“Where are we going with this, Admiral?” Landa asked bluntly. Toliver kicked him beneath the table.
Sorrell waved Landa’s question aside and looked at Wellman who continued, “Well...the depression was on. And the recruiting chief liked me and told me to put down a different birth date.”
Sorrell sighed and looked at Bunker. “What are you getting at, Commander?”
Bunker rubbed his hands together. “This man has a unique talent, Admiral. It’s obvious he’s underutilized here. We’d like to transfer him to OP-20-G where his true capabilities can be put to work.”
“To Washington D.C.?” gasped Wellman.
“Exactly.”
“But my wife and kids are here.” Wellman turned to Sorrell. “You promised, Admiral.”
Bunker said, “I thought we were supposed to serve at the pleasure of the United States Navy, rather than the other way around.”
“Is this what you mean by streamlining?” Landa asked quietly. “Like how you did things at Thorp, Thorp and Schmidlapp?”
Bunker said, “Thorp, Thorp and Collins. Yes. It’s strictly a question of resource allocation. This man is far more valuable in Washington.”
“What about the I-57?” asked Landa. “What about Todd Ingram?”
“Actually, it looks as if the I-57 was sunk three days ago,” said Bunker.
“What?” said Landa.
“We have a report from the Royal Air Force Indian Ocean Command. One of their B-24s out of Trincomalee, Ceylon claims a Japanese submarine sunk on June 27. Big oil slick. It occurred right along the I-57's projected track.”
“Bullshit,” growled Wellman.
Bunker shot his cuffs. “I beg your pardon, Chief?”
“The guys at HYPO say the same fist sends her posit reports. I talk to them on the phone every day and what’s good enough for them is good enough for me. That sub is still alive. And so is Mr. Ingram.”
Bunker leaned forward and jabbed a forefinger on the table. “Mr. Wellman. You have to recognize that--”
“--Fifteen minute break, Gentlemen,” said Sorrell. “Mr. Toliver, Mr. Wellman, I’d like to see you in my office, please.”
Tightlipped, the three left the room. Villafort and Curtis coughed politely while McCann poured coffee, each taking the remaining doughnuts. But Landa noticed McCann didn’t offer coffee to Bunker. After a moment, Bunker rose and walked out. Landa accepted coffee from McCann, than excused himself, carrying his coffee. He walked down the hall to the men’s room and shoved open the door.
It was empty except for Bunker zipping up his trousers and walking from the urinal toward a wash basin. Landa made a show of working his own zipper as he walked past Bunker. Then he faked a stumble, lowered his coffee cup, and pitched the steaming contents into Bunker’s crotch.
“Oww, hey!” Bunker protested. “What the hell?” He looked down seeing the crotch of his khaki trousers splattered with coffee.
“Oh. I’m so very sorry.” Landa ripped half dozen towels from the dispenser and handed them over.
Bunker grabbed the wad and wiped furiously.
“Here.” Landa grabbed another wad of towels, soaked them under the faucet and handed them over. “Please forgive me.”
Bunker looked at the wad, then at Landa. “What is this?”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“I know when I’ve been had, Captain. What do you want?”
Landa braced his hands on his hips. “Such a good cup of coffee, too.”
Bunker stared.
“All right. Here it is, Commander. That’s my buddy’s life you’re screwing with.”
“But he may be dead--”
“I’m not going to fool around with you anymore, you little goldbricking, backwater turd.” Jabbing his finger into Bunker’s shoulder, Landa said evenly. “ That’s Todd Ingram out there on that Nip sub. And you want to foul up this operation in order to build your little kingdom in Washington D.C.?”
“You don’t realize what you’re doing. I can have you thrown in the brig, like that!” Bunker snapped his fingers, then furiously wiped wet towels at his crotch making the contrast more vivid.
Landa’s fury was mounting. It was all he could do to keep from smacking Bunker in the mouth. “I’m sure you could do that. Especially if you’re brown-nosing everybody like you say you do. And you know what? You’d get away with it, except you won’t have the satisfaction of seeing me in Leavenworth.”
“What?”
“’Cause if you screw this operation up, you little bastard, then I’m coming after you. And I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”
Bunker swallowed, his adam’s apple bouncing up and down.
“I repeat, if you take apart this operation, then I’m coming after you. And you’ll end up under a freight train, all sliced to pieces. Now get out of here,” Landa said with barely controlled rage.
“You...you.”
“Out!”
Bunker walked out.
Landa expected Bunker to run down the hall to Sorrell’s office. Instead, he walked for the front door, grabbing his cap off a tree before he exited. Landa was surprised to see that the Marine sentry saluted him, coffee-stained crotch and all.
Landa walked back into the head and braced himself on the sink for a couple of minutes, catching his breath. Shit Jerry, what have you done? He waited until the water ran warm, then washed his hands over and over. Five minutes later, he walked back in the conference room, finding them all gathered. “Sad news, Gentlemen,” He shook his head slowly and said, “Commander Bunker became ill. Won’t be able to rejoin us.”
Admiral Sorrell jogged papers and said, “Shall we continue?”
Nobody asked questions. So Landa took a chair and said, “We’ve got a problem with this operation. We’ve overlooked the RAF in the Indian Ocean. Damnit. It’s my fault.”
“Well, maybe Bunker did us some good after all,” said Sorrell.
Landa sat forward, “Possibly. Here’s what I think we should do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
2 July, 1944
IJN Submarine I-49
Indian Ocean
Midshipman Yuzuru Tsunoda, weighed 140 pounds and stood just to the top of Ingram’s collarbone. But at twenty-two years of age, he was a good looking young man with dark, intense eyes and good muscle definition. In another era, he would have been a movie star. For such a gregarious young man, it was Tsunoda’s misfortune to be assigned in Masako’s place as Ingram’s watchdog. He was forced to wear a duty belt and carry a pistol which, Ingram was sure, Tsunoda didn’t have the slightest idea how to operate.
Tsunoda talked incessantly to whomever was around and constantly besieged Ingram with questions about English. With Taubman’s departure, Ingram gladly accommodated, but after a few hours, the Midshipman’s demands became monotonous. Even so, it was a welcome break from scrubbing decks and cleaning toilets.
Aboard the I-49 Tsunoda was bunked in the forward torpedo room. This torpedo room had only six torpedoes, the rest of the space given over to storage for canned and packaged food. Ingram slept on the deck, this time chained beneath a massive type 95 torpedo. Tsunoda enjoyed a bunk atop the torpedo which was clear of bare-chested torpedomen who sweated heavily, spoke in grunts, and shuffled about the space in greasy trousers, smelling like hydraulic fluid.
Before acquiring Ingram, Tsunoda’s normal duties had been as the Executive Officer’s Assistant, meaning he was a glorified yeoman. The young midshipman liked that, since it meant the bulk of his days were spent in a closet-sized office, pecking at an ancient typewriter. With the help of sign language, Tsunoda told Ingram he spent most of the day asleep in there. So much for Commander Kato, he would say in a false basso, rocking on his feet from side to side, his hands on his knees.
Thirty-six hours out of Madagascar, they cruised at twenty meters beneath a relatively calm sea. They had been under all day, and the air in the boat was becoming foul with the day’s activities, further complicated by
a highly seasoned evening meal, Kaya, rice gruel, and tai, a traditional red fish. At the moment, the officers and crew were finishing dinner with the anticipation of surfacing in two hours, starting the engines to charge batteries and draw fresh air through the boat.
Having not yet eaten, Ingram and Tsunoda were in the control room. Lieutenant Seiichi Onishi, Torpedo and Gunnery Officer, was the officer of the deck and spent most of his time bent over the chart table or reading thick operating manuals. Ingram was scrubbing the deck near the chart table and pushing a bucket of soapy water before him. Tsunoda sat perched on a linoleum padded bench next to the stern planesman, a third class quartermaster. With furtive glances around the space, they leafed through one of the girly magazines making the rounds of the boat. Aside from Tsunoda and his friend’s stifled giggles, it was quiet; the watchstanders eyes were heavy with fatigue, doing their best to stay awake.
Something rattled as Ingram scrubbed. He stopped and looked up. Yes, there it was again, pencils rattling in a tea mug. His ears picked up. Odd. It was a motion, a sensation he couldn’t pin down. He flattened both palms against the steel deck. Yes, there was something. He felt it. It was a vibration, a sound. He jammed his right ear to the cold, steel deck. There. He heard it clearly: thrum, thrum thrum. It was definite, predictable. There it was again: thrum, thrum, thrum. With each repetition of three, it would go away. But then it would return and he could feel it again: thrum, thrum, thrum. He could feel more than hear it, and after a while, he knew it came from back aft: a prop shaft. The starboard side was out of alignment: thrum, thrum, thrum.
Ingram looked up, finding Tsunoda casting a malevolent look in his direction. Back to work.
Scrubbing with a vengeance, Ingram was thankful Masako wasn’t around. Instead of just a dirty look, Masako would have been kicking him. As he worked, Ingram’s mind ranged over differences between the I-49 and the I-57. Both had the same basic configuration, but inside, things were different: the galley was on the starboard side instead of the port and the crews mess in the I-49 had one more table than the I-57. The motors in the motor room seemed much larger, and her diesels were a different shape altogether and made a lot more noise when operating. But this submarine seemed not as clean as the I-57. The main question: why swap submarines? And what was with all that gold? What does Yakuza mean? He decided to ask Tsunoda.
Captain Shimada stepped through the hatch, a toothpick clenched between his teeth. He walked to the chart table, carrying an arm load of books and rolled up charts. Onishi barked, and the men more or less stood or sat at attention at their stations. Waving them down, Shimada bent over the table and unrolled a chart.
After a moment, Shimada walked over and began talking to Onishi. Curiosity getting the better of him, Ingram rose on his knees to check the compass repeater over the chart table: their course was 090. It confirmed what Taubman had said; they were headed east, back into the Indian Ocean, away from the South Atlantic. But oddly, course 090was directly east, not the route to Penang, which should have been a bit north by east. He recalled their course on the way out was 250. Thus they should have been on the reciprocal for Penang, a course of 070.
Odd. Where the hell are we going?
Still huddled with Onishi, Shimada leafed through a manual, jotting notes as he went. Pushing his bucket, Ingram worked around to the starboard bulkhead so Shimada and Onishi were between he and the chart table. Again, he rose on his knees. The chart Shimada had been working on was labeled in English. It read:
SOLOMON ISLANDS TO VANUATU.
He was familiar with this chart and quickly picked out regions he had steamed through when aboard the Howell and, more recently, the Maxwell.
Someone bellowed. It was Shimada, his face in a rage, his finger pointing directly at Ingram. To his horror, Ingram found that he was on his feet, in full sight of everyone, hunched over the chart. It felt so natural bending over a chart. It was almost as if he were back in the Maxwell’s pilothouse, scanning coastlines, seeking safe passages and dangerous shoals, plotting courses and speeds.
“Jeez, I forgot. I’m sorry.” Quickly, he dropped to the deck and began scrubbing.
Shimada quickly dashed around the chart table and kicked Ingram, the blow connecting with his upper arm, sending him on his back.
Screaming loudly, Shimada kept at it, his kicks going wide as Ingram flailed his hands parrying the blows. Shimada’s kicks became more fierce. He stepped closer and drove a foot down on Ingram. The blow connected with the side of Ingram’s head, nearly knocking him out.
Seething with anger, Ingram caught Shimada’s foot as he kicked again and twisted -- hard.
Arms flailing in space, Shimada lost his balance, tripped on the bucket and fell over. His head hit the chart table with a sickening crunch. Then he fell to the deck in a crumpled heap, the bucket’s dark contents sloshing about him.
“Oh my God. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to...” Ingram rose to his knees. Shimada lay on his side, groaning and holding his head, blood gushing between his fingers.
Ingram stood, looking into the vehement eyes of men gathering around him. “I swear, it was an accident.”
Shouting, they pushed in, pinning him against a fuse panel on the starboard bulkhead. Officers in the wardroom piled in, as well. He ducked as fists whooshed past his head. He yelled, “I didn’t mean to. He was kicking so hard. I couldn’t--”
A blue light flashed though Ingram’s head, followed by a hot bolt of intense pain. “You bastards,” he yelled just as another blow connected. This time he didn’t feel the pain, but simply collapsed to the deck.
Water trickled down his neck. Wind whipped over his face as if he were in a tunnel.
“Uhhh.” He raised a hand to wipe his face but he couldn’t move it. He discovered it really was a tunnel and they had him trussed with a heavy piece of line. And going up! Warm liquid ran over his eyes as he thumped against the cold, sleek, hatch wall. The I-49's engines grew louder as he rose to the top. With a final yank, they pulled him out, set him on the deck and untied the hoisting rope.
He blinked blood from his eyes finding it was overcast. Just past sunset, the sea was a calm slate-grey broken by a few feathery whitecaps, as water gushed down the I-49's flanks, leaving a broad greenish-white foaming wake. The tone of the engines was deep, intense; his sailor’s eye told him they were doing at least fifteen knots. He stood in the middle of about twenty sailors, wind ripping at their hair. They’d left his hands tied and try as he might, Ingram couldn’t budge. Worse, the more he struggled, the deeper the bonds bit into his flesh.
They were behind the conning tower. The bridge watch looked down upon them with detached curiosity, Lieutenant Commander Kato, the ship’s executive officer, wedged among them.
Standing before him was Captain Shimada, a crude blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his forehead. Beside Shimada was Midshipman Tsunoda, his eyes wide open, his mouth opening and closing.
“Arrrrgh.” Ingram lunged for the side, only to be caught by strong arms and thrust back into the middle of the group.
Commander Shimada stepped up and barked a few clipped sentences. Some sounded like questions, but he had no idea what the man was saying. Then, with great force, Shimada slapped Ingram across the mouth. He stepped back into the circle and crossed his arms.
“Same to you, shithead.”
Shimada spit, the wind whipping it high in the air and aft..
Again, Ingram lunged for the side. Anticipating his bid, strong hands once again found him and thrust him back in the circle’s center. And this time, they shoved him to his knees. With all his might, Ingram tried to rise, but someone delivered two quick blows to his head. Someone else kicked him in the ribs; pain caroming about his thorax in white-hot jagged scythes. With a groan, he fell over, but someone yanked him back to his knees.
Lieutenant (j.g) Fumimaro Ishibashi stepped in the group, taking a place alongside Shimada. Shirtless, he wore spotless trousers and classic split-toed sandals. Str
apped around his waist was a samurai sword and on his head was the hamchimaki -- a white bandana with the kanji ideographs. What had Taubman told him they meant? Seven lives to serve my country.
“I’ve waited a long time for this,” Ishibashi said.
“What the hell are you doing?” Ingram sputtered through pain.
“You’re not surprised that I speak English?”
“Not really.” For some reason, Ingram thought of Dexter; that crazy monkey, sticking his nose into the wind, his fur streaming straight back.
Ishibashi stepped to Ingram’s left and drew his sword with a clang. “Your German friend had it a little wrong.”
“What are you talking about?”
Ishibashi’s pointed to his forehead. “My hamchimaki.”
“Didn’t Taubman say ‘seven lives to serve my country?’”
“He was wrong. Actually it means, ‘Born seven times to serve the homeland.’ There are subtle differences.” Ishibashi stared at him as if it were really important. “Do you see what I mean?”
Ingram’s teeth chattered and he shook all over. “No, I don’t.”
Shimada barked, slicing a hand through the air.
Ishibashi bowed to Shimada, then turned and said, “This debate could be interesting, but we’re out of time. Yours will be an honorable death. I could shoot you or strangle you, after all.” He stepped behind Ingram.
The men before Ingram moved back two paces. The sword swished as Ishibashi took a couple of practice swings.
“This is bullshit!” Ingram tried to rise but someone clubbed him on the head.
Helen. I love you. God keep you and our child safe and happy. I love you.
Through a fog of pain, Ingram saw the sailor’s eyes tracking the blade in fascination, as Ishibashi swung it back and forth. Finally, they looked up as the sword was raised to the sky. But one of them focused on something distant. He screamed and pointed.
Gunfire. Ten foot high water-spouts raced toward the I-49 and across her deck. Metal clanged on metal, something screeched past Ingram’s ear as deck wood chips flew in to his face.
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 22