“They always send somebody, don’t they?”
Time to get serious. “No, not always.”
‘I see.”
“I’m Jerry Landa, Captain of the U.S.S. Howell.” He didn’t add that his ship was beached on a godforsaken bug-infested island in the South Pacific.
She didn’t offer a hand. “Luther’s commanding officer.”
“Ummm.”
“He spoke highly of you.”
The music was beautiful and her eyes were green.
“What are you playing?”
“Moonlight Sonata.” She emptied the tumbler in two loud gulps. “Pour me another blast?”
“Okay.” Landa poured three fingers, corked the bottle and then took it across the room and plopped it on a desk.
“That’s mean.”
“So is life.”
She kept playing, her eyes closed.
“Who is Roberta Thatcher?”
“Orchestra Manager.”
“So, that’s it.” Landa ambled over and sat on a folding chair right beside her little bench, “ You know, she thinks the world of you.”
Laura stopped and looked at him with blood-shot eyes. She swayed a bit and grabbed the side of the piano to steady herself. “How did he die?”
“Very bravely. He was--”
“--I didn’t ask for platitudes, Mr. Landa. I want you to tell me exactly how my husband died.”
Landa felt hot and unbuttoned his blouse as he matter-of-factly explained to Laura West how her husband’s molecular structure was irrevocably unraveled in one gigantic bright flash. He finished with, “...the...Barber...it just blew up. He felt no pain. Nothing was left to feel.”
Her mouth fell open. “Todd didn’t tell me that.”
“He wasn’t supposed to. By the way,” He reached in his pocket and produced a card. “I’m bunking at the Ingram’s until I ship out.” He wrote down a number. “If you want to call, please---“ He handed it over.
She swatted it aside. “Bastard,” she hissed.
“What?”
“You dirty bastards, “ she yelled. She stood and threw the empty tumbler at him. “You’re alive and walking around and having fun and hitting the bars. Where you going tonight? The Strip? Ciro’s maybe? Earl Carrolls? But what about my husband?” She screamed, spittle flying from her mouth. “What about him. About us? Me?” Her head fell into her hands and she cried softly, her body shaking.
Landa felt drawn to her and stepped up to wrap an arm around her.
“Get out, you bastard. Out!” She pointed to the door.
Angry with himself for mishandling the situation, Landa buttoned his blouse and growled, “It’s over, Mrs. Dutton or West or whoever the hell you are today. The time for self-pity is over. There is nothing anybody can do. In a manner of speaking, I’d say Luther is better off where he is than having to put up with your self-serving crap. Well okay, toots. You can bet nobody will bother you again. Of course, they wont have to, because you’ll be atop the slag heap very, very soon. And that’s one thing I’m glad I don’t have to explain to Luther.” Donning his cap, Landa walked over, uncorked the scotch bottle then walked to the window and poured it into the alley. He let the bottle drop. After it crashed, he said, “Good bye.” Then he walked out, slamming the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
29 March, 1943
Building 42, Long Beach Naval Station
Long Beach, California
Ingram took the steps two at a time, glad that he was on time for his appointment with Frank Ashton. The four striper had called early this morning, asking Ingram to stop by at 0900: Room 226. Ingram had gone into a panic trying to dig out his best set of dress blues. Even at that, the gold rings were tinged with the green envied by neophytes and worn with pride by the old salts. Recalling how everything around Ashton seemed to glitter, Ingram fretted about his uniform, realizing there was nothing he could do about it. He lost time shining his shoes, and to top that the San Pedro ferry had to wait ten minutes as a pair of tugs nudged a huge floating dry dock from the Bethlehem Steel Shipyards, down the channel.
No matter, I’m here. The pasty-cream clapboard two-story structure reminded him of a reform school he’d once seen in East Portland. Built in the early 1930s as an administration building, it had walls of a spongy plywood painted an off-yellow; the floors were covered with green linoleum polished to a bright sheen. Inside, he was assaulted by jangling phones, as officers and white hats dashed back and forth. Some doors were marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, where Marine guards stood at parade rest, their eyes fixed in the distance. But it was hard to understand the fabricated sense of urgency as people dashed about, their eyebrows knit as if on a mission that would win both the Atlantic and Pacific Wars at a single stroke.
He walked up the staircase and onto the second deck, finding Room 226, the second door on the left. It had a frosted glass door marked:
ELEVENTH NAVAL DISTRICT COMBAT SUPPORT UNIT
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Two marine guards stood before the door: a sergeant and a corporal. Both were at parade rest; both wore sidearms. Ingram stepped up to the Sergeant, flipped out his ID and said, “Commander Ingram to see Captain Ashton.”
The Marine Sergeant looked closely at the ID. Then his eyes ranged over Ingram as he verified the stats. The Sergeant’s face became long with obvious disappointment that he hadn’t nabbed a Nazi spy. Taking a deep breath, he said “Yes, Sir. One moment, please.”
The sergeant knocked twice on the door, then stuck his head inside. There was some muttering, then a thumping of footsteps. The door flew open with Frank Ashton filling the entrance. He thrust out a hand, a broad smile on his face, “Todd. Great to see you. Welcome aboard.” Taking Ingram’s arm, Ashton ushered him inside, letting the Marine close the door.
Ashton’s impeccably-tailored blue trousers were pressed to knife-edge seams. His shoes were polished to a spit-shine radiance and his shirt was bleached to a brilliant white and set-off with monogrammed gold cufflinks bearing a filigreed ‘A.’ “How have you been? Coffee?” Ashton walked over to a mahogany side table with a silver carafe. China cups rattled. “Cream? Sugar? Here, let me take your coat.”
“Yes, Sir. Coffee black, please.” Ingram was a bit red-faced as he gave Ashton his coat with the tarnished two and a half stripes on each sleeve. On the other hand, Ashton seemed to think nothing of it, as he carefully inserted a lacquered mahogany wooden hanger, then hung it on a tree beside his own coat with four dazzling gold rings on each sleeve.
While Ashton fiddled with the coffee service, Ingram took in the office. It was perhaps twelve by twelve. An ornate partner’s desk with a forest green leather top, stood in the middle. Red-leather diamond-tufted executive swivel chairs were placed at each end. On the right side of each desk were three telephone sets. Except for portraits of President Roosevelt and Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Ernest J. King, there were no wall coverings. A bank of file cabinets ran along one wall. A large floor safe, its double doors yawning open, was on the opposite wall which also accommodated a seven foot leather couch. Three soot covered windows gave onto an alley, the torpedo and optics buildings across the way.
Ashton set a cup of coffee before Ingram and waved to the partner’s desk. “Not bad, huh? Been in my family for 150 years.”
“It’s beautiful. Thank you, Sir.” Ingram sat and tried the coffee. It was excellent: The best he’d tasted since...since before the war.
A phone rang on Ashton’s side. He picked it up, and said, “No, I can’t now. Please tell the Admiral I’ll call back in...” he pulled a cuff to reveal a gleaming silver Whittnauer Chronograph, “in fifteen minutes. And hold all my other calls, please. Yes, thanks.” He hung up.
Ashton gazed at Ingram for a moment then. “Thanks for coming on such short notice, I hope you’re not inconvenienced.”
“Not at all, Captain.”
Ashton sat at his desk and flashed a smile. “In here please call me Frank.”
“Thank you, Sir, uh, Frank.”
There was a moment of awkward silence, then Ashton slapped both palms on the desk. “Well, I hear you have a ship.”
“Yes, Sir, Frank. The U.S.S. Pence.”
“And what is she?”
“Destroyer. Fletcher class. Like the Howell.”
“I see.” A shadow crossed Ashton’s face. “I really didn’t have a chance to tell you. I’m sorry about all that Howell business. She was a good ship.”
“She may fight again.” Ingram filled Ashton in on Landa’s plans to salvage the destroyer.
“Yes.” Ashton seemed preoccupied and looked out the window. Even with it closed, muffled sounds of the shipyard came through. Drilling and lathing machinery screeched. A long semi-truck laden with coils of wire and barrels of hydraulic oil rumbled down the alley. The massive forge down the way was really felt more than heard as it thumped intermittently, making the ground shake.
“Todd, there’s something I want to explain to you. Something that could make a real difference in your life.”
In the comfortable diamond tufted chair, Ingram tried to sit up and appear as if he were at attention. “Yes, Sir?”
“Frank.”
“Frank.”
“You are cleared for Top Secret?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“The United States is in a position to exploit technological opportunities of an unprecedented magnitude.” Ashton said. “You’ve seen just the tip of the ice-berg with the proximity fuse business. Other things will be soon coming down the pipe. More sophisticated radar, jet aircraft, acoustic torpedoes, frequency hopping, cryptographic analysis of the highest proportions. Why, with our code-breaking capabilities we can just about,” Ashton dropped his voice to a low tone, “understand everything the Japs are broadcasting on the airways.”
“No kidding?”
“Yes. For example, right now, and I mean right now,” Ashton snapped his fingers, “we can tell whether Yamamoto is wiping his nose or changing his pants. Now mind you, you didn’t hear this from me, but that’s where the United States is going. By golly, we’ll have this war won by 1947, 1948 tops.”
Ingram sat back, staggered. New radars? What the hell is an acoustic torpedo? Frequency hopping? Jets? He thought the Brits were leading in that area, not the U.S. And what was that about Yamamoto’s pants? Breaking Jap codes? He hadn’t heard anything about that since his days in the Philippines, but then, they’d sworn him to secrecy. And all he could think of to say was, “I had no idea.”
“We’re involved in all sorts of things. Things that are just about ready for introduction to the fleet, like I did with the proximity fuse.” He flashed a grin. “You with me so far?”
“Okay so far, Frank.”
Ashton smiled at that. “It’s too much for me now to introduce all this stuff to the fleet. I need help, a special kind of person. Someone with recent experience. Someone who has been out there and has instant credibility, an unquestionable reputation, a team player.” Ashton’s eyes bored into Ingram.
The guy is pitching me, thought Ingram. For a moment, he felt as if he were frozen in his chair. But then it swiveled on its base and for some reason that made him relax. “I see.”
Ashton said, “You get the idea. I need someone with your experience. People will easily buy into the concepts when they see your chest of medals. It’s a big effort and we’ll eventually need a large staff.”
“Okay. But let me ask.” Ingram waved at the frosted glass door and its inverted black lettering. “What’s a Combat Support Unit?”
“A fancy name. Actually, we’re not connected with the Eleventh Naval District. It’s just a cover for the fact that we’re main interface to the fleet from the Department of Terrestrial Magnetism.”
“Terrestrial what?”
Ashton explained the role played by the Department of Terrestrial Magnetism and its development of the proximity fuse. He finished with. “We did it, Todd. In just two years, we developed that fuse. Its reliability is fifty percent, soon on its way to eighty percent. And now, we’ve harnessed all that brain power to bigger, more spectacular projects.
Ashton’s smile, his delivery, his manner, his dress; everything about Ashton said, ‘Win.’ Ingram sipped the wonderful coffee and sat forward. “Okay, but what about my---“
“---I know, I know. Having your own command is a big deal, Todd. But we need you.” Another grin. “Hell, I need you. Someone with the Navy Cross who can stick it to the doubters, the nay-sayers, and, in some cases, I’m sad to say, the cowards.” Silence reigned for a moment. The forge thumped outside. Ashton said, “I can promise you your own command within a year, probably sooner. But, right now, you’re needed here. There is just too much technical material that must get to the fleet immediately.” He drummed his fingers. “Do you have your orders, yet?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Well, I can fix that. In fact,” Ashton grinned conspiratorially, “I can damn near fix any orders.”
“I see.”
“What do you think?”
A great wave of peace and relief swept over Ingram. No combat. He felt as if he were being elevated into clouds with vistas of golden streets and rambling, sun-drenched buildings with sidewalks inlaid with diamonds, rubies and emeralds. If he read Ashton right, it meant no more Japs. No more thundering cannon nor tearing bullets, nor screams in the night. No more blood-spattered compartments and men squirming on red-hot decks, their bodies burned to a crisp. “My God,” he blurted.
Ashton’s teeth flashed. “Your God what?”
“It sounds wonderful.”
“Then what do you say?”
Yes, yes. Oh, hell yes, I want it so bad I’ll do anything. Yes, yes. Of course, yes. Ingram drew a breath. He was surprised to hear his own voice say, “Can I think about it?”
“How about forty-eight hours?”
“Fair enough.”
“You like golf?” Ashton gave an impish smile.
“Well, I haven’t played since before the war.”
“How ‘bout the Virginia Country Club next Saturday? Say ten o’clock tee-off?”
“Sounds good to me, Frank.” Pretty snazzy. How did he swing the Virginia Country Club?
Ashton stood and offered his hand. “I’ll be proud to have you with me, Todd. You wont believe how much fun this is. And,” Ashton winked, “...and I can promise your third stripe within sixty days.”
They listened as another truck rattled down the alley, grinding its gears. Ashton said. “There’s something else.”
“Sir?”
Ashton’s tone softened as he said, “It’s no secret that I’m on the list for rear admiral. But also, I’m on the list to head BuOrd.” He looked up and gave a coy smile.
Ingram said, “Congratulations, Sir.”
“If that happens, they’ll post me to Washington D.C. right away. That means you’ll be running this office. And that means...” He shrugged.
“Means what, Sir?”
“The billet calls for a full captain. So you could have your fourth stripe in, say in six months.”
Ingram knew there was something he should do. Yes. Close your mouth. His mind raced as he considered the possibilities. “Thank you, Sir. I don’t know what to say.” Yes, yes. Oh, hell yes. Sonofabitch. A third stripe, maybe a fourth: Captain Alton C. Ingram, USN, stay-at-home warrior. Helen will be delirious with joy.
Again, he said, ‘Thank you, Sir.” They shook.
“Frank.”
“Frank.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
29 March, 1943
San Pedro, California
The phone rang stridently. Landa whipped and blinked at the harsh sunlight streaming in Ingram’s little guest room. His watch said 9:32. But God, how his head throbbed, no doubt from the cheap beer he’d drunk last night at Shanghai Red’s. The phone rang and rang.” Okay, okay.” With a groan, Landa got up and shuffled across the cold, hardwood floor finding the phone neatly placed in a livin
g room niche.. “Hello?” he snapped.
“Todd?” It was a woman.
“Mrs. Ingram, er --- Helen?”
“No. Is this, uh, the Captain...?”
“Jerry Landa. Yes ‘Mam.”
“This is hard.” Her voice sounded small.
It’s Laura Dutton, or West, or whatever. She sounded sober. “Mrs. Dutton,” Landa said, carrying the phone to the couch. The hardwood floor felt like ice and he put his feet up.
She exhaled. “Yes. Look, Roberta said I should talk to you.”
“Who?”
“Roberta. Our manager.”
The tall, thin woman who greeted Landa in the lobby. “I remember.”
“I owe you an apology. I’m sorry. I acted terribly.”
Landa sat heavily on the couch, at a loss for words.
“Hello?”
“I’m here.”
“Well?”
Landa cleared his throat. “It’s okay, Mrs. Dutton. I’d probably do the same thing. In fact I just about did last night.”
“What?”
“Well. Todd and I went down to Shanghai Red’s last night. It’s sort of a dive down in San Pedro.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
She gave a small laugh.
To Landa, her laugh sounded good, and he wondered why. And he wondered why he was pressing the phone to his ear.
“I was there one night.” She told him about her Saturday night on the town with Helen. “So you and Todd were out having fun?”
“Well. Todd and I hadn’t really talked since we’d lost the Howell.”
“Lost the Howell?”
Landa caught himself. He couldn’t discuss that on the phone. “Well, not exactly. Anyway, it wasn’t really about the ship.”
“Go on.”
“My younger brother died. That’s why I’m here in the States -- emergency leave. I was back east with the funeral and taking care of things.”
“Oh, my God.” Her voice was high pitched. “Then you took personal time off and came all the way to Hollywood to...to...”
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 23