“Twenty minutes, give or take, Commander” said Tubby.
“...uh, you got any more morphine?” asked Landa in a soft tone.
They’d given Landa some a half hour ago although Tubby knew it wasn’t enough. He looked down the hatch to Fuller who drew a thumb across his throat. Then he whispered over to Landa, “Sorry, commander. The rest went into the guys below.”
Landa’s teeth gleamed in a grimace.
“Soon, Commander. Once we power up, I’ll have you aboard the Whitney in no time.”
“Okay,” groaned Landa.
The moon was gone, the darkness nearly complete, except for the panoply of stars overhead silently screaming in hoary brilliance.
Captain Kanji Takano felt victory. He’d done it! He’d talked the American out. And just minutes before, he’d received his greatest reward. He’d been in the forward magazine, shining his flashlight way in back. He’d spotted some curious looking projectiles back there. It was almost as if someone had deliberately hidden them; they were stuffed all the way against the far bulkhead. It had taken five minutes to crawl over the other rounds. But he’d made it. Yes! Before him was a projectile tipped with a fuse he’d never seen before. It must be! The Soviets were right! Takano was delirious with joy. Finally, he would please the Gensui.
Taking out his web wrench, Takano carefully unscrewed one of the fuses and shoved it in his valise. He’d intended to remove at least four more but he heard commotion. Lieutenant Abe, Matukaze’s gunnery officer had summoned him to the bridge where they’d trapped an American stow-away. And Takano was the only one among them who spoke English.
Now, at the door to the captain’s sea cabin, Takano sighed with relief when the American announced he was coming out. ‘Get ready to shoot the bastard,’ he mouthed to the men behind them. Hands on his knees, he turned back to the door. “Good choice, Joe,” he said. “So come on out and have a tall cool one. San Miguel. All you want.”
The latch clicked and Takano raised his pistol, a Nambu 8 millimeter.
From behind the door, a voice bellowed, “It’s the Washington Huskies, you son-of-a-bitch!”
A hand grenade sailed through the hole in the door and plopped on the deck at Takano’s feet, its fuse hissing.
“Aiyeeeeee.” Someone screamed.
Takano dove onto the open bridge just as the grenade went off, the explosion driving him against the bulwark.
Coughing, Takano tried to rise to his feet as smoke roiled out of the barbette room.
Someone fired a shot up the companion way.
“All you want Buddy,” a voice growled. Something thumped and rattled and soon, three more grenade explosions pounded Takano in rapid succession: one in the pilot house; one down the companion way; and a third back in the barbette room. With smoke thicker than ever, Takano strained to rise upright. Coughing, and stumbling, he braced himself against the bulwark and tried wiping his eyes. Opening, them againBwhat?
An apparition from hell emerged before him. Teeth clenched, face riddled with cuts and smeared with smoke. Hair plastered to a sweaty forehead. An American.
With a growl, the man splayed his left hand over Takano’s face and drove a fist into his stomach.
Bent over and gasping in pain, Takano was conscious enough to realize the man had climbed the bulwark and leaped over the side. Holding up his hand, he was astonished to see he still held his Nambu but hadn’t fired a shot.
What else can go wrong?
Wheezing horribly, Takano struggled to his feet, pain in his stomach thumping and pounding. Aft, flames licked from the deck below. Somehow, the American’s grenades had started a fire.
The smoke cleared and he looked over the side, seeing a man’s head break the surface.
“Light!” He called. “Someone get me a light!”
Holding his feet together, Ingram let himself plunge deep. Surprised he didn’t hit bottom, he kicked for the surface aiming for the ship’s starboard side., He put out a hand and touched the hull about the same time he broke the water’s surface. Gasping for air and trying not to splash, he looked up, expecting a vast row of machine guns ready to blaze away at him. But there was nothing except shouts and mayhem amidships. He remained still for twenty seconds realizing his ears rang loudly. He looked up again, seeing a fire had broken out on the 01 deck, the flames illuminating wisps of smoke that drifted into the night.
Ingram dove and stroked for shallow water, searching for his rock. He rose again, standing in hip deep water, groping for the time fuse. Ah! There it is. Gently pulling, toward shallower water, he followed its length until--
---a figure rose before him and pointed a .45 right at his chest. “Hold it right there.”
In that moment, Ingram discovered what it meant to jump out of one’s skin. After the initial jolt, all he could think of to say was, “God! Don’t shoot!”
“Raise your hands and shut up.”
“American,” Ingram gasped.
“More than you know. Now put up your---“
A spotlight flicked on washing the man in a white, glittering light. “What theBA
Gun shots rang out; three splotches ranged across the man’s chest. Exhaling sharply, his mouth formed an ‘O’ as he flew back.
Ingram ducked, but not before a bullet clipped his right ear. He held his breath, hearing bullets punch the water above him. Opening his eyes he looked up, seeing the man’s body, splayed face-down on the surface, backlighted by the spotlight above him. They must have found a battle lantern, Ingram figured. More bullets chopped the water around the body, great wisps of blood slowly curling around as a bullet occasionally hit home, making the body jerk spasmodically.
Go!
With thumb and forefinger circling the time-fuse, he kicked hard and pulled with his free hand. After swimming twenty feet, he rolled on his back, let his face break the surface, and allowed himself just one gasping, desperate breath. Down again, he swam another twenty feet trailing the time-fuse. Okay. Breaking the surface he looked up. The spotlights were concentrated about forty feet away. Japanese soldiers were on the fo’c’sle shining battle lanterns on the dead man, not looking in his direction.
One more thing to do.
Ingram dove and, still trailing the time fuse, found the rock. Reaching beneath, he fumbled at the stubby, cylinder-shaped M-60 fuse-lighter. He raised his head above the surface, gasping for air and ducked again. Cursing to himself, his mind reeled with the fact that his real opportunity to blow up the ship had been stifled. That University of Washington Japanese Wolf-Husky had discovered his booby-trap in the projectile hoist. He didn’t give a chance of one in ten for this TNT package. But it’s all I got.
Now, damnit. Easing out the safety pin, he yanked the fuse-ring. He was rewarded with the tiny gurgle of burning fuse which began its deadly journey to the five-block TNT bundle wedged beneath the Howell’s keel. Quickly, he checked his watch:1244. Time to scram. Swimming underwater, he furiously breast-stroked away from the ship, paralleling the coast.
After two hundred yards, Ingram struck for the beach, rising from the water among a large outcrop of rocks. Gasping, wheezing, he fell to his knees, content to catch his breath and watch the commotion aboard the Howell. The Japanese had a brought around a small skiff and three men were aboard, hauling the body from the water.
Aboard the Howell, the fire had grown larger. Men dashed about her decks, throwing buckets of water at the orange-red flames. Ingram leaned against a rock, for another moment. My God. That was an American back there. What the hell for? And why point a gun at him and tell him to put up his hands like in some gangster movie?
A glance out to sea told him the Japanese destroyer had eased in close; as did the tug, both intent on shooting water on the flames. Oh, God, that destroyer. Ingram checked his watch. 1253. Detonation time is 0114. Get moving!
Quickly, he rummaged among the rocks, finding the one-man life-raft pack he’d dropped off earlier. He plunged into the trees, dragging the rig behind hi
m hoping Mondo Mondo Island was as narrow as he thought it was; hoping that he could reach the lagoon quickly and start paddling; hoping he wouldn’t run into Japanese soldiers; hoping that Tubby White would hang around just a little longer.
Takano leaned over to examine the bullet-riddled body. The man’s eyes were open in surprise. He said to Lieutenant Abe, “...can’t tell if this is him for sure. I only saw the American for a moment and his face was streaked with soot. This man seems to me free of soot.” Takano didn’t really want to think of the man he saw on the bridge. He hoped he never saw anything like it again.
Lieutenant Abe thumbed the man’s collar devices. “This one is a Marine major.”
“And I’m almost sure the man I saw was a Lieutenant Commander. Two gold leaves,” said Takano.
“As does this man,” said Abe. “A Major.”
“But my man’s leafs were shiny. He was Navy, I tell you. There were two of them.”
“Well, Sir. If you insist. We’ll start searching.” Wait, Takano remembered. You have what you want.! “Hold on, Abe.”
Sir?”
“Call away the life boat. We’re going back.”
“Now? But Sir, what about---“ Abe gestured to the body.
“Damn all that. We’re going back. Now.” For assurance, Takano pat his valise. Yes. The fuse was still there.
They stared wide-eyed at the tree line where the Howell was supposed to be, arguing about the explosions.
“Maybe they’re fishing with dynamite,” said Landa.
“At this time of night?” said Bollinger.
Tubby checked his watch: 1257. He shrugged then said, “He had a half dozen grenades in his pouch.”
“Too loud for grenades,” said Landa.
“Do you suppose it was his TNT misfiring?” offered Bollinger.
“Don’t think so. When TNT goes, you know it,” said Landa.
Tubby called down the hatch, “Anything at all?” The radio had gone on the fritz and they had lost contact with PT-88.
“Can’t hear a thing,” said Fuller He had the front panel open and was checking a schematic. “Seems all right. Maybe it’s this damned lagoon.”
“Keep trying.”
“Yes, Sir.”
They fell silent until 0100.
“Let’s wait five more minutes,” said Tubby.
No one argued with that and they waited another ten minutes, with Landa fidgeting loudly. Then suddenly, a ship’s whistle ripped the night, blasting six times. “What the hell?” said White.
“Must be that Jap tin can.” Bollinger said.
“You mean a Jap tin can is standing off the entrance?” asked White, incredulously.
“She was there a couple of days ago,” said Bollinger.
“Jeez,” said Tubby. “You mean we’re bottled up in here?”
“Maybe exit the other way,” Bollinger proposed.
Tubby’s head whipped aft. “We may have to, but it’s uncharted back there. We could run aground.”
“May be our only chance,” said Bollinger.
“Can’t we just take off now, then come back and pick Mr. Ingram up tomorrow night?” asked Fuller.
“We wait,” rasped Landa. His face screwed up in pain.
“Tha’s right,” said Tubby.
“Tubby, what about Jenkins and Fliegerman?” Bollinger spoke of PT-94's two burn victims laying in the bunks below. “They need immediate attention. I don’t think Jenkins can make it through---“
“Oscar. Five more minutes,” said Tubby.
“I could order you.”
“It’s my boat damnit. And I---“
“---Sir, over there.” In the gloom, a sailor pointed off the port bow.
They all moved to the port side, just as a yellow one-man life raft emerged from the night.
“Todd?” called Tubby.
The raft bumped into Little Lulu’s side. Ingram hissed, “Damnit, Mr. White. I gave you orders to shove off at 0100.”
Tubby turned and called aft. “Wind ‘em up!”
Two sailors reached down to haul Ingram over the gunnel, as the three great Packards coughed into life.
Scrambling aboard, Ingram rose to his knees and came face to face with Landa. “I’ll be damned.”
“What do you say, Lunkhead?”
I’m afraid I screwed up our ship.”
“You been playing with matches again?” said Landa, extending a hand. “Good to see you.” They shook.
“Let’s hope the matches work. How was jungle life?” Asked Ingram.
“Travel posters aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”
“Well, let’s get you home.” Ingram stood and said to Tubby, “Some Japs on the south end of the Island. Might give us trouble on the way out.”
“What happened to the TNT?” asked Tubby, shifting the engines into gear.
Ingram checked his watch. “Maybe another minute or so, but I don’t think it will set off the---
---an enormous blast lit the night, spewing flames and smoke hundreds of feet into the air. Ingram was knocked to his hands and knees. The shock wave swept past rolling Little Lulu twenty degrees onto her starboard beam. Trees, bushes, enormous chunks of rock and pieces of the Howell splashed around them. The blast seemed to echo in Ingram’s ears forever and ever, as more debris rained about, including small rocks and a fine coat of dirt.
Finally, it was over. Ingram rose, seeing sailors splayed on the deck, shaking their heads. The worse off seemed to be the twenty-millimeter gun crew on the fo’c’sle.
“You guys okay?” gasped Tubby.
One by one, they rose shakily and looked back, nodding dumbly.
Landa sat up, blinking dirt from his eyes. An un-helmeted Bollinger lay unconscious on the cockpit grate, a gash across the top of his head. Tubby knelt beside him. Bollinger groaned. Tubby palmed a large flat rock then threw it overboard. “He looks okay, concussion maybe. Damn, I should have given him a helmet.
“What were you saying about the TNT?” Tubby asked, an eyebrow raised.
“I honestly didn’t think it would work,” replied Ingram, watching flames roil over Mondo Mondo Island.
“You gotta think they’re off balance right now,” said Landa.
“Yeah! Let’s go while the getting’s good,” said Ingram.
“Right.” Tubby eased the throttles forward and headed for the gap between Mondo Mondo and Kotukuriana Islands. He called down the hatchway, “Winnie. I need a bearing to Lingutu Entrance.”
Fortunately, Ensign Fuller had been below and had not been hammered as severely as the sailors topside. He said almost immediately, “Zero-two-six, Tubby. About three hundred yards.”
“Zero-two-six, it is,” said White, easing in right rudder to settle on the recommended course.
Just then, something cracked overhead; lighting up the Lingutu Entrance as bright as day.
“Starshell!” shouted Ingram.
Simultaneously, gunfire barked at them from the Mondo Mondo side of the channel.
Another starshell popped open, sizzling beneath its parachute, lighting the sky.
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
17 April, 1943
PT-72
Kotukuriana Island, Lingutu Entrance
New Georgia Sound, Solomon Islands
“For God’s sake, hit it, Tubby,” shouted Ingram.
White shoved the throttles to the stops and hollered, “commence fire.”
PT-72's gunners began raking Mondo Mondo Island to port. Japanese bullets plinked around the deck with Ingram and two other sailors hauling the semi-unconscious Bollinger into the relative safety of the pilot house’s starboard side. PT 72 soon gained her step and thundered through the Lingutu Entrance into New Georgia Sound.
“Cease fire,” yelled Tubby.
Ingram jumped in the cockpit, and grabbed binoculars. Adjusting the lenses, he spotted the Japanese destroyer standing about 4,000 yards off their port beam. “Jap tin can. That’s what the horn blasts were about.
She backed off. Way off. Must have realized the Howell was going to blow.” He looked to where the Howell had been. All that remained was twisted wreckage and an orange-red ball of fire licking the sky.
Tubby cranked in right rudder to present the Japanese a smaller silhouette. “I’ll bet a month’s pay that fire is lighting us up like a Christmas tree.”
As if in confirmation, two 4.7-inch rounds hurtled at them: one exploded a hundred yards behind them; the other screamed overhead and blew-up a hundred yards in front, both shells raising tall, white, water columns.
“Damn, we’re bracketed,” yelled Ingram.
An open-mouthed Landa gasped, “How the hell did that bastard learn to shoot that well?”
Fuller’s head popped out the hatch. “I have Tommy, er Lieutenant Madison on the TBS. He’s two miles out and is attacking right now.”
“That’s something,” said Tubby.
Two more rounds smacked the water fifty yards before them.
“Screw this. He’s got our range. Next one is on us.” Tubby shouted, winding in left rudder. “We’ll hit the sonofabitch from both sides Winnie, come on up here.”
Donning sound powered phones, Fuller joined them, his face white and eyes wide open.
PT-72 reversed course and steadied up on the Japanese destroyer. Shells whistled overhead as Little Lulu quickly ate up the range.
“Anyone see Tommy?” asked Tubby.
“That him?” Ingram pointed into the darkness forward of the starboard beam.
Fuller raised his binoculars. “You bet. Go gettum Tommy!”
Tubby raised his hand over his head. “Call the range at 2,000.”
Fuller sighted on the stadimeter and soon yelled, “2,000 yards!”.
Tubby slashed down his arm . “Fire one!”
Nothing.
“Fire three!” he yelled.
PT 72's torpedo tubes were silent.
“What is it?” Ingram jumped to the cockpit.
A shell whistled overhead, raising a giant plume a hundred yards to starboard.
“What are you waiting for, Tubby?” yelled Landa.
Tubby jabbed the firing panel. “Something’s wrong. Damn buttons won’t work.” He hollered over his shoulder. “Winnie, get over here.”
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 38