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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  On a shelf near her head was another manual, an all blue one. In Japanese, it had a picture of a torpedo on the cover, like the one she’d seen in the captain’s cabin. She recognized the bold Arabic numbers: 93. It must be the same torpedo, she decided, and checked the lifting lug on the big torpedo next to her. Yes. The same.

  Her gaze returned to the open American technical manual on the bench. It seemed as un-remarkable as a medical manual on performing appendectomies. But what caught her eye were the Japanese characters in the margins. Lots of them. And many numbers and calculations.

  My God! The page with the schematics and hand-written calculations was loose! Blood rushed to her head as she looked up at the Japanese. They were still gathered around the injured man, hands on their knees, muttering, jostling to get a better look.

  DO IT! A quick prayer and she snatched the page, shoving it down her blouse. Did anyone see? She looked around. No. No one, except...the captain? No.

  Carmen screeched from across the room, pointing to a break in the crowd. Thankfully, the Japanese’ attention was still directed at the injured man. Helen pushed off the bench and ran for the door.

  Six hours later, she walked down dusty Agusan Valley Road with Don Pablo Amador, Wong Lee, and Emilio Legaspi, hoping to reach Buenavista by sunrise. Legaspi walked thirty yards ahead, Wong Lee ten yards behind

  “Are you sure you don’t want to stop?” asked Amador.

  “No.”

  “You must be very tired. Why don’t you let us make camp?”

  “No.” Helen shivered. She was amazed as everyone else that she’d walked from the hands of the Japanese unscathed. “I just want to get as far from Amparo as possible.”

  “You’ll sleep tomorrow.”

  “Maybe.”

  Amador nodded and they walked for a while.

  “Pablo?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “I’m thirsty.”

  “Again?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t wonder. Here.” Amador gave a short whistle that sounded like a monkey screech. They stepped off the road and walked into the bush for twenty yards, stepping behind a large Narra Tree.

  It was so dark Helen could hardly see the canteen Amador handed over. She took it and gulped and gulped.

  Wong Lee walked up. “Time for a butt?”

  “No,” said Amador.

  Helen wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and gasped, “You know, those torpedoes could mean something.”

  “What torpedoes?”

  She told Amador about what she’d seen in the torpedo shop earlier that day. “Here. I took this page.” She handed it to Amador.

  Amador folded it and stuck it in his pocket. “Have to wait for daylight. But,” he pat her shoulder, “you were very brave.”

  “Scared, I’ll tell you.” She sat and leaned against the tree.

  “I think we should tell Otis about this,” said Amador.

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “You ready... Helen? Helen?” Amador stooped to within inches of her face finding her eyes closed, her breathing steady.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Wong Lee.

  “Tired lady.” Amador unrolled his banig, a woven sleeping mat, then gently lifted Helen onto it. She moaned once, curled fetal, and was gone.

  “What about Buenavista?”

  Amador nodded toward Helen. “I think you can have that cigarette now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  24 September, 1942

  Terminal Building,

  Alameda Naval Air Station

  Alameda, California

  Takeoff was scheduled at three a.m., but with generator problems the plane was still glued to the tarmac at five a.m.. Cursing mechanics stood under her number two engine as a thick fog swirled about, the visibility no more than twenty feet.

  To keep Sutherland out of spitting distance, a harassed duty officer had sequestered the General and Otis DeWitt in Admiral Billings’ second floor office where the two grunted at one another. Sutherland lay on Billings’ couch, his shoes off, reading a logistics report for the third time. DeWitt was slouched in an arm chair, scanning a month-old issue of Life Magazine. It had a picture of General MacArthur’s son on the cover, the little four-year-old’s face, grave and forlorn.

  “You sure our gear is aboard, Otis?” Sutherland, looked over his report with red-rimmed eyes. It was the third time he'd asked in the last hour.

  “Yessir,” drawled DeWitt.

  A moment passed. “You sure you don’t need any ice for that thing?” For the past day and a half, Sutherland had been having fun, proudly showing off DeWitt’s black eye to all who passed close by.

  DeWitt patted his shirt pocket, tempted to put on his dark glasses. “No thank you, Sir.”

  With another grunt, Sutherland returned to his report and turned pages aimlessly. As he did, DeWitt mulled over what Dezhnev had told him two nights ago. And Colonel Willoughby, MacArthur’s Intelligence Chief in the Brisbane Command Center had forwarded Amador’s message this morning. It confirmed what Dezhnev had said. Something about a Japanese torpedo with a secret label of Type 93. It seemed so far-fetched, he had put off telling Sutherland. Also, with all the last minute arrangements for their return to Australia, DeWitt hadn't had any time alone with Sutherland until now. But the problem with telling him right now was that at five in the morning, without any sleep, Sutherland was as irritable as a rattlesnake in a shoe box.

  Better do it. “Uh, General?”

  Sutherland looked over the top of his report.

  “That Russian told me something the other night that I think you should know.”

  “Is this before or after they sent in Ivan the Terrible to keep you from wrecking all of San Francisco?”

  DeWitt shook his head. “Nothing that simple, I'm afraid. I think it has to do with national security.”

  Sutherland laid his report on his belly and propped his hands behind his head.

  “It was after the fight. We were inside the Consulate. Ed poured schnapps and--”

  “Who?”

  “Lieutenant Dezhnev, the Russian Naval Attaché.”

  Sutherland nodded.

  “It seems the Soviets inserted some spies into Tokyo about six or seven years ago. Dr. Richard Sorge and Dr. Dieter Birkenfeld were their names.”

  Sutherland sat up and rubbed his scalp. “Sorge. Sorge. Have I heard of him?”

  “Not sure, Sir. I just heard about him two nights ago.”

  Sutherland nodded.

  “Dezhnev says Sorge and Birkenfeld set up a network in Tokyo that ran for five or six years. They penetrated into the highest circles.” DeWitt leaned forward in his chair. “Posing as German citizens, they worked right out of the German Embassy as newspaper correspondents. They had air-tight credentials from here to Timbuktu.

  “But they got careless. Especially Sorge. Apparently he was a drunk and a womanizer. He bedded everyone, even the German Ambassador’s wife. And that finally sunk their game. People talked and their whole gang was captured about a year ago.”

  “Go on.”

  “Here's the scoop, General. Birkenfeld confessed and the Japs executed him. They’ve kept Sorge alive as a bargaining chip. But Dezhnev told me that Sorge and Birkenfeld dug up the damndest things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Sorge predicted Hitler's invasion of Russia within a period of two days. And that was three months before the attack.”

  “Oh, come on Otis. You mean to say Stalin just sat there and didn’t do anything?”

  “He didn't believe him. But with the attack on Russia as predicted, Sorge and Birkenfeld’s credibility went way up. Until they were captured last October, Moscow relied on everything Sorge and Birkenfeld unearthed. A major coup for them was discovering through Prince Konoye that Japan’s Imperial war plans contemplated no thrust to the West into Soviet Siberia. Konoye told them that Japan’s intentions were primarily to the South through Indo-Chin
a and the Dutch East Indies and into Burma and India where they planned to hook up with Hitler in Arabia somewhere. Without the threat of a Japanese Axis attack from the East, Stalin was able to pull 120 divisions from Manchuria and stop the Nazis at Moscow's doorstep last December.”

  An airplane engine coughed into life just outside the window breaking the silence. The General ran a palm over his head and blinked. “That it?”

  “Well, a couple of other things. He said Sorge and Birkenfeld learned the Japs have the world's best torpedo.”

  Sutherland lay back and waved a hand, “Oh, bullshit, Otis. The only things the Japs have are what they copy from us. And it's all piss-poor quality at that.”

  DeWitt persisted. “They call it the Type 93. It has a range of twelve miles at forty-eight knots.”

  “Sounds like those sailors scrambled your brains, Otis.” Sutherland picked up his report and began reading.

  “Well, Pablo Amador in Nasipit confirms it. Clams one of his people saw a Type 93 close up.”

  “Oh hell, Otis. Those hillbillies are so undernourished, they wouldn’t know a torpedo from a test tube.”

  Sutherland was in no mood for triviality so DeWitt decided against telling him that Helen was the one who reported the Japanese torpedo, not that it would have mattered. He tried a different tack. “There's something else.”

  Sutherland grunted.

  “Ed--Lieutenant Dezhnev says Birkenfeld learned of Tokyo's plans to hit Pearl Harbor well over a year ago.”

  Sutherland sat up again, his eyes latching onto DeWitt.

  He’s angry, thought DeWitt. “This was after the German Invasion of the Soviet Union, so Stalin knows Sorge and Birkenfeld aren't making this up.”

  Sutherland's voice grew to a staccato. “Let me get this right. Stalin knew of the Jap’s plans to bomb Pearl Harbor?”

  “Over a year ago, General. August, 1941.”

  “And?”

  Here goes. “And Stalin told Roosevelt. Right away. He--”

  Sutherland jumped to his feet. “Goddamnit! You're telling me that over 3,000 of our boys died in a sneak attack that our Commander-In-Chief knew of well before-hand?”

  “At least four months, Sir. They--”

  “That he let them die, needlessly?”

  “Well, except FDR didn’t realize the attack would be so serious. That the Japanese--”

  “Commie bullshit!” Sutherland slammed his fist on Billing's desk. Pencils jumped. A silver frame containing an eight by ten photo of Mrs. Billings toppled over.

  DeWitt felt his bile rising. Why was Sutherland so defensive? He couldn't understand. “I thought General MacArthur would want to know, Sir. With his plans to run for President next--”

  “Colonel DeWitt!” Sutherland roared.

  “Yessir.”

  “This is a Commie crock. Torpedoes, spies, Pearl Harbor. It's just horseshit. Disinformation. Time and again, people keep blaming the president for Pearl Harbor. Now it’s the pinkos. Believe me. We’ve looked into it. There is nothing there and,” Sutherland sliced a hand away from his body, “you are to ignore it.”

  For some reason, a smirk broke on DeWitt's face. “Yessir. But if--”

  Sutherland’s voice resonated, “I order you, Colonel, to ignore it. It's Commie disinformation. You are not to repeat this to anyone. Do you understand?” Sutherland stepped close to DeWitt, his hands on his hips.

  DeWitt looked up to him. Disinformation. He barely knew the word. “Sir. As your aide for intelligence, I'm merely reporting to you--”

  “Disinformation, Colonel. And if you persist, against my direct order, there will be serious consequences. Is that understood?”

  As a youngster, DeWitt had spent many cold, bone-chilling nights chasing cattle on his father's ranch east of El Paso. But no nighttime air had ever penetrated him so thoroughly as what General Sutherland just said. His brow became moist and he took a deep breath trying to decide if it was rage or fright that he felt. Also, something nagged at the back of his mind that Sutherland knew more than he let on. His reaction, although typical, was a bit too outraged.

  Let it slide. DeWitt rose to his feet. His voice choked with, “Yessir. I'm sorry, Sir. I was only trying to help.”

  Sutherland studied him for moment, then, to DeWitt's surprise, held out his hand.

  They shook.

  Sutherland returned to his couch, lay down and picked up his report.

  Someone rapped outside, their heads jerked up.

  “Come.” DeWitt barked.

  A flight sergeant poked in his head, wearing fleece-lined flight gear. “Ready when you are, Gentlemen,” the sergeant reported.

  “What was it?” demanded Sutherland.

  “Generator, Sir. Took a long time to pry the Navy guys out of the sack and dig up a new one.”

  “Typical.” Sutherland snorted.

  “Yessir.” The Sergeant backed into the hall.

  Once again Sutherland gave DeWitt a look that said, you sure all our gear is aboard?

  DeWitt nodded automatically, held the door wide for Sutherland, then followed him down the hall, carrying his briefcase. The sergeant walked a pace behind and said in low tones, “Hope you don't mind Colonel, but the Navy manifested three officers to ride out to Honolulu with us.” When DeWitt glanced back, the Sergeant shrugged as if to say, I can’t help it. This base belongs to these Navy jerks. Sutherland had chosen to fly out of the Alameda Naval Air station, since it was right across the bay from San Francisco.

  One way or the other, Sutherland would make the decision. If the General blew his stack, then that would be it, the Navy guys would be SOL. After all, as MacArthur's representative, it was MacArthur’s plane now, and Sutherland was determined to ride it in glory to Australia, where he would deliver it to his Commander-in-Chief.

  DeWitt caught up to Sutherland. “General, is it okay if three navy officers ride with us to Honolulu?”

  “Just three?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “I don’t mind hauling them to Pearl, but that’s it.”

  “Yessir.” DeWitt nodded to the Sergeant who stepped ahead to get things going.

  The lounge was dark and smelled of stale cigars and decayed leather. Sutherland quickly walked through, shoved the door open and strode into the mist. DeWitt hung back and scanned the shadows, finding the three Navy officers. Apparently the Sergeant had awakened two of them; both were airedale commanders who stood and stretched. They stooped to pick up their bags and walked out. The sergeant stood over the third who dozed in an armchair, his head braced on his fist. He looked familiar.

  DeWitt walked up and nudged him. “Todd?”

  Ingram looked up. “Huh? My God. Otis.” He stood and rubbed his eyes.

  “Looks like you're going with us. What happened?” The last DeWitt knew, Ingram was supposed to have flown out yesterday.

  “Engine trouble. Two hours out and we turned around. You should have seen-- Good God, Otis, what happened to you?” Ingram ran a thumb across DeWitt’s cheek.

  “Tripped over a bar stool. Let’s go.”

  “Some bar stool. Look at that shiner. What's the other guy look like, Otis?” As Ingram leaned over to pick up his B-4 bag, something fell from his pocket and clanked on the floor.

  DeWitt leaned over and picked it up. It was a little brown medicine bottle and he examined the label. Belladonna. He handed it back to Ingram and cocked an eyebrow.

  “Had a sour hamburger the other night. Food poisoning. Stomach's still acting up.”

  DeWitt mulled that over for a moment. “Ollie?”

  “As far as I know, he got out all right. They put us on different planes.”

  With a grunt, DeWitt walked out the door with Ingram in tow, lugging his bag.

  The air outside was thick and moist and still. Except for a few lights, the terminal was pitch black. After a few steps, the airplane materialized. Ingram recognized it as a four engine bomber from the Boeing Airplane Company.

  W
ith Sutherland already aboard, they waited while the Navy Commanders scrambled in. DeWitt was next, then it was Ingram’s turn. But he lingered, as number one engine cranked and fired. Working his shoes at the pavement, he realized this would be his last contact with his homeland.

  DeWitt leaned out and beckoned. “Okay, Todd.”

  Number two engine coughed into life. Then number three began turning; the inboard engine on the right wing which was directly in front of him. He was startled when it caught and revved for a moment, it's fuel-rich exhaust belching flame and smoke under the wing, engulfing and whipping at his clothes before it dissipated into the pre-dawn. Number four began turning and the flight sergeant poked his head out and beckoned vigorously, grimacing as he held the door against number three’s prop blast.

  Go!

  Number four caught as Ingram climbed up the ladder, the added prop blast pushing the door even harder. The Sergeant let him ease past then let the door slam shut and, pointed into the cabin. “Take any chair, Sir. And buckle up, please.” The Sergeant latched the door and disappeared forward.

  Ingram was in a Spartan, but comfortable, executive lounge with a small galley arranged against the forward bulkhead, which was decorated with a large picture of Douglas MacArthur, sporting dark glasses, hat with fifty mission crush, and corn-cob pipe. A chemical toilet with modesty curtain was situated aft. Sutherland was already asleep on a couch, his back to them, shoes kicked off and laying askew on the deck. Ingram sat in an armchair next to DeWitt and fastened his belt as the pilot revved the B-17's engines. The plane began rolling.

  Ingram looked out a large window which once was used for the waist gun, he supposed. “Traveling in style, Otis.”

  DeWitt stared into space. He seemed pre-occupied.