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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  By late Saturday afternoon, the Pembroke had finished her weeks work and steamed southeasterly for Brisbane via the Northwest Passage and Moreton Bay. It was a six hour trip of about fifty miles, through a sinuous channel of mud flats, breaking reefs and shallow waters to port; the Eastern Queensland coast two miles to starboard. The Pembroke’s skipper was anxious to negotiate the hardest part before nightfall when they would lose all their navigational aids, the entire Australian coastline plunged into strict blackout.

  Todd Ingram walked out on the main deck, coffee mug in hand, and propped a foot on a chock, watching the Queensland Coast slide by. The Australian summer was fast approaching, the air a balmy seventy-four degrees. On a hillside he picked out two bicyclists bumping their way down a path, scattering a flock of sheep. Well astern now was the stately Caloundra Head lighthouse, its light comatose in wartime. Through the midships passageway, he picked out Cape Moreton ten miles to port, which told him there was at least three and a half hours to go. This meant they would not make their mooring by nightfall; and for the skipper’s sake, he hopped the radar worked as well tonight as it had over the last three days.

  Ingram sipped, then took a deep breath, watching the sheep scatter. The scene was so pastoral, he desperately tried to take it in; make it part of him so perhaps it could help uncoil what was inside. But it was impossible. Ever since he’d learned of the Needlefish's loss, that Helen wasn’t coming back, he’d driven himself, totally giving into work, doing something every waking moment, sometimes getting only three or four hours of sleep.

  After a week in a Brisbane shipyard, Dutton had walked up to him and, as a friend, told him the Howell’s officers were complaining. Yes, Ingram had been appointed acting captain but he was too remote, too standoffish, too inclined to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation. With a scowl, Ingram silently dismissed Dutton even though he knew it was true; and that it wasn’t his officer’s fault the Needlefish had hit a mine. Although, no one knew for sure if it was a mine. Perhaps she’d been torpedoed by a Japanese submarine. Perhaps she had suffered a battery explosion. The only trace was an oil slick that had burbled to the surface ten miles off the coast.

  He dreaded that Kate and Frank Durand were in for another telegram. But that would take several months, and a debate raged in his mind on whether or not to let them know, try and make things easier. A quick letter would do it; he’d had plenty of practice writing letters to the Pelican’s crewmember’s families after his escape from Corregidor. But he didn’t do it, knowing he had to abide by security measures. Unlike the time when he first met them, Helen was alive. But there was no way to soften this blow. And if he didn't write the letter, there would come a time, when the postman would drive up to the Durand ranch, get out of his truck and hand over the War Department telegram. Who would be there to accept it? Kate? He hoped not. It would destroy her. It had to be Frank who broke the news.

  Helen.

  Rocko Myszynski had appointed him as temporary commanding officer to take the Howell from Espiritu Santo to Brisbane for repairs. On their second night in port, he’d silently slipped ashore, bought a quart of boot-leg scotch, and found a cheap waterfront hotel. He holed-up there in a five by seven cheese-box and drunk the bottle sitting on the bed. Unfazed, he listened to prostitutes and their johns grunting and moaning through thin walls. All he could do was stare dry-eyed out the scum-covered window into the blackout, eventually watching the sun rise while a furniture factory came to life next door. Then he lurched the four and a half miles back to the Howell, ate breakfast and fell asleep for seventeen hours.

  He’d wanted to cry in that hotel. In fact, he tried very hard. But he couldn’t. Why, he didn’t know. All he knew was that it was out of him...for the time being. Would he ever forget her? Maybe not. Right now, he felt...nothing.

  Helen.

  Except, his cheek itched. Strange.

  Actually, it was sort of a throb as if it were mending again, after having been ripped open by a piece of shrapnel last April off Corregidor. Helen had sewn it up in the Malinta tunnel hospital last April. But the stitches opened, and it leaked pus when he was on the run through the Philippines. The doctors in San Francisco re-sewed it and treated it with an antibiotic ointment and it finally healed. But now it itched, and he raised his hand absently, scratching the faint scar tissue.

  Helen.

  Ingram and Luther Dutton had been assigned temporarily to Rocko Myszynski’ s staff while Hank Kelly supervised what was to become and long and arduous repair period. Ingram’s main job was to conn the Pembroke during the torpedo firings, ensuring the precision needed for accurate tests. Over the past three days they’d fired twelve torpedoes. Six ran deep, two porposed, one ran circular; the other three hit the target as intended. And now, while Ingram sipped coffee, George Atwell was in the wardroom with three of his Winslow River Torpedo Factory sycophants arguing with a cigar-chomping Commodore Myszynski and his staff. Myszynski ran the meeting shouting and pointing his thick index finger at torpedo tracks on crinkling DRT paper, smashing his fists on data tables, his voice resonating throughout the small wardroom. With that, Ingram escaped to the main deck away from their strident tones and haranguing. Fortunately, he wasn't needed anymore; he’d just been the bus-driver.

  The western sky was an orange-red and he leaned heavily on the bulwark, watching the reflections on the flat calm of Moreton Bay. It was almost the texture of glass as seagulls bobbed in the ship's wake. Others rose and winged over to the mud flats, where an ebbing tide exposed their evening meal at the meander line.

  A shoe scrapped and Ingram turned to see George Atwell walking up, coffee cup in hand. Tonight, Atwell was without his legendary grin, and yellowish-orange streaks in his hair were beginning to fade making Ingram wonder if he’d run out of his bleach; maybe he couldn’t buy the stuff in the war zone. Atwell wore khaki trousers, and a sturdy khaki shirt with shoulder epaulets and cartridge holders large enough to accommodate fifty-caliber machine gun rounds. The entire rig made Ingram wondered if the man planned on going elephant hunting. Atwell sighed, “That guy is tough,”

  When Ingram didn’t respond, Atwell offered, “You like a round of golf tomorrow?”

  “I don’t play golf.”

  Atwell guffawed and punched Ingram on the arm. “Maynard told me you’re a scratch golfer.” He referred to Captain Maynard Falkenberg, Admiral Spruance’s intelligence specialist.

  Ingram sipped. “George, I’ve got to go over to the Howell and check on her repairs. “ He didn’t add that Landa had been detached as the Howell’s commanding officer and sent back to the U.S. for recuperation. A new commanding officer had yet to be appointed.

  “I see.”

  Ingram started to move off.

  “You don’t like me very much do you?”

  Ingram stopped. “What?”

  “This golf bullshit. I’ve heard from several guys that you were the fleet champion at Manila before the war. And now you--”

  “George. I haven’t played golf since the war broke out. I just don’t feel like it. There’s too much going on.”

  “You blame me for what’s happened.” Unaccountably, Atwell’s voice was soft, so unlike him.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Did you know, we tested Mark 14s in Frenchman’s Bay last June?” Frenchman’s Bay was near the west end of the Great Australian Bight. The submarine fired Mark 14 torpedoes were four feet shorter than the destroyer-mounted Mark 15s.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I haven’t told those guys inside yet, but the same thing happened. Damned torpedoes ran too deep.”

  “Why?”

  “Damned if I know. Look, Todd. This is embarrassing to us at Winslow River. We’re trying like hell to fix it, but we don’t know what to fix, yet. Did you know the Germans and Brits are having the same problem?”

  “Did you know the Japs are blowing our ships from here to the next planet? Look. I don’t care about the Germans and the
Brits. I saw what happened to the Riley and--”

  “But that was at night.”

  “---and I saw what happened to the Porter. Don’t forget Rocko was aboard her, too. Eleven men died. And he’s lost other ships. That’s why he’s so worked up.”

  “The sonofabitch has made it abundantly clear.”

  Ingram gripped the bulwark. “And that was just one torpedo that hit the Porter. The same day, the Japs chased us and the Anderson and Mustin away and sank the Hornet with just four,” Ingram held up four fingers, “four of their torpedoes.

  “That was after we fired ten of your torpedoes from the Howell with zero effect. Same thing with the Anderson and Mustin. Now tell me, George. How do you figure that? And I have to say, no stupid golf game is going to give us answers.”

  Atwell’s shoulders sagged. “I know. We have depth-control problems.”

  Ingram looked up, surprised. “What?”

  “I said I’m ready to concede we have torpedo depth-control problems.”

  “Well, that’s a step.”

  “But I need someone to run interference for me with Myszynski. The man is merciless. Would you mind? I think he respects you.”

  “Is that what you really want?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “How about candor?” Ingram had acquired Jerry Landa's aversion to pretense and arrogance. Until tonight, Atwell had been brimming with it. Now, he was almost...humble.

  “What?”

  “For years, Winslow River has been the only shop in town. The only manufacturers of torpedoes to the fleet. You’ve been shoving them down our throats and now, when the chips are down, you don’t admit you have a problem.”

  Atwell pressed his lips and turned to watch the sun set, darkness claiming the land.

  Luther Dutton walked out and coughed politely. “Mr. Atwell?”

  “Yes?”

  Dutton’s accent was deeply flavored with MIT, which meant he was nervous. “The Commodore would like to know if you’re coming back?”

  Atwell looked at Ingram.

  “Candor.”

  Atwell sniffed at the wind.

  “Okay. I’ll help.”

  Atwell whispered, “Thank you, Todd.” He took Ingram’s hand in both of his and shook, then went inside.

  Ingram picked up his coffee cup and moved to follow.

  “About time, skipper.” Dutton said hoarsely.

  Ingram spun, ready to chew on Dutton. But then a tiny voice wafted through his mind, Give of yourself, Captain.

  The Howell’s gunnery officer took a step back, spread his hands and forced a small grin. “Atwell is bearing his soul. Rocko will kill him in there, no matter what he says. If you’re don’t give him a chance. Maybe some good can come out of this.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Look at him. He’s broken.”

  “He just told me he’s ready to concede their torpedoes have faulty depth-control mechanisms.”

  “That’s swell.”

  Ingram slapped Dutton’s shoulder. “Okay, Luther, let’s go back in there and see what sort of sense we can make out of this mess.”

  Ingram was surprised they didn’t tie up to their usual spot: A nest of destroyers moored alongside the destroyer tender Whitney, which was anchored five hundred yards off Fisherman Island. Instead, they steamed closer to town; to the darkened British Petroleum Terminal at Luggage Point and moored just aft of a large tanker. In short time, the lines were doubled up, the brow shoved into place, and the liberty party lined up to go ashore, thankful for the hour saved by not having to take a shoreboat. Ingram stood with them in dress khakis, waiting as custom dictated, for the senior officers to depart by rank, Rocko Myszynski at the head of the column.

  But there was a commotion in the gloom, the line held up for several moments as someone boarded. Men groused, then a slim shadow stood before Ingram. Just behind was the unmistakable bulk of Rocko Myszynski, cigar smoke swirling around his head.

  “Evening, Sailor.”

  Ingram knew that voice. “Otis! What the hell are you doing here?” He shook hands with Otis DeWitt.

  “Evening, Todd. Congratulations.” DeWitt patted Ingram’s new lieutenant commander shoulder boards. “Looks like you’re catching up to me.”

  The other officers stepped around them, mounted the gangway and left the ship. They stepped inboard with DeWitt saying, “How long you been in town?”

  “I don't know. Two, three weeks.”

  DeWitt growled in his twang. “Well, why the hell didn't you look me up?”

  Ingram was trying to think of something to say when Myszynski saved him with, “We better go to the wardroom.”

  “What?”

  Walking forward, Myszynski called over his shoulder, “Follow me, Sailor.”

  DeWitt had to repeat it three times. “She’s alive, Todd.” He waved a hand in front of Ingram’s face. “Todd? Hey, Commander Ingram!”

  Ingram took off his hat and sat on a small settee. “My God.”

  “She’s alive, I said,” DeWitt pulled up a chair opposite.

  “Can you be more specific, Colonel?” said Myszynski.

  DeWitt ignored Myszynski. “She’s alive and-- “

  “I knew it.”

  “What?”

  Ingram looked in the distance. “Somehow, I knew she was alive.”

  “What are you talking about? How?” demanded DeWitt.

  Ingram looked at DeWitt, feeling stupid. “My cheek itched.” It slipped out and he hadn’t intended to say it. God, he felt good, like soaring. Helen! Helen! He wondered if they saw his grin. As a young ensign, he'd ridden the Roller Coaster at the Long Beach Pike. He loved it so much, he rode it five times that night. And now, he felt as if he were on it again, feeling the sheer power as it spun in its turns, pinned him to his seat, leaving his stomach at the top of the first plunging grade. Helen!

  DeWitt’s voice rose an octave. “Commander. I order you to tell me of any back-channels you are using.”

  Ingram grinned openly. “Kate Durand. It’s all her fault.”

  “What do you mean? What's this about your cheek?’ DeWitt nearly yelled.

  Rocko Myszynski sat and lighted a cigar, his eyes twinkling.

  With great effort, Ingram focused. “Oh, Otis. Shut up and tell me what you want.”

  DeWitt's mouth dropped.

  Ingram said to Myszynski, “Don't worry, Commodore. Otis and I go back a long way.”

  “I hope so.” Myszynski stood. “Lots to do. Do you need me anymore Colonel?”

  DeWitt stood and they shook. “No, Sir. Thanks for letting us borrow him. We promise to return him fresh as a daisy in three weeks.”

  Myszynski snorted and rubbed his chin. “Fair enough. The Howell should be ready about then. Just tell Dick Sutherland he owes me one.” He turned to leave but then snapped his thick fingers. “Oh, by the way, Todd. I bring you greetings from Boom Boom.”

  “How is he?” asked Ingram.

  “Recovering nicely at the Oak Knoll Naval Hospital. They're going to release him in another three or four weeks, so we're giving the Howell back to him.”

  “I think that's great, Sir.”

  “Yes, and you'll stay on as exec. We’re done with the tests here so I’m going to cut you lose. I must say that I agree with Boom Boom. I’ve endorsed his recommendation for your own command.”

  “Thank you, Sir.” Ingram shook Myszynski's hand.

  “Okay. See you, Todd.” Myszynski shook with DeWitt and walked out, trailing a blue cloud of smoke.

  It all swirled around Ingram and he sat heavily. Finally, he looked up to see DeWitt staring at him, pushing over a cup of coffee. “Otis. You're not here on a social visit, are you?”

  DeWitt shook his head.

  “How long have you known about Helen?”

  DeWitt stirred in two lumps of sugar. Still thin, he looked like he’d gained most of his weight back.

  “Tell me, damnit.”

  “Keep your shirt
on, mister. The U.S. Army doesn't happen to be your personal cupid service.” DeWitt said rather peevishly, “If you must know, we received a message two weeks ago that she’d missed the sub.”

  Ingram looked down finding his fists clenched. With effort, he exhaled loudly. “Sorry.”

  “You would have found out sooner or later.”

  “So, what do you want?”

  “A beach master.”

  “A what?”

  “Our other one was damned near killed when his plane ground-looped. We have no back-up, and you fit the bill perfectly. You're Navy. You know Navy talk and whatever it is that you Navy guys do. You know the Philippines. You know Amador. You even know Nasipit. And you’re available.”

  “Otis, you've been drinking too much of that Australian dark beer.”

  The Pembroke's Captain and exec walked in, and seeing DeWitt and Ingram with their heads together, poured their coffee and discreetly sat at the table's other end.

  DeWitt leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Actually there’s more to it.”

  “Go on.”

  Surprised he was perspiring, DeWitt decided against mentioning anything connected with Dezhnev and the Soviet consulate in San Francisco. “She’s come into possession of a very important document.”

  “What?

  “It’s about that torpedo you saw.”

  Ingram’s voice rose. “You mean the Jap torpedoes on the bottom of Tulagi Harbor?”

  The officers at the end of the table looked their way then resumed talking.

  “Shhh. Todd, damnit. This is top secret. A matter of national security. And we need it right now.”

  “How did she get mixed up in something top secret? And what the hell does national security have to do with Helen?” Ingram’s fists clenched again.