A shadow flashed overhead, starboard to port. Except, there was no sun. How could that be a shadow? In the men’s faces, he saw their anticipation of his execution suddenly change to dark, cold, fear. Their heads whipped to port, watching the apparition go.
WHAM! WHAM!
Nearly simultaneous, the savage twin concussions knocked Ingram over. The men around him fell too, their faces pale with disbelief. Shimada shouted. As Ingram struggled against his bindings, the men about him quickly rose and scrambled for the safety of the engine room hatch, Shimada yelling as they went.
The diving klaxon sounded as the half-panicked men leaped, one by one, down the hatch like Rumanian acrobats. But two weren’t making the trip. A petty officer lay on his back, a giant red splotch across his chest, arms thrust out. And within two feet of Ingram, lay Lieutenant (j.g) Fumimaro Ishibashi, staring with dull, lifeless eyes, a giant hole in his belly, smoke trailing out.
The men who had surrounded Ingram were gone in thirty seconds. The hatch was slammed shut, and the dogging wheel spun as the diesels ground to a halt. Air blasted from the I-49's ballast tanks as she lurched into a down angle. When the ballast tanks stopped roaring, another sound took its place: airplane engines. The plane was coming in on another run, it’s nose erupting with machine gun fire. Again water-spouts raced for the submarine finding her conning tower. Bullets clanged and ricocheted, throwing great chunks of metal and deck grating in the air. Red-hot pieces of shrapnel and wood fell about Ingram as he lay on his side, frantically trying to work his feet between his wrists.
The plane, a Wellington bomber with British roundels, ripped overhead, it’s twin engines growling.
Water gushed around the conning tower. Cascading down the deck, it lapped at Ingram as he kicked and groaned. Suddenly, white foamy water hit him at the full force of the I-49's surface speed. Suddenly, Ishibashi’s body swept from his sight. Ingram was shoved down the deck. He slammed into the deck gun pedestal. Desperately grabbing at space, he bounced away, and cascading further down the deck. Pain ripped through him each time he crashed into chocks or stanchions, so he rolled into a tight ball, smashing his way along. One collision gave an electrifying, painful boost, and his legs came through. His hands were before him and suddenly, he was swirling in white aerated water, rolling over and over. It happened so fast, he hadn’t taken a complete breath, as he found himself underneath kicking for the surface. A part of the I-49 swished past, a last farewell, as she clawed for the safety of the deep. With no sense as to where was up, Ingram kicked, his lungs near bursting.
Let it go. It was a voice, his own.
“Todd. I’m here,” she said.
His voice said, It’s okay. There’s comfort deep below us. Peace. It’s beautiful. Let it go.
“I love you,” Helen said.
“Me too.” he gasped, breaking the surface. Frantically, he pulled in great lungfulls of air, kicking his legs and bound hands in a mushy dog paddle. At length, he looked about seeing he was alone in the Indian Ocean. Three-foot wind-blown waves lapped at his face, carrying him up and easing him down into troughs. Except for the sound of waves tumbling about, it was quiet. He was all alone. And this time, there was no wreckage to cling to; no Dexter to keep him company.
“Oh, God.” He called to the darkening overcast.
“You have a wonderful child,” she said.
God, she’s beautiful.
Let it go, repeated his voice.
The silence was broken by whining twin engines. Ingram jerked his head around to see the bomber coming right at him, no more than thirty feet off the deck, propwash mist trailing far behind.
“Yeah! Rule Britannia!” he shouted, throwing his bound fists in the air as the plane roared closer. “God save the King.” But then a long, black object fell from beneath the plane and hurtled right for him.
“No! You can’t!” He turned and paddled furiously. Two seconds later the plane streaked overhead. Something smacked the water, no more than ten feet away.
“You dirty--” Initiatively, Ingram ducked beneath the water and grabbed his legs in a the fetal position. He waited for the blast. And waited, holding his breath as a series of waves flung him about, bubbling above. Finally, he raised his head gasping for breath just as the plane flew away, wagging its wings.
“Todd. Turn around, “ she said.
He turned, seeing a slick, black rectangular object, perhaps two by four, bobbing no more than fifteen feet away. Writing, in yellow letters down the side, announced: PULL HERE.
“I must be nuts.” Furiously he paddled, the waves slapping at him. And the water was icy; the last water injection temperature reading he’d seen aboard the I-49 was 52. The cold soaked the warmth from him, his arms aching terribly, his legs feeling like lead. Suddenly, pain shot into his right calf and his leg doubled up. Holding his breath, Ingram bent over and kneaded it with his fingers, working out the knot. It took five long minutes in the wind-tossed chop, which seemed to be gaining in strength. The cramp gone, he looked up and caught his breath.
The raft was a tantalizing five feet away.
But his strength was gone.
“Keep going, my love,” she said.
Finally, he was there, the PULL HERE legend right before his face, It was a liferaft and all he had to do was to yank the damned stainless steel D-ring that dangled before his eyes. But he couldn’t raise his arms. Biting his lip, he tried, but only his right hand broke to the surface. It flopped back and he gasped, “...can’t.”
In the distance, the Wellington flew about him in circles, its engines growling monotonously.
He heard his own voice, Let go, Todd. It’s beautiful down there. Nobody can hurt you.
“Uh, please.” He tried again for the D-ring. No luck. He fell back.
“Todd, you’ve got to for our sake.” Helen sounded like she did the first time he met her in Corregidor’s Malinta tunnel, dressing horrible gangrenous wounds, giving comfort to the sick and dying, and to the doctors and nurses around her. She was a beacon of strength.
“I love you, honey.” He raised both hands and found the D-ring. It seemed easy. Yanking with all of his might, there was a pop and then a loud hiss. As if by magic, a four man life raft unfolded before his eyes.
The plane blasted over his head, waggling its wings, then disappeared. Ingram watched it go. “Thanks, buddy.”
The top of the raft stood fourteen inches above his head. It might as well have been fourteen feet. How do I get aboard this damn thing?
“I love you, too,” she said.
Summoning the last of his reserves, he pulled himself aboard and fell unconscious.
PART TWO
“He has placed before you fire and water:
stretch out your hand for whichever you wish.
Before a man are life and death,
and whichever he chooses will be given to him...”
Ecclesiasticus 15: 16-17
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
2, July 1944
IJN Submarine I-49
Indian Ocean
“Make depth seven meters,” called Hajime Shimada. Then he looked at Ensign Kintomo who sat hunched over his sound gear, hands pressed to his earphones. “Well?”
Kintomo raised a hand. “Still checking, sir.”
“Just make certain. We--”
--a wrench clanged on the control room deck; someone cursed.
Shimada looked at Kato on the other side of the periscope well. “We’re jumpy, Shigeru.”
Kato, a man who had ascended up the enlisted ranks, shrugged. “It’s not every day we lose two men.” Red lights in the conning tower mirrored their mood. Shimada thought about how close they’d come to being obliterated. Everyone, including the damned lookouts had been mesmerized by Ishibashi, especially when he raised his sword to behead the American.
That was two long hours ago and Shimada had stayed down just to make certain. He had a healthy respect for the British Wellington bomber. Especially the one tha
t had nearly sunk them. No doubt she was based in Madagascar and, according to an intelligence summery, was adaptable to many purposes, including anti-submarine patrols. Powered by twin Hercules radial engines of 1610 horsepower, the bomber carried a payload of 2300 kilograms and had a range of 2900 kilometers. Twin .303 caliber machine guns in the nose were what had ripped up Ishibashi and Shinozaki. But what worried Shimada was that later models were fitted with radar and the new Leigh light of extraordinary brilliance. She could still be up there now, scanning the surface for them. Circling. Waiting.
But now, the boat again smelled foul. And they hadn’t had a chance for the battery charge.
Time to go up. “Ummm?” His gaze darted from Kato back to Kintomo.
Kintomo hands were pressed to his earphones.
“We don’t have all night, Ensign,” Shimada said dryly.
Kintomo looked up. “All clear as far as I can tell, sir. Do you want to do an active sweep?
“I’d rather not let the British know we’re about, if you don’t mind.” He nodded to his quartermaster. “Up periscope. And stay with me, Kintomo. Tell me the instant you hear anything, even a shrimp farting.”
“Yes, sir.”
The periscope hissed in the well, the eyepiece rising before Shimada. Quickly, he did a full sweep and then, slowly, another 360 sweep. Keeping his eye to the lens he ordered. “Lookouts to the conning tower.” Shimada did a third sweep then ordered, “Surface.”
The klaxon sounded; air roared into the ballast tanks, and the I-49 took a shallow up-angle. “Come with me, Kato,” said Shimada as he reached up, undogged the hatch and threw it open. Water cascaded down, soaking his face, neck and shirt. But it felt wonderful as he scrambled up the rungs and into the black, humid night. Kato and the lookouts followed, as the submarine pitched gently in a smooth sea, her diesels growling into life.
Shimada called down the hatch, “Steady on course zero-nine-zero; make turns for fifteen knots.” Kato stepped beside him as the I-49 gained speed, plankton-saturated water swirling down her flanks. A rich, whitish-green glow illuminated Kato’s face, reminding Shimada of a Dracula movie he’d seen in Tokyo. Within a minute, the lookouts called their sectors clear. Even so Kato and Shimada kept scanning. “Looks okay,” said the executive officer.
Shimada lowered his glasses. “We lost a good man today. It shouldn’t have happened.”
“Can’t let it get to you,” said Kato.
With a shake of his head, Shimada said, “I know Ishibashi’s parents. Fine people. They’ve lost two other sons in this damned war.”
“Ummm. All for the Emperor.”
“The damned Emperor. Ishibashi could have had a better life. He deserved one. So did his mother and father.”
Kato raised his binoculars for another sweep.
Shimada said, “Take over, and make sure these lads keep their eyes open. Those Brits are everywhere, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to be caught flat-footed again.”
“Especially since we’ve come this far.”
“I think we’re all right for now.”
“I am going to do the right thing for once. Using the I-57's call sign, I’m going to report Ishibashi’s loss to Tokyo. His parents must know.”
Scanning dead aft, Kato said, “You might as well do it up big and report all of them, including the American.”
“So be it.” Shimada started down the ladder. His head was level with the deck when he called up, “Since we now play Yukota’s game of laying around Madagascar for two or three months I’m going to draw some charts. I rather liked his description of Antongila Bay. Hardly any people, lots of fresh water and fish to catch. What do you think?”
“As long as we don’t see any Tommies.”
“All up north, apparently.” He fixed Kato with a look. “Call me.”
“Sir?”
“Call me if you see anything. The slightest scintilla.”
“Yes, sir.”
The cab pulled before the main gate on Treasure Island. Grabbing his B-4 bag, Landa paid, jumped out and walked up to the Marine sentry, showing his ID.
The Marine saluted and said, “Car waiting for you, Captain.” He nodded to a grey Plymouth sedan in Navy markings, a dungareed Sailor standing at the front bumper.
“Thanks.” Landa climbed in and two minutes later, he was fighting his way through various doors of the Twelfth Naval District Headquarters, flashing his ID to a myriad of guards.
He found them in the conference room. Dropping his B-4 bag with a thump, Landa said, “Your messenger jerked me off the plane. Engines were started and they were closing the door. What’s this about, for crying out loud?”
Wellman chomped an unlit cigar. McCann looked in the distance, as Toliver steepled his fingers under his chin.
“Ollie, give, damnit.”
Toliver snatched a sheet of paper and held it out. “We got the message at two this morning. It’s a long intercept forwarded from HYPO. Took Howard six hours to crack it.”
A look at Wellman’s red-rimmed eyes confirmed that he’d been working at it. His sleeves were rolled up and a fine band of perspiration stretched across his forehead and above his lip.
It was an I-57 status report signed by Shimada. Landa’s eyes jumped over the sentences. It was banal stuff: tons of fuel on board, ammunition on board, number two generator needed a new bearing, two sailors had yellow fever. Landa was ready to say, ‘So?’ when his eyes froze on the line:
...STRAFED AND BOMBED BY BRITISH BOMBER. NO DAMAGE EXCEPT LIEUTENANT (JG) FUMIMARO ISHIBASHI, TORPEDOMAN SECOND CLASS TOSHIO SHINOZAKI, AND AMERICAN POW COMMANDER ALTON C. INGRAM, ALL KILLED IN THE ATTACK.
“No!” Pushing his hat back on his head, Landa sat heavily.
Wellman looked up. “Captain, I’m sorry. I’ve checked it six ways from Sunday. Some of this message was garbled, but I recovered about eighty percent. And Commander Ingram’s name was very clear. Clear also was that his title was assigned in the proper order. I even had another guy come in from the New Mexico’s crypto gang and verify it for me. And...and... then I...”
“...I’m sure you did your best, Howard.” Landa’s eyes again ran over the line. It burned into his brain: “...INGRAM...KILLED IN THE ATTACK.”
Landa raised his head to see tears well in Toliver’s eyes. “Ollie, I’m sorry.”
Toliver lowered his head. “I was his gun boss on the Pelican. Then we had this thirty day canoe trip: Corregidor to Darwin. You...you get to know a guy.”
“Steamed a few miles with him myself,” said Landa. “None better.”
Toliver rose and kicked over a chair. “We should of talked to the Brits. We,” his eyes bored into Landa, “should have worked more closely with the damned Brits.
“What the hell are we going to tell Helen?” he roared.
“She already knows, Commander, in case you’ve forgotten.” Landa stood.
Toliver paced the room. “She was with us. Todd saved her life. Saved all of our asses, “ he said shrilly.
“That’s why they gave him the Navy Cross, son,” said Captain McCann.
“Otis DeWitt, Leon Beardsley, Forester, Yardly, Sunderland -- shit -- we were planning a re-union. What am I going to do now?” Toliver’s fist thumped the table.
Landa said, “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. For starters, Commander, shooting off your mouth and wetting your diapers isn’t going to bring Todd back.”
“You -- shit,” growled Toliver.
Landa held up a hand. “Hey Ollie. Who’s side are you on, anyway? He was my buddy too.”
Toliver ran his hands over his eyes and his shoulders slumped. With some difficulty, he reached down, upended his chair, and sat.
“Okay, Triplesticks?” said Landa.
Toliver pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief and blew his nose. “Sorry.”
Landa sat beside Toliver and clapped his shoulder. “Okay, so Todd’s gone. Nothing we can do about that. But the I-57? Let’s finish the Brit’s job and
sink the sonofabitch.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
20 July, 1944
IJN Submarine I-57; Kreigsmarine Submarine U-581
South Atlantic
1005.7' S; 19 56.2' W
Wind howled through the periscope shears as the I-57's bow climbed up a huge wave. Thirty meters to starboard, the U-581 rose with her. Side-by-side, the submarines crested and plunged into the trough, their forward sections buried under angry seas as foaming white sheets of water crashed into their conning towers. Commander Narrate Yukota, the I-57's commanding officer, watched the U-581 rise again, shaking off tons of water. Amazing, he thought. One’s own plight didn’t seem so bad when you saw someone else going through the same thing.
Two hours before, they had rendezvoused with the U-581. She was a milchow: a submarine converted to replenish other submarines with fuel, food and torpedoes. And now, they were connected by a life-giving fuel hose, with Yukota marveling that the rig hadn’t carried away in this tumultuous sea.
The weather wasn’t bad when they had first rendezvoused. It was only in the last thirty minutes that a front had roared through, turning the ocean a caldron with white-caps atop enormous white-caps. Everything had taken so long: first, there was the personnel transfer, bringing two German communication specialists over to the I-57. Then they had to ship a moaning Korvettenkapitän Taubman back to the U-581. Doubled up in pain, it looked as if his appendix was ruptured. Luckily, the U-581 had a doctor.
Yukota checked his watch: 0607. Sunrise pretty soon. Time to get underway. He yelled down the conning tower hatch, “How much longer?”
“Sir?” echoed the reply from inside the conning tower.
Water cascaded about Yukota as yet another wave inundated the bridge. Barely controlling his temper, Yukota kneeled over the hatch, watching buckets of water swirl down. “Kusoga? Where are you? Get over here where I can see you, damnit!”
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 23