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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “Wow,” said Helen.

  “He told us about his house in New York. That is, he called it a house, but it sounds like a mansion to me. Toscanini’s been there many times. And they invited me.”

  “Great,” said Landa.

  Laura pouted. “Well then, we got down to brass tacks and talked about programing.” She reached for her glass.

  Landa casually lay a hand on her wrist before her hand got to the glass.

  Laura jerked away, her eyes flashing. She opened her mouth with a retort, but then her eyes flipped to Helen. “What’s wrong, hon?”

  “I feel weird.” Helen put a hand on her forehead. “Must be the Shirley Temple.”

  Landa turned, “You okay?”

  “I go through these spells. It’s all part of, well, you know what.” Running her purse strap over her shoulder, she slid out of the booth.

  “You want me to go with you?” asked Laura.

  Helen waved her away. “Just going to freshen up. Won’t be a minute.” She walked off.

  Laura waited until Helen disappeared down the back hallway. “That was low,” she hissed. “Right in front of one of my best friends.”

  “I didn’t mean to--”

  “You embarrassed me.”

  “I was only trying to help. Your glass was empty.”

  She looked over, seeing that it was true. “I don’t give a damn, Captain Boom Boom or whoever you are. Don’t ever do that again.” Her face turned red.

  Landa sat stiffly. “I will, if you’ve had too much.”

  “What the hell do you mean, ‘too much.’”

  “Honey, almost every time I see you, you’re drinking. Now that I recall, I can’t remember when I haven’t seen you reaching for a glass. I’m getting worried. It’s like Luther all over again. Maybe you need help or something.”

  Laura’s voice went to full pitch. “So now you’re counting my drinks, you bastard.”

  “Shhhh.” Landa looked around, seeing people avert their eyes. God, this has gotten out of control. “I’m sorry. I only meant--”

  “--I suppose you think I was drunk when you came in tonight?” she demanded.

  “No, I didn’t say that.”

  “No, you didn’t. But it’s in your eyes.”

  Landa felt himself flushing, which he knew meant he was beyond the point of no return. He snapped, “No, it’s not in my eyes. But it’s in your face and your voice. You sound like the village drunk. Why don’t we take a look at the bill and see just how much you’ve had tonight--“

  Laura slid out and stood.

  Remorse swept over him. “--honey, I’m sorry.” He started to follow, but she blocked him.

  “You’re the village,” she searched for a word, “dunce. Ha! Jerome Landa from Brooklyn. Who do you think you’re fooling with, you stupid jerk?” She twisted off her engagement ring and flung it on the table. “You don’t like your job? They treating you like dog-crap? So what? Go take out your frustrations on someone else.”

  She turned and walked out.

  For a moment, Landa sat in shocked surprise, not believing Laura was already out the front door, its soft tufted red leather gleaming in pale light. “Damn!” He scooted out to run after her.

  “Jerry.” It was Helen in the hall, her hands gripping the doorway molding.

  He went to her. “You okay?”

  “Let me sit for a minute,” she said breathlessly. “How about you?” She nodded toward the front door.

  Landa helped her over to the booth and eased her onto the cushion, noticing she looked pale, her hand clammy. “You don’t look too good.”

  The engagement ring had landed on her bread plate. She picked it up and handed it over. “You don’t either. What happened?”

  “Ummm.” He pocketed the ring. Slowly shaking his head, he said, “ I think I really messed up. I lost my temper.” He quickly explained what had happened. When she didn’t respond he looked at her, noticing beads of perspiration on her forehead. “Hey, what’s up? Seriously.”

  Helen asked, “Seriously?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Okay, Boom Boom. Here it is with both barrels. My water broke.”

  “No shit?”

  She nodded.

  “That means--”

  “--Right now, I’m having contractions. Nothing heavy. But we have to get going.”

  “Where?”

  “San Pedro Community Hospital.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Sixth and Walker.”

  “Okay. I’ll put a man right on it. Hold on.” Landa went over and spoke with the maître d’, then handed him a two dollar bill. He walked back saying, “Okay. I got him to alert the hospital. Then he’ll call Mrs. Peabody to bring your stuff over. What else?”

  “Call my Mom and Dad.”

  “I’ll do that when we get to the hospital. Come on. Let’s get going.” He reached down to help, but she stayed put. “What is it?”

  “Hold on a moment.”

  She gripped the table, her knuckles whitening a bit. Landa watched, realizing these weren’t minor contractions. Her neck reddened for a moment and suddenly, Landa’s stomach tightened.

  A full thirty seconds passed before she looked up, her face pale, but serene, the masque as compelling as ever. He leaned close to take her hand, her perfume reaching up to him. “Okay?” he asked gently. She gripped his hand with both of hers. “Ready.”

  Landa only ran two red lights getting Helen to the hospital. He thought his job would be done once the attendants strapped her to a gurney. But one of them, a gaunt, white-coated man of about thirty years, asked, “Are you the husband?”

  “No, not me--”

  --Helen’s breath came in short gasps, her knees raised, and she clutched the gurney rails in a death grip.

  Landa leaned down and took her hand, as they began wheeling, “You okay?”

  Her eyes were squeezed shut; her teeth clamped over her lower lip. Finally, she expelled a great gasp and then looked around, realizing where she was. “Dr. Gaspar here?” she asked the attendant.

  “On his way, Mam.”

  They wheeled her down a long hall, through two sets of double doors and into an ante-room redolent with the sharp odor of alcohol. Around were gleaming stainless steel instruments, some in glass cabinets, others on a tray nearby, poised, ready for action. Feeling claustrophobic, Landa moved close to Helen.

  She looked up clutching his hand. “Still here?” She smiled.

  I’ll say it again. Ingram, you are one lucky bastard. “As long as you need me.”

  A redheaded female nurse in her forties walked in. Pinned to her collar were an RN badge and a bakelite tag on her lapel which read ‘BRUBAKER.’ “So Helen, what have you been up to now?” She threw a blanket over Helen, then began yanking her clothes off underneath. Landa slid next to her head, doing his best to avoid seeing what Brubaker was doing.

  He was close to her mouth when Helen said, “I think this is it, Martha.”

  “About time; this your husband?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She looked up to Landa. “Captain, I think it’s time for you to--“

  “--let him stay for a little bit, Martha. Please. He’s family.”

  Brubaker planted her hands on her hips. With an eye on Landa, she asked, “how far apart are your contractions?”

  “About two minutes.”

  “Wow.”

  “And my water broke about twenty minutes ago.”

  “Better take a look.” Brubaker nodded her head to Landa – ‘out.’

  “Yep.” Landa walked outside and shuffled up and down the hall. Two minutes later, Nurse Brubaker swept out, her brow deeply knit. Preoccupied, she hurtled past Landa, then stopped. “You better get in there, Captain, while we get set up.”

  “What’s going on?” Dumb question.

  A corner of Brubaker’s mouth rose. “Why, she’s having a baby.”

  “I know that. What else?�
��

  Brubaker sighed. “She’s about ready. Unusual for a first child. I’d say, in the next fifteen minutes or so. I gave her a shot of morphine to ease the pain.” She laid a hand on his elbow. “Don’t worry, she’ll do fine. Helen’s from tough stock.”

  Don’t I know? “What should I do?”

  “Just try to keep her feeling good about herself, confident, not afraid. Hold her hand and help her breath. Roll her on her side and give her a little back rub, if you can. Now, I gotta go. You have the deck, Captain. “ Brubaker dashed off.

  “Aye, aye,” Landa said softly. He turned and walked into the room, finding Helen’s eyes squeezed shut, her hands gripping the rails.

  He peeled her fingers off one of the rails and held it while brushing her hair away from her forehead. “You’re doing fine. Help is on the way.”

  “Ummmfssst!”

  He rubbed a shoulder. “Try to inhale through your nose; exhale through your mouth. Ready? Begin.”

  “What?” she gasped.

  Landa repeated it. “Now do it.”

  “Where’d you hear that?” And yet she did it, her breathing rapid.

  He found a washcloth, squeezed it dry, folded it, and lay it on her forehead. “The Landa School Of Medicine, of course.”

  “Where is everybody, damnit? Where’s doctor Gaspar?”

  “Shhh.” He made a show of looking from side to side. “Just heard they found Doc Gaspar in a cathouse in Wilmington. Sobering him up right now. Had to pump his stomach, though. And his hands are a little shaky.”

  “...wha...what?”

  “Sorry. He’s scrubbing up.”

  Helen let out a great gasp of air. In five seconds, she relaxed, still trying to catch her breath. “Who...who taught you your bedside manners?”

  Gently, Landa took her right hand and held it to his chest. “I’m from Brooklyn, remember?”

  She smiled, “Dead end, kid?”

  “Just about.”

  She fell back, letting herself go limp. Landa wiped at beads of perspiration on her forehead and upper lip.

  “Oh Todd, where are you?” she moaned.

  He almost said, ‘closer than you think.’ Instead, he hung his head in prolonged silence.

  “Jerry.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Laura has a problem. A big one.”

  “The booze.”

  “She needs help.” She took his hand. “It’s not your fault.”

  “I know.” He didn’t feel convinced.

  “Find out what’s behind the booze.”

  She was right, Landa knew. Right now, he didn’t give a damn.

  “I’m serious. She’ll come around. She basically a good person. All we need to do is--Uhhhh!” Helen arched her back and she felt like she was coming off the gurney; so much so that Landa had to hold her down.

  “Go easy, honey. Breath through the nose and exhale through the mouth.”

  “Ahhh.”

  Brubaker swept in, wearing a surgical cap and gown. Two nurses followed. She said, “Okay, Helen, we’re ready.” With a nod to Landa, she said, “You can wait down the hall.”

  He kissed her on her damp forehead. Then quickly on her lips. “That’s for Todd.”

  “I know.”

  “See you in a little bit.” He walked out.

  Emma Peabody worked herself to her feet and yawned. She pulled ample forearms through the sleeves of a worn, black cardigan sweater. “Tired.”

  Landa swore he caught the odor of the home cooked brew on her breath.

  Emma stretched. “Think I’ll go home. Get the guest rooms ready for Kate and Frank.” Looking down to Landa she smiled, “Call me the minute you hear anything.”

  “You bet.”

  After Mrs. Peabody left he flipped through three old issues of Colliers, Saturday Evening Post and National Geographic. That was it. So he started flipping through the same ones again, checking his watch every five minutes.

  Nurse Brubaker, wearing a starched white uniform and cap, walked out. She looked down at him, her face impervious. “Mr. Ingram?”

  “No. I’m Landa, remember?” He jumped up.

  “I’m sorry.” She laid a hand on his arm, her face softened a bit. “Relax, Captain. You’re the proud godfather of a newborn son. Mother and child are doing fine.”

  “Whew.” His heart surged and he felt like jumping.

  “Seven pounds, fourteen ounces; twenty-one inches.”

  “On the level?”

  “Ummm. Let me ask you. Where is the father? Overseas?”

  Landa’s hands went to his hips and he looked down shaking his head.

  Her intake of breath was sharp. “Not coming back?”

  “No.”

  “She’s doing so well. Does she know?”

  He nodded. “Can I see her?”

  “Thought you’d never ask. Follow me.”

  He followed Brubaker down a long corridor that teed into another. Then another, passing room after room, their lights low, the patients inside desperately trying to recover, to escape to the outside. At long last, she stopped at a brightly lighted room 634 and nodded toward the door. “She’s on the far side. I have to catch up on charts so I’ll be there in a minute.”

  It was a two room suite, curtains drawn around both beds. Landa eased aside the far curtain. Helen lay there looking fresh, a newborn infant cradled in her right arm. In fact, she still had the masque. In a flash, he was overwhelmed by the miracle of life, that a new being lay in her arms, a little life that had not been there when he’d picked her up for dinner this evening. “Hi,” he whispered.

  She looked up, smiling.

  Ingram, this is really hard for me.

  “Say hello to Jeremiah Oliver Ingram.”

  Landa, you are such a bastard. “Hi Kido. Too bad you’re named after me.” With his forefinger, he grazed the baby’s cheek, while kissing Helen on the forehead. “Mrs. Peabody went home. Your folks are on their way.”

  “Okay.”

  “Congratulations. Todd would be proud.”

  “I’m sure he is.” She smiled again.

  How the hell does she know? He held his pinky to the infant’s hand. The boy wound his fingers around it tightly. “Holy smokes. What a grip.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  30 June, 1944

  IJN Submarine I-57

  Indian Ocean

  He checked the bulkhead chronometer for the third time in as many minutes: 2216. They were surfaced; the sea detail was set and the I-57 had been creeping for the past half hour or so. The normal relaxed atmosphere at this time of night was strangely absent. In fact, as Ingram recounted, the officers and men had been quiet and pensive since morning quarters.

  The ship was not rocking, which meant the sea outside was mirror glass flat. Except for an internal vibration now and then, it seemed as if they were floating in a vacuum chamber with no sensation of movement or speed. The only indication of motion was the knot meter, its white needle jiggling about the numeral ‘6.’

  Stranger still was that they proceeded on battery power alone, the great diesels having been shut down. There could be only one reason for that. Noise. Shimada didn’t want his two thundering engines to be heard. For good measure, he’d even shut down the auxiliary engine. Ingram could only conclude they were near land; East Africa, he supposed. They had been at sea for thirteen days on the same course and speed, as far as he could tell. The hatches were open, and one could feel the warm blanket of land-generated humidity swirling about the ship, bringing a faint aroma of vegetation.

  The day after the diving incident, six feet of chain was added to Ingram’s tether, giving him more room to move. And the crew seemed less indifferent, more polite to him. Instead of a clubbing, they stepped aside when he needed to pass. Also, his rations improved. Just last night, he’d had katsuboshi, a salami-shaped stick of dried bonito fish, the protein invigorating him. He had seen Taubman only once: two days ago when the German was exiting the officer’s head. Avert
ing his eyes, Taubman headed for his stateroom without a word.

  Now, he stood across from the maneuvering board, watching Superior Petty Officer Shimazaki hover over his two electricians, Samura and Takada. All three were shirtless, except Shimazaki who had a handkerchief tied around his neck, in addition to his signature oil-splattered trousers, white combination cap, and sound-powered phones. Sweating, they quietly watched their gages and awaited orders from the bridge where Masako was posted as a lookout.

  The engine telegraph jingled, and the arrows jumped to ‘all stop’. “Hei!” said Shimazaki. The electricians threw the motors into neutral and stood back, poised for the next command. The sensation was uncanny. Aside from the ventilation blowers and the light buzzing of a small rubber-bladed fan overhead, there was no sound, except for Shimazaki, his tea-gulping sounding like a grenade.

  The telegraph jingled again, its little arrows jumping about the dial; Samura threw levers for ‘ahead one-third’ on the starboard screw, while Takada answered the order for ‘astern one third’ on the port screw. Seconds later, the arrows jumped again: ‘astern one-third’ on both screws. After five seconds, the motors were ordered to ‘all stop.’

  The auxiliary engine coughed into life, as another bell was rung up: ‘finished with engines.’ Shimazaki sat back on a stool and lighted a cigarette. Blowing smoke through mouth and nose, he began filling in his log book, as Samura put away procedure manuals, and Takada pulled out a rag and shined brasswork.

  Ingram wondered. Moored? Anchored? Where? To what? Nobody was saying anything, and he resigned himself to being patient. Then he felt a gentle thump, and the ship seemed to rise and fall a bit. Tidal surge, he guessed. Where the hell are we? They could be moored to another ship. Possibly to a dock. If so, there might be a chance to jump. The possibilities intrigued him and he looked aft toward the berthing compartment, seeing a number of men scrambling up the hatch. He sniffed at the air and his skin tingled. Freedom is up there. Just dive over the side. It’s nighttime and they’ll never find me. Hope for a quick swim to shore and hide in the jungle. But then he thought, Snakes. I hate snakes. Are there any sea-snakes in this area? No matter. I’m going to do it. Just dash up the hatch and jump.