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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  The tablecloth was starched white, and six places had been set with gleaming silver service stamped ‘USN.’ Yawata served breakfast of dried fish, coconut and two fresh eggs, a rarity in wartime. After finishing, Fujimoto was about to get up when Yawata walked in with another plate.

  “What’s this?”

  “I made it this morning, Sir.” Yawata placed before him a bowl of pineapples drenched with a dressing of coconut milk and muscavodo sugar. “There was only enough for you.” Yawata bowed. He’d taken advantage of the fact that no one else was up yet. A polite way of saying screw the others if they wanted to frolic all night.

  Fujimoto looked quickly out the hatch to see no one else approached. There really wasn’t enough pineapple to split among the others. Besides, to refuse meant the dish would be thrown overboard in the next five minutes. He sighed. “Thank you.”

  “Sir,” hissed Yawata, withdrawing.

  The pineapples were excellent. He patted his lips with a starched napkin, meticulously rolled it and inserted it into a silver napkin-ring, also stamped ‘USN.’ Yawata was a good find Fujimoto mulled, as he picked up his cap and walked out at exactly seven am. Hailing from a Kobe restaurant family, Yawata was barely twenty years old. With the savior faire of a young nobleman, Yawata had quick eyes and an intellect Fujimoto knew he shouldn’t keep back. Perhaps he should transfer him to gunnery or maybe even the torpedo gang. But then, who would fix pineapples for him?

  He made his way forward along the main deck which was given over to work spaces including a machine shop, power generating station, and various other services such as an optical shop, boiler repair shop, instrument overhaul station, and diesel repair station, gun repair facility, and, all the way forward, the torpedo shop. Most of the barge’s services were for the army garrison ashore but with the newly arrived floating drydock, they would soon overhaul and berth the crews of small combatants up to the size of a destroyer.

  In the bow was an American triple tube torpedo mount he’d purloined from the scrap heaps in the Cavite naval shipyard. He had it installed in the bow just forward of the torpedo shop. Then he put his shipfitters and torpedomen to work where they realigned the mount on its base ring and repaired the training, targeting, and firing mechanisms. When it worked perfectly, his crew scraped all the rust and chipped paint, making the mount look brand new. Now the mount kicked out American Mark 15 torpedoes into Butuan Bay for later recovery by the landing barge.

  For authenticity, Fujimoto ordered daily torpedo loading drills at the mount just like he’d done on the Wakaba. And he would time his after-breakfast stroll just as they were ready to begin.

  Sure enough. He walked onto the bow just as his repair officer, Lieutenant Ogata raised his stopwatch and yelled, “Go!”

  Cursing and grunting, the crew struggled with their chain-falls and torpedo skids and finished stuffing three Mark 15 torpedoes into their tubes. The watch was clicked when the last breech door was slammed shut and dogged.

  With a flourish, Ogata clicked his watch off. Seeing Fujimoto’s raised eyebrows, Ogata barked his report, “Twelve minutes, four seconds, Sir.” Carefully, he logged the time on a clipboard.

  “Yesterday?”

  Ogata checked his board. “Eleven minutes and forty-three seconds.”

  “What happened?”

  “Takarabe crushed his thumb on the spoon yesterday. Hirota is the new second loader.”

  “Tell them they have a week to get ready for night loading drills. And that means nine minutes or less.” Fujimoto turned to leave.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Isn’t that too soon? I mean someone could lose a hand or finger.”

  Fujimoto smiled. “That’s up to you, Lieutenant. Now tell them they have five days before night-loading exercises.”

  Ogata’s mouth dropped open. “I thought you said a week.”

  “Now it’s five days and Ogata?”

  “Sir?”

  “Are those the ones we are firing today?”

  “No, Sir. These are war shots.”

  Fujimoto chuckled to himself. The American warloads were fifty pounds heavier than the exercise warheads. The crew had done a little better than Ogata knew but Fujimoto wasn’t going to say anything just then. “Very well, Lieutenant. You have thirty minutes to unload the warhead torpedoes and re-load with the exercise shots.

  Ogata’s jaw flinched but he stood to attention and saluted. “Yes, Sir.”

  Good, thought Fujimoto. Ogata hadn’t groused. Normally his technicians would have extracted the warshots and install the exercise heads. But Ogata seemed to be a good performer. He wanted to give him his head.

  Tipping his fingers to his cap, Fujimoto walked to the companionway and took the steps two at a time for the second deck. He stopped at a door whose sign read:

  Radio Shack

  Security Clearance required.

  Actually it wasn’t a shack. It was the most habitable space on the barge. Three rooms were crammed with radio equipment which would have sent the temperature soaring. Instead, air conditioning was installed keeping the temperature at a tolerable seventy-one degrees. Lieutenant Koki Jimbo stood to near attention. He was taller than average at five-feet ten-inches and weighed 165 pounds. This morning he was barefoot, wore a short-sleeve shirt, non-regulation khaki cut-offs and gold spectacles. “Morning, Sir.”

  Fujimoto walked past rows of radio receivers, each attended by a radioman who sat guarding a series of frequencies for unauthorized traffic. “Anything?”

  “Quiet so far, Sir,” said Jimbo, following, his hands behind his back.

  Fujimoto picked up the daily message board, finding a long, two-page message from last night. He picked it up and scanned it quickly. “Ahhh. Our first customer.” A ship was enroute, a destroyer, for major repairs. It would be the first ship to be overhauled using the floating drydock.

  Jimbo kept quiet as Fujimoto read further. “Whaaat?” he exclaimed.

  “Exactly my words, Sir.”

  Fujimoto read on. It seemed the U.S. Navy had abandoned one of their destroyers, the U.S.S. Stockwell, in Soerbaja in the Dutch East Indies after it had been bombed in drydock. Now the ship, an old World War I four-stack destroyer, had been refloated and was being towed to Nasipit for overhaul and, presumably, for service in the Japanese Navy.

  Fujimoto sat against a table and slapped his forehead. “This is stupid.”

  “Guess who is towing her.”

  “I’m not in the mood for mysteries, Koki.”

  “Hisa Kunisawa.”

  “No!”

  Jimbo grinned and showed him the order. Fujimoto couldn’t believe his luck. Kunisawa, a true old man of the sea, was one of the most capable sailors in any Navy. A confirmed alcoholic, he’d once commanded merchant ships but fell out of grace with his habit. Now, he was a warrant officer in the Navy with just a tug to command. Also, Kunisawa was an acknowledged expert in dry-docking operations.

  Fujimoto read the order again. “This says he’s being attached to us.”

  “Ummm.”

  “What great luck.” With Kunisawa about, things would get done correctly as long as he stayed sober. Keeping him sober, Fujimoto reckoned, was his job.

  Fujimoto suspected someone in Tokyo was looking after him.

  Jimbo said, “Just remember to lock up the booze. But it sounds like they’re serious. Not only do we get Kunisawa, they’re sending shipfitters, too. Lots of them. An overhaul packet is on its way via guardmail.”

  “Just what I need. Hisa Kunisawa and an American destroyer.” Fujimoto tossed the clipboard on the desk, wondering if things were going out of control. Of course the alternative was worse. So far, they’d had nothing to do. That’s why Lieutenant Ogata was down on the first deck conducting torpedo loading exercises.

  “There’s something else, Sir.” Jimbo nodded to a clipboard labeled MOST SECRET.

  With a grunt, Fujimoto picked it up and read:

  MOST SECRET
<
br />   TO: TWENTY-FIRST FLEET INTELLIGENCE AND REPAIR UNIT, NASIPIT, MINDANAO

  VIA: FLEET INTELLIGENCE COMMAND, YOKOSUKA

  RELAY FM: TATEKAWA, MOSCOW

  MOSCOW EMBASSY SENDS: BE ADVISED AMADOR CODE IS CHECKERBOARD. TOP LINE KEYWORD IS 1937. VERTICAL LINE INDISTINGUISHABLE. ASKING MOSCOW TO RETRANSMIT. WILL ADVISE.

  BY DIRECTION

  ARITA

  Fujimoto said, “Old Tatekawa’s at it again.”

  “How do they get this stuff?” Jimbo asked.

  “He knows how to bend a few arms. Have you tried this 1937 business yet?”

  “The animals are working it.” The animals, so called because fresh beef and fish kept them productive, were three warrant officers who specialized in crypto-analysis. They had been flown from Japan in a desperate effort to crack the Amador code. “So far, nothing.”

  “How about Amador’s previous two messages?”

  Jimbo shook his head.

  “Have them try those as well.” Fujimoto took another look at the message board. Nothing else had arrived since he’d heard last night’s traffic. For proof, he looked to Jimbo who silently shook his head; nothing from Mikawa.

  Then something hit him. He grabbed the unclassified message, the one about the American destroyer and re-read it. “Interesting. A bastard ship. Incompatible with anything we have.”

  “Sir?”

  “This says they plan to commission it here if possible.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Fujimoto slapped the clipboard on his thigh. “I wonder who they have in mind for skipper?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  14 September, 1942

  Service Barge 212, Nasipit, Mindanao

  Philippines

  The visibility was only fifty feet with a thick, lingering fog. It was one of those frustrating morning fogs where one could be tempted with clear, blue skies just thirty feet above. Somewhere on the edge of town, a carabao bellowed, but nothing else stirred in the harbor or the jungle. Each day, four fishermen were allowed to work the sand bars and the mouth of the Kinabhangan River, but even they elected to stay in port, the unrelenting chalky vapor growing denser each day.

  Fujimoto had taken his early breakfast and stroll on the wharf and now stood at a distance, watching the torpedo gang go through their daily loading drill. Clicking his stopwatch with Lieutenant Ogata, Fujimoto could tell they did better, much better. But he wanted to hear it from Ogata.

  Fujimoto waited until they were finished, then walked by as if headed for the second-deck companionway. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ogata salute.

  “Morning, Sir.”

  Fujimoto made a show of stopping and saluting with a tinge of annoyance. “Good morning.” He paused. “Say, how are your loading drills doing?”

  Ogata smiled. “Last two mornings, Sir, under nine minutes.”

  “Really?”

  “Eight minutes and forty-one seconds this morning. Eight fifty-five yesterday. And no broken fingers or hands.” Ogata stood stiffly. And his torpedomen, all ten of them, also stood at near-attention, still breathing heavily, shirtless, sweat running down their chests and arms.

  “And last night?”

  “Eight -fifty-seven, Sir. They can do it in their sleep.”

  “Excellent.” Fujimoto beckoned for Ogata to stand closer. “I’m pleased about the enthusiasm here, Ogata. That goes for all of you.”

  Ogata beamed.

  “And your time is coming down. That’s good too. All of you will make good destroyermen. But haven’t you forgotten something?”

  “Sir?”

  Fujimoto pointed. “Look at those handwheels. The brass is dull. And the zerk fittings don’t have covers. The breechplates need paint, and I can see from here the spoon locking pin on tube three is bent. When was the last time you overhauled this mount?”

  Ogata spread his hands. “We’ve only had it six weeks or so.”

  “Fine. But if you don’t take care of it, your times are going to go up again and then you will have more broken bones.” Fujimoto paused. “Have your maintenance logs on my desk before noon.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And while we’re on the subject of cleanliness, the berthing compartments and laboratories look like they’re inhabited by Mongolian heroin addicts. The officer’s quarters, too. They’re awful.”

  “We’re way undermanned, Sir.”

  “Do something about it then.” Fujimoto walked to the companionway, making his way to the second deck.

  A flabbergasted Ogata saluted. “Yes, Sir.”

  He headed for the radio shack when he heard a loud horn-blast. Three more mournful blasts shattered the gloom. With the damned fog-laden air, it sounded as if a twenty-thousand ton troopship was speeding toward them at twenty knots, poised to cut them in half.

  Fujimoto ran to the port side and leaned on the rail, only to see a white translucence.

  Jimbo dashed from his radio shack. “Is that him?”

  Within seconds, watertight doors thunked open, and sailors tumbled onto the barges’s decks. It seemed everyone was on deck, leaning on the rail, peering into the fog.

  “It has to be. Only Kunisawa would try to shove a 1,300-ton destroyer around in this mess.” Nasipit wasn’t that difficult to enter under normal conditions, but in the fog, tug and tow could have ended up on the reef just outside.

  Hisa Kunisawa, age fifty-seven, had been licensed as a Mater Mariner since 1923. But he’d been relieved of command sometime back, due to an abiding interest in alcohol. Drafted into the Navy as a senior warrant, he was assigned to the Nasipit facility as dry-docking master and tug-boat skipper. Fujimoto was damned lucky to have him. A sober Kunisawa was highly skilled from everything to seamanship, to rigging, to down-right paint-chipping. Kunisawa maintained these fundamental skills were regrettably ignored by young midshipman-cadets of today: men who were more interested in standing close to the south end of their commanding officers than the business end of a spanner wrench.

  The Stockwell had been due six days ago. But because of fog, Kunisawa, radioed that he would anchor by night and in daylight hug the coast where he could pick up navigational references as best he could, prolonging his voyage from Soerbaja to a snail’s crawl.

  The horn bellowed again, triumphantly--almost as if saying, ‘At last, here is Hisa Kunisawa, who really knows his stuff.’ Moving dead-slow, the destroyer’s bow poked out of the fog just thirty meters away. Soon, her bridge hove into view, then two of her four stacks became visible. She stopped in mid-stream abreast of Service Barge 212. The Stockwell’s pilot house door was clipped open. With the mist swirling through the hatchway, Fujimoto felt as if he were looking down the throat of a cadaver, venting putrid gases. Inside the bridge, glasswork on instruments gleamed, but the shine was off the brass. Cables hung from the overhead, and seaweed and dead tree limbs lay about on deck. With no one to man her, and no steam to liven her engines and course through her veins, there was no life in her. The ship seemed to revel in the murkiness. She carried a slight list to starboard, and the lines securing a canvas cover over her number two stack had rotted, letting the cover droop down one side like a corpse dangling from a noose. Paint peeled from her superstructure in great strips. Faint light glinted off her dirt-streaked pilothouse windows, giving the old warhorse a demonic grin.

  The tug was snubbed amidships for tight quarters maneuvering and Kunisawa stood on top of the Stockwell’s pilot house, hands jammed on his hips. Wearing peacoat, denim work trousers, and merchantman’s cap, his posture begged the question, ‘Are you ready for me?’

  Fortunately they were. The keel blocks had been laid, and Ogata had flooded the dry-dock two days ago, waiting for this moment.

  Fujimoto ran to the top deck, grabbed a megaphone and hailed, “One moment, Hisa.” Then he looked at the crew gathered on the main deck, gawking up at the dark- grey apparition. It hadn’t yet hit them that their job was upon them. Putting the American destroyer back into running condition was
going to challenge their skills to the ultimate. And many hoped the ship would become their sea-billet, their chance to break from the living, white-hot hell of Nasipit.

  Fujimoto hailed to the main deck. “Ogata.”

  “Sir?”

  “Get on the dry-dock with the line handling party at once. Make ready to receive the ship.”

  Fujimoto’s eyes lingered once again on the Stockwell as Ogata scrambled and shouted at his men., She was an old World War I four-stacker, built at the New York Shipbuilding Company in Camden, New Jersey. Commissioned in 1920, she carried a full load displacement of 1,340 tons, was 314 feet in length, had a beam of thirty feet, and, with four boilers and two geared turbines driving twin screws, had a design speed of thirty-five knots. But now, mud, litter, and hoses lay about the Stockwell’s decks, looking like dead snakes. All four of her four-inch single fire guns pointed in every which direction, looking as if the one who last controlled her main battery had been a maniac. But she did have, Fujimoto noted, four torpedo tube mounts: two starboard, two port. Each mount was a triple like the one on the barge’s foredeck and she carried a full load of U.S. Navy Mark 15 torpedoes.

  Part of the Asiatic fleet that fled the Philippines in the early stages of the Pacific war, the Stockwell had fought a delaying action, finding herself in Soerbaja in the Dutch East Indies by March, 1942. She was in drydock to fix a leaking packing gland when Japanese bombs struck, sinking the dock and blowing the Stockwell on her beam ends, partially flooding her. Then the Japanese swarmed ashore. In panic, the fleeing Americans did a poor job setting the scuttling charges. Instead of breaking her back, or at least bending her propeller shafts, a useless hole had been blown in the aft magazine, which was empty for dry docking. The charge in the forward magazine, also empty, failed to go off. When salvaged by the Japanese, she was in relatively good shape except for the hole in her bottom and dents in her hull plating where she’d fallen on her side. To put the Soerbaja dock back into use, Japanese engineers quickly patched the Stockwell’s hull , pumped her out, towed her free, and left her anchored in a nearby cove , forlorn and nearly forgotten. Then naval headquarters decided to dump the whole mess in Fujimoto’s lap for whatever reason.