"'Grave consequences to the United States,'" read Ingram. He handed the flimsy back to DeWitt. "What's OP-20-G HYPO?"
DeWitt looked from side to side and leaned closer.
Ingram laughed. "Don't worry, Major. I won't blab to the Japs."
DeWitt ignored the humor and said, "Those boys in the code-breaking business are a strange bunch. The few I know are dead serious. And the way they act, we're not even supposed to know they exist."
Ingram nodded, remembering how much Epperson had changed since the Academy days.
DeWitt paused, "Ever hear of a guy named Rochefort?"
"Who?"
"Joe Rochefort."
"No...yes. Dwight mentioned him, his boss I think. Who is he?"
DeWitt's voice dropped to a whisper, his tone conspiratorial. "I'm not even supposed to know this. I overheard Wainwright and Moore talking about him once when I was sitting on the crapper. They didn't know I was there. Apparently, Rochefort's a whiz kid. Knows the crypto business backwards and forward. Disseminated very accurate stuff to our G-2 which helped to save lives." He glanced back at Fortune Island. "I wonder which ones?"
The thirty-six-foot shoreboat labored up the backside of a wave and staggered along the top. To Forester's surprise, the wave broke and they plunged six feet, crashing in the trough with salt water spewing in all directions.
Like a dog, Ingram stood with the others and shook off water. He took the moment to check their position. The darkened Cape Santiago lighthouse was farther aft and a rising quarter moon washed Luzon in a silvery luminescence leaving the rest of the sky dotted with thousands of glittering stars. He made a note to take a fix soon. Satisfied, he asked DeWitt, "...OP-20-G HYPO. Is that in Hawaii?"
DeWitt leaned against the gunnel and said in a near whisper, "It's a crypto center. Rochefort runs it, and it's connected by long line to the Rock."
Dwight Epperson's face appeared before Ingram in a demented slow motion; as if he were alive and stood alongside Otis DeWitt right now. The apparition's mouth formed an oval saying '...Midwaaaaay.'
"What?" barked DeWitt.
Ingram said. "ONI apparently felt Dwight and Radtke knew something that was...what did that message say-- 'extremely sensitive to U.S. strategic interests.'"
"'Resulting in grave consequences to U.S.,'" added DeWitt, finishing the phrase.
"ONI wanted to rub out Dwight and his sidekick if they weren't evacuated."
"Ummm."
"That's damn hardball."
"Yep."
"Today's May seventh?" muttered Ingram.
"The eighth."
Ingram looked up to DeWitt. "The Japs will hit Midway on June the fourth."
"Huh?"
"With everything they've got. Dwight said their entire carrier attack force will be in on it. The Kido Butai or whatever they call it. Three to one advantage."
"In ships?"
"Right."
"My God," said DeWitt.
"If the Japs draw out what remains of our fleet and defeats it, they'll have clear sailing all the way to the West Coast. You can kiss good-bye to San Diego, LA, and San Francisco."
A wave jolted DeWitt off the gunnel, and his hand shot out to brace himself.
"Radtke knows this?"
"Looks like it."
DeWitt glanced at Luzon. "We must get to a radio, quickly."
"I wish I knew how," said Ingram.
Pointing to land, DeWitt clambered to his knees. "There. The Philippine resistance. I'm convinced we'll find one there."
"Not now. The Japs will get us."
"Lieutenant. I order you." DeWitt seemed almost comical as he weaved with the boat's motion, dew dripping from his campaign hat.
"I agree it's a priority, Major. Another is that we survive. Crawling around the Luzon jungle ducking Jap patrols is not going to do it--"
"I said--"
"This is my boat. Remember, Major? I want to get my hands on that sonofabitch as much as you. Before June fourth. But--" Ingram stroked his chin for a moment. “Wait.”
“I’m waiting.”
"Alright, I'll meet you halfway."
DeWitt stared at Ingram.
Ingram continued. "Amador. That guy Amador who went out with the first Wolffish batch?"
"What about him?"
"You said they were being dropped on Marinduque, right?"
"Yes."
"That means a radio."
"How do you know?"
"The Wolffish wouldn't put in there without some form of communication."
"Conjecture. We could lose valuable time."
"Any better ideas?"
"I prefer Luzon. Marinduque is a just a little island, Lieutenant."
"We'll find out soon enough. If not, we move on. I'm not going to needlessly risk my men, Major, on such an obvious target as Luzon. The place is full of Japs."
"You may be risking your country."
"We have time."
"Time. A short commodity." DeWitt sighed and looked toward the horizon. "At this moment, Radtke could be warning whoever he works for." DeWitt shook his head slowly and stuffed the mildewed message back into the pouch. "The 'grave consequences' could well rest at your door, Lieutenant."
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
7 May, 1942
Imperial Japanese Army Garrison
Marinduque Island, Philippines
"What a coincidence. We've both spent time in California," Lieutenant Tuga said. With long, delicate fingers, he turned the ring over in his palm, examining it. "U.S. Naval Academy. Nice. Fourteen-carat gold, huh?" He held it close, seeing initials inside the band. "Who's ACI?"
"A friend."
Tuga wound a large handful of Helen Durand's rich, ebony hair around powerful fingers. "You love him?" He squeezed; her hair pulled horribly.
"No!" she screamed.
He yanked twice and threw her head back: It hit the bed's iron frame, hard.
"Yes!" she screamed again.
"Been to bed with him?"
"Yes!"
"That's better. Where is he now?"
"Pensacola."
"Flyboy, huh?
Helen Durand hardly heard him, her pain was so great.
Tuga pocketed Ingram's ring. "So, you grew up in California?"
Helen moaned. Her scalp seemed afire as he prattled on nonchalantly. "For me, it was just four years in California. UCLA. That's in Westwood. Nice place. Near LA. Lots of movie stars. Ever been there?"
Helen heaved another mighty gasp. She'd screamed so much over the past three days...or was it four...she could no longer cry. Like young Doña Valentina at the end, her voice was raspy. After burning her with cigarette butts and slicing her with a razor blade, Tuga's interest in her seemed to be waning. Actually, he'd only been at it for twenty minutes today.
He'd only groped clumsily at her a couple of times. What saved her was that she'd soiled herself the first day: mightily. She had been tied to the bed; they wouldn't let her get up and that was that. The stench was powerful and Tuga didn't like to get too close, except with his cigarettes. And like many cruel men, Helen reckoned, the man needed an audience for his demented acts. But most of Tuga's troops were gone: sent out to deliver invitations to local political leaders and garrison commanders around Southern Luzon and the key offshore islands.
"Printed invitations," Tuga said, as he shoved a lighted cigarette into her right foot instep. "Card stock, the best engraving. Good quality stuff," he said, as he did it again.
Through her screams, Helen heard Tuga's triumphant announcement that Corregidor had fallen. Celebrations were scheduled, the largest being a long awaited state function scheduled in Manila on May 18. Tuga said reverently, "...Premier Tojo will be there, and so will I."
* * * * *
Her eyes had been squeezed shut. But now, she opened them for a moment and looked around the windowless room. Tuga sat patiently in a chair leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. It was a large hut and occasionally she heard low voices o
n the other side of a thin wall where a radio squealed. Her arms and legs were tied to the iron hospital-style bed and long ago she lost feeling to her limbs. It was hot, the room was without windows, designed as a large storage area. There was no circulation and a single light burned overhead.
Tuga heaved to his feet and walked over. "Once again, Miss Durand. Where did you grow up?" He waved a lighted cigarette over her left eye.
"R-R-R--Ramona."
"And where's that?"
"South."
"Ah. Near San Diego?"
"Y-Y-Y--"
"How far?"
Helen could see where that was going and pressed her lips.
"Come on, now." Tuga said gently.
"Thirty miles or so, northeast of--ieeeeyagh."
Tuga yanked her elbow strait out and thrust a burning cigarette butt deep in her arm pit. "Come on! Your lover's a flier. He's in San Diego. North Island Naval Air Station. Right?" he yelled.
She tried to scream; tears ran and oh, God it hurt. And he knew it. She was a mass of cuts and bruises. Yesterday, or was it the day before...Tuga had hit her in the face with his fist. Mercifully, it put her out for about six hours.
Alone. The other prisoners had been barged to Fortune Island but Tuga kept his promise. For all the others knew, Helen Durand was dead. She ceased to exist and now was Tuga's to rape as he'd boasted. She found it ironic that her best defense was her own excrement.
Tuga cursed and fumbled at her blouse. "As you Americans say, you can pay me now or you can pay me later."
Trying to avoid his fingers, she lifted herself away.
Tuga grabbed a handful of hair and pulled her face close. "I learned all about dames like you in California. And now I'm going to teach you." He spat and slammed her head down on the bed's tubular headboard and slapped her one way and then the next. Spittle flew as he screamed, "Whore! I stuff you in a bathtub to clean you off. Then I leave you to my men. They would love to jump you, just like that Filipina. How do you like that?"
She squirmed as he reached beneath, yanked up her blouse and fumbled at the catch on her bra. Just then there was a knock at the door. "Come!" Tuga growled, looking up.
Another Kempetai, Lieutenant Watanabe, dressed in a loose-fitting, rumpled gray suit walked in. Much shorter than Tuga, he carefully took off and pocketed round, rose-colored glasses. The two spoke in Japanese.
Tuga sucked in his breath and swore. In a moment, both were bent over her. Tuga grabbed her hair. "There is another matter, Miss Durand. I understand you know a man named Pablo Amador."
Helen's mouth was dry, making it hard to talk. She hadn't had anything to drink or eat in at least three days and the cigarette burns hurt. And now, Lieutenant Watanabe, another of Tuga's "associates" stood by. Tuga had his audience and was ready to go for her breasts. Like life-sized rats, four beady eyes stared down; a hand began fumbling with her blouse. Panic welled, her eyes rolled and she breathed hard. Soon, she hyperventilated.
Tuga, in his own little world, wasn't watching. Roughly yanking Helen's hair, he screamed directly in her ear in a loud, resonating voice, "Where is Amador?"
Enough. Mercifully, she lost consciousness.
* * * * *
Kiyoshi Tuga's junior year at UCLA was a bad one. It was 1936 and in February, he'd missed qualifying for the Berlin Olympics by one point. Tuga was crestfallen and embarrassed. His height, he thought, would give an overwhelming advantage. Yet, Takahashi Yokuda beat him out by a point and was selected to represent Nippon in javelin. That was that. No Berlin. No crowds screaming for Kiyoshi Tuga's victory. In resignation, he knew there was a purpose to all this. He would keep up his training. The 1940 Olympics would be in Tokyo. Already, they had broken ground for the stadium. In four years he could throw the javelin before screaming crowds.
He returned to UCLA a month later. In March, on a rainy, Friday evening, he was trying to make time with a plump waitress in Roger's Westwood Diner on Wilshire Boulevard. The over-painted blonde wouldn't serve him. An incredulous Tuga made a fuss and she called him a "dirty Jap." Men gathered and threw him out.
In April, Tuga thought he had hit the jackpot. Her name was Phoebe Schumacher. She was a sorority queen, a gorgeous blonde, blue-eyed girl who went out with him three times. Then Phoebe accepted his invitation for the spring dance. Joyously, he spent his whole allowance renting a tuxedo complete with white dinner jacket.
Phoebe stood him up. As corsage and boutonniere wilted, Tuga frantically dialed her number over and over.
Busy.
Roger's Westwood Diner notwithstanding, this was the first time something like this had happened. Many times Tuga had been dumped after the first date. But this time, Phoebe had led him on. It took two days for his rage to subside and figure it out.
The Sunday afternoon before the dance, he’d been invited out to her parent’s house in the San Fernando Valley. By the Pacific Electric rail car, it took an hour to reach downtown Los Angeles, transfer to another red car, then another hour to reach the smallish Schumacher ranch in Van Nuys. It was hot in the Valley that day. They sat on a long porch shaded by six pepper trees, sipping lemonades.
What's your major?
Political Science.
What are you going to do after you graduate?
Government service.
Too bad about Berlin. Will you try for the Tokyo Olympics?
Yes.
How nice of your parents to send you here.
Not really, I'm here on a government grant.
Where do you live?
Santa Monica.
No. Back home.
Ah yes, Kuji.
Where's that?
A little town on Honshu's Pacific coast near the northern end.
Amazing. Pardon us for saying this, but your English is so good.
Tuga smiled.
Later, Tuga commented that Mr. Schumacher had a nice place. There was a long silence. Gus Schumacher finally muttered that he raised chickens; he used to be in the real estate business but then came the depression...
The inquisition continued after dinner.
What about your family? What's your father do?
He's an Army officer recently returned from duty in China.
China?
He served with the Kwangtung Army there. The rest of my family, I have two uncles and a brother, are fishermen.
Fish?
Tuga took the red car home that night. Phoebe Schumacher never spoke with him again.
The worst that year was the telegram from Kuji. He was summoned home for his father's funeral.
Colonel Yoshi Tuga had been arrested, quickly tried and executed for his part in a rebellion against the Prime Minister. The Tuga family was disgraced, Colonel Tuga's ashes were sent home three months later. It was a quiet, solemn occasion.
After graduation Tuga went in the army. He hated infantry and lunged at a chance to go into intelligence. Eventually, he was reviewed for secret service, his father's background overlooked for the moment, and accepted into Kempetai training the fall of 1939, just when Germany invaded Poland. These were heady times in Japan. In 1940, she consolidated her conquests on Asia's mainland, achieving one of her inner goals of Hakko Ichiu--"bringing the eight corners of the world under one roof."
Tuga's unit was very good, rooting out one traitor after another. Working in Tokyo, they became a favorite of General Hideki Tojo who had built the Kempetai to its current glory by crushing a Kwangtung Army officer's rebellion in the early thirties.
Tojo worked hard making the army pull together as one; he unified army and country; Tuga, with tens of thousands of others, worshipped Tojo and what he stood for.
As Tojo had wiped out resistance in the Kwangtung Army, Tuga went to work in Tokyo, learning his trade, torturing, maiming, making amends for the embarrassment of his father, always reading General Tojo's works, always mimicking his thoughts, always trying to do exactly what Tojo did.
Shortly after Tojo was appointed Prime Minister in
October of 1941 (replacing Prince Konoye), Tuga's unit became an honor guard of sorts and was invited to march a few hundred meters with the general in a ceremony on the grounds of the Imperial Palace. Two and a half weeks they drilled like army soldiers forsaking their gruesome Kempetai work.
On the afternoon before the ceremony, Tojo's car swung around and stopped, the general in the back seat watching the practice. Finally, Tojo alighted from the car, a black, 1940 American Packard, and stood with arms akimbo. He shouted, Tuga's squad came to an abrupt and confused halt. Tojo shouted again and pointed directly at Tuga, ejecting him from the squad.
Tuga was not to march with the great Tojo. Hideki Tojo was five foot two. Lieutenant Tuga, was more than a foot taller at six-three. Where Tojo weighed 115 pounds soaking wet, Tuga weighed in at 190.
An embarrassed Tuga was relegated to driving the sound truck. But to Tuga's surprise, Tojo learned of Tuga's embarrassment after the ceremony. He was summoned to Tojo's car and introduced, shaking hands with the general through the open window. Tojo urged Tuga to do his best to support the bushido code and the zaibatsu, the ruling political party. Then, in a quiet aside, the little man admonished Tuga to report to him if he spotted anything out of order especially among the officers. He gave Tuga a card with a phone number. Tuga fervently nodded and said, "Yes, Sir."
Tojo's car drove off. All Tuga could think of was the next meeting. Tuga knew he would never be allowed to stand next to the miniature Tojo in a ceremony. But he could still report to him and shake his hand whether he was in a car or behind a desk.
* * * * *
Somebody threw a bucket of water in her face. A man was close by, rage etched in every molecule of his skin. Tuga slapped her twice, then hit her in her stomach. "I want to know now, or you die!"
What was he driving at? Helen would have said anything. All she could do was nod.
"Amador. Was he with you?"
A nod.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Tuga shouted.
He slapped her hard. Helen tried to scream, but it came out as a prolonged raspy moan.
"He escaped." Tuga demanded.
"He hid." She passed out.
Another bucket of water drenched her. She woke up coughing.
THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1) Page 28