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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  A shadow crossed DeWitt’s face. “Stockade, I hope. Ten years is too good for them, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “I see.” He took a wing chair next to DeWitt and held out his glass.

  DeWitt winked. “Here's to joint Soviet-American exercises.”

  “Uhhhrah!” They clinked.

  “Wheeeou. Stronger bite than tequila.”

  “How do you feel?” asked Dezhnev.

  “Oh, I’ll get by.” DeWitt, extended an arm, articulating it. He’d banged it when the Sailor threw him against the wall. A goose egg grew on the back of his head, and he knew a black eye was not far behind. But in a way, he felt good about it; the throbbing of the black eye reminded him of the fights he'd had as a teenager. He knew he should have applied an icepack but he was too embarrassed to ask for anything more; everyone had been so nice to him already.

  “Do you think General Sutherland will believe your story, or would you prefer a note on our stationery, signed by the Consul General?”

  DeWitt laughed. “I’m fine, Ed. And I have all day tomorrow to recuperate. We don’t take off until the day after.”

  “You’ll look like hell.”

  DeWitt glanced at him, then took another sip. “Maybe they'll send me to the front lines. Scare the Japs to death.”

  “Dobryi vecher, gospoda.” Good evening, gentlemen. Sergei Zenit strutted in, wearing full dress uniform of the Soviet Navy. It was almost as if he had momentarily stepped away from a state dinner. He shoes were polished to an immaculate shine, and he wore medals, none of which Dezhnev recognized except...he almost broke out laughing, Zenit wore Dezhnev's own medal: The Order of Lenin. The little bastard must have broken into his room.

  DeWitt shot to his feet, clutching the blanket around his neck. “Sorry, Sir. I didn't know...”

  “Colonel Otis DeWitt, may I present Captain Third Rank Sergei Zenit of the Soviet Navy.” To Zenit Dezhnev said, “Kapitain Zenit, eto Polkovnik Amerikanskoi Armii Otis DeVit.” Captain Zenit, this is Colonel Otis DeWitt of the United States Army.

  Zenit clicked his heels and gave a slight bow. “Poznakomitsa s vami bol’shaia chest’ dlia menia, Polkovnik.” I am honored to meet you, Colonel.

  DeWitt must have figured that out, for he said, “A pleasure, Sir.”

  Zenit turned to Dezhnev, “Tak eto on, Eduard. On ponimayet po Russki?” So this is the one, Eduard. Does he understand Russian?

  “Nyet,” said Dezhnev, as DeWitt stood politely off to one side.

  “What a grand opportunity, you see,” continued Zenit in Russian. The man actually rubbed his hands together.

  DeWitt smiled nervously. “What should I say, Ed?”

  Dezhnev said, “Actually, you outrank him. Tell him to go shit in his hat.”

  “Haw, haw, haw. I can't do that. We're friends,” laughed DeWitt. “That's a good one, Ed.”

  Dezhnev laughed along with DeWitt.

  “What is so funny?” Zenit tried to grin with them.

  “Colonel DeWitt just told you to go shit in your hat,” Dezhnev said in Russian.

  For a moment, Zenit's nostrils flared. But then he broke into a wide grin. “Americans and their jokes. Always with their jokes. Ha, ha, ha.” He bowed and extended his hand. After DeWitt shook, Zenit eyed Dezhnev still grinning. “Isn’t this the one from Texas?”

  “Da,” said Dezhnev.

  “I leave it to you to do something interesting, Lieutenant.” He bowed again and began backing away.

  “What was that about Texas, Ed?” asked DeWitt.

  “He said he learned of a new way to get to there.”

  “How the hell did he know I was from Texas?”

  That's a good one, thought Dezhnev. He looked at Zenit, whose eyes had narrowed a bit.

  “What's going on?” said Zenit.

  “He's very impressed with your medals. I was telling him about them.”

  “Ahhh, thank you.” Zenit beamed and bowed deeply with Dezhnev wondering if he would ever get his Order of Lenin back.

  DeWitt bowed in return, still clutching his blanket.

  “Also, the colonel is interested in learning in how you know he’s from Texas.”

  Zenit turned pale. “I… I...”

  DeWitt asked, “Well, how does he get to Texas?”

  Dezhnev stood to his full height, fixed his eyes in the distance. “Captain Third Rank Sergei Zenit recommends that you walk East until you smell Texas; then walk South until you step in it.”

  It was DeWitt's turn; his eyes narrowed. But then he broke out laughing, “Step in it, huh?” He reached and slapped a nervous Zenit lightly on the shoulder.

  Zenit said, “I must go, Lieutenant. Please tell Colonel DeWitt it was a pleasure meeting him. And,” he looked at Dezhnev, “don't forget why you are here.” He extended his hand and shook with DeWitt. “Do svedaniia.” Goodbye.

  “Good bye, Captain,” said DeWitt.

  Zenit walked out and they sat watching the fire, sipping their schnapps. With a slow nod, Dezhnev finally made his decision. But still he hesitated and sipped as the fire crackled and popped.

  He really had no choice, and it was time to do it. Dezhnev leaned forward in his chair. “Otis. You would be amazed at what I learned from the Consul the other night.”

  “Yes?”

  “About a year ago, one of our operatives in Tokyo learned that...”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  22 September, 1942

  Service Barge 212, Nasipit, Mindanao

  Philippines

  The single forty-watt light flicked on, waking Helen instantly. She groaned and blinked at the bulb. Last day: six A.M.. They’d been here a week and hadn’t showered, the tiny bunkroom smelling of human sweat and cleaning fluids and fear and misery.

  “Uppa you bitches!” It was Carmen Lai Lai, their a forty year old mestizo straw boss. At nearly 200 pounds, it was a mystery how the half-Chinese, half-Filipina kept her weight considering the paucity of food in the Islands. But that must be why the Japanese trusted Carmen. Many of the betrayals, Helen had learned, involved mestizos. Perhaps that was the Japanese’ philosophy: Divide and conquer. It must be why the Japanese had hired Carman; a good arrangement for her; all she had to do was make sure the women cleaned the ship.

  Carmen Lai Lai was smart. She had figured Helen by the second day. Helen was scrubbing on the second deck next to the captain’s cabin when the door banged open. The captain, with papers in hand, walked out and into the wardroom, shouting at someone. With the door gaping wide open, Helen couldn’t help but look in. The room was a mess. Before her was a desk, with books and paper stacked on top. Next to that was a floor-safe that stood open just five feet away, its double doors gaping wide open. Books and documents spilled out of that, too. Some were looseleafed with white covers having bold block Japanese characters stamped in red across the covers. Some covers had pictures and diagrams of weapons: cannons, machine guns, ammunition. One cover was dark blue with a picture of a torpedo.

  Looking from side to side, Helen saw no one watching. She rose higher to see into the safe--

  “Whatchu doin?’“ Carmen Lai Lai stood right behind her.

  How did she get there?

  Carmen bent down to within six inches of Helen’s face. “Damn leper stuff don’ fool me. I got you figured, you damned guerrillera. One of Amador’s, huh?” She wrapped her stubby fingers around Helen’s throat with one hand and pointed toward the wardroom with the other. “They pay plenty to turn in a guerrillera, an American no less. But it’s too damned late, now. They think I’m part of it. So you work. Understand? Otherwise I take my chances and turn you ass in.”

  “Y...yes.”

  After that, Helen was so frightened, she’d only slept a few hours each night. But, miraculously, Carmen didn’t say anything to the Japanese. Perhaps, as Carmen said, it was too late to cash in. Carmen’s head could have ended up on a stake on the Agusan Road. It had happened before.

  The women groaned and raised to their elbows as C
armen rattled at them in Tagalog telling them the Japanese were planning to return them to Amparo at sunset. Then Carman barked an order. Like robots, they rolled from their bunks and put on their clothes for work. Helen’s bunk was on the third tier and she had to wait for the two below her to climb out. Just then Carmen waddled down the aisle, reached up and slapped Helen on the rump. “Lazy bitch, offa you ass.”

  As Helen slid to the floor, Carmen walked to a small table and plunked an envelope down. “Here’s our payment. But no money inside. Just a letter. “Then she looked up, her eyebrows raised. Anybody here read?

  At different intervals, all eyes space flicked to Helen.

  How did they know?

  “All right,” she muttered. How ironic. It was the first time they had asked a favor of her. Except for Rosa Augustino, the Lubang’s next door neighbor, the others shunned her, trying to believe she really was a leper. The scars on her face and arms were convincing enough. They didn’t realize they were cigarette burns given to her five months previously by the demonic Lieutenant Kiyoshi Tuga of the Kempetai. Some were still bright red, running with pus. Beyond that, most held Carmen’s belief that none of this would have happened had Helen and her guerrilleros not intruded last week. Even today, none were certain they would return home safely. For all knew the Japanese were very poor at keeping their word.

  Helen walked to the table and opened the envelope. There was just a single page in Japanese, English and Tagalog. A Japanese signature was scrawled at the bottom.

  Helen read it and almost smiled. Typical of the little bastards. She looked over to Rosa Augustino. “Tell them it’s a voucher.”

  Rosa translated then looked back to Helen, her face as clouded a the others.

  “This voucher promises to pay five hundred pesos.”

  Rosa spoke again. A few smiled.

  Someone knocked. A Japanese guard poked his head in, held up five fingers then shut the door.

  They looked back to Helen.

  “They will pay in Japanese pesos, to be claimed at Imperial Army Headquarters in Manila.”

  Rosa translated.

  “Sheeeyatt,” spat Carman.

  The others groaned and turned to their bunks for their meager ablutions.

  Carmen walked among them, as she did each morning, doling out the work assignments. She spoke to Rosa who translated for Helen. “Main deck, again, honey. Bathrooms. Carmen says make sure you restock the paper this time.” Carmen had stolen the two toilet paper rolls from two days ago and stowed them in her backpack. The Japanese had refused to give them their evening meal.

  Helen nodded and turned. She’d done the main deck latrines, three plus a small one in the torpedo shop, day before yesterday. Oh God, just one more day. She pitched the veil over her head. Something thumped against her breast. Todd’s ring.

  Breakfast was a clear soup, a piece of dry toast, a ball of rice and tea. As meager as it was, it revived Helen and she didn’t feel as hungry as before.

  By seven A.M., she had drawn mop, bucket and, with a guard in tow, walked behind Carmen to the front of the boat. Following Carmen had its advantages, Helen learned. Carman was so wide, sailors pressed their backs to the walls and let her by, letting Helen pass unmolested. For the past six days, Carmen had walked the decks of Service Barge 212 as if she were the queen of a Mississippi Riverboat. In her wake was her squire, Helen, and a Japanese guard, a corporal carrying a dusty rifle, impatient to find a place to where he could sit and nod off to sleep.

  Carmen stopped at a door. The Bakelite label on the jamb read, ‘C-102 HEAD.’ She ripped it open and stepped in. Several shouts rang at her and she quickly backed out. “Damn lazy Hapon supposed to be at work.”

  Nice. Helen leaned against the rail. She too had learned to sleep standing up, and like the corporal, nodded off.

  Someone shouted and there was a loud chuffing noise. A splash quickly followed. Helen heard men muttering, then another shout and a second splash.

  The door to the latrine opened and a Japanese sailor walked out, giving her a cold stare. Carmen held up two fingers and leaned against the wall with a beefy shoulder. Aft of them, the guard’s head was on his chest.

  Curious, Helen edged forward about four feet and peeked around the deckhouse. Ten sailors were gathered at the front of the boat by what looked to Helen, a torpedo mount. Three men sat on metal stools fixed to the mount while the others stood aside, looking out to sea, binoculars pressed to their faces.

  An officer shouted. The mount went ‘CHUFF.’ Amazing! With propellers spinning, a torpedo erupted from the tube as if kicked out by a demonic monster. Airborne for two seconds, the torpedo plopped in the water and raced out the harbor, trailing a bubbly wake.

  Carmen screeched. Helen grabbed her mop and bucket and ran into the latrine.

  By four o’clock the temperature was in the low nineties and the near one-hundred percent humidity made it miserable. Helen was on hands and knees, finishing the latrine near the torpedo shop. She was soaked with sweat and occasionally grew dizzy as she bent low to push the scrub brush.

  Rosa walked in. “The Hapons are letting us off two hours early. Here, let me.” She grabbed another brush, dropped to her hands and knees. “The rest are on their way to the truck.”

  “Thank God,” Helen gasped. She’d been thinking about what to say to Don Amador. Except for the torpedo firings and the decrepit old ship in the floating dry dock, she’d seen nothing of interest to relay. “Where do you think they’ll go next?”

  Rosa whispered, “Carmen told me the Hapons hit Vitos, next time. Then Esperanza and Maugahay. Then it’s back to Amparo.”

  Just then, Carmen blasted through the door the way a fullback attacks a broken field: arm outstretched, elbow locked. “What’s taking you? Damn lazy. Everybody else ready. Come on!”

  Helen and Rosa scrubbed furiously as Carmen stood over them, hands on her hips. After a minute, Carmen said, “if you don’t--”

  A shout. Something crashed in the torpedo shop. There was a loud, sickening bump and someone screamed--terribly--a loud, ululating cry of surprise and denial and pain. Helen rushed into the small cramped space. Two men had been disassembling a torpedo. Somehow, the front end, the warhead had fallen off the workbench onto a Sailor's leg, catching him as he faced the other way. The man was pinned, and spasmed horribly, trying to jerk his leg out. The other sailor stood next to him, immobile, his face white.

  Helen rushed in and grabbed the injured sailor’s head as he fell forward on his face and lost consciousness. He was a thin, young man with acne, she noted, as she lowered him gently to the floor. He jerked involuntarily and bit though his lip. Blood ran from his mouth and he snapped at the air. She grabbed a piece of cardboard and jammed it between his teeth. The man wiggled and Helen held his head trying to figure out what to do.

  Men rushed in shouting. Helen stroked the sailor’s forehead as the others hooked a chain falls onto the warhead and frantically began whipping chain through the blocks. After an eternity, the warhead rose. Someone jerked the sailor’s leg free.

  The victim’s eyes blinked wide open. He screamed again. Helen hadn’t heard such a loud shriek in months. Not since in Corregidor’s Malinta Hospital Tunnel where they had run out of anesthetic for amputations. The man screamed on and on, his vocal chords ripping her ears, as Helen held desperately to his hands.

  Mercifully, he lost consciousness again just two officers pushed through the crowd. One she recognized as the ship’s captain who kneeled close to her and shouted, “Takarabe!”

  The other officer had red collar tags on his tunic and opened a medical kit and reached in. A doctor.

  Something nudged her arm. The captain had taken off his tunic and shoved it at her, his face within a foot of hers. All the man had to do was to look up and discover her occidental eyes. At this distance the veil was useless. Holding her head low, she took the dark blue tunic and shoved it gently under the sailor’s head.

  Get out! Helen quickly rose
to her feet. They closed in, pressing her toward the bench. Across the room, Carmen, jumped up and down, waving, ‘Go, you bitch,’ she mouthed, almost as if this accident was also Helen’s fault. Behind her, Rosa waited, her face drawn with fatigue and hunger, and oddly, the same sympathy Helen felt for the young enemy sailor who squirmed on the floor.

  The men crowded her against the bench, and she still couldn’t move. Everyone talked at once as the doctor worked on the man’s leg. A stretcher was handed in and again Carmen caught Helen’s eye. She tapped her wrist and her lips moved. Every other word was bitch.

  “Bitch you, too,” Helen shouted at her, shaking her fist.

  Rosa’s face turned white. Carmen’s mouth fell open.

  Then it hit Helen what she had done. She covered her mouth, her eyes darting among the Japanese before her. But they were involved with their injured comrade and didn’t seem to notice. Rosa ran out the door, while Carmen stood across the room, her fists planted on her hips.

  Wait it out. Helen boost herself on the workbench and sat back, relieved to be away from the center of twenty or so sweating, shoving men. The crowd grew larger, pushed her down the bench into a corner. She looked around. The torpedo shop was crammed with machinery, open parts bins, and disassembled components. Mounted on heavy racks on the adjoining wall were two torpedoes. The labels were right beside her head: The lower torpedo had a sleek body and a yellow warhead. The label was in English:

  Torpedo, Surface Launched Mark 15

  Winslow River Manufacturing Company, 1939.

  Above that was a much bigger torpedo. She had to lean out to take it all in. Yes, it was much longer and wider, she decided, the entire body and warhead was a menacing, deep copper color. The warhead lifting lug in the nose was shaped differently from the American torpedo beneath it. The Bakelite label beside the upper one was in Japanese. She recognized two Arabic digits on the top line: 93.

  The yelling subsided somewhat as she leaned back, trying to brace a hand behind her. Something was in her way and she looked down seeing books, manuals, and technical papers scattered about. Many were in English. One lay open beside her. It was stamped TOP SECRET on the top and bottom of both pages. In the upper left hand corner was a legend: BUORD INST. 93-715670-T15. The facing page had several pictures of torpedoes while the other page displayed a large schematic drawing. The caption above the page read, ‘Torpedo Mark 15, depth engine maintenance.’