“Almost crapped my pants,” Peoples said. His left hand was shaking, too. He saw Ingram flexing his fingers and grinned. “They say any landing you walk away from is a good landing,” he said. “Trouble is, we haven’t walked away yet.”
“I’ll go with that,” said Ingram. “Time to get going. I want to get the Marines on the ground ASAP.”
“Makes sense to me,” said Peoples.
Ingram walked aft and found the Marines on their feet, checking their gear, ready to disembark. He looked about the cabin but couldn’t find Colin Blinde.
Squeezing past two Marines, Boland said, “If you’re looking for that civilian, he’s already gone. Pulled a ladder and scrambled out the hatch the minute we stopped.”
Indeed, the hatch was open. Cold wind ripped at them from the near-darkness.
“He say anything?”
“No, just skedaddled.”
“Okay.” Ingram said, “Get your men on the ground, Gunny. They have parkas?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Tell them this was not a nice welcome and to be ready for anything. Set up a perimeter around us. And that means live ammo.”
Boland stared at Ingram for two seconds. “Who are the bad guys?”
Good question. “Anyone who threatens us. Outside, right under the nose, you’ll find a burned-out M-16 half-track that we took out on our last visit here. The Russians promised peaceful terms this time, but they haven’t moved the half-track. No lights, no welcome, no nothing. It’s a boondoggle. So don’t trust anyone right now. Check passwords carefully.”
“Will do, Commander.”
Ingram spun, looking forward. Berne and Peoples were right there. “We need to turn this airplane around and get ready for an immediate departure. How do we—”
Berne grabbed him and hissed, “First, you have to read the damned message, Commander.”
Chapter Forty-Six
3 December 1945
Shakhtyorsk Air Base, Sakhalin Oblast, USSR
Berne stepped close. “Now, Todd. It’s really important.”
Boland tugged at Ingram’s elbow. “We’re going out now, Commander.”
He passed over a walkie-talkie. “Find me with this.”
“Thanks, Gunny. On your way.” Ingram turned to Berne. “Think you can raise the Maxwell?”
“If you don’t read the damned message, I’m gonna raise the dead.”
Ingram flushed. “Forgot all about it.” He dug the flimsy from his pocket. Berne had written the message in pencil on a blank pad as the C-54 bucked and bounced its way on the downwind and final legs. Some of the words were smudged, but all in all Berne had done a creditable job.
INGRAM–EYES ONLY–INGRAM–EYES ONLY
TOP SECRET
FM: ONI-11NAVDIST
TO: INGRAM, ALTON C, CDR, USN
DTG: 03111746Z NOV 45
CC: SECSTATE
COMONI
COMFIVEFLT
COM 11
COMDESRON 77
COM DD525
SUBJ: BLINDE, COLIN
1. HODGES, WALTER, CDR, USN, MURDERED.
2. BELIEVE HODGES MISTAKEN FOR YOU AND ASSASSINATED VIA RICIN INJECTION: EXOTIC POISON.
3. ASSASSIN WAS FOREIGN NATIONAL, CAUGHT AND KILLED, LBSY.
4. COLIN BLINDE WAS HIS CONTROL. RPT: COLIN BLINDE WAS THE ASSASSIN’S CONTROL.
5. APPREHEND BLINDE. RETURN HIM CONUS ASAP WITH PHOTOS.
6. IF (5) NOT PRACTICAL, YOU ARE AUTHORIZED TO TERMINATE.
TOLIVER
BT
INGRAM–EYES ONLY–INGRAM–EYES ONLY
“Holy smoke.” Ingram caught Berne’s eye. “Can you authenticate this?”
Berne grabbed the message. “Do my best, Commander.”
Ingram called after him, “And see if you can raise the Maxwell.”
“Will do, Commander.”
Ingram turned and shouted out the hatch, “Sergeant Boland.”
Boland’s voice echoed up, “Sir?”
“I’m coming down.” Ingram started down the ladder. Bitter cold ripped into him, and he realized he didn’t have a jacket as he reached the ground. Stupid. Boland must have thought so too because he said, “Freeze your ass off, Commander.”
“Look, that civilian who jumped. His name is Colin Blinde.”
“Sir.”
“I just got a message from ONI. This bastard is a spy, a traitor, and a turncoat. He is to be apprehended. Put the word out to your men. If they see him, grab the son of a bitch. Don’t worry about being polite.”
Boland’s face darkened. “Got it. Do you want to send out a search party?”
“My guess is that he’s gone over to the Russians, so I don’t think we have a chance of nabbing him right now. Plus, I think we’re going to need everybody here, Gunny. At least for the rest of the night. Agree?”
“I do, Commander.”
“Okay, set the perimeter. I’m going back inside to find a jacket and send a couple of messages. Also, we have a ship coming in.”
“What ship is that, sir?”
“Tin can. The Maxwell.”
“The Maxwell, huh? Destroyer? Tubby White?”
Ingram stopped two rungs up the ladder. “You know Tubby White?”
Boland gave a shallow grin. “Tubby White the PT-boater? Right?”
“That’s him.”
Just then, two Marines wearing winter whites merged from opposite directions and spoke with Boland in low tones. Boland muttered, “. . . passenger . . . Colin Blinde,” along with other instructions. They nodded and disappeared back into the darkness. Boland said, “Perimeter’s secure, Commander. Hundred yards each direction. As far as we can tell, nobody’s out there. No sign of Colin Blinde.”
“Very well.”
Boland continued, “Lieutenant White saved my ass down on Bougainville. Came inshore and picked me and six grunts up right off the beach while the Japs threw everything they had at us. Two of my men was wounded, and he got them out too. He’s got real guts.”
Ingram nodded. “Yep, that’s Tubby.” He climbed up halfway. “Oh, and Gunny, can you send out some recon to see what we’re up against?”
“Consider it done, Commander.”
The thick overcast hid the moon and stars, and there was no wind to stir the bushes around the isolated C-54. The cockpit was nearly as cold as the outside with the engines shut down. They all wore mittens and heavy parkas, and vapor shot out when they spoke. From the cockpit they could see over the low berms lining the airstrip and out into the blackness of the Sea of Japan. They saw nothing where they knew the Admiral Volshkov was anchored. Peoples instructed a couple of Marines to pull the plane’s props through every hour lest oil freeze in the crankcases.
After two hours a tiny glow popped up on the horizon to the southeast. The glow grew brighter and larger and eventually separated into a ship’s red and green sidelights and white masthead lights: the Maxwell. The men waiting in the cockpit found it comforting that an American ship was nearby, especially because it was the only light in the otherwise complete darkness.
Then Ingram heard a welcome sound: an anchor chain rattling through a hawse pipe, which meant the anchor was plunging through the icy depths and digging its flukes into a soft muddy bottom. The Maxwell’s running lights flipped off, and seconds later her anchor lights went on, bathing the forward section of the ship in a soft radiance.
Berne tapped his CW key as they watched. Finally he stopped and said, “Atsugi authenticated the message about Mr. Blinde, Commander.”
“Okay, thanks, Jon,” said Ingram.
The other three looked at him, their faces saying, “What the hell is going on?”
Okay. Ingram held up the message and read it to them. “You all know him. Can you believe it?”
“Never did trust the man,” Peoples said. “Damned Yankee prances around like a French poodle. And smells like one too.”
“Let’s hope we catch the son of a bitch,” said Lassiter. “An American! W
ith people like that, no wonder the Commies are giving us fits.”
Berne grabbed his earphones. “I have the Maxwell on voice, Commander. Here.” He passed over the headphones and a microphone. “I know he’s only about a mile away, but our Army-Navy liaison ain’t too hot at this angle. The connection is intermittent, but it’s the best I can do. Use this squelch knob if it gives you trouble.”
“Thanks, what’s our call sign?” asked Ingram.
“Apprentice two-six,” said Berne.
Ingram gave a thumbs-up and then said into the mike, “Crackerjack, this is Apprentice two-six, over.”
“Crackerjack, over.” It was Tubby White’s voice.
Ingram said, “Crackerjack, be advised reception for Apprentice two-six very unfriendly. No lights, no reception committee. Also, one of our passengers is a Benedict Arnold and has jumped ship, over.”
“Apprentice two-six. Understand your last. Have much ONI traffic for you regarding Benedict. In particular, you should be aware—”
A loud buzzing in Ingram’s earphones blotted out White’s voice. He gave them back to Berne, who flipped switches and turned knobs. Finally, he said, “Looks like we’re being jammed.”
“What?” demanded Ingram.
Berne pointed in the direction of the cruiser. “That bastard is jamming us. All frequencies. We can’t get out. Nor can we receive.”
Peoples opened his window and shined a flashlight at the ground. “Well, if it’s any consolation to you, I believe we can turn the airplane around if we don’t run number two engine. Looks to me like we can barely clear the half-track. So we can get out of here any time we like.”
Ingram rubbed his chin. “Yeah, I would agree with that. We should think about the safety of your airplane and crew. With the Maxwell here, no sense risking you guys. You want to go?”
Peoples eyed his three men, then said, “Shucks, if it’s okay with you, Commander, we’ll stick here a bit longer, especially since Ivan is jamming the radio. You may still need the Confederate Air Corps for a thing or two.”
“Thanks,” said Ingram. Then he asked, “Say, do you have a signal light?”
Hammer opened a small cabinet and fished around. “This do the trick?” He held up a hand lantern.
Ingram said, “Right, let’s rig it up. Is that a hatch up there?”
“Yes, sir. We can open it up and—”
“Sheeyat! Look at that,” shouted Peoples pointing out the window.
The cockpit glowed as a searchlight’s pencil beam shot from the Soviet cruiser and bathed the Maxwell’s forward deckhouse in a hoary brightness. A second searchlight flicked on, playing over the Maxwell’s after deckhouse.
Lassiter said, “What the hell do they expect to accomplish by that?”
“Just being assholes,” said Hammer.
“What do you think, Commander?” asked Lassiter. “Does the Maxwell have a chance against her if it comes to a fight?”
“You mean as in a street fight?”
“Well, yes.”
Ingram said, “The Volshkov is three times the Maxwell’s size and has nearly twice the armament.”
“What can she do, then?” asked Berne.
As if in answer, the Maxwell’s stack-mounted searchlights flicked on, illuminating the Russian cruiser.
“All right!” said Peoples.
They gasped as the searchlights probed and dueled into the night, each playing over the other’s ship as a policeman would play his flashlight over a gang of criminals.
The plane jiggled, and Sergeant Boland appeared in the cockpit doorway looking like Nanook of the North in his white snow parka and trousers. The hood was up, vapor erupted from his mouth, and frost coated his eyebrows and nostrils. “Gentlemen.”
“Gunny, how is it out there?” asked Ingram.
“Patrol returned, safe and sound,” Boland said.
“Good.”
“Surprise. This place is damned near empty. No more than fifty to seventy-five men ashore. And they’re just guarding Jap prisoners bivouacked in a camp about five hundred yards due north, right near the pier. It looks like they’re getting ready to load out because there’s three 50-foot personnel boats tied to the pier along with a barge. But get this. Everything is gone except for about twenty trucks and some mechanized, including a half dozen T-34s and as many M-16s. But there are two 105-mm fieldpieces at the end of the runway, fully manned and with plenty of ammo.”
The searchlights continued their intricate dance as Boland went on, “The headquarters is empty.”
Ingram looked up. “That is a surprise.”
“And no sign of Benedict Arnold.”
“That’s not a surprise.”
“Hey!” Lassiter pointed at the Maxwell. In the frosty light they saw a living room–sized American flag unfurled, run up, and two-blocked on her starboard halyard.
“I’ll be gaw-damned,” said Peoples.
Ingram felt a surge of pride. “Her battle flag.”
“That Tubby White?” asked Boland.
“That’s him.”
“He don’t screw around,” said Boland.
“That the fat little guy with us on the Missouri?” asked Peoples.
“Yes. He was your host for the day aboard the Maxwell.”
“Guy has guts,” said Berne.
Ingram smiled to himself, wishing Landa could see this. “Indeed he does.” I’m going to put the little son of a bitch in for a medal.
“That’s it for now, Commander,” said Boland.
“Thanks, Gunny. Return to your men. I still want to hold tight on the perimeter until morning.”
“Yes, sir.” Boland walked out.
Ingram muttered, “The rules are changing.” To Hammer, “Okay, that light ready to go?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Know how to use it?”
“I can, sir, but I feel certain, Marco Polo here can do a better job.”
Of course. “Jon, can you send a flashing-light message to the Maxwell?”
“You mean out the hatch?”
“That’s the idea.” With Hammer’s help he reached up to unclip the escape hatch.
Hammer plugged in the light and handed it to Berne, who asked, “What do I do?”
“Smile for the Commies,” said Peoples.
“Up yours, hillbilly,” said Berne.
Ingram said, “Flash ‘dog five.’”
“That’s letter dee and then a numeral five?”
“Right. They should respond with the same thing. And keep trying. They’re busy out there with all that damned searchlighting.”
“Okay.” Berne stepped on a foot brace and raised himself halfway through the hatch.
“How’s the weather out there, big Jon?” asked Peoples.
“Screw you.”
They laughed. Peoples cupped his hands to shout—
“Hey! Here we go. They roger dog five followed by able two-six. That’s us. What now?”
“Okay. Send ‘Tubby, MT 5 shoot one star.’ Got that?”
“Tubby, MT 5 shoot one star.”
“Right. And then wait for a roger.”
“Freezing my ass off.” Berne began clicking his signal lantern.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure Mr. Peoples will put you in for a Silver Star,” called Hammer.
“Over my dead body,” said Peoples loudly.
“That’s the spirit,” said Hammer.
Berne yelled down, “Leroy, when I get out of this, I’m going to beat the crap—ho, wait a minute. I have a roger from the Maxwell.”
“Good. Now sign off and come on down, Jon.” Ingram and Hammer grabbed Berne’s elbows and lowered him to the flight deck. Quickly they secured the hatch.
Berne’s eyebrows and hair were frosted. His teeth chattered as he said, “B-b-blanket.”
Hammer stepped aft to a locker, drew out a blanket, and wrapped it around Berne’s shoulders. “Sorry, no booze, Jon.”
Berne shivered. “I’m sure you have some stash
ed somewhere, you stingy bastard.”
Blam! A gun fired from the Maxwell.
Seconds later a star shell puffed gently into the night well beyond the Russian cruiser. Swinging on its little parachute, the flare eased down, fully illuminating the cruiser for the Maxwell’s gunners.
“What’s to keep them from shooting back?” asked Peoples.
“I don’t think so,” said Ingram. It was a gutsy move, Ingram knew. But the Maxwell had the drop on the Russian cruiser at the moment. She would be mortally wounded if gunfire broke out now. He repeated, “I don’t think so.”
The cruiser’s searchlights flicked off.
A half minute later the Maxwell turned off her searchlights. Then her anchor lights flicked off. With all the lights out, Shakhtyorsk was once again plunged into darkness.
Good. Ingram turned to Hammer. “Got another blanket?”
Hammer opened a locker. “All you need, Commander.” Then, “Oh my, oh my, what is this?”
“What?” they demanded.
Hammer reached in and carefully lifted out a bottle of brandy. “Who would ever do such a thing?”
Chapter Forty-Seven
4 December 1945
Shakhtyorsk Air Base, Sakhalin Oblast, USSR
“Commander, we got trouble.” It was Boland whispering in Ingram’s ear.
“Huh?” Ingram tried to straighten up, but he was cold and stiff from being wedged in between two passenger seats.
“Commies. Outside, sir, when you can.” Boland disappeared.
Ingram checked his watch: 7:42. Nearly sunrise. Gray light was already filtering through the C-54’s windows. Damn! He had overslept. He’d wanted to be up before dawn and outside with the Marines. They must be half frozen by now.
He reached over and shook Peoples. “Leroy. Off and on.”
“Huh?”
“No time for talk. Time’s a wasting.” Ingram shook off the blanket, rose, and jammed his feet into his boots. Grabbing his hat, he headed for the ladder.
He scrambled down, finding Boland waiting for him. Silently, the sergeant pointed past the M-16 and down the runway, toward the coast. In the distance a ragged line of soldiers walked toward them on the runway. More were bunched at the edges. It reminded Ingram of a suicide charge; they could have easily been mowed down. Except among the men were two M-16 half-tracks with quad .50-caliber machine guns. And behind them was a staff car.
Edge of Valor Page 36