTLE JOE. THIS IS CRABTREE. RETURN TO FORMATION. I SAY AGAIN. RETURN TO FORMATION.”

  “...HAVE...TOJO FOR LUNCH...”

  The last two of mount fifty-five's starshells descended to the western horizon, the cruiser still visible. It was obvious now that she turned rapidly, heading back the way she came. Ingram swept aft with his binoculars but couldn’t spot Toliver’s ship. Nothing. What is it? Something lingered. Then the flares dropped into the ocean, the cruiser lost again to the night.

  “Jack,” Ingram called to the gun director, “You have visual on the cruiser?”

  “Barely.”

  Ingram hung on the grab rail as Wilson squeezed off another five rounds from his guns. Then he keyed his mike. “Luther, what’s damned Riley doing?”

  “Going faster ‘n hell, in fact--Todd! Jesus!”

  Ingram figured it out at the same time. The Riley was steaming in between the Howell and the Japanese cruiser. “Cease fire! All batteries,” he shrieked, punching the rail-mounted ‘cease fire’ lever. Had everyone heard? Sometimes, when men were in a rhythm, their heads down, giving it their all, they ignored the cease fire alarm; they didn’t want to hear it; didn’t want to stop shooting.

  He listened. In Mount fifty-two, the five inch mount just forward of the bridge, projectile and shell dropped in the gun’s tray with a 'clang-clang.' Then, the ramming motor hummed as the spade shoved the round in the barrel and breech clicked shut. Then...

  Nothing.

  Mercifully, the Howell’s guns fell silent.

  Landa, his voice hoarse from the smoke, yelled, “Ingram! Who told you to cease fire?”

  Ingram’s reply was obliterated as three rounds cascaded from the Japanese cruiser’s after turret. Involuntarily, Ingram ducked, holding his breath, as the projectiles screeched past. He looked up. Amazing. He was still alive.

  “Right five degrees rudder!” Landa was sending Howell into an evasion routine. “Ingram! Resume fire, you stupid sonofabitch.”

  “The Riley is--” Ingram clutched a stanchion as the cruiser fired a round. It smacked the ocean a hundred yard abeam of the Howell and skipped over her with a shrill wheeeeee.

  Ingram pointed abeam. “She’s right there!’

  Spittle flew as Landa yelled, “What the hell are you--”

  “The Riley! Between us and the Jap.”

  “Oh.”

  The man on the TBS almost sobbed. “LITTLE JOE. LITTLE JOE. IMPERATIVE YOU--”

  ‘CRACK!’ The Howell lurched sideways, as if ambushed by an overweight thug in a dark alley.

  Ingram looked around. What the hell am I doing on the deck? He shook his head, but he couldn’t hear. Next to him, Seltzer was on hands and knees, spitting over the side of the pilot house.

  Ingram ripped off his headphones and pressed his fists to his head; a vain attempt to staunch the high-pitched ringing in his ears. After a moment, he grabbed a stanchion and pulled himself to his feet.

  Seltzer looked up to him, his face stark white, his lips moving.

  Landa was talking, too. Shouting maybe, but Ingram still couldn’t hear. In the lights red glow, the captain’s eyes searched and darted from Ingram to the ocean, his face an orange-red, his uvula wiggling a macabre dance in the back of his mouth.

  Then the ringing receded and Ingram could once again hear, as if someone had just flipped a master switch in his skull.

  “...Ingraaaam, damnit!”

  “Huh?”

  “L
ISTEN TO MEEEE.”

  “Sir?”

  “Are you okay?” Landa had swung the Howell to port, heading almost due south.

  Ingram shook his head. “Yeah, yes sir.” Then he looked up, seeing Jack Wilson lean out of his hatch raising his eye-brows.

  Ingram gave a thumbs up and mouthed, ‘you?’

  Wilson’s lips moved with ‘we’re okay.’ But with his hands he pantomimed the numerals five-three, pointed aft, and drew a finger across his throat.

  Ingram checked aft. In the darkness, everything seemed jumbled, he couldn’t tell what was going on. ‘How about mounts fifty-four and fifty-five, Ingram mouthed to Wilson.

  ‘Okay,’ Wilson answered.

  Seltzer, still on hands and knees, looked up and said, “No word from the aft torpedo mount or mount fifty-three.”

  “Anything from the damage control party?” asked Ingram.

  “Not yet,”

  Ingram wiggled on his headphones and keyed his mike. “Luther, what’s with the Japs?”

  “Gone. Headed back up the Slot.”

  “What about the Riley?”

  “DIW,” reported Dutton. Dead in the water.

  Ingram kneeled. “Captain, do you suppose the Riley is in trouble?”

  At least six men swarmed around Landa, all wanting something. He held a palm toward Ingram. ‘Wait.’

  After a few moments, Dutton announced, “Riley is gone.”

  “What do you mean, ‘gone?’“ demanded Ingram.

  “I mean there’s no blip.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  12 October, 1942

  U.S.S. Howell (DD 482)

  New Georgia Sound (The Slot)

  A vacant coldness swept through Ingram. Without thinking, he reached in his pocket to fumble at Helen’s ring. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Sir. The Riley--uh, the blip is gone.”

  Landa was alone for a moment, so Ingram called down, “Captain, can we ask for permission to assist the Riley?”

  “Lieutenant, if she’s in trouble, the commodore will take care of it.” Landa wiped his brow. “We have enough trouble right here.”