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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “Arleigh?” asked Myszynski.

  Burke puffed. “Ummm. Fine with me.”

  “Hot in here.” Myszynski grabbed a swatter and whacked a large fly on the bulkhead. “Need another fan.” He ran a hand over his head. “Okay, Ollie. You got forty-eight hours. If I don’t hear anything by then, then I’m relieving Commander Ingram here and sending him to the States on a medical.”

  “Come on, Rocko, that’s bullshit!” said Landa.

  Myszynski stood. “If you don’t want to join him, then I suggest you go get DESDIV Eleven underway, Captain.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said Landa.

  Myszynski turned to Ingram. “If you think that’s punitive, you ought to see what awaits me when I go ashore this afternoon. The Frogs are pissed. Really pissed. They want you arrested. They’ve threatened to send a boat out here and physically take you off the Maxwell. They want you in jail. And when the Frogs throw you in jail, they throw the key away. So while the rest of you get to go and play United States Navy, I’ve got to go ashore with a legal rep and fight the French; right now without much conviction. So for now, Commander Ingram, you are persona non grata, here and ashore.” He pointed to Toliver. “Prove them wrong, Commander.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Said Toliver.

  “How you going to do it?” asked Landa.

  Toliver rubbed his chin. “Like I said, ‘I’ve got some ideas.’”

  “Well, they better be good ones.” Myszynski turned back Ingram. “As for you, Commander, get your butt back to the Maxwell and finish up with that damned stable element.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Burke said, “Admiral. I have a suggestion.”

  Myszynski exhaled. “Shoot.”

  “I need those FIDOs. Why not transfer them to the Maxwell when the Mount Whitney makes port. Maxwell can get underway, and catch up to us and transfer them at sea. That way I get my FIDOs and the Maxwell is no longer under the noses of our Allies...the French. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  “Give command of the ship back to this idiot?” said Myszynski.

  Landa said, “Actually, Sir, it’s the best of all worlds. Plus it puts DESDIV11 up to full strength.”

  Ingram dared to speak. “That works with me, sir. Except, there are civilians on board right now, setting up the stable element.” He held up Kelly’s note. “They might not be finished.”

  “Take ‘em with you.” said Landa.

  “Can we do that?” said Burke.

  “War is hell,” said Landa.

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  28 September, 1944

  USS Dixie (AD 14)

  Baie de la Moselle

  Noumea, New Caledonia

  Myszynski caught Landa’s elbow just after Burke and Ingram walked out. “Jerry, could I have a word with you?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Toliver tarried by the door, so Myszynski called out, “What is it, Commander?”

  “My plan, Admiral, I may need help.”

  “Well, spit it out.”

  “Er, in private, sir?”

  Landa and Myszynski rolled their eyes. Myszynski said, “Well, if you aren’t part of the solution, then you’re part of the problem.”

  Toliver drew to parade rest, his cane behind his back. “I’ll take that chance, sir.”

  “Very well. Wait outside.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Toliver walked out.

  When the door closed, Myszynski muttered, “Kid has guts.” They stood awkwardly as Myszynski struck a match and puffed on a new cigar. “This won’t take long Jerry.” After the cigar was well lighted he looked up to Landa. “A word to the wise, Jerry. Lay off Arleigh Burke.”

  “What? Sir. You don’t think that I--”

  “I know exactly what you think.” He plopped a foot on his chair. “You think he’s a stuffed shirt, don’t you?”

  “No, sir. I sure...”

  “And just because he doesn’t tell farting jokes in the club, you look down on him.”

  Landa leveled his eyes on Myszynski. “Admiral that was a transgression of my youth. I haven’t done that in...In...”

  “...days.” Myszynski’ s eyes gleamed. Landa had carried the evening at the officer’s club three nights ago.

  Myszynski spit out a piece of tobacco. “Listen, Jerry. Both captains, you and Burke, are close in numbers. He was a hell of a good destroyer skipper and great squadron commander. Jeez, who will ever forget the Little Beavers? And you are, too. No argument there.

  “You and I? We’re cut from the same mold. We’re mutts. Navy mutts. Non-Naval Academy mutts. And someday we’ll retire, have a nice pension and go fishing or something. And that’s it.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “This isn’t a trade school thing.”

  Landa flushed. “No?”

  “Absolutely not. It’s beyond that. Way beyond. Burke is cut out for great things. CNO. Maybe more. People recognize that and he’s already earmarked. Works his ass off at everything he does. And he does it well. They jumped him over a bunch of shoot-em-up airdales to become Pete Mitscher’s chief of Staff. Can you imagine that? A surface guy, a tin can Sailor, working for Mitscher instead of another zoomie? Who would have guessed? At first, Mitscher and Burke hated each other; they bickered like school kids for weeks. Then Burke put aside his pride and sunk his teeth into the job. And he’s doing one hell of a job. I gotta tell you, Arleigh Burke is our country’s future.”

  “No argument there, Admiral. What do you want me to do?”

  “Lay off.”

  “I...”

  “Jerry.”

  “Yes, sir.” Landa looked up. Myszynski was right. He’d been treating Burke like a fraternity pledge. “Okay.”

  “Good. Now go out there and putter with your ships. And send Toliver back in here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It took Toliver just three minutes to explain his plan. Myszynski nodded, scrawled out a note and stuffed it into an envelope. Handing it over to Toliver, his voice rumbled with, “Worth a try. Here, this should open some doors for you.”

  “We’d be doing Todd a disservice if we didn’t try.”

  Myszynski pulled a face.

  “...Sir.”

  “Okay,” Myszynski reached for his hat and headed for the door. “You want to watch ‘em get underway?”

  Toliver ran a hand over his mouth to hide a smile. Like a kid in a railroad yard, Myszynski loved to watch his ships get underway. He longed to be back at sea. “I really should get going, sir. I have a feeling time’s awaiting. After all,” Toliver paused, “I only have forty-eight hours.”

  Myszynski flashed a look at Toliver that told him the forty-eight hours was very flexible; it was meant to scare Ingram more than anything. “Very well. You have transport?”

  “Thought I’d take the next shore boat, sir.”

  “Well, if you’re in such a hurry, you’d better take my barge.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Saluting Myszynski, Toliver hobbled down a ladder to the second deck and stepped into a large compartment marked ‘Radio Central.’ A red-headed chief looked up from his desk.

  “You the duty Chief?” asked Toliver.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Toliver took out a message pad and began to scribble. “Think you can raise our Naval Attaché in Geneva Switzerland?”

  The Chief waved a hand at the vast accumulation of electrical machinery behind him. “With this rig, I can raise Buck Rogers on Pluto, Commander.”

  “Good.”

  Ten minutes later, Toliver was scrambling down the accommodation ladder to board Myszynski’ s well-appointed admiral’s barge. They pulled away just as the Maxwell sounded one long blast, followed by three shorts, and backed clear of the nest. Like Marines in a precision squad maneuver, the seven other destroyers backed clear and, in short order, formed up, and headed for the main entrance. Dead in the water behind them lay the Maxwell, three hundred yards off the Dixie’s port beam. Then she slowl
y gathered way and moved back alongside the Dixie to tie up; and to wait.

  An hour later, Toliver had his answer. He had called on Commander Andrew Hardesty, Commander of Security for the Naval Station, Noumea. Toliver was discussing the ramifications of Myszynski’s note, when a young radioman striker walked in. “Commander Toliver? Message for you, sir.” He handed over a sealed envelope and a clipboard.

  “Wow, that was quick.” Toliver signed and then pulled the flimsy from the envelope and read:

  DTG: 09292132Z

  FM: USANAVSERVOPS - GENEVA

  TO: TOLIVER, O III, LCDR, USN

  C/O SOUTHPAC INTEL COMMAND

  INFO: ONI DEPT 6

  REF: YOUR 09290847U

  1. INTERNATIONAL RED CROSS, GENEVA, VICHY, OR PARIS HAS NO LISTING FOR HENRI DUFOR, DIRECTOR PACIFIC REGION.

  2. INTERNATIONAL DIRECTOR RED CROSS PACIFIC REGION IS STUART KILLINGSWORTH, MELBOURNE AUSTRALIA.

  3. PLS ADVISE FURTHER INQUIRY REQUIRED.

  BT

  Toliver smacked the flimsy with the back of his hand. “Son of a bitch. I knew the guy was a phony.” He looked up and handed the message over to Hardesty. “Andrew, I need a big favor.”

  Hardesty rolled his eyes. “Something tells me I’m not going to like this.”

  “Read it, then tell me.”

  Hardesty read the message, gave a long whistle and then said, “Okay, what is it?”

  “I have to know where Henri Dufor is staying.”

  Hardesty drummed his fingers. “Actually, I can do that. The French share listings of all military and civilians in and out of Noumea.”

  “Okay, good. Next, I need transportation and some muscle.”

  “Right now?”

  “You bet.”

  Hardesty looked over his duty roster. “All we have right now are two SPs and a jeep.

  “Is that the best you can do?”

  “Bad timing. Our security force is at a two hour presentation on prostitution.”

  “When do they get back?”

  Hardesty shook his head. “After lunch, I’m afraid.”

  The Jeep headed toward the nickel plant in the northwest section of town, its tall stack gushing black smoke,. Preston, a six-three, two hundred twenty pound bosun’s mate with short, close-cropped blond hair, was at the wheel. Toliver sat in the passenger seat and Rimini, a dark, thin, curly-haired third class machinist’s mate sat in the back. Both wore dungarees and carried .45s in leather holsters; an M-1 carbine lay across Rimini’s lap. A .45 was stuffed in Toliver’s belt, under his jacket.

  “So, Mr. Toliver, what did you take in college?” asked Rimini. His hat was off, his hair whipping in the wind.

  “Pre-law,” said Toliver. The closer they drew to the smelter, the shabbier the neighborhood became. Strange place for a Red Cross diplomat, he thought as the streets turned to cobblestone.

  “Rue Descartes; here we go,” said Preston, turning left. “Ummm, damn buildings all look alike. What’s the number again, sir?”

  “Rue Descartes 945,” said Toliver.

  “So, you gonna be a lawyer when the war’s over, Mr. Toliver?” asked Rimini.

  “Not sure,” replied Toliver. Suddenly, a strong sewage odor gripped him.

  “Peeeeou,” went Rimini. “Ain’t nothing stunk like that since I was digging binjo ditches in boot camp.” Then he leaned forward. “So why’d you take pre-law if you ain’t gonna be a lawyer, Mr. Toliver?”

  “Shaddup, Benne,” said Preston.

  Because my father forced me to, kid. Toliver whipped out a handkerchief and clamped it over his nose. “It’s okay. I don’t know, Rimini. I wanted a liberal education.”

  “Liberal, huh? Me, I wanna be a lawyer. My Dad owns a grocery store in Brooklyn and the wholesalers are screwing him out of his profit. ‘Mark up your stuff or get lost,’ they tell him. Then the numbers guys move in. Then the protection guys. He and Ma don’t have a day’s peace that someone’s trying to stick a hand in their pockets. Now me, I’m gonna be a lawyer, work for the DA and throw all them bums in

  “--945,” said Preston. They drew up before a ramshackle two story building. A faded, paint-chipped sign announced, ‘Hotel Cap Camarat.’ Two old men sat in shadows near the front door, while a half-dozen children played a street game two doors down. Preston switched off the ignition and ratcheted the hand brake. “Nice lookin’ place, huh?”

  “Simply wonderful,” said Toliver.

  “We had trouble out here before, sir. And,” Preston slapped his forehead, “I remember now. This hotel’s been off-limits to all service personnel for at least six months.” Preston turned to Rimini. “You ready, Benne?”

  Rimini jammed the butt of his carbine on his hip and ran the bolt, chambering a round. “Uh, huh.”

  “Well, set the safety, dope, so you don’t blow off your damned head,” said Preston getting out.

  “Uh, huh.” Squaring his hat on his head, Rimini climbed out and alighted like a cat.

  The clerk was a mousey unshaven man of indeterminate age who sat on a stool behind a counter, reading a magazine. He wore a name tag, ‘Pierre’ scrawled in large letters. A tattered 1943 Betty Grable calendar was stuck on the wall above the counter. Toliver asked, “Do you speak English?”

  The man shrugged and spread his hands. “Non. Seulement francais.”

  Preston grabbed the man by the shirt and pulled him halfway across the counter. “Oh, yeah? Then what the hell are you reading, Mac?”

  A copy of the Saturday Evening Post, slipped out of the clerk’s hands. The guest register and pencils clattered to the floor. “Oui, oui. I speak a little,” Pierre squeaked.

  Still holding the clerk over the desk, Preston said quietly, “Ask away, Mr. Toliver.”

  “Henri Dufor. What room is he in?” barked Toliver.

  Pierre’s eyes bugged.

  Preston shook him with both hands. “Out with it, you little turd, or I’ll--”

  The clerk pointed up the stairwell and gasped, “two-two-six.”

  “Is he up there now?” asked Toliver.

  Looking wildly from side-to-side, Pierre nodded.

  Preston eased the man down. “Okay, thanks pal. Now we’re going up there to have a nice little conversation with Mr. Dufor. You just sit here and read your little magazine. Now you see that guy over there?” He pointed to Rimini.

  Pierre nodded.

  “If you say or do anything while we’re up there, Rimini is going to personally come down here and blow your balls off with that canon. Got it?”

  Pierre backed into a corner. “Oui.”

  “Fine, now please read your magazine.” Preston raised his eyebrows to Toliver and nodded.

  “Let’s go.” Toliver took lead, his cane thumping up the stairs. The upstairs hallway smelled of urine. A man and a woman groaned in 220. They drew up before 226. Toliver knocked.

  “Oui?” Came a voice from inside.

  “Monsieur, Dufor,” said Toliver. “C’est Pierre, le concierge.”

  Preston’s eyebrows went up. He mouthed, “Well I’ll be--”

  A chain rattled, the door opened. Taubman peeked around. His eyes went wide. “Was?” He slammed the door, but not before Preston’s thick boot jammed the doorway. Taubman tried to hold it back but Preston put a shoulder to the door. A shirtless Taubman stumbled back into the room. Preston and Rimini followed right behind, their weapons raised. “It’s okay, sir,” called Preston.

  Toliver walked in. A cheap valise lay open on the bed, a blood splattered shirt and jacket draped over it. Personal belongings were strewn about, tooth paste, tie clip, cuff links, a watch, a--”

  “--I’ll be damned.” Toliver reached down--”

  “--What do you want?” Taubman said in English. Both eyes were black, there was cut on his lip, his jaw was swollen and a lower tooth was missing.

  “Sheeyat! Lookie here.” Rimini pointed to a half-crated radio transmitter in the corner. “T-E-L-E-F-U-N-K-I-N. Say, is that French for blood plasma?”


  Preston walked up to Taubman. “Hey buddy, did you get the license number of the truck that ran you over?”

  There was a loud concussive, report. “Uhhh.” Preston crumpled to the floor, the back of his shirt blossoming red.

  Another report, Rimini’s head snapped back, blood and grey matter spewing out the back.

  Toliver hadn’t reached for his .45, it had happened so fast. He stood there, looking into the eyes of hell. The man had a Luger leveled at his belly. He saw the man’s finger squeeze the trigger. Toliver felt the concussion. And then, nothing.

  As luck would have it, the Mount Whitney was slow and ponderous, seeking her special berth in the ammunition area, not dropping anchor until 1745. Although top priority, the FIDOs weren’t delivered by LCM until 1900. The torpedoes were secured on board the Maxwell by 1915 and Ingram called away the Sea and Anchor detail. At 1930 Hank Kelly reported to Ingram on the bridge, “ready in all respect to get underway, Captain.”

  Ingram stood on a foot rail on the starboard bridgewing, checked forward and aft, noting the gangway still rigged to the Dixie. “How ‘bout the stable element?”

  “Installed and calibrated, Captain. Guys are packing their tools right now.”

  “FIDOs secure?”

  “On the quarterdeck, Sir. Tied down athwartships.”

  “Very well.” Ingram drummed his fingers. Thirty seconds later, two overalled civilians rushed across the gangway. Ingram looked up at the Dixie’s crane operator and whistled loudly. The operator threw a lever, the line took a strain and the gangway was soon hauled up out of the way.

  Ingram called into the pilot house. “This is the Captain. I have the conn. Tell Main Control to standby to answer all bells.”

  The leehelmsman spoke into his sound powered phone, then said, “Main control reports standing by, Captain.”

  “Very well. Indicate maneuvering bells,” said Ingram.

  The leehelmsman clicked knobs on his console and then answered, ‘Indicate nine-nine-nine turns for maneuvering bells, Captain.” Moments later, he said, “Main control answers nine-nine-nine turns for maneuvering bells, sir.”