WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  The last plane took off, a twin engine land attack bomber. Yamamoto turned and watched it race to join its squadron. The rumbling engines from the orbiting attack force of nearly one hundred planes were almost deafening. Another seventy planes would join them along the way, rising from airfields on the outer Bismarck’s, Buka, and Bougainville making this raid 170 planes in all, about the same size as the Pearl Harbor attack force. Except this time, Yamamoto thought ruefully, there targets were not a peacetime U.S. Navy, lolling about on antiquated battleships, nursing hangovers on an early Sunday morning.

  “We’ll soon find out,” Yamamoto muttered. Under a warm sun, he walked to the shade of a scraggly palm, joining Admirals Kusaka and Ugaki. Hovering behind them was Captain Takano who had been waiting four days for the Matukaze. Due in today, the destroyer had been delayed in Vila, having wiped a starboard drive shaft bearing.

  Ugaki swatted a fly off his cheek. “The fleet meteorologist says the weather looks good for the next week or so.”

  “Which means we can do at least four raids before we return Ozawa’s planes,” said Yamamoto.

  The strike force steadied on a course toward the lower Solomon Islands, the sound of their engines fading. More to himself than anybody else, Yamamoto said again, “We’ll soon find out.”

  A leading seaman walked up and tapped Takano on the shoulder. “Sir, the base operations officer sends his complements.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m to tell you that the Matukaze dropped anchor fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Good!” exclaimed Takano. “Tell---“

  “---good news Takano?” Yamamoto asked.

  “The best, Gensui. The Matukaze has just arrived,” said Takano.

  “The secret ammunition is finally here?” asked Yamamoto with mock incredulity.

  “Yes, Sir. Now at the harbor.”

  “Well, then,” said Yamamoto. “ Don’t let us keep you waiting. Best not to keep the good Captain Enomoto waiting, either. “Take my car.” Yamamoto waved to his midnight-blue Packard super 8 touring limousine, a war prize from the American embassy in Batavia.

  “You mean...”

  Yamamoto’s eyes were bright. “Please, please, go ahead. I won’t be needing it. I’m going to wait here for my lads to come back.”

  Takano was so excited he didn’t notice that Kusaka and Ugaki’s eyes were dark and malevolent. He bowed deeply. “Thank you, Gensui. Thank you.” He ran for the Packard like a teenager released from home on a Saturday night.

  “Bring me one,” Yamamoto shouted after him.

  “Yes, Sir,” Takano blurted over his shoulder.

  He didn’t hear the three admirals laughing as he went.

  The Matukaze was an old Udaki class destroyer built in 1924. With two Parsons turbines powered by four Kanpon boilers, she was still swift and capable of thirty-four knots. Her armament consisted of four 4.7 deck canons and six twenty-one inch torpedo tubes in two triple mounts. Long and narrow, she had a high forecastle and raked mast and stacks, giving her a low and graceful silhouette. Even now, while swinging at anchor, she looked to Takano as if she were racing along at thirty knots.

  The shore boat pulled alongside with Takano surprised to find a glossy varnished boarding ladder waiting for him. A bugle blew as he climbed up to the main deck where Commander Ryozo Enomoto, a short, balding man of 190 pounds, saluted smartly. Gathered in ranks behind Enomoto were the ships officers.

  “How nice, Enomoto. Thank you very much” Takano returned the salutes and shook Endnote’s hand warmly.

  Smiling broadly, Enomoto introduced Takano to his officers then said, “would you care to?”

  “Lead the way, Captain,” said Takano pedantically, as if he were waiting for a high school student to demonstrate a term project.

  “They’re right over here in the machine shop.” Enomoto walked across the deck to a hatchway.

  Two sentries stood aside as Enomoto, Takano and the ship’s executive and gunnery officers, stepped in the small space where they were engulfed by the odors of hydraulic fluid and cutting oil. Perhaps two by three meters, it was tight, but efficient, Takano noticed, with lathe, drill press, and grinder arranged neatly on one bulkhead, a gleaming stainless workbench on the opposite. Securely strapped on the workbench were five five-inch shells, their tops covered with a canvas.

  Enomoto looked perplexed.

  “What?” said Takano.

  “I told them to leave one out.” Enomoto glared at his gunnery officer.

  The red-faced lieutenant stepped forward, yanked open a tool-drawer, and produced a web wrench. “Hai!” With a bow, he handed it to Enomoto and stepped back.

  Enomoto proudly held up the web wrench. “Do you wish..?” Pointing to the canvas-covered projectiles, he was asking if Takano wanted to personally unscrew the fuses.

  Takano’s heart raced. He would have liked nothing better and it was all he could do maintain his decorum before the other three men. Suppressing the urge to rip the canvas off was a supreme effort. Mustering all his calm, he waved casually. “Please, go ahead.”

  “Yes.” Enomoto untied the line, the canvas falling to the deck. “Here you are, Sir.”

  Takano’s heart plunged into an abyss. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  “Sir?” Enomoto’s face turned white,

  “You dolt!” Takano yelled.

  Panic stricken, the executive and gunnery officers beat a hasty retreat.

  “I don’t understand,” said Enomoto.

  Takano screamed. “These projectiles are capped with Mark 18 mechanical time fuses.”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “No,” screeched Takano. It occurred to him that the Gensui’s Packard limousine waited patiently at dockside -- and that he would have to return it soon -- empty handed.

  “What do I say to him?” he yelled.

  “Wh --- who? asked Enomoto.

  “What am I supposed to tell the Gensui?” he screamed again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  Enroute -- Noumea to Tulagi

  7 April, 1943

  Ingram ran a hand over his thick stubble. He’d been flying for the past three days. He hadn’t bathed and his meals consisted of cellophane-wrapped peanut butter sandwiches accompanied by innumerable cups of lukewarm coffee poured from thermoses that had flown more miles than Jimmy Doolittle. Occasionally, he was able to grab a shave and stretch his legs when they stopped for fuel.

  And now, he was headed for Tulagi in a beat up PBY, the last nine hundred mile leg of a laborious trip from the States. Loose rivets rattled as they droned along, the pilot picking his way through clouds shimmering in bright moonlight. At 8,000 feet, the air was cold, smooth, stable, and somnolent, a marvelous relief from the rough weather they’d been through the last two days.

  The pilot was a twenty-two year old j.g, by the name of Elmer Nephron, a kid with a lop-sided grin from Kentucky who spoke with a drawl and answered to “Neff.”

  Jumping aboard the PBY, Ingram admitted that he was more than a little excited about the prospect of seeing the Pence. Ralph Druckman, her commanding officer had been a year ahead of Ingram at the Naval Academy. His recollection was that Druckman was a good man, and thus Ingram had reasonable expectations to find the destroyer in decent shape when he boarded her in -- he checked his watch -- in another five hours.

  He looked out the PBY’s big blister window, watching moonlit clouds scoot by. His body was dog-tired, but with the coffee, his mind raced. Not only over the anxiety of seeing his first command, but the events on the first leg of the flight kept Ingram’s thoughts churning.

  They had taken off from Long Beach aboard a lumbering four-engined PB2Y Coronado when he introduced himself to the man sitting beside him. He was a tall, lanky, three striper named Mike Novak, who was on a return trip to Hawaii with a briefcase chained to his wrist. Novak had long, sandy hair and a burnt freckled nose that made him look as if he’d just stepped from the Waikiki surf. Naturally, h
e had a bright, disarming smile, and as the Coronado climbed out from the California coast, they got to talking; Novak taking in Ingram’s Navy cross, Ingram spotting Novak’s gold submarine pin. After five minutes, they discovered they had a common acquaintance: Frank Ashton, Novak’s cousin on his mother’s side.

  Their conversation dwindled when it grew dark. Novak flipped on his little overhead light, opened his briefcase and pulled out papers. Soon, he was scrunched far in the corner, his shoulder raised, making sure no one could see what lay before him. Over the next hour, he had a lot of material scattered on his lap; so much so, that he undid his seat belt to make room.

  That’s when they hit the downdraft. The Coronado plummeted like a lead brick. Men screamed, and the odor of vomit raced through the stricken plane. The engines roared and Novak hit the ceiling with a ‘thunk,’ his papers scattering. Ingram was half asleep, but had left his belt buckled. He flipped open his eyes to see Novak’s feet wiggling beside his head. The cabin lights blinked off and passengers screamed again.

  Then the Coronado caught itself and Novak plummeted. Ingram was barely able to guide him into his seat, where Novak sat sprawled, woozy and rubbing his head. After a while, the Coronado flew into clear air and the cabin lights blinked back into life. Ingram’s heart thumped and his face broke into a cold sweat. About him, people cursed and moaned.

  Do something.

  Looking about, he spotted the mess of papers on the deck beneath a semi-conscious Novak. The briefcase had fallen to the floor stretching the Commander’s arm to full scope. Ingram bent over, picked up the briefcase and eased it back into Novak’s lap, the lid still open. Then, he scooped papers off the floor.

  That was when he noticed a series of messages marked TOP SECRET. As much as he tried to tear his eyes away, he couldn’t help but read the subject of one: YAMAMOTO DEPARTS TRUK LAGOON. Another message read: YAMAMOTO GARRISONED RABAUL. Then he found folders under his seat with broad red stripes marked ‘TOP SECRET ULTRA.’ Quickly, he stuffed all the papers in the briefcase as Novak’s head flopped back and forth with the turbulence.

  In twenty minutes, Novak was fully awake. With a sheepish grin, he mumbled his thanks, drank a Dixie cup of water, and soon was exploring his briefcase as Ingram dropped off to sleep.

  Ingram felt a nudge.

  “Mr. Ingram?” Novak flipped off his seatbelt and leaned close.

  “Yes?”

  “Was it you who returned the material to my briefcase?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Novak bit a fingernail for a minute. “What did you see?”

  Ingram knew what was coming and made a show of smacking his lips. “Nothing Commander. I just shoved a bunch of stuff back in your briefcase without looking.”

  Novak asked, “What made you think you had to do that?” Novak’s face may have looked like a Waikiki a surfing idol, but his eyes were like Count Dracula.

  “Do what?”

  Novak gave a shallow smile. “To not look. See here, Mr. Ingram...Todd. I have to ask this. There was classified material in there.”

  The possibilities unfolded: Novak would radio ahead. Military police would be waiting in at Hickam Field. Interrogations. Signed Statements. Ingram had no desire to be delayed in Honolulu while security goons reviewed his background, questioned him incessantly, and then maybe had his orders changed, sending him to supervise a fuel dump in Peru. “Couldn’t see a thing,” he said, yawning.

  “What?”

  “Lights went out.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Yeah, when the plane leveled out I strapped you in. Then, like I said, I shoved your stuff in the briefcase, put it on your seat and zipped it up.”

  “But when did the lightsBA

  “---you should be more careful, commander.”

  “What?”

  “Turbulence. You know. Happens all the time. Like right now.” Ingram pointed. “You should fasten your seatbelt.”

  As if to reinforce his point, the plane jiggled a bit with some turbulence. Novak quickly buckled his seat belt. Later, he stood and spoke in low tones with other passengers. Then he returned to his seat with a sigh, and started talking about surfing on the Island’s North side. Suddenly, he began reminiscing about Ashton, and at one point talked about his great-grandfather’s accomplishments with Dewey in Manila Bay.

  With the most innocent look he could conjure, Ingram said, “I thought it was Farragut at Mobil Bay.”

  Novak looked in the distance, grunted, returned to his reading and eventually fell asleep. They rode the remaining four and a half hours to Hawaii in silence.

  Ingram checked his watch: Tulagi in ten minutes. The PBY’s engines droned effortlessly in clear, stable air. It was late morning with bright sunshine and crisp, white, clouds rolling easily on the western horizon. Nephron had invited Ingram forward and he had been sitting in the right seat for the past hour. The co-pilot, a young acne-ridden ensign named Bailey, was in the radio compartment fiddling with the radio receiver. It had gone sour two hours ago and now Bailey, a genius with electronics, sat on the deck with the flight engineer: tubes, wires and screws, scattered all over the floor.

  They were at 5,000 feet when Nephron pulled back on the throttles and eased into a shallow left bank for their decent into Tulagi Harbor. Peering out his window, he said, “Lookie here.”

  Ingram craned his neck to look out the port side. The activity seemed more pronounced than usual. Ships at anchor belched black smoke while others headed out to sea, large wakes churning behind. He nodded and said, “Something’s going on, all right.”

  Nephron leaned around his seat and shouted aft, “How ya coming, fellas? I gotta have landing instructions. And I gotta call the Commander’s ship, so he can get a ride.”

  Bailey clacked gum and said, “Drive the plane, Neff. I’ll let you know.”

  Nephron muttered, looked out the window and pointed over to Guadalcanal, where many black dots swirled about. “Damn, look at all the planes coming up from Cactus. Must be going after something.” Then he tapped his fuel gauge and shouted back to Bailey. “I’m down to 120 gallons, with no place to go, except Jap country.”

  Bailey yelled back, “What the hell do you want me to do? Fix this damn radio or come up there and help you drive?”

  Nephron said, “Keep your shirt on. I’ll land this thing. You fix that radio.”

  “Couple more minutes,” said Bailey.

  “I ain’t got two minutes. We’re going in.” Nephron pulled further back on the throttles letting the twin engine amphibian descend more steeply.

  Ingram offered, “You want me to head aft?”

  Nephron waved a hand, “Naw, naw, Commander. Keep your seat and buckle up tight. You’re in for some fun.”

  Five minutes later, they were 200 feet off the ocean, zipping over the fairway. Near the end, Ingram saw an anchored Fletcher class destroyer whip past. As Nephron turned to ease into their downwind leg, Ingram grabbed a pair of binoculars and focused on the destroyer’s little white numbers near the bow: 452. “Hey, that’s my ship!”

  “You sure?” Nephron reached behind his head to flip a switch. Soon, the wing tip floats eased down and locked into position.

  “No mistake. That’s the Pence all right.”

  Nephron grinned and said, “Well, maybe we can fix you up after all. Looks like they have their whale boat alongside. We’ll give you curb service.” He leaned back to his engineer. “Smiley, try and raise that ship on the signal lamp. Tell ‘em we have their next commanding officer aboard and to please send the whaleboat.”

  “Yes, Sir.” The flight engineer scrambled aft to signal through the port blister window.

  By the time Nephron advanced the PBY’s fuel setting to AUTO RICH, opened the cowl flaps and set the props in the flat pitch position, Smiley was back, patting Ingram on the shoulder, “All set Commander. They’re waitin’ for you.”

  Nephron turned the plane again and lined up on the fairway for their final approach. Then he ea
sed back on his throttles and the plane glided down. “See? We aim to please, Commander. After all, this is strictly against regulations. But what the heck, you’re so tired you look like Frankenstein warmed over. Figure I’m doing the Navy a favor just keeping you alive.” Nephron quickly looked around to his co-pilot and flight engineer. “You guys buckled up?”

  Bailey said dryly, “Try not to crash into a ship, Neff.” Earlier, Nephron had turned white telling Ingram about landing here a week ago. It was foggy; they nearly hit a ship illegally anchored in this same fairway. Nephron said he goosed the throttles and barely bounced the PBY over the errant vessel which turned out to be an ammunition ship.

  “Soooo, solly, Choley” Said Nephron in a passable Richard Loo accent. “No honorable filahwoks this morning.”

  Ingram cinched his seat belt as tight as it could go. Sometimes water landings could be bumpy. Instead, the water sparkled as an eight-knot wind stirred little waves making it an amphib pilot’s dream. Nephron eased off the throttles then pulled slightly back on the yoke. The twin Pratt & Whitney R1830 engines backfired softly as the PBY sank the last few feet, its step kissing the waters of Tulagi Harbor. Easily, she settled, a tumult of white mist trailing behind her. Within ten seconds she wallowed at taxi speed, heading for the Pence just two hundred yards away. “How’s that, Commander?” Nephron asked.

  “Smooth. You want to switch jobs?”

  “No thanks, Sir. I get seasick.” He pointed to the Pence’s whale boat, which had just shoved off. “Here’s your taxi.”

  “That was quick,” Ingram said, looking at his ship. She wore a dapple pattern camouflage that gave her a determined, business-like appearance. But nothing could detract from her clean, flush-deck lines, her raked stacks and mast, her five single five-inch gun mounts defiantly pointing at the sky.