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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “Yes.”

  “Rumors all over the ship. He’s a playboy. A Don Juan. Doesn’t know his ass from a tongue depressor.”

  “He’s only been aboard three weeks.”

  “Well, you tell me. Is it true he was kicked out of medical school?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Get rid of him.”

  “What?”

  “We should have a doctor on board, an MD. Instead we have a drunken playboy who runs around knocking up professor’s daughters. Get rid of the sonofabitch.” Landa’s gaze was steady. “Our luck can’t hold out too long. Someday, we’re going to really get mauled by the Japs and I want the best in sickbay, damnit. Not some screw-off artist who thinks with his pecker.”

  “Jerry. He was a third year medical student who made a stupid mistake. We haven’t even--”

  “Get rid of him.”

  Ingram sipped his coffee.

  “First chance you have, get rid of him.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Landa looked at his cup and stirred for a moment. “You know your trouble, Todd?”

  Booze or no booze, Landa was in one of his moods. Ingram stirred his coffee and raised his eyebrows.

  “You’re too serious. And this isn’t the bottle talking. I mean this as a friend.” Landa gave a short smile.

  “Skipper, you don’t--”

  “No. I know you had a shitty time at Corregidor. But life isn’t fair. Some go free while others get stuck. And you got stuck. From what I hear, you earned your Navy Cross, a hundred times over.”

  “I was just doing a job.”

  Landa leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Ah ha! My brother-in-law, Jake, is a psychiatrist. You know what he would call that?”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “What you just said. ‘I was just doing a job.’ Jake would say that’s deflecting a compliment. It makes the other person, who offered the compliment, feel like a pile of shit. Instead, why don’t you just say, ‘thanks?’ Then that takes you off the detached higher-plane of being the all-encompassing horse-shit hero of Corregidor.”

  “I sound like that?”

  Landa slurped coffee.

  Ingram looked around the wardroom, usually so full of life and purpose. Now everyone was asleep below or at least tossing and turning. He ran a hand over his face then checked in the passageway to make sure no one was there. “Skipper, I don’t know how to tell you this but I didn’t want that damned Navy Cross. Spruance insisted.”

  Landa looked up, listening.

  “He wants combat veterans on the line and is dumping people who for one reason or another, cave in under fire. And apparently, there have been a lot of those, especially senior officers.

  “Sooo, “ Ingram steepled his fingers, “instead of the six months state-side they promised, they shipped me back here.”

  “Todd, I know--”

  “Please let me finish.”

  “Okay.”

  “I have to tell you, I’m so damned scared. My stomach is tied in a knot half the time and I feel like puking. Sometimes I do. I dream, and the worst part is the damn dreams are coming true.”

  “We’re all scared, Todd.”

  “I know, I know. And we deal with it in different ways. A Doc gave me a bunch of belladonna.”

  “And?”

  “It helps, and I sleep better. But I dream...and that...”

  “I wish I knew how to help. I guess we all have our private piece of hell. Yeah, you're right. When we got the word you were Al Stoner's replacement, we cheered. Al was a good exec, but you were billed as a hot-shot hero to us; the greatest thing since Fibber McGee and Mollie. We couldn’t wait to have you aboard.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No. I have no complaints. You're doing fine. I just hope that the belladonna won’t turn you into a cross-eyed idiot.”

  “I’m trying to get off the stuff.”

  “Good. Now, let me give it to you straight. I just signed your fitness report, and I recommended you for advancement to command.”

  “Thanks, Skipper.”

  Landa raised a hand. “I imagine you’ll be tapped to command your own destroyer in the next six months. They’re cranking out these ships like ten-pins, and they’ll need hot shots like you to jockey them.

  “So here’s how to be a good skipper. Landa’s psycho service, free of charge. Rule one: be accessible. Your door is always open.”

  “Right.”

  “Rule two: Always remember, the captain’s job is the loneliest in the world.”

  “Okay.”

  “Rule three. ‘Give of yourself, Captain.’ For if you don’t, you’ll have a bunch of prima donnas running around, usurping your authority, screwing things up.”

  Why this at three o’clock in the morning? “Okay.”

  “Remember, on your ship, there’s only one prima donna, and that’s you.” Landa stood, refilled his cup and sat again. “However, when you achieve your own command and step into the role of ‘Boom Boom Ingram,’ you must not allow others to believe that you are my protégé, that you are cast in my mold.”

  “‘Boom Boom Ingram.’“ He tried the phrase experimentally.

  “I hope you like it better than I do.”

  Ingram looked up, surprised. “Uh, I thought you sort of liked that name.”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, then, how’d you get it?”

  “I don’t really know. People just started calling me that.” Landa spread his hands in supplication.

  “I’ll be damned. Well, I’ll pass the word for people not to refer you as ‘Boom Boom’ anymore.”

  “Thanks. Just like Bull Halsey.” It was well known that the Vice Admiral did not like to be addressed as ‘Bull,’ even in jest.

  “Yes, Sir.” Ingram took a deep breath. “You said something about me being your protégé?”

  “Actually, a serious miscalculation. Let me put it to you this way. How can a hot-rod destroyer captain attain senior rank and follow a glorious future in this man’s Navy when he boasts in an open meeting before his immediate supervisor, the squadron commander, along with various and sundry peers and flag-ranked officers, that he won a farting contest in college?”

  Ingram chuckled. “On the Argonne? That was great.”

  “That’s the ship, all right.” Landa waved an index finger in the air. “That marvelous ship which is irrevocably stuck high and dry on coffee grounds, while her staff sits on their dead asses nine hundred miles behind enemy lines wringing their hands and figuring out ingenuous ways to load us out with faulty torpedoes to fight against an enemy that outnumbers us two to one.

  “I thought the farting contest was funny. Others thought so too, even Rocko. It broke the ice.”

  “I know. Rocko slapped me on the back and let it slide.” Landa shook his head. “We’re opposites. I’m too loose, out of control sometimes. But I’ll tell you. I can’t stand pretense. Arrogance, either.” He threw his hands in the air. “I’m sorry. I just lose patience. And you can’t to fight a war with people like that. Especially when it’s all wrapped up into one person,” Landa jabbed a thumb toward the Argonne, “like that bastard Jessup. That makes me boil. I’ll tell you. Life is too short, as we discovered at Cape Esperance.”

  “I know.”

  “Yeah, I guess you do. But when that gold-bricking Jessup started giving me crap about being late, I saw red.”

  “I tried to stop you.”

  “I know. I know. And I shot my mouth off. That guy’s part of the establishment. And when he’s ready, he’ll drop me like a hot turd.”

  “I don’t know, Skipper. It’s a big Navy, now. Guys like him get swallowed up. Especially now that Halsey’s here.” From shooting pistols in the air to firing pack-howitzers, GIs from Espiritu Santo to Guadalcanal celebrated for hours when it was announced Halsey was in command.

  Landa squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. “Yeah, except guess where Jessup is going now that Ghormley has been re
lieved?”

  “Home?”

  Landa looked in the distance for a moment, then stifled a belch with a clenched fist. “I take it back. I have had too much to drink. Have to be a good boy for tomorrow.” He raised his cup and drained his coffee. “Did you know that Jessup’s not Ghormley’s chief of staff?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Rocko says he’s on Ernie King’s staff. They sent him out on a fact-finding mission. But really, he was a CinC spy who is now going back to Washington D.C. where he can resume duties counting rings in the Pentagon.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “I pissed off the wrong man, Todd. I embarrassed Jessup in front of a three star admiral. So Jessup will never forget what I did.” After a pause, Landa said, “The irony is, I never won a farting contest. I just wanted to shut that arrogant sonofabitch up.”

  Ingram looked up. “You’re kidding.”

  “It’s true. I just wanted to say something bizarre. And now,” he sighed and flicked his coffee cup with the back of his hand, “I’ve probably blown my career.”

  “Does Rocko know?”

  “Yeah. And so does Jessup.”

  “Oh, oh.”

  “So I’m going to need you as backup when they fire me.”

  “Never happen.”

  “Thanks for your vote of confidence.” Landa exhaled loudly. “Tired,” he muttered. “Now. To return to you and your fitness for command. All you need is to be promoted to lieutenant commander. I wonder why you haven’t made it? Have you followed in my footsteps and crapped on somebody’s doorstep lately?”

  “Just Tojo’s.”

  That drew a smile from Landa. He stood. “Corregidor is over, Todd. So is Esperance. Forget the past and get on with the living. Smile. Talk to people. Okay?” He stuck out his hand.

  They shook. “Thanks, Skipper.”

  “How’s that girl of yours, Audrey?”

  “That’s Luther’s fiancé.”

  “Damnit....”

  “Helen is her name.”

  “Oh.”

  “Actually, I’ve had a stroke of luck. She was on the run form the Japs on Mindanao. But Otis just told me the Needlefish picked her up with some others. She’s due in Brisbane in a week to ten days.

  “My God. I didn’t know.”

  “Yeah, but it's a secret. Otis would kill me if he knew I told you.”

  “Don't worry. Mum’s the word. Met her at Corregidor? That’s fantastic.”

  “... yeah,” Ingram grinned.

  Landa yawned, his breath less offensive. “I’m glad. Okay. Off to the sack now. You, too. Big day tomorrow playing hot-rod.”

  “I’m going to take a turn on deck for a moment.”

  “Right, Good night.” Landa yawned and looked back. “You know?”

  “Sir?”

  “You look like Spruance. I've met him a couple of times.”

  “So I've discovered.”

  “You look like him. And, you're just about as intense. Take it easy. Or you’ll never make lieutenant commander.” Landa walked out.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Ingram was back in his stateroom. It had been crystal clear outside, the Southern Cross so bright, one could reach out and grab it. From habit, he snapped on his desk lamp and started to empty his pockets. Something was on his desk. He picked it up, finding an ALNAV radio message, a long one.

  Ingram was thirty-sixth on a list. The entry said, ‘...for promotion to lieutenant commander, approved, effective this date: Ingram, Alton C., 638217, USN.

  It had been date/time-stamped in the Howell’s radio room a little over two hours ago, then routed directly to the captain. Yes, Landa had scribbled his initials in the little box and that meant he knew of the promotion before their talk tonight. And then Landa must have brought it down when Ingram was on deck.

  He smiled. Sneaky. That’s called getting chewed out the same time you’re being patted on the head.

  A handwritten note was attached:

  Todd

  Congratulations, these were mine, my cleanest pair. The others all green. Now that you have a pay raise, you owe me a few beers. And soon you’ll be ready for your own command. Who knows? Some day, maybe someone will call you ‘Boom Boom’ Ingram. God, I hate that name. Good luck.

  Jerry

  A little felt covered box sat off to one side of his desk. He snapped it open finding a pair of gold oak-leaf devices of a lieutenant commander gleaming in the pale light. He pinned them on his khaki collar, in a way feeling sorry that Rita Hayworth wasn’t around to do it for him. But as he lay on his bunk and clicked off his light, he remembered what Rita had asked him that night in the Pope Suite; ‘Got a sweetheart?’

  You bet, Rita.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  20 October, 1942

  Service Barge 212, Nasipit, Mindanao

  Philippines

  Helen rose in her bunk, hearing steady rain thump on the roof. A few snored, the rest slept the stone-frozen sleep of the dead; except Mercado Colombo, a young mother of four, whimpered in her sleep as she had every night. Helen eased to the floor. Enough light leaked through the portholes to guide her across the bunkroom where Carmen Lai Lai slept in a tent-like arrangement, complete with double mattress, blankets, sheets, pillows and bedside table.

  The tent flap barely rustled as Helen crawled in and kneeled by Carmen's bed. Helen opened her mouth to whisper. Instead, she was shocked with the cold muzzle of a Nambu resting against her temple. “Whatchu doin', honey?”

  Helen tried to speak, but she couldn’t; her heart detonated in her chest.

  Carmen sat up and whispered, “Spit it out or I give you to the Hapons and take my chances with Felipe later.”

  How did she know it was me? Helen found some breath to push over her vocal chords. “I...have...”

  “What?” The muzzle pressed harder.

  “I have to get back into the captain's cabin.”

  Carmen shook her head in the dark. “The captain no like you disease, honey. You go home.”

  “What?”

  “Last night. Yawata told me.”

  Yawata. The captain's orderly. The young boy had leered at her as she scrubbed the captain’s stateroom and bathroom. Once while she was on the foredeck, waiting for torpedo practice to finish, he had brushed against her.

  It hit her. Home! If they sent her home there would be no chance to get the pouch. Helen bowed her head for a moment, desperately thinking.

  “Outta here, bitch.” The muzzle tapped her on the nose.

  Only one trump card, now. She had to play it. “I...I heard the Japs killed your father.”

  “Bastard!” Carman smacked the pistol across Helen’s temple.

  “What?” Helen blinked her eyes. It took a moment to realize she was on the floor. And on her back. Carmen sat on her chest, shoving the pistol barrel in Helen’s mouth.

  “Where you hear?”

  Helen gurgled.

  Carmen pulled the pistol from Helen’s mouth and backhanded her. “Where?”

  Unaccountably Helen realized there was no snoring. There were all awake now. And listening. “The Japs!” she yelled, wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth. “That lieutenant. Jimbo. He brags about it. I thought you knew.” It was true. Helen and some of the other women had seen Jimbo making great sword-chopping motions each time Carmen walked nearby. And he would mutter in pigeon-English, ‘How can we trust her? Better off dead like her father.’ After a while, Helen pieced together that Carmen’s father had been blowing up bridges at night while custom tailoring uniforms for the Japanese by day.

  Carmen slapped her again. “He’s lying!”

  Young Mercado Colombo wept openly now, her chest heaving with great, racking sobs. Then another joined in. Then another.

  With amazing alacrity, Carmen jumped to her feet. Waving the pistol in the air she yelled into the room, “Alla you. Shut up!” She repeated it in Tagalog.

  The door creaked o
pen. In the shadows a guard popped his head in as Carmen crouched behind her tent flap. Then another looked in. The room became silent as they peered inside. One laughed and spoke to the other, their thoughts obvious as they closed the door.

  Carmen went to her bed and sat. Giving a long sigh, she said, “Go to sleep.”

  “I have to get in there.”

  “What for? That damned bag?” Carmen shoved the Nambu under the pillow and leaned close. Her eyes were slits and her tongue flicked over her lips. “Look. I get it for you. How much you pay me?”

  “It has to be me. I know what I'm looking for.”

  “Let me help you out, honey.” Carmen laid a hand on Helen's forearm, her voice changing from a 100 to a 600 grit.

  “Please. I'm the one who has to get in there. I'll see that you're well paid.”

  Carmen lay back and pulled the blanket over her. With her hands under her head, she said, “Can't. Captain no want your diseases in his room.”

  “But---”

  “Truck at noon. I done my bargain. We go to Maugahay; trade you in.” Carmen seemed pleased with that, for she chuckled.

  “Please” Helen grabbed the blanket.

  Something rustled. Suddenly the Nambu was under her chin. “Go,” Carmen hissed. “You wanna do business, think of what I said. You have 'til noon.” She pushed the Nambu hard. “Hapons don' care if this thing goes off. They just throw your carcass to the sharks. And no more you say anything about my pop.”

  Helen backed out and crawled to her bunk. By the time she was under her blanket, it had stopped raining. But she didn't sleep.

  By the next morning, the clouds had disappeared. The sky was a clear, brilliant blue, washed clean by last night's rain. At eleven o’clock an olive-drab sedan drew before the barge and Fujimoto, Kunisawa and Jimbo walked down the gangway. A sailor snapped open the doors for them and they drove off. Helen, on hands and knees, scrubbed the second deck, watching them go. With puddles gleaming here and there, her work was easy, but her mind turned frantically.

  The captain was gone. His stateroom door was just ten feet away, but she was guarded by a decrepit army corporal of at least fifty years, who sat dozing in the shadows of a lifeboat, his rifle balanced across his lap. If only---