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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Kelly glanced at the smoke-blackened gun director. “Lucky you weren’t toasted.”

  Ingram’s stomach churned with the thought. “ I remember...that Jap sat up and looked right at me, eye to eye. Then...just as he hit, I ducked behind the director--Justice!”

  “What?” said Kelly.

  “Justice. He’s missing.”

  “Right,” said Dutton.

  ‘He was the one that was on fire.”

  “You're nuts,” said Ingram.

  “I tell you, that was Justice. He must have been splattered with burning gasoline. The poor bastard was a human torch standing on the bulwark. I remember his keys jingled just before he jumped.”

  Ingram turned a lighter shade. “Jesus. Maybe someone picked him up.” They looked aft for a moment, the long foaming wake trailing behind them. The realization swarmed over them that if Justice had been rescued by another ship, they would have known by now.

  Dutton looked down, studying their wake. “I've heard of guys on fire jumping over the side. Haven't heard of one of them being picked up.”

  Jack Wilson interrupted their thoughts. “Getting close, Sir. Ten thousand yards.” He stood at the torpedo director, substituting for the chief torpedoman who had been wounded by the suicide plane.

  The Anderson and Mustin circled the Hornet like sheep dogs, yipping at the cow that refused to come home, letting Howell through the gate to do their dirty work. Just then, an explosion raged in the carrier’s hanger deck, spewing white-hot chunks of metal hundreds of feet into the sky, slowly twirling as they fell back to the ocean in great splashes.

  “What’s the range, now?” asked Ingram.

  “Eight thousand.”

  “Shoot at six.”

  “Yessir. What depth?”

  Ingram shrugged and looked at the others. “What's she draw?”

  “I'd say twenty feet,” Dutton guessed.

  “Okay, Jack. Let's try ten feet.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Wilson, checked a stopwatch. “ We fire in three minutes.”

  “Very well. Luther, do we have confirmation from the Anderson to carry out the attack?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “...old girl.” Kelly muttered. “She was a damned good ship, only a year old. I rode her for three months after she was commissioned. It’s just not right...”

  Wilson pressed his head to the eyepiece. “Thirty seconds. Permission to shoot, Skipper?”

  “Call me XO. The skipper’s gonna be okay.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Shoot when ready, Jack.”

  Soon Wilson squeezed his hand trigger. The black powder charges on the torpedo mount coughed one by one. Five torpedoes leaped from their tubes, one every two seconds, smacking the water with a gentle splash, streaking toward the stricken aircraft carrier at forty-five knots. “What’s the run time?”

  “Four minutes.”

  Ingram studied his watched. One minute passed. Two minutes. Three. At four fifteen, the carrier shuddered, water burbling amidships. “What the hell?” cried Dutton.

  “Jack?” demanded Ingram. “Is that all we get? One hit and four duds?”

  An exasperated Wilson moaned. “Dudley told me the setup was perfect. The fish all seemed to run normal. He has no idea what happened.” Dudley was their first class torpedoman on the mount.

  Briley, the quartermaster called, “Signal from the Anderson, Sir. 'INTERROGATIVE REMAINING TORPEDOES?'“

  “Affirmative, Briley. Ask them if they want us to make another run.”

  “Yes, Sir.” The signalman clacked his flashing light. Soon the Anderson winked back with Briley reading, “‘GO AHEAD,’ Sir.”

  Ingram bunched his fists for a moment. What the hell is it with these torpedoes? “Okay Mr. Wilson. Let's try again. Set depth at four feet this time.” The Howell circled and once again launched at 6,000 yards as Ingram, Dutton, and Kelly watched with binoculars. A wave of disgust swept over Ingram, as number three turned ninety degrees to port and raced harmlessly into the distance.

  “Look at number two!” shouted Kelly. They watched the gleaming torpedo leap in the air, its counter-rotating propellers spinning furiously, spewing spray, then smacking into the water, porposing on the surface, eventually bouncing off course and passing astern of the Hornet.

  “Sonofabitch,” exclaimed an incredulous Kelly, his hands on his hips. “You mean we can’t even hit the broad side of an eight hundred foot shithouse? Piss-poor maintenance, I'd say.”

  “Hank, damnit.” Dutton whipped off his binoculars, his face flushed. “The torpedo gang lives with their equipment day and night. They baby those damned torpedoes. There's nothing they don't know about them.”

  Kelly smirked. “Of course, now when the chips are down they---”

  “That's enough,” snapped Ingram, checking his watch. The torpedo run times were well past four minutes. There were no explosions.

  As the Howell shot past, the Mustin and Anderson moved in, pumping five inch rounds into the Hornet.

  Dutton, Kelly and Wilson argued, while Ingram called the quartermaster! “Briley?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Ask Anderson if they need assistance.”

  “Sir.” Briley stood on his little platform, clacking his shutter. He squinted as the Anderson began winking back. “Anderson acknowledges, Sir.” Then Briley read aloud, “new message, Sir. ‘To: HOWELL, MANY THANKS. BUT OTC REPORTS STRONG JAP SURFACE FORCE APPROACHING THREE CA, FIVE DD NOW FORTY MILES AWAY: ETA UNDER TWO HOURS. WE MUST LEAVE IF HORNET NOT SUNK BY THEN. REGARDING YOUR WOUNDED SUGGEST YOU PROCEED WITH HASTE ON DUTY ASSIGNED. BT.’”

  “Tell them thank you, Briley.” Ingram drummed his fingers for a moment. “And add we’re sorry our torpedoes were duds.”

  “Yessir.” Briley started clacking his shutter. After a moment, he said, “From Anderson, Sir. SO WERE OURS. WE HAVE TO TALK ABOUT THIS.”

  “Okay. Luther, let's scram before Tojo shows up. Make turns for thirty knots and set a zig-zag course for Espiritu Santo.”

  Kelly watched. “What if the Japs tow her off?”

  “Let’s hope those two put her down, first.”

  They watched as the burning Hornet faded in the distance. The two destroyers, like mad terriers, cranked salvo after salvo into her at point-blank range, the proud carrier sitting there, taking it like a drunken ex-heavy weight boxer.

  “Tough cookie,” Wilson said reverently.

  Dutton crossed his arms. “I hope they have something else up their sleeve.”

  “Okay, Luther. Set a condition three watch and pass the word for the officers to take their chow with the crew on the mess decks.” Ingram looked at his watch. “And let’s sound general quarters at a half-hour before sunset.”

  “Will do.”

  “Hank?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “How’s the fore deck?”

  “Secure. Holes are patched. They’re cutting away the last of the wreckage.”

  “Okay, tell ‘em no welding torches on the weatherdecks after sunset. I don’t want to be a damned beacon to Jap submarines out here.”

  “Okay.”

  They looked back a moment, the Hornet once again erupting in an enormous, Vesuvius sized explosion. After the smoke cleared, she looked no different, the Anderson and Mustin still pounding away, their five inch-thirty-eight caliber cannons sounding like pop-guns compared to Hornet’s gut-wrenching detonations. Ingram watched as yet another blast shook the Hornet, large pieces twirling in the air, trailing smoke. “I’m going down to check on the skipper.”

  Landa’s day cabin was dim. The only light was from a small desk where Monaghan sat fussing over paperwork, occasionally glancing at the skipper. Except for two in sick-bay, the rest of his patients were in the wardroom, just on the other side of the bulkhead. Across the passageway, in CIC, a radio receiver squealed. Then Tokyo Rose announced, “...and now we hear an all-time favorite, Now is the Hour.”

  As Bing Crosby crooned, Ingram sat on th
e edge of Landa’s bunk. Except for the grotesque tube running into his chest, and a bandage on the side of his head, the captain looked alert, and his color was good.

  “How you doing?”

  “Fine. How 'bout you?” Landa’s voice was surprisingly strong.

  Ingram forced a smile. “Scared shitless.”

  “Keep a secret?”

  “Sure.”

  “After my breakfast pep-talk...”

  “You were great.”

  “I went right in there,” he pointed to a curtained shower stall and toilet, “and puked my guts out.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  They were silent for a moment, each mulling the intensity of their fears.

  Monaghan tapped Ingram on the shoulder. “Only a couple of minutes, Sir. Then you gotta scram. The skipper has to rest.”

  “Okay.”

  “Back in a minute. Have to check up in the wardroom.”

  Ingram nodded as Monaghan walked out and closed the door.

  “Was it he who patched me up?”

  Ingram nodded. “Yeah. I don’t think a regular shanker mechanic could have done it.”

  “I misjudged him. Terribly. How’s he doing with the rest of the wounded?”

  “Swell.”

  “Don’t fire him.”

  “No.”

  “Okay. How's our ship? Give it to me straight.”

  Ingram took a deep breath. “We lost nine men in mount fifty-one, killed, we think on impact. Their bodies were washed over the side when we pulled behind the South Dakota. We lost another three in mount fifty-two. Five more were killed on the bridge, including Fred and Lucian.”

  Landa's lips pressed white and his eyes became watery. Forcing his gaze to a spot on the overhead, he rasped, “Go on.”

  “ETA at Espiritu Santo 1000 tomorrow morning. We've been cleared to go alongside the Hope, where you and the others will be transferred. They'll take our dead, too.”

  Landa's adam's apple bounced up and down. “No ceremonies.”

  “Not at sea.”

  “What else? How’s the ship?”

  “The whole forward battery is gone. Forties, twenties. Except for the barrel, mount fifty one is gone. Mount fifty-two is repairable. The anchor windlass is gone along with the starboard anchor. The port held for some reason. Shrapnel holes all over the place. And we have to dewater the forward magazine and dry it out. It’s awful in there. Has to be rebuilt entirely. And we could use a new paint job topside.”

  “The plant?” Landa referred to the engineering plant with its two firerooms and two enginerooms.

  “Fine.”

  “Mmmmm. Well, there you are, Stateside repair job, maybe. San Francisco? L.A.? Go see your honey. What’s her name?”

  “Helen.” It sounded sweet as he said it.

  “Well? What do you think of that?”

  “Yeah...yeah, just maybe.”

  They were silent for a moment, each lost in their thoughts. Ingram looked over, seeing Landa's breathing seemed a bit labored and his color was whiter. “Monaghan says you should have a full recovery.”

  Landa wheezed, “I'll recommend that you to take her back.”

  “What about--”

  The door opened silently; Monaghan stepped in. “The Captain needs rest.”

  “Okay.” Ingram stood. “Take care Boom Boom.”

  Landa’s voice was distant. “Up yours, too...” His eyes fluttered close and he fell asleep.

  Ingram made his way to the mess decks, two levels down. He stood in line with the men, some boisterous, shouting, euphoric over their escape. More than one asked: “Hey, Mr. Ingram. Is the scuttlebutt true? We going to Frisco for repairs?”

  Smiling and doing his best to banter back, Ingram ladled up a tray of macaroni and cheese, lima beans and rolls, then stepped forward into the crew's dining area, a space perhaps thirty feet by thirty-nine feet, the later dimension the beam of the ship. The officers had commandeered a table in the far corner on the port side. Ingram sat on the end beside Kelly.

  He reached for the water pitcher but looked up seeing all their faces turned toward him. “Skipper's doing fine. He’ll pull through okay.”

  With a collective sigh of relief, they resumed their meals and talked among themselves, their tones melding with the jubilant ones from the crew around them.

  “Biscuits?” Dutton passed a tray.

  “Sure,” Ingram took one as one of the men reached up and clicked on the radio receiver.

  They picked up their ears when Tokyo Rose purred, “...and to the men of Task Force 61 under Admiral Thomas Kinkaid. We are so sorry for the loss of your carrier Hornet. And we understand the Enterprise is not long for this world, either.”

  “How the hell does she know all this?” asked Kelly, “Pass the marmalade, please.”

  “...too bad the destroyers Porter and Howell were sunk...”

  They whooped and whistled at that. “Half right, Toots. Soooo sorry,” someone jeered.

  “...such gallant crews. Now at the ocean's bottom. It’s just not worth it. Think hard, men of the American Navy. It’s useless. You never know when it hits you. From your blind side. Our power is complete and overwhelming and unpredictable...”

  “...turn it off,” growled Dutton.

  Foster, a tall second class gunner's mate, reached for the receiver as Tokyo Rose said, “...think also of the predicament of the submarine U.S.S. Needlefish as she returned from patrol--”

  Foster started to flip the switch.

  Ingram stood. “Leave it!” he shouted.

  The men at Ingram’s table stared at him, forks poised in mid-air.

  “...sunk with all hands from one of your own mines as she tried to enter Brisbane Harbor at night without an escort. Such a stupid captain. Such a stupid sacrifice of eighty fine men, just because the Needlefish’s captain failed to...”

  Dutton asked, “Todd, what the hell’s the matter?”

  Ingram’s fists bunched. Then he stood stiffly and lurched out of the mess-room, his shoulder bouncing off the hatch frame as he exited.

  At the next table, Wilcox munched lima beans and spread strawberry jam on a slab of bread. “What’s with the XO?”

  PART THREE

  But Jesus said unto him; Follow me; and let the dead bury their dead.

  Matthew 8:22

  * * *

  We are much simpler mechanisms than we think, preserving life and seeking what meaning we can find in it. The dead must bury the dead because no one else pauses long enough to do so. Guilt is inevitable, but the real danger, I quickly found, was in feeling that you cannot move on away from what you cannot endure, letting deep emotions get too tangled and blocked.

  Alvin Kernan

  Crossing the Line

  CHAPTER FORTY

  11 November, 1942

  Consulate, U.S.S.R.

  San Francisco, California

  San Francisco, it seemed, was done with its ‘Indian Summer,’ a warm and balmy span of weather Eduard Dezhnev had grown to love, something never seen in his adopted homeland of Georgia. Now it was cold, blustery, and his leg hurt as he walked up the hill to the consulate. It had become a half-hour constitutional he took each day after the heavy Soviet lunches.

  He paused for a moment, looking back at San Francisco Bay. It was jammed with anchored cruisers, destroyers, oilers, cargo ships, attack transports. Even a battleship, an old New Mexico class, swung out there with them. Little boats dashed among them servicing the fleet with furious intent. The waterfront, San Francisco’s old Barbary Coast was as alive as she ever would be, this time not as a mercantile center. Now, she was a major jumping off place for carrying the war to the Japanese. Ships were moored stem to stern at her piers where long, clanking trains pulled right alongside to deliver their deadly cargos. Boxcars, flatcars, tankcars and passenger cars were drawn from all over the nation by great steam engines, their chuffing and moaning whistles echoing over the City. Added to the Peninsula’s cacophony was that
of the building yards around the San Francisco Bay region. From Mare Island to Hunter’s Point, capital and cargo ships were mass produced at an amazing rate.

  As Dezhnev watched, three destroyers led a heavy cruiser, a new Baltimore class sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge where they were met by the cold, grey Pacific the four ships looking sinister in their dazzle-pattern camouflage. He stood for a moment longer, the wind tugging at his overcoat, as he thought about the game the Americans were playing. To many, they looked as buffoons, getting smeared right and left in the Solomons by the Japanese. But Dezhnev had studied the figures. Yes, the Americans had, so far, lost four heavy carriers, but they still had enough to continue their delaying tactics. Dezhnev’s information was that Rear Admiral Spruance was soon to be put in charge of Admiral Nimitz’s campaign to drive across the Central Pacific. All he needed were the carriers. And plenty were on the way. Scheduled for commissioning next month was the 33,000 ton Essex attack carrier. Capable of carrying eighty planes, she was the lead ship of thirteen more carriers on the ways or already launched. And last August, Congress had ordered eleven more Essex class carriers. And last week, at a late afternoon cocktail party at the Alameda Naval Air Station, a loud-mouthed staff captain blabbed about the new Midway class carrier that was being ordered: three behemoths of 55,000 tons with a 100 plane capacity.

  Besides the heavy carriers, there were another eighty or so light or escort carriers, launched or on the ways, each capable of carrying twenty to thirty planes.

  The math wasn’t difficult. Twenty-seven attack aircraft carriers plus eighty light aircraft carriers was an astonishing capability. And hundreds of support ships were also on the way, a fraction of which stood anchored before him. Poor Yamamoto. Did the man really know what he was in for? If he did, the admiral must be scared out of his trousers. No wonder the Japanese messages via Moscow were becoming more and more strident, demanding information of all kinds. So much so that Dezhnev had been ordered to shift from his KOMET activities to gathering straight tactical information for the Japanese.