“What brings you here?” Ingram sensed Tubby wasn’t happy.
“Just saw Commodore Myszynski. In fact, he’s looking for you.” His eyebrows went up.
“I know.”
“Talk about marbles in the overhead; things have come full circle.” He told Ingram about Landa and PT 94 being trapped on Kotukuriana Island.
Quickly, Ingram drew in a breath. “What? Jerry?” He stepped close. “What happened?”
“Yeah. Oscar Bollinger, Commander Landa, and PT 94’s crew were gone. Disappeared. We had no idea what happened. Air search and rescue didn’t turn up a thing, except a bunch of pissed off Japs aboard the Howell. Then they picked up some week radio signals yesterday over at CACTUS which we picked up later at the PT base. It sounds like Jerry Landa, Oscar Bollinger and the rest of PT 94's crew are stranded somewhere south of Mondo Mondo. So guess what? They’ve selected yours truly to go up and find him. Plus we have another job.”
“What?”
“Blow up the Howell. Halsey ordered it. Doesn’t want the proximity fuse to fall in the Jap’s hands. That’s why it has to be a demo party, rather than airplanes. We have to wire the magazines and make sure everything blows up.”
“Don’t forget we set charges in the forward magazine.”
“Yeah, but we figure the Japs have disarmed all that.”
“Speaking about the Japs, what are you going to do about them?”
“They’re sending two other PT-boats loaded with Marines to clean them out while we pick up Oscar.”
“Did you step forward and volunteer?”
“Somebody goosed me at officer’s call.” White waved a folder. “Well, I better get down there. Collect some jarheads and join with the other skippers. See you later.” White saluted and walked off.
No wonder Tubby looked on edge. Ingram called after him, “Good luck.”
White turned and waved, then disappeared around the midships passageway.
Ingram knocked on Myszynski’s door.
“Come!”
Ingram walked in. “Commodore, I’m sorry. I---“
There was a plate of eggs on Myszynski’s desk. He waved a fork at Ingram and said, “Where’d you go?”
“Walked around the main deck, Sir. Ran into Tubby White. In fact he told me about---“
“---sit. Your breakfast is getting cold. And fresh eggs, too. Just in from the States. Dig in while they last.” He waved his fork at a plate covered with a silver cloche and a steaming mug of coffee nearby.
“Thank you, Sir.”
They ate in silence. Finally Myszynski sat back and lit a cigar. “You okay now?”
“Never better. Just needed a breath of fresh air,” Ingram lied. Waving a hand at the door he said, “I just ran into Tubby White. He told me about Jerry Landa.”
“It’s good news. I thought we’d lost him.” Myszynski blew smoke.
“I sure hope it works.”
“It’s a dicey operation. We’re not quite sure what the Japs have going up there.” Myszynski asked, “You want another ship, I suppose.”
‘I suppose?’ “You bet.”
“You must be losing count of the ships that have been blown out from under you.”
Ingram sighed. Penguin, Howell, Pence. “I’m ready, Commodore.”
“Why do I have the feeling I’m not convinced?” said Myszynski.
“Damnit! I really want this.”
“I think you do want it but I think another part of you says ‘no.’“
“Commodore, I--”
“Here’s the deal, Todd. I want you to stand down for a while. Just to get you off the edge, so to speak. Plus, I don’t have another ship for you at this time.”
Ingram opened his mouth to speak but then thought better of it.
“So where do we send you? Back to the States? Under normal circumstances, yes.”
Ingram raised his eyebrows.
“But I have a problem here.”
“Sir?”
“It’s the reason you’re up here, instead of the wardroom...”
“Yes, Sir?”
“What do you know about a guy named Augustine Rivera?”
“Who?”
“Lieutenant Augustine Rivera, United States Navy Reserve. Sometimes he’s Major Augustine Rivera, U.S. Marine Corps Reserve.”
“I haven’t heard of him.”
Myszynski pushed back in his chair and knocked ashes off his cigar. Plopping his feet on the desk, he said, “He’s sort of a bounty hunter who tracks down flamboyant AWOL cases.”
“Okay.”
“He has a set of TAD orders for you to accompany him to Pearl.”
Ingram jumped up. “What?”
“I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting this guy, yet. He was waiting for me when we moored last night and did I get an earful. This morning he was down in the wardroom, eating chow, waiting for you. That’s why we’re dining up here.”
“What the hell for?”
“Keep your shirt on.” Myszynski pointed at the chair.
Ingram sat. “Why would someone want to,” he paused, “‘accompany’ me to Pearl. And how could orders like that originate in the first place?”
“I don’t know. Have you had any serious run-ins of any kind lately?”
Ingram racked his brain. “Can’t think of anything. Did he indicate what sort of TAD I’m supposed to do?”
“No. Just Pearl Harbor. Think, Todd,” Myszynski urged, “There has to be something that brings this guy out from under his rock.”
“I can’t. What the hell would an AWOL specialist want with me?”
“I don’t know. I hear this guy is really good. He could find Judge Crater if they paid him enough. Come on, Todd, think. Anything. San Pedro? The Hitchcock? Maybe you misplaced a registered pub off the Howell? You know. Some guys get chickenshit about that kind of thing.”
“...no.”
“Corregidor maybe. All that gold?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Nasipit?
“Uh, uh.”
“Jap torpedoes?”
Ingram shook his head.
“Damn. Hawaii?”
“No. IBwait.”
Myszynski took out another cigar and lit it.
“It’s not much.”
“Try me.”
Ingram told Myszynski about the trip from Long Beach to Hawaii aboard the PB2Y amphibian, the air-pocket, and Novak, the FRUPAC commander being knocked unconscious.
“Yeah?”
“Well, I sort of told a fib.”
“What sort of fib?”
“The stuff in the guy’s briefcase spilled on the desk. I picked up a bunch of papers, much of it message flimsies for him while he was still woozy. I figured I was doing him a favor. But, yes. Some of the stuff was classified TOP SECRET. And there was a few marked TOP SECRET ULTRA. It was---“
Myszynski slammed down a fist. “Jesus, Todd! You’re not supposed to know that ULTRA even exists.” He sat back for a moment and finally said, “go on.”
“Novak came to. After a while, he asked if I saw any of the stuff that went into his briefcase.”
“And?”
“And I said, ‘no.’ I lied, saying the lights were off when I re-packed his briefcase. But the lights were really on. The reason I fibbed is that I just didn’t want to go through a security ringer in Pearl, be delayed, even have my orders changed.” He added, “Nor get my ship.”
“So this Rivera could be working for someone from FRUPAC, maybe even your Commander Novak, who is worried about what you may or may not know.”
“That’s all I can think of.”
“Did you actually read the messages?”
“Well...I.”
“Todd! Damnit!”
“Okay. Yes, Sir. Just two. There were so damned many. Big print, too. I couldn’t help it. One was about---“
“---Don’t.” Myszynski held up a hand.
Ingram stood and jammed his fists on the top of Myszynski’s de
sk. “All right, Rocko, I looked at the traffic. I couldn’t help it. The messages meant nothing to me, I can guarantee you that.”
“Take a seat, Todd.”
Ingram sat.
Myszynski leaned forward. “I’ve never liked what I heard about this goon Rivera. Every time he delivers someone, they always seem to have a broken arm or something.”
“Jeez.”
“Guess what I told him last night?”
Ingram shook his head.
“I said that you were missing in action aboard the Pence and are presumed lost.”
“You...” Ingram felt cold.
“Officially, you’re dead.”
“Don’t tell my wife. I’ve been writing her.”
“This guy is good. Maybe check with someone off the Pence. Or maybe around here. He knows the ropes. He’ll probably check with your wife at which point the cat will be out of the bag and some dark brown smelly stuff will collapse directly onto the fan. So, all we’re doing is buying time. I don’t know what his plans are. He may stick around here. He may go back to Pearl. Somehow, you have to disappear until I get rid of Rivera; maybe talk to some boys at FRUPAC. Find out what the hell’s going on. But unless you say differently, I don’t think you ought to stay out here until this thing sorts itself out.
“Doing what?”“
Myszynski leaned forward. “Jerry Landa is in trouble.”
“Go with Tubby?”
“I think you’d be a great help.”
“Tubby and a bunch of crazy Marines?”
“Well, there’s three PT Boats and that’s going to take some coordination. Or, I can send you on your way to the States where Rivera can catch up to you and break your arms.”
Ingram’s mouth turned dry. Suddenly, he thought about his bottle of paregoric. But that was at the bottom of Iron Bottom Sound. “Do I have a choice?”
“I knew you’d be pleased.”
CHAPTER FORTY
16 April, 1943
Fighter Strip Number Two
Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands
In 1936, the Army Air Corps issued stringent specifications for a new long-range interceptor. The aircraft was to have two engines and a minimum speed of 360 mph at 20,000 feet. Lockheed Aircraft Corporation of Burbank, California, submitted its first military design with their newly appointed Chief Research Engineer, Clarence L. “Kelly” Johnson as one of the contributors. The revolutionary twin-boom, twin-tail design was accepted on June 23, 1937 and designated XP-38 by the Army Air Corps. The XP-38 prototype was delivered in January 1939 and made its first flight on January 27th of that month. Tragically, the XP-38 crashed on February 11, 1939 at the end of a record-breaking cross-country flight from Burbank to New York. But the crash was logged to pilot error; the program pushed on.
Kelly Johnson could have perhaps described his new fighter plane to the War Department officials in the following terms:
The P-38 is a mid-wing cantilever monoplane powered by two 1,520 h.p. Allison 1710 twelve-cylinder vee liquid-cooled engines, driving counter-rotating Curtis Electric constant-speed full-feathering airscrews, each 11 feet, 6 inches in diameter. With a wing-span of fifty-two feet, the aircraft weighs 15,500 pounds fully loaded and has a service ceiling of over 35,000 feet with a maximum speed of 414 miles per hour. A gondola is located between the engines, which provides a spacious cockpit housing a pilot. Featured also are a tricycle landing gear and fowler flaps. Armament consists of a twenty millimeter cannon surrounded by four fifty caliber machine guns, all straight-ahead [non-converging] firing from a compartment located in front of the pilot. Later models can be modified to carry rockets, bombs, and photographic reconnaissance equipment.
The late morning on Guadalcanal’s Fighter Two airstrip was brilliant. Two miles west of Henderson Field, the air had been washed clean by an early morning thunderstorm. The man paused in the shade of a coconut palm to watch a pair of P-38 Lightnings, wearing their olive drab paint schemes, lunge into their take-off runs. Behind the P-38s waited four Bell P-39 Aircobras, three Marine F4F Wildcats, and then five more P-38s. Marc Mitscher whipped off his long-billed ball cap and wiped sweat off his face watching the P-38s roar down the runway. Trailing great clouds of dust, they lifted off and headed west, not bothering to form up; a sure sign something was brewing up The Slot.
The palm’s shade didn’t help offset Guadalcanal’s dank, oppressive humidity; nor was there any relief from the ever present, malaria-carrying mosquitoes. That’s why Mitscher wore cumbersome long-sleeve khaki shirts and trousers. It was for protection. He didn’t want to take any more chances than he had to with mosquito bites. Admiral Nimitz, after a visit to Guadalcanal six months ago, had contracted malaria and was in the hospital for a month. The hell with that.
Known for a crisp temper, hard work, and a lean staff, Mitscher preferred to walk by himself or drive his own jeep. He hated committees and indecisiveness. His sweat-soaked shirt and cap were devoid of campaign ribbons, trappings of office, or other paraphernalia, save two: his collar-mounted rear admiral’s twin stars and gold aviator wings proudly pinned over his left-breast pocket. A passerby might have mistaken the fifty-six year old Mitscher as a retread chief warrant officer, having just been called away from his civilian job as a night manager at a bowling alley. Instead, Mitscher had been appointed as Air Commander, Solomons, just two weeks ago by Admiral Halsey. A thirty-seven year Navy veteran, Mitscher had spent half the time at sea. A flier since before America’s involvement in the great war, he set up the first aircraft catapult aboard the cruiser Huntington. Later, he flew one of the Navy’s four NC-1s in a pioneering transatlantic flight, making it to the Azores before his plane sunk. He’d been the first air officer aboard the Navy’s first true carrier, the U.S.S. Saratoga, landing the first plane on her deck. Mitscher breathed, ate, and slept aviation; and his deeply tanned, wrinkled face, dominated by piercing blue eyes, stood in evidence. About a year ago, he’d been the skipper of the U.S.S. Hornet, which delivered Jimmy Doolittle and his sixteen B-25s to raid Japan almost one year ago.
Two P-39s bounced and jiggled onto the pierced steel-planked airstrip, revved up their engines, and jumped into their take-off runs. Mitscher watched them rise, his mind going over the latter part of the message Halsey had forwarded from Nimitz last night:
...IF FORCES YOUR COMMAND HAVE CAPABILITY SHOOT DOWN YAMAMOTO AND STAFF, YOU ARE HEREBY AUTHORIZED INITIATE PRELIMINARY PLANNING.
NIMITZ
Halsey had added parenthetically, that he would remain in Noumea until tomorrow, Friday. Then he was committed to fly to Brisbane, Australia for his first face-to-face meeting with that “...self-advertising son-of-a-bitch,” as he referred to General Douglas MacArthur. Thus Halsey wished his fellow aviator and friend, “Pete” Mitscher all the fun in shooting down Yamamoto.
Time to get to it. They’re waiting. In the morning’s full heat, Mitscher turned to complete the trip from his command headquarters to the “Opium Den,” as the fighter operations hut was called. As he walked, he looked over to the P-38 Lightnings, quietly waiting, their engines ticking over, dark, menacing. It was hard to believe that twenty to twenty-five year old kids, sat in those cockpits, chomping gum and looking into the sky, oblivious to what would happen tomorrow. Only today counted...
...the P-38s normal range of 460 miles wasn’t enough, he knew. But with drop tanks, the range increased to over 800 miles, enough to do the job, thought Mitscher as he reviewed Nimitz’ message for the third time. The big question was, would the drop tanks arrive on time?
As much as he wanted to watch the other P-38s take off, he reluctantly quick-paced to the Ops hut, gratified it was surrounded by a large number of jeeps and trucks.
The first P-38 roared over his head as he gained the sparse shade of the control tower. By the time he walked into the Ops hut, numbers two and three had gone.
“Ten-hut!” called Marine Brigadier Field Harris, his chief of staff.
Mitscher was amazed. There were forty, maybe
fifty officers from all the armed services in the impossibly hot room. Army, Navy, Marines, even a couple of Coastguardsmen. But his quick eyes caught the one unifying element; most wore aviator’s wings.
Harris kept talking as Mitscher walked up to the front, “...that’s about all. He’ll arrive off Bougainville at eight in the morning. That’s what we’re counting on. That this Nip is as punctual as he’s supposed to be. If he is, we’ll be there to jump him. But don’t forget, that’ll be our ten o’clock, since the Japs keep their own time two hours ahead of us. Anyway, we figure that’s the best place to jump him. Surprise is of the essence for this to work right. Also, secrecy is of the utmost importance. Nobody is supposed to know we have this dope. So keep your mouths shut, before and after. Now, any questions?”
No hands went in the air. All eyes flicked to Mitscher.
“Maybe security can suffer just a bit.” The Admiral made a signal. Instantly the sides of the tent were rolled up, providing natural circulation and a bit of relief from the sweltering atmosphere.
He turned and faced them just as Lightings number four and five blasted overhead. After a long look, Mitscher nodded approvingly, “So many of you. Word gets out fast when there’s a Jap on the block.”
They chuckled and Mitscher began. “Thank you for coming on such short notice, gentlemen. I wish we had deep theater seats for you all but, hell, this is Cactus base, and what I have to add wont take long.
“First of all, I want to thank you for your interest. It’s going to take all our help to get this bastard. And from that aspect its all of our show; not Army or Navy or Marine, but all of us. Is that clear?”
The men, ranging in rank from second lieutenant to brigadier general, nodded as one.
“Okay. For example, we’re going to need some welding specialists to modify the P-38's wing tank brackets. Who can help us with that?”
A bald bare-chested man with a bright-red full beard wearing mud-caked trousers and boots raised his hand.
“Yes, Curley?”
A set of dog-tags dangled around his neck, and the man’s deep voice resonated with, “Admiral. I’ve got two master welders and the equipment to go with them.” A full commander, John W. “Curley” Summers had a masters in civil engineering from the University of California and ran the U.S. Navy’s Construction Battalion unit on Guadalcanal.
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 34