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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Ingram pounded his fist on the forward bulwark. Damnit. I need steering.

  The fo’c’sle was still a blazing mess, airplane wreckage littered about the main deck, 01 level and the bridge. The damage control party shot the flames with hissing bottles of fire retardant, as other men dashed about, heaving flaming pieces over the side, pulling away wounded. On the main deck, mount fifty-one’s barrel pointed in the air at an obscene angle, the rest of its quarter-inch, steel-plated gun shield smashed to pieces by the Japanese dive-bomber. Mount fifty-two, on the deck above was engulfed in hi-octane flames.

  Just below, on the 01 deck, a man clutching a five-inch projectile to his chest, staggered to the port side and heaved it into the ocean. His hair was singed black, dark smears covered his face and his blue dungaree shirt smoked and hung to his back in tatters.

  Seltzer! Impossible!

  One look at the flaming mount fifty-two had made Ingram assume they were all dead.

  “Leo!”

  Seltzer turned and then headed back for the mount fifty-two’s hatch.

  “Seltzer. Up here.”

  Seltzer turned and looked up, shading his eyes. “Sir?”

  “You all right?”

  “Like a French fry.”

  “What?”

  “I’m fine, Sir.”

  “How about your crew?”

  “Three dead, two wounded, the rest working the fire party.”

  “I need you in secondary conn.”

  “What?”

  “We have no helm up here. Grab a pair of phones and get to secondary conn. Now!” Behind a curved windbreak, Secondary conn was an emergency steering station on the 01 deck just forward of the aft stack. It was equipped with a small ship’s wheel, binnacle and engine room telegraph.

  “Yes, Sir.” Seltzer dashed off.

  Two corpsmen wearing helmets with red crosses painted on the sides, had dashed onto the bridge and were kneeling by Landa. One was Monaghan who quickly opened a kit, took out a stethoscope, ripped open Landa’s shirt.

  Ingram tapped him on the shoulder. “How is he?”

  Monaghan kept working. “Dunno, Sir. He’s lost a lot of blood. Looks like a sucking chest wound.”

  Gently, Monaghan eased the shrapnel out of Landa’s chest and tossed it aside. The sucking sound became much louder, with Landa unconscious and very pale.

  “How about Mr. Robertson and Mr. O'Donnell?”

  Monaghan turned, his eyes like dark brown saucers. “Both dead, I’m afraid. Sorry, Sir.”

  Ingram knelt close. “What do we do?”

  Monaghan rubbed a hand over his face. “Not sure.”

  Landa gave another loud gasp, turning a whiter shade of blue-white.

  “What do you mean ‘not sure?’“

  “Damn pulse is a thousand miles an hour.”

  “Well, what?”

  “Sir,” Monaghan said. “He needs a chest tube right now. And somebody has to gross stitch his puncture wound.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Er, close the damned thing. Fast. Forget the cosmetics.”

  “Well, take him below and do it.”

  “No time. Has to be done right here.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Sir, I only did it once. I’m not a doctor. You need an x-ray machine, and I have to have--”

  Ingram grabbed Monaghan’s forearm. “Sailor, our captain will die if you don’t do something.”

  Monaghan sank back on his knees and shook his head. “I just don’t...” Looking at his assistant, a third class named Hopkins, he asked, “Tom?”

  “Huh?”

  Something clicked in Monaghan eyes. “Tom, help me roll him on his right side and hold his arm up, away from the wound.”

  Hopkins rolled Landa, who gave another long gasp. Monaghan dug in his kit. “Jesus, where is it?” With a sob, he pulled out a thick tube, a quart size bottle, a peon, and several hemostats.

  “Do your best Monaghan.” Ingram rose and patted the corpsman on the shoulder.

  “Yes, sir.” Monaghan began stringing a silk suture into a needle.

  “Todd.” It was Dutton up from CIC, his face turning to ashen white when he looked at Landa. His mouth opened and he swallowed several times trying to absorb the carnage around him. “Ohhh shit.”

  “Come on, Luther.”

  “Where is everybody?”

  “Dead or wounded.”

  Dutton's Adam's apple bounced up and down as he tried to speak. Finally he looked at Monaghan taking three quick stitches in Landa’s chest. “You’re not going to let Romeo work on him.”

  “Any better ideas?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Punctured lung.” Ingram drew Dutton away from the corpsmen and their patient.

  “Look. Our main problem is trying to regain steering. Got any ideas?”

  “Get someone into after-steering or secondary conn.”

  “After-steering is out for now. It may be phone lines. I have Seltzer going for secondary-conn, now.”

  “That should do it.”

  “Right. So, why don't you grab some phones and take over gun control.”

  “Where’s Justice?”

  “No idea.”

  “Okay.” Dutton headed for the top of the pilot house.

  Ingram picked up a set of phones from where Landa lay, plugged in, and frantically twisted the barrel switch, looking for Seltzer. Clicking through the circuits, he heard some talkers speaking in dry, bored tones, giving status reports as if it were Sunday afternoon in Moline, Iowa. Others yelled in panic, demanding help, demanding shoring, CO2 bottles, more men, corpsmen. Ingram leaned outboard, to see if Seltzer had reached secondary conn.

  Seltzer was there, phones on, doing the same thing as he flipped through his circuits. He looked up and waved, pointing to his earphones.

  Frantically, Ingram rotated the barrel selector switch, ...9JZ, 3JZ, 4JZ. Static! “Seltzer? That you?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Do you have power?”

  “Yes, Sir. Just came up. The rudder is answering.”

  “Rudder amidships!”

  “Rudder amidships, aye.”

  The Howell eased from her turn and mercifully stood up straight, her course roughly parallel to the formation. At last. For the first time in the last terror-stricken minutes, Ingram felt a surge of relief. He took a deep breath. It felt good and he luxuriated in telling himself, we’re gonna be all right.

  “Hold on a second, Seltzer.” Ingram scrambled up the ladder, joining Dutton atop the pilot house where he had a much better view of secondary-conn and the surrounding ships. But the flames were hotter up here and thick black smoke poured off the fo’c’sle. They had to stand behind the gun director to shield themselves.

  “Sir, I can’t hold her steady.” Seltzer’s voice barely found its way among the groans of the dying, shouts of the living, screaming loud speakers, and cannon fire.

  “Bridge, aye.” He'd forgotten about the engines and leaned over and shouted to the pilot house. “Wilcox. All engines ahead full. Make turns for twenty-even knots.”

  Wilcox’s voice echoed up, “how do I do that?”

  “Shove the handles forward to the position just before ‘flank’. Then spin the dials on the pedestal to two hundred seventy.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Wilcox shoved the brass handles, the engine room answering with 'clink clink.'

  Ingram pressed the talk button. “Leo, how’s that?”

  Seltzer’s reply was full of static. “Feels fine, Sir.”

  “Bridge, aye.” Now for the fire.

  “Todd.” It was Dutton, his voice shaky. “Major problem in the forward magazine.”

  “Shit!”. Ingram’s gut tightened again. He looked over the side into the clear cool waters of the Pacific Ocean wondering if he should just get the hell out and jump, letting everybody blow up with the ship. “What?”

  “Aviation gas ran down the ammunition hoist. The fire is working its way into the h
andling room. It’s much too hot for the repair party to get in there.”

  “Tell ‘em to flood.”

  Dutton nearly shrieked. “Hatch won’t shut and it’s too hot to get against it. And live ammo is rolling around. We gotta get the fires out!”

  Ingram looked off to port. The South Dakota was about 1,000 yards off their quarter and barely pulling ahead. That’s it!

  “Luther. Get word to the fire party to clear the foredeck.

  “What?” Dutton gasped.

  “Do it!”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Ingram yelled into the mike, “Leo, come left ten degrees,”

  “Yes, Sir. Coming left to One-one-zero,” answered Seltzer.

  Ingram shouted, “Wilcox. Ring up all ahead flank. Indicate 300 turns.”

  “...three hundred turns...yes, sir...”

  'Clink. Clink.'

  The distance to the South Dakota closed to about 600 yards.

  Neat.

  With the ominous black smoke and flames roiling on the Howell’s foredeck, the South Dakota’s captain, like the captain of the Enterprise, leaned on his whistle: Five blasts: Don’t come near me, you crazy bastard.

  “Bridge, secondary conn. Mind if I ask what we’re doing, Sir?” It was a nervous Seltzer.

  Ingram shouted, “You’re doing fine, Leo. Wilcox! Ring up all ahead full and 250 turns.

  “Yes, Sir. Engine room answers, Sir.”

  “Good, Wilcox.” As the Howell slowed, Ingram realized he should have called Hank Kelly in main control and told him what was going on. Kelly and his snipes must be scared out of their pants. Soon, Hank, soon.

  “Todd.” yelled Dutton screeched. “That damned handling room bulkhead is turning red-hot.”

  “Another minute, Luther.” The South Dakota, her guns still roaring, boiled along just a hundred yards off their port bow, now pulling ahead. He horn still raged at them in short blasts.

  Ingram keyed his mike, “Leo. I want you to stick our nose behind the South Dakota and keep her there. Right in her wake.”

  “Now?”

  “Right, now.”

  Seltzer eased in left rudder, gently nosing the Howell into the South Dakota’s furious wake. The destroyer’s bow rose on the battleship's massive quarter-wave and smashed down, water spewing violently, as if she were in an Atlantic Storm. With the ship rolling heavily, Ingram leaned over and again shouted, “Wilcox. Increase speed on both engines to 270 turns.”

  “...Sir.”

  Seltzer steadied the Howell directly behind the South Dakota, the destroyer rising and pitching like a bronco in the Pendleton Roundup, throwing water in all directions. At times, her prow went under, then rose, lifting tons of white roiling water that cascaded down the deck, shoving hissing, steaming wreckage over the side.

  Several times, her nose buried, the flames dwindling to a patch just forward of mount fifty-two. Suddenly, the flames hissed out. And it was quiet: the world devoid of gunfire, of men screaming and shrieking, radial engines plummeting from 10,000 feet.

  Suddenly, the attack was over, and except for black smoke puffs, the sky was a crystalline blue, the Japanese gone. “Luther, how’s the forward magazine?”

  Dutton, his hands shaking, pressed his earphones against his ears. “Fire’s out. They’re handing up loose rounds.”

  Again, Ingram’s stomach unknotted.

  Okay, Breath.

  It felt good. He did it once more.

  “Okay. Give ‘em a ‘well done.’“ Then Ingram saw that Dutton’s hands shook. And his face was smeared completely black with smoke. “Luther, you look like Al Jolson doing some stupid Vaudeville act.” Then he looked at his own hands. They shook so hard, he couldn’t have buttoned a shirt, or picked up a fork. And then he ran a hand over his cheek and brought it away to see it smeared thick with oily, black smoke. He realized his face was as black as Dutton’s.

  He caught Dutton looking. Suddenly, both giggled as if they had just tipped over an outhouse on a dark Friday night, the outraged, schoolmaster trapped inside, screaming at the top of his lungs. Ingram had to key his mike button with a fist. “Seltzer. Come right to one-three-zero.”

  “One three zero, aye,” called Seltzer.

  “Very well. Luther, call ‘cease fire.’”

  “Cease fire, aye,” repeated Dutton.

  He told Wilcox to ring up flank speed and they drew from the South Dakota's wake, dashing ahead to resume station on the three thousand yard circle.

  On the deck below, Monaghan and Hopkins gently eased Landa on the stokes litter. Ingram nudged Dutton with an elbow. “Look at that.”

  Landa’s color was back. His eyes were open and he gave a faint smile.

  Ingram and Dutton grinned back and saluted.

  Landa raised an arm and tipped two fingers to his forehead. His lips moved, but Ingram couldn’t hear what it was.

  “I’ll be damned.” Dutton called down, “Hey Romeo, what the hell did you do?”

  Monaghan, looking as surprised as everyone else, returned his instruments to his kit. “Pinked up pretty good, didn’t he, Sir?”

  “Where did you learn how to do that?” shouted Dutton.

  “Three-week course on the back of a match-book cover, Sir. Only cost twenty bucks.”

  “Well done, Monaghan,” Ingram said. “Take him to his day cabin and make him comfortable.”

  “We also do lobotomies, Mr. Dutton. That costs a little more, thirty bucks. But for you there is no charge. And easy credit terms for your mother-in-law. Please let me know if I can--”

  “Get moving, Monaghan.”

  Gently, Monaghan picked up the stretcher’s head, Hopkins the tail end. “Yes, Sir. Captain to his day cabin, Sir.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  26 October, 1942

  U.S.S. Howell (DD 482)

  120 Miles North Of The Santa Cruz Islands

  8˚32.3' S; 165˚19.3' E

  The American strike staggered in from the northwest: Dauntlesses, Avengers and Wildcats; tired, shot-up, low on fuel, struggling to land on the Enterprise. Even as they approached, the carrier’s shipfitters frantically worked to fix the flight deck bomb damage. And her forward elevator was frozen in the ‘up’ position making it near-impossible to strike aircraft below to the hanger deck. Thus, the more seriously damaged aircraft were pushed over the side. On top of that, the Hornet’s planes returning from their strike, found their ship a hopelessly burning derelict. They crowded into the Enterprise’s landing pattern and once down, were simply pushed over the side to make room for the rest.

  Shortly after ten, Ingram was on the bridge stepping around wreckage, junk, tool boxes and fire-hoses, when he heard an enormous 'CRACK' off to starboard. Everyone stopped in mid-stride, their mouths open in disbelief as a tall water column hissed high in the air alongside the Porter. A Japanese submarine had torpedoed her when she stopped to recover a pilot and gunner from an SBD that overshot the Enterprise and ran out of fuel before it could go around. Immediately, the Shaw reported sonar contact and dumped pattern after pattern of depth charges, chewing up the sea, as the rest of Task Force 16 ran for cover.

  With the Porter’s back broken, The Shaw took the Porter's crew aboard including a livid Rocko Myszynski. Then, with a liberal dose of five-inch gun-fire from the Shaw, the Porter rolled over and sank with eleven dead still in her mangled forward fireroom. Vale. Vale. Vale.

  By mid-afternoon, the Hornet, a white-hot burning hulk, had long been abandoned, and lay dead in the water listing twenty degrees to starboard. Thick black smoke poured from every door, hatch, elevator shaft, as thundering explosions continued to savage her length, tearing her guts out. Sailors on ships nearby, like mourner's on Abraham Lincoln's front porch, knew the Hornet was mortally wounded; that it was just a matter of time.

  From Noumea, Halsey ordered her sunk, lest the Japanese, now approaching with a numerically superior force, douse the fires and take her in tow.

  Rather than risk a highline transfer to Ent
erprise's overflowing sickbay, Monaghan recommended that Landa and the other wounded remain aboard. So at 1535 that afternoon, the Howell, her foredeck and bridge blackened as if Vulcan himself had exhaled his rage on her, was ordered to Espiritu Santo, three hundred miles to the south. There her wounded would be transferred to the hospital ship, U.S.S. Haven (AH 7): The ETA early next morning. The seas rose with a moderate chop and they rode with occasional spray breaking over the bow, soaking the men who were cleaning the rest of the junk off the forecastle, welding holes in the main deck to make the ship seaworthy. The weather report was favorable. The wounded were in the wardroom which had been converted to a temporary sickbay, where Monaghan assured Ingram that the burn victims appeared to be having a comfortable ride.

  But fifteen minutes later, the Enterprise’s signal light, barely visible on the northeastern horizon, blinked another message to the Howell as she ran south. Briley, the signalman, clacked out the acknowledgment, then handed it to Ingram. Luther Dutton, who had the afternoon watch as OOD, walked up and read over his shoulder.

  Just then Hank Kelly came up to the bridge and stood at the starboard wing. Wearing his engineer’s coveralls, his face was beet-red from the forward engineroom’s 110 degree heat. Like a dog sticking his head out of a car’s passenger window, he let the twenty-five knot relative breeze cool his face. After a while, he stepped over. “What have they cooked up now?”

  Ingram rubbed his chin. “We’re to join the Anderson and Mustin who are trying to sink the Hornet. They want us to use torpedoes. They’ve already launched their own ‘without effect,’ the message says. “ He turned to Dutton. “Better head over there, Luther and go to battle stations on the torpedo mounts.” He nodded to a tall column of smoke to the west; the Hornet’s funeral pyre.

  Dutton gave the order as Kelly mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “God. You’d think they could tow her.”

  Ingram scratched his head. “She must be in terrible shape. Says here that if our torpedoes don’t do it, they’ll sink her with five inch.” Ingram checked the compass repeater. Hopkins, the helmsman, was steering from inside the pilot house, the damage controlmen having repaired the helm.