A chunky man wearing garrison cap, life vest, and captain’s eagles walked up and extended his hand. “How goes it, Jerry? We all set over there?” He nodded to the Thomas riding smoothly alongside.
Landa shook hands with Captain Ralph Sorenson, his relief. He followed Sorenson to the bosun’s chair and said as they began strapping him in, “As best as it can be, Ralph. Full mutiny in progress, half the crew down with the clap, and the ship has only ten percent fuel oil remaining. The rest of your tin cans out there only have five percent.”
Sorenson grinned, as two Sailors tightened buckles. “Situation normal.” He whipped off his cap and stuffed it in his shirt. “How about Endicott?”
“Cut in to little pieces and pitched over the side days ago.”
“I get the picture.” Someone handed Sorenson a briefcase and a large box. Clutching them to his chest, he saluted Symmons, “Permission to leave the ship, sir?”
“Granted,” said Symmons.
Landa leaned close. “They’re good boys, Ralph. All of ‘em.”
Sorenson knocked Landa’s arm with a fist. “I’ll take care of ‘em for you Jerry. And thanks for giving me the chance to do this. I know you could have made a lot more noise.”
Landa sighed. “I tried, but those staff guys are cold as a whore’s heart. ‘No dice,’ they said.”
“I’m sorry.” Sorenson extended a hand.
They shook. “You’ll do fine. Have fun. In the meantime, stay dry.”
“They better not.”
Landa turned and nodded to the bosun’s mates. In a moment, the chair rose in the air, and Sorenson was on its way to the Thomas.
Symmons stepped up and said, “I’m supposed to tell you that Captain Burke requests your presence when convenient.”
When convenient. That means get your butt up to flag plot now, Landa. “How do I get up there, Mr. Symmons?”
The jay gee nodded to a Marine corporal wearing class B uniform. He had a lot of ribbons, Landa noticed. Many with battle stars. Symmons said, “He’ll take you up.”
“Very well.” Landa watched Sorenson land on the ‘ 02 level. It looked as if he’d had a good ride also. They quickly had him out of the chair, packed in Landa’s duffle bag, and sent it back to the Lexington. Soon, the chair was landed and detached. Hooked in its place was a small cargo net filled with boxes marked ‘ice cream’ and 16 millimeter movie reel cases.
“Nice of the Admiral to do that,” said Landa.
Symmons nodded, “You bet, Commodore. The Admiral likes to take care of his boys.” He nodded to the duffle. “We’ll send it up.”
“Thanks.” Landa took a few steps inboard, finding himself in the midst of a vast hangar deck. For three hundred feet in either direction, he gazed on an impossible jumble of plexiglass, fuselages, and propellers belonging to hellcats, avengers, and helldivers. Like model airplanes, two obsolete SBD dauntless hung from the overhead in a far corner, looking forlorn and abandoned, their landing gear tucked in.
Blue-grey folded wings jutted everywhere. Engine cowlings and .50 caliber machine guns were scattered on the deck. Men scrambled about the airplanes cursing and shouting at one another. The whine of vent and exhaust blowers competed with the sounds of tools clanking and pneumatic wrenches knocking off nuts, while expediters pushed part-laden carts about, occasionally tossing a box or sack to waiting hands. Landa took a deep breath, feeling the power and energy of the men about him. He always enjoyed the smell of hydraulic oil. And here it mixed with a sharper odor of paint as an airman sprayed non-spec blue on a TBF wing panel just ten feet away.
Beneath his feet surged the power plant of this 33,000 ton ship, where eight Babcock & Wilcox boilers generated 850˚ superheated steam that delivered 150,000 horsepower to four screws, giving the Lexington a speed of thirty-three knots. But it was the 872 foot long Essex-class aircraft load-out that amazed Landa: thirty-six F6F hellcat fighters, thirty-seven SB2C helldivers dive-bombers, and eighteen TBF torpedo bombers. That, plus 230,000 gallons of 100 octane aviation fuel, parts, ammunition, food, accommodations and 2,500 men made it all work.
Landa shook his head. There were thirteen Essex class carriers just like this already commissioned; another eleven repeat Essex class carriers were on the building ways. Added to that were nine more light carriers built on cruiser hulls; eighty-nine escort carriers, many of which had joined the fleet; not to mentioned the veteran fleet carriers, Enterprise and Saratoga. Then there was the three new Midway class now on the ways of 55,000 tons each, almost twice the size of this ship.
Landa shook his head slowly. How could the Japs be so stupid?
The Marine stepped alongside and coughed politely.
Landa waved a hand at the airplanes. “I don’t get to see this very often. Amazing.”
“Yes, Suh.”
“Where you from, Corporal?”
“Alabama, Suh.”
“That’s great. Lead the way, Corporal.”
“Suh,” The Marine nimbly led Landa up five companionways before he slowed. Instead of dull, bare metal bulkheads and hatches, this passageway was painted a brilliant white. Brass gleamed everywhere; green curtains and burled walnut decorated the doorways, the decks covered with shiny green linoleum.
Flag country. Landa’s father had been a stevedore, his upbringing humble. For years, he’d felt out of place around senior officers, especially admirals. Even now, a momentary flash of nervousness coursed through him.
The Marine walked to a hatch that gave onto a platform and nodded. “Captain Burke’s out there, Commodore. I’ll go pick up your gear.” He walked off.
“Thanks.” Landa stepped to the hatch, seeing just one man: Captain Arleigh Burke. He was of average height, weighed about one hundred eighty pounds, wore no hat, and stood at the railing, his hands still braced far apart.
Hasn’t moved. Landa stepped onto the platform and walked up to him. “Afternoon, Arleigh.”
Through and through, Burke was 100 percent Swedish stock, and his blond curly hair and pale blue eyes stood in evidence.
“Landa.” Burke gave a quick glance, then went back to watching the Thomas. They’d met once before at a Seventh Fleet conference in Noumea. As the time, Captain Arleigh “Thirty-One Knot” Burke was in his heyday as Commodore of Destroyer Squadron Twenty-Three, infamously known as the “Little Beavers.” Halsey had hung the Navy Cross on him after his amazing victory at the Battle of Cape St. George. Even more amazing was Burke’s surprise appointment as Chief of Staff to Vice Admiral Marc Mitscher, Commander of Task Force 58, the main aircraft carrier striking force in the Pacific. Burke’s loud protests that he was just a surface officer, not an Airedale, went unanswered. Glumly, he’d reported to an equally astonished Mitscher, who was barely civil to Burke. But both were street-fighters. They developed a mutual admiration and eventually formed an unbeatable team. The frail Mitscher did all the thinking, then went back to reading seedy detective novels (Landa admired Mitscher for that) while Burke rounded up the staff and put his plans into action.
So I’m ‘Landa’ to him. Both held the same rank, but here, it seemed Burke held all the cards.
“I miss tin cans,” Burke said studying the Thomas. She had just about completed her breakaway.
“Yep.”
The bosun’s on the Thomas’ 02 level were paying back line to the Lexington. Landa smiled inwardly. He looked down, seeing Sorenson had joined Endicott on the bridge. Both looked up and waved just as the final messenger line was hauled in.
Landa waved back. Burke’s hands remained rooted to the railing.
“Endicott’s a good man,” Landa said.
“One of the best. So’s Sorenson.”
“Mmmmmm.”
The Thomas’s uptakes squealed like a banshee, as air was rammed into her boilers. Ever the showman, Endicott had cranked up a ‘flank’ bell for her sprint to the number one position at the head of the screen.
Lucky bastard. He really wants to make this look good.
; Water churned under the destroyer’s screw guards as her propellers revved up. Her pitching became more pronounced and she eased forward, beginning a shallow turn to starboard. The bosun’s had cleared the gear off the forward weather decks. And not too soon, for her bow began to dig deeply. White water cascaded over the Thomas’s forward five-inch gun mounts and she gained speed, water boiling in her wake. Soon, her fantail drew ahead of the Lexington’s bow, waves smacking at the destroyer amidships, white water tumbling over her bulwarks and onto the main decks where it sluiced aft to spill from the gunnels and back into the sea.
Burke sighed. Waving a palm at a hatch, he said, “Shall we?”
Landa followed Burke into a compartment having a long table of perhaps twenty feet in length. It was covered with a green baize cloth, ashtrays and half-empty coffee cups scattered about. Flag wardroom. Burke waved a palm at a chair. “Coffee?”
Landa sat. “Please.”
Burke poured and was returning with two cups when something clicked off to Landa’s right. He turned, seeing a door with a plaque bearing three stars. Mitscher walked through and was headed for the port side when he saw Landa and drew up. “Welcome aboard, Jerry.’
“Afternoon, Admiral.” Landa shot to his feet. Mitscher couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred twenty-five pounds. With a craggy, weather-beaten face, thin lips, receding hair and a sharp nose, he looked more like an undertaker than the commander of Task Force 58. The only adornment on his crumpled uniform was the three stars of a Vice Admiral at his collar points and aviator’s wings pinned over the left breast pocket. Mitscher nodded to Burke, “I’d like to watch the CAP go, and then we’re scheduled to get together in...” he looked at his watch.
“Five minutes,” said Burke.
“Okay. Elliott, Duke, and Tom notified?”
“Yes, Sir. Should be on their way up.”
Mitscher’s eyes quickly shifted to Landa. “I think we’re in for a lot of Japs.”
“That’s what I hear, too, Admiral. I just wish I could be in on it,” Said Landa.
Mitscher grimaced. Burke slapped his hands over his eyes, giving a loud exhale.
Shit, what have I done.
Mitscher’s lips twisted into a grin. “Aren’t you the one they call Boom Boom?”
Landa, who hated the name, tried to paste on a benign grimace. “In younger days, sir.”
Mitscher’s expression matched Landa’s. “I see. And it looks like nobody told you what’s going on around here.” Mitscher drew a deep breath. “I promised Ralph Sorenson some screen commanding time, which will qualify him for next billet as a type commander. There’s no doubt you’re more qualified, but he needs the experience.”
“But...l...” sputtered Landa.
Mitscher held up a hand, “But then I have good old Arleigh Burke to back up Sorenson, in case he screws up. So everything’s going to be all right.” He slapped Burke on the back.” Sit please, Jerry.
Burke groaned.
Landa sat.
Mitscher reached for Landa’s hand and shook. “Don’t worry, Jerry. You’ll see plenty of Japs before this is all over.” He checked his watch and threw a glance at Burke.” You told him yet?”
“Just about to.”
“Very well. Good seeing you, Jerry. Come back to us rested and fit. We need you.” Mitscher slapped on a long-billed ball cap and walked toward the door. Then he turned, “Sorry to hear about the Fredericks. How many survivors did she have?” The Fredericks was one of two destroyers sent out to look for Ingram. “A hundred five, Admiral,” replied Landa.
Mitscher’s mouth opened and closed. Finally he managed, “Is that all?”
“Took a shot down the throat doing eighteen knots. Bow blew off, the forward magazine went and her screws literally drove her under.”
“My God. Those poor boys.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Five seconds passed. “Well then, good bye.” Mitscher walked out.
The only sound was an occasional aircraft engine and the whine of the wardroom exhaust blowers. Burke took a long sip of coffee and exhaled.
“What are you supposed to tell me Arleigh?”
Burke fixed Landa with a stare. “Always the impatient one, aren’t you.”
Now it was Landa’s time to stare.
Burke said, “You and I come from different molds, Jerry.”
“If that means I didn’t go to the trade school, I suppose you’re right.” Burke was a Naval Academy graduate, Landa was not.
Burke’s nostrils flared for just moment, then he sighed. “I’m sorry. Guess I had that coming.”
“It’s okay. I thought I was here to jump on a TBF and go home. What’s up?”
“You are going to jump on a TBF that leaves in about,” he checked his watch, “twenty minutes. But we would like to give you a little job while you’re home.”
Aw, come on. I’m getting engaged. “What job?”
“You ever heard of MAGIC?” Burke folded his hands.
Landa had vaguely heard of MAGIC, but this sounded like he better play dumb. “Don’t think so.”
“In a nut shell, it’s a code-breaking effort from our cryptology guys in Hawaii and Washington. MAGIC is top secret, Jerry, What it does is let us read the Jap’s mail. I mean everything. Their fleet codes, dispositions, op-orders, everything.”
“Jesus.”
“Access to MAGIC is granted only on a need to know basis. And the Admiral had you cleared.”
Landa felt a rush of blood to his head. Having stepped away from destroyers, he was out of his element. “What the hell for?”
“Drink.” Burke nodded to Landa’s coffee, untouched.
Landa raised the coffee cup and took a sip. “Ahh, that’s good stuff.”
“Now sign.” Burke produced a folder of War Department documents. “Four places, there, there, and two more, here.” He handed over a Parker 51 pen.
Landa turned the pen over in his hand. “Nice.”
“Gold plated. Cost me thirty bucks.”
Landa began signing. “Do I get copies?”
“Absolutely not. And if you do any blabbing, we get to tie you to a stake and shoot you.”
Landa looked up to see Burke smile for the first time. They stared at one another for five long seconds. Finally, Landa signed the last document and shoved papers and pen back.
“Okay.” Burke jogged the papers and put them into a folder. Then he looked up and nailed Landa with a stare. “Todd Ingram is alive.”
Landa jumped in his chair, spilling his coffee. “Shit. What? Arleigh, don’t do that to me.”
“Serious. Our boys in OP-20-G, that’s the code breaking unit in Hawaii, intercepted a message from a Jap sub. The I-57 has him. Sounds like Ingram was in the water all night and they picked him up the next morning.”
“Good God.”
“What do you think about that, Boom Boom?”
Now it was Landa’s turn to shoot a glance. He thought he’d made the point with Mitscher. “It’s really great news. Does his crew know?”
“Absolutely not.”
“What about--”
A door opened. Mitscher walked through, gave Burke a look and then walked into his room, the door clicking softly.
“That means I gotta go.” Burke waved a palm at Landa. “Listen up will you?
“Right.”
“Apparently, the I-57 is enroute to France, Lorient, I believe. It’s a technical exchange mission with Hitler. They do those things from time to time.”
“Okay.”
“We’ve decided we want Ingram to live. Hell, he’s one of our best destroyer skippers.”
“You bet.”
“By the time the I-57 gets to France, Lorient should be pretty well surrounded by the Third Army. So I’d say Ingram has a reasonable chance of repatriation after the sub reaches those U-boat pens.”
“Where do I come in?”
Two commanders and a lieutenant (j.g.) filed in. Wordlessly, they poured coffee then h
eaded for Mitscher’s quarters. One of them looked at Burke.
“Two minutes,” said Burke.
They disappeared into the compartment and Burke continued. “There’s a carrier group, headed up by the USS Bogue, stationed in the South Atlantic. They’ve been apprised of the I-57's itinerary. The USS Bogue is on station and is ready to jump anybody that crosses their path, including the I-57. And let me tell you Jerry, the Bogue has a good record.”
Landa rasped, “And there goes Todd.”
“There goes Todd, the I-57, and the German milchcow that’s going out there to refuel her.” A milchcow was a German submarine fitted with large fuel tanks to re-fuel other U-boats at sea.
“What can we do?”
Burke stroked his chin. “We’d like to finesse it. Save the I-57 and sink the milchcow.”
“How?”
“With your destroyer and ASW experience we figure you’re the one to coordinate it.”
Landa’s fists balled. “You’re sending me to the Atlantic?”
Burke waved him off. “Keep your pants on, Jerry. You do all this from San Francisco.”
“Do what?”
“You know Lieutenant Commander Oliver Toliver?”
“Sure, he was Todd’s best man at his wedding. Last I heard Ollie was gunnery liaison to the Twelfth Naval District there.”
“Toliver has been transferred to the San Francisco office of OP-20-G. He’s now the crypto expert; you’re the destroyer-submarine killer group expert.
Mitscher’s door opened. A voice drifted out, “Captain?”
Burke’s eyes jumped to the doorway. “Gotta go, Jerry.” He shoved over another file folder. Here’s your orders. You get to take your leave, but you’ll be TAD to OP-20-G in San Francisco to coordinate. We want you to save the I-57, but sink the milchcow. Understand?”
“I think so.”
“Yes or no?” Burke fixed him with a stare.
“Yes. Of course.”
“Then, please sign.”
Landa held out his hand. Burke produced his Parker 51.
“Captain?” Mitscher’s voice resonated from the next room.
Burke turned pale. “Keep those. Those are your travel orders.”
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 7