With the raid over, Ashton’s smile returned to full gleam, “Amazing.”
“Trouble is now, they’ll miss the rendezvous. Maybe the targets, too.”
“Oh.”
“The worst part is, the tables could be turned. If those two don’t get out of there and haul ass, they could get caught in broad daylight by a bunch of pissed-off Japs.” Myszynski grabbed a phone from it’s bracket. “It’s Commodore Myszynski in the wardroom,” he growled. “Send a messenger down.”
Shoving the phone into its bracket, he said, “Have to get aircover from Cactus; those boys are going to need it.”
The night was clear and moonless, as the ship ground her way up the backside of a wave, then plunged into the trough, spewing white spray over the open bridge. But it was warm and the spray felt good, as Ingram, wearing only a short sleeved shirt, yanked a towel off his neck and wiped his binoculars dry. Training them north again, he picked out Kolombangara’s 5,500 foot round peak. An extinct volcano, Kolombangara stood as a hulking silhouette against the Northern sky. To port lay Gizo Island, and to starboard, Vanavona Island. They were about halfway up the Ferguson Passage, Ingram reckoned. An hour earlier, they had spotted Briscoe’s bombardment group on the radar as his four destroyers retired southeast back to Tulagi, their job finished.
They stood at general quarters, Howell leading the Isaacs with a vengeance at thirty-two knots, making up forty lost minutes. Earlier, they’d received the dumbo report, forwarded from Rocko Myszynski that two Japanese destroyers were anchored in Vila Harbor. And Landa wanted them.
Aft, Ingram saw Isaacs send a flashing light message through her red night-filter. Ingram leaned over the pilot house rail, picking Landa from the murk on the starboard bridgewing. The Captain was on the phone, arguing with Hank Kelly about why the ship couldn’t go faster.
“Todd?” Landa looked up to the fly bridge.
Sir?”
“What do you think? Hank says thirty-two knots is all we get. His excuse is that we’re too heavy and the ship needs a bottom job.”
“Makes sense to me, Captain.” Ingram didn’t want to spar anymore with Landa tonight. First it was those damned ball bearings. Now, he was on fire about barnacles. The Captain should be concentrating on the mission.
“You may believe that bullshit when you get your own ship. For me, I’m going to talk to Kelly after this. These ships were originally rated at thirty-eight.” As if everything had been said on the subject, Landa stepped into the pilot house.
With tons of extra equipment added to the original design, Ingram and Landa both knew the Fletchers would never make thirty-eight knots. Landa sometimes liked to needle people when he was on edge and it was no use arguing with him.
“Blackett Strait in fifteen minutes,” Landa announced from the hatchway.
Just then Katsikas, a first class signalman, finished clicking his flashing light from the signal bridge, then called forward, “Message from Isaacs, Sir. ‘Trouble with number three boiler. May have to shut down and reduce speed to twenty-seven knots.’“
Tonight, speed is everything, thought Ingram. In spite of the humid night a cold wave swept through him.
Landa said to Katsikas, “Very well. Ask Isaacs to keep us advised.”
“Yes, Sir.” Katsikas began clacking the reply on the signal lamp.
First the Jap submarine, then Griffith, now Isaacs. Ingram trained his binoculars, wondering why this raid was turning so sour. Off to his right he saw lights flash. Soon following was the rolling thunder of gunfire from Sand’s group.
“Looks like Dexter is on station and going at it. We’re about thirty minutes out, Todd. Think we ought to keep going?” said Landa.
Strange question, thought Ingram. If I had my way we’d grab a full load of fuel and head for the States. “Don’t think we have much choice, Captain.”
“Me, too. We’re committed.” Landa grabbed the phone and started arguing with Kelly again. He covered up the mouthpiece and looked up to Ingram, the starlight catching his broad, gleaming smile. “He’s getting pissed. Should I remind him of who I am?”
“Skipper, I think we should---“
Suddenly, a brilliant light burst from the direction of the Vila airstrip. The entire sky lit up momentarily, turning the islands surrounding the Ferguson Passage into a bizarre moonscape. Ingram thrust his hand before his eyes. “What the--”
A terrific explosion rocked the ship, tearing at their eardrums. The echo reverberated for a few seconds, then disappeared. Finally, it died away, the only sound from the ship’s uptakes, the foamy wake whispering alongside, and the crackle of the loud speakers.
Landa grabbed the TBS radio phone. “Ovaltine. Ovaltine. This is Ricochet, Ricochet, over,” he shouted. Landa tried several times, then handed the phone to Offenbach. “Keep trying. All circuits,” he growled.
Secondary explosions lighted the sky and thundered in from the Vila airstrip. Then it was quiet and subdued on the bridge, as all within earshot, strained to hear any response to Offenbach, as he ran the code-signs for the light cruisers Sioux Falls, Santa Monica and King City. With a nod from Landa, Offenbach tried the destroyers Hanscom, Dale, W.E. Dunlap and Lyon as well.
Landa jerked his head. Get down here.
Ingram stripped off his earphones, scrambled down to the pilot house and walked up to Landa. The skipper took Ingram’s elbow and led him to a corner. “You think we ought to go in there? “
“Our orders are to rendezvous with the Sioux Falls group, who will provide us with maximum air cover for our exit from the Kula Gulf.”
“I know, I know. But first light is now an hour and a half away. We’re going to be stuck at the north end of the Kula Gulf, a good twenty or thirty miles away from those guys.”
Landa was right. Rendezvousing with the Sioux Falls was the best of all worlds for mutual protection on the return trip.
“Ovaltine up on SecTac, Sir.” Offenbach handed Landa the radiophone and said, “Apparently, our PriTac circuit was down.”
“Thanks,” muttered Landa. Grabbing the phone, he said, “Ricochet, over.” Static ranged from the speaker. He reached up and adjusted the squelch knob.
“...interrogative Uncle Joe, over?” Uncle Joe was the code name for Griffith.
“Ovaltine, this is Ricochet. We held down a skunk for two hours, then Uncle Joe suffered an engineering casualty. Returned to Ring Bolt. Ricochet and Tootsie Roll are enroute to the party. Over.” Ring Bolt was for Tulagi; Tootsie Roll for Isaacs.
The best Ingram could make out was, “...reversed course, back in Kula...two enemy DDs destroyed...right in that sucker’s magazine...big boom you probably...interrogative your posit? Over”
“Read you weak Ovaltine.” Then Landa gave their position and asked, “Shall we transit Blackett? Over.”
“...best chance...us. Cactus aircover at first light may extend to you. Mike speed shackle able-easy, unshackle. Can you overtake? Over.”
Ingram scanned the shackle code chart mounted on the pilot house bulkhead. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he turned to Landa and said, “They’re at thirty knots.”
Landa nodded. “Ovaltine, we’re at shackle able-x-ray unshackle. Tootsie Roll having boiler problems. We may have to go to shackle able-george, unshackle. Can you reduce? Over?”
“Negative, over.”
“That bastard!” said Landa. “Dexter Sands is sitting fat and happy up on his gun-toting cruisers, leaving us for the Jap’s to have for breakfast.”
Offenbach leaned out the pilothouse. “Turn for Blackett Straits coming up in three minutes, Captain.” The ship rolled heavily as she entered the Strait’s turbulent waters. Ahead, the rounded bulk of Kolombangara obscured a quarter of the brilliant night sky, and Ingram sniffed at the rich odor of forest and soil and decaying sealife.
“Very well,” replied Landa, “Carl, flashing light to the Isaacs. ‘Intend to enter Blackett Strait and follow Sioux Falls Group. Can you maintain thirty-two knots?’“
<
br /> The radio speaker squawked with “Ricochet, over?” It was Admiral Sands bugging Landa for not responding quickly. Landa leaned against the bulkhead, the phone in his hand, seemingly unaware of Sands’ admonition as Katsikas clacked out his flashing light message to the Isaacs,
Landa seemed in a daze, so Ingram coaxed, “Captain?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Landa raised the phone. “Ovaltine, this is Ricochet. About to enter Blackett Straits. Will proceed in accordance with OpPlan and attempt rendezvous. Over.”
“Ovaltine. Roger. Out.”
The Isaacs’s red-filtered signal light winked at them again. And to Ingram, it seemed she was falling behind.
“Turn in sixty seconds, Captain,” announced Offenbach.
“Very well,” said Landa. All eyes on the bridge were fixed on the Isaacs and the bad news her flashing light was sure to bring.
Finally, Katsikas announced, “From Isaacs, Sir. ‘Blown tubes in number three boiler. Have secured it. Best speed is twenty-seven.”
Complete quiet ranged on the bridge, the only sounds, that of water swishing along the hull. Landa blinked and said, “Lieutenant Offenbach, make turns for twenty-seven knots.”
Offenbach replied, “Yes, Sir. Time to turn is now, Captain.”
“Very well. Make it so.” Landa climbed up into his chair, took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. He turned to Katsikas. “Signal Isaacs of our speed change and turn.”
“Right ten degrees rudder,” Offenbach ordered. “Steady up on course zero-nine-seven. All engines ahead flank. Make two-seven-zero turns for twenty-seven knots.”
“Todd?” said Landa.
“Sir?”
“It’ll probably be daylight when we exit the Kula Gulf. What would you do?”
“Stick close to the coast.”
“Why?”
“Gut feel.”
“My guts say the same thing. Let’s plot this out.” He jumped off his Captain’s chair and they walked in the pilot house.
CHAPTER TWELVE
7 March, 1943
U.S.S. Howell (DD 482)
Visuvisu Point, New Georgia Sound, (The Slot)
Fires from the Sioux Falls Bombardment Group raged around the Vila Stanmore airfield, as Howell and Isaacs ran at twenty-seven knots through the Blackett Strait. The flames were a good beacon on an otherwise dark night, helping to direct their own shore bombardment, the two destroyers each lobbing a little over two hundred rounds without slowing.
By first light, the Howell and Isaacs exited into the Kula Gulf, hugging the shores of Arundel, then New Georgia Islands. An hour later, they were poised to round the New Georgia’s Northwest tip, Visuvisu Point, and pass into The Slot for the run home on course one-three-zero true.
General quarters were relaxed, some slept at their stations, others fetched coffee and sandwiches from the galley.
“Todd? Todd?”
Ingram’s eyes blinked open. With only two or three hours sleep over the last day, he’d been cat-napping on the deck of the flying bridge, head propped on a life jacket. He groaned and looked around, finding a flat, wind-rippled sea, with gray skies overhead. To the east, the top half of Kolombangara lay shrouded in clouds, the rest of the island a hoary mist.
“Wake up, damnit.” Landa mounted the pilot house ladder, his face at deck level, within two feet of Ingram.
Ingram yawned, and smacked his lips.
“Is that anyway to greet your commanding officer?”
“Morning, Captain.” Ingram rolled on his back, clasped his hands on his belly and closed his eyes. He’d been dreaming of Helen, her perfume; her fine, black silky hair---
“Mr. Ingram!”
“Yes, sir.” He sat up, blinking his eyes. His back and thighs ached from laying on the cold, steel deck, and his right leg was asleep. He peered aft to see Isaacs steaming obediently in their wake at five hundred yards. But something didn’t seem right. He glanced at their wake; it seemed less foamy.
“That’s right. More engineering problems for the Isaacs. Our speed is down to twenty knots and we’re falling further and further behind.”
“Do we have a choice?”
“Mmmm, we do have to stick together. Although I don’t see why Dexter Sands didn’t come back for us.”
“Dexter Sands --- “
“Yeah, I just talked to him. He’s thirty-five miles ahead and says that Rocko has ordered air cover for us. But I think that’s bullshit. Whatever air cover there is, Dexter Sands will hog for himself. We’re on our own.”
Ingram shook his sleeping leg and looked up to the sky. “Why do I feel so loved?”
“Yeah. When do you think the Japs will hit?”
“Oh, around nine.”
“How so?”
“That’s how it was on Corregidor. They never started anything before nine. They don’t like to get up in the morning.” With a groan, Ingram stood.
“How we doing ammo-wise?” asked Landa.
“Down to about half.”
“Okay. We set for anti-air?”
“Yes, sir. Fusing is complete on all able-able-common.”
“Okay.” Landa began descending the pilot house ladder. As an afterthought, he asked, “And we’re using mechanical time fuses?”
“Uh no, Sir. Actually, we have mounts fifty-four and fifty-five dedicated to proximity fuses.”
Landa’s voice turned to a low growl: “I thought I ordered no proximity fuses.”
“But Captain, there aren’t enough mechanical time fuses for all our rounds.”
“Fine. Shoot up all our time fuses. Then, if we’re still shooting, use the proximity fuses.”
“Don’t you think we should---“
“That’s an order, Mr. Ingram. Don’t try my patience. Mechanical time fuses only. Do you understand?”
Ingram felt foolish rubbing his leg while being chewed out by the Captain. But he had to keep massaging if he wanted to stay on his feet. “Yes, Sir. Mechanical time fuses only.”
“Better make it quick. I’ve got a feeling the Japs are becoming less lazy these days.” He disappeared down the ladder.
Ingram jabbed his sound-powered phone talk button and called for Lou Delmonico.
“CIC.”
“Lou, I just talked to the skipper.”
“Yeah?”
“He wants all mechanical time fuses.”
“What?” Delmonico sounded incredulous. “Not in all mounts?”
“Including mounts fifty-four and fifty-five,” Ingram said.
“Shit!”
“Do it!”
“Yes, Sir.”
The ship teetered on the side of a wave rolling heavily to starboard. The empty five-inch shell casings, kicked out from the night shore bombardment, rolled and clanked about the decks.
“And Lou.”
“Yeah?”
“Tell your boys to police the brass.”
“Yes, Sir.”
A moment later Leo Seltzer, mount fifty-two’s gun captain, exited the hatch and jumped on the 02 deck. Three of his gunners followed suit. Soon, gunners from the other gun-turrets jumped out and started picking up the shell casings, passing them for stowage amidships. Seltzer looked up to Ingram, his palms spread upward.
Ingram drew a finger across his throat. ‘No proximity fuses.’
Seltzer shook his head slowly, then turned and shouted at his crew to move faster.
A Mitsubishi “Rufe,” a single engine Zero with a float and wing pontoons, caught them two hours later as they ran down The Slot, close to the thickly wooded coast of New Georgia. Buzzing monotonously, the Rufe flew in a slow orbit 15,000 yards away, tantalizingly close. Everyone knew he was a spotter, and after twenty minutes, a frustrated Jerry Landa shouted, “Mr. Ingram. Let’s try and shake his damned feathers.”
“One round, Captain?” The slant-range of the five-inch was 18,000 yards, meaning the current fire-control problem had little chance of success.
“Yeah, see what happens.”
Ingram called up to Jack Wilson in the Main Battery Director. “You on target?”
“On target and tracking.”
“Give him one round from Mount fifty-one.”
“One round, aye.” Five seconds later, mount fifty-one erupted with a belch of smokeless powder. Much to Ingram’s surprise, the round exploded close to the Rufe. The plane wobbled for a moment, regained its attitude, and plodded on. But it grew smaller.
Delmonico reported from CIC: “Trouble.”
“What, Lou?” Ingram looked down to see Early, Landa’s talker, passing the same report to the Captain.
“Air search radar picking up a whole potful of bogies. Looks like...sonofabitch...” They heard him counting. “...forty or so!”
“Jeepers,” said Wilson.
“Range?” demanded Ingram
“Bearing two-six-two, twenty-two miles. They’re over Visuvisu Point headed our way -- Wait. They’ve split. One group is headed on down The Slot toward the Sioux Falls Group. The rest are peeling off to circle us.”
Ingram couldn’t see anything but clouds; the bottom appeared to be about 2,500 feet, the Rufe flying right beneath it. “How many, Lou?”
“Twelve, maybe thirteen, not counting the spotter.”
Landa sounded General Quarters just to make sure everyone was awake.
“Gunnery Department manned and ready, Captain, “ Ingram said.
Landa gave a thumbs up, his mouth spread wide in his signature ‘Boom Boom’ Landa grin. “Here we go, Todd.”
Ingram punched his talk button. “How’s it look, Lou?”
“Aww, shit. Coordinated attack. They’re spitting into four groups of three planes each, hitting us from all four directions. Recommend Isaacs take on bogies designated Able through Fox. We should take on the rest; bogies George through Love.”
The sky fairly rumbled with the sound of aircraft engines. As they passed overhead, some planes soared on, while others drifted off to the right or left.
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 11