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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  gmd fm dpa...gmd fm dpa...gmd fm dpa...

  Five minutes passed. Helen said, “Okay, my turn.”

  A grateful Wong Lee stepped aside and Helen started grinding, surprised at the energy it took to maintain the proper level of revolutions. Two minutes later, she was about to give up when Amador shouted, “Presto!”

  “You have them?” Wong and Helen said together.

  Amador looked at his message sheet and tapped furiously, “I can't believe it. Weak, but clear.”

  Helen felt almost faint with the realization that a live signal, albeit tiny signal, was going into Amador’s earphones. It was a signal generated by a live person--a live free person--thousands of miles away. American or Australian, man or woman, he or she would most likely be sleeping between clean sheets tonight. Feeling close to home, the tiny pulses in Amador’s earphones made Helen grind with a new spirit. While her muscles ached, she reveled in thoughts of Ramona , of movies, of horses and avocado groves and hot summer afternoons.

  Wong stepped up. “How you doin' hon?”

  She managed a smile, the first one in a long, long time. “Couldn't be better.”

  Amador said, “Almost done.”

  Emilio Legaspi, who had been standing guard outside, walked in. “Hapons. Sonsabits ona banca out of Nasipit. Come soon”

  Amador kept tapping. “How far?”

  “Three kilos. No lights,” reported Legaspi.

  Amador brushed long white hair from his eyes. “You better go up and look, Helen.”

  Turning the generator over to Wong, she dashed outside with Legaspi and followed him up the ladder to the roof. There, the thin Filipino pointed to where the moon had set. Helen squinted while her eyes adjusted. Finally she saw it and called down to the open window. “It’s that barge. No running lights. Headed straight for us. About fifteen minutes away.” It was typical of the Kempetai. They were trying to hit the town by sea with everything darkened rather than clank up the coast road in their rickety trucks. Luckily for them, the Japanese had timed their raid with moonset making the barge well silhouetted.

  “Just signed off,” was Amador's muffled reply.

  Twenty minutes later, the radio equipment was stowed and they stood on a path a half a mile into the hills. By the village’s dim lights, they watched the Japanese soldiers jump off the barge’s bow ramp, dash through the surf and dart among the huts like insects.

  “Now we wait,” said Amador. “Wait and pray.”

  Wong said, “Did you to remember to ask for MSG?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  26 August, 1942

  Soviet Consulate

  San Francisco, California

  The thunderstorm crashed overhead as the cab pulled up before the Soviet Consulate on Divisidero Street.

  “You get him,” DeWitt ordered.

  Lieutenant Junior Grade Oliver P. Toliver, III gave an uncomplimentary salute. “Yes Colonel. Right away Colonel. I’ll do as you say, Colonel.” He dashed into the downpour leaving the door open.

  With rain thumping on the taxi’s roof, DeWitt reached out and swung it shut. “Someday I’ll teach that little bastard some manners.”

  Ingram grinned to himself. DeWitt and Toliver had been going at it since they’d first met on Corregidor.

  The taxi door opened admitting Dezhnev and Toliver.

  “Wong Lee’s Cafe on Grant Avenue.” As the cab drove off, Toliver said, “Well, Otis. Now that you’re a Colonel, how about a loan?”

  DeWitt surveyed the three. “Henceforth, use of my first name is strictly prohibited. I demand proper respect. Especially from,” he sniffed at Toliver, “a mere lieutenant jay-gee.”

  “Ahh, come on Otis. Just a little something to help me open a liquor store.” Toliver, a lanky, tow-headed Navy officer who had escaped from Corregidor with Ingram and DeWitt, hailed from a prominent Long Island family. His father was Conrad Toliver, a founding partner in the Manhattan Law firm of McNeil, Lawton & Toliver. Conrad Toliver had been shocked when his son entered the Navy upon graduation from Yale. Young “Ollie,” as the boy was called, had been expected to continue on to law school and then enter the firm. But with the realization that a war was coming, Conrad learned to put up with his son’s intransigence. Besides, he figured, having Ollie strut around some day in a Navy uniform with flashy ribbons would be good for business.

  Ingram asked, “Well then, Otis, how should we address you?”

  “His majesty, of course.”

  Dezhnev smiled, “Is this what you call a drenching party?”

  “Wetting down,” said Toliver. “It’s what happens when someone is promoted.”

  “Or receives the Navy Cross.” Dezhnev looked at Ingram. “Again, congratulations, Lieutenant.”

  DeWitt picked it up. “That’s true. We both have something to celebrate.”

  “What’s this Navy Cross stuff?” asked Toliver.

  Ingram looked out the window.

  DeWitt glared at Ingram then said, “Admiral Spruance told Todd he was being awarded the Navy Cross at the Chiefs of Staff conference last week.”

  “Congratulations, Todd. I think that’s great,” said Toliver. They shook.

  “Spruance had to move heaven and earth to get it done. Usually, it takes months,” Ingram decided not to add that most recipients of the Navy Cross had received their awards posthumously.

  “Since you’re so tight with Admiral Spruance, you could ask him what gives with my orders?” Toliver asked.

  “What orders?”

  The cab pulled up to Wong Lee’s. Thunder rattled as they jumped out, leaving a grumbling Toliver to pay the fare. He caught up with them inside, finding the others crowded into a small vestibule. DeWitt stood before a comely young Chinese woman with hair down to her waist and a long, red skirt slit up the side. DeWitt talked, waving his hands, imploring. She shook her head. DeWitt tried again. Once again she shook her head while flinging an arm toward a full house.

  DeWitt threw his hands in the air and cursed.

  Toliver leaned around. “Hi Suzy.”

  Suzy flashed a dazzling smile. “Ollie.” She walked up and pecked Toliver on the cheek. “You’re late. Hold on for a sec.” Suzy hurried off to a series of curtained booths in the back.

  A fuming DeWitt cocked an eyebrow. “Suzy?”

  Toliver shrugged.

  Ingram asked again, “You were saying about orders, Ollie?”

  Toliver smiled at a blonde who brushed past on her way to the powder room. “My XO heard through the rumor mill that I’m getting new orders.”

  “Go on.” Toliver had been “parked” as gunnery officer aboard the U.S.S. Ammen, another destroyer under construction at the Bethlehem Steel Shipyard. “The word is, they’re scared shitless after this Savo Island business. They’re scouring the fleet for people with experience.”

  “My news is about the same.” Ingram told them what Spruance and Falkenberg had said.

  “So, I thought we had a deal, Toliver said, “‘Six months’ they told us.”

  Ingram glanced at Dezhnev who toyed with a book of matches and stared in the distance. He wondered, how can we be bitching like this when Russians are dying by the tens of thousands every day? Quoting Falkenberg, Ingram said dryly, “Probably just convoy duty or something boring. Our Corregidor days are over.”

  “Huh?”

  Suzy returned. “Your booth is ready, Ollie.” Smiling and waving menus, she turned and led them across the room.

  Ingram marveled that the place was so packed on a rainy night. To their right was a bar jammed with patrons. Cigarette and cigar smoke hung over crowded tables in the main area. Most of the patrons were in uniform, although a few silver-headed civilians were scattered here and there. Curtained booths were situated around the room’s periphery, most of them closed. Ingram followed Toliver to the rear. “I don’t think we have a choice, Ollie.”

  “But they promised.”

  “People are dying out there.”

  “Don’t I kno
w it?”

  They were shown into a booth decorated with Chinese bric-a-brac. Waiting for them were four place settings complete with hot tea, ready to pour. As they arranged themselves, Suzy bowed, “Anything else, let me know, Ollie.”

  “Thanks, honey.”

  Suzy withdrew, whisking the curtains, closed.

  DeWitt looked around. “Perfect choice, Ollie. I forgive all your previous sins. What do you think, Ed?”

  “I’m in wonderland. Ummm, smell that. I could eat everything in sight.”

  “You’ll have your chance,” Toliver told him.

  A spectacled waiter in his mid-fifties eased through the curtain, his pad poised. “Drinks?”

  “Ginger Ale.”

  “Root beer.”

  “Soda water.”

  Dezhnev looked as if he’d swallowed a cow. He looked up to the waiter who shrugged. The others laughed as Dezhnev said with an edge to his voice, “Vodka?”

  “Sorry. We don’t carry vodka.”

  “Ummmm. Do you have single malt scotch?”

  “What kind?”

  Dezhnev raised his eyebrows. “Well, I do have a favorite.” He told him.

  All were amazed when the waiter reported that they had Dezhnev’s brand of single malt scotch in stock. But with war rationing, it was very expensive. Toliver said, “It’s okay. The tab’s on McNeil, Lawton & Toliver. Just make sure we talk about something to make it deductible. Let’s see, uhh...how does this sound? The 1942 tax reform act?”

  “What the hell is a reform act?” demanded DeWitt.

  “Sounds deductible to me.” Dezhnev grinned then turned to the waiter. “I’ll take the single malt.”

  The waiter started to back away.

  “Hold on,” said DeWitt. “This is supposed to be a celebration. What do you say, fellows. Just one?”

  Ingram growled, “You’re a bad influence, Otis.”

  DeWitt nudged Dezhnev. “But this is in the interest of maintaining strong relations with our esteemed comrades from the Soviet Union.”

  Dezhnev slapped DeWitt’s forearm. “Da, Tovarisch.”

  Ingram gave in. “Oh, all right. I’ll take the single malt.”

  Toliver sighed. “Single malt.”

  “Same,” DeWitt echoed.

  The waiter backed out and Toliver called after him, “You might as well bring the bottle.”

  Five minutes later, the waiter had poured four glasses of single malt: neat. After leaving bottle and appetizers, he took their orders and backed away, easing the curtains closed.

  After two sips, Ingram wondered if he was going to fall out of his chair. But he smacked his lips finding that outside of the fiery feeling in his throat, nothing much happened. Nor did Toliver or DeWitt slur or go cross-eyed.

  On the other hand, Dezhnev sat calmly, knocking back his scotch, and watching the three of them as if they were prey, recently flushed from the forest at the height of a roaring fire.

  “Ed,” Ingram began. “This may sound strange, but we haven’t had any booze for at least eight months.” He explained why.

  “Ahhh. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of this.” Dezhnev grabbed the bottle, poured two fingers in his glass, and rose to his feet. Widening his stance just a bit, he raised his glass with his right hand and jammed his left in the small of his back. “To the wisdom of the armed forces of the United States of America for promoting Major Otis DeWitt to Lieutenant Colonel.” Then, with a roll of his tongue, he growled loudly, “Uhhh-rah!” It rhymed with doo-dah. He knocked his scotch back in one gulp.

  They sat speechless and stared.

  Dezhnev poured another. “And congratulations to Lieutenant Todd Ingram, hero of the United States Navy’s Pacific Fleet and winner of the Navy Cross. Uhhhh-rah!” He drank.

  “My God.” Pouring his own two fingers, DeWitt raised his glass and stood saying, “Uhhh, this is to Joseph Stalin and Boris Tschikowsky, the best damned Russians to walk the face of the earth. Yeee-haw!” He drank and sat, wiping his mouth.

  “For a proper Soviet toast you must say, ‘uhhh-rah!’“

  “But I’m a Texan.”

  “Uhhh-rah!” commanded Dezhnev.

  “Awright, awright. Anything in the interest of maintaining good relations.” He raised a fist: “Ooooo-rahhhh!” His voice resonated over scotch-lubricated vocal chords.

  “Better.” Dezhnev waved a finger at DeWitt and admonished, “But never forget, tovarisch, it’s Peter Tschikowsky, not Boris.”

  “You sure?”

  Ignoring DeWitt, Dezhnev pursed his lips, poured another round, and stood. “And now, I insist we all acknowledge that most treasured son of the Rodina, the one soul who single-handedly led all of civilization from darkness into an enlightened twentieth century. Gentlemen, I give you Yuri Bulzuluk, inventor of the electric light bulb.”

  “Who?” asked DeWitt.

  Ingram and Toliver stood with Dezhnev and went, “Uhhhh-rah!” They emptied their glasses.

  Dezhnev poured and began to stand but Ingram waved him down. “Gentlemen, we’ve been remiss in not acknowledging the arts. And we must realize that we are gathered here in uniform so that one day, others may follow in peace and liberty to once again create beauty on this planet.”

  “Hear, hear.”

  Ingram raised his glass, “I give you Alfred Schmidlapp, composer of that rapturous American ballet, Swan Lake.”

  In unison: “Uhhhhhh-rah!”

  Ingram parted the curtain slightly and looked out to see if they’d been too loud. Apparently not. Waiters bustled about and the patrons seemed engrossed in their own tables. The ambient noise was high and a male-female duet in the bar competed with a chorus of slurring male voices three booths away.

  From his seat, Dezhnev raised his glass. “To, Leonid Vladimir Anichkiov, inventor of the steam engine.”

  Relieved that Dezhnev hadn’t stood, they growled, “Uhhhh-rah!”

  Toliver raised his glass. “To Ignatius Klutz, that Nobel Prize winning author from the great state of West Virginia.”

  “What did he write?” demanded DeWitt.

  “War and Peace.”

  “Uhhhh-rah!”

  The bottle was empty. Toliver reached for the curtains but Dezhnev stood. “Nyet. Please. My turn. The Soviet Union’s turn, really. Also, I must pay homage to the porcelain monster. I’ll be right back.” Grabbing his cane, he stumbled off.

  With a shrug, they let him go. As soon as the curtains fell into place, DeWitt croaked, “I think I’m toasted.”

  “Where’s our food?” Ingram was convinced he wouldn’t be able to rise again.

  DeWitt said, “Guess I can tell you, while Ed is gone. We got a message from Amador last night.”

  “Yes?” said Ingram.

  “They’re doing okay.”

  “Shhh. Keep it down, Otis,” said Ingram.

  Toliver waved a hand at Ingram. “Easy, Todd. It’s not like we’re talking about radar.”

  “That’s enough of that Mister,” snapped DeWitt, his voice lower. Radar, a new, top secret range-finding device, was something never mentioned in public. Ingram knew of a fellow officer who had been questioned at length by the FBI after boasting of it at a cocktail party.

  DeWitt said, “Amador wasn’t on the air long. Just enough to ask for ammo, clothes, medicine.”

  Ingram blurted through his mental fog. “Anything about --”

  “--She’s okay. Amador made sure to say that.” DeWitt glanced at Toliver. They knew how Ingram felt about Helen.

  “Whew.”

  DeWitt scratched his head. “Pablo says the Japs are converting Naspit to a ship repair yard. And they’re testing torpedoes there too.” He turned to Ingram. “Any reason why they would choose Nasipit for torpedo testing?”

  Ingram shrugged. “I don’t know. Can you help them? Send something in?”

  “It’s difficult to get supplies up there.”

  “What about airdrops?” asked Toliver.

  “Only PBYs with long
-range tanks can get in. Even at that, it’s a twenty-five hour trip. A sub got in a while back but it’s hard to get your guys to turn-loose of the damned things on a regular basis.” He turned to Ingram. “Our crypto guys asked me to ask you, Todd. You did graduate from the Naval Academy in 1937, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, why?”

  DeWitt explained how Amador’s checkerboard code worked and that he had used Ingram’s year of graduation as top-row decoding key. He wiped his forehead. “Man, getting woozy. Time to eat.” He gulped some tea then parted the curtain and looked out. Seeing their waiter he signaled and closed the curtain, not realizing Dezhnev stood just on the other side, a full bottle of scotch in his hand.

  DeWitt continued, “I need a code for tomorrow to send on to our crypto unit in Brisbane. Something to use as a left column key that only Amador knows about. Something simple. But something that will stump the Japs until we can set up a more secure code.”

  Ingram stared at his empty glass, surprised he hadn’t passed out.

  “There must be something,” said Toliver.

  A thought hit Ingram. “Yeah, graduation dates. I’m 1937. Helen is 1939. How about that?”

  DeWitt tried to focus. “1939 what?”

  “Scripps College. She graduated in 1939 and nursing school in 1940.” Ingram pulled out Helen’s ring and passed it over.

  Toliver said, “Same year as my Packard. Can’t be all that bad.”

  Suddenly, Otis DeWitt became a Lieutenant Colonel. With a level voice, he turned the ring in his hand. “Where’d you get this, Todd?”

  The waiter pulled the curtains and working from a large tray, began to lay their food on the table. Then he bowed and eased out, nearly stumbling over Dezhnev who still hovered on the other side.

  “Screw the chopsticks.” Toliver forked a dripping load of almond duck into his mouth. “Ummm.”

  “Otis, I drove down there--”

  “--in my Packard.” Toliver gargled through stuffed cheeks.

  “I met her folks. They needed to know she was okay.”