With a nod, Blücher led the Flotilla Commander back to the rank of officers and began introductions. As youthful as he looked, the Flotilla Commander seemed fragile as he drew closer. His limp was more pronounced, he leaned on his cane now, and his left hand shook slightly.
“Psssst. Martin.” Blücher motioned Taubman to line up at the end of the rank. While the Flotilla Commander was deeply engrossed with Mecke, Blücher walked over and said in a low voice, “Shit to pay. We have to be careful, now.”
“What?”
Blücher nodded over his shoulder. “See those people waiting on the quay?”
Taubman glanced quickly over to four black uniformed SS officers gathered in a group, their hands on their hips. “What about them?”
“Interrogation.”
“What the hell for?”
Blücher spat, “Der Fueher. Rudy tells me somebody tried to knock him off while we were gone. And it seems the fools bungled it.” With a slight smile, Blücher threw a hand over his mouth. “Oh, excuse me. You didn’t hear that from me.”
“Conrad, you really are a pill.”
Blücher leveled his eyes on Taubman. “I’m serious, damnit. July the 20th. Count von Staufenberg. Did you know him?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, the damn fool is dead now. He set a bomb in Rastenburg. The thing went off but somehow Hitler survived. Now, his henchmen are out skewering everybody. So be careful. Rudy tells me hundreds have died so far. And remember. You don’t know where you heard this, all right?”
“What the hell? I’ve been out of the country for three years.”
“Martin, I’m going to do you a favor, a big one. I don’t know what your game is, but what you said under the anesthetic could land you in big trouble.”
Taubman jerked his eyes to Blücher, wondering if the damned fool had tried to look in his briefcase. The key was around his neck. It wouldn’t have been too difficult. Worse, he hadn’t thought about blabbing under the anesthetic. His blood rushed and his heart pounded.
“Don’t worry,” Blücher said. “The Doc will keep his mouth shut. And nobody else heard your ramblings. I don’t care what you and the Japs are doing. Just don’t piss off about me to those idiots over there.” He nodded to the SS officers.
So that’s what Blücher had been fishing for. It sounded as if he hadn’t heard much. Just enough to arouse suspicion. But then SS interrogators were experts at putting things together. Taubman forced himself to breath slower “Of course.”
“Good.”
“Now, can I ask another favor?”
“Just ask.”
“Get me through the gate and into the countryside. Away from those people.”
Blücher looked him up and down. “There’s a problem.”
“Yes?”
“If the Frogs or the SS don’t kill you, the American’s will.”
“What?”
“Rudy just told me. We’re surrounded. Some damned, crazy American General has driven through Western France. We’re all cut off. Brest, Lorient, La Rochelle, St. Nazaire. All of us. Ten mile perimeter around here. Shit! Nothing to do but sit around waiting to go out again.”
Taubman raised the briefcase in the air, the chain rattling. “There must be a way. Berlin is expecting this. It’s of the utmost importance.”
Blücher shrugged. “Let’s talk to Rudy.” He turned and led Taubman to the Fregattenkapitän and introduced them.
“Welcome to Lorient, Korvettenkapitän.” The Flotilla Commander offered his hand. Krüger’s voice was a deep baritone and rung with confidence, despite his fragile appearance. “You’ve been gone for how long? Two years?”
“Three, Herr Fregattenkapitän,” said Taubman.
“Please call me Rudy.”
“Yes, Sir, Rudy. It’s been much too long.” It seemed Krüger was in pain but he had a genuine, youthful grin. Taubman liked the man.
Krüger turned to Blücher. “U-662 made it in. She sunk 17,000 tons.” U-581 had refueled U-662.
“Wonderful,” said Blücher.
“So has U-436 and U-607. But both came back with zero tonnage sunk, all torpedoes expended.” Likewise, U-581 had refueled these U-boats and had also given them food and torpedoes.
Blücher’s eyes went wide. “No tonnage. How could that be?”
Krüger’s voice dropped. “Torpedo malfunction.” His eyes jerked toward the SS officers. “They’re trying to make a case for sabotage. I’m afraid I’ll have to hold your officers aboard until they’re--”
“--shit, interrogated?” Blücher jammed his hands on his hips. “Is this how we treat our boys who have been at sea for eighty-six days? They’re horney as two-peckered goats. They’ll mutiny.”
Krüger’s voice was sharp. “What the hell can I do about it, Conrad? The town is wrecked. Only two or three cat houses left. And the Americans are ten kilos away on all sides. Our backs are to the sea.”
“So what do we do?” asked Blücher.
“Turn you around and send you to back to sea within two weeks.”
“Rudy. I--”
Krüger held up a hand. “It’s either that or they give you a rifle with just five rounds, shove you into a truck and send you to the front lines to fight the Americans. That’s exactly what they did to the crew of U-642, you know.”
“Shit.”
“Precisely,” said Krüger. He turned to Taubman. “There’s other news. Not all of U-581's brood made in back.”
Krüger’s eyes said it. But Taubman automatically asked, “I don’t understand, Sir.”
“The I-57. She was due in last week. We’ve lost her, I’m afraid. Gave a position report shortly after you transferred off. That was it.” Krüger snapped his fingers. “No more radio transmissions. Disappeared.” Steel-grey eyes fixed on Taubman. “I’m sorry.”
Chipping hammers clattered. An overhead crane clunked above, as dockyard workers shuffled across the gangway carrying toolkits. Behind them, the SS officers lined up, waiting to come aboard.
“Gone,” Taubman said, trying to look flushed; doing his best to hide his elation.
“I’m truly sorry for your shipmates, your friends,” said Krüger. He took Taubman’s hand. “What a stroke of luck for you to have a ruptured appendix.”
“Ja...Gott,” Taubman muttered and turned away. He was afraid Fregattenkapitän Krüger and Kapitänleutnant Blücher would see his face; see the grin drawing from ear to ear. He couldn’t stop it. He had to turn away and compose himself. He hadn’t felt so exhilarated for a long time. What luck! If only there was a way to get out of here.
Krüger laid a hand on his shoulder. “My condolences.”
“Thank you, sir,” Taubman muttered.
“Sir. What about my men? Is there anywhere to send them on liberty, besides to lice-ridden cat houses?” demanded Blücher.
“To the barracks ship for the time being. They can take hot showers and have decent food,” said Krüger.
“Thank you, sir.” Said Blücher. “Also, Korvettenkapitän Taubman has a request.”
“Yes?” asked Krüger.
Taubman held up the courier pouch. “Sir, this is dated material from the Imperial Japanese Government. Berlin is expecting it immediately. And I’m under orders to get it there.” He drew a paper. “If you need authentication, this will--”
“No, no, I believe you, Martin,” said Krüger. He rubbed his chin. “We’re sending U-437 to Kiel next week with a load of wounded and excess 7th Flotilla staff. Perhaps...”
“Thank you, sir. But if there is anything more immediate, I would appreciate it.”
Krüger pawed at the concrete with his boot and looked up. “Well, there is another way. But I’d still recommend going with the U-689. It’s much safer.”
“What’s the other way, Sir?”
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
10 August, 1944
San Juan Capistrano, California
Ingram stared out the train’s window, seeing nothing but whi
te. A wisp parted as they clanked though San Clemente and he caught a look at the ocean; very quiet, like its name, the Pacific looked like a pond. Nice to be home. Nice to be on this side of the Pacific rather than on the other end.
The fog clamped down again as if someone had drawn a sheet over the window. That’s why he couldn’t fly today. Everything was socked in from San Diego to Santa Barbara. Through the graces of a sympathetic Navy PB4Y crew, he’d flown yesterday from Honolulu, reaching the North Island Naval Air Station in San Diego at three in the morning. Dead tired, he walked into base operations, grabbed the nearest phone and called Helen.
Helen’s voice, her shouts of joy cascaded upon him; a promise fulfilled, a promise of tomorrow, his son, Jerry, gooing in the background, all combined to bring him out of a malaise. They agreed he would take the 8:52, leaving San Diego in three hours, and they would meet in San Juan Capistrano when it pulled in at 10:17.
Ingram hung up. The light in the booth was out and no one was around. He dropped his head in his hands and sobbed uncontrollably for what seemed forever. A minute later, the accordion doors squeaked open and he walked away.
He found the base OOD who took him down the hall to the dispatcher, a crusty chief aviation ordnance mate. Bellowing in a fog-horn voice, the chief roused a driver who took him on the Coronado ferry to the Southern Pacific train station in downtown San Diego. Ingram jostled his way aboard the second car of very crowded 8:52, an eight passenger car train stuffed with Sailors and Marines bound for Los Angeles.
They rumbled into San Juan Capistrano’s little Spanish-mission style station, where the engineer laid on the brakes at the last possible moment.
There she is! The train rushed past Helen. Her dark ebony hair was pulled back, and gathered into a band, flowing down her back. She wore a black beret, dark green overcoat and black mittens. In her arms, was a bundle in a light blue blanket. Beside stood a Naval officer. A full captain. Landa. I’ll be damned. Then they disappeared in the fog.
The train finally slowed, with Ingram jumping off, B-4 bag and all, before it ground to a halt. It was so misty he couldn’t see more than three cars back. He hoisted his B-4 bag and started trudging back toward the depot, as the engineer yanked the whistle twice and cracked his throttle. The engine’s big drivers spun and caught; the couplers clanked all the way to the back of the train as it slowly pulled out, chuffing against an uphill grade.
The mist parted. “Todd!” She ran toward him, the baby cradled in her arms.
Sailors and Marines leaned out the windows, cheering and hooting with lopsided grins. “Go gettum, commodore,” thundered a bemedaled Marine gunny. His garrison cap was pitched back on his head; his blouse was open and he tipped a half-finished bottle of Schlitz in Ingram’s direction. “What a peach!”
“Smoothest piece of satin I ever saw,” yelled a Sailor as the train picked up speed.
The last three cars clanked past, every open window, filled with cheering sailors and Marines. “Owwwuuuh!,” they howled. “Hubba hubba.”
Cheers crescendoed as Helen ran into his arms, her beret falling off. Oblivious to everything, Ingram kissed her, held her; a dream fulfilled, her warm mouth, her perfume, the baby grunting and cooing. He felt like crying again. “...can’t,” he muttered.
She cupped his chin, her brow furrowed. “You’ve lost weight.”
He was afraid to talk. “...goes with the job.” He pulled her to him and kissed her again, and again.
At long last, Helen said, “Say hello to your little boy.” She held up the bundle.
He took the baby and raised the blanket. Red skin, doubled fists, the baby opened his eyes. “My God. He’s got your eyes.”
“Uh, uh,” Helen said. “They’re grey, like yours.”
Ingram looked again. The baby’s eyes were grey. “Guess so. What’s this? He’s bald.”
“It’ll grow.”
“He’s beautiful. Look, he’s even smiling at me.”
“That means he’s passing gas.”
“No kidding? Chip off the old block. Someday, this kid’s going to--”
“--welcome home sailor.” Jerry Landa walked up, his shimmering white smile beaming through the fog.
“Jerry-er, Captain. This is great.” They saluted, shook hands and clapped each other’s shoulders. “How the hell are you, Boom Boom?”
Landa threw a fake punch, “Careful sailor, I’ll toss you in the brig.”
“Oh, would you please, please?” Ingram reached down and picked up Helen’s beret.
“Getting cold, you two,” said Helen, adjusting it on her head.
“Yeah, how’s that for the middle of summer.” Landa jabbed a thumb at the parking lot. “Come on. Just pretend I’m the taxi driver. You guys ride in back and make out.”
“Jerry!” Said Helen.
The baby burped.
“Kid knows his name,” grinned Ingram.
Landa grabbed Ingram’s B-4 bag. “Lunch is on me. Perfect place, called the Hurley Bell.” They started walking.
“Where’s that?” asked Ingram, wrapping his arm around Helen.
“Over on the coast.”
Old English in style, the Hurley Bell was a comfortable half-timbered restaurant on Pacific Coast Highway in Corona del Mar, a sleepy hamlet just south of Newport Beach. Inside, the bar was dark, pub-like with a small fire glowing in a corner. The restaurant was open and homey with leather booths and the lingering odor of cooked beef and fine cigars.
They ordered and Landa filled an eager Ingram in on the war news. After a pause, he said, “We’re sending you back to the Maxwell. That okay with you?”
Ingram buttered a roll, his second. “I was hoping you’d say that. What’s her status?”
“Noumea. Still undergoing repairs. Should be done in about a month?” His eyes flicked between Ingram and his wife.
Ingram said, “You’re saying I could have more time off.”
“Probably another thirty days.”
Helen reached over and whispered in his ear.
Ingram nodded slowly. “Okay, Jerry. You got me.”
“Thanks, Helen,” said Landa, leveling a gaze on her.” You’re a good Sailor.”
She returned the look with one as powerful. “Just make sure you send him back to me.”
Ingram looked around. “Where’s Ollie hiding?”
“Sends his best, but for the moment, he’s indisposed.”
Ingram’s eyebrows went up.
“Washington D.C.. He’s turning into a spook. Going to ONI school”
“You’re kidding.”
“And get this,” added Landa. “He’s shipping over. Going career Navy.”
Ingram rubbed his chin. “I’ll be damned. But you know, I think that’s a great thing for him. His only option after the war was going to law school and then joining his dad’s law firm.”
“What’s wrong with that?” asked Landa.
“Scared the hell out of him. I never met his dad but I think he must be a pretty powerful character back in Manhattan. Certainly overbearing as far as Ollie is concerned.”
Landa nodded, “that can happen. Anyway, he promised to call.”
An awkward silence followed. Ingram broke it with, “How about you, Jerry? What’s your next stop?”
Landa said, “Any day now, I’m expecting orders back to DESDIV 11.” Then he asked, “we haven’t heard how you ended up in Australia?”
Buttering a third roll, Ingram said, “Duke of Salisbury.”
“...which is?”
“A 6,000 ton square-tailed tramp filled with tanks and airplane engines, part of a ten ship convoy. She was crewed by a crazy bunch of Brits who pulled me out of the drink off Madagascar. And, without skipping a beat they pressed on for Perth. They took great care of me. Even had my own stateroom. They let me take three showers a day.”
Landa sat back and folded his arms.
“Don’t you want to know how I came aboard the Duke of Salisbury?”
Landa felt
a rush to his head and he knew he was blushing. He hadn’t given any thought to the fact that he would have to do some acting before these two. To Ingram and Helen, he was not supposed to know what happened. He wondered if it would ever come out. How would Toliver handle it? Maybe he should go up there and talk to him. Maybe--
“--Jerry?”
“Of course; I’m all ears.” What the hell did happen?
“I was blown off the Maxwell and spent the night in the drink with a monkey.”
“What?” said Helen.
“Dexter. Our mascot.”
“Oh.”
“Next morning, a Jap sub surfaced and picked me up.”
Helen’s mouth formed an ‘O.’ “My God.”
Act surprised you jerk. “Sonofabitch,” said Landa.
“But those bastards shot the monkey. Wouldn’t let him come aboard. In many ways, I think he saved my life.”
Landa said, “You’ll be happy to learn that Dexter is alive and well, once again terrorizing the decks of the U.S.S. Maxwell.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Found him clinging to wreckage a few hours after the Japs picked you up, I heard.”
Ingram grinned. “Dexter.” Then he focused on them. “They shoved me down a hatch and submerged.
Steaks were laid before them, sizzling on their platters and they ate in silence, Helen and Landa casting sideways glances at Ingram, as he wolfed his food, washing it down with beer on tap. He caught them looking and said, “...it’s been almost five months since,--”
“--go ahead, hon,” laughed Helen, patting his sleeve. “Want the rest of mine?”
“You bet.”
Coffee came and without prompting, Ingram sat back and continued with details of the voyage.
Landa found himself leaning forward, nearly on the edge of his chair as Ingram described Shimada, Taubman, and the horror aboard the I-57.
With a glance at Helen, Ingram said, “That jerk has my academy ring. It’s probably in Europe, by now.”
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 27