THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Kelly finished his proclamation, stood back, and handed an oblong box to Myszynski, who said, “It gives me great pleasure to award you with the Navy Distinguished Service Medal, Commander.” There was an awkward silence while Myszynski pinned on the medal. Then he asked, “Any comments, Commander Ingram?”

  Ingram said, “I think I’d like to, Admiral.”

  “Have at it.” Myszynski backed away and covered the mic, “Just be brief, it’s hot.”

  Ingram stood before the microphone. “I’ve been away for a while, and on returning just now, noticed some new faces. So I’d like to welcome you aboard the fightingest destroyer in the Pacific. If you haven’t found out already, we get things done here, as a ship and as an integral unit of DESDIVELEVEN.

  “We’re here to do a job and we shove off soon to rejoin the Big Blue. Now on any other ship the rule is, if you do your jobs as you’ve been trained, you get by. But I expect better than that. You have a higher purpose just by virtue of being aboard this ship. Therefore, I expect 110 percent. The idea is, if you take care of the Maxwell, she’ll take care of you. Remember that, and you’ll do just fine. And so will the Maxwell.

  “To the officers and men of the Maxwell, my heartfelt thanks for the hard work you put into getting her ready to fight again. To the officers and men of the other ships in company here, I wish to thank you for your kind thoughts and for your attendance. So the Max is back. Together, we’ll lick the Japs all the way to Tokyo.

  “That is all.” Ingram stepped back and said, “Mr. Kelly. You may dismiss the men.”

  Myszynski shook Ingram’s hand. “Congratulations Todd, Your stable element parts should be here any day. In the meantime, keep your nose dry. No need to accompany me to the gangway. Enjoy your little party here while you can. Lord knows, you’ll be in the thick of it soon.”

  “Thanks, Admiral.”

  Myszynski walked off and was gonged across the inboard destroyers to the Dixie.

  Ingram shook hands with other skippers and execs who guffawed and slapped him on the back. Landa and Toliver were at the end of the line. They shook hands. Landa’s grip was like picking up a dead rat.

  Ingram moved to Toliver and said, “So now it’s Ollie, the spy?”

  Toliver raised his cane and whacked Ingram lightly on the hip. He said in a George Raft voice, “better watch it buster or I’ll have you rubbed out.”

  “What brings you all the way out here?”

  “They want me to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “About what happened. Hasn’t anybody debriefed you?”

  “Not that I know of.” He nodded to Landa. “I told him everything. Why?”

  Toliver groaned. “Unfortunately, Captain Landa hasn’t been trained for this sort of thing.”

  Landa rolled his eyes.

  Toliver continued, “I’m sure you picked up some valuable intelligence.”

  “All I did was ride a Jap submarine for two months. Bastards had me scrubbing bilges. You should have seen what they--”

  “--Can we continue this in my cabin?” asked Landa. “Say at 1600. I have an idea Mr. Ingram would like to catch up on what’s happening with his ship.”

  “Fine with me,” said Ingram. “I’d like to make sure we’re ready for sea.”

  Landa stood to his full height. “That’s my point. How the hell can I send you to sea without a stable element?”

  “But Rocko said ‘I mean the Admiral said--”

  “He was just making nice to you. As far as I’m concerned, you’ll be sitting here on your dead ass, while we’re out there putting it on the line for you, Navy Distinguished Medal and all.”

  “Jerry, what the hell’s wrong?”

  Landa pointed. “You ever heard of kamikazes, Mr. Ingram?”

  Ingram remained silent. Months back, he’d been through a number of versions of the kamikaze attack. Landa too.

  “You’re not getting underway, Mr. Ingram. Instead, you’ll be sitting here in port acting as guard ship like any fleet tug or garbage scow. And the pathetic part is that I need you. Kamikazes are not fun. You got that mister?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then get busy and fix that damn thing.” Landa pointed up to the rigging. “And get that goddam monkey off this ship.” Pulling a face, Landa said, “No need to accompany me, Mr. Ingram. See you at 1600, sharp.” He spun on his heel and walked off.

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  27 September, 1944

  USS Maxwell (DD 525)

  Baie de la Moselle

  Noumea, New Caledonia

  A lighter was moored alongside the Maxwell. Tons of food and supplies snaked aboard to be stowed below or passed over to the three inboard destroyers. It was an all-hands working party. Men sweated and groaned and cursed under a hot, piercing sun as crates, boxes, and frozen cartons were passed hand-to-hand. Moored forward of the lighter was a self-propelled fueling barge, low in the water, pumping fuel-oil into the ship’s bunkers. Elsewhere on the ships, gun mounts trained about, radar antennae spun, torpedomen hauled out their torpedoes and ran checks while firecontrolmen swarmed over their gun-directors.

  For Ingram, the afternoon was a flurry of inspections and reports. By 1500, he returned to his in-port cabin and, unloading a stack of personnel files from his in basket, began interviewing the new men.

  Hank Kelly knocked on the bulkhead. “Captain, don’t you have a date?”

  Ingram checked his watch: 1555. “Ye gods, where does it all go?” He looked outside seeing five men still waiting in the passage-way. Grabbing his garrison hat, he said, “Back to your duty stations. I’ll pick this up later.”

  The sailors turned away and groaned with the realization they had to leave the relative coolness of the passageway and go back to passing crates and boxes.

  Ingram said to Kelly. “Lost track of the time.” They headed for the quarterdeck.

  “That’s what execs are for.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Provisioning about fifty percent complete. Fuel topped off. We get the ammo barge tomorrow morning just after Thomas, Geiler and Striff shove off.”

  “Anything new on the Mark 6?”

  “Just got a message from Pearl. They’re flying one in.”

  “ETA?”

  Kelly shrugged. “They didn’t say exactly.”

  “Find out, okay?” Ingram saluted the flag, the OOD, and was gonged over to the Geiler. He continued over to the Striff, finding Russ Nelson, her Skipper, a man of large proportions, up on the 01 level, talking to Rick Frey, skipper of the Geiler. Nelson casually balanced a putting iron over his shoulder while Frey juggled golf balls in the air. Ingram called up to them, “That all you guys ever think of?” The two were scratch golfers.

  Nelson said, “We’ve laid a carpet up here in the 40 millimeter gun tub. Not bad for a putting green. Ready to try your luck? Say a buck a ball?”

  Ingram knew they were watching the provisioning, making sure it went well. “Can’t. On my way to see the Commodore.”

  Frey and Nelson exchanged glances.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Frey leaned down, “Go easy, Todd. He’s on the rampage.”

  “Don’t I know?” Ingram walked on.

  “Hey, Todd,” yelled Nelson. “Wanna whack a few balls off the fantail after chow?”

  “If Jerry doesn’t throw me in hack.”

  “Make sure your teeth are brushed and shoes shined.” Frey called after him.

  It took another five minutes to wind his way around crate-burdened sailors aboard the Thomas and find his way to Landa’s cabin. Ingram rapped his knuckles on the bulkhead and walked in. “Afternoon.”

  Landa sat at a desk, Toliver at a side chair. “Where the hell have you been?” demanded Landa.

  Ingram held up his watch. “Jerry, I’m four minutes late. What is wrong with you?”

  Landa steepled his fingers and looked up at Ingram. “Do I have to brace you to attention, Mr. Ingram?”
>
  Ingram’s jaw dropped. And he noted a shocked expression on Toliver’s face as well. The hell with this. Resisting the temptation to click his heels, he drew to attention. “Commander Ingram reporting as ordered, sir.”

  “At ease. What’s the status of your Mark 6?”

  “One is being flown in from Pearl, sir. Top priority.”

  “When?”

  Ingram felt his bile rising. He began, “Why don’t you take a flying--”

  “Stop it, both of you, damnit!” Toliver rose to his feet. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but I didn’t travel four thousand miles to watch you two bicker like a couple of schoolboys. Now come on. You’re supposed to be friends. Or was your son named after someone else, Todd?”

  Landa shot to his feet. The three glared at each other. Landa shouted, “Mr. Toliver, Commander, you better...I...” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, damnit.” He sat. “First time I’ve been jumped by a junior officer. I’ll let it go this time.”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” Ingram couldn’t help it.

  Landa’s eyes flared for a moment. Then he waved them down. “Shit flows downstream. Rocko’s been on me and Arleigh Burke has been on him. When Burke learned of the Maxwell’s Mark 6 cumshaw deal, he blew a fuse.” He pointed at Ingram. “I realize you weren’t here, but your exec’s to blame and ultimately, you.”

  “Baloney. Hank was on leave in the states with about ninety percent of the rest of the crew. There was one junior officer here when it happened. And the ship was a blackened, stinking mess, sitting in drydock. It was outright theft. What the hell do you expect?”

  Landa sighed, “Get it fixed. That’s what I expect. When do you think it’ll happen?”

  “Soon, tomorrow maybe. That’s all I can say for now,” Ingram said.

  Landa said, “Okay. Keep me informed. Now, Ollie wants to ask some questions. You need a yeoman, Ollie?”

  “No, sir.” He reached over and clicked on a machine. “Got this instead.”

  “What’s that?” asked Ingram.

  “Wire recorder. With this thing, I don’t need shorthand. Okay, here we go.” He pushed another button and held up a mike. “Wednesday, Twenty seven, September, 1944, aboard the USS Morgan J. Thomas in Noumea Harbor, New Caledonia. Present are Captain Jeremiah T. Landa, Commander Alton C. Ingram and myself, Lieutenant Commander Oliver J. Toliver. Time: 1617.” Toliver looked up. “Okay, Commander Ingram. Can you tell us what happened?”

  Ingram whispered, “Who do I talk to?”

  Toliver pointed to a mike. “Don’t worry, it’ll pick you up. Relax. You don’t need to lean forward.”

  “Okay.” Ingram closed his eyes for a moment, then began, “On the evening of seven June, 1944, the USS Maxwell was on a recon mission for Task Force 58 as an advanced unit.”

  “And you were skipper?” Toliver interrupted.

  “That’s correct. It was near sunset and we were having trouble with our air search radar...” Ingram went on for over thirty minutes; his voice raced as he recounted incidents such as depth chargings or Penang or Madagascar. Finally, he finished. Taking out a handkerchief, he wiped perspiration from his forehead.

  Landa held up a hand. “Stop the recorder.” He said to Ingram, “You okay?”

  “Never better.” In reality, he felt as if he were going to pass out.

  “Bullshit. Wait here.” Landa stepped into the wardroom and returned with a pitcher of lemonade. He poured three glasses and passed them around.

  Ingram gulped the whole glass then smacked his lips. “Thanks. Any more questions, Ollie?”

  Toliver restarted the recorder and thought for a moment. “Why expose themselves in restricted waters like Madagascar? And why waste all that time swapping gold? Why two submarines?”

  “I’ve got an idea,” said Ingram.

  “Shoot.” said Toliver.

  Ingram said, “The I-49 was their ticket to freedom.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Toliver.

  “Pretty neat when you think about it. In February, they faked the sinking of the I-49. She was a cargo sub with lots of provisions, so it was easy for her to hide somewhere, probably near Madagascar, waiting for the I-57. When we arrived in Madagascar, we transferred the gold to the I-49, by then a ghost ship, one that had been stricken from the Japanese register of ships.”

  “Ahhhh,” said Toliver.

  “So now, they send the I-57 on to France, sans the gold,” continued Ingram. “And that’s where Taubman was to have come in. A language expert, I’ll bet he was the brains to set up a system ashore to bank it. Remember, he told me he wanted to get across France. That means Switzerland.”

  “What about the I-49 crew? The manifests wouldn’t have gybed? The Germans would have figured that out.” asked Toliver. He faked a German accent. “Ve haf vays of making you talk. Ver ist Captain Shimada, bitte?”

  “I think their plan must have been to scuttle the I-57 close to shore. Close enough for Taubman to meld into the civilian population and for the crew to get into Spain or Portugal and then eventually on to where they were to meet,” said Ingram.

  “So now, it’s the I-49 running around Madagascar?.” asked Landa.

  “Mmmm. With a wobbly shaft, too,” said Ingram.

  Landa said, “Maybe we should tell Todd about the messages that--”

  Toliver’s hand shot out, his face a dark mask.

  When Landa went silent, Ingram said, “Tell me what?”

  “Was that German really a submariner?” asked Toliver.

  “Tell me what, damnit?” demanded Ingram.

  Toliver and Landa kept silent.

  “You guys are acting like a couple of fraternity kids.”

  Toliver picked up the mike and said, “This concludes the interview.” Then he turned off the machine. “Don’t you get it, Todd?”

  “What am I supposed to get?”

  “It’s classified, so shut up.”

  “Ah.” Ingram turned to Landa. “I’ve been jumped by the same wiseass junior officer. Can’t we put him on report or something?”

  “Maybe change his orders and shove him down a hole,” agreed Landa. Then he knit his brow. “But really. Why the gold?”

  “That part’s easy,” said Toliver. He leaned forward and said, “With what Todd is saying, it confirms our suspicion that it’s a yakuza operation.”

  “Yak...what?” asked Ingram.

  “Yakuza,” said Toliver. “It means eight-nine-three in Japanese: ya, ku, za.”

  “So what?” said Landa.

  “Well, that’s a Japanese card game, sort of like blackjack.

  Landa rolled his eyes. “Makes all the sense in the world to me.”

  “Jerry, just listen, will you? The Yakuza is Japanese organized crime. Kind of like the Black Hand or the Mafia. These guys have been around for centuries. We think it dates back to the early 1600s when a group known as the kabuki-mono, which means crazy ones, roamed Japan. They were warriors, a samurai offshoot. But in peacetime, the kabuki-mono had nothing to do. So they wandered about Japan, taking up robbing and plundering to make ends meet.

  “Another group of guys known as the machi-yakko, which means city servant, rose up against the kabuki-mono. They were Robin Hood sort of guys that beat back the kabuki-mono. So now, the machi-yakko became the bad guys: gamblers, street vendors. Quite simply, they played a lot of blackjack: ya, ku, za.

  “Since then, they’ve gone into every variety of crime from dope to prostitution to all kinds of betting and gambling. Over the years, they’ve accumulated a horde of cash. Some say they have backed Tojo and the Jap war machine.”

  “We have the yakuza to thank for Pearl Harbor?” asked Ingram.

  “Not sure about that. But what I am sure of is that they’re scared of everything falling down around them especially when victorious Americans march down the Ginza.”

  “Those bastards will never surrender,” said Landa. “We’re going to have to dig ‘em out of their
holes, one-by-one. It’ll take years.”

  “Maybe so,” said Toliver. “But smart money in Japan sees the handwriting on the wall right now.”

  “What’s the Ginza?” asked Ingram.

  “Main street, Tokyo. Now let me illuminate. People in the Yakuza have connections everywhere, especially the military. They’re trying to set themselves up to get their money out of the country. We’ve already seen Japanese gold or diamonds showing up in Peru; same thing in Argentina; even Mexico.”

  Howard Endicott, the Thomas’ skipper knocked and walked in. “Refueling complete, supplies are all on board, Commodore. We’ll be ready to get underway in all respects by 1800.”

  “Tomorrow at 0800 is soon enough for me,” said Landa. He nodded to Ingram. “Except for our stable element boy, of course.”

  Ingram shot to his feet.

  Landa said, “Don’t get your balls in an uproar. Just kidding. Look you guys, how ‘bout dinner tonight. The four of us. On me at the Hotel Pacifique? Arleigh Burke’s table. Say 1930?”

  “Snazzy,” said Endicott.

  Ingram and Toliver traded glances. “Never miss a chance to flog the old man’s expense account,” said Toliver.

  “You know, we just have to do something with Ollie Triplesticks,” said Landa.

  Endicott said, “I’m short a snipe in my after engine room. Send him over to me.”

  “Just kidding,” said Toliver.

  “Not a bad idea,” said Ingram.

  Endicott said, “Yeah, you got his service record, Commodore? Ollie would fit right in. It’s only a hundred fifteen down there...”

  “...wait a minute,” said Toliver.

  “Fantastic!” Landa yanked the phone from its bracket. “Get me the yeoman and the chief engineer.”

  Done in French Provincial, the three story Hotel Pacifique stood high on Semaphore Hill. With a sweeping panorama of the harbor, one could see far out into the Pacific on a clear day. The view was especially spectacular from the expansive front veranda with its thick marble balustrade. But the place teemed with Allied military personnel, mainly American Naval officers. Tobacco smoke roiled out the windows where one heard glasses tinkling, bawdy barracks ballads, and an occasional shout. Two beefy shore patrolmen and two marines stood near the front entrance, clubs dangling from their belts. Ready to mete justice, it mattered not weather the man was officer or enlisted.