Fuller scrambled topside, strapped on his helmet, and stood by the searchlight.
The light winked again, closer, its beam glittering across the water. “Getting close,” said Tubby.
They were near shore and Tubby reversed engines, bringing the PT to a stop. A match flared, and a cigarette glowed close off their port bow. Tubby pointed, “Over there, Winnie.”
Fuller flipped on his searchlight, illuminating a group of perhaps ten men, sloshing under the mangroves. Beside them, lay the burnt-out carcass of PT-94, her blackened ribs sticking in the air like the skeleton of a beached whale. A man yelled in a horse voice, “Turn that thing off you dumb bastards. Trying to get us all killed?
“It’s Bollinger, all right,” Tubby chuckled. “Secure the light, Winnie.” Then he put the center engine in gear and eased the Little Lulu toward the beach. The bottom was sandy mud, and with a boatswain on the foredeck swinging a leadline to call depths, Tubby nudged PT-72's nose right into the shore.
Tubby stepped up to the foredeck. “Quick, get them aboard.”
Little Lulu had a good eight feet of freeboard off the beach and they had trouble reaching down to haul the men up.
“Blake, Roberts, Templeton, get down there,” barked Tubby. The three jumped down and finally, debilitated PT 94 survivors were passed up to flop onto the foredeck like dead fish. A voice called from below. “These guys didn’t make it.” With grunts and soft curses, two inert forms were hauled up and quickly covered with tarps. Then the rest of the shipwrecked sailors were manhandled aboard where they lay sprawled on the foredeck panting, staring up into the night.
Tubby stepped among the forms finding a heavily bearded supine figure propped up against the charthouse. “Commander Landa? Is that you? Welcome aboard.”
“Ah, it’s Tubby White,” Landa said in a raspy voice. “The ball-bearing king of the South Pacific. Pulled any more stunts lately? Did they have to order you out of the Purvis Bay Officer’s Club just to come up here and torment me?”
“Where are you hit, Commander?” White propped a life jacket behind Landa.
“Foot’s broken. All swollen up.”
“We’ll get you fixed up soon.”
“What took so long?”
“Jap air raids.” White explained about the Yamamoto raids and Ingram losing his ship.
“Rotten deal for Todd.”
“Yeah, rotten deal for a lot of guys. Leo Seltzer didn’t make it.”
“No!”
“We’ll take good car of you, Commander.” Tubby pat Landa on the shoulder and started to rise.
“Got any morphine?”
“Not much. And it looks like a couple of your guys are hurt worse than you.”
“Listen. My damned leg’s on fire,” Landa hissed. For days and days and days, it’s been on fire. They’ll probably have to hack it off when I get back. The least you can do is to---“
“---As soon as I can, Commander.” Tubby checked his watch. “Right now, I’ve got Todd Ingram to worry about.”
“Ingram? What the hell does he have to do with this?”
“No time, Sir.”
“Shit! Why are you and I always arguing?”
“I seriously don’t know.” White moved back toward his cockpit.
Intent on cursing at White, Landa sat up to call after him. But bolts of lighting-swift pain ran up his leg and he flopped back against the charthouse, exhausted.
Oscar Bollinger kneeled beside him. “Easy, Jerry.” Maneuvering a mug into Landa’s hand, he held out a thermos and poured.
Landa sipped piping hot liquid, its warmth coursing through his system. “Wow. Who would have ever thought rotgut Navy coffee could ever taste so good.” Taking another sip, he grabbed Bollinger’s sleeve. “Say, what does Tubby mean about Ingram? Is Todd aboard?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then where the hell is he?”
Ingram checked his watch: Just thirty-five minutes had passed since he’d jumped off Little Lulu’s transom. Without incident, he’d swum ashore and made the Howell’s starboard side. Then he primed the five TNT blocks with det cord, blasting cap and fifty feet of time fuse. Holding his breath, he dove and managed to dig beneath the Howell’s keel where he wedged the TNT bundle in the sand. Directly above was the 40 millimeter magazine; four feet above that, the magazine containing over three hundred five-inch projectiles for Mount 51.
Carefully, he raised the time fuse from the water, blew off the end to make sure it was dry. Then he slowly twisted on an M-60 fuse lighter until it seated. Satisfied, he looked up to the ship looming over him. Nobody peered down, taking aim at him. Which made sense. All the activity was on the ship’s opposite side, the port side where the ammo barge was moored. There hadn’t been any sentries and the ammunition off-loading party had resumed work shortly after Tubby White’s diversionary raid.
Piece of cake; it’s gone as planned. All that remains is to dash cross the island, jump in the raft and paddle like hell for PT-72. Time to yank the safety pin, then pull the ring on the fuse lighter and run.
No.
The ship was ruggedly built by San Francisco’s Bethlehem Steel Company from her solid keel to her longitudinal framing system. There was just no guarantee that the dynamite was going to penetrate enough to touch-off the projectiles in the magazine.
It’ll work; it has to. Ingram fished for the fuse lighter under the rock. He found it and groped for the safety pin and---
--- No. Damnit. He let the fuse drop. In resignation, shook his head. I must do this.
Helen, I love you.
With a glance up to the main deck, he half-dog paddled, half-walked forward to where the anchor’s flukes stuck out of the water. The starboard anchor chain was still taut so he knew it wouldn’t rattle. He listened, hearing only an occasional guttural shout or thump of equipment.
Oh, God be with me.
Looping his pouch strap over his shoulder, he heaved himself up the chain, hand-over-handing until he reached the hawse pipe, just below the main deck. With a foot, he braced himself on the chain, reached up to the main deck and grabbed the base of a stanchion. He lifted himself up and peeked over, fully expecting a rifle barrel to be jabbed between his eyes, the muzzle flash the last thing he’d ever see. I hope it’s painless.
Clear. There were no sentries. And from the muffled noises, he could tell the Japanese hadn’t figured out how to manually cycle the ship’s ammo hoist, which would have allowed them to raise the fifty-four pound projectiles directly up from the magazines to Mount 51. Instead, they had to hand- pass the cumbersome rounds up several decks, a slow and laborious process.
Carefully, he crawled up to the main deck, eased over the lifeline and dashed for the fo’c’sle hatch. Clawing at it, he found it undogged, quickly raised it, and stepped down the ladder where he softly lowered the hatch over his head. Inside, he felt as if he were crawling inside a gigantic carcass. Without blowers and exhaust fans, the Howell couldn’t breathe. She was a dead ship, and her atmosphere reeked of corruption, and fuel oil, hydraulic fluid, stopped-up drains, spoiled food and body odor. Worse was the scent of raw feces, the enemy no doubt issuing their contempt in the un-serviceable washrooms. He stepped down a ladder into the Howell’s moribund bowels and found the first deck. Aft, the hatch to the chief’s mess deck was closed, nevertheless a pungent odor of teriyaki odor swept over him. Damn, they’ve been cooking up here.
He opened the door slowly. Except for thumping aft and an occasional rasping command, it was quiet. Pale light bled from somewhere in officer’s country. Someone could be ransacking back there; who knows?
He quickly dashed through the chief’s messdecks and into mount 51's ammunition handling room. Now, for the Hope Diamond. Ingram stooped over the projectile hoist and eased the cover open. There! Right before him was a five-inch/38 anti-aircraft projectile. This one, he knew, was capped with a mechanical time fuse which explained why the Japanese hadn’t taken it. They were, no doubt, hunting for th
e revolutionary variable time-fused projectiles, the ones Landa had ordered buried at the bottom of the magazine. It could take them a while, he realized.
He put his foot on the pedal and, looking both ways, eased the round out of the projectile hoist.
Footsteps.
From back aft, someone walked up the passageway through officer’s country. Quickly, Ingram looped the pouch over his shoulder, grabbed the projectile in both hands and ducked through a darkened hatchway into the chief’s portside bunkroom.
Feet thumped in the handling room and someone called, “Kashima?” Kashima!”
Ingram backed against a bunk.
“Kashima!” The man’s voice echoed.
The shell grew heavy in his hands, so he turned and laid it in a berth.
“Huh?” A figure stirred beneath him.
Ingram froze. A man was laying here. Most likely Kashima, taking a few unauthorized winks.
Kashima jerked upright just as Ingram hit him in the nose as hard as he could. Cartilage crunched and, with a low groan, Kashima slumped back into the berth, a glistening wetness gathering around his mouth and jaw.
“Kashima,” the man said. Footsteps again. A flashlight clicked with Ingram hurriedly ducking behind a locker. A blazing beam of light swept over the compartment, miraculously missing Kashima’s unconscious figure. He was deeply sunk in a mattress once occupied by a much heavier man. The light flicked away and with a grunt, the man walked across the handling room and searched the starboard berthing compartment, calling out and swinging his light back and forth. Cursing and stomping his feet, he finally disappeared aft.
Ingram didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath. And his heart was thumping so loud, he was surprised the man hadn’t heard him. Breathe you stupid bastard, breathe, Ingram challenged himself. Three times he willed his lungs to move and he blinked his eyes just to make sure he was alive.
Do it! Quick!
Ingram was about to walk when--
“Uhhhh...”
Kashima!
Quickly, Ingram drew a length of line and tied the sailor to the bunk. Kashima groaned again and Ingram slapped tape over his mouth.
Hurry, damnit. Tubby can’t wait forever.
He stepped out to the five-inch ammunition handling room, making sure it was clear. Then he ducked back into the bunkroom and retrieved the five-inch projectile. Working carefully with a wrench, he unscrewed the nose-fuse, then sat the projectile on its base. Taking the one and a quarter pound block of C-4 from the pouch, he tore off the cellophane wrapper and began molding the C-4. Strange, this stuff, he thought, as he rolled it back and forth. For such a small, pliant mass, its destructive power was unimaginable. Yet here it was in his hands, as elastic as child’s putty. Soon, he’d rolled it into a long, cigar shape. Inserting it into the projectile, he mashed the C-4 into the cavity where the mechanical time fuse had been. Next, he stuck in a blasting cap, then connected that to one end of the remaining fifty foot section of time-fuse.
Noise topside. He looked up. Feet thumped on the foredeck above him. Someone was climbing into the five-inch gunmount. Get going!
Ingram ran numbers through his mind. The fifty feet of time fuse burned at forty seconds per foot: That gave him a little over a half hour.
Enough.
With the pouch strap looped over his shoulder, he carried the five-inch round back into the handling room. Flipping open the hoist door, he eased the projectile in the hoist, then coiled the time-fuse on top. Patting his pockets, he found an M-60 fuse lighter and twisted it on the time-fuse cord until it seated. There! He pulled the safety pin. Now, damnit! With a quick jerk, he tugged the pull-ring and dropped it into the projectile hoist. And almost immediately, he was rewarded with a scent of smoking cordite. It’s cooking. At about one a.m., this place goes sky-high. He dropped the projectile hoist lid and turned to run. Okay. His watch read 1226 am.
Wait. There is something else. What if someone finds this thing before it goes off? Ingram rubbed his chin. Soon the answered came to him. The projectile hoists were padlocked when the ship wasn’t at general quarters. Where the hell is the damned lock? In the gloom, Ingram fumbled around the shelves and structural ribs. Damnit! Frantically he reached. Then, he saw the padlock dangling off the side of the projectile hoist cover. Snap! Done.
He turned to run forward and--
“Hai?”Ba stout figure, almost a head shorter, blocked his way. He’d come through the chief’s messdeck, the same way as Ingram. The man ran off a string of Japanese, not realizing Ingram’s identity in the shadows.
Ingram faced him and bowed slowly, his heart racing.
The figure jammed his hands on his hips as Ingram turned and walked aft.
“Tomare!” The man yelled.
Ingram broke into a run and, “---oof!”
Bplowed into a surprised Japanese sailor who had just stepped from a stateroom. Somehow, Ingram kept his balance as the sailor careened to the deck, causing the other man to trip and fall. As Ingram dashed on, the other man quickly regained his feet and, fully enraged, charged after Ingram, yelling and cursing. Swiftly, Ingram dashed up the companionway to the main deck finding--
--Three open-mouthed officers blocking his exit to the weatherdecks.
Up! Ingram grabbed the companionway rail and raced up to the 01 deck, charging past two incredulous sailors. One made a half-hearted grab at his shirt, but Ingram batted his hand away, swung on the next companionway rail and rocketed up to the bridge deck.
Japanese stood before him. An officer. And this one was ready, crouched. Ingram lowered his head and crashed into the man’s chest. But the Japanese was solid and didn’t fall over like the man below. Nevertheless the man staggered aside but held his ground, blocking Ingram’s exit to the safety of the open bridge.
Nowhere to go.
Strident curses roiled from below as men charged up the ladder. The Japanese officer was poised to jump. Ingram spun on his foot, ran into the captain’s sea cabin and slammed and bolted the door before the officer could react.
Outside, the officer bellowed and kicked at the door, then it thumped as the man put a shoulder to it. Someone new shouted outside and a bolt clacked home. Ingram jumped to the side as an automatic weapon thundered. Bullets ricocheted and zinged about, one shattering the porcelain toilet at Ingram’s feet. But he wasn’t hurt and miraculously, the door held; leaving a fist-sized hole.
A wheezing, sobbing Ingram looked wildly around the compartment. There was no exit. Only a porthole which he slammed and dogged shut. From desperation, he pulled his .45, chambered a round and pumped four rounds through the door. He wasn’t rewarded with screams of pain but he heard men scramble for cover. He’d bought a minute or two of time.
After a minute, someone called. “Hey, Joe. You here for cigarettes? Food? Maybe things aren’t so hot over on New Georgia. You a fly-fly boy, Joe? Shot down? Or maybe you one of those PT Boat guys?”
Ingram leaned against the bunk, Landa’s bunk, desperately trying to think.
“You understand me, Joe? Hey! I went to the University of Washington, Go Wolves, huh?”
Ingram’s eyes dashed to the vent piping in the overhead, making him think of Tubby’s marbles. Tubby! He checked his watch. 12:32. Less than a half hour.
“By the way, Joe. We found your little present down in the projectile hoist. A sledge hammer took care of the lock. Too bad. C-4. Good stuff, huh? Come to think of it, where the hell did you get that?”
Ingram felt as if a cold, Atlantic wave had picked him off a jetty and swept him out to sea. They’ve found the C-4 packed shell. Everything a waste. All that time, Oh, God.
He looked at the pistol. Four rounds left. Three for them; the last for me. He stood. Helen, goodbye my love, my darling. I’ll always love you. Always.
He raised the .45 at the door.
“---So how you doing Joe? You want to come out? We take good care of you.”
His finger curled around the trigger and reached for the
door lock.
“Or we can toss a grenade in or toast you with a flame-thrower. What’s it going to be, Joe? We’re running out of time.”
Ingram realized the pouch was still over his shoulder. He lowered his pistol and said, “University of Washington Wolves, huh.”
“You bet.”
“Okay, Washington, I’m coming out.”
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
17 April, 1943
PT-72
Marovo Lagoon, Kotukuriana Island
New Georgia Sound, Solomon Islands
Little Lulu’s engines idled at a low rumble as they drifted in Marovo Lagoon. To the west, a pale, quarter moon settled over one of New Georgia Island’s sharp, volcanic peaks. Tubby White checked his watch for the fifth time in the last two minutes:1238. Oscar Bollinger stayed on deck but the rest of PT 94's sailors, two of them in serious condition, were arranged comfortably below. Jerry Landa had refused to be taken down, so they propped him against the deck house on the port side near the forward torpedo mount, his leg splayed before him.
Tubby checked his watch again: 1239. Damn.
“You said 0100?” muttered Bollinger.
“Yes. We agreed: no later than 0100.”
“And then?”
“We didn’t discuss that,” Tubby lied.
“Well, we still have twenty minutes.”
“Yep.”
“Mr. White?” It was Landa.
“Sir?”
“Perhaps if you killed your engines, you might hear something; paddling, a voice, maybe.”
Tubby exchanged glances with Bollinger. “Worth a try, Commander.” He reached to the instrument panel and flipped switches, stopping the engines. A tension-filled quiet grew among them that was as thick as the ground-fog forming on the shore of Kotukuriana Island. Tubby leaned to the charthouse hatchway and said softly, “Watch our drift Winney. Best we don’t end up on rocks.” Why the hell am I whispering?
“You bet,” Fuller whispered from the charthouse.
“How much time left?” asked Landa.
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 37