“Well? He is endangering his life. What if he’s shot down? What would we do without him?” Ozawa growled,
“What choice do I have, Sir?”
Ozawa looked in the distance for a moment, then said more to himself than to Watanabe, “Go ahead. Send the message. But we have to figure a way to stop this nonsense.” He walked out.
On his way to Yamamoto’s for dinner, Watanabe pulled into the command compound and hand delivered his message to Vice Admiral Tomoshiga Sajejima, the new commander of the Eighth Air Fleet. After signing for it, Sajejima sent it down the hall for encryption into the Naval cipher. Thirty minutes after that, it was given to First Class Radioman Matome Tayama, one of the Eighth Air Fleet’s most skilled radio operators. With the last glimmer of twilight, the surrounding jungle turned once again to its full nocturnal disarray, as Tayama started transmitting his message. It was 1755, local time.
At 2155 local time, the moon had drifted past its zenith above Diamond Head, bathing Oahu in a shimmering, travel-poster splendor. The headquarters of the Fleet Radio Unit -- Pacific (FRUPAC) had moved up the hill two weeks ago near the rim of the Makalapa crater. It was a large, two-story wooden building near Admiral Nimitz’ headquarters. At daytime, onlookers enjoyed the majesty of Oahu in one sweeping glance. But the view was marred by the carnage below in Pearl Harbor, still covered with oil slicks, the blood of battleships sunk on the December 7, 1941 Japanese sneak attack. But now, at almost 10:00 p.m., only vague outlines could be seen below, the whole area blacked out.
Radioman First Class Jesus Alfonso Ramirez was one of about two hundred radio operators in the second floor bullpen on duty that night. He was a highly skilled member of about one thousand radiomen, fondly called the “On the Roof Gang.” Suddenly, the chirping of a radio signal filled his ear phones. Ramirez jabbed a foot pedal, starting his wire recorder; then went to work on his typewriter, taking down five digit groups. By 2212, Ramirez was finished. After carefully sealing the message in a red-banded envelope marked TOP SECRET ULTRA, he raised his hand for two things. The first was for a messenger, who immediately signed for the message then headed out the door. The next was for a cup of coffee. Ramirez needed a refill, especially after that message. That Jap operator was good, a professional, he could tell. His key was crisp and clear; almost as good as Ramirez, who had to concentrate hard to keep up.
The messenger took Ramirez’s message down to “the basement,” a series of sub-divided air-conditioned rooms, which housed the Intelligence Center for the Pacific Ocean Area (ICPOA). There, the envelope was logged in by Lieutenant Thomas B. Ketchum, the duty officer, who every day, handled hundreds of Japanese messages. Ketchum scanned the message finding it was from the Commander of the Imperial Japanese Eighth Air Fleet, a naval unit near the top of Ketchum’s “watch list.” He picked up his phone and dialed a number on the intercom.
A man in a window office across the room answered, “Novak.”
“Sir, it’s Lieutenant Ketchum.” Ketchum saw him look up sharply. “We have an interesting message here.”
“Yes?”
Ketchum swallowed. Novak had been almost living here for the past two weeks. It seemed he was becoming more irritable every day. “It’s from Commander Eighth Air Fleet.” Ketchum read off the addressees.
Through the window Ketchum saw Novak swivel in his chair and drum his fingers. Finally, he said, “Top priority. Have Plummer run the robot. Then give it to Burnside. I want to see it as soon as possible.” Novak’s phone crashed on the hook.
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Ketchum said to a dead line.
Ketchum walked over and handed the message to Howard Demergian, Yeoman Second Class and said, “As fast as you can, Demergian.”
“Yes, Sir.” Demergian took the message and fastened it to a clipboard beside his key punch machine, which was manufactured by International Business Machines of Armonk, New York. Demergian hummed, as his machine clacked away. He’d been a musician, most recently, a trombone player in the band aboard the U.S.S. Pennsylvania, the Flagship of the Pacific Fleet until she’d been bombed in drydock on December 7, 1941. With no place to go, Demergian and many of the other musicians off sunken battleships, were assigned to cryptographic duties, because of their acuity at reading music. In effect, they read a form of cipher which was similar to the skills required for cracking codes.
Ten minutes later, Demergian was done. He stuffed the cards in an envelope, labeled them, entered his log, then walked to Lieutenant Ketchum and handed the envelope over, along with the original message.
“Thanks,” said Ketchum, who entered both items in his log. From there, Ketchum walked through a curtain into the next room and handed the punch cards to Jackie Plummer, an ex- tuba player off the U.S.S. California, turned cryptographer first class. Plummer and his crew of three third-class cryptographers, were acknowledged as the best on the IBM equipment which surrounded them: tabulators, collators, printers, and a monstrous hybrid called a comparer, built just for FRUPAC. After signing for the envelope, Jackie and his crew ran the tab cards through a “robot routine,” which stripped out the additives: these were numerical codes added to numbers in the five letter group to throw off eavesdroppers. A new set of punch cards was produced, which Jackie carefully ran through the main program for decrypting messages in JN-25, the Japanese Imperial Navy code. Since last summer, they had a lot of trouble with JN-25. The Japanese had changed their codes, and FRUPAC had only been able to recover twenty to thirty percent of the average message, whereas before, they could recover almost 100 percent. But now, they had captured the code books off the Japanese submarine I-1. Working with Commander Novak, Plummer had written a new decrypting program for JN-25, and this was one of the first times they were going to try it.
Two hours later, the machine groaned to a stop.
Jackie examined the cards. “It’s friggin’ mish-mash.”
They slurped coffee and thought for five minutes. “Wait a minute,” said Jackie. “Let’s run ‘em through backwards.”
Nobody objected, so the machines once again clacked, ground and rattled. An hour later, it was done. Jackie Plummer examined the cards and grinned broadly. “Take the rest of yesterday off, you guys.”
Then he ran the cards through a printer. The message came out in code groups translatable to Japanese. He pushed a button at his desk, and Lieutenant Ketchum was there in fifteen seconds.
Ketchum examined the print-out for a moment and said, “Okay.” Taking the message, he walked into another curtained area containing small cubicle offices, each with closed glass doors. One was labeled , “Lt. Colonel, Gerald L. Burnside, USMCR.” Ketchum knocked, then walked into a smoke filled, closet-sized cubicle
Burnside, a lanky, sandy-haired Japanese language expert, was one of ICPOA’s best language officers. He had spent three years in Tokyo as an attaché from 1936 to 1939. He could read, write and speak the language perfectly. Now he was tilted back in his chair with his feet on his desk, scratching his head and studying a list of encoded values from the recently broken four digit ‘Maru Code,’ a code used by the Japanese merchant fleet.
Since they were golfing buddies, Ketchum dropped the honorifics. “Got one for you, Jerry. Novak says to drop everything and hop to it.”
Burnside chain-lit a cigarette and said, “Screw Novak. I’ve got a least another four hours to go on this before it’s cleaned up.” Burnside and Ketchum shared the same opinion over Commander Novak’s oftentimes bullying methods.
Ketchum waved a hand, “No, no, I got a feeling about this one, Jerry. I think Novak may be right. Here, look at the sender and addressees.” He handed the print-out to Burnside.
Burnside scanned the addresses, then raised his eyebrows. “Give me ten minutes.”
Ketchum smiled inwardly. Burnside had said that many times in the past, not emerging from his smoke-filled office until hours later, with a completely broken message.
Six hours and twenty minutes later, Ketchum was passing by Burnside’s cubi
cle when the door burst open. The Marine’s face was pale; his shirt was unbuttoned, the knot on his tie was slipped and his shirt sleeves were rolled up.
“What?” Asked Ketchum.
Burnside reached back in his office, grabbed a pack of cigarettes, lit one and slipped the pack in his top pocket. “Incredible. Just damned incredible. Come on.” He blasted through curtains toward Novak’s office.
Ketchum could hardly keep up, as Burnside burst into Novak’s office. Novak was on the phone and gave them an irritated glance. He turned and continued his conversation in low tones with his back turned.
Burnside said softly to a gawking Ketchum. “Shut the door, Tom.”
Ketchum did so, just as Novak wound up his call. Slamming down the receiver, he hissed, “Just what the hell do you mean by---“
Burnside held up a hand. “---Mike. For once, just shut up.”
Novak started to say something, but then fell silent.
Burnside handed over the message.
With a glance toward Ketchum, Novak said, “Is it that big of a deal?”
Burnside said, “Just read it.”
Novak quickly read the message. Then he laid it down. “Good God.” Then he read it again and laid it on his desk.
“We’ve got the sonofabitch,” grinned Burnside. “We’ve really got him.”
Ketchum asked, “Is it okay if I...”
Novak nodded.
Ketchum picked up the message and read:
FROM: COMMANDER EIGHTH AIR FLEET
TO: FIRST BASE FORCE 26TH AIR FLOTILLA
ALL COMMANDING OFFICERS 11TH AIR FLOTILLA
COMMANDER, 958TH AIR UNIT
CHIEF, BALLALE DEFENSE UNIT
1.THE COMMANDER IN CHIEF COMBINED FLEET WILL INSPECT BALLALE, SHORTLAND, AND BUIN IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE FOLLOWING:
2. 0600 DEPART RABAUL ON BOARD MEDIUM ATTACK PLANE (ESCORTED BY 6 FIGHTERS);
3. 0800 ARRIVE BALLALE.
4. IMMEDIATELY DEPART FOR SHORTLAND ON BOARD SUBCHASER (1ST BASE FORCE TO READY ONE BOAT)
5. ARRIVING AT 0840. DEPART SHORTLAND 0945 ABOARD SAID SUBCHASER
6. ARRIVING BALLALE AT 1030. (FOR TRANSPORTATION PURPOSES, HAVE READY AN ASSAULT BOAT AT SHORTLAND AND A MOTOR LAUNCH AT BALLALE.)
7 1100 DEPART BALLALE ON BOARD MEDIUM ATTACK PLANE, ARRIVING BUIN 1110.
8. LUNCH AT 1ST BASE FORCE HEADQUARTERS (SENIOR STAFF OFFICER OF AIR FLOTILLA 26 TO BE PRESENT).
9. 1400 DEPART BUIN ABOARD MEDIUM ATTACK PLANE
10 ARRIVE RABAUL 1540.
11. INSPECTION PROCEDURES: AFTER BEING BRIEFED ON PRESENT STATUS, THE TROOPS (PATIENTS AT 1ST BASE FORCE HOSPITAL) WILL BE VISITED. HOWEVER, THERE WILL BE NO INTERRUPTIONS IN THE ROUTINE DUTIES OF THE DAY.
12. UNIFORMS WILL BE UNIFORM OF THE DAY EXCEPT THAT THE COMMANDING OFFICERS OF THE VARIOUS UNITS WILL BE IN COMBAT ATTIRE WITH DECORATIONS.
IN THE EVENT OF INCLEMENT WEATHER, THE TOUR WILL BE POSTPONED ONE DAY.
MESSAGE ENDS
Novak asked, “What can we hit him with?”
Burnside said, “Guadalcanal. Marine Corsairs. They have the range and the firepower. If not them, Army P-38s.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.” Burnside lit a cigarette and blew smoke across Novak’s desk.
Novak read the message again. “Okay. I’d better tell Layton.” Commander Edwin T. Layton was Fleet Admiral Chester Nimitz’ Fleet Intelligence Officer. “But then---“
“What?”
Novak stared into the distance. “What if it’s a trap?”
Burnside puffed his cigarette for a moment. Then his jaw dropped. “What? You mean they know we’ve broken their code?”
“That’s what I’m trying to say. What if someone on our side shot his mouth off that we know all about what Yamamoto’s doing? What if that got back to the Japs? And they laid a trap.”
Burnside glanced at Ketchum. “Sounds far fetched. Can you prove it?”
Novak began, “I may be acting super cautious, but there’s a Lieutenant Commander down in the Solomons that may have let everything slip.”
“You’re shitting me.” Burnside sat heavily into a side chair.
“What’s crazy about this is that this Lieutenant Commander is probably dead. But even so, it’s imperative we find out what he knew and what he told others before he died.”
“This is insane.”
Novak leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and said, “Luckily, I have someone out there to check it all out. Let me explain.”
The phone rang, startling the men. “Damnit. Novak snatched the receiver from the cradle. “Commander Novak.”
“Mike. It’s Bob St. Clair.”
“Uh, I’m in a meeting. But I do have to talk to you.”
“Get back when you can. I’ll be here.”
“Tell you what, Bob,” Novak looked at the others who averted his glance. “I’ll just listen.”
“Okay. Do you recall your two and a half striper friend?”
Novak leaned forward and tapped his pencil eraser on the desk. “Of course.”
“Well. I have very bad news for you.” St. Clair’s Zippo lighter clicked in the background.
“Yes?” Without realizing it, Novak bit into the eraser.
After a long exhale, St. Clair said, “His wife will be receiving a telegram, soon.”
“No!” Novak spat the eraser out and leaned back, relief flooding over him.
“Killed in action, I’m afraid.”
“Oh. This is such terrible news.” Novak plopped his feet on the desk and sipped coffee. Burnside and Ketchum began to rise. He waved them back into their chairs.
“Yes. It’s very sad. You’ll have a full report via regular channels,” said St. Clair.
“He was a very brave man.” There was a lengthy silence, so Novak continued, “Thank you for calling.”
“You’re welcome.” Novak hung up. Looking at the others he said. “Our security problem is moot. There is no problem.”
Burnside said, “Well, that’s something.”
“I’ll get this to Layton right away. Thanks. That’s a great job.”
Realizing they had been dismissed, Burnside and Ketchum walked out.
Novak tilted way back in his chair, his thoughts lingering on the dead lieutenant commander. The happenstance sinking of the U.S.S. Pence had, after all, turned out to be a stroke of luck. Ingram’s death helped to nullify the possibility that the ULTRA code system would be compromised. With a pang of guilt, he recalled the man and their ride together on the PB2Y. In reality, Ingram was a decent man, married, soon to be skipper of his own destroyer. Later, Novak had learned Ingram had been at Corregidor, escaping the night it fell to the Japanese. That was how he earned the Navy Cross. On the long flight to Hawaii, he’d seen Ingram take a furtive swig from a bottle of Paregoric: Tincture of Camphor Opium; good for upset stomach and diarrhea; a mixture he’d secretly resorted to in his submarining days, when things went bad. Novak knew that as scared as Ingram was about returning to action, he was one of the Navy’s finest. A man who would step up, no matter what was raging around him, or through his mind. Too bad. And now he was gone.
In a way, Lieutenant Commander Ingram was everything Novak wanted to be. Yet Ingram lay somewhere in the bottom of Iron Bottom Sound, trapped in the twisted hulk of the U.S.S. Pence. Novak had learned of the destroyer’s loss within thirty minutes of when it happened. But it had taken seven gut-wrenching days for St. Clair’s man to confirm Ingram was dead.
With a sigh, Novak picked up the phone. Time to call Layton who would, no doubt, pass it on to Nimitz. But no doubt, this would go all the way to the top.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
14 April, 1943
Headquarters, Commander In Chief, Pacific Fleet
Makalapa Crater, Pearl Harbor, Hawaii
It was eight a.m. when Commander Edwin T. Layton walked into the Admiral’s outer office, a worn manila folder under his arm. Over the doorway, a sign read:
&nb
sp; NATIONS, LIKE MEN, SHOULD GRASP TIME BY THE FORELOCK, INSTEAD OF THE FETLOCK.
The tall, thin, dark haired commander whipped off his hat and nodded to Lieutenant Arthur C. Lamar, the Admiral’s Flag Lieutenant.
“Zero Zero is in and will see you now,” said Lamar.
“Thanks.” Layton walked past Lamar’s desk into the office of Admiral Chester W. Nimitz, Commander in Chief, Pacific Fleet and Pacific Ocean Areas. The room was tastefully decorated with rattan furniture. Hawaiian flowered drapes framed a pair of windows which gave onto a spectacular view of Pearl Harbor. Nimitz glass-topped desk was cluttered with brass ashtrays cut from gun shell casings. Beneath the glass were stringent slogans and an autographed picture of Douglas MacArthur.
Nimitz smiled up at Layton and said in his Texas drawl, “Morning Ed.” As always, in these daily briefings, he bade him to sit in a chair to his left.
The Admiral looked fit, Layton noticed. He’d been up for his two mile hike at six this morning, had breakfast, then spent another half hour on the pistol range before stepping across a passageway to his office. Only Layton, and a handful of others knew that the pistol range was not there through whimsy. It had been prescribed by Captain Elphege Alfred M. Gendreau, Pacific Fleet Surgeon and Nimitz’ housemate. Nimitz’ hands had began to shake, but after just three weeks on the range, it had all but gone away.
The white-haired, tanned Admiral caught Layton staring at his left hand. “Anything new, this morning?”
Layton couldn’t help but note the irony: Both admirals had fingers missing from their left hands. The ring finger of Nimitz’ left hand was missing, lost in a 1916 accident, while demonstrating a new diesel engine prototype. His counterpart, Isoroku Yamamoto had lost the index and middle fingers of his left hand in battle. And that’s why Layton was here this morning: Yamamoto. He opened his manila folder and passed over the message Novak had given him just an hour ago. “Our old friend Yamamoto.”
A ship’s whistle blasted up from Pearl Harbor as Nimitz read. Layton glanced out the window, still repulsed by remnants of the Japanese sneak attack.
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 32