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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  A canvas covered truck screeched to a stop. Six soldiers jumped from the back and stood, their rifles poised. An officer climbed from the cab, strode around, shouted into the back, unlocked the tailgate and stood back. A heavy-set woman alighted, stretched her arms to the sky, then yelled into the back of truck.

  Unaccountably, the Nasipit docks, usually awash in shipyard sounds, grew silent. On the Service Barge 212, Fujimoto and his father heard soft moaning. Soon a figure climbed out. Nine or ten others followed.

  The Shōsō nodded. “Women. What the hell, Katsi? Too lazy to go into town and find your own stuff?”

  “No. I’m not that bad off. I have a policy. My men use only the cathouses in Butuan. I don’t want to stir up the people of Nasipit nor do we want gonorrhea.” He pointed toward Amador’s burned out lumber mill. “Enough has happened here. The truth is, I have so many men working on the destroyer that we don’t have enough labor to keep our own quarters clean. So the Kempetai makes a little sweep for us once or twice each week. It keeps them entertained and helps us out at the same time. This batch came from Maugahay. Next week, Cabadbaran, the supply is nearly inexhaustible as long as we keep moving from town to town.”

  “Who’s the fat one?”

  “Carmen something or other. A mestizo. Knows how to make them work. Scares them more than the Kempetai so we put her on the payroll.

  The Shōsō chuckled as guards prodded the scattered group up the gangway. “You think of having an auction? Of course you could have the pick of the crop.”

  “Not these dregs.”

  “Look. There is one down there, slender, taller than the rest. Hot stuff.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “How long do you keep them?”

  “A few days, maybe a week. Then we send them home with pay, and collect a fresh batch.”

  “You pay in script?”

  Fujimoto shook his head. “We tried that. It didn’t work. Now we pay in food.”

  Just then, the Shs‘s flag lieutenant stepped up and bowed. “The engine is done, Sir. We’re ready to take off when you are.”

  Father and son looked at the sleek Nakajima flying boat. Indeed, it’s engine cowl was back in place, the crew pulling the anchor to short stay.

  “Thank you, Tomo. I’ll be just a minute. Please ready the shore boat.”

  “Sir.” Tomo bowed and walked off.

  Fujimoto was surprised when his father took him gently by the elbow; it had been years since he’d done that. They walked to a corner of the deck, out of earshot.

  The Shōsō said in a low voice, “We’re trying to assign you to the Solomons. But it’s political; Gunichi Mikawa is ambivalent. Since he made Vice Admiral, he’s had an eye on Isoroku’s job.”

  The fact that Mikawa wanted the impossible made Fujimoto smile. Yamamoto Isoroku was a Tai-sho or Admiral of the Fleet; and, as the top Admiral of the Imperial Japanese Navy, had the added title of Rengo Kantai.

  The Shōsō continued, “Mikawa makes a big point of blaming Isoroku for the Midway disaster. Now, if Isoroku fails in the Solomons, then Mikawa might be able to do some damage. Maybe even take over. Since I served with Isoroku, they look upon me, and you, with,” he tilted his hand back and forth, “all three of us really, as, you know, opponents. Doesn’t that sound stupid?”

  “Frankly, yes. All I want to do is serve my country and fight the enemy. I’ve trained for this for years.”

  “And you shall, but we must move carefully. All you have to do is get this ship ready. It’s a gift from the Americans. I can assure you that you will have orders as her skipper. Then it’s only a matter of where you are assigned.” The Shōsō looked at the Stockwell and drew an expression of disgust, “bastard ship and all.”

  Fujimoto felt his chest swell, as if he were floating off the deck. Vindicated. His own command again. He actually had to fight for control for a moment. “Thank you, Sir.” He almost said ‘Father.’

  The Shōsō gave a short nod and continued. “Ambassador Tatekawa continues to receive good intelligence from the Soviets. Apparently they have a man now in San Francisco who really knows his stuff. I have a packet for you with statistics on their new Fletcher Class Destroyer, just entering the fleet. Apparently, they’re not as fast as our destroyers. Designed for thirty-seven knots, they overloaded them, and now all they can do is thirty-two. Even this tub,” he made another face and pointed at the Stockwell, “can do...” He raised his eyebrows.

  “Thirty-five knots.”

  “Yes. And our Soviet friend tells us the reliability of their torpedoes is horrible.”

  “He’s right about that.”

  The Shs‘s eyebrows went up.

  “We’ve been testing them here. At least the Mark 15s, their surface launched torpedo. The depth control sensing device is all wrong. It generates a signal that makes the torpedo run three meters deeper than it should.”

  “Three meters?”

  “At least.”

  “Amazing. It would almost be laughable if we weren’t doing our best to kill each other.”

  Fujimoto thought that one over and decided he hadn’t lived long enough to properly appreciate the remark. “Yes, father.”

  “Well, by the time your ship is ready, I’ll have this political nonsense with Mikawa straightened out. I think that’s why Isoroku yanked me out of retirement. To act as a buffer between him and these younger fellows.

  “Guess what else the Soviets sent?”

  “Yes?”

  “It came directly from Moscow. Tatekawa to you, so to speak. Isn’t it nice to have friends in high places, Katsi?”

  Fujimoto pursed his lips. This was not the time to talk.

  The admiral handed over a pouch. “There’s a picture in here from the San Francisco Chronicle that shows ships at the Bethlehem Steel works. They forgot to censor it. Cruisers, destroyers; all with radar antennae.”

  “Oh.”

  “This makes them dangerous. So don’t think our torpedoes can do everything.”

  “Yes, Sir. How long before we get radar?”

  “Six months, maybe a year. They’re trying an experimental set now on the Yamato.” The Yamato was one of Japan’s two super-battle ships of 46,000 tons.

  The Shōsō rubbed his chin for a moment. “There is something else.”

  “Yessir?”

  “I think you can handle this, for experience has taught me that rage and love, make immature people blind. In this regard, I think you are mature.”

  “What?” Fujimoto struggled to keep from sounding impertinent.

  “Tatekawa had your best interests in mind when he sent a copy of another article from the San Francisco Chronicle. It’s a picture of Todd Ingram receiving a medal, the Navy Cross, I believe. Apparently, it’s the highest honor one can receive in the U.S. Navy. Admiral Spruance is pinning it on him.”

  Fujimoto stiffened. His father was right; rage could make him blind. And for a moment, he wrestled to keep it in check. Later, he would get blind drunk with Kunisawa, and wreck something. Maybe a cathouse somewhere, not here. There was one in Davao City that had treated him shabbily; perhaps that’s where they would go. “Thank you...and thank General Tatekawa for me as well. Please give him my regards.” Fujimoto bowed.

  “Of course.” The Shōsō regarded his son for a moment . “Have you thought of a name for your ship?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “Well, what is it?” It wasn’t an order. It was a polite request, as if from a friend.

  “Namikaze.”--Wind On The Waves.

  Admiral Hayashi Fujimoto mulled that for a moment. “Good. I like it. Namikaze.

  “Well,” he took a step back, “watch out for Kunisawa. He drinks like a fish.”

  “I know. I think I have him under control.” Fujimoto wasn’t about to tell his father about his plans to visit the bordello in Davao City with Kunisawa.

  “A good sailor, though.”

  “The best.”

  The Shōsō became sil
ent and clasped his hands behind his back.

  Since his very youngest days, Fujimoto knew It meant, ‘we’re done for now.’ He drew to attention and saluted his father.

  While the Shōsō return his son’s salute, Lieutenant Tomo whistled to the crew aboard the Nakajima, and pumped his fist up and down.

  The amphibian’s starboard engine began turning and soon coughed into life, belching blue smoke.

  Fujimoto escorted his father down a companionway to the main deck, where eight side boys, dressed in whites, stood at attention. After another round of salutes, Tomo went first, stepping aboard the shoreboat. The Shōsō turned and nodded to his son, “Good day, Captain.” Then he stepped down the little ladder and into the shoreboat. They cast off and headed for the Nakajima, her anchor up, both engines now comfortably idling.

  It had been months since Fujimoto felt so good. Back on track! At last! And his father had addressed him as Captain in front of his crew. He and Kunisawa would have more than a few glasses of saki tonight.

  He headed for the stairway to his quarters. One of his sailors, a leading seaman, shouted in Japanese, “Make way for the captain.” Lieutenant Commander Katsumi Fujimoto barely noticed four women, mops and buckets in hand, pressing their backs to the rusty bulkhead as he passed by. His mind hardly registered the one his father picked out. A black scarf was drawn across her nose and she wore dark wire-framed glasses.

  He walked into the wardroom, poured a cup of tea, then strode across the passageway to his stateroom. There, he opened the pouch his father had given him. Inside was a large manila envelope, stampedMOST SECRET. Sitting at a small conference table, he ripped it open, letting several documents and photographs tumble out.

  A note from his father read, Dear Katsi, For your eyes only. Keep this in a safe; burn it if necessary.

  With a grunt, Fujimoto reached behind and opened the safe beside his desk. It was crammed with books and documents, some fell out, scattering on the floor as had happened since he’d been here. Someday, he vowed, he would organize it. In fact, his stateroom looked much like his safe. Books all over the place. Soiled laundry thrown in the corner. Claiming he knew where everything was, Fujimoto forbid his orderly, Yawata, from touching the place.

  Sipping his tea, he found the specification sheet on the Fletcher Class destroyer on top. One picture was a glossy 8 x 10 black and white photograph of a Fletcher moored to a dock. Sailors scurried over her gangway and around her weatherdecks, carrying boxes and crates that looked like foodstuffs. A bed-spring antenna was mounted atop her mast. Amazing; masttops in other pictures he’d seen had been air-brushed out, showing a mast sticking ridiculously in the air, supporting nothing. He grabbed a loupe from his desk and bent over to study the picture in detail. “...mmmm. Graceful, yet compact, utilitarian. She doesn’t look that heavy,” he mused, sitting back for a moment, taking in the whole ship. He decided he liked her lines.

  Someone knocked. “Commander?” It was Yawata.

  Fujimoto moved the loupe around the picture and settled on the torpedo tubes. Quintuplets, a bank of five. Hmmm “Come,” he muttered.

  Yawata walked in, a stout women just behind, looking over his shoulder. “Sir, the cleaning woman. Is it all right if she comes in now to tidy up and collect your laundry?”

  “...all right.” Fujimoto leaned back to the safe and drew the manual on Mark 15 torpedo maintenance. Then he looked through his loupe again at the Fletcher class destroyer. There were two quintuplet banks of torpedoes. Not just one. He shook his head. Too bad the American’s torpedoes were so lousy. Too bad. And he couldn’t find any provision for reload.

  He found something else. There was another bed-spring device atop the main battery fire-control director. That meant they could direct five-inch gunfire onto a target with great accuracy. Even at night!

  A roar of the Nakajima’s engines announced the Shs‘s take off. For some reason, the sound made him feel good. Secure. His father would be in Manila for a while, close by if he needed him, yet far enough away not to cause trouble.

  The engines faded to the north and another noise filled the room. A bucket clanked and water slopped back and forth. Fujimoto turned, finding Yawata gone. Across the room was the tall woman his father had noticed. She was making his bed, her back turned to him. Not bad. Her figure showed well through her dirty clothes, damp now from the humidity. A black scarf was pulled over her head and her dress was an ankle-length floral pattern that had been washed far too many times. She wore those strange glasses and a card was pinned to the front of her shawl.

  “Yawata?” he snapped.

  The door opened and his orderly stepped in. “Sir?”

  Fujimoto gestured to the woman with the back of his hand. “This woman. She’s odd. And the glasses. What is this?”

  “She should be all right, Sir.”

  “What do you mean, all right?”

  “She’s a leper. Minor case. In remission, they say. Her face is scarred.”

  Fujimoto stood quickly. “What? Is she contagious?”

  “No, Sir. Shall I get another woman?”

  Fujimoto rubbed his chin. “No, no. I’ll get out and move to the wardroom, so she can finish in peace.”

  “Very good, Sir.”

  The heavy-set woman stood in the doorway. Yawata muttered at her, pushed her back and closed the door.

  Fujimoto began to gather the pictures. As he did, he found something else: another San Francisco Chronicle article and photograph. A little note was clipped to it from his father. Katsi. Something else the Soviets sent along. After much hesitation, I give this to you. You are entitled to see this.

  Fujimoto studied it for a moment then moaned, “Aaaaiiiiyah!” He stood and slammed his fist on the table.

  “Aaaaiiiiyah!” Fujimoto screamed again. His breath came in great gulps, and he hardly noticed the woman pressed against the wall, her hand over her mouth, her eyebrows above her glasses.

  “Aaaaiiiiyah!” Fujimoto yelled again, slamming a fist and then throwing the papers across the room.

  Yawata burst in the room. “Sir? What--?”

  Kunisawa surged in right behind. “Katsi. Are you all right?”

  Fujimoto stood, breathing heavily for a moment, then stiffly walked from his room out on deck, grasping the railing. Yawata and Kunisawa followed.

  “Katsi,” Kunisawa pleaded. “What the hell is it?”

  Helen’s heart thumped loudly in her chest. Their voices faded as that crazy Jap commander walked down the deck, still moaning. She stood on tiptoes, pressing herself into the wooden bulkhead, desperately trying to become part of it.

  Carmen dashed in. “What the hell did you do?”

  Helen could only shake her head and spread her hands.

  “Work, damn you!”

  Helen nodded and bent to finish the bed, a pilot berth style with high sideboard. Carmen watched for a moment, then walked out. Books and papers were piled at the bed’s foot and she picked them up and put them on the side table.

  What happened? What made him so crazy? She looked around seeing the room in disarray. There. The safe was open. Papers spilling on the floor. Papers scattered on the table, too. She looked around realizing what had just fallen in her lap. My God. I’ve only been aboard five minutes. That open safe, all the secret stuff lying around. But what? She walked over to the safe and looked at what was on floor. Damn! They’re all in Japanese. She leaned over for a closer look.

  Bingo! There it was. The manual she’d seen in the torpedo shop. Written in Japanese with the Arabic character: 93. The one Otis wanted. She picked it up. How do I get it out of here? She tried to stuff it in her dress but it looked too bulky. The bucket! She could wrap it in wax paper and drop it in the bucket. No. She didn’t have wax paper.

  There! In the safe. A waterproof pouch. Quickly, she unzipped it and stuffed the manual inside. Her hands shook as she re-zipped it. Walking toward the bucket, something caught her eye on the table. Pictures. An article from the San F
rancisco Chronicle.

  “My God!” It escaped her lips in English and she didn’t even realize it. Quickly she looked around. The Japanese were still outside. Her eyes snapped back to what was in her hand--the clipping was dated last August. Two men were in the picture. The caption identified one as Admiral Raymond A. Spruance as he pinned the Navy Cross on the chest of Lieutenant Todd Ingram, his name underlined in red.

  He looks wonderful. “Ohhh.”

  Carmen walked in seeing the clipping in Helen’s hands. “Put away, bitch.” She pointed. “Hapons ona way back.”

  Carmen was right. The voices grew louder as they returned, the captain now laughing, sounding nonchalant.

  Carmen raged. “Hurry!”

  Helen grit her teeth. “Do something. Delay them!” She dropped the article on the table and rushed toward the other side of the room before she could be seen.

  Even as Helen spoke, a Japanese’ shadow fell through the doorway and across the floor. With perspiration beading on her brow, Carmen backed into the doorway, effectively blocking it, and began shouting at Helen in Tagalog.

  The bucket! The damned bucket was right next to the man’s shadow which meant he would see her if she dropped the waterproof pouch in it.

  Her heart beat faster as her gaze swept around the room in panic. Do something. Here I am with a top secret document in hand and some Jap gunsel standing just outside the room.

  She stepped close to the bed as the voices drew close, all laughing.

  Carmen interrupted her tirade “Damn, you!” she hissed.

  Someone barked at her in pigeon-Tagalog. She turned to Helen and said under her breath, “They want us outta here, honey.”

  Quickly, Helen lifted a corner of the mattress, threw the waterproof pouch underneath and then dropped it into place. She was smoothing the pillow as the three Japanese clomped in, ignoring her. Then she bowed and backed out of the room.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  18 October, 1942

  U.S.S. Howell (DD 482)