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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “In good time, Commander. For now, we must go.” Kunisawa stood before him and bowed. “You're going to be the star of our show today.”

  Ingram smacked his lips, “How 'bout some water?”

  Kunisawa rubbed his hands, “Sure, sure, and then tonight, we get to wipe out the Turbot. Boom!” He clapped his hands next to Ingram's ear then reached for his flask.

  “Hisa,” Fujimoto scorned as he stood before a mirror. He donned his cap and, inserting two fingers between the bridge of his nose and the cap's brim, made sure it was square. Then he grabbed a pair of white gloves and walked out.

  With a sigh, Kunisawa followed, patting his hip pocket.

  The Turbot? What the hell do they know about that? Ingram wondered, his stomach suddenly feeling leaden. That means they know about tonight’s rendezvous, and that means a trap. And how did this guy Fujimoto figure out the Mark 15 torpedo problems? For that matter, how did they know they were coming last night. How? How? How?

  The Seth Thomas clock had just chimed ten-thirty-five when the door banged open and the room filled with men, startling Ingram from a deep, dreamless sleep. His hands and feet were tied to the stanchion and he blinked from a half crouch, unable to rise, his legs cramped and impossibly asleep. Kunisawa stepped up, and with the aid of another officer, pulled Ingram roughly to his feet.

  They milled around for a moment viewing him as if he were a caged chimpanzee, rubbing their chins, grunting in monosyllables. One was--he had to squint at the picture--yes, it was the same man, Fujimoto’s father. His sleeves bore the two and a half rings of a rear admiral, a Shs, as Kunisawa had said.

  The admiral stepped close and watched Ingram’s eyes flick back and forth to his picture on the bulkhead, realizing that Ingram had put it together. He spoke quietly over his shoulder to his son who bowed and nodded. Then he spoke some more and looked at Kunisawa.

  Kunisawa cleared his throat. “As you can see, this is Shōsō Hayashi Fujimoto, father of Lieutenant Commander Katsumi Fujimoto. Uhhh, he wishes to congratulate you on your receipt of the Navy Cross. He also extends congratulations on how you saved your ship after one of our brave pilots crashed aboard in the Battle of the Santa Cruz Islands.”

  My God. Is there anything these people don’t know?

  Kunisawa continued, “May I also present, Lieutenant Yoshi Tomo, the Shs‘s aide and Flag Lieutenant.” As Tomo bowed and clicked his heels, Kunisawa said, “This is Lieutenant Kenji Ogata, our repair officer and torpedo officer of the Namikaze. Just behind me is Lieutenant Koki Jimbo, our intelligence officer aboard the repair ship and new operations officer aboard the Namikaze.” Each bowed and clicked their heels as they were introduced.

  “It is to Lieutenant Jimbo that you owe your thanks for our hospitality. He’s the one who has been reading your mail.”

  What? Ingram looked at Jimbo, trying to see behind his poker face. Then he looked them all over from right to left. But he was tired and let his chin fall to his chest. Just then there was a scuffle behind him, and he sensed a blow was headed toward him.

  But the admiral waved it down and spoke. Kunisawa lifted Ingram’s chin. “The Shōsō says he would like you to accompany him and Don Pablo Amador to Manila and spend a relaxed evening with the two of you around the dinner table at Malacañan Palace”

  Then the admiral cast his glance aside and spoke at length.

  Kunisawa listened carefully, then bowed to the Admiral. “Sadly, his son Commander Katsumi Fujimoto has spoken for you. And the Shōsō acknowledges this is as it should be. The Shs‘s real interest is in Don Pablo Amador. They have plans, apparently, of putting him to work in the Vargas government.” Jorge B. Vargas and been appointed president of the Philippines after Manuel Quezon fled last March with General MacArthur. But now, Vargas openly cooperated with the Japanese.

  Young Fujimoto stepped to within a foot of Ingram and talked quietly.

  After he was finished, Kunisawa interpreted, “That barge you saw tied up to the dry dock?”

  Ingram turned, seeing Kunisawa’s lifted eyebrows.

  “Well today, Commander Fujimoto intends to display to his father how your torpedoes work with the proper equipment. That is, my friend,” Kunisawa jabbed Ingram’s chest with a finger, “with a depth engine properly modified by Lieutenant Commander Fujimoto. Using live mark 15 torpedoes, our target is that old ammo lighter back there. “A dark shadow passed over Kunisawa’s face as he continued. “Those of us before you, including don Pablo Amador, will observe the shooting from our newest addition to the fleet, the Namikaze.”

  Ingram’s mind still wasn’t working well. All he could think of saying was, “What’s a Namikaze?”

  “Your destroyer we salvaged, the Stockwell, which we found when we occupied Soerbaja. I towed her up myself. Now, her name is Namikaze.”--Wind On The Waves. Her new commanding officer is Lieutenant Commander Katsumi Fujimoto. And I,” Kunisawa stood back and puffed out his chest, “am to be her executive officer.”

  Fujimoto applauded silently, making Ingram wonder if he understood English.

  “And guess where you’ll be Commander?”

  A cold wave of dread and fear and abject loneliness coursed through Ingram.

  “That’s right, Commander, you and your buddies will be aboard the barge for a grand-stand seat, where you can really see your torpedoes in action.”

  CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

  16 November, 1942

  Consulate, U.S.S.R.

  San Francisco, California

  Zenit shoved the message at Dezhnev. “Read,” he ordered.

  TOP SECRET ---- OPERATION KOMET ---- TOP SECRET

  TO: A.) SERGEI (N) ZENIT, CAPT. 3 RANK NKVD, SFO

  B.) EDUARD I. DEZHNEV, CAPT. 3 RANK, VMF, SFO

  16 NOVEMBER, 1942

  1. TATEKAWA REPORTS MINDANAO OPERATION COMPLETE SUCCESS: PABLO AMADOR, (SABOTEUR, QUEZON PATRIOT, RESISTANCE ORGANIZER) CAPTURED ALONG WITH ALTON C. INGRAM, LCDR USN IMMEDIATELY AFTER SCHEDULED PARACHUTE DROP.

  2. A BONUS WILL BE SINKING U.S.S. TURBOT TONITE IF SHE SURFACES AS PREDICTED.

  3. SERGIE (N) ZENIT PROMOTED CAPT 2 RANK, EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.

  MESSAGE ENDS.

  LAPTEV FOR BERIA

  They sat in a small staff dining room off the main kitchen, dishes clanking as cooks prepared the morning meal. Heaping load of scrambled eggs in his mouth, Zenit slapped the table with an open hand and grinned. “It’s wonderful news, don’t you think, comrade?”

  Dezhnev turned the message over in his hand. The date-time stamp showed it had been received at 0447 this morning.

  A waiter, one of the local domestic American workers, walked in and set a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon and toasted bread before Dezhnev. “Coffee?”

  “I asked, don’t you think this is a wonderful moment, Eduard?”

  The waiter moved to Dezhnev’s shoulder and tried again. “Coffee, Sir?”

  “Don’t let him see that,” Zenit snarled, snatching the message from Dezhnev and hiding it under the table.

  “It’s in Russian,” protested Dezhnev.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Zenit pointed to the door. “Leave the pot and get out,” he ordered.

  “Yes, Sir,” The man mumbled with a slight bow. After carefully setting the carafe on the table, he backed through the double kitchen doors.

  Dezhnev, fumbled for his fork. “You’re not making friends, Sergei.”

  “He understands Russian. You see? He did exactly as I told him.” Zenit pointed at the door.

  “Anyone would have understood your tone of voice, Sergei. You made him feel like a dog.”

  “You have to teach these American pigs their place in life.”

  Using his fork, Dezhnev pushed his food around the plate. Normally, he loved scrambled eggs, and the marvelous bacon, the toast, the Belgian Waffles and the fresh grapefruit and oranges they brought in. But now, that message...

  Todd Ingram: They were friends; they got pie-eyed together and sung songs. N
ow Ingram was most likely dead, or perhaps rotting in a cell somewhere, or maybe even now being strung up for hanging.

  How could he look Toliver in the eye? He’d given him a new brass-tipped cane and they’d had dinner in the Top of the Mark Hopkins just two nights ago to celebrate his new duty assignment: Ordnance Liaison Officer to Commandant Twelfth Naval District, right here in San Francisco, a soft job in the American Homeland, away from the terror of war in the South Pacific. For the dinner, Toliver had greased some palms and ordered an exquisite rack of lamb. And there was green mint sauce and a chef to carve it right at their table. Dezhnev had a spicy end-piece. And there was vodka, with Toliver bringing along two girls. “...what?”

  “I said, ‘how do you like it?’“ demanded Zenit. He wore the collar devices of a Captain Second Rank.

  Dezhnev looked up with red-rimmed eyes. “Nice.” I wonder how long it will take him to have new rings sewn on the jacket?

  “I gave our tailor the jacket ten minutes ago. It’ll be ready at four this afternoon. What do you think of that?”

  “You work fast, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Congratulations, Sergei.”

  Zenit gave a slight bow. “It’s marvelous. This message is from Beria. It nearly ensures my transfer off the Dzhurma, you see. Possibly I can put in for a permanent position here. You must admit, the food is marvelous, don’t you think?” Zenit cast a friendly elbow at Dezhnev.

  Dezhnev had betrayed Ingram. Zenit didn’t care. It was almost as if the American were one of those political prisoners roasted in the Dzhurma’s forward hold; someone to be spoken of at a distance. It struck Dezhnev that corpses were the only commodity that made Zenit’s world go round and round; the more corpses, the higher the promotions. How many dead bodies will it take for Zenit to be promoted to Captain First rank? Dezhnev felt like throttling the little bastard right where he sat. A sharp knife was within inches of his hand. One swipe across his throat and---

  Zenit laid a hand on Dezhnev’s forearm. “You know, Eduard. You could do me a great favor.”

  Cutting his throat is too good for him. Tying him across a set of railroad tracks in the dead of night would be better; the freight train slowly grinding up a long, curving grade somewhere, its mournful whistle blowing, Zenit sniveling, pleading for his life; sweating and kicking and finally screaming as the train rumbled closer and closer.

  Zenit continued, “I would like to visit Wong Lee’s. I’ve heard so much about it, the place where you broke this case wide-open. Bring Toliver. I would like to meet him. Professional interest, you see. He won’t know any better. Maybe some of his girls? Hmmmm, Eduard?”

  “Shut up, you little twit.”

  “What?” Zenit sat straight up, his mouth open.

  “I said shut up.” Dezhnev pushed away from the table and walked out.

  Zenit called after him, “ but your eggs, Eduard.”

  Ingram was chained to a padeye on the barge’s port side, sitting between Leo Seltzer and Emilio Legaspi. For some reason they’d kept Felipe Estaque on the barge. With only water to drink, they waited, while the Japanese had an early noon meal. Then they watched as sailors lined up and stood at attention while Admiral Fujimoto boarded the Namikaze, followed by his son and the rest of the officers. Within minutes the destroyer’s lines were singled up, while soldiers prodded a slump-shouldered Pablo Amador up the gangway. Then the brow was pulled in, her lines cast off, with Fujimoto twisting his war prize clear of the wharf.

  Expertly, he backed Namikaze, easing her alongside the ammunition barge. Thumping up the gangway from the wharf, three sailors boarded the barge and caught the messenger-line that sailed over from the Namikazi’s fantail. From that, they heaved the messenger, pulling the tail of the wire towline aboard. Soon they shackled it to a bridle at the barge’s bow. As the other two headed for the gangway, the third sailor stooped briefly, checking the chains.

  Seltzer rasped, “Hey buddy, sure you wouldn’t like a round of acey-deucy? Poker? How ‘bout black-jack?”

  The man looked at Ingram for a moment, his face devoid of anything, his eyes dark, incomprehensible pools. With a last grunt of satisfaction and rattle of chains, he followed the others off the gangway to the dock. Soon, the plank was dragged clear. Then they untied the barge’s docklines, threw them aboard, and walked back to the Service Barge.

  The Namikaze’s fantail was abreast of where Ingram sat. Kunisawa stood by with the crew that would pay out the towline. He caught Ingram’s eye, smiled and pulled out his silver hip-flask. “To you and your valiant crew, Commander. He looked furtively at the bridge, then took a long swig. “May this be your most memorable cruise.” Froth kicked up under the Namikazi’s screw guards, and she began moving forward. The towline began snaking out and Kunisawa, satisfied the rig was proper, tipped the brim of his hat with two fingers then walked toward the bridge.

  The Namikaze moved ahead, gently and soon the slack was out, the towline gently went taut, pulling YFN-376 into the main channel and on her way into Butuan Bay.

  As they slid from the wharf, Ingram realized this was his last glimpse of land was of the jungle across the narrow harbor. He took a deep breath, smelling the land, not fully heated for the day, a touch of dew still on the leaves before the sun evaporated it, turning it to a vapor that would return as life-giving rain later in the afternoon.

  “They really trying to make a show for that admiral, huh, Sir?”

  “What’s that?”

  Seltzer nodded his head toward the shed’s open door. “AV gas, five hundred pound bombs, even a few boxes of dynamite. They want to make a big ‘boom.’“

  Dear God. Ingram looked over his shoulder. He hadn’t noticed the crates and barrels lurking in the shadows. It didn’t matter. The Mark 15’s six hundred pounds of torpex would surely do the job. What did it matter if the conflagration was aided by a few hundred gallons of gasoline, or 500 pound bombs, or even dynamite? Dead is dead.

  “Mr. Ingram?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t sign on for this.”

  “I know. I’m sorry I talked you into it.”

  “No. I don’t mean that. I’d just rather go down with my guns blazing, You see what I mean?”

  Ingram admired Seltzer’s control. On the other hand, all Ingram could think of was of that last ripping, flaming moment which would strike him from this life, like a crazed half-wit back-handing a porcelain urn with all of his strength.

  To his right, Legaspi spoke in low tones; it sounded like Tagalog, and often Ingram heard the word Dios, his thumbs and forefingers intertwined, working a pattern with one another.

  Seltzer said, “Running his beads.”

  “Not a bad idea.” Ingram took a deep breath. Than another and managed, “There are no atheists in foxholes.”

  “Yeah?” Seltzer stuck out his chin. “Where is God now, Mr. Ingram?”

  “I don’t think it matters.”

  As they pulled clear of the wharf, Ingram heard a truck quickly down-shift and crunch to a stop. There were low moans and wailing; it sounded like women. One screamed and Ingram looked at Legaspi.

  “Hapon sonsabits take our dalagas for to clean up their crap.”

  “Women?”

  “Si. They make them work for a week. Sometimes rape them.”

  They pulled further from the wharf and the noise died out. Then it hit him. Helen. She had been waiting in Buenavista. But now, she must be out there somewhere. Possibly up in the mountains, or just across the harbor in the jungle, watching the barge slip from the pier. His cheek had been itching until that damned Fujimoto had hit him there, opening up the wound again. The bleeding had stopped but the damned thing throbbed, like his hand and his ribs. And with the ribs, it was difficult to breath.

  They cleared the harbor on a cloudless afternoon with a duck-egg blue sky. The seas were nearly flat, and the waters of Butuan Bay were crystal clear. As the barge gained speed, Ingram looked aft, into the lush, green richn
ess of the Agusan’s mountains, and once again he filled his lungs with Mindanao’s torpid air.

  Normally, they’d be napping in town. Not now. The times called for survival; anything to find something to eat. Steal your neighbor’s chicken, his dog, even in broad daylight at --- what time? The chain rattled as he looked for his watch, forgetting that Kunisawa took it --- it must be about two in the afternoon.

  An old seagull, a dark mongrel, rose from a piling and flapped alongside as they stood into Butuan Bay.

  “Hi, Popeye.”

  The gull circled once then landed on the barge’s, roof just above their heads.

  “You’ll be sorry,” Said Seltzer.

  “You signed on the wrong ship, Popeye.”

  “Popeye, you’re a looser,” shouted Seltzer.

  Ingram sat back, reached in his pocket and fumbled at her ring. Thank God they hadn’t taken it. On the other hand, maybe he should have given it to them. For soon it would be at the bottom of...

  Helen. I hope you make it, honey. Via con Dios.

  CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

  17 November, 1942

  Butuan Bay, Mindanao

  Philippines

  An hour later, the Namikaze steamed under a brilliant afternoon sun. Butuan Bay remained calm with very little groundswell, a soft breeze blowing from the north. The ship’s crew hauled in the tow line and cast off the barge, setting it adrift. Then Fujimoto put his ship through her paces with all four boilers on the line. Cranking up flank speed, the old Namikaze leaned into her turns, the helmsman spinning the wheel madly as Fujimoto ordered the rudder shifted from one side to the other, his father and flag lieutenant holding on to the starboard bridge bulwark with poker faces. Then he gave his father the conn. The old man’s mouth split into a thin smile, wind ruffled his tunic as he shouted helm orders just like when he and Yamamoto were junior officers. They did figure eights, emergency stops, man overboard drills, acceleration tests, more turns with everybody, from Lieutenant Togo to Hisa Kunisawa getting a turn at both steering and conning the ship.