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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “I wonder if Kinkaid has figured this out,” Halsey muttered more to himself than to the others who sat before him. Kinkaid was under strict radio silence lest his position be discovered by the Japanese.

  There was a soft knock and a steward’s mate walked in with a silver coffee service. Halsey, Browning, and Brown waited while he set up their cups, poured, then retired silently, closing the door behind.

  “Ummmm.” Halsey sipped coffee, took a drag, then pointed to the PBY contact report. “Have you plotted this?”

  Browning pulled out a chart and showed him, “Due north of the Stewarts. Two hundred fifty miles northwest of Kinkaid.”

  Visions of Midway flew through Halsey’s mind. “Jesus. Striking distance. We can have those Jap carriers for breakfast.”

  “I'm not sure. “ Browning handed over a two page document. “A suggested draft of a message to Admiral Kinkaid. Fueling intervals, flight dispositions, screen deployments, everything.”

  Halsey read as Browning continued. “But I suggest we exercise prudence and wait to better determine Kondo’s intentions. Otherwise,” he waved a hand in the air, “it could be a Midway in reverse.”

  Halsey bent over his desk and studied the chart. Then he sat back and drummed his fingers. “Why?”

  “Intelligence tells us at least one carrier, two battleships and several destroyers left Truk two and a half weeks ago. They're unaccounted for. And if they're with this force, we could be outnumbered two to one.” Browning sat back and ran a hand over his brow.

  “And right now, we have parity in ships?”

  “Yes, Sir. Except they have one more carrier and one more battleship.”

  “All right, what do you think we should do, Miles?”

  There was another knock at the door, and the rest of Halsey's inner circle slipped in and, with no place to sit, leaned against the bulkhead. Among them were Bromfield Nichol, Leonard Dow, Douglas Moulton, and William Ashford. Most were in nightclothes, and stood in darkness. All one could see were the whites of their eyes.

  Halsey looked up to them. “It seems things are coming to a head. There is a recommendation on the table to wait. What do you think?”

  After a silence, Browning said, “Admiral. I would send an expeditionary force. Say two AA cruisers, perhaps the San Juan and the Juneau and six or so destroyers here.” He unfolded the chart and marked a spot halfway between the Stewart Islands and Guadalcanal. “That will draw them out. Then we can measure their full number and act accordingly.”

  “Exercise caution.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What if we go for them now?”

  Major Brown cleared his throat. “We risk a chance of taking heavy casualties, Sir. Especially if there is another battle group out there.”

  Halsey sipped coffee and then blew a perfect smoke ring around his desk lamp bulb. “Okay. But don't forget I promised Archie everything.” Three days previously, Halsey had met with Major General A. Archer Vandergrift, who commanded the Marines on Guadalcanal. Learning of the Marines desperate situation there, Halsey promised Vandergrift “...everything I've got.”

  “We could be slaughtered.” Browning pointed toward the north. “Those destroyers, the last ones we saw getting underway. The...the...”

  “---Porter, Shaw and Howell,” said Moulton.

  “...yes, thank you, Doug. The Porter, Shaw and Howell,” said Browning. “All three could be wiped out. Hornet, Enterprise, We could lose them all. I don't think we have the right to commit them without knowing what we're up against.”

  Halsey blew more smoke. That’s what Ghormley would have done: exercise caution, wait, send detailed instructions. No, that’s not what they’re paying me to do. “I don’t think so, Miles. Tom’s out there. He’s the commander on the scene. He has the best dope. Let him make the decisions.”

  “Sir,” Browning said, his voice a bit strident. “He's not in a position to.”

  Halsey locked eyes with everyone in the room, then looked away. “It's hot, damnit.”

  Brown reached over and turned on a bulkhead mounted fan. It whirred, blowing stagnant smoke-laden air over them, providing little relief.

  Halsey lit another cigarette. “Miles, let me play devil's advocate. Do you know what the essence of command is?”

  “Sir?”

  “Command. Leading people. What is its essence?” Halsey raised his eyebrows and again looked at them. “Anyone. Julian?”

  Brown shook his head. Others shook their heads.

  Rather robot-like, Browning cleared his throat and said, “The essence of command is the formal exercise of authority by properly delivering lawful orders to one's subordinates.”

  Halsey looked in the distance and pursed his lips. “Ummm. That may give one a top score in the classroom. But not here. Out here, in the trenches, where people are shooting at you, the essence of command is ordering men to die.

  “You look your men in the eye and send them out there to do a job knowing that some won't come back. Some will die. And that’s what Archie Vandergrift is doing right now up on Guadalcanal. This very moment he’s ordering some young captain or second john to go out there and die, to keep the Japs from taking Henderson Field. Now, I ask you, are we any different?”

  They shook their heads.

  Halsey puffed and exhaled, nearly obscuring the other faces in his compartment. “You're right Miles. We could lose those tin cans. The Enterprise, maybe even the Hornet. But if we don't try, then Vandergrift will lose far more and we'll---you and I---will be shoved back to Australia, holding hands with Doug MacArthur and his bunch.

  “For my money, I'd rather start licking the Japs from right here, and then go on to Tokyo.” He tapped Browning's map with his forefinger. “I promised Archie that I would deliver and damnit, I'm going to do it. And I trust Kinkaid to do his job and figure things out.”

  He looked up. “Okay?”

  Browning reached over and withdrew the draft off Halsey’s desk while, in the darkness, the others nodded.

  “All right. Here’s what I want to do.” Halsey grabbed a message pad and scribbled. Ripping it off the pad, he handed it to Brown. “Send that to Tom.”

  Both leaned over to read the message:

  TO: Kinkaid

  FM: HALSEY

  ATTACK – REPEAT - ATTACK

  BT

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  26 October, 1942

  U.S.S. Howell (DD 482)

  120 Miles North Of The Santa Cruz Islands

  8˚48.2' S; 166˚12.2' E

  Like snorting black stallions, the darkened ships galloped through the night at twenty-seven knots. It was moonless and overcast, and with radio silence, Ingram felt as if he were locked in a dark room with eleven three hundred pound deaf-mutes. He stood on the bridge watching Enterprise’s signal lantern stab the night, the rest of her 809 foot length hidden in gloom. The Hornet was a phantom pinpoint of light ten miles to the south, winking in response.

  He had been on the bridge since early evening when they took fuel-oil from the Enterprise. Unable to sleep, he stayed up to watch the rest of Task Force 16's destroyers dash one by one to the Enterprise and refuel. It wasn’t easy in total darkness. Using radar for their approach, the destroyers steamed to within sixty feet of the Enterprises’s starboard side. Holding their speed to twelve knots, the narrow 376 foot ships bucked and rolled as the carrier’s sailors high-lined fuel hoses over, one forward, one aft. Topping off took about twenty minutes, then the tin cans sent the hoses back. Ringing up all ahead full, they dug in their screws to charge off at twenty-five knots, resuming station on the 3,000 yard circle around the Enterprise.

  Inside the destroyer screen, on the two thousand yard circle, the heavy cruiser Portland kept station on Enterprise’s port side, the light anti-aircraft cruiser San Juan to starboard. Steaming just one thousand yards aft of the Enterprise was the new, 35,000 ton battleship South Dakota. Carrying a crew of 2,500, the dreadnought had nine sixteen-inch guns in three tur
rets, ten twin five-inch dual purpose mounts, and sixty-eight brand-new Bofors 40 millimeter guns. Untested in combat, the Bofors were carefully placed around the 680 foot battleship in seventeen quad mounts.

  To the south, the Hornet had refueled her own protective AA ring consisting of two heavy cruisers, two light anti-aircraft cruisers, and six destroyers.

  The re-fueling done, Ingram spent the rest of the night on the signal bridge drinking coffee with Landa, watching the Enterprise incessantly blink flashing light messages to the ships around her. Rocko Myszynski, the screen commander riding in Porter, must be nervous too, Ingram figured. For every hour or so, they would re-orient the screen, changing the destroyer’s distance to the Enterprise from three thousand to four thousand to five thousand yards, then back to three thousand yards again.

  Every once in a while, Rocko would spear one of his destroyers with his own flashing light message when they drifted too far off their assigned position. It would read something terse like:

  TO: TEXAS RANGER.

  FM: CRABTREE.

  STATION!

  BT

  Between the lines, one could clearly see Rocko chomping a cigar and shouting ‘goddamnit, get back where you belong.’ But such a reprimand was not received aboard the Howell. Landa lurked over the OOD’s shoulder, in this case the chief engineer, Hank Kelly, watching everything, making sure Kelly paid attention.

  With each new screen change, the ship's throttles were cracked all the way, the stacks belching smoke, as they blasted to new stations at full speed. The relative speeds were close to sixty knots, a death ride, when running against traffic. Conversely, it was a snail’s pace when taking a new station in front of the formation, crawling at a frustrating four or five knots relative speed.

  Around four in the morning, Ingram and Landa stood frozen in horror as the black mass of a nameless destroyer cut across their bow, kicked in left rudder at the last possible moment, and roared down their port side, her uptakes squealing their siren-like song, the ship’s heat enveloping them like a demonic blanket. By the time they saw the phantom ship, it was far too late for evasive action.

  Even so, Landa yelled at Kelly, who yelled at the lookouts.

  Later, Landa gasped to Ingram, “God, I can’t wait for the Japs. Then at least, we can shoot back.”

  They set up a bent-line antisubmarine screen at 0430 with all ships calling battle stations, At 0500, Rocko re-oriented back to a circular AA screen, this time to run into the wind, so the Enterprise could launch her first strike of sixteen SBD dive bombers against the Japanese. The planes got away safely, and at 0523 the eastern horizon glowed a pale-red through low cumulus clouds, announcing an anemic sunrise. Eventually, the day dawned with a soft eight knot breeze from the southeast, barely rippling a mild, rolling ocean.

  At 0705, a signalman brought Landa a message board. With a frown, he scribbled his initials and read to Ingram, “First strike of SBDs found the Jap force. Three carriers at least. Jesus. Fifteen destroyers and two battleships. A couple of cruisers. About two hundred miles northwest.” He turned to Ingram. “My bet is that we can expect an attack in one and a half to two hours.”

  Ingram had the same feeling, his bowels churning like a washing machine. He twirled Helen’s ring in his pocket, knowing the Japanese weren’t going to stand quietly while Kinkaid’s planes worked them over. Like everyone else, he had a dreaded feeling that something was on its way. He cleared his throat. “Makes sense to me.” God that sounded stupid.

  Fifteen minutes later, a signalman watching the flaghoists on the Porter shouted, “Signals. Standby to execute, Corpen, one-two-zero.” It was a course change into the wind.

  Landa glanced at Ingram. “Launching more planes. Our boys are playing for keeps.”

  “Frustrating.”

  “I know. The hell with this air war crap. Give me something to shoot at.”

  Once settled on the new course, they watched the Hornet launch a strike of fifteen SBDs, six TBF torpedo bombers and eight F4F Wildcat fighters. Orbiting the Hornet until all were airborne, they headed northwest, their engines droning into the distance. Watching them go, Ingram's mouth was as stale as an empty paint can. He was thinking of heading below to brush his teeth and shave when Kinkaid sent off a second Enterprise strike of three SBDs, eight TBFs and eight more Wildcats.

  For Ingram, it was hard to realize those brave flyers up there were going after an enemy unseen over the horizon, outnumbered by them if the earlier report was accurate.

  Landa headed toward the companionway. “How ‘bout it Todd? You ready for something to eat? I got a feeling it’s going to be a long, long day.”

  “Think I'll stick around for a while.”

  “Okay. Tell Hank to set condition three for chow. And have them hustle. I want to get back to GQ as soon as possible.” Landa's head bobbed down the companionway.

  Ingram walked forward and stuck his head in the pilot house, finding Hank Kelly standing at a port hole, binoculars jammed to his eyes. He walked up and said, “Skipper’s off the bridge.”

  “Thank God.”

  Ingram couldn’t help but smile. Kelly had had a hair raising night. “I thought Luther had the forenoon watch. Why are you still up here?”

  “Not hungry. I told Luther to eat, then come up and relieve me.”

  “Okay, Hank. Set condition three and pass the word to hustle chow.”

  Kelly said, “all right,” his voice tight.

  Stepping from the pilot house to head below, Ingram felt a tug at his sleeve. He turned. It was Kelly. “Yeah, Hank?”

  Kelly looked over his shoulder, making sure he wasn't overhead. He whispered, “Todd. What’s going to happen?”

  They moved out of ear shot and leaned on the bulwarks, watching the Howell slice the seas, rolling easily, her bow biting into the troughs, dark grey ocean turning to brilliant white foam as it gushed over her fo’c’sle, washing past mount fifty-one, then cascading over the side.

  “I think we'll see some action today.”

  “Planes?” Sweat beaded on Kelly's upper lip.

  “Yeah.” Ingram laid a hand on Kelly's forearm. “Hank. You'll be fine. Just keep your turbines grinding.”

  “I gotta tell you. I didn't sleep a wink last night. God, I feel so shitty. How do you do it, Todd? Nothing affects you. You're a damned ice man.”

  Now that was a surprise. Someone else telling him he was an iceman. Except... Landa had just about said as much a few days ago. Ingram thought about his little bottle of belladonna tablets hidden in his shaving kit. He hadn’t taken one last night and now he was paying for it, the washing machine solidly lodged in his belly, churning a full load. Beside that, his mouth was dry and with no sleep, his eyelids felt as if lead weights hung on them. “Keep a secret?”

  Kelly nodded as they watched the Hornet’s second strike claw its way into the air: nine SDS, nine TBFs and seven Wildcats. As they droned overhead, he said, “I'm so damned scared, I can’t eat. I know I’ll puke if I see a bowl of mush. Yet, I have to go below and sit at the right hand of Boom Boom Landa and act like I’m content as hell. I'd rather crawl into one of your evaporators and have you bolt the inspection plate over me.”

  Kelly looked at Ingram, obviously having trouble taking him seriously. Finally, he ran his hand over his chin. “No. I'd turn on the steam and fry your ass.”

  “That's me. Chicken ala king.”

  It didn’t seem funny to Ingram but for some reason, Kelly started giggling and stepped back into the pilot house, laughing as he went, the crew shaking their heads as the chief engineer walked past.

  Hank thought I was kidding. On the opposite bridgewing, Kelly busied himself peering through his pelorus, making sure the Howell was on station.

  Ingram took a deep breath and looked up, watching the yardarm sweep slowly across the overcast, the ships motion easy, enticing. They could have been on a pleasure cruise aboard the Luriline. Padding down the gangway, he thought about his new talker, a fair-haired, s
tocky, third class yeoman named Justice. He was a replacement for Seltzer who had been given his wish and placed in charge of mount fifty-two, the five-inch gunmount just forward of the bridge. Justice and Seltzer: both in new jobs. As things were shaping up, Ingram hoped they could handle it.

  Ingram sat at the wardroom table, silent, stirring coffee, unable to eat more than two pieces of dry toast. Ten other officers were there picking at their food, staring in the distance, one or two talking in monosyllables.

  Landa slopped up a bowl of mush, then pushed his chair back. “We have a job to do?”

  They turned and nodded dully.

  “I can't hear you.” Landa cupped a hand top his ear.

  One or two grinned.

  “Luther, smile, damnit,” said Landa.

  Dutton’s smile looked like a jagged slash mark across a smeared chalkboard.

  “Todd?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Ingram raised his forefingers and drew the corners of his mouth far apart.

  That got them. Even Dutton laughed.

  “That’s not what I wanted, damnit. Now look.” Landa checked his watch. “Eight-forty-five. Japs will be here, soon. Are we ready?” Again, he cupped a hand to his ear.

  “Yes, Sir.” they said.

  “Now, come on. I don't think you guys know how to really ---”

  A buzzer sounded. Landa reached under the table and snatched the handset. “Captain.”

  It was obvious that Hank Kelly was on the other end. Landa nodded. “Right. Sound general quarters. As soon as you’re relieved, hightail it down here and grab some chow before you head down the hole.”

  Landa shoved the phone in the bracket. “Radar reports bogeys at fifty miles. Time to go to work.”