“Okay, thanks, Curley. Please report to Colonel Viccellio and---yes, what is it?”
A scarecrow thin Marine Major, named Victor L. Stafford had raised his hand. In a drawl that was almost impossible to understand, he said. “Beggin’ your pardon Admiral, but mah men and our Corsairs would love to have a crack at this Jap. You sure we can’t go?” Most in the hut knew Stafford had lost a younger brother at Pearl Harbor, trapped in the engine room of the U.S.S. Oklahoma when she capsized. For Stafford, shooting down Yamamoto was personal.
Mitscher said quietly, “Major Stafford, I would like to say yes, but isn’t it true a maintenance tech hacked off your drop-tank brackets and threw them away?”
“Well, yes, Sair. But all ah needs is a few days and we’ll be ready.”
“Sorry, Major. We don’t have a few days.”
“...Yas, Sair.”
“What that means is this is to be an Army Air Corps show. All the way. Their P-38s have better long-range capabilities, anyway. So I meant what I said. We’re all together in this. We must help the Army boys as much as possible.”
Another Major, this one from the Army Air Corps in the back of the room raised his hand. “Excuse me, Admiral, but the last time I checked on this Island, there were no long-range drop tanks to be found.”
Mitscher said, “That’s why I was late. Jumping around on the radio all morning. We just found a bunch of 310 gallon drop tanks in Port Moresby. The Ninetieth Bombardment Group has agreed to help out. They’re loading them in B-24s and they’re supposed to be here by late this afternoon.”
“Are you sure those gas-jockeys can find Guadalcanal?” someone catcalled.
Mitscher had been on Guadalcanal for two weeks. But it had taken him just two days to master the “death’s head” grimace prevalent there. He gave it now and held up crossed fingers. Silence descended suddenly.
“So the way we figure is that each plane will go out with one 165 gallon tank and one 310 gallon tank. That should do it for range.”
Using a white kerchief to mop sweat from his brow, a Navy captain asked, “Is this mission on for sure, Admiral?”
“We’re supposed to plan as if it were on. But yes, we are awaiting final approval.”
“By whom?” The captain, a non-aviator, folded his arms.
“It’ll be coming from pretty high up, I understand; maybe even Navy Secretary Frank Knox or the President himself.”
Someone gave a low whistle.
Mitscher responded with another death’s head grimace.
Silence.
“Okay. Now, are our P-38 boys here?”
A voice called from the back of the hut. “Here Admiral.” It was the Army Air Corps Major who had spoken earlier. The crowd parted, and two men walked forward: one, a solidly built Air Corps major, the other, a tall, lanky Army Air Corps captain. The major stepped up and saluted. “John Mitchell, Sir, 339th Fighter Squadron.” He nodded to the Captain beside him, “This is Tom Lanphier, one of my senior pilots.”
Mitscher shook their hands, “Okay. Has Intelligence given you the dope you need?”
“Enough to get started, Admiral, “ said Mitchell.
“I want you to plan your routes out of sight of land; low on the water to avoid Jap radar and coast spotters. That’s going to take some doing.”
“Can do, Admiral,” said Mitchell. “We’ll go all the way up there fifty feet off the deck.”
Mitscher took in the two men before him. He’d heard of the 339th and knew it was one of the best in the South Pacific. And these two had fine records. So did the rest of the squadron, for that matter. Mitscher had no complaints with these pilots. If anything, they were too serious. But then that’s what it took to stay alive these days. Even so, he wished he were going with them. He said, “Good. How many planes can you take?”
Mitchell and Lanphier exchanged glances and shrugged. Finally Mitchell said, “All eighteen, Sir. I figure four planes to take out the Betty. The rest to oppose the six-Jap CAP and any Zeros that may sortie from Kahili.”
“How many Zeros can we expect in Kahili?” asked Mitscher.
Field Harris flipped pages on a clipboard. “Seventy-five, Admiral.”
“Seventy-five Zeros. That’s a handful for just fourteen P-38s, Son,” said Mitscher.
The left corner of Mitchell’s mouth turned up slightly. “About the right odds for us, Admiral.”
There was a collective sigh in the hut and Mitscher’s death’s head grimace became a warm smile..
Harris asked, “What do you think about jumping him while he’s aboard the subchaser? Blast him with all eighteen planes?”
A fly landed on Lanphier’s ear. He swatted it away and said, “Sir, I wouldn’t know a sub-chaser from a toilet seat.”
“That’s right, Sir. He could jump overboard or any number of things, and you’d never really know if we got him,” said Mitchell.
“So you think we should get him in the air, Major?” asked Mitscher.
“Yes, Sir.” It’s our only chance,” said Mitchell.
A jeep pulled up outside, it’s tires crunching in the gravel. Wearing a garrison cap and side arm, a young, tow-headed ensign, shouldered his way through the crowd, leaving a wake of grumbling officers. The ensign walked right up to Mitscher, saluted and said, “Sorry about the intrusion, Admiral, but the ops officer said you would want to see this.”
Silence fell in the room, as Mitscher opened the envelop and read the message. The flimsy rattled in his hand as he said absently to Mitchell, “Where do you think we should hit him, Major?”
Mitchell walked up to a blackboard-mounted map. “Probably best catch him here, Admiral.” He pointed to Bougainville’s Southern tip. “Just west of Kahili when he’s setting up to land.” Then Mitchell turned to Lanphier. “What do you think, Tom? Can you lead the shooters?”
Lanphier nodded, “You bet. We’ll give it all we’ve got. Give us a little cover and watch us go.”
Mitscher looked up and said, “Okay. Kahili. We’ll go with that.” He turned to the two Air Corps aviators and held out his hand. “God speed. Let me know what we can do. Any questions?”
They shook hands with Lanphier asking, “Just one, Admiral.”
“Yes?”
With a sidelong glance at Mitchell, Lanphier looked at the message in Mitscher’s hand. “Is that what we think it is?”
“Good question, Captain.” Mitscher handed over the flimsy.
With Mitchell looking over his shoulder, Lanphier whistled as he read:
SQUADRON 339 P-38 MUST ALL COSTS REACH AND DESTROY. PRESIDENT ATTACHES EXTREME IMPORTANCE THIS OPERATION.
KNOX
Novak’s afternoon meeting with Howard O’Grady had gone well. O’Grady passed along high praise from Admiral Lockwood about the effectiveness of Novak’s predictions of Japanese Fleet movements. Emerging from SUBPAC headquarters, a smiling Novak was given a message from Bob St. Clair requesting that he stop by. So he drove his Jeep under a golden sun and pulled up next to the base brig’s front door. St. Clair, his head surrounded by a blue-grey cloud of cigarette smoke, met him in the lobby. Accustomed to Novak’s penchant for cleanliness, St. Clair automatically waved him through the security checkpoint and into the lavatory where Novak went through his ritual of washing incriminating scribblings off the palm of his hand
He emerged into the lobby where St, Clair pointed to the front door and said, “I could do with a little sunshine.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Novak, just as glad to confer outside, rather than in one of St. Clair’s dinghy holding rooms.
Once outdoors, St. Clair said, “I have word from Rivera.”
“I thought we were done with him.” Novak leaned against his jeep, his arms folded.
“Not exactly. It looks like Ingram is alive.”
“What?” Novak’s mouth dropped open. “But you said...”
“I know. Commodore Myszynski told us Ingram was dead. But it looks like the deceased Mr. Ingram had the temerit
y to continue writing letters to his wife after the Pence went down. So draw your own conclusions.”
“Myszynski lied?”
“We’re not sure, but that’s a possibility.” Taking a final puff, St. Clair field-stripped his cigarette and carefully pocketed the tiny wad of paper. “What do you want to do?”
It swept over Novak. ULTRA was again in jeopardy. The Yamamoto operation could be in jeopardy. But it was too late to warn Layton. Approvals had gone all the way up to FDR and out to Halsey and Mitscher. He turned to St. Clair, “The man’s a security risk. I want him...what do you say...?
“Neutralized?” asked St. Clair, lighting another cigarette.
Novak climbed into his Jeep and pondered for a moment. “Yes, Neutralized. But what does that mean?”
“We’ll take care of it.”
Kicking the Jeep’s starter, Novak ground the gears into reverse. He started to release the clutch, then had an afterthought, “Jesus! Don’t kill him.”
St. Clair blew a smoke ring, “Oh, we’ll be nice to him.”
It began misting as St. Clair ducked inside. He walked to his office., closed the door, drew the blinds and lit up a cigarette. Sitting back, he plopped his feet on the table and smoked in the dark, mulling options in his mind. On the one hand, Ingram could be all he was cracked up to be: Navy hero, Corregidor survivor, Spruance protégé, soon-to-be destroyer captain. That is if ships weren’t always being blown out from under him, he smirked.
The Chesterfield burned down to his fingers and he butt-lit another, not bothering to crush out the first.
On the other hand, Ingram could be a Section 8 case, a dumb blabbermouth or worse, a spy. Novak had told him about the insubordination charges on the mainland filed against Ingram. And then there was this lying business.
There was just too much at risk here. ULTRA could be compromised. And Novak was too much of a nice guy to do the right thing. This is war and somebody has to step in and take control, St. Clair decided. Dropping his feet to the floor, he grabbed a pad and scrawled out a message in neat block lettering.
NEUTRALIZE INGRAM
Rivera would know what that meant; they’d worked together long enough.
Outside, a drizzle grew to a downpour as he buzzed for the duty corporal. After the man left for the radioroom he reached for his Chesterfields.
Gone.
“Shit.” He wadded up the package and tossed it in the trashcan.
The cigarette machine was across the courtyard, he would have to run through all that damned rain. He didn’t want to do that and he wasn’t going to lower himself, bumming cigarettes from an enlisted man. St. Clair drummed his fingers, becoming desperate.
Of course! That Jap, Sugiyama. Upon Novak’s instructions, St. Clair had kept the little bastard in cigarettes by the carton. Time for a little peaceful exchange. St. Clair rose and headed for the second floor, humming the mournful strains of the Kimigayo.
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
16 April, 1943
PT -72
New Georgia Sound, (The Slot), Solomon Islands
The night was near pitch-black under a heavy overcast. But it was warm with the humidity so thick, Ingram wondered if they breathing or drowning. The waves were steep, slowing PT-72 to a laborious ten knots as she climbed a swell, pitched over the top, and slammed down into a trough. Shaking green water off her snout, she fought her way up the peak of another mountainous wave, where a twenty knot wind whipped water aft, drenching the men in her cockpit. On the left was a hatless Tubby White, wiping water off his face and spinning his helm to maintain a semblance of course. Ingram stood alongside while Tubby’s exec, Winston Fuller, a young chunky ensign, stood in the chartroom hatchway, calling radar ranges. Fuller, with thin sandy hair, was a Churchill look-alike; so much so that they called him Sir Winston or Winnie for short. With a deep baritone voice, Fuller oftentimes lived up to his nickname. Even now he rumbled, “Ten point two miles to Mondo Mondo, Tubby.”
Peering into the gloom, Tubby flipped his wheel, trying to guess the peak of the next swell. Finally, they crested and smashed their way down into another trough. When they hit bottom and flattened out, he asked, “How’s our SOA?”
Fuller looked into the chartroom, then poked his head out. “Not bad, we’re a little ahead of our track. Looks like fifty minutes to go.”
“Okay. Anything from Bollinger?”
“Not a peep.”
That wasn’t good news. And there had been worse news earlier. They had shoved off with PT-88 and PT-60, the latter two boats embarking a squad of Marines each, for a total of twenty-six men. To distribute the weight, the Marine’s inflatable assault boats and demolition gear was secured around the 40 millimeter canon on PT-72's after-deck. An hour out of Tulagi, PT 60 hit a half-submerged oil drum, leaving a four foot gash just above her water-line at the bow. Her only recourse was to leave it on the step in order to keep the gash out of the water and reverse course for Tulagi, the embarked Marines frantically bailing water. Later, PT 88, with her remaining thirteen Marines, developed trouble when the storm hit. First, her starboard engine conked; she pressed on for thirty more minutes, then the center engine died. So PT-88 was obliged to head for the small, advance PT base in the Russell Islands, which meant the raid on the Howell would have to be postponed. Tubby White had thought of turning around and accompanying PT-88, but Ingram argued against it; that Landa and the men of PT-92 needed to be picked up.
“Anymore from PT-60?” Asked Tubby White.
Fuller looked down and checked a clipboard. “Last I heard they were within sight of Tulagi, and the Jarheads were keeping even with the water.” The radio squealed and he ducked down the passageway. A minute later, he was up. “Just got a report from PT Base Command in the Russell Islands. PT-88 put in there and found parts to fix her engines almost immediately. Her Marines were disembarked but she’s on her way up here to support us.”
“How far behind?”
“Only about a half hour. She’s running at full speed over smooth water in the lee of New Georgia. Said she’d check in by TBS when she got within range.”
“That’s something, anyway.” Tubby turned to Ingram, “I guess we keep going.”
“Those guys have been rotting up there for eight days.”
“Okay.” Tubby turned and called toward the hatch, “Winnie, get down there and listen up for Tommy.” Tommy Madison was PT-88's skipper. “And keep trying to raise Bollinger.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” said Fuller, scrambling back into his chartroom.
Cascades of seventy degree water flew back from the bow and drenched them. Tubby wiped off his face. “I’ve had time to think this over.”
“Think what over?”
“I’ve always felt bad about the way I left the Howell,” said Tubby. “You’re an okay guy, and so is Jerry Landa. I acted like, well, you know, a sap.”
“Tubby. This isn’t the time---“
“---Sir. Please let me finish.” After a moment he said, “This war is a bunch of shit. Losing buddies is a bunch of shit. Fighting Japs is a bunch of shit.” He shook his head and pursed his lips. “You know? Maybe I’m gonna eat it some day, and I don’t want to go out with hard feelings.”
“There’s no hard feelings.”
Tubby worked his boat up a wave where she crashed over the peak, then nearly slid sideways into a broach. “Whoa, Trigger, whoa!” Tubby yelled, spinning his wheel. Finally PT-72 slithered into the trough and began her inexorable climb to the top of the next wave. When the boat settled down, Tubby asked, “You sure?”
“Yes. No hard feelings.”
“How ‘bout the caper with the marbles?”
Ingram gave a short laugh. “Hah! Jerry blew his stack. Really pissed. You should have seen him. He didn’t get a wink of sleep that night.”
“See what I mean?”
“Forget it. It was a great stunt. He knows he was had. Down deep, he likes that kind of stuff.”
“Really?”
�
�You’re not going to eat it, Tubby.”
A minute passed, then Tubby said, “How ‘bout the last guy who stood here?”
That brought Ingram up short. He had forgotten about Tubby’s predecessor. Until a few minutes ago, all he thought about were his own shaky nerves. Tubby was talking about something that happened when PT-72 was trying to rescue them off the Howell. Tubby was exec that night, but became captain very quickly when Tommy Kellogg took a bullet through his head. They promoted Tubby to skipper right away, and during the ensuing weeks, he acquired a reputation for ruthlessness and cunning. Completely changed, Tubby’s boyish grin and college pranks were gone. Now, Tubby was all business: serious, methodical, calculating, deadly at his controls.
But Tubby needed an answer, before the specter of Tommy Kellogg ate at him like a pig’s carcass dipped in hydrochloric acid.
Ingram closed his eyes. Think of something, Captain.
Finally, it came to him. “There’s no today or yesterday, Tubby.”
“What?”
“It means the toughest thing for you to do is to forget what happened in the past. There’s nothing you can do to bring back Tommy Kellogg, Luther Dutton, Leo Seltzer or---“
“---Seltzer bought it?” Tubby’s mouth was aghast.
“Leo is gone.” Ingram told him about the Pence’s sinking then continued, “...Leo or anybody else for that matter. You have to put your mind in neutral. Think of nothing before or after. Think just of today or yesterday. And forget about home.”
Tubby nodded slowly and rubbed his chin.
“You have a girlfriend?”
“Yes.”
“You close to her?”
“Well, we’re getting kind of serious.”
“What’s her name?”
“Janet.”
“Well, it’s time to forget Janet. Just put her out of your mind. Don’t think of her. That way, you wont be so on edge out here.”
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 35