A light gray jeep with US Navy markings pulled up and parked in the VIP section. Ignoring protocol, Ingram, Landa and Endicott jumped out and waited for Toliver to hobble onto the hard-packed gravel. When he made it he called, “What the hell are you guys hanging around here for?”
They walked up the stairs and across the veranda pushing through a set of revolving doors. The lobby was a small scale rendition of the St. Francis Hotel in San Francisco. At the ballroom entrance stood the maître d’, perched over a ledger. He had thick, bushy eyebrows. “Oui, Monsieur?”
Landa said. “Captain Burke’s party of four is here.”
The maitre d’ looked over Landa’s shoulder. “And Captain Burke is...?
“Unfortunately, Captain Burke was called into a strategy session with Admirals Mitscher and Halsey. They’re unable to attend tonight. I’m sorry.”
The waiter ran his hand over his chin, deciding.
Landa slid a ten dollar bill on the ledger.
“Oui, mon Kapitain.” The Maitre d’ signaled a waiter. “Table forty-two.” He bowed, and the waiter led them off.
They walked into a smoke-filled room with perhaps fifty tables covered in fine linens, arranged in two levels around an empty dance floor. The patrons were men, ninety percent were in uniform. A large, round table, with seating for eight, was set up across the room, a flower arrangement with a French flag set in the middle. A ten piece orchestra wearing threadbare white dinner jackets, played light dining music.
“Nice job getting us in, Captain,” said Toliver.
“A little bit of French grease never hurt,” said Landa.
“I’ll bet Arleigh Burke is a thousand miles away,” said Ingram.
“Actually,” said Landa, “he’s on the Dixie right now, talking to Rocko over dinner. They’re discussing the Franklin’s op plan.
“All work and no play,” said Ingram.
“Arleigh is a workaholic,” agreed Landa. “Hey, there’s gambling upstairs if you fellows want to try your luck after dinner.”
The waiter cleared his throat. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Martini,” said Landa. “Beefeaters.”
“Make it two,” said Toliver.
“Scotch,” said Ingram.
“You have bourbon?” asked Endicott.
The waiter shrugged.
“What do you have?” Asked Landa.
“Ummm. We do have Mount Blanc Ale.”
“That’s three-point-two monkey piss,” growled Endicott.
The waiter gave another shrug. “Vermouth?”
Toliver pulled out his wallet and palmed a fifty dollar bill. “Do you have something to go with the vermouth?”
“Oui, M’sieur.”
He handed it over. “Then get it and it had better be good.”
“Oui.” The waiter grabbed the bill and rushed off.
“Not bad, Ollie, not bad at all,” said Landa.
“French grease, high-grade,” said Toliver.
Landa turned to Ingram and asked lightly, “Everything okay at home?”
Ingram gave Landa a look and then pulled a photo from his wallet. “Here’s your namesake. Pass it on over to Ollie.” It was a picture of a smiling Helen in the backyard, holding the baby in her arms.
Toliver leaned over. “Damn. Good looking kid. Smart, too, I’ll bet.”
Landa held it up for Endicott. “The kid is smart. Notice, Howard, that he looks a lot like Helen. That is where it comes from.”
“I can’t argue with that,” said Ingram. He lowered his voice and said to Landa. “Helen sends her best.” He offered his hand. “Come on Jerry, time to get on with life.”
“I’ll be damned,” Landa said. He took Ingram’s hand in both of his and they shook warmly. “Thanks.”
Ingram’s eyes twinkled. “And congratulations.”
“Huh?”
“Laura sends her best, too” said Ingram.
“She told you?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“Last time we talked, she wanted to keep it a secret. Something about her career.”
“Well, right now, she’s flashing your rock and bragging to everyone in sight that she’s lassoed this knockout Navy captain.”
“What’s this about a rock?” asked Toliver
Landa said, “I better explain. You see...”
Ingram stiffened, both hands grabbing the table.
“Todd, you okay?” asked Landa.
Ingram slowly raised, his eyes fixed across the room.
Landa could of sworn that he heard Ingram growl. “Todd, what the hell is it?” He looked over to the French table. Six well-dressed men in business suits were pulling out chairs and sitting. “You know them?”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” muttered Ingram. He rose and walked across the dance floor.
Landa got up and followed. Endicott too, with Toliver hobbling behind. They caught up with Ingram just as he reached the French table.
“Taubman! Martin Taubman!” barked Ingram.
A man looked up, his eyes wide. “Gott” Then he sat back, his face draining of color. “Nein, nein. Du solst tot sein,” he gasped.
Landa grabbed Ingram’s arm. “Todd, come on. This is the French governor’s table. We haven’t--”
Ingram shook himself loose and walked up to the man. “You self-serving sonofabitch!” With a doubled fist, he hit him right in the nose.
Blood spurt as the man flew backward and fell onto the floor. Ingram jumped on his chest and delivered two more punches while the civilians looked on, horrified.
Landa dashed around and grabbed Ingram’s arm. “Shit, Todd, knock it--”
“Murderer,” roared Ingram. He wrenched his arm loose and hit the man again. Endicott and Toliver rushed over, grabbing Ingram’s arms, wrestling him to the floor, as he growled and spit.
Suddenly, the fight went out of Ingram and he went limp.
Whistles blew and the Marines and Navy SPs rushed up.
Landa stood and held up a hand. “It’s under control, here, Sergeant. Go on back to your post.”
The sergeant walked around and yanked Ingram to his feet, “Not sure, sir. Looks like Pierre’s bar down on the wharf.”
Landa said, “A misunderstanding, Sergeant. I order you to return to your post.”
The sergeant said, “I’ll have to write it up, Captain. Orders is orders.”
“Then go write it up. Please leave now.”
“Yessir.” The SPs walked off.
The civilians were babbling in French, one wiping blood off the injured man’s face and trying to help him to his feet. Another civilian walked over to Ingram. “What the hell’s the meaning of this?”
“Who are you?” demanded Landa.
“Keith Jardine, State Department. Have you people gone insane?”
Ingram waved a finger. “That man is a Nazi. His name is Martin Taubman.”
“The man on the I-57?” asked Landa.
“One and the same.” said Ingram.
“Impossible. He’s dead,” said Landa.
“Well, this sonofabitch somehow made it.” said Ingram.
“This is all nonsense,” said Jardine. “He’s Henri Dufor of the French Red Cross.”
“Bullshit! He’s a spy,” yelled Ingram.
Jardine stepped within six inches of Ingram. “You’ve just attacked a civilian employee of an Allied nation. So pack your bags, Mister. I hope you’re ready to spend lots of time in Leavenworth.”
CHAPTER FORTY
28 September, 1944
USS Dixie (AD 14)
Baie de la Moselle
Noumea, New Caledonia
The eight destroyers nested alongside the Dixie hoisted their colors smartly at 0800. Except for the Maxwell, the others were ready to get underway: boilers and generators on the line, rudder, electrical, and radio circuits tested. Their whale boats were griped in, and the sea and anchor details were set on the fo’c’sles, bridges, CICs, and fantails. Under an overcast sky,
the air dripped with humidity as sailors smoked cigarettes and drank coffee, waiting for the order to single up lines. They shouted across the ships to one another, cracked jokes, and negotiated last minute movie trades. Skippers paced their bridges, checking their watches, the universal question: “What the hell are we waiting for?”
The holdup was in a compartment on the Dixie’s 03 level. It was the main office of Rear Admiral Theodore R. Myszynski, Commander, Destroyer forces, Southwest Pacific. Ignoring the china and silver service carefully arranged on a side table, the Admiral sat at his desk, drinking coffee from a dixie cup. Typical of Myszynski, his office was dark; just the desk lamp was lit, a small rubber-bladed fan whirred in the corner. Standing at attention before Myszynski’s desk was Commander Alton C. Ingram, Commanding officer of the USS Maxwell. Seated to the right of the desk, was the pipe-puffing Captain Arleigh A. Burke, Chief of Staff to Vice Admiral Marc A. Mitscher. On the other side of the desk was Captain Jeremiah T. Landa, Commodore of Destroyer Division Eleven (DESDIV11). Seated on a couch behind Ingram was Lieutenant Commander Oliver Toliver III, Deputy Intelligence Officer to the Commander Twelfth Naval District.
“Damnit!” Myszynski sprang to his feet and smashed his fist on the desk. Pencils jumped. Coffee spilled as he thundered, “Who the hell do you think you are, Commander?”
A long silence followed. Finally, Ingram said, “--Admiral--I--”
“--didn’t give you permission to speak, you dumb bastard.” Myszynski checked his watch. “Almost 0805, Jerry. Your boys must be getting nervous.”
Landa said, “Yes, Sir, Rocko...er Admiral.”
Burke said, “The Franklin has steam up and is ready to go.”
“So do we, Arleigh,” said Landa. “We’re ready to jump.”
Burke puffed his pipe, blue smoke shrouding his face. “That’s nice to know. We’re supposed to clear the breakwater at 1100. So we need you out there screening for us, Captain Landa.” Burke represented Vice Admiral Marc A. Mitscher, commander of Task Force 58 which, in turn, was part of Admiral Raymond Spruance’s, “Big Blue-- Fifth Fleet,” part of the Central Pacific Command under Fleet Admiral Chester Nimitz. Burke puffed some more. “But then again, I’m just a visitor in these parts, Captain Landa.”
Ingram noticed that Landa called Burke ‘Arleigh,’ while Burke addressed Landa as ‘Captain.’
“Okay, we’ll break this up soon,” said Myszynski. He turned to Ingram. “Honestly, Mr. Ingram. What a dumb shit thing to do. Henri Dufor is a high-ranking French official. He’s in charge of the International Red Cross, Pacific Region. Does a lot for our boys in POW camps.
“He wasn’t doing much for our boys in Penang, Admiral.”
“Watch it, Mr. Ingram. Your slack has just about run out,” growled Myszynski.
“Yes, sir. But your Mr. Dufor of the Red Cross was right there with me, wearing a Nazi uniform, calmly looking on as the Japs bayoneted an American POW for stealing an apple. You see, a Jap Army captain shot Sergeant Baumgartner in the back with a pistol. Then a Jap guard walked up and calmly finished him off with a bayonet right through the chest. You should have heard him scream, Admiral. He--”
Landa shot to his feet. “Any more of that, Mr. Ingram, and I’ll have your ass in the brig. Do you read me?”
Ingram realized he’d gone too far. He also realized that Myszynski and Landa were, most likely, trying to keep it in the family. Cool it. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
Landa sat.
Myszynski ran a hand over his bald head. “To think I was pinning a medal on this idiot just yesterday. I’d take it away, but then we’d all look like a bunch of saps.” He turned to Landa. “Has the doc seen this guy?”
“First thing I checked this morning, Admiral. Folder says he’s medically qualified,” said Landa.
“Send him back to the medic. They’ll think of something. He’s been at it too long. Shit. Corregidor, the Philippines, Guadalcanal and the Slot. And then riding a Jap sub for six weeks is enough to scramble anyone’s brains. I recommend we ship him back to the States.”
Ingram squeezed his eyes closed, unable to believe they were doing this to him. Helen was right. I’ve been out here too long. Look what happened after just six short hours on the job. But the thought hit him, that was Taubman. I’m sure of it.
Ingram flexed his fist, the knuckles chafed. Not sure if I gave a damn.
Burke spoke for the first time. “Don’t you think that’s a bit harsh, Admiral?”
Myszynski’s jaw dropped. He had reckoned Burke wanted Ingram dealt with severely. “He’s one of my boys, Arleigh. And I know when a man’s had enough.”
Burke stood and walked up to Ingram. “Yes, Sir. But we’re all destroyermen here. So I’d rather see us settle this among destroyermen rather than kick him out and make him someone else’s problem.” He said to Ingram, “Stand at ease.”
Ingram shifted to parade rest.
“I said ‘at ease,’ Sailor.”
Ingram relaxed and looked into Burke’s ice-blue eyes.
“What got into you? Were you drinking? Smoking something? Maybe overheated? I’ve seen Sailors go crazy after half a beer. Maybe it was--”
“--Sir, the man was Martin Taubman,” said Ingram. “I should know. I know his voice. As the Admiral points out, I rode with him in a Jap submarine for six weeks. We played chess, talked opera, politics, mountain climbing, our families. His father was a Wehrmacht general killed in Russia. He has a half-brother in Switzerland. His dog’s name was Fritz. His first girlfriend’s name was Trudie. They went together when he was fourteen. She was a glider pilot and he--”
“--and he shipped out on the I-57?” said Burke.
“Yes, sir. I watched her shove off. I was supposed to go with Taubman to Europe. But the Japs changed their mind at the last minute and sent me over to the I-49. Turns out they wanted to kill me,” said Ingram.
Just then someone knocked. “Enter,” said Myszynski.
“Excuse me gentlemen.” Hank Kelly walked in and handed a note to Ingram. Without a word, he walked out, the door clicking softly behind.
“Well?” said Myszynski.
Ingram read the note and announced, “Mark 6 stable element’s aboard, sir. They’re installing it now.”
“Well, that’s something,” said Burke, sitting down.
“Let me try something,” said Landa. He stood and looked over Ingram’s shoulder at Toliver. “I’m going to push the limits here a little bit, so I want everybody to just keep calm.” Landa’s gaze leveled on Ingram. “What I’m about to tell you is Top Secret. Do you understand that?”
Burke rumbled with, “Captain...”
“It’s okay, Arleigh. Trust me,” Landa said. To Ingram: “Todd, we know for a fact that the I-57 was sunk enroute to her destination. She didn’t make it to France.”
Ingram gasped. “You’re kidding. How? Where?”
“Got her with a FIDO in the South Atlantic. We know she’s down. It’s been confirmed. Nothing but 50 dead Japs and one dead Kraut in her now: Your Mr. Taubman, may he rest in peace. And that’s all I can tell you.”
“But...that’s...” Ingram’s eyes darted from side to side.
Landa said, “Speaking of FIDOs, Arleigh.”
Burke tamped tobacco in his pipe and relit it. “What is it?”
“Mount Whitney is still six hours out.” The Mount Whitney was an ammunition ship.
“So?”
“She has four FIDO torpedoes for you,” said Landa.
Burke’s eyes narrowed. “I was told they were already aboard the Franklin.”
“A mix up in the manifest, Arleigh. They’re still aboard the Mount Whitney and she’s not here, yet,” said Landa.
“Damnit.” Burke smacked a fist in his palm. “We need those things.” He rubbed his chin. “Maybe send some TBFs back for them. Naw, that’s slow. Can only pick up one at a time.” He checked his watch. “I’ll think of something. We have to get going.”
Myszynski said, “Ri
ght. Time’s awasting. We have to end this. Okay, Arleigh, let’s keep it among destroyermen.” He turned to Landa. “He’s your boy, Jerry. Let’s hear what you have to recommend.”
“Just give him to me. I’ll keep him on a short tether,” said Landa.
“As Skipper of the Maxwell?” asked Myszynski.
“Yes, sir. Believe me, he won’t be able to drop his pants without--”
“--Gentlemen, may I?” Toliver struggled to his feet.
“Ollie, stay out of this,” growled Landa.
“There’s another possibility,” said Toliver.
“Which is?” said Myszynski.
Toliver pointed toward Noumea. “That the man Todd took down last night was indeed, Korvettenkapitän Martin Taubman.”
“You’re full of it,” said Myszynski.
Landa narrowed his eyes. “Looks like ONI School twisted your brain.”
“I have a couple of ideas,” said Toliver.
“Like what?” demanded Myszynski.
Toliver said, “Didn’t you notice that the guy spoke German just before Todd smacked him?”
“A lot of French speak German,” said Landa.
“Maybe so,” said Toliver. “But I caught some of it. Definitely that guy said, “‘Nein, nein;’ no, no. What followed was something like ‘you’re dead,’ or, ‘you’re supposed to be dead.’ Now why would someone who’s scared to death, speak in German and not French, supposedly his mother tongue?”
“You speak German, Ollie?” asked Myszynski.
“My folks took us through France, Germany and Switzerland during the summer of ‘38. Some of it stuck, I’m afraid.”
“He said, ‘you’re supposed to be dead?’” repeated Myszynski.
“Ummm.”
Landa said, “Admiral, maybe we should let Ollie do his stuff. Cut Ingram a little slack. After all, his career is on the line here.”
“Worse than that,” said Myszynski.
“Well, for the time being, I recommend we see what happens. And let me,” with exaggeration, Landa checked his watch, “get my ships underway and I’ll keep a muzzle on our boy, here.”
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 35