Edge of Valor

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

“This is nonsense.”

  “Face the facts. And I hate to tell you this, but your cover is blown.”

  Dezhnev turned to him. “What are you talking about?”

  “Blinde and Kulibin know about you and that Toliver is your control.” Ingram was guessing at this point, but the look on Dezhnev’s face told him he had hit home.

  Ingram continued, “And your boy Gennady.” He pointed to the Admiral Volshkov. “You should see what he has in mind for you.”

  “Go on.”

  “I can’t put this to you very delicately, but he wants to send you to this nice little resort in Moscow called, Lub . . . Lube . . .”

  “Lubyanka?”

  “Lubyanka. Yes, that’s it . . . if your mother doesn’t go along with what he has in mind. I’m guessing they’ll do it anyway because of your relationship with Ollie.”

  Dezhnev looked down. “He has been after Anoushka for months.”

  “Well, apparently he’s tired of waiting.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yes. Deep shit.”

  Dezhnev’s shoulders sagged. “It’s . . . like . . . I’ve been trying to tell you, those are sick people out there.” He pointed to the cruiser. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to say we have someone just as sick out there with him. His name is Colin Blinde.”

  Dezhnev straightened. “You too, Todd. They intend to kill you. They’re going to sink the Maxwell.”

  “What the hell? How?”

  “Tonight. After sunset.” Dezhnev checked his watch. “In about an hour and a half when it’s dark and there are no witnesses. Kulibin intends to fire a full spread of torpedoes at the Maxwell. That’s why they want you out there. Everything gone in one big explosion. Poof.”

  “He can’t do that.”

  “Oh, yes, he can. These are Soviet waters. He’ll claim it was aggravated. With all this cargo plane nonsense he can make a case. We were harassed. They fired on us last night—”

  “That was an illumination round.”

  Dezhnev raised a hand. “Nevertheless, they fired a shot at us. It’ll be tied up in international tribunals for years. Kulibin’s family has strong contacts at the most senior levels. He’ll get away with it.”

  The audacity. Ingram refused to believe it. “This is crazy. Are you sure?”

  “That flag business last night embarrassed him and made him really angry. They were abandoning this base anyway and will now finish the job by sunset.” He swept his arm at trucks grinding over a hill. “That’s about the last of them. We’ll be completely gone. Tonight is reserved for the big show with the Maxwell.”

  “That truck convoy. Where are they going?”

  He pointed east. “We’re sending everything over to Leonidovo on the east coast. A much better airfield with direct access to the Pacific.”

  “You’re saying he really intends to do this?”

  “Nobody around to testify. Nothing here by morning except empty vodka bottles.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “There’s more.”

  “What could be worse?”

  Dezhnev pointed to the barge. “See that?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, I mean look closely.”

  A group of heavily armed Russians moved among the Japanese prisoners, pushing them onto the barge’s deck and fussing around their feet.

  “What are they doing?” asked Ingram.

  “That, my friend, is a fine example of one of the highest achievements of the Soviet Union. They are tying each prisoner to a six-hundred-foot length of anchor chain flaked on the barge. After sinking the Maxwell, they intend to connect that anchor chain to the Admiral Volshkov and pull it off the barge.”

  “Drag them off the barge? Drown them?”

  “Shhhhh. Keep your voice down. Yes. Isn’t that brilliant? Captain First Rank Gennady Kulibin has discovered a way to solve a troublesome logistics problem involving the difficult task of the care and feeding of Japanese prisoners of war. Now he gets rid of it in one fell swoop. He thought of it last night and received Beria’s permission this morning.”

  “Who is Beria?”

  “Lavrenti Beria: commissar of the NKVD. Second only to Josef Stalin.”

  “These really are a bunch of sick bastards.”

  “I agree. So the question remains, what can we do?”

  “We?”

  “I serve my country, Todd, as you have seen in the past. But I don’t serve these animals.”

  “We’re in this together?”

  Dezhnev lifted a corner of his mouth. “You should have believed me to begin with.” He took a step back and jammed his hands on his hips. “Any ideas?”

  “Ever since you said torpedoes I’ve been thinking of something. It may work.”

  “May work?”

  “If it doesn’t, we’re screwed.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  4 December 1945

  Shakhtyorsk Air Base, Sakhalin Oblast, USSR

  In spite of the deep overcast Dezhnev knew the sun was close to setting. There were no shadows and it was getting dark. Time to get moving. He yelled to Borzakov, “I said I am taking these men back to the tower to recover some of their radio equipment. There are codebooks and I want to confiscate them.”

  “How are you going to do this?”

  “We march out there, pick up the radio equipment, and march back here.” Dezhnev lowered his voice. “That’s where you come in, my friend.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When we return, I will be ‘examining’ their radio with you next to me. That’s when I will pass the codebooks to you.”

  Borzakov rubbed his chin. “It could work.” Then he asked, “How did you learn of all this?”

  “I overheard them talking and convinced them we could go back to recover the codebooks. We will return in twenty minutes. In the meantime, make sure the rest of them get aboard the boat and out to the destroyer so they can offload their gear. Believe me, we’ll save time.”

  “What about these men here?” protested Borzakov.

  “Our coxswain will tell the Americans to send their motor whaleboat back and pick them up.”

  “But—”

  Dezhnev stood close, their noses almost touching. “This could be an intelligence coup, for you, comrade. People in Dzerzhinsky Square will be very pleased.”

  “But these men have their rifles. Who authorized that? And what if . . .”

  “What if a handful of Americans go up against us? What then?”

  “I . . .”

  “We’ll squash them like bugs.” Dezhnev waved his PPSh.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Comrade, we’re out of time.”

  Borzakov sighed. “All right. Go ahead.” He stepped aside.

  Dezhnev turned to Boland. “You may proceed, Sergeant.”

  Boland puffed out his chest. “Aye, aye, sir. Deeeee-tail. Ten-hut!”

  The men snapped to attention.

  “Hight—shoulder—harms.”

  Six M-1 Garand rifles were yanked from the ground and plopped on the Marines’ right shoulders.

  “For-aaaaarrrrd . . . harch! Leph . . . Lehp . . . Lehp ha-rih lehp.” The remaining Russians cleared a path as Boland marched his men past the 36-foot shore boat. Ingram and the other Marines were already on board, their gear stacked high. The mooring lines were taken in; the engine roared, and the coxswain twisted the boat from the pier and then backed away. For an instant, Ingram and Dezhnev locked eyes, Ingram with crossed fingers jammed to his chest, Dezhnev with the slightest of nods. Another member of Dezhnev’s detail was Pfc. Edwin Amaya, who winked at Ingram as he marched past.

  The Russian sailors watched Boland, his six Marines, and Dezhnev march down the pier and onto the coast road.

  The whaleboat growled through the waves on the way out to the Maxwell. The Marines’ gear had made the boat a bit top heavy, and it rocked drunkenly from side to side.

  The c
loser they came to the destroyer, the better the view of the Admiral Volshkov. From the pier they had seen only a stern aspect as she swung at anchor. As they approached the Maxwell, the single-stacked cruiser was unveiled in a broadside view, her sleek German lines graceful, functional, and deadly. A cold wave of apprehension swept over Ingram as he realized Dezhnev was right. The cruiser’s two portside torpedo tubes were trained out and aimed at the Maxwell. Each mount carried three torpedo tubes, making a total of six torpedoes aimed at the Maxwell. Each torpedo was most likely a German-design G7a, 21-inch, 44-knot torpedo with a warhead packing 617 pounds of hexanite high explosive. The little 2,100-ton destroyer would be vaporized in one salvo. Also, it hit Ingram that if the Maxwell tried to weigh anchor or train out her own guns or take any other defensive action, Kulibin would fire early to remove the threat.

  He looked to the rapidly darkening sky. Hurry.

  The Russian coxswain backed the boat’s engine as it slid next to the accommodation ladder dangling over the Maxwell’s port side. Tubby White stood above on the main deck, hands on his hips. Beside him were Andy Markham, the executive officer, and Julian Falco, the gunnery officer. A number of sailors crowded behind them.

  Ingram turned to a short, bull-chested lance corporal and said, “Karzarian, we have exactly ninety seconds to get our men and gear off this boat. After that, I’m shoving them off.”

  “Aye, aye, Commander.” Karzarian called to his men and they began tossing their gear up to the waiting sailors.

  Ingram scrambled up the ladder, throwing a salute first at the flag and then at Tubby White. Not standing on formality, White demanded, “What the hell do those Commies want?”

  Waving Markham and Falco over, Ingram said, “There’s not much time.”

  “I gathered that,” said White.

  Ingram said, “Get your men to GQ, but don’t sound the alarm. I don’t want them to notice anything out of the ordinary.”

  “I’ve already done that.”

  “You have?”

  “Todd, what would you do if you had six Commie torpedoes pointed right at you?”

  “Good, except don’t exercise the gun mounts. Just keep them at ready air. And nobody visible in the topside 40- or 20-millimeter mounts. I don’t want the Russians to figure out what we’re trying to do. And get a couple of boatswain’s mates ready to slip the anchor.”

  “What the hell? Cut my anchor?”

  “That’s the idea. And have main control ready to answer all bells. And Tubby, very important . . .”

  “Shoot.”

  “Make sure no one on the weather decks is visible to the Admiral Volshkov, especially the guys on the foredeck.”

  “Yes, sir.” White turned to a talker and relayed the orders to the bridge.

  Ingram turned to Falco, “Can you have all mounts load a round of AP and stand by for salvo fire?”

  Falco asked, “You mean ram them too, sir?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Falco and White locked eyes.

  “Do it, Julian,” said White.

  “Aye, aye, gentlemen.” Falco took off at a dead run for director 51.

  White said, “Todd, except for the 20-millimeters, all topside 40-millimeter mounts are manned and ready. But they’re to be stooped down behind the gun tubs, not visible to the cruiser.”

  With a roar of its diesel, the Russian shore boat backed clear, spun, and steadied on a course for the Admiral Volshkov. In a glance, Ingram saw that his six Marines were on board the Maxwell, their gear piled against a bulkhead.

  Ingram caught Karzarian’s eye. The lance corporal reached in a pack, pulled out a walkie-talkie, and walked over. “Will this do, Commander?”

  “Thanks, I hope so. Is the battery okay?”

  Karzarian checked a tiny dial. “Says it’s up to full charge, sir.”

  “Okay.” Ingram held up the walkie-talkie and keyed the mike. “John Wayne, this is Roy Rogers, over.”

  He switched to receive. Nothing. Ingram listened again.

  “. . . Roy . . .” Static.

  “John Wayne, your signal weak, over.” He looked at Karzarian.

  The corporal shook his head.

  Suddenly Boland’s voice boomed, “Wagons are circled. We’re ready.”

  Ingram yelled, “Hear you five by five. Commence fire!” To White, he nodded toward the bridge, waving Karzarian to follow. They had just stepped on the open bridge when they heard a report from the beach.

  Ingram peeked over the bulwark in time to see the 105-mm shot land well over the Admiral Volshkov. Grabbing a set of binoculars, he rose up and looked again. The men surrounding the Admiral Volshkov’s torpedo mounts were looking forward, not bent over their sighting mechanisms.

  Ingram keyed the walkie-talkie mike. “This is John Wayne. Down two hundred, right one-fifty—over.”

  “Zzzzzhhhhr! . . . one-fifty! Out.”

  Again, the 105-mm boomed from shore. The round splashed alongside the cruiser’s bridge, raising a tall column of brownish-gray water.

  “Not bad for a bunch of jarheads,” said White.

  Ingram glanced at Karzarian.

  Karzarian’s eyes twinkled. “Boland’s done some can-cocking in his time.”

  “Well, it shows.” Ingram bellowed into the walkie-talkie, “Right fifty. Fire for effect!”

  Zzzgggh!! The 105 boomed.

  Almost simultaneously, the aft turret of the Admiral Volshkov belched out a salvo toward the beach.

  Falco shouted from the director. “Torpedoes in the water.”

  A 105-mm round landed on the Admiral Volshkov’s 01 deck, blowing away her single stack.

  The aft mount barked back.

  White jumped to the pilothouse and shouted, “Foredeck, slip the anchor. Main control, all ahead full.” He looked at Ingram, “You ready to shoot at a bunch of Commies?”

  “They fired at us first,” said Ingram.

  White bunched a fist and yelled up to director 51, “Mr. Falco!”

  Falco’s head popped from the hatch. “Sir?”

  Pointing at the Admiral Volshkov, White barked, “Guns free. There’s your target.”

  On the bow, one of the two boatswain’s mates swung a sledgehammer and smacked the pelican hook releasing the anchor chain. Then he ran aft for the protection of the deck house as the anchor chain raced like a writhing black snake from the chain locker with a resounding clatter; its bitter end capable of killing anyone in its path.

  At the same time, Tubby’s full-ahead bell was transmitted from the bridge to main control in the forward engine room. The enginemen were ready and instantly spun their wheels, cracking the throttles. The Maxwell’s screws dug in and she surged forward.

  Boland’s next round landed near the Admiral Volshkov’s bridge, flinging wreckage and bodies high in the air.

  Ingram couldn’t dwell on that now. The sobering reality was that torpedo wakes were racing toward the Maxwell. Except there were only four torpedos. Where were the other two?

  One passed ahead, missing by no more than twenty yards.

  Another raced by well astern, its white-streaked wake trailing bubbles.

  The next passed just twenty yards aft of the Maxwell, still building speed. Ingram’s heart sank. The next torpedo headed right for the forward fire room. There was no dodging that one. He gripped the bulwark tightly. Dear God.

  The torpedo hit with a loud clank.

  Karzarian recovered first. “No shit! A dud.”

  Ingram crossed himself. Others on the bridge did the same.

  Falco had shifted all five of the 5-inch gun mounts to automatic control, linking them to the main battery director in deadly synchronization. He swung them to port, and now the 16-foot-long barrels were laid directly onto the Admiral Volshkov. He yelled down from the director. “On target. We have a solution.”

  White called back, “Where are you aimed, Mr. Falco?”

  “At a spot right under the number 1 turret.” For show, he held up a portable brass gu
n trigger connected by a thick rubber cord to the inside. “Why?”

  Normally, that would be an impertinent question, but these two had worked together for a long time and were complete professionals. “Just curious,” said White.

  Ingram urged, “Tubby they still have two more torpedos to fire.”

  White yelled, “Commence fire!”

  Falco squeezed.

  The ship recoiled as all five of the 5-inch guns belched a 54-pound armorpiercing projectile equipped with a base-detonating fuse at a muzzle velocity of 2,600 feet per second. The projectiles reached the Admiral Volshkov in 1.1 seconds, all impacting within a 20-foot diameter of where Falco’s giant optical sights were aimed. The Volkov’s foredeck blazed with light. Then her bridge. A gigantic plume of black smoke gushed from where her funnel had been. With an enormous crack the ship rose ten feet, spewing wreckage and streaming columns of smoke and bodies, the light shimmering and suddenly glowing with the intensity of a hundred suns.

  With the others, Ingram ducked behind the bridge bulwark as the shock wave slammed over them, pummeling their ears, their bodies, their clothes with a blast of hot air. Red-hot chunks of shrapnel clanked and fell among them, one piece glancing off Ingram’s shoe and sizzling to a stop just three feet away, burning into the painted deck. Amazing. Ingram stood and looked at the Admiral Volshkov. Except she wasn’t there. Only a heavy cloud of thick white smoke and churning whitecaps remained. I’ll be damned. To his left, Ingram saw the Russian 36-foot shore boat running in circles. Nobody was at the controls. It was like a child’s forgotten toy. Finally, a lone Russian sailor struggled to his feet, his silhouette barely distinguishable in the fading light.

  White rose beside him. “Would you ever believe?”

  “I’m as astounded as you are,” said Ingram.

  “How are we going to explain this?”

  “I don’t know, but for now let’s get to the pier, pick up our Marines and the Japanese POWs, and head out to rendezvous with those four cans. I have a feeling Ivan won’t want to tangle with a group that size. One maybe, but not all five of us.”

  White barked, “Boatswain’s mate of the watch, turn on the running lights. And set the special sea and anchor detail.” He pointed. “We’re mooring to that pier, port side to, so break out some dock lines and fenders.”