Edge of Valor

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “I don’t understand. Dezhnev is a highly regarded officer, is he not?”

  Blinde said, “Not anymore. He’s working for you, the Office of Naval Intelligence.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “Know what, damn it?”

  “You should ask your buddy Toliver.”

  “Speak English.”

  “Except I don’t think that will be possible now.”

  “Why not?”

  Kulibin sauntered over and tapped Blinde on the shoulder.

  Blinde said, “We must leave, Commander. I wish we had met under different circumstances.”

  “Not me.”

  Kulibin clapped his hands and called, “Oleg.”

  “Da.” The big blond thug walked up and slapped Ingram hard. His leather jacket squeaked while he tied Ingram’s hands with telephone cord. Then he pulled a pistol from the small of his back, a German Walther 7.65-mm PPK. Oleg’s enormous hand made the pistol look like a toy. He ran his hand over the action and cocked it.

  “Nyet,” Blinde shouted. “Podozhdi poka my uidyom.” (Wait until we leave.)

  “Hokay.” Oleg lowered the pistol, set the safety, and stuffed it back in his waistband. Then he wrapped tape around Ingram’s mouth.

  Ingram’s nose was swollen from the fighting, and it was already hard to breath. He squirmed and kicked his feet and growled.

  Again the Russian backhanded him.

  It was all Ingram could do to will himself to be quiet, to stop breathing hard, to quell the panic rising in his throat.

  Blinde and Borzakov each took an end of the crate and picked it up. Kulibin stood by passively, his hands behind his back, watching Ingram as if he were a bug on a microscope slide.

  Blinde said, “I’m sorry, truly I am.” He nodded to Borzakov and the two men carried the crate out the door. Kulibin lingered for a moment, then tipped two fingers to his forehead and followed.

  Is this it? Ingram’s heart must have been pumping at 220 beats a minute. His head throbbed, and he sensed Oleg moving around like a caged animal. What the hell was he doing? Cigarette butts! The idiot was picking up Japanese cigarette butts and stuffing them in his pocket. Then he opened desk drawers, peering at documents. Some drawers he dumped on the hard-packed clay; a few papers he stuffed into a leather briefcase. Seconds turned into minutes as the man quietly canvassed the room, then the bunkrooms off to the side, one of which was where Ingram had originally met Walter Boring.

  Oleg emerged from the bunkroom, walked over, and patted Ingram down, removing everything from his pockets. Nothing seemed to interest him, and he pitched it all on the ground: he didn’t take Ingram’s watch or his Naval Academy ring.

  The Russian swept the room for a long moment with steel-gray eyes. Finally, he looked down at Ingram and smiled. He reached back and pulled the Walther PPK from the small of his back as if he were tugging out a handkerchief.

  Lightning bolts danced in Ingram’s head. He felt cold and hot at the same time, and jerked against his bindings. Like a wild-eyed cow in a slaughterhouse, he knew his time had come. His breath came in short gasps. He couldn’t sweat enough; he couldn’t cry out. The realization hit that he had just seconds to live. All he could think of was how cruel life had been to him and how short it was. Helen swirled in his mind, and he thanked God for her. She was the best thing that ever—

  “Goodbye, Yank.” The Russian raised his pistol and pointed right it between Ingram’s eyes. His thumb traveled to the safety.

  There was a blast. Ingram, waiting for death, wondered, Shouldn’t I be dead? But it was Oleg Lepechn’s forehead with a neat hole in it, not his. Blood and gray matter spewed out the back of his skull. With his eyes wide open and knees locked, the giant fell straight back to crash among rolled-up charts and a pair of overturned chairs.

  A man was at the entrance. Ingram’s heart jumped. It was a Russian dressed in a fur cap and heavy overcoat; a PPSh submachine gun was slung over one shoulder, an M-1 carbine hung over the other. He was in a two-handed stance, and a wisp of smoke rose from the muzzle of his .45. He quickly swept the pistol over the rest of the room. Vapor puffed from his mouth as he walked into the bunkrooms and checked them carefully. Looking from side to side, the man walked up to Oleg, stooped, and put two fingers on the corpse’s carotid artery, making sure Oleg really was a corpse.

  Satisfied, he looked up at Ingram, stood, and walked over.

  Ingram squeezed his eyes shut.

  Chapter Fifty

  4 December 1945

  Shakhtyorsk Air Base, Sakhalin Oblast, USSR

  Instead of a cold gun barrel against his neck Ingram felt the tape being carefully peeled from his mouth. His eyes snapped open. It was a U.S. Marine. It was . . . “Ah-Amaya,” Ingram stammered. He gasped and sucked in large breaths of cool, wonderful air.

  “You okay, Commander?” Amaya asked, shedding his Russian overcoat. He threw off the fur cap and plopped on the helmet that had been hanging from his web belt, his eyes all the while sweeping the room.

  “Get me out of this Amaya.”

  “Yes, sir.” Amaya whipped out his bayonet and easily cut through the telephone cord.

  Ingram rubbed his wrists. “How did you manage this?” He stood, feeling wobbly.

  Amaya grabbed Ingram’s elbow to steady him. “They’re gone. They loaded our gear in the command car and had the gunny march the boys down the runway. They turned right and headed for the Rooskie pier.”

  Circulation returned. Ingram’s wrists and ankles glowed and itched with new life. “Thanks, Amaya,” he pushed away and stood on his own.

  “That’s not all.”

  “What?”

  “I heard the Russian officer tell the gunny that they’ll give us a ride back to the Maxwell and ‘poof,’ we’ll be gone.”

  “That sounds encouraging. But tell me what made you decide to come after me?”

  “After they marched off the squad, the remaining Rooskies fell in and headed back.”

  “How many?”

  “Umm, twenty, maybe thirty guys. But the command car didn’t leave right away. It just sat there with the engine idling.”

  “I wonder why?”

  “I’m not sure. But up in the tower, I got worried. I saw those Rooskies take you to the bunker. You walked in, but you didn’t come out.”

  “Can you see the bunker from up there?”

  “Yes, sir. Not the entrance, but the top of the bunker and some trenches around it. So I’m thinking about all this when their top kick decides to send someone back to check the tower. They were marching away when this guy climbs up the ladder right to the top. You should have seen his eyes when he saw me. Big as saucers. So I bopped him on the head. Not a sound. Then I put on his stuff and climbed on down. I just marched past the two guys in the command car and into the brush.”

  “What made you come here?”

  “Me? Like I said, you weren’t with those Russians when they came back. And later, that civilian, Mr. Blinde—he’s workin’ for the Commies, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So Mr. Blinde and this other civilian came back carrying a crate. And right behind them is a Russian officer. He looked important.”

  “Skipper of that Russian cruiser.”

  “So that’s it. This other guy with Mr. Blinde was dopey looking. He was wearing a black leather jacket and some sort of mobster hat; kind of like Al Capone. So they loaded the crate on the command car and took off. Hell, I didn’t know what to do. But I kept thinking about you and decided to come here and . . .” he waved at the corpse.

  On the trip up from Atsugi, Ingram had watched Private Amaya laughing and cutting up with the others. He was an eighteen-year-old from New York with sandy hair who spoke with a Brooklyn accent and had a lopsided grin. He looked as if he had just started shaving. And now, in an instant, Amaya had become a man, looking every inch a Marine. His face was at once very serious and yet relaxed, confident but vigilant.
His eyes darted everywhere, the pistol still poised.

  “I owe you my life, Amaya. Thank you,” said Ingram.

  “Well, I suppose it’s my job, sir.”

  Ingram’s knees still felt shaky, and he knew it wasn’t from being tied up. Time to put on a good face. “And well done too. Here, give me a moment.” Ingram stooped, picked up the PPK, and stuffed it into his belt at the small of his back, Oleg style. Then he checked Oleg’s pockets, finding an extra clip for the pistol. There was an ID kit inside Oleg’s jacket. A strange-looking metal badge and a wallet—very thin, no rubles, just a crinkled photo of an elderly couple. Then he picked up his own belongings that Oleg had cast aside. Standing, he said, “Okay.”

  “How are we going to do this, Commander?”

  “I’m working on it.” Ingram hadn’t the foggiest idea.

  It was late afternoon by the time they finished creeping the length of the runway. They turned north for the pier and . . . Amaya raised a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

  They stopped. It was one of the 105-mm gun emplacements. Two of the crew sat around a small bonfire warming their hands. Another was drawing a canvas cover over the barrel. Three more were loading gear on a truck while a lone soldier walked the perimeter with a rifle over his shoulder, occasionally stamping his feet.

  Ingram whispered. “Packing up?”

  “Looks like it.”

  Silently, they eased around the gun emplacement, giving it a wide berth.

  Someone shouted. An engine started nearby. Then another. Then many. The ground shook with vehicles on the move. Ingram muttered, “What are these guys doing?”

  More vehicles rumbled nearby. They came to a break in the brush and saw a muddy road. As they crouched in the underbrush two T-34 tanks, four M-16s, and four trucks swept by, their gears clanking as wheels and treads churned through the mud. Ingram looked at Amaya, who shrugged. The convoy petered out, and they waited for a moment making sure the road was clear.

  “Now.” Ingram said. They dashed across just as another tank clanked around a bend and snarled past. He looked back. The tank hadn’t stopped. Nor did any of the ten trucks that sloshed by afterward.

  With stealth no longer necessary, Ingram and Amaya made their way through tall grass and up to the top of a berm. Below them lay the pier. It extended about three hundred feet into the Sea of Japan, where twelve knots of wind whipped up waves, a few topped with whitecaps. To their right, the Admiral Volshkov lay a thousand yards off the beach. To their left, the Maxwell’s graceful lines stood out as she swung at anchor, her battle ensign now stowed and her flag flying at the fantail. A low gray shape bobbed around her bow and swept down her starboard side—the Maxwell’s motor whaleboat patrolling around the destroyer in slow, lazy circles. Ingram muttered, “What I wouldn’t give for Boland’s walkie-talkie.”

  Amaya glanced at Ingram as if to say, “Wishful thinking.”

  A large, slab-sided logging barge was moored near the far end of the pier. Groups of ragged soldiers stood or sat on the barge. Ingram soon realized they were Japanese soldiers, the remainder of the garrison originally promised to the Americans. But the Japanese were heavily guarded by Soviet troops on the pier who stood fast and kept them covered with their PPSh submachine guns.

  Closer in, two dark gray 36-foot personnel boats bobbed alongside the pier. Red flags emblazoned in gold with the Soviet star, hammer, and sickle drooped from tall staffs mounted on their transoms. Soldiers moved about on the pier, loading boxes and gear on the boats.

  Ingram nudged Amaya.

  “Sir?”

  “Our ticket home.” He nodded toward the squad of Marines standing on the opposite side of the pier, their rifles and equipment stacked before them. They were surrounded by twenty or so Russian guards poised with submachine guns. Sergeant Boland walked inside the perimeter, looking his tormentors up and down as if he were reviewing them at the Marine barrack at Eighth and I Streets in Washington, D.C.

  “Gunny,” rasped Amaya.

  “Yep.”

  Ingram started to rise when something caught his eye. Colin Blinde and Gennady Kulibin were settling onto white cushions in the stern of the nearest boat. Borzakov stood amidships watching two sailors lash the crate atop the engine cover. Satisfied, Borzakov waved to Blinde and Kulibin, braced a foot on a gunwale, and deftly stepped back onto the pier. He stood stiffly as sailors cast off the boat’s lines. Kulibin and Blinde were deep in conversation and barely noticed Borzakov as the boat backed away from the pier and then lunged forward, leaving a cloud of greasy blue diesel smoke. The NKVD man paced up and down on the pier, head hidden under his slouch hat, hands jammed in his jacket pockets.

  Ingram watched the boat head out into the chop. One of the finest and most promising young minds in the United States was on board that craft. Colin Blinde had been given the advantages of a respected family, a superior education, and entrée into society at the highest levels. Indeed, he had the confidence of his government. Squandered Blinde family riches of the past had reached forward and twisted this young man and shrouded from him the ability to distinguish between right and wrong. He was incapable of caring or understanding the epic proportions of what he had done: he had betrayed his country. It was abject greed in the name of resuming his family’s fortune and restoring the Blinde name to whatever former glory it had enjoyed . . . and buying another house in the Hamptons.

  Ingram thought of simple, likable Walter Hodges and what Colin Blinde had done to him; and to Sally and their child. And others as well—Boring for certain, and he didn’t know how many others. The blond young man bobbing up and down in those waves, heading toward the Admiral Volshkov, exemplified what can go wrong in a civilization at its apex, even the United States, a proud nation at the top of its game.

  The din of truck and tank engines grew. The air was filled diesel smoke and occasional shouts. “These guys are on the move,” said Amaya.

  “Looks like it. You ready?”

  “I’m with you, sir.”

  They stood. “Okay. Just remember to stay behind cover as long as possible. We don’t want to give these people too much time to think.”

  “Got it.”

  They found a path and walked down the hill into what looked like a vehicle park. The group appeared to be breaking up as a command car peeled away leading six trucks, two M-16s, and three tanks onto the road toward the mountains.

  They came upon a lone tank, a T-34, its unmuffled engine rumbling loudly. Ingram nearly stumbled into a man in dark, grease-stained overalls and leather helmet. The tanker wiped his hands with an oil-stained rag. “Oops,” Ingram sputtered.

  “Da?” The man asked. “Otkuda ty prishyol?” (Where did you come from?)

  “Spasibo,” Ingram tried.

  The man shouted. “Stoi tam!” (Wait right there!)

  Ingram turned, smiled, spread his hands, and said, “Sorry, we’re in a hurry.” To Amaya, “Come on.”

  They dashed into the park, racing between trucks and an occasional Jeep. Ducking around a command car, they walked onto the pier toward Boland and his squad. Ingram heard angry shouts behind him.

  Russians walked past. One or two stopped, astonished that two Americans strolled nonchalantly among them. The shouting from behind grew closer.

  The tanker.

  “Keep walking,” said Ingram, bumping into a Russian rating.

  “Bet on that, sir.”

  Twenty yards.

  Boland’s ears picked up the commotion. Quickly, he took it all in as soldiers descended on Ingram and Amaya from three different directions. He roared at his squad, “All right, you sissies, fall in.”

  They looked at him, bewildered.

  “Fall in!”

  A corporal still stood motionless, his hands on his hips.

  Boland growled, “That means now, pissant, on the double. Two ranks, dressrihyet—hess.” Then, “Dee-tail, ten-hut!”

  The Marines snapped to attention.

  “For-arrrrd—mark time�
��harch!”

  Boland screeched out the cadence, completely smashing his words, “Lehp . . . lehp . . . lehpha-right, lehp.”

  Getting the idea, the Marines marched in place, stomping their feet loudly, kicking up dust.

  The Russians looked from the squad to the commotion around the two Americans and back to the squad. It was enough. Ten seconds later Ingram and Amaya popped through the crowd. Amaya took a position in the second rank, Ingram before the squad.

  Boland growled, “Houn-off!”

  In unison, the Marines shouted, “One! Two! Three! Four! One! Two! Three! Four!”

  Russians pressed in on all sides watching Boland’s parade. The tanker burst through the crowd and reached for Ingram.

  “Nyet, nazad!” (No, stand back!)

  At once, the tanker stopped and took a pace back.

  Captain Third Rank Eduard Dezhnev walked through the gathered Russians and stood before Ingram. Quietly, he said, “That’s enough, Todd.”

  Ingram caught Boland’s eye and drew a finger across his throat.

  Boland growled, “Deeee-tail, halt!” Then, “Par-haaaaade-hest!”

  Ingram said to Dezhnev, “Do you wish to inspect my men?”

  Dezhnev moved close and said quietly, “Very funny. You have one chance here.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Just load your gear and get on board that boat as fast as you can. Shove off as soon as you’re ready.”

  Ingram turned and called the order to Boland.

  Boland dismissed the men and they turned to, loading their gear.

  As they watched, Dezhnev asked, “What happened back there? Why didn’t you come out with Colin? And where’s Lepechn? Borsakov is going crazy looking for him.”

  Ingram looked out into the crowd. Borzakov was speaking with a young naval officer, waving his arms.

  “Oleg won’t be coming back.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “Oleg is dead. We killed him. He was going to kill me.”