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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Ingram grabbed the crow-bar and went to work on one of the crates. “We’re giving this to the Jap for breakfast.”

  Remington gave a dark grin. “Worth a try, sir. Here let me, sir.” He grabbed the crow bar and, with knees bent, put his back into it. Soon the nails squeaked in protest as the boards lifted.

  Duquette ran up. “Captain?”

  Ingram said, “Get on the quarterdeck phone, buzz sonar, and get updates from Jack on the submarine.”

  “Yes, sir.” Duquette yanked the phone from its bracket.

  Off to starboard, a group of men waved frantically, their faces and arms blackened with fuel oil. Their voices drifted, “...hey...you sonofabitch. Why ain’t you stopping?”

  “Jap submarine” Ingram yelled. “We’ll be back. Hold on.” He stepped into the torpedo shack, found another crowbar and joined Remington at the crate. Working furiously, the top was soon stripped off.

  Ingram and Remington dug inside, throwing packing material over their shoulders. Finally, a Mark 24 torpedo lay before them, it’s body a dull copper-gray, the warhead black. Thick, olive-drab paper was taped over the top of the nose. Ingram peeled it off, finding a round deep cavity, about eight inches in diameter. “Fuse! Do you see one back there Remington?”

  Remington fussed at the other end of the crate. “Like this?” He lifted a square carton marked:

  FUSE MARK142, FOR MARK 24 TORPEDO ONLY.

  “Ever mounted one before, Chief?”

  “Not on one of these babies. But then there’s always time for on-the-job training.” He took it from the box and held it up.

  “Well do it. We have to launch this thing before the Jap finds out about how screwed up we are.”

  “Sir.” Remington dashed in the shack. He soon emerged with tools stuffed in his pocket. Gingerly, he eased the fuse into the cavity and then inserted the screws. “Seems pretty basic.”

  Duquette held the phone to his chest. “Skipper. Jack has screw noises. They’re increasing. Looks like he’s opening out.”

  “Damnit. You about done, Chief?”

  “Couple of more turns, Captain.”

  “Put a nickel in it.”

  Remington bent over the torpedo. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he worked the last screw. “Done.”

  “Okay. Is that the arming lever?” Ingram pointed to a small stud near the warhead.

  “Yes, Sir.” It’s set on ‘safe.’”

  “Okay. Push it to ‘arm’... Now that lanyard back there. Is that what starts the motor?”

  Remington said, “Makes sense to me. And here’s a motor on/off stud. Right now, it’s in the ‘off’ position.”

  “Okay. Switch it to ‘on’ and then let’s lift it out of here and toss it over the side to see if--”

  Duquette yelped. “Geeez.”

  “What?” demanded Ingram.

  “Sonar reports range to the submarine has opened to five hundred yards, Sir,” said Duquette.

  “Hurry!” shouted Ingram. “Chief, what does one of these things weigh?”

  “Close to seven hundred pounds as near as I remember, Captain.”

  “Well, get some men over here.”

  “Dixon! Stallworthy. Gonzalez. Frick. Get over here, dammit,” yelled Remington.

  Together the six of them, three on each side, reached in the crate and worked their hands and forearms under the torpedo.

  “One, two, three,” called Ingram.

  With a collective grunt, out it came, it’s dull finish gleaming menacingly in the dawn. Even with six men, the weight seemed like two thousand pounds to Ingram. It was all he could to keep his feet.

  Remington grunted, “Mr. Duquette, could you rip off them damned wooden shrouds?” Being an aerial torpedo, the mark 24 was protected by wooden box-like structures around the warhead and fins. They were designed to break off upon hitting the water.

  Duquette, stood, his mouth agape.

  Ingram, “Do it, quickly, Mr. Duquette. And then tie off that lanyard to a padeye.”

  “Yes, sir.” Duquette grabbed a crow bar and quickly ripped off the wood even as the six men staggered to the port side, the torpedo’s nose facing aft.

  Through clenched teeth, Ingram asked, “Tony, you tied down yet?”

  “Another moment...”

  “Damnit,” yelled Remington. “The motor can’t go unless--”

  “Done!” shouted Duquette.

  “Over the side!” Ingram yelled.

  Together, they tossed the torpedo in nose first. Just before hitting the water, the lanyard snapped taut. The counter-rotating propellers spun; black smoke hissed out the back. Then it disappeared.

  Ingram ran grabbed the phone. “Jack, torpedo away.”

  “I hear it. Motor’s running. Sounds like it’s doing doughnuts.”

  “Acquisition phase.”

  Wilson voice went up an octave. “Shit!”

  “What?”

  “I think we forgot something.”

  A feeling of dread swept through Ingram. “What?”

  “What if that fish doesn’t have any limits to avoid surface craft? It could come after us.”

  “One way or the other, we’re dead, Jack.”

  “Yeah but--whoa! This thing’s taking off. Wow! You should see this. Beautiful. High-pitched screw noise zipping right down the Jap’s bearing. Wait... The Jap’s heard it, too. He’s cranked up to full speed. Weeeo. Listen to that shaft wobble. Listen to his--”

  After a moment, Ingram asked, “What?”

  “...damn. One loud ‘bang.’ There’s another. Bubbles. Shit. Another bang. And...”

  “Now what?”

  “Air hissing, must be trying to blow ballast. Another bang, big one that time. Breaking up noises...he’s headed for the deep six.”

  “How deep is the deep six?”

  “Um fathometer says...437 fathoms,” said Wilson.

  “Deep enough.”

  EPILOGUE

  In the dark, men break into houses,

  But by day they shut themselves in;

  They want nothing to do with the light.

  For all of them, deep darkness is their morning;

  They make friends with the terrors of darkness.

  Job 24: 16/17

  EPILOGUE

  1 October, 1944

  Poum, Noumea

  New Caledonia

  Before the Second World War, Poum was a near-aboriginal fishing village on Noumea’ s west coast close to the northern tip. The village was on a peninsula jutting down the island’s southwestern side. An idyllic setting for a South Seas vacation, the beaches were graced with fine, white sands; palm trees swayed gently in afternoon breezes under a backdrop of jagged dormant volcanoes topped with afternoon thunderheads. More recently, the airstrip at the bay’s northeastern end was host to Navy and Marine fighters and long range PBY reconnaissance planes. A Marine garrison was situated around the base and was responsible for the airstrip’s integrity, along with the integrity of Noumea’s entire north end.

  But the war had moved on. Gone were the stubby F4F wildcat fighters and their big brothers, the F6F hellcats. The only planes remaining were a half dozen PBYs. Their task: patrolling a sedate Coral Sea, where only twenty-eight months previously, U.S. and Japanese aircraft carriers clashed in a vicious sea battle. Left behind was the detritus of war: empty fifty-five gallon drums, a PT boat rotting on the beach, its darkened ribs jutting into the air, vacated Quonset huts, a few wrecked airplanes, a truck turned on its side; everywhere, broken glass and rusted tin cans.

  Twelve Marines played softball near the airstrip’s western end, barely paying attention to a SNB “Bug Smasher” side-slipping gracefully in a crosswind, the pilot setting her down on the coral air strip. The twin engine Beech taxied to the ramshackle one room operations hut; the pilot cut the mixture and the engines wound to a halt. The first to emerge was Captain Jeremiah T. Landa, followed by Commander Todd Ingram. Both wore pith helmets, working khaki shirt and trousers, and jungle boo
ts. Last out was Lieutenant Commander Oliver Toliver III. Similarly dressed, Toliver carried his cane with his left hand, his right arm in a black silk sling.

  Waiting near the ops hut was a short, slender, dark-haired Marine Captain in jungle fatigues, an M-1 carbine slung over his shoulder. He had high cheekbones and a deeply tanned face and to Ingram, looked like a pure-blooded American Indian. Just behind him were two enlisted Marines with no rank showing, also in jungle fatigues. One carried a Thompson sub-machine gun, the other a sawed-off shotgun.

  All three had been in combat, Ingram saw. He’d seen plenty of them on Corregidor and Guadalcanal. Their eyes searched everywhere, their heads cocked to every sound. They knew exactly what was going on in every direction. The Captain saluted and said, “Good afternoon Gentlemen, my names John Quicksilver. How was your flight?”

  Landa rubbed his rear with both palms. “Two hours of bump and run, captain. Those things don’t have any cushions. Especially when we have up drafts and down drafts and side drafts and every which draft around those damned mountains.”

  Quicksilvers face was like concrete. A long bayonet was strapped to his boot and Ingram decided he’d rather not meet him in a dark alley, his sleight stature notwithstanding. Quicksilver narrowed his eyes, “Are you ready, sir?”

  “You bet. How far is it?”

  Quicksilver waved a hand inland. “About two thousand yards that-a-way. Has a house on a hill overlooking the harbor. Very nice, actually with a view of the bay. But we’ve got it surrounded. He’s not going anywhere.”

  “Does he know you’re there?” asked Toliver.

  “No, sir,” said Quicksilver. “Sleeps in the day, goes out at night. He’s on a short tether.”

  “Who’s that?” Ingram nodded to a civilian standing in the shade of the ops hut. He wore tan trousers and leather shoes. A white coat was drawn over a ruffled shirt. Tall and slim, he had a pock-marked face, Van Dyke beard, and black, slicked back hair.

  “That is Monsieur La Barrie, the local gendarme,” said Quicksilver. “We’re in luck, he speaks English.” He reached out and waved the man over and made introductions saying, “Were going in, Mr. La Barrie. Do you wish to join us?”

  La Barrie said in a quiet voice, “As I’ve said before, Monsieur Quicksilver, I protest. What you are doing is illegal.”

  “Sorry, sir,” said Quicksilver. “But this gent is suspected of being...he looked toward the three Naval officers.

  “A Nazi,” said Ingram.

  La Barrie shook his head slowly. “Non. Non. Monsieur Dufor is a French citizen. I have seen his papers.”

  Landa stepped before La Barrie. “Sir, we have a strong basis to suspect that he is a German, a Nazi, a sailor of the Kreigsmarine. That he was trying to rendezvous with a Jap submarine right out there,” Landa swept an arm toward the bay.

  La Barrie rolled his eyes. “Japanese submarine? Be serious, sir. We haven’t seen Japanese for over two years.”

  Landa stepped closer. “Oh yeah? Well guess what? We just--”

  “--Monsieur La Barrie,” interrupted Toliver. “We’ve d/efed radio signals to his house. He’s been observed paddling through the surf in the middle of the night. Now that’s strictly against regulations.”

  La Barrie said, “May I remind you, gentlemen, that this is French soil. And that you have no jurisdiction. If this man is a criminal, than we will try, convict, and punish him.”

  “Where?” growled Ingram.

  La Barrie shrugged. “Noumea. In a French court, of course.”

  Ingram said, “Bullshit. Not of course.” He spun and walked toward a pair of Jeeps. “What are we waiting for?”

  The hill was about 200 feet above the Bay with an excellent view of the airstrip. They parked the Jeeps at the base of the hill and walked a switchback road to the top. Finally, the roof and then a gazebo hove into view. Quicksilver held up a hand. There was a soft whistle. Quicksilver returned the whistle and a blond, barrel-chested Marine slipped out of the bushes. After they conferred, Quicksilver turned and said, “Your man’s asleep. You want to go on in?”

  Ingram and Landa exchanged glances and nodded.

  Quicksilver nodded to the blond Marine and pumped his hand in the air. Ingram was astonished to see Marines, in ones and twos, rise from the jungle like apparitions and walk toward the house.

  Swearing in French, La Barrie walked around Quicksilver and headed toward the house.

  “Come back here, Frog,” ordered Quicksilver. When La Barrie didn’t stop, Quicksilver whistled, then tapped a fist against his head. In two seconds, the blond Marine came up from behind, cupped a hand around La Barries mouth and dragged him to the ground. They struggled for a moment, then finally La Barrie gave up the struggle, his eyes bulging.

  Quicksilver rushed over and produced a leather thong. Landa stooped down and asked La Barrie, “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Do you want to see this peacefully or do you want to be tied.”

  “Ummmmff,” La Barrie shook his head.

  Landa looked at the Marine. “Okay son. Let the little bastard up. But if he makes a peep, pop him over the head.”

  “...Sir.” The Marine released La Barrie

  The gendarme stood, brushing off his clothes with all the dignity he could muster.

  Quicksilver and his two Marines stepped gingerly onto the front porch, their weapons unlimbered. At a signal from Quicksilver, they kicked open the door and rushed in. Ten seconds later, Quicksilver was on the front porch, waving Ingram, Landa, Toliver and La Barrie inside.

  Ingram walked in behind Landa. It was a big room with large windows and no glass. Reed curtains swayed gently in the wind. Martin Taubman lay on a couch. As Ingram walked in, Taubman rose and shuffled over to a desk, yawning and running his hands though his hair.

  La Barrie said in English, “Forgive me Mr. Dufor. These men forced their way in here. I will, of course, protest to the Governor General. There will be serious repercussions. They will be sent back to America in chains. We will...”

  Taubman spotted Ingram. His shoulders sagged. Then he saw Toliver. “My God...” he mouthed. He sat heavily at the desk.

  “Surprised, Fritz?” asked Toliver.

  “How...how did...you?” stammered Taubman.

  Toliver’s eyes went dark. “My pistol was stuck in my belt. That’s where your bullet hit, right on the butt. Pieces splattered into my arm. It’ll be in a sling for another two weeks, thanks to you, Fritz.” Toliver waved to a Telefunken transceiver on the desk. “Nice set, Fritz. Can you raise Berlin?”

  La Barries hand went to his mouth.

  Taubman said, “Don’t mind him. He’s just a little Vichy who sells people out.”

  “About what I figured,” said Toliver.

  “He was helping you?” asked Ingram.

  “Of course, food, antenna wire, everything, I paid him well.”

  Landa said, “Maybe you better have a talk with Monsieur La Barrie, Captain Quicksilver.”

  Quicksilver drew next to La Barrie. “Oh, I intend to, sir.”

  “Just don’t kill him,” said Landa. “We should deliver him in some sort of condition to the gendarme in Noumea.”

  La Barrie squeaked, “No. No. I didn’t realize.”

  Ingram walked over to Taubman. “No more chess games, Martin.”

  “No?”

  “No. In fact, I have a little present for you.” Ingram pulled a red and white checkered Scotch House scarf from his pocket and threw it on the table. “Captain Shimada won’t be needing this anymore. So I guess you can have it back.”

  Taubman’s eyes grew wide, color draining from his face. “No! Impossible.” He held the scarf up, then flipped it over and examined the label. Where did you find this?”

  Ingram said, “We got the I-49 two nights ago, Martin. Nothing much left except this, a few boxes, and someone’s sandal.”

  “Where?”

  Ingram pointed toward the ocean.

  “Impossible! What about the...the...I
mean...” Taubman lapsed into German.

  “You mean the gold, Martin?” Look straight down 437 fathoms, that’s where you’ll find it.”

  “How did you get out?” asked Taubman.

  “It wasn’t easy, Martin,” said Ingram. “No thanks to you I--”

  --an explosion. Two, three. Taubman’s chest blossomed red, his mouth shaped into an ‘O.’ His hands spasmed into space as he pitched back. His chair crashed over. A luger fell from Taubman’s hand and dropped to the floor with a clatter.

  Toliver moved in, his .45 smoking. He stood over Taubman’s body and pumped two more rounds into the jerking, twitching corpse. Then he stopped, looking down, the pistol dangling at his side.

  It was silent. A thick blue cloud of cordite smoke hung in the room. All were opened mouthed, even the Marines.

  “Jeez, Ollie,” said Landa.

  Toliver shoved the .45 back into his sling. “The kid wanted to be a lawyer.”

  Ingram asked, “What kid?”

  “Back in... Noumea,” he waved his good arm southeast. “Benne, the SP.”

  Landa pointed to the corpse, “He could have been worth a lot for intelligence. I mean, you ought to know. What’s your boss going to say?”

  “Truth is, Todd would have been a dead duck in about two more seconds. Didn’t you see where his hand was going? That’s the same stunt he pulled on us in Noumea. Besides, the bastard had it coming.” He whirled and pointed to La Barrie. “Maybe you too, you Vichy sonofabitch!” he said through clenched teeth. “I hope they stand your dead little ass against the wall and chop you in half with a fifty caliber machine gun.”

  A white-faced La Barrie inched toward the corner, finding solace behind Quicksilver.

  “Damn. Never seen Ollie so worked up,” said Landa.

  “That’s not all,” muttered Toliver. He walked over to the bed and grabbed a valise off the bedside table. Turning it over, he savagely dumped the contents on rumpled bed covers. Toothpaste, cuff links, neck ties, dirty underwear tumbled out. Still muttering, he said, “Where the hell is it?” A bracelet, socks, Toliver swept his hand through it all. “Ah.”