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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “We have no reports of that.”

  “They were going to air-ship him Stateside, Sir. To have his hip fixed by a specialist. He’s probably gone by now.”

  “I see. How can he be so sure?”

  “Well, Sir. I know Toliver. We were together at Corregidor. He was my gunboss on the Pelican, a minesweeper, and is well-qualified to tell what hit him. He said a torpedo smacked them so hard it lifted the ship out of the water and threw in the air, tossing him down onto the pilothouse.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Ghormley gave a thin smile.

  “One more thing, Sir.”

  “Yes.”

  “I think I’ve seen one of the damned things. They’re far bigger than anything we’ve got.”.

  “What the hell?” said Jessup and Ghormley at the same time.

  “Just a few days ago. From a sunken Jap destroyer in Tulagi. Torpedoes all over the bottom. Big bastards. Far bigger than ours.”

  From the corner of his eye, Ingram noticed DeWitt and Sutherland were both focused on him. Intensely.

  “Jap torpedo’s aren’t worth a damn, Lieutenant,” countered Jessup.

  Landa stood. “I concur with Lieutenant Ingram, Sir.” From the corner of his mouth, he whispered, “Todd, this guy’s dangerous; he’s fifth generation Navy.’

  “The hell with him,” Ingram shot back, through gritted teeth. He turned to Jessup. “I’d say our torpedoes are the ones that aren’t worth anything, Captain. We launched a salvo of five mark fifteen torpedoes into that Jap cruiser at point blank range. Not one went off.”

  Jessup sighed. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to see your maintenance records.”

  Myszynski shot to his feet. “Over my dead body.”

  Another destroyer skipper stood. “I had duds, too.”

  Then another, “Me, too.”

  Doing his best to wave down the clamor, Jessup said, “Gentlemen. I assure you. The Winslow River Corporation has verified that...”

  The men started shouting. Jessup stood and pounded his fist for quiet. They still shouted, ignoring him.

  “Quiet! All of you!” It was Ghormley, his voice an ear-splitting resonance. He leaned toward Jessup. “Captain, may I suggest a fifteen-minute coffee break?”

  “Yes, Sir. Re-convene in fifteen minutes, Gentlemen.” Jessup got up and left quickly. Ghormley followed, his flag lieutenant handing him papers as he went. As Ghormley passed, a large report fell from under his right arm and plopped at Ingram’s feet.

  Ingram bent to pick it up. TOP SECRET was stamped in red all four corners and he couldn’t help but notice the title, ‘Joint Evacuation Plan For Guadalcanal.’ He handed it to Ghormley who mumbled a distant, “Thank you, son,” and kept walking, his Flag Lieutenant close behind, glaring at Ingram.

  For the second time that morning, dark splotches grew under Landa’s eyes. He’d seen the report, too. Quickly standing, he muttered in a cold rage, “Jesus! Can you believe these gold-bricking sonsabitches? We lay it on the line and these cry-babies are ready to give up.” Shaking his head, Landa stood and nodded to a coffee service in the far corner. “Let’s go hit the slop chute.” He walked off.

  Ingram went to follow, but something stopped him. He turned to see General Sutherland staring. And Otis DeWitt beckoned with a hand.

  Ingram furrowed his brow, what do you want?

  Sutherland stood, DeWitt just behind, walking for the doors and motioning for Ingram to follow.

  The two Army officers stood in the shade of a companionway. Sutherland ran a highly polished toe over the Argonne’s hot deck. “This is getting Interesting, Otis.”

  “Sir?”

  “This torpedo business--ah, here he is.”

  Ingram walked up and Sutherland shook his hand warmly. “How are you Lieutenant? I haven’t seen you since...since...”

  “San Francisco, General.”

  “Damn, that’s right! You’re the Navy Cross guy. Rita Hayworth gave you a big smackeroo right on the mouth.”

  Ingram rubbed his chin. “Haven’t washed since, General.”

  DeWitt piped up. “She kissed me, too.”

  “That’s right.” Jabbing a thumb at DeWitt, Sutherland made an aside to Ingram. “You know what, Lieutenant? Otis hasn’t washed either and he smells like it.”

  They smiled for a moment then DeWitt said, “Todd, could you repeat for the General what you saw up there in Tulagi?”

  Ingram repeated his story about the torpedoes at the bottom of Tulagi Harbor. While Sutherland mulled this Landa stuck his head out from the passageway. “They’re getting ready to fire up the griddle, gentlemen.”

  Sutherland said. “Thank you, Commander. We’ll be along in a moment.” Sutherland extended a hand to Ingram. “And thanks to you, Lieutenant, for the recap. I hope to see you again, soon.” He waved at Ingram as if he were King Herod dismissing an exhausted messenger.

  Watching Ingram walk away, DeWitt patiently waited for Sutherland to speak.

  “Otis?”

  “Yes Sir?”

  “I think I owe you an apology.”

  “I don’t understand, Sir.” Yes, I do, damnit.

  “This torpedo business. It tends to validate what the Commie...what’s his name?”

  “Lieutenant Dezhnev.”

  “Yeah. What Dezhnev told you that night in ‘Frisco. So maybe it is true about what Dezhnev is saying about FDR. My God, think of it. Think of what General MacArthur could say in the 1944 election campaign--that FDR knew about Pearl Harbor well in advance and got us sucked into this war. They’d roast him alive. Damn! We’d be a shoe-in.” He snapped his fingers.

  Sutherland had never been so candid about MacArthur’s political plans. All DeWitt knew were the rumors. “He’s really going to run, then?”

  “Damn right.” Sutherland pat DeWitt on the shoulder. “Look, Otis, go up to the radio room and give Willoughby the following instructions.” Colonel Charles Willoughby was MacArthur's German-born intelligence chief in Australia. “Tell him to get some people into Tulagi and salvage a couple of those torpedoes and see what we have here. And tell him to get the Navy involved. It’s really their show, you know.”

  DeWitt pulled out his pad and scribbled. “Yes, Sir. Shall we info Admiral Ghormley?”

  Sutherland scratched his head, “Yeah. Next, I need more stuff off that Jap barge. Have Willoughby ask Amador in his next message to get whoever it was...?”

  “Lieutenant Durand.”

  “The nurse?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  Sutherland looked up to the taller DeWitt. “I want Lieutenant Durand to try again for anything on that Type 93. If she can’t do it, fine. The page she has now with the notes sounds very helpful. But if she can get some more Jap torpedo stuff, so much the better.”

  “Got it.”

  “And then tell Don Pablo we’re pulling her out of there by submarine by let’s see, October twenty-fourth. That should give her enough time. I’m anxious for her personal commentary.”

  What? “How can we do that, Sir?”

  Sutherland laughed, “Otis. You haven’t been on my staff long enough.” He turned and walked toward the wardroom.

  I don’t understand any of this. DeWitt stopped at the companionway leading to the radioroom on the third deck.

  Sutherland stopped at the wardroom door, his voice echoing in the passageway. “Douglas MacArthur owns this part of the world, Otis. That’s how we get a submarine in there.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  17 October, 1942

  Buenavista, Mindanao

  Philippines

  TO: DPA

  FM: GMD

  1. REQUIRE MORE DATA TYPE 93 ASAP.

  2. SAME ON MK 15 IF POSSIBLE

  3. ALSO, SEEK DATA: MK. 14 OR MK. 13 TORPEDO IF POSSIBLE.

  4. IMPERATIVE EXTRACT HZD+DPA WHETHER DATA ABOVE (1)(2) (3) OBTAINED OR NOT. ORIGINAL MK 15 SINGLE PAGE DATA REQUIRED URGENTLY.

  5. RENDEZVOUS SUBMARINE NEEDLEFISH ONE MILE SOUT
H CABADBARAN 10240200.

  6. SIGNAL PDT. COUNTER ZDQ.

  Amador re-read the radio message. “Helen, do you realize what this means?”

  Helen sat back, astounded. “I think so.”

  Wong Lee sat at his generator, sweat pouring off his face, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. “We really going home?”

  Helen nodded slowly. “Home.”

  “Should I put the stuff away, or do you have a reply?” Wong Lee’s voice was a whisper.

  Amador shook his head. “Stow the gear, Wong.” He turned to Helen. “They must be desperate. It sounds like you lit a powder keg.”

  Helen bit her lip. “They want me to go back to...cleaning toilets.”

  Amador growled. “Those generals and staff lackeys in Australia eat steak and play golf every afternoon. They have no idea what you had to do to get one piece of paper. If they did, they would be sending you a medal instead of--” he slapped the message with the back of his hand.

  Using a sturdy line, Wong Lee began easing the transmitter into the pit. “You don’t have to go back there. Tell ‘em to stick it. All we have to do is make that submarine rendezvous the night of the 24th. California here I come! Wheeou.” He shot a fist in the air--”ahhh.” The line burned through his other hand and the transmitter fell free for three feet and crashed atop of a crate of Springfield rifles.

  “Wong!” Helen grabbed his right hand finding two blisters across his palm. “Let me get some--”

  “Hold on.” Wong Lee scurried into the pit. “Gimme a light.”

  Helen handed one to him.

  “Well” Amador stepped over to peer down with her.

  Wong looked up. “Shit. Couple of tubes busted.”

  “We have replacements?” asked Helen.

  “I think so. You want me to bring it up so we can test it?”

  Amador turned to see Legaspi walk through the door, the copper antenna wire coiled over his shoulder. “Plug in the tubes. We’ll test it next time. I want to clear out soon just in case Buenavista is on the Hapon’s schedule.”

  “...okay. Sorry.”

  While Wong Lee worked Helen asked Amador, “what if it’s broken?

  Amador rubbed his chin. “We’re fortunate in that I don’t think it matters at this point. We meet the submarine in seven days and we’ll be out of here. If not, we’ll have to steal something.”

  She as listened Wong Lee grumbled at the bottom of the pit. “It sounds like they really need that book.”

  Amador pat her arm. “I don’t think Otis gave it any thought.”

  She stood and stared out the window. The early hours--it was one thirty in the morning--were her favorite time in Buenavista, especially when the moon was out. Little waves lapped at the beach and it was almost serene. “Maybe.”

  Amador knew what she was thinking. “No.”

  “Don Pablo, the Kempetai next strikes where?”

  “I said ‘no!’“

  “Pablo. We at least have to talk about it.”

  “NO!” he roared. “I won’t let you go back aboard that barge. What if you’re captured again? They’ll torture you. You don’t want that. We hear your nightmares.”

  “But--”

  Amador waved her off. “All right. Look at it this way. They can make anybody talk. They will make you talk. They could make you tell about...about, “ he swept an arm around the bungalow, “all this. Anything. Anybody.”

  “Pablo. That’s going to happen if anyone of us is captured. It a risk we take.”

  “I don’t care, damnit. I’m not throwing you to the Japs because of some stupid whim from Otis DeWitt.”

  Wong Lee crawled out of the pit, replaced the trap and swept dirt over it. Then he sat back, lit a cigarette and puffed mightily. “Here’s my advice, honey. That message is your ticket to freedom. Take it. The sub surfaces off Cabadbaran in a week. There’s no reason you should jeopardize that. You’ve done enough fighting for ten people. That’s it. Adios. Amen. Let’s hide up in the hills, then catch that sub.”

  “For once I agree with you, Wong,” Amador said.

  “Here’s what we can do,” said Helen opening a small bag and pulling out a tube of burn salve. “What if--”

  “I said ‘no!’“ Amador shouted.

  “Shut up!” She took a step toward him, her fists balled.

  They stood speechless. Amador said, “Dear, dear Helen. It’s...we don’t want anything to...happen...”

  “I don’t like it either, Pablo. But I think there’s a way. And we have to try. It must be important. Otherwise Otis wouldn’t have asked.”

  Amador walked over and hugged Helen. “I won’t let them do this to you. “He looked down at her with moist eyes. “Wong Lee is right . We’ll hide for seven days and wait for the submarine.”

  “There’s a way.”

  “Please. Don’t make me.”

  “Just tell me where the next Kempetai strike will be.”

  “Maugahay.” Even as he said it, Amador felt as if he’d issued her death sentence. He held her tighter. “But you’re not going to Maugahay. By this time tomorrow, we’re going to be up in the mountains. I know a little place where the water runs clear and there are no leeches. There are deep pools were you can swim and rocks were you wash your cloths and dry them in the sun. Pineapples grow wild and you can...”

  Maugahay was a little village ten miles east of Buenavista. It was a Saturday night and by ten o’clock, the ancient power system had decided it had done enough work for the day and tripped out by itself. It was quiet, and no lights shined save the glow of a few candles in neap huts here and there. One of those lighted windows was Madero’s Cantina, a local joint that had prospered from the inter-island trade. With a thirty foot bar, ten tables, and four bedrooms upstairs for the puts, the whores, Rafael Madero had everything a retired copper miner could want. Then the war came. Now, his business was just a trickle of poor, local customers. To them, he could only offer tuba, a home brewed coconut beer, and a basi, sugar cane wine, if he had time to make it.

  Felipe Estaque, one of Amador’s guerrilleros sat with Don Pablo and Helen at a corner table. Emilio Legaspi and Wong Lee stood guard at either the edge of the village.

  Felipe, an ex-Scout for the Philippine Army, wore his light-blue denim uniform blouse in defiance of a Japanese edict. He was an inch taller than Helen and had attended Santo Tomas University for two years where he had studied economics, just like Don Pablo Amador. Also, he spoke most of the Islands’ popular tongues along with English. Working loosely under Amador, Estaque had his own band of guerrilleros in this section of the province. He wore a sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeves, carried a .45 in a holster, and an immaculately clean Thompson sub-machine gun was slung over his shoulder. Estaque waited until Rafael walked away, then sipped his tuba. His eyes flashed at Amador’s question. “Yes. The Hapons dropped Carman Lai right here, late this afternoon.”

  “Why not just bring her in for the raid?”

  “Looks like they’re trying to improve their game. They want her to study the place beforehand. Point out the best conscripts.”

  Amador scratched his white hair. “You would think people would figure this out and melt into the countryside.”

  Estaque shrugged.

  “Do you know her?” Helen asked.

  “By reputation, mostly. Her family, too.”

  “How can we get her to do what we want?” asked Helen.

  “There’s just one rule about Carmen.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Carmen Lai Lai is only for Carmen Lai Lai. When she started working for the Japs, the people of Amparo burned her little shop where she worked as a seamstress. Now they won’t let her return. So she works now for the highest bidder: The Hapons.”

  Amador asked, “Where does she live, now?”

  “Amparo.”

  “But I thought you said...”

  “She fingered the mayor of Amparo. The Japs came in and took off his head. Now she lives wh
ere she chooses: Amparo.”

  “For the time being,” said Helen.

  Carmen was lodged in a single room common hut on the outskirts. It was not yet moonrise as Legaspi crept in. Estaque followed, trailed by a nervous Wong Lee.

  Outside, Helen squinted at the hut, imagining a squad of Japanese soldiers was creeping right at her. “Maybe she heard us coming and got out.”

  Amador pat her arm. “Patience. Felipe is usually--”

  A shot rang out. There was a high-pitched scream. Wong Lee charged out and dashed passed Helen and Amador into a coconut grove, bushes rattling as he went. “Hold on,” said Amador, unholstering his revolver.

  A few moments passed, then a figure stepped out and waved.

  “It’s Felipe.” Amador put away his pistol and walked to the hut. With a glance at the coconut grove, Helen followed.

  At the door, Estaque held up his hand. Blood!

  “What happened?” gasped Amador.

  “Sonofabitch bit me,” said Estaque. “She’s a tough customer, I’ll tell you. Had a Nambu eight-shot under her mat. And a knife strapped to her leg.”

  Amador turned to Helen. “You sure you want to do this?”

  “We have to try.”

  Amador sighed, then waved toward the hut.

  With Estaque in the lead, they ducked inside the one room hut. Legaspi sat picking his teeth in the far corner, keeping watch over the hog-tied, gagged bulk of Carmen Lai Lai, a candle burning near her head. She looked just the same when Helen worked for her three weeks ago. Except blood ran from Carmen’s mouth. Her eyes grew wide and darted, as she sensed others had just entered the hut.

  Legaspi held up a canvas pouch. “Shhhht.” He dumped the contents into the sand. “By damn. Candy bars the Hapons pay her.” Scattered at his feet were assorted candy bars, two tubes of tooth paste, several rolls of toilet paper and a bottle of aspirin.

  Estaque leaned over her. “Carmen. Do you remember me?”

  Carmen squirmed violently against her bindings. A look of hatred sprang from her eyes as she growled from behind her gag.

  “Ummm.” Estaque grabbed something from his belt.