THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  "No, the exec wasn't on the raft. I'm pretty sure he went down with the sub," the Bluejacket said. Ingram had heard that voice before.

  "I don't believe you."

  "It's the truth. There were only six of us on that raft. One died before we reached land. Look, I keep telling you. My real name is Helmut Döttmer. Let me use that radio and I'll prove it. It will be worth your while, too. Within hours, you will be promoted to major."

  Radtke! Sonofabitch.

  "Why is it I don't believe you?" said Tuga.

  "I'll prove it. Look. Is he wearing dolphins?"

  "What?"

  "Dolphins, Lieutenant. A gold insignia submariners wear over their breast pocket."

  "Ah, yes. Let's see." A foot caught Ingram under the shoulder and rolled him over.

  Flashing his broadest grin at an astonished Döttmer, Ingram said, "Good to see you again, Radtke. How many Japs were you able to kill before they captured you?"

  "You!" roared Döttmer. In a flash he was on Ingram, looping a length of loose rope around his neck and jerking violently.

  Tuga's voice pleaded. "No! No! We must interrogate. We must..."

  Ingram went dim, then dark gray; blackness swam into swirls of blackness into nothing.

  * * * * *

  He awoke coughing. His neck was raw and he couldn't swallow. Deep, thumping pain ranged in the back of his head, and it took a full five minutes for the floor's wood-grain detail to pull into focus. Moving against his bindings, Ingram discovered his arms and wrists were still tightly secured, but his legs were free, and he was no longer tethered to the lathe. Risking a small head movement, he opened his left eye and looked up. The partition enclosing the sleeping area was almost complete, which meant he'd been out for a long time, maybe a couple of hours. Döttmer and the Japanese corporal who had originally kicked him to consciousness, sat on the floor beside one another about five feet opposite. The corporal loosely cradled a rifle, while Döttmer's eyes bored into Ingram.

  Döttmer said, "Five more seconds and your windpipe would have been crushed like..." He cracked his knuckles. "They managed to stop me. You're lucky. You're going across the street with the others as soon as you can walk."

  Ingram's voice was hoarse and he needed water. "You're welcome to join us."

  "That won't be necessary. The lieutenant believes me, now." He cracked his knuckles again. "Thanks for the practice."

  Ingram gagged and brought up phlegm. Finally, he choked out, "Like you practiced on Dwight?"

  Ingram was surprised to see Döttmer's face darken. "I liked Mr. Epperson. He did me a lot of favors. Had me set up to go to OCS."

  "And then you shoot him."

  The man sniffed. "I have a job."

  "What's your name?"

  The bugler raised his knees to his chin, braced his arms and said. "Radtke, Walter A., cryptography technician second class, 1187526."

  "I heard Döttmer."

  "Up yours." He smiled.

  Ingram said, "What kind of job do you have that makes you betray your country?"

  Döttmer's nose flared, "I haven't betrayed my country, Lieutenant Ingram. But I've lived in your country. I know what it's like." He whipped his left hand out, holding it under Ingram's face. Trying to extend his atrophied forth finger, Döttmer's entire hand shook with the strain. He shouted, "Here is what your country did for me, Lieutenant."

  "What?"

  Döttmer raged, "My country doesn't let common thugs roam its streets to do things like this. And I can tell you my country doesn't open its gates to racial imbeciles. My country is not one so weak she can't feed and clothe her people. My country is not one of intellectual depravity or religious fanaticism. My country is not one governed by a constitutional system so ridiculous and so cumbersome, it openly invites incompetence and corruption and political cripples. My country is not one so militarily feeble that she cannot keep treaties such as a pledge" he waved an arm around the room, "to defend the Philippines. My country--"

  From the mezzanine level across the room, Tuga yelled, "Mr. Döttmer. We're almost ready." Next to him, two enlisted men in white uniforms were hunched over a large radio transmitter. Three others eased through a trap door in the roof and dropped onto the mezzanine catwalk, pulling a long wire. Tuga stepped to the rail, letting the man with the antenna pass. "Rather than wait, I've decided to send your Midway message. Your people first, then mine. What was the frequency?"

  Ingram felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. Midway! Tuga knew everything!

  What really bothered him was the thought of these bastards working together: Radtke and Tuga. Ingram couldn't think of a worse combination than the hideous political systems these two represented. And as soon as those men connected that damned antenna now, the fruits of Radtke's work would be on the airways.

  A phrase from the message Otis DeWitt had shown him, rushed with cold precision: grave consequences to the United States. The Imperial Japanese Navy would have plenty of time to adjust their battle plan, and spring a counter-trap on the U.S. Navy. Plus, they would have proof that Americans had cracked their code and had been reading their mail, something they had brushed aside as ridiculous two years earlier when so informed by the Germans.

  Döttmer yelled from the side of his mouth, "Fifteen point seven-seven-five megacycles."

  "Call signs?" asked Tuga.

  "I'm HECKLE. He's BESSON." Döttmer stood. "Hold on. You better let me do it. They should recognize my fist." He walked to the ladder.

  Ingram called, "Herr Döttmer."

  Döttmer stopped and turned.

  "Congratulations on figuring out what your country is not. Now, please tell me what your country is?"

  Döttmer stroked his left hand for a moment then stuck it behind his back. "My country values creative ability, Mr. Ingram. We don't allow common criminals to run about maiming and smashing its best talent." A wisp of a smile crept over his face. "I could show you some marvelous film of--but then you'll be in a prison camp. Maybe dead." He grinned and walked toward the mezzanine ladder.

  "Hey, Fritz!" yelled Ingram. "Show me now. I want to see it, big man. Show me footage on Warsaw or Coventry or Moscow."

  Without a backwards glance, Döttmer waved a hand over his head and climbed the ladder to the radio platform. Just then, a number of trucks pulled up front. The corporal near Ingram grunted, rose to his feet and faced the door, straightening his shirt and trousers. Spreading his feet, he brought his rifle to a loose approximation of parade rest.

  A guard snapped open a door, and a captain and lieutenant walked through, followed by a number of soldiers tossing aside packs and setting their rifles against the wall.

  The officers spotted Ingram and headed toward him. They were twenty feet away when something went Crumff outside. Gunfire punctuated the night. Screams echoed, as an orange glare lighted the windows. Bullets stitched through the walls ricocheting off machinery.

  As he drew his pistol, the captain's torso suddenly turned bright red and he clutched his throat with a horrible gurgle and spun over a desk. The lieutenant ducked and skittered behind a row of file cabinets just as another CRACK rattled the mill. The room filled with smoke, and the roar of automatic weapons pounded Ingram's eardrums. Men screamed and grunted, bullets finding their mark.

  Struggling against his bindings, Ingram weaved drunkenly to his feet as gunfire rattled closer. He could barely see, but felt the concussions; predominant was a heavy thump, thump, thump.

  A BAR. Jeez, Sunderland!

  Footsteps pounded close by. A muffled voice shouted, "Todd, damnit?"

  "Ollie!"

  Toliver's outline appeared through the smoke, a handkerchief tied around his face, and he carried a .45 pistol. He sliced Ingram's bindings with a bayonet. "Grab my belt."

  Ingram clutched Toliver’s belt and tried to hold his breath. They shuffled along and the smoke spiraled through Ingram's throat and into his lungs. His eyes welled up and tears ran. There was nothing else he could do except
cough, hold on tight, and stumble drunkenly behind Toliver. He stumbled and fell at the entrance.

  Toliver let him go and wrenched something off his belt. He threw it inside and fell on top of Ingram.

  An explosion reverberated inside shoving more smoke out the windows and door.

  Döttmer yelled, "I-N-G-R-A-M." It sounded as if it came from the radio platform. Ingram looked to his left just in time. A furious, howling shape slammed past, knocking him over.

  Ingram rose to his feet seeing a shape in the smoke. "Ollie?" he shouted at an advancing shape.

  "Over here, pansy." Döttmer lunged with a long club. Ingram ducked. The club whooshed over his head, giving him a chance to spring into Döttmer's stomach.

  He did it badly. Or perhaps Döttmer was in better shape because he grazed his side and shot across an anteroom crashing under a workbench. He'd barely straightened up when Döttmer was right there above him, a foot poised over his chest.

  The kick's pain was unbelievable. Ingram realized a rib or two had broken and he sagged to the floor. But that probably saved him as the club whooshed over his head again. He rolled to see Döttmer above him.

  With a flourish, Döttmer pulled out a garrote then reached down grabbing Ingram's collar. Döttmer dragged Ingram out from under the bench. In a flash the garrote was around Ingram's neck.

  Ingram’s tongue shot between his lips, his head spasming as Döttmer jerked and tugged.

  Döttmer's knee went into the small of Ingram's back, gaining overwhelming leverage, bending him backwards. "Uhhh," grunted Döttmer, twisting the garrote with furious strength.

  The lights were going out. Yet there was a roaring sensation in Ingram's ears. Bracing his back against Döttmer's knee he launched both feet in the air. His left foot found a purchase on the edge of the workbench, his right in the bench-vice. With the weight, Döttmer stumbled forward, allowing Ingram's legs to bend double.

  Everything was darkness, all sensation was gone when Ingram pushed off the workbench. Both flew backward with Ingram landing on Döttmer's chest.

  Döttmer grunted, easing his grip on the garrote. Ingram whipped the loop over his head taking great breaths and rolling to his side. Everything seemed white, he couldn't tell if it was still the smoke or his blurred vision. But he struggled to his feet and backed up, soon finding himself against the workbench. Something scraped close by. It was the beet-red face of Helmut Döttmer. His thick club swung down. Just in time, Ingram stepped to the side, the club crashing on the work bench.

  Döttmer swung left to track Ingram, his left wrist landed in the jaws of the open vice.

  "Ach!" Döttmer yelled.

  Ingram stepped in, delivering an enormous kick to Döttmer's solar plexus while grabbing the German's left hand, pinning it in the vice. Döttmer expelled a vast amount of air. Quickly, Ingram twirled the vice shut against Döttmer's left wrist.

  Still gasping, Döttmer sunk to his knees. His lips became an enormous oval as he tried to suck air into his lungs. With eyes wide in desperation, Döttmer finally willed his right hand to raise and travel to the vice's handle to rescue his left hand. Slowly he twirled the handle, the jaws beginning to open.

  Döttmer didn't see Ingram bring the club down on his head, landing with a hollow thwack.

  Döttmer fell to his knees and groaned.

  Ingram hit him again.

  Hanging from the vice by his left hand, the rest of Döttmer's twitching body drooped to the floor.

  He raised his club to swing again--

  "Todd!"

  Ingram turned as Toliver dashed up. An open mouthed Sunderland was right behind.

  Ingram held out his hand. “Gimme.”

  Toliver turned over his .45. butt first.

  Ingram secured a grip and fired two rounds into Döttmer. The corpse jinked each time then was still.

  Ingram stepped up, making sure the man was dead, then walked into the smoke.

  "Where you going?" demanded Toliver.

  "Tuga." Ingram's voice was hollow.

  Toliver rasped, "Uh, uh. Sunderland!"

  Sunderland and Toliver dashed up, grabbing Ingram's elbows. Toliver grabbed his .45 away as Ingram tried to fight them off. There were two more explosions, smoke grenades, but oddly, the smoke cleared for a few seconds. The three confused Americans gawked at about thirty confused Japanese gawking at them, everyone's weapons pointed in every direction.

  Smoke closed around them and they dropped in unison as bullets zipped over their heads.

  "We gotta haul ass!" gasped Sunderland, pulling them toward the door.

  "That sonofabitch knows," choked Ingram.

  "What?" said Toliver.

  "Damned Nazi told him everything," said Ingram, rising to go inside.

  With a nod to Sunderland, Toliver said, "We'll get him later." They grabbed Ingram by the armpits and yanked him out the front door.

  CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

  21 May, 1942

  Nasipit, Mindanao

  Philippines

  Ingram burst from the smoke. Moonlight glistened off the waters of Nasipit Harbor. The air was cool, helping to clear his head as he tripped and stumbled alongside Toliver and Sunderland. "They shove off?" he gasped.

  Shouts and sporadic gunfire followed them as Toliver yelled, "Not yet. Rocky's still trying to roll the engine."

  That damned Buda. If it started, they could make a clean getaway, the Japanese still unaware of the boat with all the shooting.

  Gunfire rang around them, tearing concrete chunks as they spun behind the large steam-propelled crane.

  "Down, Skipper," said Toliver, pushing Ingram behind the treads. Bullets clanged above them, ripping jagged holes in the crane's housing. Ingram crawled past Toliver and fell alongside Major Otis DeWitt.

  "Had me worried there for a moment, Lieutenant," said Dewitt. He flicked his BAR's change lever to "F" and squeezed off three rounds on semiautomatic. Beardsley and Forester were crouched nearby, also firing BARs. Behind them stood Socrates, his eyeballs jerking in their sockets. Return fire ricocheted about the crane operator's cabin. DeWitt cranked out two rounds and shouted, "More Japs."

  Ingram peeked around the treads. Four more trucks pulled up to the mill, a wake of swirling dust behind them. Soldiers jumped to the ground and ran inside.

  Ingram coughed to clear smoke from his throat. His voice was raspy as he wheezed, "Helen and the others. Can we reach them?"

  DeWitt said, "Amador and Ramirez are trying to bust 'em out right now."

  "Let's go help."

  "Can't," said DeWitt. "I told him we would shove off right after we got you out. Plus we're pinned here, anyway."

  "I'm not going."

  "Yes, you are," said DeWitt.

  Ingram pointed at the mill. "Tuga. He--"

  A breathless Pablo Amador materialized out of darkness. "There are forty, fifty men in there, now. They can easily wipe us out."

  Ingram demanded. "What about Helen? Luis? The others?"

  "Still in the meat locker. We were getting ready to charge when that convoy drove up. Too many Hapon, now."

  "You mean you can't get them out?" roared Ingram.

  Amador shook his head. "Impossible."

  DeWitt interrupted, "Why haven't they tried to flank us?"

  Amador said, "They aren't exactly your crack, front-line troops. Remember these are bullies and convicts. They'll get to it soon enough."

  Suddenly, rifle fire poured from the mill, the noise deafening. Muzzle flashes blossomed and cordite smoke gushed out windows and doors. Over the din, a whistle blasted, with men darting from each side of the mill to disappear into shadows.

  "Pretty soon," said Sunderland. "We gotta decide."

  Something rumbled beneath their feet. A roar rose from under the wharf accompanied by a cloud of black smoke. Bartholomew jazzed the Buda's throttle, clearing its injectors. "Hot damn," said Beardsley.

  Amador shouted, "You must go. Now!"

  They ducked again as bullets punched
holes in the crane's truss work.

  "Otis," Ingram called.

  "Yeah?"

  "Radtke's dead, but that other bastard knows the whole story."

  DeWitt cranked off a round, emptying the magazine. "Who?"

  "Tuga."

  "You sure Radtke told him everything?"

  "Well...I think so."

  "You find out who Radtke really was?"

  Ingram said, "His name was Dittman or something like that. He was a damned Nazi."

  "Figures," said DeWitt.

  "What was that, Mr. Ingram?"

  Ingram spun, surprised to see the submariner Lorca beside him with a BAR. "You belong in the boat," said Ingram.

  Lorca's eyes were clear, his lips pressed with his jaw set in fierce determination. "You said that sonofabitch was a Nazi?"

  "Best we can tell," said Ingram. "But he's dead now, son."

  "That's why..." Lorca stood, shaking off Ingram's frantic hand. "Radtke, you dirty bastard," he yelled.

  "Lorca. Radtke's dead, I said," said Ingram.

  Unaccountably, it became quiet.

  Lorca rose to his feet and opened fire, emptying his clip. The soldiers in the mill started firing at the same time. Ingram reached up to grab Lorca, but the radioman doubled up and flew back five feet, falling with a grunt.

  "Lorca!" yelled Ingram scrambling over to him.

  Lorca's face had the opened-mouthed look of one struck hard in the stomach. Ingram thought he was dead, but the man stirred, sat up, and fidgeted at his belly. Finally, Lorca pulled his belt out of the loops and dangled it high in the air. "Can't do anything right you stupid sonsabitches!" He yelled and shook the belt, it's buckle horribly mangled. "Come on, you little--"

  "Quiet!" shouted DeWitt.

  Lorca looked down at DeWitt, "huh?"

  "Get in the boat," hissed Ingram, grabbing Lorca's BAR. He pointed to the wharf's edge.

  "Yessir." Lorca crawled to the edge, threw a leg over, and was gone.

  The firing suddenly increased in ferocity. Beardsley screamed and rolled over, holding his leg. Ingram barked to Toliver, "Get him below and make ready to shove off."