“That’s a breach of security.”
Toliver turned to Ingram. “You still owe me seven dollars for gas and another buck fifty to fix the flat.”
Ingram pleaded. “Otis, they got a telegram three days before I showed up. It said she was missing in action. They were beside themselves.”
DeWitt shook his head.
“Her mother,” Ingram said. “Her name is Kate. She looks just like Helen.”
“Doesn’t matter,” snapped DeWitt. “You should report this to--”
“Oh, Otis. Just shut up,” said Toliver. “1939 is your left-column key. Use it and chow down before your food gets cold.”
DeWitt sputtered for a moment. “I’ll think about it.”
Dezhnev stepped in, propped his cane in a corner, and sat, thumping a new bottle of scotch on the table. He sniffed his plate. “Ahh. I have waited such a long time for this. I too, will forget the chopsticks.” He grabbed his fork and dug in.
Ingram looked over. “Otis?” He extended his hand.
DeWitt dropped Helen’s ring in Ingram’s palm. “Forget it.”
“Thanks.”
“Forget what?” Asked Dezhnev.
“Uhhhh-rah!” said Ingram.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
27 August, 1942
Service Barge 212, Nasipit, Mindanao
Philippines
The sun had barely risen when the five foot eight, one-hundred sixty five pound Lieutenant Commander Katsumi Fujimoto rose from his bunk. Padding down the Spartan passageway of the two-level barracks barge, he took a quick shower and found himself perspiring as soon as he toweled off. There was just no way to escape Mindanao's humidity. Back in his cabin, he peered out the port, watching the morning mist swirl about the little town. But ever so often, tiny zephyrs parted the fog, revealing Nasipit’s little twenty room hotel, feed store, and ship's chandlery. Just across the wharf stood the Amador family lumber mill, a once-proud structure dynamited by Americans, and reduced to a few pathetic sticks pointing skyward, a forlorn reminder of the Amador's influence in Northern Mindanao. Now, the largest building was Ramirez’s meat locker, long abandoned for lack of pigs and cattle, and currently used as the Kempetai’s headquarters and jail. Further away, stood the proud steeple of St. Mary’s Catholic Church. It was still attended by the villagers each Sunday, even though the pastor had been shot. Services were conducted by an unordained, twenty-five year old parishioner who had lost his arm in the fighting near Davao last January.
A floating drydock was moored aft of the barracks barge; both were gifts from the United States Navy, which had fled their Manila Bay-Cavite Naval Station in December 1941. But Corregidor, which defended the approaches to Manila bay, didn’t fall until five months later, May, 1942. Thus, it wasn’t until a few weeks ago that the Japanese were able to extricate barge and drydock from Manila Bay, tow them 450 miles south into Nasipit, and secure them to the deep water-wharf.
Fujimoto turned from the port hole and began to dress, trying to forget the dream. But the dream was reality, and night and day there was no escape from the shame and embarrassment which constantly followed him. A little over three months ago, on the night of May 7, 1942, Fujimoto had been the proud skipper of the Kurosio, a Hubuki-class destroyer. It was a day after Corregidor had fallen, his orders had been to patrol a sector off Luzon’s West Coast and capture Americans escaping by sea. That night, he swept on an east-west axis just outboard of Fortune Island when they trapped a small American boat in their search-light. Close off their starboard bow, it looked to be no more than twelve meters long with eight or ten men huddled inside. An easy target, his men stood ready to open fire as Fujimoto ordered hard right rudder to cut off escape.
To his surprise, the little boat shot first with a devastating fusillade of small-arms fire, shattering the Kurosio's twin searchlights. In the melee, the pilot-house glass splinted about, wounding two sailors, the rest of the crew screaming and dropping to the deck. Fujimoto fell with them and banged his head on the binnacle base. A warm thickness gushed over his forehead, as a frightened ensign tumbled on top of him. With the rudder still jammed hard right and men shouting and writhing on the pilot-house deck, the Kurosio's graceful bow carved through an empty landing-barge killing three soldiers of the Imperial Japanese Fourteenth Army. Soon after the destroyer, with Fujimoto frantically ordering all back full, ran aground on Fortune Island. With the screws fully reversed, she backed off easily enough but the damage was done. Bottom mud, sand, and silt, was sucked into the condenser inlets, clogging the system, taking the ship out of commission for two weeks.
Three weeks later, Fujimoto, his gashed forehead heavily bandaged, stood before a Naval Board of Inquiry in Manila. The proceedings took place in Malacañan Palace, evacuated by President Manuel Quezon, who fled with General Douglas MacArthur to Australia. The Board consisted of a commander, three captains, and an admiral. Fujimoto was fully convinced he would be automatically sentenced to a weather station in Northern Manchuria and wondered why they wasted their time. He would have been right except for two things:
First the Board, consisting of frustrated shore-based officers, secretly took pity with his bandaged forehead.
But next was his family background that actually tipped the scale. From his birth on January 17, 1910 in Buenos Aires, Katsumi Fujimoto had seemed destined for prominence. His father, Hayashi Fujimoto, had been assigned as a Naval Attaché to the Japanese Embassy in Argentina , a plum assignment after having sailed with his classmate, Isoroku Yamamoto in 1905 when they defeated the Imperial Russian Navy at the Battle of Tsushima Straits.
During his years at the Etajima Naval Academy, Fujimoto made up his mind about women. His father had long ago divorced his mother and Fujimoto hardly knew her. Along the way, the young midshipman learned of Yamamoto's wrecked marriage, and coupled with other disastrous marriages among friends now on active duty, decided wives inhibited a Navy career. He stated outright that he would remain at sea, foreswearing shore duty, and vowing not to marry until perhaps, reaching the rank of commander. Even then, he would not marry unless it became a political necessity for important assignments, promotion and, ultimately, flag rank.
With that determined, Fujimoto chose destroyers when he graduated in 1929. He was billeted as torpedo officer on the brand new 1,315-ton Sikinami. Based in Sasebo, they practiced torpedo tactics day and night in the Sea of Japan; so much so that after ten months, Fujimoto could disassemble and reassemble a torpedo in near-darkness, much like his army friends field-stripped a rifle blindfolded.
By the time he was promoted to Ch-I, lieutenant junior grade, he'd become a gunnery officer on the Wakaba, a destroyer of 1,368 tons, built in 1924. He drilled his torpedo gang hard, until they held the fleet record for re-loading a four-tube salvo in complete darkness. Their time: an incredible nine minutes and two seconds.
Soon, he became visible among the upper ranks of Japan’s fast-growing navy. It was time for shore duty and his father, now a retired rear-admiral or Shs, pulled strings, and got his son assigned to Yamamoto’s staff in 1938.
Katsumi Fujimoto was on his way.
During that time he was promoted to Lieutenant or Tai-I. Working at the super-secret Naval Torpedo factory in Yokosuka, Fujimoto became one of Japan's leading design and test experts for a brand new torpedo designated Type 93. It was an amazing weapon driven by pure oxygen, giving it an unheard of range of twelve miles at a phenomenal speed of forty-nine knots, the high speed setting. In low speed, thirty-six knots, the Type 93 traveled twenty-four miles. There was literally nothing like the Type 93 in the world's navies and Fujimoto and his fellow officers knew it. Miraculously, Fujimoto and his brethren kept their secret, leaving everyone else, Axis and Allies, unaware of the Type 93's deadly capabilities. Long after the war's outbreak, the Americans were still unaware that it was specially-modified Type 93 oxygen-powered torpedoes that slammed into their battleships on December 7, 1941.
In 1940, Fujimoto went back to sea,
becoming executive officer of the 1,315 ton destroyer Yuduki. He served there for a year when, in early 1941, his career took a bizarre turn. They assigned him to intelligence work, as a naval attaché in Mexico City. There, he worked in two areas. The first, was commanding a station that listened to U.S. Navy radio-signals emanating from the North American continent. This also involved code-breaking, and forwarding the information to Japan. In many cases, his cryptanalysts successfully broke the relatively-simple American codes, ascertained the disposition of the U.S. Navy in the Atlantic at any given time, and passed the information to the Germans down the street.
His second task was the outright black-market purchase of strategic materials. He enjoyed moderate success at this until the following September. On the docks of Vera Cruz, a drunken boom operator lost control and a drum of bronze scrap plunged from a cargo net that had been swinging aboard the Ottawa Maru. Crashing on the wharf, the drum split open to reveal a false bottom. Splattered about for all to see, was a runny, viscous silvery liquid, quickly identified as mercury: A substance embargoed by the Mexican and American governments. If that wasn't bad enough, authorities discovered twelve hundred other drums of phony scrap barrels on the docks. All awaited loading on the Ottawa Maru, each containing a ninety pound bottle of mercury Fujimoto had purchased through a Mexican general. The price of secrecy was a $100,000 pay-off to the President of Mexico. Unfortunately, the negotiations included Fujimoto's expulsion as persona-non-grata since he'd become so visible in the deal.
Fujimoto returned home a hero. He was next assigned as an aide to General Yoshitsugu Tatekawa, Japan’s Ambassador to the Soviet Union. With this he was promoted to lieutenant commander or shsa. But with war's outbreak, and the increased demands on the Imperial Japanese Navy, Fujimoto gladly returned to sea duty in March 1942. It was then that he realized the dream of all naval officers--his own command. She was the destroyer Kurosio: black tide.
Conjecture at fleet headquarters was that nothing could stop Fujimoto’s promotion to commander, then captain. Top naval personnel placed even money that Katsumi Fujimoto would become a rear admiral commanding a cruiser/destroyer squadron in the next two or three years.
Until the embarrassment at Fortune Island on the night of May 7.
Until the shame three weeks later at Malacañan Palace.
To rub his nose in it, the Board of Inquiry flaunted the name of the American Navy Lieutenant who had eluded him: Todd Ingram.
Because Fujimoto had bungled the opportunity to sink the American boat, Ingram had gone on days later to blow up the Amador lumber mill in Nasipit, killing several Japanese soldiers. The blame lay at Fujimoto's feet.
But, he ruefully noted, the Board seemed to have a convoluted sense of humor by posting Fujimoto to Nasipit; the same place where Ingram left his calling card last May. They told him they had taken into account his strong experience at sea, and his torpedo and intelligence background. It was a good out-of-the-way place to hide him and see how things turned out. The Nasipit command consisted of a small radio intercept and ship repair post in on Butuan Bay in Northern Mindanao which guarded the passages to the Surigao Straits. With Fujimoto’s torpedo expertise in mind, an added task was to test the American torpedoes; a number of them had been captured in various storehouses in the Philippines, Guam and Wake Islands and the Dutch East Indies. They wanted him to determine what caused the failures, see if they were repairable and then recommend if they could be used aboard Japanese ships. But to keep things in perspective for his crew, he kept a Type 93 torpedo on display. The thirty foot monster made the American’s twenty-four foot surface-fired Mark 15s seem paltry by comparison.
Things were on schedule. They’d had twelve test firings over the last four days. Many ran erratic but he put that down to poor maintenance. Cracking the whip over his crews, he stayed up evenings with his torpedomen, meticulously overhauling the torpedoes, checking everything. Now, they ran with a consistent error: At least ten feet too deep
Fujimoto ground his teeth as he looked out the port at swirling fog. Although the torpedo research was interesting, his former classmates rapidly approached the peaks of their careers, driving destroyers, commanding whole carrier squadrons, becoming department heads of battleships and cruisers, sinking the enemy wherever they steamed.
But all Fujimoto could do was sit in this slough and look at...fog...which saturated this insignificant little village in a white hell.
Two weeks ago, he’d seen a fleet broadcast message asking for volunteer officers to participate in the new Eighth Fleet formed almost overnight to block any advance the Americans contemplated in the Solomon Islands. The man in charge was Vice Admiral Gunichi Mikawa, a long-time family friend now stationed in Rabaul. But Mikawa didn’t respond to Fujimoto’s desperate requests.
The Americans did land in the Solomons: on Guadalcanal on August 7. Two nights later, Mikawa counter-attacked with his flagship, the heavy cruiser Cahokia. He lead four other heavy cruisers, the Aoba, Kako, Kinugasa, Furutaka, two light cruisers, the Tenyru and Yubari and the destroyer, Yunagi in a high-speed down column down New Georgia Sound toward Guadalcanal. A little after midnight, they caught the Americans by surprise off Savo Island. In two hours, Mikawa wiped out three American heavy cruisers, one destroyer, and one Australian heavy cruiser: all lost to the Type 93 torpedo that bore the stamp of Fujimoto's heart and soul. Delirious with victory, Mikawa retired to Rabaul without a scratch. In frustration, Fujimoto sent a message to his father asking to intercede and have him reassigned to the Solomons--even on shore, as long as it was combat. The old man sent word back that he would discuss the matter with Yamamoto.
Fujimoto sat and waited and watched the fog swirl and each morning checked the message board: Nothing from his father, or from Mikawa. Just...nothing...
Yawata, an orderly dressed in spotless whites, came in and wordlessly set a tea service. Without asking, he’d also included some rice cakes. Drawing backwards he bowed and stepped out. Fujimoto sat heavily at his desk and sipped. The dream followed him. Night and day it followed him. Today, it seemed to have a soul of its own and would follow him once again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
12 September, 1942
Service Barge 212, Nasipit, Mindanao
Philippines
Fujimoto ran the calculations for the fourth time and felt a flush of glory. Wouldn’t his father be proud? He checked his watch: nearly two in the morning. At this hour, it was very quiet except for screeching monkeys across the harbor. He should have been in bed but tinkering with torpedoes was one of Fujimoto’s favorite pastimes and, over the last two weeks, he had passed the late evenings pleasantly sitting on this stool, taking torpedo components apart and reassembling them, working on the American torpedo depth control problem.
And here it was. Simple. But there was no one else to share his victory except Takarabe, a leading torpedoman. Everyone was asleep except the gangway sentries. With a face full of acne, Takarabe was young, but very, very, smart. Actually, it was Takarabe that had given him the idea. Yesterday, he had asked innocently, “Wouldn’t the depth sensor function better if it was in a free-flooding chamber inside the torpedo rather than being mounted on the skin?”
And now, Fujimoto sipped tea and sat at a work bench, re-examining his math. He said,You just may be right, Takarabe.”
“Sir?” Takarabe bent closer under the torpedo shop’s flood light.
Fujimoto tossed a pencil on the work bench, leaned back, and said, “It goes something like this. The Mark 15 depth sensor doesn’t work because it is skin mounted. With the torpedo going thirty or forty-five knots, the velocity of water over the sensor gives a far different pressure reading than the actual hydrostatic pressure or real depth. The error is proportional to the square of the torpedo speed, the faster it goes, the deeper it runs.”
Takarabe’s eyes lit up. “Amazing.”
“That’s why American torpedo’s run so deep. Ten to fifteen feet by our tests. The depth sensor is send
ing the wrong signal to the depth control engine.”
Takarabe grinned. “And the Americans don’t even know it.”
“Apparently not.” Fujimoto’s gaze swept across the torpedo machine shop. On the far bulkhead were two American Mark 15 torpedoes, all cleaned and ready for testing tomorrow. “We’ll try to jury-rig a new sensor and see what happens.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Fujimoto’s eyes darted to the Type 93 torpedo mounted above the two American torpedoes. “If only...”
“Sir?”
Rubbing his eyes, Fujimoto eased off the stool. “Time for sleep. I’ll have to write this up and send it on to Tokyo.”
“Good night, Sir.”
Fujimoto walked out.
The next morning, Fujimoto ambled up and down the wharf until the fog lifted. An hour later, it cleared somewhat, revealing a misty, drowsy, Nasipit. To him, it was a far more pleasant view into town then what he saw to the west across the narrow, mile-long bay. One could only see shoals, a drying reef and then the deep jungle going to sleep after another night of life-riot punctuated by the screeching of monkeys and the occasional carabao’s bellow. But some evenings here were very pleasant, he admitted to himself. Especially when soft winds blew from the east, bringing some of the most interesting odors to Fujimoto. He smelled honeysuckle, which on occasion became a mixture of rose and gardenia. But with the stronger winds from across the bay, the scents turned foul with the stench of feces and rotting vegetation and decaying marine life.
He was still tired from last night but with his American torpedo discovery, there was a spring in his step. And with the promise of the sun burning the overcast, Fujimoto felt better and returned to the barge, walking to the wardroom for an early breakfast. As expected, nobody was up on this Monday morning, except Lieutenant Ogata who conducted torpedo drills on the foredeck. The others were still in their bunks, having suffered a night of too much eating and drinking.
A CODE FOR TOMORROW: A Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 2) Page 12
