“Commander Ingram.” Taubman beckoned from the athwartships catwalk. The other officers were gone.
“What?” Ingram replied.
“Come.” Taubman beckoned again.
Turning sideways, Ingram squeezed past blackened-oily men and made his way to the forward bulkhead “Yes?”
“Terrible down there.”
“Depths of hell,” Ingram agreed. “But I don’t need you to tell me that.”
“No, you don’t.” Spreading his hands on the rail, Taubman leaned down and said, “They can’t decide whether to take you on to Europe or send you back to the Pacific.”
“I don’t understand the either/or part of what you just said.”
Taubman pointed to starboard. “A sister ship is out there. She’s going back to Penang. This submarine is going on to Lorient, France. What would you like to do?”
‘Another submarine,’ Taubman had said. That’s where all those Japanese had come from. He’d also said the other submarine was going to back to Penang, this one to Europe. A full color image of Baumgartner’s tarp-covered body flashed before him: Baumgartner screaming as the Japanese soldier plunged the bayonet into his chest...
“...Commander?”
“Think I’d like Europe since--”
Someone yelled. A sickening thud. Men gathered around a prostrate figure. It was Masako. He’d fallen backwards and lay on his back, eyes wide open, his head dangling at an obscene angle over an I-beam. The place grew quiet as Matsumoto knelt and pressed Masako’s carotid artery, then thumbed an eyelid. He slowly shook his head. Thoroughly spooked, the men scrambled up the ladders and worked their way aft and out the hatch to the motor room as if the place were on fire.
“Too bad. Must have slipped,” said Taubman, looking down with a thin smile. “Interesting. I heard what he said to Matsumoto. But I don’t think anyone listened to him. One would have thought you pushed him; but then you were right here, chatting with me, weren’t you? Well, you’re secret’s safe with me. Just don’t get any ideas about what you saw.”
Ingram drew a thumb and forefinger across his mouth as if zipping it shut.
“Good.”
Masako, dead. Ingram couldn’t believe it. With a twinge of guilt, he felt as if he’d pushed him. Wait. The man’s an enemy. Masako had beaten and kicked him so many times that Ingram was beyond forgiveness. But in a way, he felt sorry for him. Masako was just a kid, eighteen, maybe nineteen years of age; his whole life had been before him. He looked up to Taubman. “Are you serious about Europe?”
Taubman’s eyes flicked from Masako back to Ingram. “Yes.”
“Count me in.”
“Very well.”
They watched as two men cut a length of Masako’s hair, and stuffed it in an oil-smeared envelope. Then they rolled him in a sheet and secured it with a length of line.
“It’ll be a pleasant cruise. Perhaps we can play some chess,” Taubman said.
“Sure. All you have to do is to break through the ASW barriers. That’ll be a trick.”
“Another reason why I would like you to accompany me. You would be invaluable in that department.”
“I doubt it. That’s all Atlantic Fleet doctrine. I have no idea how they do things there.”
“Better than what we have now.”
Ingram jammed his hands on his hips. “Martin, I thought you were avoiding me.”
“I’ll explain. It came over broadcast; Cherbourg fell to the Americans on the 26th.”
Ingram had no idea of the date. “When was that?”
“Four days ago. This is June 30th.”
“Why do I care? More power to them. I hope they overrun Europe by next week and kick Hitler’s ass all the way back to Berlin.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do, make you care. With Cherbourg in Allied hands, they will now drive down the Western Coast of France with a vengeance and try to take the U-Boat pens. You must see my point. If the I-57 is going to Europe, we need a friendly port.” He rubbed his chin and looked down. “I feel sorry for my countrymen defending the U-boat pens. It will be a hard battle for them.”
“Martin, can you really feel sorry for your countrymen while they stand on someone else’s soil?”
Anger flashed across Taubman’s face. He opened his mouth to speak--
--Ingram continued, “Now let me ask you something. Are you really a submariner?”
Watching them lug Masako’s body up to the deck level, Taubman said, “Of course not.” He gestured to the shrouded corpse and said, “Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“That you hit him in the face? And that you saw gold?”
Ingram looked from side to side. “Gold? Jeez Martin. Have you blown a fuse?”
“That’s what Masako was prattling. But I don’t think Mr. Matsumoto really listened. He was simply too preoccupied.” Taubman leveled his eyes on Ingram. “Quite frankly, I don’t care about Masako. But I do care about a safe transit through the Atlantic and getting safely in and out of Lorient.” He looked at his watch. “I’m due topside. We’ll meet then and talk about it more.” He walked off.
Watching Taubman disappear through the forward hatch, it occurred to Ingram that the man had heard everything Masako had said. He could be dead by sunrise. Shit, shit, shit. What have I done?”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
30 June, 1944
IJN Submarine I-57
Antongila Bay, Madagascar
The deck plates were bolted in place, the last carton on its way topside. Next, Masako’s shrouded corpse was handed up. Waiting until last, Ingram clambered up the ladder and shuffled aft behind a line of oil-smeared sailors. The starboard diesel rolled and thundered into life as he stepped into the motor room,. The port diesel started soon after, the engines mercifully pulling cool air through the motor room, making him feel as if he had stepped into a springtime evening.
He stopped behind a knot of men as they wrestled Masako through the after berthing compartment and up the hatch. At the maneuvering board, Shimazaki, Samara and Takada, had been replaced by two new electricians he didn’t recognize. Stepping through the hatch, he found more new sailors gathered about, tossing their gear on bunks. Strange, it was almost as if he was aboard another ship.
Nervously, he waited for the I-57 sailors to ascend the ladder topside. Dark thoughts ran through his mind. Did Matsumoto really not hear? Does Taubman really know? Maybe someone’s coming after me. Oh God, let me up there. Give me time to jump.
A second class petty officer gave him a ‘you’re next” jab in the ribs. Quickly, he scrambled up the hatch into sweet, cool night air. The sky was overcast, the blackness nearly overwhelming. His eyes adjusted and, as Taubman said, another submarine lay alongside to starboard, her silhouette similar to the I-57. The bullion cartons were stacked near her after hatch, where a group of sailors stood, passing them down. Both submarines’ engines were turning over, and even at idle, the unmuffled noise would carry for miles, Ingram figured.
Where do I jump? Where is land? Looking from starboard to port, he saw only inky blackness, much like the sky overhead. They could just as well be twenty or even fifty miles from land. The hell with it. Just go. He started for the port side.
A dark figure loomed next to him. “That you?” It was Taubman.
Ingram’s heart sank. “What ship is that?” He pointed to the submarine next door.
“The Imperial Japanese Navy submarine I-49. Now, place your hands behind your back, please.”
“What the hell--”
“Are you familiar with the Luger pistol?”
“Yes.”
“Well, right now, one is trained in your back. So?” Taubman prodded Ingram’s ribs with a pistol muzzle. “Unlike submarines, I am qualified to use this.”
Ingram tried to edge to the port side.
“Now! I don’t have any time to fool with you, and I’m trying to save your life, you little fool.”
Ingram did as instructed and the han
dcuffs soon clicked home. Gamely, he said, “I heard that submarine was sunk months ago.” Can I jump with these darn things on?
Taubman nodded. “That is as it was intended.”
“Where are we?”
“Madagascar. We’re anchored in Antongila Bay.”
That was why they’d boarded an anchor in Penang. “Where’s that?”
“Must you know everything?”
“Try me.”
“East side of Madagascar. Very remote,” Taubman snorted.
“Are we actually in the Bay?”
Taubman chuckled. “That we are. But don’t get any ideas. You’re too far from land to make it. Believe me.”
Damnit!
“There are some things you should know.”
Water lapped against the hull. So damned near. He wondered how far they really were from land. He took a deep breath. It was there all right, a land breeze carried the beckoning soft scent of vegetation. Was Taubman agile enough to pull the trigger if he jumped? He kept his silence and tensed.
“Don’t try it.” Taubman pushed harder. “Even if we don’t shoot you, you’ll be unable to swim ten kilometers without the use of your hands.
“Now, about Cherbourg--”
“--Martin, at this point, I don’t care if Tijuana has fallen.”
Taubman pressed on. “I need to get out of Lorient.”
“Good luck.”
Taubman’s voice dropped a notch. He hissed, “You’re being stupid. Listen. I don’t have much time. These people want to take your head off. You’re no longer a side show, a curiosity. They’ll do it, especially if they discover you know about the gold.”
“Martin, what is a sane man supposed to conclude after working in that sweat box down there?”
“I see your point.”
“Then take off the cuffs and let me jump.”
“I need you to help me get across France.”
“What?”
“You can do it. Look. Here it is in a chestnut. I can make you rich. Very, very rich. All you have to do is pass me off as a U.S. Naval Intelligence Officer and help me get to my own lines.”
“How the hell could I do that?”
“We’ll think of something.”
Ingram was fascinated. “Where are you going? And how rich are you going to make me?”
“I’ll let you know. Is it a deal? You have five seconds.” He pushed again with the Luger’s muzzle.
“You think they really want to kill me?”
“They’re going to give you to Ishibashi.”
“Okay.”
Taubman nodded. “Very good. To repeat, the I-57 is going on to Lorient. You’ll remain aboard with me. I’ll guarantee safe passage. The I-49,” he nodded to the submarine next door, “returns to Pacific waters. The I-57 transferred sixty tons of fuel oil to her for the trip.”
“What for?”
“Yakuza gold.”
“Who’s gold?”
“They’ve given up.”
“I don’t understand.”
“These people are going to disappear. They’ve--”
--Someone shouted from up forward.
“They want us for something. I’ll tell you later. Just keep your mouth shut.” He prodded with the pistol.
With Taubman guiding his elbow, Ingram stumbled among khaki-clad figures on the I-57's deck, his mind racing with, what the hell is Yakuza? And who is giving up? These two ships?
Working slowly around the deck-gun, he made out the vague outline of the after part of the conning tower, a group of officers gathered underneath. Two of them wore swords; one was Shimada, the other was the officer who had stood with Shimada in the engine room, the skipper of the I-49, he supposed.
The familiar shape of Lieutenant (j.g) Ishibashi materialized beside him.
Taubman said, “Stand right here, Commander, while I say goodbye to Captain Shimada. In the meantime, they’ve sent Lieutenant Ishibashi to entertain you with his Nambu.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t try anything. He may not speak English, but he understands it.”
“Okay.”
Ishibashi poked a pistol in Ingram’s ribs the moment Taubman stepped away.
They’re going to kill you, Taubman had said. In the pale light, Ingram risked a glance at Ishibashi. His eyes were like dark, ebony pools. Way beyond a poker face, it was the masque of death.
From their stance, the conversation between Taubman and the two submarine captains looked less than casual. At one point, Shimada stood nose-to-nose with Taubman and repeatedly poked a finger in his chest. Soon, all three were gesticulating. At one time Taubman looked at Ingram and shook his head. As soon as that happened, Shimada resumed his finger jabbing. Stepping back, Taubman waved his hands and pranced around a bit, at one point stumbling and nearly falling overboard. After a while, they were quiet. A decision seemed to have been made. Shimada handed over a leather brief-case. A chain was attached to Taubman’s wrist.
With that, all three shook hands, stepped back a half pace and saluted. Shimada turned and barked an order to Ishibashi, then marched across a wide plank rigged between the two ships.
Ishibashi prodded with his pistol. “Go.”
“Hey, said Ingram. “Taubman said I’m supposed to stay here.”
Ishibashi said, “German has no authority. Go.”
“Martin,” Ingram called over his shoulder. “What’s going on?”
Taubman walked up and shrugged. “Shimada changed his mind. I’m sorry.”
“Why?” Ingram protested.
Taubman raised his arms and then dropped them. “You know too much. They didn’t count on you seeing all this,” he waved toward the I-49 and stepped close. “They can’t afford letting you go to Europe and blabbing about what you’ve seen.”
“I won’t talk.”
“They don’t believe you. And now that I think of it, why should I believe you? Especially when you boast about kicking Hitler’s ass into Austria?”
Ingram kept silent.
“I didn’t think so,” said Taubman. “Even with that, they are very angry.”
“About what?”
“The Fleet Broadcasts have confirmed the Japanese suffered major losses in the Philippine Sea two weeks ago. They lost at least a fleet carrier, with some other capital ships and over 400 airplanes.”
“On the level?”
Taubman paused and then said, “You are not to be killed. Captain Shimada gave me his word to treat you fairly. He’ll take you back to Penang.”
Penang! Baumgartner and that sadistic Captain Abe. Damnit! He had truly counted on going to Europe and making a break for it.
“I’ll miss our little chess games.” With a nod, Taubman dropped the handcuff key in Ishibashi’s outstretched hand and started to walk away.
“Martin, you’re such a phony.”
Taubman paused and then turned. “What did you say?”
“You don’t care about Hitler’s ass being kicked into Austria, do you?”
“What are you talking about?”
Ingram pushed past Ishibashi. “You don’t care about Germany or your fellow Germans. You don’t care about me or these fine folks here on these two pleasure cruisers, do you?”
In the gloom, Taubman looked hurt. “I’m sorry. I thought we were really friends.”
“Baloney. All you want is your damn gold.”
Taubman studied the water lapping between the hulls. “You’ll never know.”
“I hope you choke on--
“Iko!” Ishibashi racked his Nambu down the side of Ingram’s head.
“Oww.”
“You’d better head over there, Commander. They want to clear the area before the British patrol boat shows up.” Taubman held out his hand.
Ignoring Taubman’s hand, he said sarcastically, “And my ring? I was hoping you’d give it back to me.”
“Good luck.”
“Rot in hell, Fritz.” With Ishibashi behind, he stepped carefully over the plank and walk
ed to I-49's conning tower.
The plank was pulled aboard the I-49. Shouting from the bridge, Shimada called for the mooring lines to be taken in. That done, the I-49's engines increased in pitch. Water swirled under her screw guards. She backed clear, as sailors laughed and cat-called back and forth.
Taubman’s voice echoed over the water. “Perhaps we’ll play chess after the war, Commander.”
“When pigs fly,” Ingram shouted back.
The banter increased as the I-49 gained sternway. Then both crews began cheering and waving their caps over their heads. Blending with the night, their voices carried on an easterly breeze to Manambolosy, a fishing village twelve kilometers away. A few dogs raised their noses toward the ocean and barked, but the villagers didn’t wake.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
1 July, 1944
12th Naval District Headquarters
San Francisco, California
Someone knocked. Lieutenant Commander Oliver Toliver III spilled his coffee. “Damnit!”
A muffled reply came from outside. “Sir?”
“Enter,” Toliver said irritably, wiping at the spill with paper towels. He’d been up late last night with Jerry Landa and now, he’d been here since 0515 this morning. Three hours sleep. He didn’t know if he felt good enough to make the I-57 presentation to COMTWELVE and his staff at 0800. But Toliver had no doubts about Landa, who would also attend. The man had the constitution of an ox.
Wearing dress khakis with black tie, Hank Wellman stuck his head around the door. The balding chief warrant puffed an enormous black cigar and asked, “everything okay, sir?” Like Toliver, Wellman wore dress khakis with black tie.
“What is it?”
A trumpet player in the USS Oklahoma’s band on December 7, 1941, Wellman was subsequently recruited to COMTWELVE’s security section to assist with breaking codes. Cryptographers had discovered musicians with their sight-reading skills, were well suited to code-encryption, decryption and analysis. Wellman was no exception. The fact that he’d lived in Japan as a boy for eight years made him a sought after decryptorapher-translator, a rare combination. His deep voice rumbled with, “COPEK message from HYPO, Commander.” He handed over a red-banded white folder marked “TOP SECRET -- MAGIC.”
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 19