He looked down at the chained attaching him to the lathe. Not yet.
“Commander.” Shimazaki pulled a grease-stained pack of cigarettes from his pant pocket. With a glint in his eye, he held it up and shook out a cigarette.
“Ah,” said Ingram. “No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”
“Uhhh!” Shimazaki’s face darkened.
Masako, his duties over as sea detail lookout, walked up. Giving Ingram a hurry-up-there’s-work-to-be-done look, he stooped down and began unlocking this chain.
Ingram looked toward the aft hatch. Perfect. All I need is a few seconds.
Shimazaki said something to Masako, making him rise. Then he jiggled the cigarette pack vigorously. “Dozo?”
Ingram had only smoked a few times, mostly cigars, when friends had babies. But every time, a single puff made him feel woozy and nauseated. And cigarettes were worse. “No thanks.” He waved a hand.
Shimazaki held the pack closer, shaking it, his eyes boring into him.
This is an international incident? Hell, this is war. “Afraid not.”
Shimazaki thrust the pack almost under his nose. Samura, Takada and Masako edged in a bit closer, Masako smirking openly.
“All right.” Gingerly, he took a cigarette. They watched intently as he turned the little white cylinder over in his hand for a few seconds. Unable to delay any further, he raised it to his mouth.
Shimazaki lifted his foot, and with a loud ‘scratch,’ lit a wooden match on the sole. With a flourish, he leaned forward, holding it to Ingram.
What the hell? Holding the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, he wrapped his lips around it and puffed a couple of times, to get it lighted. Sitting back, he took and big puff and held the smoke in his mouth. Looking as casual as possible, he blew the smoke slowly, over their heads.
Perceptibly, they relaxed. Samura smiled and went, “Ahhh.”
That’s when Ingram broke out in a paroxysm of wheezing and coughing. Turning red, spasms racked his chest and felt as if his throat was on fire. “What the hell’s this thing made out of, ground glass?” he gasped.
A chuckling Shimazaki relieved him of the cigarette as Takada raised a thermos and poured a paper cup of full of water.
“Thanks.” Ingram gulped while the others laughed, as Shimazaki reached around and pounded his back. Still wheezing, Ingram held out the cup for more water. With a nod from Shimazaki, Takada poured and Ingram drank, some of the water dribbling down his chin. Suddenly, he grew dizzy, and his stomach rumbled mightily, making him feel as if a gopher had crawled in there and died.
The general announcement loudspeaker squawked. After exchanging glances with Shimazaki, Masako pushed Ingram against a bulkhead and stooped, letting out an ingeniously fashioned grunt, which, Ingram was sure, was half Japanese and half Uzbek. As Masako fumbled with the chain lock, Ingram tried to catch Shimazaki’s eye. “Thanks, Chief, for the good-will butt,” he said sarcastically, his stomach still racked with convulsions.
But the fun was over and the superior petty officer turned back to his log books, his face intent, the cigarette dangling from his lips.
Finished with Ingram’s chain, Masako stood and gave a push that sent him stumbling toward the engine room. Casting a longing glance at the after hatch, he vowed to try again before the night was out.
Stepping into the engine room, he was hit with a blanket of heat from the yet uncooled engines, the cracking and popping sounding like .22 caliber pistol shots. The dull-gray engines were massive. With ten cylinders, they were about eight feet tall, twenty feet long and seven feet across.
Twenty or so men stood in the now-cramped engine room, stripped to their waists, mostly junior ratings, a few third class scattered among them. Hands on their hips, they watched as four machinist mates unbolted the deck plates between the two engines. Five or six officers, some shirtless, stood on a catwalk running athwartships, next to the forward hatch. Ingram was surprised to see Commander Shimada there as well, in dress uniform with medals and sword. Next to him was Korvettenkapitän Martin Taubman, hands clasped before him, also wearing dress blues with medals. And, the man had the temerity to wear Ingram’s Naval Academy ring. Ingram was dismayed the two had apparently reconciled. Even now, they were talking animatedly. Something else caught his eye. Standing on the catwalk were two Japanese Naval officers in dress uniform he’d never seen. They spoke casually with Shimada and Taubman, who occasionally motioned toward the engine room. Where the hell did they come from?
How poignant, Ingram thought; these four elegantly dressed thugs, arrogantly displaying their authority over these shirtless souls, directing them in the name of two of the most despotic regimes to walk the earth.
Lieutenant Matsumoto, the engineering officer, stepped through the forward hatch and spoke with Shimada for a moment. Then he took off his shirt and climbed down a ladder to the bilges, joining two grease-stained men between the engines. Five minutes later, the main engine room deck plates were unbolted and strapped aside, exposing a wide chasm between the mighty diesels.
“Iko, iko!” Matsumoto waved his hands. Two petty officers at the deck level took up the shout and the men, like ants, began crawling down ladders to the bilges.
Masako, stripped to the waist gave Ingram a push. The message was clear, so Ingram quickly took off his shirt and crawled down with the others. He alighted among the twenty men or so, their body heat mingling with that of the diesels, creating a sweltering atmosphere. There was little room, and some jostled against the still-heated engine blocks, crying in pain. Worse, was the bilge odor: salt water mixed with pungent fuel oil, hydraulic fluid and cooking grease; something Ingram would never have tolerated on his ship, let alone any U.S. Naval vessel. Ingram’s stomach churned. The others were having difficulty too. Seasoned submariners eyes darted; their adam’s apples bounced as they tried to hold down their bile. Several tied handkerchiefs over their noses and mouths. Ingram grabbed a wipe rag and did the same. But the stench persisted and he felt himself on the verge of nausea.
Like the upper level deck plates, the bilge gratings were pried up and strapped aside. Matsumoto kneeled down, his light khaki trousers splattered with a mucky blackness. He plunged his hands into the dirty water, and fumbled for a moment. Raising up, he yelled over his shoulder. Immediately, a rating handed over a crowbar.
Leaning down, Matsumoto again plunged his hands in the bilge water, working the crowbar at whatever it was. He took a strain and his tongue stuck out, veins on his forehead bulged, and his face grew red. Grunting, he leaned further down and yelped. “Ahhh.”
Matsumoto signaled for a man to kneel in front of him and together, they reached beneath the black, oily surface. Gritting their teeth, they raised an oblong wooden carton up to a cross beam, bilge water running off. At either end of the carton were woven rope handles. They grabbed the handles and, snarling and growling, heaved the carton to two men positioned at the ladder. Groaning loudly, those two heaved it up to another pair at deck level. Then the carton was passed through the aft hatch and into the motor room, its destination topside, Ingram supposed.
Matsumoto stooped and waved a hand under the starboard diesel. Then he motioned to the port side. Both spaces were about ten feet wide, with only about eighteen inches or so of crawl space between the crank case and cross beams. And the crawl space was complicated by a number of pipes, hoses and hydraulic lines running to and fro.
Matsumoto spoke for a moment then waved the men beneath the diesels.
They started crawling, except for one man who groaned and vomited just as he began his trip beneath the port diesel. Matsumoto walked over and kicked him in the rump. With a cry, the man vomited again, the smell inundating the engine room. Matsumoto yelled and kicked harder, the man wailing in terrible pain. He flipped on his back just as Matsumoto wound up for a third kick. Waving his hands, he wiped spittle off his chin and scrambled beneath the diesel.
Matsumoto, his face flushed with anger, stood upright, his hands on
his hips, daring anyone else.
Masako pushed Ingram. Go!
Ingram kneeled and crawled beneath the starboard diesel. It was tricky going. He had balanced on the structural I-beams, working his way around a variety of pipes and hoses. Some were hot, the others cold, there being no way to predict which was which. And the voids between the I-beams contained at least eighteen inches of the odorous bilge water. This close to it, he had a hard time to keep from gagging and retching. Occasionally, he brushed his shoulder against the black greasy crank case. Fortunately, the engine had cooled enough so his skin didn’t blister. But it still hurt like hell. In desperation, he splashed bilge water over his arms, putting out of his mind how polluted it was.
A pair of men had crawled all the way under the engine and shoved a crowbar in the water. Soon, they fished out a carton just like the one Matsumoto had found. Grunting and heaving, they pushed and shoved it to Ingram and Masako, who passed it on to another pair of men positioned amidships. He was astounded at the weight. After the second or third carton, he estimated each at between sixty to seventy pounds. Fortunately, the rope handles were sturdy, making it easy to gain a purchase to drag the cartons across the I-beam.
After passing a dozen or so cartons, Ingram was dog-tired. A look at Masako’s oil-splattered face told him he felt the same. Fortunately, a whistle blew and the men stopped in their tracks. Some rolled to their backs, their chests heaving. With all this, Ingram had the impression they were expecting this; that they’d done this before.
Masako kicked Ingram and waved amidships. “Iko.” Go!
Ingram crawled out, bumping arms and shoulders against pipes and hydraulic lines to emerge into the midships passageway. He looked up, finding Matsumoto pointing to a little wooden bucket. With more greed than he cared to admit, Ingram grabbed the wooden spoon and ladled in a mouthful of sweet, cool water. Smacking his lips, he began his trip back under the engine.
When he drew close, Masako grabbed the bucket, raised it to his mouth and gulped and gulped, water dribbling down his chin.
“You little jerk,” Ingram growled. Masako was still gulping when Ingram yanked it out of his hands.
Masako raised his hand to strike but Ingram gave him a malevolent, ‘Try me,’ look.
Masako backed away and Ingram finished the bucket.
The whistle blew, making the five minute break seem like five seconds. Over the next two hours, they worked at the rate of about one carton a minute with the pair ahead digging them out and passing them back. It seemed forever in between breaks, but finally, the whistle blew. Ingram flopped on his back and splayed his arms out. “Your turn.”
Masako gave him a long, dreary look and nodded to a grease-stained carton balanced precariously on an ‘I-beam.’
“Got it.” Ingram flopped a hand on top of the carton to steady it.
With a grunt, Masako crawled off, dragging the empty bucket with him.
Too exhausted to move, Ingram lay there, staring up at the black crank case, just inches from his eyes. It was quiet, the men too tired to talk. The heat pressed in. He shook his head, more to keep his wits than to stay conscious. Someone whimpered nearby. Across the way, a sailor moaned and urinated loudly into the bilge.
Ingram shook his head again, his mind drifting to home and Helen. He wondered if they would move to her father’s avocado ranch near Ramona, a town forty miles northeast of San Diego. Frank Durand had offered him an equal partnership, explaining there would be a boom in avocados after the war. ‘Get in on the ground floor,’ Frank said. ‘Great place to raise kids, too.’
Kids. He racked his brain. When is Helen due? Not yet, he decided. Another two weeks at least for the baby. He wondered if there was a way he could contact the Red Cross to let her--
--something splashed beside him.
“Damn.” He rolled to his side, realizing the carton had tumbled end first into the bilge. Masako would be mad. He didn’t feel like arguing with a greedy Masako when there was bucket of water to split. The little jerk could just as well keep it all for himself. He rolled over and reached for the carton. Grunting and gritting his teeth, he raised it and once again had it on the I-beam. A corner was bashed in. A sizable chunk of wood had come loose and he tried to push it back into place. Instead, it fell out.
“What?” He raised on an elbow for a better look. Moving aside slightly, a little more light fell on it.
“Damn.”
It gleamed. It shone a deep, rich, color -- compelling. This was the stuff of endless greed throughout the ages. Gold. All these cartons contained giant ingots of gold.
CHAPTER TWENTY
30 June, 1944
IJN Submarine I-57
Antongila Bay, Madagascar
“Damnit.” The carton tipped precariously, nearly sliding back into the murk. He grabbed it quickly and balanced it on the I-beam. Good God. It really is gold! It’s deep, lustrous beauty seemed so out of place in the stink and filth around him.
“Uhhh.”
Ingram jumped. It was Masako returning with the water bucket. Then he realized he could be killed if caught tampering, no matter how accidental it seemed. Do something. He clawed deep in the bilge and found greasy clay-like silt on the bottom. Scooping up a handful, he quickly slapped it on the corner of the carton, then stuck the chip of wood back in place. Please, God. Make it stay.
“Ahh, Ingram-san.” Masako peered over his back with cobra-like eyes.
The chip fell in the water with a tiny ‘plop.’
Smiling from ear to ear, Masako’s teeth gleamed. “Bad, bad.” He waved a finger from side to side, leaned back and opened his mouth to yell. But Matsumoto’s back-to-work whistle obliterated his words.
On the verge of panic, Ingram reached for Masako but the sailor wiggled away.
Someone shouted. A flashlight beam swept over oil-smeared bodies and Masako yelped in pain. He yelped again and Ingram realized that Matsumoto was out there with a sharp prod of some sort. Others yelped; Matsumoto must have been jabbing them also.
Trying to avoid the prod, Masako wiggled back toward Ingram. That’s when Ingram doubled his fist and smacked Masako full in the nose.
With a groan, the seaman clamped his hands over his face. Rolling to his side, his upper body almost pitched into the black bilge water. Once again, Matsumoto nailed Masako with the prod, making him cry out more from surprise and indignation than from pain. With blood seeping between his fingers, Masako clutched his face and loosed a string of Japanese over his shoulder. After blinking a moment, he focused on Ingram with a look of abject hatred.
Matsumoto called out in a calm tone.
Nowhere to go. Ingram was trapped on an enemy ship, under a multi-tonned engine, thousands of miles from home. Desperately, he looked for another way to get to the aft hatch.
Kill Masako! He reached for the crow bar and was ready to swing when he heard scraping and grunting. Two men slithered toward him. One he recognized as a heavy-set torpedoman, the other a wiry little quartermaster. Damn. Ingram backed away a bit but kept his arm cocked.
Reaching Masako, the two men barely glanced at Ingram. Instead, they grabbed Masako’s feet and arms and dragged him to the midship passage way. With those two engrossed with Masako, Ingram reached in the bilge and scooped up a large, dripping glob of silt. He spread it liberally on the corner of the carton, and pasted on the chip. This time it stuck.
The torpedoman crawled back to him and gave a dull stare. Soon, the quartermaster joined them; by contrast, his eyes darted wildly. The torpedoman jabbed a thumb amidships. “Go!”
Needing no further encouragement, he quickly crawled from under the engine, grateful for freedom from the oppressive heat and slimy darkness. Men about him were blackened with greasy bilge water. Grunting and straining, they pulled cartons from under the engines, heaving them up the ladder. There were three teams under each engine, passing the cartons across. It looked as if they’d been working from outboard toward the center. What remained, were the cartons
in the mid ship area and that appeared to be going quickly. At the three ladders, a yeoman checked each carton’s serial number before it went up and out the motor room hatch.
After a rest break, Matsumoto and his CPOs walked about, shouting at the blackened men who lay there, too tired to move, their mouths hanging open. They lay sprawled on the beams, half in the bilges, not caring, their bodies and clothes soaked in putrid water. Among them was Masako, propped up against a tool box, his head in his hands, a bloody rag clamped over his face.
Feeling like the rest, Ingram lay sprawled on an I-beam, cooling off, trying to catch his breath. Matsumoto walked up and yelled down to him. When that didn’t work he kicked Ingram in the ribs.
“Ouch, damnit.” Ingram tried to rise, but grew dizzy and stumbled.
Matsumoto grabbed his elbow, yanked him abruptly to his feet and shoved him toward the ladder. Then he turned, blew his whistle and shouted a string of orders. Soon, more men crawled from under the engines and were replaced with a new group who’d been milling about. It hit Ingram that he’d never seen these men. Yet they were Japanese and wore the same working uniforms.
Matsumoto braced his hands on his knees and yelled at the crew splayed on the deck. Some nodded, rose to their feet and began crawling up the ladders. Then Matsumoto turned to Ingram. “You, too, Joe.” He pointed to Masako.
“Okay,” Ingram grabbed Masako’s trousers, yanked him to his feet and shoved him on the ladder. At the same time his eyes darted about the compartment looking for a way to escape aft to the motor room. There were just the forward hatch and the aft hatch, nothing else. Get out of here! He shoved Masako aside and started up the ladder.
Masako snarled and batted Ingram’s hands away.
“Hey, Joe!” Matsumoto, pointed at Masako.
Damnit! Ingram backed down the ladder and made room for Masako. Except for blood and oil smeared over his face, the Japanese sailor seemed all right. With a sullen look, Masako mounted the first rung and started up behind a line of exhausted men.
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 18