As usual, Novak wrote the coordinates on the palm of his hand with his Parker 51 Fountain Pen, a retirement gift from his shipmates aboard the S-42. Next, he would drive to SUBPAC headquarters and read the data to O’Grady. With that, O’Grady and Lockwood would dispatch their submarines, while Novak washed his hands. No records; easy to get rid of. All he had to do was step in the head and turn on the water.
It began some years ago, when Rochefort and his translator-linguists started breaking Japanese codes; the simple ones were followed by more complex codes, including the Japanese “Purple” or diplomatic code. American translations of the purple code allowed Secretary of State Cordell Hull to know exactly what Japanese Ambassador Kichisaburo Nomura was going to say as he waited outside Hull’s office on December 7, 1941. Along the way, Rochefort discovered the Japanese Achilles’ heel: they were, to the point of arrogance, recondite about their language and believed no outsider could fully understand its nuances, let alone their codes. But Rochefort and his crew proved them wrong, with the Japanese having no idea that Rochefort was reading their mail at all levels.
But problems had arisen. Over the past few months, the Japanese had changed JN-25 by incorporating new additives. Novak’s weekly intelligence estimates for Japan’s Naval units were growing less and less accurate. Last week O’Grady had given a sidelong glance that told Novak he was losing credibility.
Late for his next meeting, Novak quickly excused himself from O’Grady’s office and dashed down the hall to wash his hands, before anyone had a chance to see the incriminating coordinates written on his palm, like a high-schooler cheating on a physics mid-term. But the men’s room was crowded with plumbers who wielded wrenches and blow torches and pipe dope. Novak didn’t have time to run up to the next deck, so the thin, former basketball forward from the Naval Academy, raced for his jeep and headed for the Fourteenth Naval District Detention Center, hoping to wash up there.
The jeep screeched to a halt and he ran for the lobby. “Damnit,” he wheezed, as he shoved open the double doors, promising himself to do something to get back into shape. But he was usually at his desk seven days a week. There was simply no time.
Novak walked in the main entrance and down the hall to a door marked FRUPAC SECURITY.
Inside, there was an inner office with a Marine behind a counter. Novak walked up and slapped down his ID. “Commander Novak calling for Major St. Clair.” The thin, sharp-edged Marine, wearing two rows of ribbons with four battle stars, looked Novak up and down as if he were General Hideki Tojo.
Novak grew impatient. “I’d like to use the head, sergeant.”
The Marine, whose bakilte tag read HEDGES, muttered something that sounded like “momensar.” Then he cocked an eyebrow, picked up the phone and methodically dialed a three digit number, pausing by Novak’s count, four seconds between each digit. Covering the mouthpiece, Hedges kept his eyes on Novak while he spoke in low tones.
Thirty seconds later, a stocky dark curly-haired, Marine major burst into the lobby, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His right hand shot out, “Mike. Glad you made it.”
Novak offered his left, “Uh. Damned Basement gives me arthritis. How are you, Bob?” They shook, then Novak made a show out of rubbing his right elbow.
“You guys ever going to do something about that air conditioning?”
St. Clair turned to Hedges and the two Marines grunted at one another in a language only Marines understand. So ordered, Hedges raised a countertop section and Novak was passed through.
“Got a nickel?” asked St. Clair, as they walked down the hall. Novak handed one over then wordlessly stepped through the door marked ‘men.’
Five minutes later, Novak walked out of the bathroom feeling much better, his hands scrubbed clean. St. Clair handed over a frosted bottle of Coke and said. “He’s on the second deck. Got another nickel?”
Novak drank deeply, as St. Clair dropped the nickel into the Coke machine. He drew the fresh bottle out with a ‘clank,’ uncapped it, and said, “He loves Cokes and cigarettes. Come on.”
At the top of a companionway, they paused before two Marine corporals, dressed in fatigues with holstered .45s.
“He’s cleared,” said Novak. The guards stood aside.
Halfway down a gloomy hall, St. Clair stopped before a door with a square window. Above, was a sign that said: ROOM B. “Take a look. It’s one-way.”
Novak peered through. There was a conference table, four folding chairs scattered around, and a wall-mounted blackboard. A Marine major was seated on one side of the table, his hands splayed before him. Wearing a shoulder holster and a .45, he was a slim, sinewy, dark man with a pockmarked face. Seated opposite the major was an Oriental dressed in American khakis. He looked to be short, stocky, his hair an overgrown crew-cut. A pack of Chesterfields and an ashtray lay before the Oriental who took advantage of both, blowing smoke in the Marine’s direction.
St. Clair lit up his own Chesterfield and blew smoke on the window. “You feed them, cloth them, and they’re ready to again take on the world. You ready?”
“Sure.”
St. Clair nodded to Novak’s chest. “You want to take-off your dolphins?”
“I want him to know.”
“Okay.” St. Clair turned and opened the door for Novak. They walked in, and the prisoner immediately stood and bowed.
Ignoring the Oriental, Novak said, “Major Rivera, this is Commander Novak.”
Barely taking his eyes off his charge, Rivera looked up and nodded.
“How do you do?” Novak almost offered a hand, but realized Rivera was not going to reciprocate, his eyes again fixed on his prisoner. Instead, Novak bowed to the prisoner, noting that Rivera’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
“Commander Novak,” said St. Clair, “this is Lieutenant Kanji Sugiyama of the Imperial Japanese Navy, recently of the submarine I-1.”
Sugiyama bowed again, with Novak and St. Clair following suit. Then St. Clair offered the Coke to Sugiyama who looked at it warily for a moment. When Sugiyama reached for it, he spotted the gold submariner’s dolphins pinned over Novak’s breast pocket. “Ah, so.” He broke into a smile, displaying a gold-capped tooth and bowed again.
Novak returned the bow and sat next to Rivera, St. Clair beside Sugiyama.
“Not bad. Submariner to submariner. A level playing field,” St. Clair said.
“You sure he doesn’t understand English?”
“Positive.”
“And you, Major? asked Novak.
Rivera gave a snort.
What does that mean?
Where do you want to start?” asked St. Clair.
“I’d like to hear his side of the story. Just let him tell it.”
“Okay.” St. Clair leaned forward and spoke in Japanese.
Sugiyama sat back, blew smoke, and grunted something.
Lighting another Chesterfield, St. Clair said, “He’s tired of telling it.”
Novak tried not to show his discomfort at all the blue smoke. “Make him sing for his dinner.”
“Like no more cokes or cigarettes?”
“Tell him you’ll cut off his balls.” Rivera spoke for the first time.
That startled Novak; it took seconds for him to manage, “Let’ s just stick to cokes and cigarettes.” In a way, he couldn’t blame the major. He’d just read a report about a Japanese doctor in a POW camp near Batavia who had surgically removed the livers of two American airmen, then woke them and told them it was an experiment to see how long they could live. One died twelve hours later; the other fought it, living for four days. Here, in Hawaii, they offered cigarettes and Cokes and...khaki uniforms.
St. Clair spoke again, his tones soft, his hands gesturing in an intoxicating way that reminded Novak of a ballerina. Sugiyama responded finally, and spoke for a while. Then, his voice trailed off.
“Hadn’t heard that, before. Lieutenant Sugiyama says he was torpedo officer aboard the I-1,” St. Clair said.
“Wher
e was he when the attack began?”
St. Clair spoke.
Sugiyama grabbed the frosted Coke and gulped. Then he talked.
“Control room. Apparently, they thought our cruisers and destroyers had passed by, and it was clear for them to enter Komimbo Bay.”
“Tell him there were just two New Zealand corvettes.”
St. Clair did so.
Sugiyama gave Novak a malevolent glance and crushed out a cigarette.
“You pissed him off.”
“Sorry. Then what happened?”
St. Clair asked the question.
Sugiyama took another cigarette and pat his pockets. Novak took out a Zippo, leaned forward and flicked it. Sugiyama inhaled deeply, then muttered through smoke.
“He asks if you’ve been depth charged,” St. Clair said.
Novak had heard a few practice depth-charges dropped at a distance in his S-Boat days. But he’s never had to suffer through a real attack. In fact, the closest he’d been to combat was at home in Honolulu, eating breakfast with his wife on December 7, 1941, wondering about the commotion over at Pearl Harbor. Sensing what Sugiyama was driving at, he replied “Tell him many times.”
Sugiyama nodded curtly, then spoke for a couple of minutes. When he finished, Novak noticed an involuntary jerk in Sugiyama’s left hand, the one holding the cigarette. And his face was wan.
“They took so many depth charges that the main motors were thrown off their mounts. So the skipper battle-surfaced and they were immediately taken under fire. With Imperial Marines manning their deck gun, they were rammed five times.”
“Too bad,” said Rivera.
Bridson’s battle report read that the Kiwi rammed the I-1 three times, but Novak chose not to make an issue. “And then?”
St. Clair asked the question.
Sugiyama tried to act nonchalant as he spoke, but his face turned pale and his hand shook.
“The navigator, Lieutenant Mizota Kenryo, buckled on his sword and led a charge, just before they were rammed the last time. Sugiyama followed Kenryo but had barely crawled through the conning tower hatch when the destroyer struck, rolling the I-1, --- how far?” St. Clair asked Sugiyama a question.
Sugiyama stared at the table and mumbled something.
“Good God. She rolled sixty degrees on her beam ends. Sugiyama fell in the water with dead and wounded. Then he swam to the beach.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Rivera said in a falsetto.
They talked for another ten minutes, with Sugiyama becoming more congenial. To Novak’s surprise, it was Sugiyama who offered the next question.
“Wants to know if we saw their surrender leaflets,” said Novak.
Novak hoped he looked puzzled when he said, “All we found was a sunken submarine carcass.”
Sugiyama seemed to be satisfied, then sat back and finished his Coke.
“We done?” asked St. Clair.
Novak leaned forward. It was a wild shot, but he was looking to do a favor for Lockwood whose torpedoes were suffering a horrible fifty percent failure rate. “One more question. Ask him if they have any premature exploding problems with their torpedoes.”
St. Clair pitched the question.
Sugiyama spoke, then quickly butt-lighted a new cigarette and smiled.
Without inflection, St. Clair said, “He answers, ‘We don’t, but you do.’“
“Yikes,” Novak said softly. Slapping his knees, he stood. “Okay. That’s all.”
“Take him back,” St. Clair said to Rivera. He tossed a full pack of Chesterfields to Sugiyama and followed Novak into the hall.
After the door closed, they peered through, watching Rivera grab Sugiyama’s elbow and shoving him out the far door. “What do you think?” asked St. Clair.
“He’s one smart Jap.”
“He took a bite out of your ass with the torpedo question.”
“I didn’t expect that.”
“You want to see the stuff or wait ‘till we deliver it?”
“What do you think?”
“Okay, let’s go.”
They descended two flights of stairs into a basement and showed their credentials to more Marines, Novak was sure, then had landed on Guadalcanal. Finally, they walked into a basement of more dismal appointments than where Novak worked. He asked, “Is this a cell block?”
“Just for hard cases.” He walked up to a door guarded by two Marines with submachine guns. After showing their credentials, the Marines stepped aside. St. Clair pulled out a key ring and inserted one in a lock. Then he found a second key and inserted that in another lock. Silently, the door swung open. It was a well lighted cell. But there were no beds or bathroom accessories or anything one would expect to accommodate a prisoner. Instead, two eight foot tables stood against opposite walls. Elsewhere, crates and boxes were neatly stacked ceiling high. The place smelled of mildew in spite of two large electric fans whirling back and forth. “The Japs bombed the hell out of the I-1, hoping we wouldn’t find anything. Damned hulk slid off the beach and back in the water. That’s why this stuff is still damp.” A new cigarette dangled from St. Clair’s lips,
Novak walked over to a table and picked up a book with a red binding. He thumbed through it, occasionally stopping at a page, running his index finger over the Japanese kana characters.
“...a treasure,” Novak said. “You sure it’s JN-25?”
“I’d say. And here, look at this.” St. Clair flipped to a page. “Dated January 20th.” St. Clair waved an arm around the cell. “Hundreds of code-books. What they couldn’t bury they tried to burn. And the salvage divers found a bunch more aboard the I-1”
“Can I take this one?”
“Sign a slip?”
“You bet.”
St. Clair’s hands went to his hips, his brow furrowed as he puffed on his cigarette.
“What?”
“What about Sugiyama. Do you think he bought it?”
“About the code books being surrender leaflets? I don’t think so.”
“Me neither.”
“He’s one smart Jap all right. Okay then. I don’t want him mixing with other POWs.”
“Naturally. What do you want us to do?” St. Clair’s eyes were cold and there was something in his tone.
“What do you think?” asked Novak.
“I can turn him over to Rivera if you want,” shrugged St. Clair.
A vision of the two American POW airmen dying without livers flashed across Novak’s mind. That Jap doctor watched the whole thing. Novak realized what power he had. He could casually order Sugiyama’s execution and nobody would care. All he had to say was ‘shoot the sonofabitch.’ And St. Clair would tell Rivera to blast that Jap with his .45, no questions asked.
“Send him a carton of cigarettes. I want to keep pumping him about torpedoes.”
CHAPTER TEN
6 March, 1943
San Pedro, California
A horn honked.
Helen looked out the window. “Jeepers.”
The afternoon fog had become thick. And now, in early evening, she could barely make out Laura’s light green Cadillac. But through swirling mist, she could see the top was down. She’s crazy.
Laura blasted the horn again.
“Okay, okay,” Helen muttered as she ran to her hall closet. Laura honked once more, this time nearly sitting on the horn. Grabbing rain coat and scarf, Helen dashed outside, locking the door behind.
Wearing a thick overcoat and light green scarf that matched the Cadillac, Laura sat back, one arm propped on the door, the other casually draped on the top of the driver’s set. Artie Shaw softly played on KECA.
“Hi ya, toots,” Laura feigned chewing gum and arched an eyebrow. “Wanna ride?”
“You bet. How long were you on the road?”
“Not bad. Couple of hours straight down Sepulveda.”
Helen stepped in, finding the heater running full blast. It felt good on her legs, but the rest of her was cold.
Laura star
ted the car. “We still going to hit the Hong Kong bar?”
“Shanghai Red’s. Maybe, yes. Maybe, no. Friends tell me it’s pretty wild there on Saturday night.”
“You want to give it a shot?”
Helen shrugged.
“Aw, what the heck. Which way?” asked Laura, as she pulled out.
“Turn right and go down Seventeenth to Palos Verdes Street.”
Laura zipped around the corner and stepped on it, easily shifting through the gears.
Wisps blew by as Helen clutched the arm rest and peered into the fog. She guessed the visibility at no more than fifty feet.
“This baby really moves out. Don’t get to use it much with rationing and all. You want to drive?”
“N-n-no thanks.” Icy wind blasted through every crevice in Helen’s clothing, making her teeth chatter. She leaned close to the heater and rubbed her hands. “How do you stand this?”
“I don’t.”
“Then why?”
“You wouldn’t believe the guys who whistle at me. And get this. A Sailor jumped in, while I waited for a light in Manhattan Beach.”
“Laura!”
“It was all great sport. He was with two Marines, and they lifted him out like he was a head of cabbage. All the poor klutz was trying to do was to give me his address. Look.” she pointed to a wrinkled envelope on the floor.
“You know? I’ll bet you started it.” Helen picked up the envelope finding an impossible scrawl on the back.
“Hi ya, toots,” Laura grinned. Too late, she downshifted and ran a red light at Gaffey, then tromped it again. “Actually, you’re right. It’s the single guys you worry about. There was this soldier in a rain coat in Culver City. Now, he was spooky. Thousand yard stare. You know what I mean?”
“I know.” Helen had seen plenty of thousand yard stares on Corregidor.
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 9