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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Like Toliver, all he was doing now was standing by, biding his time, waiting for an Army Air Crop B-17 to take off tomorrow and fly him into the Pacific to start the whole mess over again. Knowing what awaited him, Ingram knew better than to harbor the go gettum attitude of the grinning, gum-chewing eighteen-year-olds boarding trains and troopships throughout the country. Toliver and DeWitt, too. On the surface, they conversed with a detached sangfroid, well-masking what actually went on in their minds. Ironically, Dezhnev the foreigner with only a few weeks in town, had offered to line up dates for the evening. But they declined, already drawn into the same mental cocoons they had used on the hell of Corregidor. It was a mind-set that obviated everything except autonomic bodily functions: Sleep, a basic level of nutrition, and satisfaction that one’s back was protected was all that was required. Everything else, from women, to stock portfolios, to sports and clean sheets, were peripheral interests.

  Suzy walked up with a tray and three small gift-wrapped boxes and placed it before Toliver. “Your cab is here.” She kissed him on the cheek and stepped back.

  “Whoa!” Toliver groped behind his chair for Suzy, but she withdrew. He sighed and pushed his chair back. “Okay troops, time to go yachting.”

  “Ollie, for crying out loud,” DeWitt laughed. “We’re trying to stick you with the bill. How are we going to do that if you take off?”

  Dezhnev spoke up. “Tonight you are guests of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. I insist.”

  “Forget it, Ed. It’s more fun screwing Toliver,” said DeWitt.

  Ingram coughed; Dezhnev looked under the table to pick up his napkin. The gybe had fallen flat and their eyes drew to Toliver. He said, “I want to leave something behind. Make you guys think of me and how much fun we’re going to have arguing over who gets to pay for our next dinner when the war’s over. That’s when we’ll find out who screws who. And I’ll tell you what, let’s meet right here. Deal?” He held out his hand. Toliver, Ingram and DeWitt shook. “You, too, Ed.”

  “Da.” Dezhnev smiled broadly and thrust out his hand.

  Toliver passed out three little elegantly gift-wrapped boxes from Gump’s.

  DeWitt looked at his. “What the hell is this?”

  “See for yourself.”

  They opened their boxes. DeWitt said, “My God, Ollie.” He held up a glimmering pair of gold cufflinks, the initials OD in enameled black. He shook again.

  Dezhnev’s cufflinks were initialed ED. He bowed slightly. “I am indeed honored.”

  “Sorry, Gump’s couldn’t do them in Cyrillic.”

  Ingram held up cufflinks initialed ACI. “Thanks Ollie.” They shook. “See you in Noumea.”

  Toliver scraped his chair back and stood. “Just make sure you don’t shoot at friendlies, Todd.”

  “Come on.”

  “Noumea?” Dezhnev gave a sly smile. “Ahhh.”

  “Now damnit! Ed. You didn’t hear that.” DeWitt drawled.

  Dezhnev took Toliver’s hand. “I heard Alaska. But wait. I can’t let you go yet. Here, I want you to have this.” He held out his brass tipped mahogany cane.

  Toliver ran a hand over his face. “Ed. Damnit. You need that to...to...well, get around.”

  “Nonsense. I have seen many in the stores here. I’m ready for a new one. Take this. Please. I insist.” He held it out.

  Toliver took it. They hugged and slapped backs. “You’ll get it back next time we meet.” He swung around. “Tell you what. Suzy!” He raised his hand and waved.

  When she came over, Toliver said, “Suzy, could you keep our names and addresses and route our mail? That way, we’ll figure out how to set up our reunion after the war.”

  “I probably won’t be here,” groaned Dezhnev.

  “Nonsense,” said DeWitt. “We’ll lick the Japs in no time and be back well before they send you home.”

  Dezhnev looked up. “I hope. How long do you think?”

  “Two years, tops,” said DeWitt with a wink.

  Dezhnev recalled Beria’s estimate: 1948 or 1949.

  “Is there any chance it will be sooner?” Suzy had spoken, surprising them.

  “It depends on a lot of things, honey,” said Toliver. “Why?”

  “My father, an uncle and two cousins are trapped in the Philippines.”

  “Your Dad? Wong Lee himself?”

  She lowered her gaze. “We don’t like to talk about it.”

  “Rough,” said Ingram. “It’s not easy. But we’re doing our best.”

  “I don’t mean for you to take chances.” Suzy said. “I just want to...”

  “We all want it to end, honey.” Toliver wrapped an arm around her waist.

  Standing on her tiptoes, Suzy kissed Toliver again, a tear on her cheek. “Don’t forget your cab.” Then she turned and kissed each one of them on the cheek. “God bless you. “ She turned. “Send me your notices. Your reunion will be on us.” Then she walked to the kitchen.

  “My God.” DeWitt’s eyes blinked for a moment.

  It was a wonderful kiss, Ingram had to admit. Dearly intended, his heart swelled.

  Toliver said, “Okay you jerks, time for me to --”

  Dezhnev clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Sit for a moment, Ollie.”

  “What the hell?” Said Toliver. “My cab.”

  “Sit. They’ll be another one.”

  Toliver sat.

  Dezhnev eyed each of them, then waited. “We live in a fluid world. Right now, we don’t know if we’ll ever see one another again. And yet, each of you mean something to me, and these cufflinks are a wonderful way to bind the moment. I salute you, Ollie. Always, will I be reminded of my American friends, heroes, all of you.”

  “That might be going a little too far, Ed,” said Ingram.

  “Please, let me finish.” Dezhnev turned to Toliver. “I went through this in Riga. I lost a boat, good friends. I lost a ...” He thumped his prostheses on the floor.

  “ Lucky for me my mother is fairly safe in Sochi. But my friends have lost whole families in this mess. And soon you will know people whose loved ones are killed. Already, you’ve seen it at Corregidor and Bataan. And I know how you feel about going back to it. We’re all afraid of dying, each of us. We just see it in different ways. And as we try to, Ummm, how do I say, rationalize, I think you would call it, yes, rationalize your meeting with death, it is then that things become complex. This is the danger point. It becomes very, very hard to see your way through life, to plan for your future; for your vision is blocked by the next row of machine guns. It is then that some people just give up thinking they don’t have anything to live for.”

  Dezhnev sipped his wine for a moment. He released Toliver’s hand and waved at the crowd. “Some live, some don’t. Those of us who are still alive feel guilty about why we make it and why others don’t. I still have the dreams, the nightmares, of the men on my patrol boat. I hear their screams... but that’s not the point.” He jabbed a finger at the table. “The worst thing is not guilt, nor trying to stay alive. The worst thing is holding on to the past, and letting these feelings from events over which you have no control, drag you down. You feel you can’t go on; things become jumbled, large obstacles are thrown into your path.”

  “If you only knew,” said Ingram.

  Dezhnev waited a moment. “I do know. I spent months in a hospital with my leg. There was nothing to do except listen to the moans of those around me. Twice, I almost committed suicide. But I botched it and lived. Can you believe that? I lived.

  “Others were more successful. You see, people go crazy. They can’t stand it. I certainly couldn’t stand it until I met Viktor. He was a tanker whose head was wrapped in bandages. His T-34 was already knocked out when he jumped and ran into a phosphorous shell. He was blinded and terribly disfigured. But he said something to me.”

  Their eyes locked on Dezhnev.

  “He could barely speak, but one evening Viktor rose up from his cot and told me in a clear voice, ‘Let the dea
d bury the dead. It’s time for you to move on, Eduard.’ I thought about that all night. Let the dead bury the dead. I was stuck to something I could not put aside, all these deaths, all this horror. Viktor was right. I was alive. It was time to move on.”

  Dezhnev took a breath. “The next day, I felt better and turned to thank Viktor. But during the night, something happened. He was gone. His body .. taken. Just like that. Dead.”

  He gave a slight smile. “Perhaps Viktor was trying to emphasize his point.” He reached again for Toliver’s hand. “At the risk of sounding very, very melancholy, it’s been my pleasure to know all of you, my American friends. Now go Ollie. The dead will bury the dead. You have a grand life to live.”

  Toliver stood. “Uhhhh-rah!”

  “Uhhh-rah!” they growled.

  Suzy walked up; “I can’t hold the taxi much longer.”

  “Best of luck, fellas. Thanks again for the cane, Ed.” Grandly swinging Dezhnev’s cane, Toliver walked away. But as he did, something fell out of his pocket, clanked on the floor and rolled to Ingram’s feet.

  Ingram picked it up. “Be right back.” He dashed after Toliver, catching up just as he exited the front door. “Ollie.”

  Toliver opened the door, but looked back; “You can’t stand to be away from me.”

  “You dropped these.” Ingram held up a small prescription bottle. The label read: Belladonna Extract: grain, 3-4 times daily. “It looks half empty, Ollie.” He handed it over.

  Toliver gave a sheepish grin. “Got them same day as you did, Skipper. I’m just not dumb enough to admit I’m scared shitless.”

  “You’ll do fine, Ollie.”

  “So will you Skipper. Stay out of Pearl City, you’ll get the clap. And if you do go to Pearl City, I’m telling Helen.” Toliver climbed into the cab and it drove off.

  CHAPTER NINTEEN

  22 September, 1942

  Consulate, U.S.S.R.

  San Francisco, California

  The cab drew to a stop across from the consulate at the top of Divisidero Street. A door opened and Eduard Dezhnev wobbled out into a gloomy, overcast night. “Thank you for the ride, Otis.”

  DeWitt's voice echoed from inside the cab, “My pleasure, Ed. And thanks again for dinner. It was wonderful.”

  Both turned, hearing a commotion about a half block down the street. Four Sailors walked up the hill toward them, their steps uncertain. “How the hell do you find a woman in this town?” one said, his voice magnified by the dense, nighttime air.

  Dezhnev turned and leaned in the door. “The next dinner will be our victory dinner. You will write?”

  “Do my best. You do the same.” DeWitt scribbled his address on a scrap of paper and handed it over.

  “Do svedaniia,” Dezhnev shut the door.

  DeWitt cranked the window down, his twang ripping through the night. “Ahh, pardon for asking, but can you get across the street okay?”

  Dezhnev smiled, “I need the practice, believe me. I’m supposed to exercise my leg once a day without the cane.”

  “Hey buddy!” yelled one of the Sailors. They were closer, just two houses away.

  DeWitt looked at them. “They’re drunk. Ignore them. Well, so long, Ed.” He slapped the back of the front seat and the cab drove off.

  Dezhnev turned and headed for the consulate, but one of the Sailors called out. “Can you help us?”

  “What?” The street was slippery from the mist and Dezhnev found it hard to keep his footing, so he turned, walked to the curb, and leaned against a tree.

  The four Sailors walked up. They wore dress blues, except one was without hat and pea coat and Dezhnev caught a tinge of the odor of vomit. The hatless one was thin, prematurely bald, and had piercing rat-like eyes. Another was blond, medium build, and chewed gum rapidly. Behind them, two heavy- set Sailors stood in shadows, their hands jammed in their pockets. As they drew close, the vomit smell was stronger and was mixed with that of cheap liquor. “Can I help you?” asked Dezhnev.

  “This town’s a shithouse, man. They ain’t no women. And we’re out of hooch.” The hatless one stood closer, belched loudly and giggled. “As amatteraffact, we could have hooch if we had money.” He examined Dezhnev’s mufti with great exaggeration. “Ummm. Nice togs. San Francisco stud, huh?”

  “No. Actually I’m from--”

  “Bet he’s a 4-F, Ernie,” slurred the blond Sailor, stepping closer, his gum clicking loudly.

  Dezhnev could see this was going nowhere. He turned and tried to step off the curb and walk across the street. But the two heavyset Sailors blocked his way. His heart beat faster as he stepped up the curb and leaned against the tree again. He turned and looked across the street to the consulate. To keep a low profile, the Consul General’s policy was not to have a guard outside. But a twenty-four hour watch was always posted in the lobby near the front door; Georgiy Voronin was the man on duty this evening, if he remembered correctly. But the building was dark and he couldn’t tell if anyone was looking out the window.

  “Jeepers! I never seen a real chickenshit four-eff before.” Ernie strolled around the tree, looking Dezhnev up and down. “Nice clothes. Neat haircut. A real stud. You don’t look so chickenshit to me. You chickenshit, Studly? How ‘bout some money, Studly? We need money. Kind of help with the war effort. After that, when we go overseas, you can move in and bang our girls.”

  “You ain’t got no girl, Ernie,” said the gum-chewing blond Sailor. “He’d just be bangin’ sand.” This seemed enormously funny to the others for they began laughing and cackling.

  “We’ll see who bangs sand.” Ernie chopped Dezhnev’s arm away from the tree and stepped close, his eyes within six inches. He hissed, “Gimme your wallet, sucker.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” said Dezhnev.

  “Ohhhh,” Ernie grinned and looked at the others. “I’m making a mistake.” Quickly, he pulled a switch-blade knife out of his pocket and pressed the tip against Dezhnev’s left cheek. “Gimme.”

  A car pulled around the corner, its headlights flashing across the Sailors, everyone momentarily blinded. With a backhand, Dezhnev chopped Ernie across his adam’s apple. Ernie’s eyebrows jumped to the top of his face and he gurgled horribly. Grabbing his throat, he dropped his knife, and fell to his knees, gasping and wheezing. Dezhnev kicked Ernie’s switch-blade away, where it went spinning across the street and into the gutter.

  “Shit!” The gum-chewing blond stepped in, swinging a fist. Dezhnev parried it and caught him with an uppercut squarely on the chin. “Ahhhh,” the man wailed, falling to the sidewalk. Just then, Dezhnev felt a blow to the side of his head. He fell against the tree. Another blow thundered into his kidney. He sank to his knees as yet another fist smashed against his shoulder. He held his hands to his face knowing the two large thugs were on him. Another heavy fist drove him on his back.

  “Aiiiiyeeee,” someone shrieked. Through the haze, Dezhnev looked up to see a wiry creature, it looked like a baboon on one of the thug’s back, clawing at the man’s eyes. It was Otis DeWitt. All one hundred sixty-five pounds. Amazing!

  “Jesus, Walt. Get this little bastard off me.” The heavy-set Sailor howled to the other thug.

  With large beefy hands, Walt ripped DeWitt off his friend’s back. DeWitt swung uselessly as Walt laughed with, "Well, blow me. iIza damned Army colonel. Time to join the Air Corp, Colonel." He punched DeWitt twice in the face. Then he spun him around and threw him across the sidewalk where DeWitt thudded against the a low stone wall and slumped groaning into rose bushes.

  Dezhnev nearly gained his feet but his prosthesis slipped out from under him and he fell to his knee. Nevertheless, he planted a fist in the heavyset Sailors’ groin. It was partially deflected, and Walt yelled more out of surprise than pain.

  Both heavy-set Sailors stood for a moment to take stock. The blond lay still on his back, but Ernie was coming to his senses and staggered to his feet, still wheezing. “We gonna cut you up, Studly...” he mumbled.


  Suddenly, Dezhnev heard a deep guttural roar. One of the heavy set Sailors fell to his face, remaining still as if nailed to the cement. Something twirled in the dark at the other Sailor, hitting, choking, the man frantically stepping back, buying time. As Dezhnev struggled to his feet, he recognized the bull-like creature that tore at the Sailor: Georgiy Voronin...

  Dezhnev poured a glass of schnapps from a crystal decanter and handed it to Otis DeWitt. The U.S. Army Colonel sat before a fire, wearing nothing except skivvies and a blanket. Both had showered, with Dezhnev changing into slacks and a short sleeve shirt. In the basement, DeWitt’s uniform was being cleaned and pressed; and his trousers were being mended by the consulate chauffeur who doubled as a gardener and tailor.

  They were in a seldom used ante-room off the main lobby that was decorated like a study. It seemed like the whole consulate had awakened as Georgiy Voronin victoriously clomped in with Dezhnev and DeWitt under each arm, screaming for someone to call the police. Now, people buzzed back and forth, looking out the windows, murmuring in Russian.

  Dezhnev poured himself a schnapps, then stepped to the window and looked out. The San Francisco police were finishing with Georgiy Voronin, the shore patrol long ago having dragged the drunken Sailors off to the Treasure Island brig. He paused for another moment, thinking about what had occurred to him in the shower. It could be an opportunity to make inroads on operation KOMET. Certainly Zenit would order him to pump the man for information. DeWitt, who was just one level removed from General Douglas MacArthur, now sat before him in the consulate, waiting for his clothes to be pressed. Dezhnev looked upon this wiry, small-boned Army Colonel who had leapt screaming among the two beefy Sailors like the proverbial Russian bear. DeWitt had virtually risked his life for him. There must be another way. But what?

  “Looks like the police are about done,” Dezhnev said. “What will happen to those Sailors?”