Ingram turned to Fujimoto, “We need your help in clearing those mines. Can you do this?”
“Of course. I have the charts. It should be fairly easy.”
“Can you give them to me right away?”
“Can it wait? Things are in such turmoil.”
“No, it can’t. Admiral Halsey wants to send in the Third Fleet as soon as possible. We need those charts.”
Fujimoto rubbed his chin. “Perhaps you can send someone back with us to Tokyo. We’ll gather the charts and send them back with him.”
“On those planes? They’re wrecks.”
“That’s all I can offer.”
Ingram drummed his fingers. It hadn’t been Neidemeier’s snoring that kept him awake last night. It was the orders Sutherland and DeWitt had given him—orders authorized by the office of the supreme commander: Gen. Douglas MacArthur. That’s why he’d tossed and turned. All he wanted was to rejoin his ship and rediscover the promise of going home, of seeing Helen and Jerry and holding them close. He was tired of the threat of war, of war itself, of the dust and aftermath of war. Instead, they were sending him out among a vanquished and still-hostile enemy. He couldn’t even write a letter to Helen; no mail service was available where he was going. “We’ll have to think of something else.”
Chapter Nine
21 August 1945
Ie Shima Island, Okinawa Prefecture, Ryukyu Islands, Japan
The C-54 bucked and bounced for hours on its way to Ie Shima. American and Japanese passengers alike snatched barf bags from seat backs. It was near dusk when the C-54 crabbed its way onto final approach. The cockpit door was clipped open, and Ingram heard a resounding cheer in the cockpit as Radcliff sideslipped the C-54 to a beautiful touchdown against a twelve-knot crosswind.
After the propellers stopped windmilling, a ground crew rolled ladders up to the hatches. Ingram stood to let the Marine sergeant escort Captain Fujimoto down the aisle. Fujimoto turned once and asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Orders, Captain. And if it’s as you say, then it won’t take long, will it? No more than a day?”
“I suppose not. But don’t be surprised at what you see.” Fujimoto ducked out the hatch, joined the other delegates on the ground, and headed toward their white-painted G4M2s with the green crosses.
Ingram found Clive Neidemeier taking deep breaths on the tarmac. His face was pasty, and Ingram could swear his cheeks had a greenish tinge. “Rough trip?” he asked.
Neidemeier snapped, “You needn’t patronize me, Commander.”
“What do you mean?” Ingram could hardly hide his smile.
“You know perfectly well what I mean. Those people are animals. I have never been so insulted. Torvatron indeed!”
“Sorry to hear that. Did you get sick?”
Neidemeier shook his head.
“Very good. A lot of people were puking in the main cabin.”
“I’m sure Major Radcliff and his gang were expecting the same from me. But I didn’t give them the satisfaction. They—”
A young man walked up to them. “Oh, here,” said Neidemeier, “I don’t think you’ve met Colin Blinde yet.”
Blinde stuck out a hand, “Good afternoon, Commander. I’ve heard so much about you.” Despite his youthful appearance Blinde’s voice was deep and resonant, and his diction was clipped, efficient, like that of a lawyer addressing judge and jury in a packed courtroom.
Ingram caught a hint of aftershave as they shook. “Ummm, smells like home.”
Blinde gave a deep laugh. “Actually, I just slapped it on to overcome the smell of all that”—he waved a hand—“vomiting. The general next to me puked like there was no tomorrow.”
“Have to admit I felt a little shaky myself,” admitted Ingram.
“But then you have your sea legs.”
“Something like that. Maybe a drink of your aftershave would help smooth the waters.”
“Not this stuff.” Blinde smiled again, his teeth sure to give Landa a run for his money in a Pepsodent ad. “The people at Aqua Velva try to guard against that; they lace it with a bittering agent. It’s called, uh,” he snapped his fingers, “denatonium benzoate to discourage, ah, sipping.”
Denatonium benzoate. It rolled off Blinde’s tongue easily, telling Ingram this man was no dummy. For some reason it also triggered a caution light in the back of his mind. “Well, in spite of all that, a few of my sailors dared; they got very sick.”
“They learned a lesson.”
“Indeed, they stood before me at captain’s mast for deliberately putting themselves on the binnacle list.”
“Sick list?”
“Exactly.”
An engine roared to life. They turned to see one of the Japanese G4M2’s engines fire up, blue smoke blasting under the wing and stabilizer. Its Japanese passengers were boarding on the opposite side. The twin-engine bomber looked forlorn in its white livery. One aileron had a bullet hole, and there was a large fabric tear in the left elevator. To Ingram, the thing looked like . . . a hearse.
“That’s your flight,” said Blinde.
“Thanks, Colin. You want to ride with me? We could play Parcheesi on the way to Japan.”
Blinde’s smile was shallow. “I wish I could go. But there’s too much to look after here.”
Ingram noticed that the other half of the Japanese delegation still stood near the other G4M2. Mechanics swarmed over it. He asked, “What’s with the other Betty?”
Neidemeier said, “Damaged from that rough landing yesterday, I’m told. Probably won’t get out of here until tomorrow. You’ll go with seven of the most important delegates in that plane there. The others stay until repairs are completed.”
Ingram said, “Hey, Clive, give one of them my bunk. It’s available.”
Blinde continued, “The most important items are the surrender ceremony documents negotiated in Manila. That and our demands for locations of all POW camps. They promised it would all be at the Imperial Palace no later than noon tomorrow. If not, the Allied governments will be very upset. And the Japanese know it.”
“Okay.”
“We’d like you to have this.” He handed over a holstered .45 with two clips of ammunition.
“Great. When they organize a banzai charge against me I’ll hold them off from the back of the plane,” said Ingram dryly.
Blinde drew himself up. He was a bit taller than Ingram and had broad shoulders: an athlete’s body, not muscular but well defined. “Commander, this assignment is extremely important. Especially, it we want to bring an effective end to the war and embark on a successful road to peace.”
DeWitt and Sutherland had thrown all this at him late last night. Ingram had gone to bed in a daze and had slept little. His exhaustion was getting to him; his reserves were low. He replied, “Let me tell you something, pal. You scraped the bottom of the barrel when you chose me. I don’t know why you did, but it was stupid. I have a far more important job—one, I remind you, that I’m trained for: ensuring the safety of my ship and crew and fighting my ship if necessary. And yes, going in harm’s way.”
Blinde covered his mouth. “Like Lord Nelson?”
“That’s not funny.”
“Sorry.”
“You really need to go back to your roster and find somebody more qualified to . . . play spy.”
“That’s enough, Commander!” Neidemeier barked. “Keep in mind to whom you are speaking. Mr. Blinde speaks with the full weight of the State Department.”
“I thought he was OSS.”
“Well, that too.”
“Oh, yeah? Please ask Mr. Blinde where he was when the kamikaze hit my ship. Or where he was when the Japs invaded the Philippines or Guadalcanal or Pearl Harbor, for that matter. I don’t see any stars on Mr. Blinde’s shoulder boards. In fact, I don’t see any shoulder boards. I wonder if—”
Blinde held up a hand. “I get the idea, Todd. You are exactly right. The Navy did a magnificent job and you deserve a breather, and a commendatio
n. We’ll make sure you are returned to your unit as soon as possible.”
“The unit is the USS Maxwell. And forget the commendation. That belongs to the guys who aren’t coming back.”
“Of course. The USS Maxwell.” Blinde spoke soothingly, as if he did have shoulder boards full of stars. “Todd, there’s a good reason for all of this. You’ll find out when you get to Karafuto. Now, are your instructions clear?”
Ingram began strapping on the .45. “I’m to fly with the Japanese tonight to Kisarazu, Japan. I’m to make sure the minefield charts are accurate and complete. I am then to dispatch those charts via a soon-to-be-named Japanese destroyer to rendezvous with the Third Fleet, such destroyer to then lead the Third Fleet into Tokyo Bay.
“Good. And then?” prompted Blinde.
“Tomorrow morning Major Radcliff will fly into Kisarazu airfield to pick us up and take us to Toro Village on the west coast of Karafuto Island, where we’ll meet the brigade commander and secure the release of Walter Boring, the Red Cross representative.”
“And how are you going to ensure this is done?”
“Captain Fujimoto will accompany me. He doesn’t yet know that his brother, Lieutenant Kotoku Fujimoto, is the brigade commander at Toro. Captain Fujimoto, perhaps using the radio, will ensure we have permission to land at the Japanese airfield there and help us accomplish our mission with the people on the ground.”
The wunderkind clapped Ingram on the shoulder. “Very good, Commander. It should go without a hitch.”
“I wonder,” said Ingram.
“Yes?” asked Blinde.
“I introduce Captain Fujimoto to his long-lost little brother. They drink sake, sing ‘Home on the Range,’ and then turn over Walter Boring to me at which time I fly out in a blaze of glory.”
Blinde drew a large smile. “Very good, Commander. Not sure about the blaze, but you have the right idea.”
“What about the Soviets?”
“My information is that they’re not there yet. Not for at least a week. Maybe two. So there’s plenty of time.”
“Your information?”
“That’s our intelligence.”
The other engine on the G4M2 wound up and fired. It looked as if all the passengers were on board. A man stood outside the aft hatch looking toward Ingram.
“Your stuff in there?” asked Blinde.
Ingram nodded. “A small duffle. Captain Fujimoto took care of it.”
“Better get going. You have a long flight.” Blinde stuck out a hand. “Godspeed.”
Ingram shook it, then turned to Neidemeier. “Major, can you mail a letter home for me—for my wife?” He held out an envelope.
“May take two or three days. And I’ll have to have it censored.”
Ingram flared, “Listen Major, may I remind you that the war is over? You don’t need to censor this. If you don’t mail this now, I’m going to—”
Blinde snatched the envelope and said solemnly, “It’ll be in her mailbox within . . .” he examined the address, “San Pedro . . . umm, thirty-six hours tops, Commander, maybe less.”
“That quick?”
“Yes, that quick; by courier. Now, please go.”
“Okay.” Ingram walked away.
He was almost to the plane when Radcliff caught up to him. “You’re not climbing into that the piece of crap are you?”
“Haze gray and under way. Gotta go, Bucky. See you tomorrow?”
“Hammer is going over our little bus with a fine-tooth comb. It’ll be in tiptop shape.”
“Good. Bring coffee and doughnuts.”
“Todd, I have to tell you,” he pointed to the G4M2, “that number two engine leaks oil like a sieve, and look at all those bullet holes. You’ll never make it.”
Damn. Ingram was overwhelmed with an urge to turn back. He looked over to Neidemeier and Blinde standing under the C-54’s wing, their hands on their hips. Those bastards.
“And the weather.”
“What?”
“Are you listening?” Radcliff plopped his hands on Ingram’s shoulders. “I said the weather, you damn fool. You’ll have more than a bumpy ride. Predictions are for headwinds on the nose. It looks shitty.”
“Bucky, let me ask you a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Would you fly in this if you were ordered to?”
Radcliff dropped his hands and gave a nod. “Yeah, I would. I can handle it. But those are Japs and that thing’s a crate that belongs on a trash heap. Let them commit hara-kiri.”
Ingram remembered something Sutherland and DeWitt had said: that these men carried plans for one of the most important paths to peace for all humankind. Blinde had said the same thing. That it was imperative that those instructions be followed to the letter. No tricks. He was there as a watchdog. He had no idea why they’d chosen him, but he knew he had to go. And yet, while tossing in his sweat-soaked sheets last night he’d had a dark premonition. Early that morning he had written the letter to Helen.
Ingram took Radcliff’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “Thanks, Bucky. Gotta go. See you tomorrow. No excuses.” He turned, walked up to the hatch, and climbed in.
Chapter Ten
21 August 1945
Ie Shima Island, Okinawa Prefecture, Ryukyu Islands, Japan
A Japanese rating closed the hatch and the G4M2 surged forward. The airplane bounced on the rough tarmac, and especially hard on the tail wheel not far from where Ingram stood. The passenger cabin was much louder than the C-54’s. And being a converted bomber, it was cramped. Ingram looked around and saw three passenger seats on the starboard side and four to port. A jump seat was jammed between the last starboard seat and a narrow doorway with a curtain drawn across the entrance. Probably the toilet. Luggage was piled up the center aisle. Ingram guessed it was to distribute the weight.
The delegates turned and cast cold stares as Ingram looked about for a seat. It struck him that these were some of Japan’s most prestigious officials: flag officers, diplomats, and a royalist. They looked at him with undisguised resentment, almost loathing. What the hell? Ingram felt an impulse to go for his pistol.
In sign language, the rating bowed and pointed to the jump seat. He was tall and slender with a thin moustache and crew cut. Even white teeth were disrupted by a gold tooth on his lower jaw. His slight build aside, the man looked like someone who could take care of himself. “You go.” The man pointed to the jump seat. Then he stepped to the toilet compartment, drew the curtain open, sat on the commode, and buckled himself in.
The Betty had only one small window on each side. Ingram couldn’t see outside and had no idea what they were doing. He sat on the jump seat and fumbled with the seat belt buckle.
The man seated in front of him turned. It was Fujimoto. He yelled over the roar of the engines, “Do you wish to change places?”
Ingram shouted back, “I can manage, thanks.”
“Hang on. A difficult takeoff, they tell me.”
“Why?”
“A weather front has moved in, which means headwinds. We took on a lot of gas, so we’re going to need every foot of runway.”
“Hail Mary.”
“What?”
“Say a rosary.”
Fujimoto gave a wry grin. “It’s been awhile. Maybe later. Perhaps you should—”
The pilot firewalled the throttles and the cabin filled with loud rattling, tearing sounds as the G4M2 powered up to full rpm. The pilot popped the brakes and the plane began rolling. The tail lifted, but the Betty seemed glued to the ground. But each bounce of the landing gear seemed lighter as they gained speed. Suddenly, there was no more bouncing. Now airborne, the plane mushed along, clawing for altitude. Ingram spotted a large shrapnel hole near the bottom of the fuselage. Peering through it, his gut turned to cement when he saw whitecaps no more than thirty feet below.
Fujimoto turned and looked down through the hole as well. He shrugged and faced forward as if to say we all have to go sometime.
; Ingram shouted. “How long’s the flight?”
The pilot reduced the throttles from takeoff power to climbing power. Fujimoto didn’t have to yell as loud now. “Four hours or so.”
I can handle that. He nodded toward the passengers. “Are they angry with me?”
Fujimoto shrugged. “Just that you’re here. They didn’t plan for you.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Your weight. There are too many of us. Like I said, we need every drop of gas.” He turned and put his head back against the seat.
Ingram leaned back and tried to wedge himself in, but the aluminum seat was small and bit into his butt. His back was cramping. He tried to sleep but awakened each time the plane bounced and jinked, sometimes far worse than the C-54. Once in a while someone crawled over the luggage pile, sat on the commode, and took care of business.
Darkness fell and the bouncing and stomach-grabbing downdrafts got worse. Once during a downdraft, the starboard engine sputtered and quit. Someone yelped; another cursed. Not quite windmilling to a stop, the engine started again with the pilot nursing it back to life and revving it to cruising power. Ingram couldn’t see the faces of the other passengers, but he could feel their collective relief.
Surprised to find that he had slept for a while amid all the bouncing and shaking, Ingram awoke to a cabin darkened save for one small bulb near the forward section. It cast a dim light, making the cabin’s features stand out like a macabre horror movie. The people in front of him might just as well have been zombies strapped to their seats as they jiggled along. Suddenly, another figure appeared. This man was dressed in a fur-lined flight suit with goggles perched on his forehead. He spoke to the delegate in the forward seat. They motioned the rating forward, and the three were soon engaged in an intense conversation.
“What’s going on?” asked Ingram.
“We’ll soon find out,” said Fujimoto.
The flight-suited man disappeared forward into darkness. The rating crawled aft over the luggage, speaking with each of the delegates as he moved past. One—he looked like a general—stood and shouted at the man. But the rating moved on relaying his message. He spoke to Fujimoto last and then turned to the luggage pile and began tossing the bags toward the hatch.
Edge of Valor Page 9