“Bomb doors coming open,” called Kenrich, tripping the handle. Wind whistled in the compartment as the TBF’s bomb doors opened beneath the plane.
Bishop yelped, “Five miles! Directly ahead. Strong echo. You see anything yet, sir?”
“Question is, do you see it Bishop?” retorted Donoho.
“Lemme take a look.” Bishop eased from his radar receiver and pressed his face to the bombardier’s window which now had a clear view out the open bomb bay. “Just waves,” he muttered. “Go back to sleep, Crapper. You can--Sheeeat! There he is!”
Kenrich twirled in his seat looked back at Boyd and chopped a hand across this throat. Boyd acknowledged with the same motion. With that, he retarded the power to idle and dropped the nose. Wind whistled though the airframe as Big Lug’s engine popped and backfired softly. Ahead, Kenrich picked a speck out of the ocean, twin white exhaust plumes trailed past the submarine’s fantail, hanging over its wake.
“Bingo!” Kenrich shouted over his radio.
Boyd clicked in. “Dead duck,” he said. “Go gettum Ralph.”
“Three miles.” Said Bishop.
Misty air spewed above the submarine, it’s motion seeming sluggish. “Damnit. She’s diving!” Said Bishop.
Kenrich punched in some throttle and keyed his mic. “Tommy, let’s both salvo.”
“I’m for that,” replied Boyd.
Except for the periscope, the submarine was gone by the time Hopscotch Four-one flashed over. Bishop salvoed both bombs. Then he added power and eased into a shallow climbing turn while behind them, twin bursts rose in the air. “What do you think, Donoho?”
Looking aft, Donoho said, “You straddled his wake. Can’t tell anything else. No Krauts swimming around. No--hold on.”
Four depth charges burst around the target, throwing great columns of smoke- charged water into the air. Donoho continued. “Mr. Boyd straddled the target, too. Still no Krauts running around.”
“Maybe an oil slick?” asked Bishop. “What do you think, Mr. Kenrich?”
Kenrich pushed into a steep left bank and leveled off at five hundred feet. All he could see was dissipating mist. “Can’t tell.” Kenrich keyed his mic. “Tommy?”
“Let’s drop sonobuoys,” was Boyd’s terse reply.
“I got the smoke,” called Kenrich. He punched his intercom and said, “Bishop. Drop smoke on my command.” He hauled into a tight turn then leveled out, eased the nose down and headed for water still swirling from the explosions. It was an arbitrary point called datum: the last position where the submarine was detected.
Bishop grabbed a smoke canister and got it ready. Above, the little hatch to the turret opened. Donoho peered down between his knees, his face screwed up. “You serious about my lunch?”
“I got your damned lunch. Wait until I toss the smoke,” said Bishop.
“That’s better,” Donoho smiled. “You’ll live to see another day.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Bishop.
Ten minutes later, the sun was up; glistening bright yellows bounced off wave tops. Boyd called over, “We got him, Ralph. Two four zero, twelve hundred yards from datum. Possible submarine. Lots of noise. Sounds like he’s cranking up full turns.” Hopscotch two-six peeled into a tight turn, headed over datum and seconds later, dropped another smoke float. “Right there,” Said Boyd. “Drop it right there.”
Kenrich felt a rush of blood to his head. “On my way.” Easing his TBF around, he lined up the two smoke floats, pulled the throttle almost to idle, and put in twenty degrees of flaps. When the TBF had dropped to fifty feet off the water, he cranked in throttle and aimed for the smoke floats. By the time Big Lug flashed over the first smoke float, he was perspiring. Without thinking, he rolled the canopy open. Then his hand went for the torpedo release handle as Big Lug floated along at a hundred knots.
Keep her level, keep her smooth. Don’t even blink. Don’t even think of blinking. “Now!” Kenrich yanked the handle. Free of the 684 pound missile, Big Lug jumped five feet. The FIDO fell free behind them and plunged into the water, leaving a tall white water spout where it hit.
“Bingo! About ten feet at two o’clock from the smoke, Skipper,” shouted Donoho.
Big Lug’s engine growled as Kenrich jammed in throttle and pulled into a climbing turn. Settling into a shallow circle about five hundred feet around over the smoke float, he keyed his mic and asked, “Anything Tommy?”
Boyd answered, “Screw noises. FIDO’s running hot all right. There’s something but it’s jumbled. I think--Whoa!”
“What?”
Boyd said, “We heard a big pop. Damn! Bubbles. Lots of cracking. Oh, shit.”
“Tommy?”
“A big ‘whap!’ Breaking-up noises. He’s going down. Scratch one Kraut.”
Kenrich flew for a moment, looking down at the sea, now bathed in sunlight. “You sure?”
“Positive kill. I’ll call home and report it. Let’s head on back.”
Boyd and Kenrich climbed to five thousand feet and lined up on course 120, Kenrich assuming the wingman position for the trip home.
Five long minutes passed as Big Lug’s crew sat with their thoughts. Finally Bishop asked, “Skipper?”
“Yeah.”
“You know how deep it is back there?”
Big Lug droned for a moment. Kenrich answered. “Chart says twelve thousand one hundred feet.”
Thirty seconds passed. Bishop called up. “Hey Crapper. You ready for your sandwich?”
“Think I’ll wait a while.”
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
22 July, 1944
12th Naval District Headquarters
San Francisco, California
It was cold and windy when the cab lurched to a stop before the dimly lit sentry post. Toliver’s words on the phone still rang in Landa’s ear as he eyed a crowd of Sailors around the gate. “I’ve got something for you, Jerry.” He checked his watch: 2342. Two hours to go before the gooney bird took off for Terminal Island.
The driver cursed and honked, but the Sailors, intent on checking in before midnight didn’t budge. Many had red-rimmed eyes and rumpled dress blues, merit badges attesting to their Saturday night on the town. Some dug in their pea coats, nervously fingering liberty cards. Others propped semiconscious buddies between them, smelling of sweat and cheap beer. A group stood off to the side, slurring the words to On Moonlight Bay.
“Hold on.” Landa jumped out and drew up behind an enormous Sailor with dark curly hair. “Can we get through?”
The man ignored him.
Landa tapped him on the back. “Sailor?”
The Sailor twirled: a burly first class boatswain’s mate with powerful forearms. “What the fu--? Oh, ‘scuse me, sir.” He stepped to the side. “Hey you guys,” he called in a deep baritone, “make a hole--er--gangway for an officer. Jeez, a captain.”
Muttering and grumbling, the crowd parted, one Sailor whipping off his hat and waving the cab through with an exaggerated bow.
Landa climbed back into the cab. “Go!”
With another horn honk, the cab driver popped the clutch and moved ahead, drawing to a stop at the gate, a Marine corporal on one side, a private on the other. As Landa cranked down the window, the corporal, his cap the requisite two finger-width’s above his eyes, stooped and looked in. “Captain Landa?”
“That’s right.” He flashed an ID card.
The Corporal threw a smart salute and said. “They’re expecting you, sir. Go right on ahead.”
“Thanks.”
The cab went through the gate and was at the headquarters building in two minutes. “Wait for me here.”
He jumped out, and rushed in, winding his way through a maze of guards. Three minutes later, he rapped on Toliver’s door.
“Enter.”
Toliver and a cigar-chomping Wellman sat at a small side table, poring over notes. Their coats were hung on a tree, sleeves were rolled up and every horizontal surface, including the deck and floor, was
covered with books and papers, half of them wadded and tossed into corners.
Wellman shot to his feet. “Evening, Captain.”
“You guys are working late.” Landa waved Wellman down.
“Want some?” Toliver pointed to a coffee service.
“What have you got, Ollie?” Landa grabbed a cup and poured.
“Henry?” Toliver cocked an eye.
Wellman fished among a pile of flimsies. He found an envelope marked OPERATION NEPTUNE -- TOP SECRET and silently handed it to Landa.
He accepted it and absently sipped while pushing pile of papers toward the center of Toliver’s desk with his buttocks. The message read:
TOP SECRET
DTG: 22071362Z
TO: COMTWELVE
FM: COM TG 26.3
INFO: DESLANT
CINCLANT
CINCPAC
COM TG 58.3
1.TWO TBF ATTACKED AXIS SS 21070937Z; 0916.3' S; 16 45.8' W.
2. SONOBUOYS INDICATE FIDO HIT TARGET AFTER SUBMERGING.
3. BREAKING UP NOISES FOLLOWED FOR THREE MINUTES.
4. TG 26.3 SUBSEQUENT SEARCH 22070822Z. FOUND OIL SLICK AND WRECKAGE. FOOD CARTON WITH IDEOGRAPHS INDICATE JAPANESE ORIGIN.
5. EVALUATED AS KILL, JAPANESE SUBMARINE.
6. THANKS FOR THE TIP. PLEASE SEND MORE BUSINESS.
BT
Landa snorted. “‘More business.’” He looked up, catching Toliver’s eye. Both looked away with the same thought. The I-57 was their last tangible connection to Todd Ingram. Now, the submarine was junk, littering the bottom of the South Atlantic. “Guess that’s it,” Landa said. Somehow, the satisfaction he thought he was seeking wasn’t there. In fact, Landa felt pale and empty, the office’s cold cement walls pressing in.
Toliver stood, hobbled over to the carafe and refilled his cup. “It’s...its...you spend twenty-some-odd days with a guy in an open boat. He saves your life. You save his.” He looked up. “What’s it all mean?”
“Need a fresh cigar. Back in a minute.” Wellman walked out, closing the door softly.
Toliver fell into his chair and ran a hand over his face. He looked up to Landa, his eyes glistening. “Helen must be used to it by now. Now it’s our turn.” He smiled ruefully.
“He’s gone, Ollie,” Landa turned away. “Don’t know if I can get used to it, either. I thought he had a great chance. I don’t know what the hell went wrong. “But it’s not your fault, it’s not mine. So buck up.”
“Maybe so, maybe not.”
“I’m ordering you to forget it mister. It’s not your fault. What did Todd used to say? ‘Let the dead bury the dead.’” Landa turned and held out a hand. “Cab’s waiting. Got a red-eye for Terminal Island. I say goodbye to Helen tomorrow. Then I shove off for...” He waved a hand toward the Golden Gate.
“Out there?”
“Somebody has to fight this war.” Toliver flushed a bit and Landa was sorry the instant he said it. “That doesn’t mean you, Mr. Triplesticks. You’ve paid your dues.”
Toliver stood. “I don’t miss it one bit.” With a sigh, he said, “Tell Helen I’m sorry for not getting down there right away to see her and little Ollie.”
“You mean little Jerry,” said Landa.
“Ollie.”
“Whatever.”
“Please let her know I’m really swamped. And then next week I’m off to Washington D.C...”
Landa gathered his things. “What for?”
Toliver lowered his voice. “School. I’m being transferred to ONI. A ton of courses.”
“My God, Ollie, that’s really big. But they usually don’t do that with reservists do they?”
“Well...”
Landa’s smile gleamed. “You mean you’re shipping over? Career Navy?”
“Ummm.”
“Welcome to the club you damned fool.”
They hugged and clapped shoulders. “Thanks, Boom Boom,” said Toliver.
“Watch it. I could have you busted for that.”
“Probably the best thing that can happen to me. Then I’d be reporting to Wellman. And I’d be running his butt off instead of vice versa.” He held out a hand. They shook.
“Be well, Commander,” said Landa.
“Give my best to Helen.”
The R4D, the Navy version of the venerable DC-3 landed at Terminal Island a little after five a.m.. By six Landa had checked into the Long Beach Naval Station BOQ and was fast asleep by six-thirty. The sun streamed through his window at two that afternoon, waking him. Yawning, he rose and padded down the hall to a pay phone, dropped in a nickel and dialed the number.
Helen answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
Landa mustered a deep falsetto. “This is the social services department ma’am. Can you give us any information as to whether or not young Jerome Oliver is being cared for properly?”
“It’s hard to tell.”
“Huh?” Said Landa.
“I can’t say until he gets back from his golf game.”
“You sound great.” He meant it.
“You’re here in town?”
“Just for three, maybe, four days.”
“And then?”
“...bye, bye.”
The line crackled for a moment. Helen said, “How ‘bout dinner tonight? Mrs. Peabody and I pooled our ration cards and got some real hamburger. We’re planning to barbecue outside. Corn on the cobb, baked beans, a little salad. How does that sound?”
“No kidding?” He looked out the window. Warm, with clear blue skies, it was a beautiful afternoon.
“I think she’s going to serve her beer,” Helen giggled.
“Damn! So she admits it. I knew she brewed her own. You have enough of everything?”
“Plenty.”
“Okay. Sure I’ll be there. What time?”
“Say six-thirty?”
“I’ll be there. What can I bring?”
“Just an appetite.”
Mustard, ketchup, mayonnaise and other condiments were laid on a redwood table in Mrs. Peabody’s backyard. The sun had drifted over Palos Verdes and shadows were stretching. Landa sat in a massive wooden lawn chair, Helen in a chair beside him, feeding a bottle to her son. He sank back, overpowered by the aroma of two gardenia bushes in full bloom, just three feet away. Off to the side and brimming with fruit, were an orange and lemon trees. He took a deep breath relishing it all. “Beautiful,” he said. Helen looked so delectable wearing a light black sweater and slacks. A large orange scarf was gathered around her neck.
“What?” Said Helen.
“Beautiful. Emma’s trees are just beautiful.”
“Leo planted those just after we bought this place,” said Mrs. Peabody.
“Leo?” asked Landa.
“My dear Leo, my husband. I lost him four years ago. But he planted these back in 1922.” Mrs. Peabody raised a frosted pitcher. “More?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” With two gulps, Landa downed the rest of his beer and held up the glass.
“What do you think?” Mrs. Peabody poured.
The beer was a bit green and there was some pulpy material that hadn’t filtered out. But she had chilled it well and even after one glass, it had a hell of a kick. “Great stuff,” said Landa.
“You’re not going to tell anyone?”
“Emma. I’ve known about you for years. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“I’m not sure...”
“As long as you keep pouring this firewater, my lips are sealed. After all, I’m cleared for top secret.” It slipped out. Landa wished he hadn’t said that, even in jest.
“Fire’s about ready, Jerry,” said Helen, nodding to the barbecue and boosting the baby to her shoulder. She began rocking the baby and patting him on the back.
“Say ‘ah,’” Said Landa.
The baby burped.
“That’s my boy,” said Landa, rising. “Duty calls. And to tell the truth, I could eat a horse. Where’s the stuff?”
“Get b
usy.” Mrs. Peabody pointed to three thick hamburger patties.
Ceremoniously, Landa tied an apron around his gabardine khaki trousers, rolled up his sleeves and played chef. He had just put the buns on to toast when Mrs. Peabody produced another chilled pitcher of beer. “Is this okay?” she asked.
“Why Mrs. Peabody. Do you think I’m just another Sailor?” He poured, drank and smacked his lips. “Ahhh. This stuff really grows on you.” He turned to Helen. “Like one?”
“How’s it taste?” She was a teetotaler.
“Just hold your nose and swallow fast. You won’t know the difference,” said Landa.
Emma Peabody glared while Helen said, “Okay.”
“That’s my girl.” Landa poured her a glass.
It was near dark and a full moon was rising in the east by the time they finished dinner. Even with the city and harbor blacked out below, they could see dark, hulking men-of-war swinging at their anchors in Long Beach Harbor, the water glistening with the last tiny wind waves of the day. Mrs. Peabody brought out a portable radio and the disk jockey played Harbor lights while they sat back, drinking Mrs. Peabody’s beer watching the moonrise in silence.
Helen sat up. “Jerry?”
“What?” Said Landa.
“No. I mean him.” She pointed to the crib. “It’s his bedtime.”
“Let me,” Said Mrs. Peabody. “You kids relax.” She rose, leaned over the crib and picked up the baby. “Say good night, everybody.” Both stood as she offered the baby to Landa for a peck on the cheek. “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Said Helen
“Take your time,” Said Mrs. Peabody. She walked off to Helen’s house.
They stood for a few minutes, listening to the radio and watching the moon climb higher in the sky, a silvery-gold disk. On an impulse, Landa reached and was surprised when she took his hand. He deliberately thought things through. He’s gone, he said to himself.
The phone rang next door.
“Uh,” Landa said.
“She’ll get it,” said Helen.
The disc jockey announced, “...And now, we dedicate this to all of our boys overseas. Here it is, folks, America’s favorite, You Belong To My Heart.”
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 25