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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

“What?” said Amador.

  A bayonet flashed in Estaque’s hand. “Carmen. You must remember my mother then? Vitos two weeks ago. You worked her so hard, she got overheated and had a stroke. She can’t walk or talk, Carmen.” He raised the bayonet.

  Estaque’s parents had died in an earthquake five years ago. “What are you doing?” Demanded Amador.

  Estaque said in a matter-of-fact voice. “I’m going to take off her ear. Then pop out an eye. Maybe both.”

  “No!” Helen moved close. “When they see her, the Japs will come after us.”

  “They don’t care. Happens all the time,” said Estaque. “One of us works for them. Sooner or later, his body ends up on the Hapon’s doorstep without a head. They just find someone else.”

  Amador lay a casual hand on the bayonet’s hilt and leaned over her. “Carmen? Carmen? Do you know who I am?”

  Carmen focused on Amador, then shook her head.

  Amador said. “I am Don Pablo Amador. And the Hapons have a price on my head. But that doesn’t bother me because they have taken my country and everything I owned in it. I don’t mind killing them and I wouldn’t mind letting Felipe kill you right now.” He let that sink in, then said, “How about her? Do you know her?” He tapped Helen’s cheek near one of her burn scars.

  It took a moment, but Carmen nodded.

  “We have to talk to you. If we take off your gag, you’ll be quiet?”

  Another nod.

  “Take it off.”

  “Pablo, let me first cut off her ear.” Estaque flipped the bayonet in the air and caught it after two full revolutions.

  “Maybe later.” He nodded to Legaspi who reached down and untied the gag.

  Carmen gasped for breath. Saliva dribbled from her mouth.

  Helen felt sorry and wanted to wipe the blood off her chin in spite of the cruel things Carmen Lai Lai had done.

  Estaque held the bayonet’s tip to Carmen’s cheek. “I know where your father is.”

  “You do?” she sputtered.

  Estaque smiled. “He was a good tailor. With a shop in Del Monte. Before the war he made uniforms for the Americans. A nice business. Now, the Hapons have him making uniforms for them.”

  Carmen worked her mouth for a moment. “What would you do if you were him?”

  “Good question.” Estaque pressed the bayonet tip producing a tiny trickle of blood. “Nothing wrong with the uniform business. But one wonders why he suddenly needs fifteen slave laborers to work there when it was just him before? What are the Hapons paying him? And how does he get to drive around in a Buick?”

  Carmen’s eyes darted around the room.

  “Like father, like daughter, Hmmm. Carmen?” said Estaque. “Do you get the gist of things?”

  She met his cold stare with one of her own.

  “What I mean is that you will receive your father’s ear in the mail someday, soon. Then his fingers, toes and so forth. And when we run out of his parts I’m going to do the same thing with you. Send pieces of you to the Hapons. To their generals. Maybe your head in a box, Carmen? Maybe your head in their Sunday stewpot. How’s that sound?”

  Carmen’s eyes grew to slits. ‘What do you want?”

  Carmen speaks English far better than she lets on, Helen noted.

  Amador leaned close. “Helen will be joining your group tomorrow. Except that you will let her be on her own. Let her go anywhere she wants. You will treat her kindly and not turn her over to the Hapons. Understand?”

  “How much you pay me?”

  Estaque’s arm flexed as he made to shove the bayonet.

  Amador grabbed Estaque’s hand. “Hold on, Felipe. What do you want, Carmen? More tooth paste? Candy? Just tell me.”

  “Soap. Chewing gum.”

  Estaque and Amador exchanged glances. Carmen was running a black market business. Just to make sure, Amador asked, “Okay. Cigarettes, too?”

  “Yes, please.” She smiled her toothless grin and tried to sit up.

  Helen said, “Ask her if she can get me back into the captain’s cabin.”

  “Anywhere you wanna go, bitch.”

  Estaque cocked his hand to backhand Carmen but Helen caught it. “That’s okay, Felipe. That’s the way she talks.” To Carmen: “Well?”

  “Yeah, sure. Captain’s cabin.”

  “First thing?”

  “Sure.”

  Estaque rubbed his chin for a moment then said, “Okay. Let’s make sure of one thing. Carmen, you must return Helen to us, safe and sound, no later than the twenty-third, before that, if possible. Because if you don’t,” he leaned close and whispered in her ear.

  Carmen’s eyes grew wide as he spoke. She began moaning. “No!” she gasped. Estaque kept talking and she moaned louder and louder. Finally, she wailed loudly and Estaque shoved the gag in her mouth.

  After she quieted, Amador pulled the gag. “Carmen, when do the Hapon’s come?”

  She drooled for a minute then whimpered. “Ten, tomorrow morning.”

  “What?” Amador said. “Isn’t it to be a pre-dawn raid?”

  Carmen took a deep, shaky breath. “Everybody ready for that. They try something new.”

  ‘What?”

  “Church. They raid the church tomorrow during services. Plenty of women.”

  “Good Lord.” Amador exchanged glances with the others.

  “I can’t think of a better place to start,” said Helen.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  18 October, 1942

  21˚ 55.2' S; 168˚ 02.2' E

  South Pacific Ocean, enroute Noumea

  At an altitude of 10,000 feet, the PB2Y-3 Coronado flying boat lumbered along at 140 knots. She was a four-engine brute, capable of flying well over 3,000 miles nonstop. This version was a “flagship” model, assigned for the use of Admiral Nimitz and his staff. She carried a crew of eight, with accommodations for eighteen high-ranking passengers who rode in better than solid comfort; especially when compared to the PB2Y-3R version, an amphibian cattle-car that hauled thirty-four passengers.

  Skirting just beneath a 10/10 overcast, the Coronado’s pilot and copilot kept their gaze out of the cockpit, vigilant, ready to yank back on the yoke and leap up into the clouds if jumped by enemy aircraft. But for the most part, it had been a boring ride from Fiji. With just a few patches of turbulence; their world consisted of the overcast and the South Pacific far below, a smooth, milky grey, here and there punctuated by whitecaps.

  In the Coronado’s midships galley, Rear Admiral Raymond A. Spruance glanced out the small port as he brewed coffee, a hobby he’d cultivated over the years. Another hobby was growing tomatoes; yet another, raising pet schnauzers. As with work or play, Spruance did everything by the book, examining all possibilities before taking action. With coffee, he’d received praise using a bean raised in Kona nearby on the big Island of Hawaii. When he could, Spruance also brewed with a bean from Espiritu-Santo, in the New Hebrides, where the U.S. Navy maintained a forward base, four hundred miles from Guadalcanal. On his upcoming inspection tour, he hoped to pick up a few pounds of the bean on Espiritu Santo and perhaps ship some back to his wife, Margaret, living in a three bedroom rental in Monrovia, California, a suburb Northeast of Los Angeles.

  Spruance checked the burner on his little portable electric coffee maker, ensuring the element heated properly, then looked out the port again. This leg, the last of a 4,200 mile trek from Pearl Harbor, wasn’t as long as the others, he didn’t feel as tired. They’d left Hawaii three days ago, overnighting at Johnston Island, then Canton Island, and last night at Fiji. This morning, they’d taken off at eleven o’clock local time, and with a slight tail-wind, anticipating landing in Noumea about three pm. So far, it had been a smooth flight. No head winds. Just the ever-present overcast.

  Strange: Until two nights ago, their destination was Guadalcanal for an inspection tour. But then Admiral Nimitz had radioed from his Makalapa Headquarters in Pearl Harbor, ordering them to proceed directly to Noumea; why, Spruance didn’
t know, and he felt a tinge of frustration, since he was Nimitz’s Chief of Staff and therefore should know everything.

  Vice Admiral William F. Halsey, Jr. wandered up in stocking feet, working khaki uniform rumpled, his eyes puffy from a two hour nap. He leaned over the coffee maker and made a show of sniffing at steam rising from the spout. “How much longer, Ray?”

  Spruance knelt to look in the brewer’s sight glass. “Two minutes.”

  Halsey grabbed a mug off a rack. “Better hurry up before someone else picks up the scent.”

  “Who won last night?” On Fiji, Spruance had gone to bed early with Halsey staying up to play cribbage with Captain Falkenberg.

  “Sonofabitch killed me. He’s a damned ringer. That the way you always do business, Ray? With ringers?”

  Spruance allowed a little smile.

  Halsey leaned over to sniff again. “What kind is it?”

  “Kona.”

  “Ummm. The best.” Halsey wiggled his cup.

  Just then, the Coronado shuddered in turbulence with Halsey spreading his feet, adapting his fighting cock stance to keep his balance. Putting on a scowl, he knit his beetle brows, stuck out his barrel chest, and braced a hand to a bulkhead as the plane pitched and bucked. Spruance knew Halsey too well to be alarmed at his fierce expression. The way you gauged Halsey’s temper, Spruance knew, was to check the wrinkles around his eyes. Those tiny little gullies belied a marvelous sense of humor. But without the gullies, one was in trouble.

  Halsey had led the B-25 raid on Tokyo last April. Then, in May, he contracted a severe case of dermatitis and was hospitalized. From his bed, he recommended to Nimitz that Spruance take his place to face the Japanese at Midway. Nimitz followed the recommendation and put Spruance in charge where his force sank four Japanese top-line carriers while only losing one of his three carriers.

  That summer, Halsey recuperated on the Mainland, then returned to Pearl Harbor to wait for reassignment. One day, Nimitz invited him to watch a medal award ceremony aboard the carrier Saratoga, which had just limped in--the victim of a Japanese torpedo. With all hands lined up in ranks at attention on the flight deck, Nimitz stepped up to the microphone. His voice echoed throughout the ship as he said, “Boys, I’ve got a surprise for you. Bill Halsey’s back!” The entire ship’s company broke into cheers.

  Spruance was there that day, standing two paces behind Nimitz. He could have sworn tears welled in Halsey’s eyes while the sailors roared and yelled and threw their hats in the air.

  And now, Halsey and Spruance were headed into the South Pacific on an inspection tour. Halsey was slated to take Command of Task Force 16, where he would fly his flag in the U.S.S. Enterprise, another carrier completing battle-damage repairs in Pearl Harbor. Also aboard the Coronado was Captain Miles Browning, Halsey’s chief of staff, a highly capable administrator and Roberts Rules of Order wizard, the perfect counter-balance to the flamboyant Vice Admiral. Also aboard was Major Julian Brown, Halsey’s intelligence officer.

  The coffee brewer gave a final gurgle and Spruance leaned over to check the sight glass. “Okay.” He poured, and Halsey nodded thanks, just as the Coronado jiggled again. But they kept their balance, with not a drop lost. They leaned against the bulkhead and sipped for a moment, lost in thought, two Admirals at the opposite end of the personality spectrum. Spruance, a rank junior to Halsey, brilliant, introspective, level, incisive, extremely deep with a piercing, intimidating gaze. Halsey: the archetypical gravel-voiced sailor-man, descended from a long linage of sailor-men, some he claimed, were pirates. He was a cigarette-smoking man’s man with a joke a minute, who immediately imbued one with a feeling of confidence, accomplishment, and dedication.

  Halsey sipped and smacked his lips. “Ahhh. Perfect.”

  “Thanks.”

  After a moment, Halsey said, “What’s been after you, Ray?” The turbulence gone, Halsey took another sip and leaned against the bulkhead.

  Spruance checked the passenger compartment. It was still forty-five minutes to Noumea. The others were just beginning to yawn and stretch. “It shows?”

  Halsey shrugged, “To me it does. Maybe I know you too well.”

  Spruance rarely shared his feelings with anyone except Margaret. Again, he looked both ways. Falkenberg and Rear Admiral William L. Calhoun, Nimitz’s Service Force Commander, were awake now and looking out the window. But perhaps out of respect for the two senior admirals engaged in their impromptu tête-à-tête, they had decided not to approach, the coffee’s delicious odor notwithstanding.

  “It’s Midway.” Said Spruance.

  “What about it?”

  “The rumor mill works overtime. I’ve heard that people say I wasn’t bold. That I should have chased the Japs after we sunk the carriers. That I missed a bet and could have wiped out the whole fleet.”

  “What?” Halsey was incredulous.

  “That's it. Now, does someone know something I don’t?”

  “Oh, bullshit, Ray.” Halsey dropped his voice. “Keep a secret?”

  Spruance pulled a face.

  “Layton told me the night before we took off that they had just broken the rest of the Jap radio traffic from April and May. It turns out that if you had sailed west, you would have stumbled into the main body of the Jap surface force.” Commander Edward Layton was Nimitz’s intelligence expert. “It would have been a buzz-saw, Ray. They had at least one light carrier attached to that group with fresh fighters just itching to shoot down your bombers, many of which were pretty tired by that time. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Besides that, there would have been plenty of AA with all their cruisers and destroyers. And then they could have come after you and taken a bite out of your ass. No,” Halsey shook his head, “It doesn’t make sense. Don’t you think?”

  “That’s what went through my mind.”

  “I wish who ever started that crap would knock it off. I think they’re flat jealous of your success. “ He looked up at Spruance. “So forget it. Right? You did your job. Your orders were to stop the Japs at Midway and that’s exactly what you did. And you sank four carriers to boot. What the hell? I put you in the job. It couldn’t have turned out any other way.”

  The stone-faced Spruance allowed one more smile. He admitted to himself it felt good to learn this, especially from Halsey. He made a mental note to ask Layton on his return for details. “Thanks, Bill.”

  Both looked out the little port, unable to generate small talk. After four days, they were dry. Eventually, Halsey said, “I wonder why Chester wants me in Noumea instead of Guadalcanal. You can’t find out a damn thing by sitting on your ass in Noumea.” He searched Spruance’s face.

  Spruance held his hands apart, a mock form of surrender. “I have no idea what’s on Chester’s mind, Bill.” He checked his watch. Two thirty. Another half hour or so to Noumea.

  The tiny wrinkles crept around Halsey’s eyes and he waved his empty coffee mug.

  Spruance poured.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  18 October, 1942

  Service Barge 212, Nasipit, Mindanao

  Philippines

  Lieutenant Commander Katsumi Fujimoto and his graying Father, Rear Admiral Hayashi Fujimoto, stepped outside from the officer’s mess. It was a muggy day as they strolled on the aft promenade, a deck on the second level reserved for officers. They had just enjoyed a breakfast of eggs, fresh pineapple and coconut milk. Rich coffee, canned in America, had been served. It had been produced by Warrant Officer Kunisawa who had been sniffing around the Stockwell one day, finding a case in her larder.

  Fujimoto’s father had flown from Del Monte late yesterday afternoon on an inspection tour, having just been re-activated as a rear-admiral or Shs. The accouterments of his office included a twin engine type 99, high-wing Nakajima flying boat, which bobbed at anchor in the middle of the harbor. Its crew had the cowling off the port engine and were doing a routine change of spark plugs.

  The humidity and its threat of
rain later on, created a somber tone. Father and son stood silently for a moment, the elder Fujimoto taking in the surrounding mountains and extinct volcanoes, whose rich ash had given birth over millions of years to the lush forests surrounding the little town. It was especially verdant on the harbor’s western side where jungle tumbled down to the water’s edge, where branches laden with red and orange bougainvillea flowers trailed on the tide.

  “Not a bad place to retire.” The Shōsō took a deep breath, separating the mixed scent of food frying in coconut oil; of charcoal smoke, feces, animals, flowers, dust, urine, chickens and wet leaves.

  “Some have tried.” Fujimoto pointed east. “Six or so kilometers that way is a pleasant little fishing village called Buenavista. Clear, blue water laps within meters of your door--no, excuse me--doorway. Doors aren’t necessary. The little wavelets lull you to sleep at night. Coconuts fall on the ground and all you have to do is walk outside and gather them for breakfast.

  “A rich gambler, a Portuguese from Macao settled there, they tell me. He had two concubines.”

  “Ahhh.”

  “Eurasians.”

  The Shōsō allowed his son a smile.

  “But then the Moro’s got him in a raid. Beheaded him.”

  He took in his father’s plain dress blues. Compared to Fujimoto’s loose working tropical uniform, his father’s uniform looked hot and stifling, especially in this sultry weather. But then a Shōsō was a Shs. He must look the part. “Today, you are going back to...?”

  “Manila. Conference tonight.” The Shōsō seemed to be mulling something in his mind. Then he straightened and put his hands behind his back. He nodded and raised his eyebrows to the American destroyer in the floating drydock just behind them. “When can you flood? They need that back in Manila.”

  “Five days, no more. I’m shorthanded, but we’re just about ready for the bottom painting. And the holes are repaired.”

  “The plant?”

  “Ready to light off. But there is still a lot of topside cleanup and repair. Another two to three weeks, then we’ll be ready for sea trials. What I want to do is--”