A CODE FOR TOMORROW: A Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 2)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “Me.” Dezhnev jabbed a finger at Zenit’s chest. “The damned thing snarled and growled all the way outside. But then, I shot it. One bullet to its brain. Then, another for good measure. Goo all over the place.”

  A clock ticked in the hall as Dezhnev drew everything he could from the silence. Then he casually waved a hand toward Zenit, “So never, never make Josef Vissarionovich angry. Never. Do you understand?”

  Zenit gulped.

  “Good. Very good. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s time for me to get ready for my dinner at the St. Francis.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  24 August, 1942

  Union Square

  San Francisco, California

  A freak cold front slammed into the City, bringing a deluge. It drenched Ingram and DeWitt as they jumped out of the taxi. A miracle was that neither slipped on the slick sidewalk while dashing for the glistening revolving doors of the St. Francis Hotel. Shaking water off their overcoats, they maneuvered through the large, ornate lobby, crowded with men from all the services. Most outranked Ingram and he avoided their eyes, keeping his head down and following DeWitt, who bulled his way along as if hacking a trail through a dense jungle.

  “This way.” DeWitt’s resonance shimmered over the crowd as they threaded their way toward a corridor. It was a little easier when they walked into the shopping arcade, but even so, Ingram was amazed at the number of people here on a Monday night. “Where does everybody come from, Otis?”

  DeWitt called over his shoulder, “They have pockets full of money but no place to stay. It’s rough in San Francisco when you’re on furlough.”

  “Liberty.”

  “Whatever.” DeWitt edged past two Navy captains and a Marine Colonel who watched in disbelief as he unhooked a red velvety chain barrier. He passed Ingram and himself through, then re-snapped the chain. They stepped up to a small elevator; the mahogany doors were finished in carved floral patterns and polished to a high gloss. A gleaming brass plate read: Private.

  A Navy ensign walked up to them. “Sir?”

  DeWitt cleared his throat. “Major DeWitt and Lieutenant Ingram for the Spruance party.”

  The ensign ran his finger down a clipboard and nodded sagely. “Of course, Sir. Here, allow me.” He inserted a key, and soon, the elevator doors eased open. A white haired uniformed operator in bellman’s cap stood inside, wearing gold round spectacles. The ensign stepped away. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  DeWitt and Ingram stepped in, the doors closed and the elevator started up. There was only one stop, Ingram noticed. Another brass plate announced: Twelfth Floor -- Pope Suite. Ingram had heard Nimitz stayed in the Pope Suite when he was in town, as did Roosevelt, Cordell Hull, and Charles Lindbergh to name a few. DeWitt had called last night, inviting Ingram not only to a rescheduled dinner, but extending an invitation to attend a cocktail party hosted by Spruance for his fellow officers in the Army and Marines. Actually, they’d been summoned, DeWitt said. Spruance wanted to show-off officers like Ingram and DeWitt; both had ribbons with battle stars, a rarity among the new ranks flooding the armed services.

  The elevator doors opened and Ingram stepped into a marbled lobby, finding a desk and large set of dark mahogany double doors. Another ensign walked up with a clipboard. As DeWitt gave their names, sounds of tinkling glasses and laughter drifted from inside. The ensign pushed open a tall pair of double doors and they stepped into a drawing room perhaps twenty-five by fifty feet, with dark-paneled walls and a high, twenty foot ceiling decorated in white, plaster-of-Paris relief. Heavy Victorian furniture had been pushed against the wall. With so many people, Ingram could hardly see across the room. Handing off his overcoat and hat to a butler, he felt the warmth leap from an enormous fireplace to his right, the mantel at least six feet high. To his left was a small bar, and stuffed in the corner were four musicians playing violins and a harp. Most of the guests were military although Ingram spotted a few well-dressed civilians. One was an exquisitely dressed young redhead.

  “She looks familiar,” whispered Ingram.

  DeWitt drawled from the side of his mouth, “Rita Hayworth. She’s in town on a USO tour. We were lucky to get her. See the guy she’s talking to?” He nodded to a curly-headed civilian.

  “Yes?”

  “That’s the mayor, Angelo Rossi.”

  “Ummm.”

  “...of San Francisco. And the other guy handing her a drink is Colbert Olson.”

  Ingram gave a blank stare.

  “The Governor of California.”

  Ingram muttered under his breath “How long do we have to stay, Otis?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “We’re in over our heads.”

  “Ten minutes, tops. General Sutherland wanted me to check in and make sure--”

  Ingram felt a nudge at his elbow and was surprised to see Admiral Spruance and Captain Falkenberg. “Welcome to the den of vipers, Gentlemen.” Spruance extended his hand.

  They shook as a waiter stepped up offering drinks off a huge silver platter. Taking his time, Falkenberg selected something dark while Ingram and DeWitt took plain soda waters. Also taking soda water, Spruance raised his glass. “To the teetotalers of this world.” He smiled at Falkenberg.

  Falkenberg gave a mock bow. “Sorry, Admiral. Every now and then I must grease the machinery.”

  They drank and Spruance said, “I enjoyed your talk, Lieutenant.”

  Ingram had forgotten how tall the Admiral was. He had to look up at him. “Thank you, Sir. I didn’t think it was that compelling.”

  “Yes, it was. Right now men like you are all we have.” He sipped his soda water and continued, “Forgive my curiosity but why aren’t you, like everyone else here, tanking up on the free booze?”

  “Can’t take it, Admiral. My stomach still hasn’t recovered from the half-rations on Corregidor.”

  Spruance gave a thin smile. “A warrior’s plight. But don’t worry. The stuff will eventually kill you. At least that’s what my mother used to say.”

  Falkenberg excused himself and ambled across the room to General Sutherland. As he did, General Mott, resplendent in his Marine dress blues, walked in and immediately stepped right in front of Mayor Rossi and shook hands with Rita Hayworth, clapping her on the shoulder. Colbert Olson held his ground however, remaining a part of the circle.

  Ingram and DeWitt followed Spruance to the fireplace where they took in the warmth. Ingram glanced around seeing more than one flag-officer looking him up and down as if to say I'll be damned, that sonofabitch looks just like Spruance. I'll bet he has the easiest job in the Navy.

  Lowering his voice, Spruance said, “You’re trying to be modest and doing a bad job of it.”

  “Sorry, Sir.”

  “No. I don’t mean it that way. As I listened to you the other day I realized the difference between men who’ve stood the test of arms and those who haven’t.”

  Ingram and DeWitt exchanged glances.

  Spruance continued, “One of our biggest problems out there is leadership. We need leaders who can fight.”

  DeWitt ran a finger around his collar.

  Ingram couldn’t help saying, “What do you think, Otis? You ready to go back out there and knock off some Japs?”

  DeWitt was saved by Sutherland who motioned from across the room. He parted with, “Excuse me gentlemen, duty calls. Good seeing you again, Admiral. Thanks for asking us.” He walked away.

  Now Ingram was alone with Spruance. Like reigning monarchs, they stood off by themselves in dress uniform at the fireplace of the Pope Suite in the St. Francis Hotel in downtown San Francisco with Ingram thinking, My God! What do I say?

  Spruance went on, “It’s the senior ranks where we have real trouble. The decision makers. They’re just too many desk-bound career types out there who are afraid to take risks.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Ingram gulped half his glass. In spite of the driving rain outside, the fire suddenly felt very hot.

  Spruance reached up to
grab the mantel. “How far along is the Tingey?”

  “Just laid her keel, Sir.”

  “Who’s your skipper?”

  “It’s me for the time being. I’m the senior officer. Sort of a ship supervisor as things get rolling.”

  Spruance stroked his chin. “And what about--”

  There was a commotion across the room. General Sutherland announced loudly, “Excuse me. Pardon me, everyone.” He turned to violinists. “Hit it.”

  The musicians played a plausible fanfare job bringing conversation to a halt. Then Sutherland stood on a footstool and, with his hands on his hips, surveyed the crowd. He paused for a moment. “For me, it’s been an incredible week.” Nodding to Spruance he said, “And please accept our heartfelt thanks, Ray, for calling this conference, so we could iron out our differences in order to get on with the job. And that is to kill the enemy.”

  A few went, “hear, hear.”

  Sutherland gave an officious smile. “I must say that I’ve come to appreciate the Navy a lot more and the fine job you are doing. And General MacArthur especially wants me to convey that you, the Navy, Marines and Coast Guard, have our fullest cooperation in the Southern Oceans and that together, we’re dedicated to wiping out this tyranny in the shortest time possible.” With a nod to Olson and Rossi, Sutherland went on. “The General also thanks you, Governor Olson and Mayor Rossi, for your fine leadership. And he sends special thanks to your loyal California constituents for the deep sacrifices made to pursue the war effort. Daily now, supplies and troops are pouring into Australia reminding us of your great job and that the ball will be soon be in our court, to go on the offensive. To take the fight to the enemy.”

  Sutherland turned to Rita Hayworth. “General MacArthur gave me specific instructions to thank you and your fellow workers in film and radio, for your fantastic efforts. In recent weeks, the General has noticed that our boys are coming out to us with smiles on their faces. And we know it’s because the USO is doing its job.”

  This time, there was applause as Rita kissed Sutherland on the cheek.

  Sutherland smiled and made a crack about not washing his face for a week while everyone clapped and hooted.

  “And now...” They still whistled; Sutherland raised his hands until they quieted. “And now... on a more serious note.” He paused for a moment. “There are special moments when we have the privilege to recognize achievement in times of adversity. I am proud to say that this is one of those moments. So, without further ado, it is my great honor to announce to you this evening that my superior officer, General Douglas MacArthur, has approved the promotion of Major Otis DeWitt to Lieutenant Colonel, effective immediately!”

  DeWitt’s mouth dropped as Sutherland’s voice cracked like an artillery shell. “Front and center, Mister DeWitt. You’re out of uniform.”

  DeWitt made a quarter turn and gained a semblance of attention.

  “No, that way,” Sutherland waved a finger in the opposite direction.

  DeWitt didn’t get it, so Sutherland commanded, “About, face!” After DeWitt spun he continued, “Pinning on your new silver leaves, Colonel DeWitt, is Rita Hayworth! And may I say, Colonel, congratulations. Our country is proud of you and so is your Army.

  "Ladies and gentlemen. May I present Lieutenant Colonel Otis DeWitt: Hero of Corregidor.”

  A photographer kneeled before them. Jammed in his hat band was a small tag that said Press: San Francisco Chronicle. He snapped flash pictures while Falkenberg handed Rita Hayworth a small box. Opening it, she pinned the devices on DeWitt to more applause. Cheers and catcalls broke out when she kissed an astonished DeWitt fully on the mouth, leaving a gloppy red streak. Then she whispered in DeWitt’s ear and he shook his head with a broad grin. Then, among all the clamor, DeWitt lifted Rita Hayworth’s hand, kissed it, then turned to shake with Sutherland.

  Sutherland signaled, the violins played softly again and the party resumed its tempo.

  Spruance smiled, “Good for him. He’s doing a good job running things for us. And he was with you in your boat, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Just then, Falkenberg mounted Sutherland’s footstool and called loudly, “On deck. Attention to orders.”

  The music stopped with the quintet doing another fanfare, as Falkenberg continued, “Lieutenant Ingram, front and center.”

  Oh, my God. Ingram walked over with Spruance falling in beside Falkenberg.

  Falkenberg raised a large piece of heavy bond paper directly before his face and read, “The Secretary of the Navy takes pleasure in presenting the Navy Cross to Lieutenant Alton C. Ingram, United States Navy. Citation for extraordinary bravery during and after the siege of Corregidor and the fortified islands of Manila Bay: Lieutenant Ingram risked his life, fighting boldly, and with determination on 6 May, 1942, to assist eleven shipmates to escape Caballo Island, at the mouth of Manila Bay, the night it fell to the Japanese. Through foresight and skillful preparation, he navigated a thirty-six foot launch over nineteen hundred miles through the Philippine Archipelago, out the Surigao Straits, and into the Pacific Ocean safely reaching freedom at Darwin Australia, on 17 June, 1942. Enroute, he and his men unselfishly harassed the enemy at great risk to their own lives causing serious damage to a Japanese destroyer. They also wiped out a Japanese Army garrison on Mindanao inflicting a great deal of damage to equipment and loss of at least fifty enemy lives.” Falkenberg looked over to Spruance. “For the Secretary Of The Navy, Raymond A. Spruance, Admiral, United States Navy.”

  Spruance’s eyes gleamed as he accepted the box from Falkenberg then stepped up and shook Ingram’s hand. “Congratulations, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you, Sir.” Ingram was trying to figure out what Spruance was going to do with the medal when suddenly, Rita Hayworth walked up and gave him a big smack on the lips.

  “Wooooah.” Went the crowd as the music struck up once again.

  “Congratulations, sailor.” Rita accepted the medal from Spruance and pinned it on his uniform. Then she stood on her tip-toes and whispered in his ear, “you have a sweetheart?”

  “Well, yes.” Ingram hoped she wouldn’t ask where Helen was right now.

  Flash bulbs lit up the Pope Suite as Rita stepped back and gave Ingram her famous blazing smile. Then she tapped him on the tip of his nose with her index finger. “Well, you tell her she’s a very lucky girl and that if she doesn’t grab on to you real tight, I’m standing next in line.”

  All Ingram could manage was, “Thanks, I’ll tell her.”

  Spruance edged up. “Congratulations, again, Todd. Excuse the theatrics but I’m a strong believer in honoring heroes, whether the heroes like it or not. And right now, America needs heroes.”

  Ingram decided against saying something inane like ‘tell it to the guys who are still over there.’ “I appreciate what you’ve done, Admiral, and--”

  Governor Olson took Rita aside letting a civilian edge up to them. “Evening Admiral. Good to finally meet you. And congratulations, Lieutenant. What a marvelous achievement.” In his mid-forties, the man had blondish sun-streaked hair combed straight back and a square jaw. His build was like an Olympic gymnast and he wore a dark-blue suit, red tie and black wing-tipped shoes that out-shined the brass plaque in the elevator.

  Spruance gave an icy smile, “Ah, good to see you, George. Here, meet Lieutenant Todd Ingram. Todd, this is George Atwell.”

  Atwell’s grip was like an aluminum extruding machine working at twenty thousand pounds per square inch. A look into the man’s pale green eyes told Ingram he enjoyed giving it all he had. Ingram actually had to let go. “How do you do?” With difficulty, he kept from wiggling his hand and making it obvious.

  Spruance explained, “George is Vice President of technology with the Winslow River Corporation.” He turned to Ingram. “George joins our meeting tomorrow to tell us all about torpedoes.”

  There was something in Spruance’s tone, and it hit Ingram that the Winslow River Corporation manufact
ured the Navy’s torpedoes. He’d heard dark rumors about torpedoes and he didn’t want to be close by when the sparks flew. Especially at this level.

  Looking at Spruance, Atwell said, “You play golf, Admiral? I can get us a round at the Olympic Club. How ‘bout Saturday morning? Say, ten o’clock, weather permitting?”

  Spruance slowly shook his head, “I’d like to, but I’ll be at sea Saturday and Sunday aboard the Indianapolis. We’ll be watching our destroyers go through their paces, including,” he paused, “ torpedo firing exercises. Would you care to join us? We’d love to have you.”

  “Oh, my gosh, Sir. Thank you very much. I’d love to but -- my what an opportunity -- I wish I’d known an hour earlier.”

  Spruance gave a cold, thin smile. Ingram wished he could crawl into the fireplace.

  Atwell gulped his drink. Ironically, it also looked like soda water. He pasted on his own smile. “But we have Admiral Norman and Ted La Grange, he’s our technical hot-shot, and myself. Actually, we’re seeking a fourth.”

  “Thanks anyway. How about Lieutenant Ingram, here. Todd, do you play golf?”

  Atwell’s smile fell twelve floors to the lobby.

  Ingram saved Atwell with, “No, Sir. Sorry. I don’t play golf.” In fact Ingram was a five handicap. But he hadn’t played since last November in the Philippines.

  “What a shame.” Spruance waved a hand in Sutherland’s direction. “Perhaps...”

  “Yes, thank you, Sir. And many, many thanks for inviting me to your party. Perhaps we can talk later. Tomorrow for sure. Nice meeting you Lieutenant.” Atwell moved across the room toward General Sutherland.

  Spruance downed the last of his drink. “Getting a little warm.” He moved away from the fire. “Gonna take a long time to build that ship of yours, Lieutenant.”

  “Yessir.” Ingram didn’t add that the BuPers officer, had promised him at least six months in the States before reassignment overseas, knowing the hell Ingram had endured. Hiding him as a ship’s executive officer in charge of new construction seemed the perfect solution.