CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN
17 April, 1943
Headquarters, Commander In Chief, Pacific Fleet
Pearl Harbor Naval Base, Hawaii
An early afternoon storm gathered, bringing a sudden cloudburst. Commander Michael Novak leaped from his jeep and was soaked thoroughly during a frantic fifteen second dash to CINCPAC headquarters’ front door. Once in the lobby, water ran into his eyes. His damned ID was wet. But there was no alternative but to present himself to smirking Marine guards and push on. With squishing shoes, he turned down a long hall, finding a signboard marked:
EDWIN T. LAYTON, CDR USN
PAC FLT INTELLIGENCE
The door stood open. Layton sat at his desk, cigarette clamped between his fingers, studying a sheaf of papers splayed before him. His desk was a jumble of papers, messages, manuals and thick books, many spilling onto the floor and across the room.
Novak rapped twice, “Here I am.”
Layton stood. “My God, Mike. I didn’t mean for you to come by submarine.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny.” Novak made a show of shaking water on Layton’s carpet. Pushing aside a pile of books, he sat on a leather couch,
Layton rose and closed the door. “Coffee?”
“If that’s the best you can do.”
“You hear the news?” Layton’s tone was dark.
Novak sat up.
“Frank Ashton committed suicide.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You were related. What was it...”
“Cousins. We weren’t close. What happened?”
“Shot himself in his office. Apparently the Admiral’s selection board discovered he’d lied about his being in combat in World War I. And then, of all things, the San Pedro Police filed a breaking and entering charge against him.”
“Holy Cow!”
“Apparently his life was full of lies. He gun-decked his record to show a lot of time at sea but it wasn’t true. He couldn’t do it. Got seasick all the time. Worse, the Department of Terrestrial Magnetism in Washington D.C. discovered that Ashton covered up the fact that his fuse testing procedures were erroneous and sloppy, causing the death of at least one high-level civilian-scientist.”
“I’ll be damned.” Novak was truly amazed.
“Well, I thought you should know. And now for better news.” Layton dropped an envelope on the couch armrest “Read that. There’s something there that has me confused. “ It was a double red-stripped envelope marked TOP SECRET. Inside was a flimsy, its date-time group announcing that it had been transmitted -- Novak checked his watch hoping the rain hadn’t ruined it -- just twenty minutes ago:
TO: COMSOPACAREA
FM: COMAIRSOLOMONS
INFO: CINCPACFLT
POP GOES THE WEASEL. P-38S LED BY MAJOR JOHN W. MITCHELL USA VISITED KAHILI AREA ABOUT 0930. SHOT DOWN TWO BOMBERS ESCORTED BY ZEROS FLYING CLOSE FORMATION. ONE SHOT DOWN BELIEVED TO BE TEST FLIGHT. THREE ZEROS ADDED TO THE SCORE. SUM TOTAL SIX. ONE P-38 FAILED RETURN. APRIL 18 SEEMS TO BE OUR DAY.
BT
Novak sipped his coffee and said, “So they brought it off. Congratulations, Ed.”
“Thanks.”
“I like the part about April 18.” Mitscher (COMAIRSOLOMONS) was referring to Jimmy Doolittle’s B-25 raid on Tokyo exactly one year before. The irony was that Mitscher was commanding officer of the carrier, U.S.S. Hornet, which launched the B-25s. Halsey (COMSOPACAREA) was also along as commander of the entire task group. Novak handed back the message with, “What’s the problem?”
“Mitscher is telling Halsey there were two bombers. We were only expecting one. Zero Zero wants to know; does that mean we really got Yamamoto? Or, better yet, what or who did we shoot down?”
Novak knit his eyebrows. Hell, I can’t tramp into some Bougainville jungle and find out who those fly-boys shot down.
“Do you have any traffic?” Layton must have been reading his mind.
“Ah.” It clicked in Novak’s mind. “Actually, we do. We’re working on a long one right now. Let me get over there and see how they’re doing.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Novak stood up and without warning, sneezed.
“And while you’re at it, find a dry uniform.”
Novak made a show of wiping his nose with a wet sleeve “I’ll do my best.” Then he stomped out.
Novak was back forty-five minutes later, rapping on Layton’s door. His hair was combed but it was wet, and he still wore the same damp uniform. His shoes even squished as he walked in Layton’s office, a briefcase tucked under his arm.
“Did I give you permission to enter?” Layton said caustically.
Novak opened his briefcase and pulled out a red-stripped envelope marked TOP SECRET. “Shut up and read.”
Layton shot a questioning glance at Novak.
“The Jap intercept.”
“Okay.” Layton sat back to read the message while Novak walked to the side-table and poured coffee.
SECRET TELEGRAM: No. 181430, [1943-4-18]
FROM: THE COMMANDER, SOUTH EASTERN AREA FLEET AND AIR ARM
TO: THE MINISTER OF THE NAVY
THE COMMANDER IN CHIEF
1.THE TWO RIKU-KO AND SIX CHOKE-AN FIGHTER PLANES CARRYING THE COMBINED FLEET HEADQUARTERS ENCOUNTERED ENEMY FIGHTER PLANES, TEN PLUS IN NUMBER AT 0740 OVER BUIN TODAY AND ENGAGED THEM IN AIR BATTLE. THE NO. 1 RIKU-KO CARRYING THE DIRECTOR, SURGEON COMMANDER, STAFF OFFICER OKEZUMI, AND EIGHTH AIR FLEET ORDNANCE CAPTAIN TAKANO, ON FIRE FELL INTO THE MIDST OF A JUNGLE 11 MILES WEST OF BUIN IN A SHALLOW ANGLE. THE NO. 2 RIKU-KO CARRYING THE CHIEF STAFF OFFICER, THE CHIEF PAYMASTER, THE CHIEF METEOROLOGICAL AND OPERATIONAL OFFICER AND STAFF OFFICER MUROI MADE A FORCED LANDING INTO THE SEA, SOUTH OF MOILA. IT IS KNOWN, AT PRESENT, THAT ONLY THE CHIEF STAFF OFFICER AND CHIEF PAYMASTER WERE RESCUED. THE RESCUE FORCES ARE AT WORK AT PRESENT.
2. AMERICAN RADAR FUSE LOST ON NO. 1 RIKU-KO. ADVISE FURTHER INTELLIGENCE ACTIVITIES TO FIND ANOTHER.
MESSAGE ENDS
Layton grinned and smacked his fist into his palm. “We did get him. We got Yamamoto. Looks like we got a bunch of others in the bargain, too.”
“I’d say so,” said Novak. “Except it looks like Ugaki lived.”
“Ummm.” Layton went to hand back the message but then re-read a section. “Say, who’s this fellow Takano? I haven’t heard of him before.”
Novak sat heavily. “We dodged a bullet on that one.”
Layton looked up, handing back the message.
Novak had hoped Layton wouldn’t pick up on the reference to Takano. Now, he was forced to explain, “Takano was an ordnance expert. And a friend of the Royal Family. Apparently, he got a proximity fuse off the Howell before they blew her up. Now it looks like Takano and that fuse went down with Yamamoto. So they’re back to square one as far as understanding what we really have.”
“How was the Howell blown up?
Novak explained.
“You mean it came down to just one man, the ship’s exec, to wire the thing up, to keep our stuff out of the Jap’s hands?”
“Yes.” Novak tried to smile. So much for a case against Ingram, he thought. The man not only had the temerity to survive the Pence sinking, he also had saved the Navy’s bacon by single-handedly blowing up the Howell. In a way, Novak was glad Ingram had survived. But the ramifications against Novak could be dark.
Be careful, very careful.
“Who is this guy?” asked Layton.
“Todd Ingram,” Novak muttered.
Layton snapped his fingers. “Ingram. Ingram. That’s it! Isn’t he the guy who got out of Corregidor? Navy Cross? A Spruance protégé?”
“That’s him.”
“Ummm.” Layton scrawled notes on a pad and checked his watch. “Zero Zero breaks from a meeting with Spruance in ten minutes. I’m next to go up there and brief him. What do you think about recommending that he give Ingram a Silver Star?”
“Of course.”
“Right.” Layton wrote fur
iously. Nodding at the Japanese message, he continued. “Hell, without clearance, nobody could put the story together. We can’t show the world that Jap message, can we? Zero Zero will figure a way to take care of Ingram. He loves to honor heroes. We’ll catch him when he comes through Pearl. Right?” Layton’s eyes narrowed. “Jeez, Mike. You’re shaking. You should have got into dry clothing like I said. Go on home. Take a hot shower. Have a shot of whiskey.”
Novak would have liked nothing better, but he was five minutes overdue for a meeting at Admiral Lockwood’s office. He stood, unable to stifle a prolonged sneeze. Then, he sneezed again. And again.
“Just about time.” Layton stood and gathered papers into a folder. Holding up a message flimsy, he said, “You know anything about a Marine Major by the name of Augustine Rivera?”
Novak felt as if he’d been shot in the back. “What?”
“Rivera,” Layton said absently. “Got a message here from Halsey to Zero Zero about a renegade Marine Major down in the Solomons using phony names. Guy could be CID. Guess we’ll have to check.”
“Never heard of him.” Blood rushed to Novak’s temples.
“Ummm.” Layton stuffed his papers in his briefcase and looked up. “Damn, Mike. Maybe you should go see the doc. You look like hell.”
Taking out a wet handkerchief, Novak pat his face, finding it flushed and clammy, almost as if he were in cold, damp, Chicago rather than balmy Hawaii. He turned to walk out.
“You did a good job, Mike. Will you pass that onto your boys from me?”
Novak sneezed again. “Sure will. Thanks.”
EPILOGUE
The sadness of evil men is that they believe no truth that does not paint the world in their colours.
Eric Ambler
The Schirmer Inheritance
* * *
He also said to the multitudes, "when you see a cloud rising in the west, you say at once, 'a shower is coming'; and so it happens. And when you see the south wind blowing, you say, ' There will be scorching heat'; and it happens. You hypocrites! You know how to interpret the appearance of earth and sky; but why do you not know how to interpret the present time?
Luke 12: 54-56
* * *
There are no atheists in foxholes.
Anonymous
EPILOGUE
21 May, 1943
San Pedro, California
A cab emerged from swirling fog, pulled up and honked. Four figures walked from the little house on Alma Street. Todd and Helen Ingram scrambled in the back seat.
“Jerry,” Helen said. “It was Frank Ashton who did it.”
“Hold on a sec, hon.” With an arm around Mrs. Peabody, Landa hobbled to the cab’s front door. His leg was in a cast from foot to mid-thigh and it took a while for him to turn around. With a grunt, he sat gingerly in the front seat, then muttered as he heaved the cast off the curb and inside the cab.
Mrs. Peabody bent to hand over his crutches. Standing back up, she belched involuntarily and clamped a hand over her mouth
Pretending not to notice, Landa said, “Thanks, dear. Sure you don’t want to go to dinner with us?”
“Brrrr. Too cold for me. I’m going to sit by the fire and listen to The Whistler.” Mrs. Peabody hugged her arms around her waist.
“But, I need a date tonight,” protested Landa.
“You’ll do just fine.” She leaned down, pecked him on the cheek. “You know what, Commander Landa?”
“To you Mrs. Peabody, it’s Jerry,” said Landa.
“You have the prettiest teeth.” Mrs. Peabody walked off, giggling.
The cabbie, a thin, balding man with wire-rim glasses, rolled his eyes. His nametag read, ‘Louie.’
When she was gone, Landa said to no one in particular, “Smell that? I swear she brews her own stuff.” With a grunt, he closed the front door and popped his crutches against the taxi meter, jamming the flag. “Er, sorry,” he said.
“Forget it. Where to?” said Louie.
Landa half-turned to the back seat. “Where we going, kids?” When no one replied, he looked over his shoulder, seeing Ingram locked in an embrace with Helen, kissing her deeply. “Hey, you guys. You want to go back inside? I don’t mind going on alone. You know. Give old Jerry the slip. Nobody cares.” In an aside, he whispered to Louie, “He just got in last night.”
Louie whispered back, “Ohhh. Maybe we should just take ‘em downtown and charge a nickel a peek.” He eyed Landa. “You must have some clue of where we’re going, otherwise,” he jazzed the accelerator a couple of times, “we’re just burning up precious gas off my ration card. You must see what I mean.”
Landa waved at the fog. “What’s it matter? How can you go anywhere in this?”
“Try me.”
Landa grinned. “Brooklyn?”
“You bet. Then I married this little Italian girl from California and look at me now.”
Landa leaned forward and looked at Louie’s belly. “Looks like she’s feeding you well.”
“Ehhh.”
Ingram came up for air. “Olsen’s Café. West Ninth Street at Grand.”
“You don’t have to tell me where Olsen’s is,” Louie muttered. He jammed the cab roughly into gear and popped the clutch.
Ingram tossed a paper-wrapped package over the seat into Landa’s lap. “Almost forgot. This is for you. Greetings from Rocko Myszynski. Air Mail -- Special Delivery.”
Paper rattled as Landa undid the twine. “Hey, thanks. Gift wrapped from Macy’s, I see. New pair of pants? Hawaiian shirt? What you been up to...aw.” Landa pulled back a corner to find a United States flag. Slowly, he undid the rest of the wrapping and held it up. Instinctively, he knew it was the flag Leo Seltzer rescued from the wreckage aboard the Howell. He turned and said, “Is this the one?”
“Rocko wanted to make sure you got it.”
“Damn.”
“Rocko told me to remind you about that job,” said Ingram. Three weeks previously, Rocko Myszynski had sent Landa a letter saying he needed a new Commander of Destroyer Division Eleven. The job was his for the asking but Landa had dragged his feet in accepting.
Landa re-wrapped the flag. “...just not sure.”
“All you have to do is say yes, Jerry.”
“Nice cab you have here,” Landa said to Louie.
“Thanks. Say, I can’t help but notice. Looks like you were, you know...out there.” Louie waved at the decorations on Landa’s blouse,
“I’ve been back for six weeks.” Landa turned to the back seat. “Which reminds me, Mr. Ingram? You’re out of uniform.”
“What now?”
“Where’s that medal?”
“...what medal?
“You think I’m stupid? That I don’t read ALNAVs? The Silver Star Nimitz hung on you last week.”
“You didn’t tell me last night,” said Helen.
“Well, we had other business to take care of,” Ingram gave a grin.
“Todd!”
Louie whistled. “Silver Star. Hey, that’s pretty good.”
“He’s got a Navy Cross, too, “ said Landa. Ingram kept silent, so Landa turned to Helen. “So what was that you were saying about Frank Ashton?”
“It was him,” she said.
“You’re telling me that Frank Ashton cut those orders?” asked Ingram.
“Exactly,” she said. “Otis told me that Frank Ashton pulled strings in the Pentagon to have me transferred just so he could break in our house without anyone around and ransack that trunk and...and...”
“...snag Josh’s journal.”
Helen propped her arms on the front seat, her perfume teasing Landa’s nostrils: Chanel number 5. “It was that motorcycle cop that figured it out. Bullard. They found a fingerprint on the garage door hasp. The FBI matched that to Frank Ashton. In the meantime, Otis DeWitt, with all his Army contacts, discovered it was Ashton who issued my orders for Africa. He relayed the word to the selection board through Ollie.”
“You would think he would
dream up something less radical,” asked Ingram.
“Apparently he thought so, too,” shrugged Helen. “Because he had my orders rescinded. And then there was a selection board inquiry, then the San Pedro Police department investigation all at once. So he shot himself.”
“My kid brother would be alive if it weren’t for him,” said Landa.
“Jerry, let it go.” Ingram reached and clapped a hand on Landa’s shoulder.
“...damned kid.” Landa took a deep breath and said, “So, I hear you’re getting a ship?”
“Yeah, the Maxwell. A new tin can built by Bethlehem Steel right here in Pedro. They launched her last week.”
“And Todd’s going to be working for you?” asked Helen.
“Yes, Boom Boom. So what do I tell Rocko? Are you my new boss or what?” said Ingram.
“You keep calling me ‘Boom Boom’ and I’ll bust you to ensign.”
Ingram shot back, “You can only bust me to ensign, Boom Boom, if you’re my boss.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll take the job.” Landa sighed.
“Good. It’s settled,” said Ingram. “So I guess I won’t call you,” he enunciated clearly, “Boom Boom, anymore.”
“You crack me up, Ingram,” muttered Landa.
Louie blurted, “Hey, the papers said they shot down that guy Yamato.”
“Yamamoto,” said Landa.
“Yeah, P-38s shot down Yamato. Bzzzt.” Louie flew a hand toward the windshield. “That’s out where you were?”
“Maybe,” said Landa.
The cab took a sharp right from Gaffey onto Ninth, its tires squealing.
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 41