THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Ingram still lay on his stomach, the pain barely subsiding. “Okay.”

  “Do you play chess?”

  “What?”

  “Chess. These people only play mahjong. I want to know if you play chess.”

  “A little.”

  “Excellent.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  11 June, 1944

  USS Morgan J. Thomas (DD 543)

  Four Hundred miles east of Saipan

  Task Force 58 ran through a slate-blue sea, an eighteen knot wind whipping foam off the wave tops. Formation course was into the wind at zero-seven-two; formation speed: fifteen knots. Task Group 58.3 steamed among the other four task groups, each a massive assembly clustered in a protective circle around carriers and battleships. Stationed at the center of Task Group 58.3 was the fleet carrier USS Lexington (CV 16), acting as formation guide. Surrounding the Lexington on a two thousand yard circle were the heavy carriers Princeton (CV 23), Enterprise (CV 6) and San Jacinto (CVL 30), the latter a light carrier built on a cruiser hull. Also on the 2,000 yard circle were four light cruisers and Spruance’s flagship, the heavy cruiser Indianapolis (CA 35). Screening this formation on the four thousand yard circle were thirteen destroyers, providing anti-aircraft and antisubmarine defense. Above were two four-plane groups of F6F hellcats keeping watch beneath a 2,300 foot ceiling of swirling dirty-gray clouds.

  At the head of the screen of TG 58.3, the destroyer USS Morgan J. Thomas (DD 543), pulled out of station number one, swinging into a one hundred eighty degree turn to starboard. Long, rolling waves were not kind to the Thomas as she bucked, pitched, and corkscrewed through deep, narrow troughs, her helmsman fighting her all the way through the turn. Finally, she steadied on the opposite course and zipped through the fleet at a relative speed of thirty knots, the other ships seeming to slip by in an eyeblink. Quickly, she penetrated the 2,000 yard circle and when nearly abreast of the Lexington, her officer of the deck ordered right standard rudder. This time, the Thomas’ helmsman patiently coaxed the ship back to formation course, and she took station 1,000 yards astern of the Lexington.

  Time after time, the Thomas’ bow rose high in the air only to crash into a wave, spraying a watery lather over a group of boatswain’s mates on the 02 level. The boatswain’s were setting-up a high-line station on top of Mount 52 forward of the bridge superstructure. It was humid and the air temperature was seventy-two; nobody minded getting soaked and they kept working.

  Behind the bridge superstructure, where the weather decks were dry and relatively pleasant, an officer in khaki work trousers and short sleeve shirt climbed the aft ladder to the Thomas’s signal bridge. The eagles of a full Navy captain glinted off his garrison cap and collar points. Jammed under his left arm was a light foul weather jacket, and he carried a worn leather briefcase in his right hand.

  Eight or so Sailors were gathered at the top of the ladder, smoking cigarettes and laughing. Suddenly, a chunky Sailor wearing a teeshirt, khaki trousers, and chief’s hat, shouted, “Make a hole, er, gangway. Good morning, Commodore.” He snapped to attention and saluted. The others pressed their backs to the bulkhead and did likewise.

  “Morning, Wesley,” Captain Jerry Landa flashed his signature 1000 watt smile and returned the salute. “Stand easy.” He eyed the men as they relaxed. The older ones had leathery faces, but two or three were young strikers, seventeen and eighteen years old, fidgeting in the proximity of a full Navy captain.

  It took a certain type to ride “tin cans.” Landa saw it in their faces: young, confident, strong, self-reliant, cocky. And intelligent, sometimes to the point of arrogance. They lived and worked in close quarters; tempers flared and fights occasionally broke out. But ashore, the same ones fighting each other aboard ship would stand back-to-back defending the Thomas’s honor against the world, be it against other Sailors, Marines, soldiers, or the enemy. Especially the enemy. Every chance they had they fought the Japanese bravely and viciously. And Landa was proud of every last one of them; these and the men in the other ships in his division.

  Landa said, “Take care of things while I’m gone, Wesley.”

  Wesley waved a tattooed arm across the ocean. “Out here, ain’t no problem, sir.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  Wesley continued, “It’s ashore I can’t guarantee, Sir. That damned R&R on Majuro. Just ain’t cutting it. Baseball, three point two beer, a shitty wind-up phonograph record player and no broads. Lotsa gooney birds and clean white beaches, I’ll grant you, but ah, you get my drift, sir.”

  Landa flashed another Pepsodent smile, “Noumea, soon, Chief, maybe even Sydney.”

  Wesley’s eyebrows went up. “No sh--, on the level, sir?”

  “You bet, Chief.” Landa lowered his voice and nodded to the group around him. “But do me a favor. Take care of the kids, ‘cause for sure you’ll see some Japs while I’m gone.”

  Wesley drew up. “No worries there, Commodore. You send us some Japs and my kids will give ‘em the old one, two, three.”

  “Promise?”

  “Short rhumba, long cuba libre.” Wesley winked, “Have a good trip, sir.”

  A signalman on the port bridge wing yelled, “Roger, close up.” He’d been watching the Lexington’s signal bridge through powerful pedestal-mounted binoculars. The carrier had raised an “R” flag, a yellow cross on a red field, to the top of her hoist, meaning, ‘I’m ready to receive you alongside.’ By day, flag hoists and by night, flashing light signals were the preferred method of communicating, lest the enemy eavesdrop on radio transmissions.

  Landa eased around the pilothouse bulkhead and spotted Commander Howard Endicott, the Thomas’ commanding officer, standing high on a pedestal at the port bridge-wing conning station. Red-headed with a crew-cut, Endicott weighed just 155 pounds and was dressed in working khaki’s, garrison cap and dark-brown aviator’s glasses. He acknowledged Landa with a nod, then leaned toward the pilot house and said, “This is the Captain. I have the conn.” With a look at Wesley, he jabbed a thumb in the air.

  Wesley bellowed to a young signalman striker, “Two-block Roger!” Furiously, the Sailor hauled the flag from the ‘dip’ or mid-point position all the way to the top of the hoist. It signaled to the carrier, ‘I am commencing my approach alongside.’

  Sometimes Wesley really laid it on. One could have heard him from the midst of a Rocky Mountain thunderstorm fifteen miles away.

  Endicott called into the pilot house, “Steady on course zero-seven-two. All engines ahead full. Indicate two-five-zero turns for twenty-five knots.” The Thompson’s uptakes whined, feeding air to her four Babcock and Wilcox boilers. Her screws dug in and soon she was up to speed, making a rapid approach to the “Lex.” The increasing wind rippled Endicott’s shirt. He whipped off his garrison cap and stuffed it into his back pocket. Landa stepped quietly next to him.

  The sheer power of the Thomas’ 60,000 shaft horsepower vibrated beneath Landa’s feet. These destroyers were the ultimate hot-rod. Given the right talent, one could do anything with them. And Landa knew Endicott was doing what hot-shot destroyer skippers loved to do. Stand tall; let his boys know he was captain of the USS Morgan J. Thomas and have fun with his ship.

  Right now, he was attempting a one-bell landing, which meant maneuvering the ship exactly alongside the carrier at a formation speed of fifteen knots with just one engine order, i.e., one bell.’ If Endicott reduced the Thomas’s speed to the carrier’s speed at the exact moment, no other engine orders would be necessary. The Thomas would settle to a position 150 feet alongside the Lexington and remain there as if parked. With the wind, waves, carrier wake, it was a tricky call. The reward for winning was nothing more than a hero’s welcome and bragging rights at the officers club. For a botched approached, maybe a career. Many skippers were more careful and elected to do the maneuver in precise increments. That took time. And they became nervous thinking about the brass on the carrier’s flying bridge looking down at the greenhorn tin can driver; maybe
shaking their heads.

  As she worked up to speed, the Thomas’ bow heaved up, only to crash down into a wave. Wind whistled stridently as she peaked over the waves, her bow once more digging deep into troughs, throwing a foamy mist over the bridge. Landa glanced at Endicott remembering his own hot-rod approaches. Landa had an uncanny seaman’s eye. ‘One Bell Landings’ became his signature. Even though he appreciated the eagles on his collar, he missed like hell not having his own ‘tin can’ to play with.

  Endicott looked down at Landa, “Going to miss you Jerry.”

  “I’ll bet.” Landa was going to miss them too. Months ago, he’d filled out a leave chit and it had been approved. That turned out to be a mistake. Now, he would miss the BIG show. They had ordered someone to take his place while he was gone. Captain Ralph Sorenson needed screen commanding experience and this would do nicely, they said. Landa had protested several times, but they wouldn’t let him out of it. The die was cast.

  Landa squinted. The Lexington’s 33,000 tons grew large and his seaman’s eye told him the range was down to about 500 yards. She was painted a smudgy dark grey, and from this angle, she reminded Landa of a sea-going tenement house. A rendering from his Brooklyn beginnings, he supposed. And if the wind caught you just right, the damn thing could smell like a tenement house, as she spewed stack gas in her wake.

  Nonchalantly, Endicott glanced at the compass card ensuring the helmsman was on the right course. “I can’t believe it,” he said.

  “Believe what?”

  400 yards.

  “Boom Boom Landa getting engaged.”

  Landa looked up and grinned. “I’m not married, yet.”

  “Yeah, but she’s way too classy for you, Jerry. I mean my God, Laura West, star of stage, screen, and radio, tying the knot with Boom Boom Landa.” Endicott returned the smile.

  200 yards.

  Many times, Landa had had the same thought. In one sense, he’d been half-way expecting a ‘Dear John’ letter from Laura, calling the whole thing off. “Animal magnetism,” he replied.

  Endicott snorted at that and began concentrating. The carrier loomed massively along their port side. Men peered down from her gun tubs. On the flight deck above, sun glinted off canopies of tightly packed helldivers, avengers, and hellcats. Above that, bareheaded khaki-clad figures braced a foot on the rail, looking down from the flag fly-bridge. “You giving her a diamond ring?”

  “Well, I have this deal on--”

  --Endicott barked, “All Engines ahead standard. Make 150 revolutions for fifteen knots.” He stooped to look in the pilothouse, making sure the leehelmsman executed the order promptly.

  Landa watched the Lexington. Endicott had reduced speed just as the Thomas’s bow crossed an imaginary perpendicular extending from the carrier’s fantail. Next came an anxious twenty seconds to see if it worked. Soon it was evident that she would glide smoothly into place. Course zero-seven-two, speed fifteen knots, and just 150 feet on the starboard side of the USS Lexington.

  Good call.

  Behind aviator’s glasses, Endicott’s eyes crinkled for just a moment.

  Landa smiled to himself. Endicott, you lucky bastard. And what an actor. Talking casually to his boss while conning his ship to a hero approach alongside the flagship of Task Force 58, carrying Vice Admiral Marc A. Mitscher. Landa, who thought he cornered the flamboyance market, had to give it to Endicott. His ship rated well, his men loved him, and he was one of the squadron darlings. And a good team player, too. That’s why Landa had chosen the Thomas as his division flagship.

  The Lexington’s flight deck towered over them, aircraft wings and tail empennages protruding over the side. An engine revved up, and an F6F hellcat right above them unfolded it’s wings and locked them into place. They couldn’t see the canopy, but they heard the engine thundering for a full ten seconds. Then it rolled forward and lunged off the carrier’s bow.

  “Jeez.” Landa whipped off his hat watching the hellcat claw for altitude. Carrying a drop tank, she sank to within twenty feet of the water, flying in surface effect. But the Grumman fighter soon sucked in her landing gear, gained speed and rose higher, curving up to the left and out of sight.

  Endicott stepped off his perch shaking his head. “There are times when zoomies earn their flight pay.”

  A loud speaker on the carrier clicked and a deep voice resonated, “On the Thomas, stand by for shot-line.”

  A moment later, a bosun’s mate on the carrier slowly swung a weighted ball called a monkey-fist around his head. After about five complete circles, he let it go with a graceful heave. The monkey-fist sailed across the chasm between the ships, landing on the Thomas’ 02 deck, just forward of the bridge. One of the Thomas’ Sailors scrambled to grab it. Soon they were pulling in the messenger lines attached to larger lines that would haul over the high-line gear.

  Something drew Landa and Endicott’s attention to the carrier’s flag bridge towering above them. Thin and wearing a long-billed ball cap, Vice Admiral Marc Mitscher looked down at them and waved.

  Landa and Endicott saluted. Landa whispered from the corner of his mouth, “You made points, Howard.”

  “Anything for the old man.”

  Mitscher returned the salute and clasped both hands over his head, a broad smile on his face. On Mitscher’s left stood his Chief of Staff, Captain Arleigh “Thirty-One Knot” Burke, hero of destroyer squadron twenty-three and the Battle of Cape St. George. But today, Burke didn’t look like a hero, his countenance hard and cold.

  Endicott said. “Jeez. I’d forgotten Burke was aboard.” He waved up to him, but Burke remained motionless.

  Landa said, “You’re uncovered, Mister.”

  Endicott whipped his garrison cap from his back pocket and adjusted it in place. “Aw, come on, Jerry. You don’t think he’d ding me just ‘cause I didn’t have a cap on.”

  Landa looked over the side to see if the highline was ready. An empty bosun’s chair rose off the carrier’s deck and bounced and jinked its way to the Thomas. “I’d say you’ll only get ten years in Leavenworth.” Landa held out a hand. “Time for me to head down there. Thanks for the ride, Howard. You run a good squadron flag. Please take care of Ralph Sorenson. He’s a good man.”

  They shook and Endicott said, “You can bet on it, Jerry. And when you come back, we’ll have rigged a six-stool bar in your cabin. Ladies too. All you want.”

  Landa gave a dazzling white smile. “Thanks, but I’ve got to be a good boy from now on in. I’m destined to be a married man.” He turned to head for the 02 level.

  “Jerry?”

  “Yep.”

  “You think they have any dope on Todd over there?”

  A shadow crossed Landa’s face. He’d had a hard time talking about Ingram. “Don’t know. You’d think they would have told us if they found something.”

  Endicott’s shoulders slumped a bit.

  “The Maxwell is due into Noumea tomorrow. I plan to stop by and look her over before I head for home.”

  “Say hello to everyone.”

  Landa drew up and saluted, “Permission to leave the ship, sir?”

  “Granted.”

  An ensign escorted Landa to the 02 level forward where they’d landed the bosun’s chair. It was painted in white and was tasseled with fancy work: a flagship’s bosun’s chair. His gear bag waited alongside, and the bosun’s mates said they’d ship it over on the next run.

  The Thomas nosed into a wave, drenching Landa while he donned a life preserver. Water ran down his face and dripped off his nose as he sat in the cage-like contraption. A Sailor cinched a series of buckles, which reminded Landa of how a condemned man feels when strapped in the electric chair. Someone pat him on the shoulder. “Have a good trip, sir. Stay dry.”

  “I’ll try.” He looked to see who spoke, but a bosun bellowed an unintelligible order. Suddenly, the chair was jerked up and rode high in the air; bouncing and swaying its way back the Lexington. Landa had done this many times, and against
the caution of others, looked down, fascinated with the waters racing between the ships. It was a classic example of the Bernoulli effect: a fluid compressed into a tight area, flowed at a dizzying pace between the ships. It generated a green-white turbulence that looked like the gates of hell without the fire. If one was dunked in there, his chances of survival were not good. It made Landa wonder why he wore this damned life preserver. Down in that maelstrom, he’d be chopped to pieces by one of the ship’s churning screws.

  It hit Landa that this was the area where the Maxwell had been attacked. He imagined he could see through the creamy vortices and into the ocean depths. Hi, Todd. This is as close as I can get. Thanks for everything. I’ll always remember you.

  Something made him look up. Most of the flag officers had left their fly-bridge, the show being over for the time being. But Arleigh Burke remained, hands widely braced on the bulwark, his cold blue eyes staring down at him.

  Landa smiled.

  Burke stared.

  “Jeez, what have I done now?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  11 June, 1944

  USS Lexington CV 16

  Four Hundred miles east of Saipan

  There were stories of ghoulish bosuns, who allowed the highline to droop just a bit, with hopes of giving the ‘brass’ – the officers -- in the chair a ‘butt wash.’ But the bosun’s aboard the Thomas worked the highline with care, giving Landa a dry ride. Out-haul and in-haul were smoothly coordinated, and Landa soon looked down on a group of burly Sailors on the Lexington’s hanger deck. The highline was eased, and Landa boarded the carrier as if he were stepping off an elevator.

  A bosun helped him unbuckle and he rose from the chair and saluted the flag. A dark, curly haired Lieutenant (j.g) walked up, a long, shinny, brass telescope tucked under his arm. His name tag said, ‘Symmons.’

  Landa saluted. “Permission to come aboard, Sir?”

  Returning the salute, the jay gee said, “Permission granted, Commodore. Welcome to the Lexington.”