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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

Toliver enjoyed his own food. “Ummmfff.”

  “You made Suzy very happy. Can you really do that?”

  Toliver’s eyes focused for a moment. “Actually, yes. A buddy of mine is a courier for COMSOWESPAC. I saw him a couple of days ago, Said he leaves for Brisbane in two days. I’ll get a letter off to Otis. Should take a week to find out.”

  “What a wonderful thing for you to do.” Dezhnev patted Toliver’s back and drank. “Uhhhrah!”

  “Uhhhrah!” Toliver took a long swig of Dezhnev’s scotch. “Such a nice kid.” Then he thumped down the glass and fumbled for a moment with chopsticks. He grinned at a surprised Dezhnev, as he expertly articulated the chopsticks and dug into mu shu pork. “Fantastic.”

  “Ummm,” agreed Dezhnev. He’d given up the challenge of the chopsticks and switched to a fork.

  As he chewed, Toliver’s mind swirled through a fog. A voice told him , Let the dead bury the dead. “You’re tight, Ed.”

  “Da.”

  Toliver felt the glow within. For the first time in months, he felt relaxed and he sensed that maybe in this world, there was a place for him after this terrible war. Maybe it would be just a simple task. Hopefully, it would be something where he could make at least a small difference. “Glad you called, Ed.”

  “Da.”

  Last night, Toliver had thought about jumping out the window and hadn’t fallen asleep until sunrise. When Dezhnev called, he was close to tears, wondering how he could survive another night seeing and hearing the ghosts of his dead comrades entombed in the U.S.S. Riley.

  Let the dead bury the dead. Tonight, he would sleep well. Very well.

  It became quiet at Wong Lee’s so Suzy joined Dezhnev and Toliver around ten when they moved to the bar and drank some more. She taught them phrases of Chinese and Dezhnev taught them Russian. After a while they sang Russian drinking songs, Dezhnev later filling the air with the melodious, mournful tones of Russian folk music. They closed the evening with a horrendous rendition of Volga Boatman, Toliver grunting “Uhhh!” after each’ yo, ho, heave, ho.’ After that, Suzy called a cab and Dezhnev dumped a wobbly Toliver into the arms of the St. Francis’s doorman.

  Dezhnev walked in the Consulate door fifteen minutes later. Zenit waited in the lobby. “Well?”

  A woozy Dezhnev told him everything.

  Zenit stood. “You must inform Beria at once. I expect to see a copy on my desk by nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  Dezhnev stood with Zenit and belched loudly.

  Zenit ignored him. “There is something else from when you dined with Toliver, DeWitt and Ingram.”

  Dezhnev tried to belch again couldn’t bring one up. “Yes?”

  “Colonel DeWitt’s authenticator code in the Philippines. What was it?”

  “Which column? Vertical or horizontal?”

  Zenit scratched his head, “I believe General Tatekawa wants the vertical column authenticator.”

  Dezhnev weaved for a moment. “Mmmmm. How much will you pay me for this information?”

  Zenit stood as straight as he could. “Lieutenant Dezhnev. This is no time for levity.”

  “---It’s captain third rank Dezhnev.”

  “Yes. Yes. Now please, no games. Tell me.”

  They hadn’t told Dezhnev anything. He’d overheard it outside the booth at Wong Lee’s last August; the night they were drinking hard, toasting the world and everything in it, and growling ‘uhhhrah!’ “It’s 1939.”

  “Send that, too. Apparently, it has been garbled somewhere along the line.” Then Zenit stalked off to bed.

  Sitting at the desk, Dezhnev stared at the wall for two hours, desperately trying to find a way out, a way to keep from cheating on his friend, Toliver; a man he’d grown to deeply admire.

  Finally, he shook his head, gave a long sigh, and wrote his message. At five in the morning, he shuffled up the back steps to the third floor where he handed it to the on-duty telegraphist. “Send that at once. And give Comrade Zenit a copy.”

  Then Eduard Dezhnev stumbled back to his room and collapsed onto his bed, fully clothed.

  While Dezhnev sank into unconsciousness, the telegraphist encrypted the message and sent it to Moscow Central.

  MOST SECRET

  TO: BERIA

  FM: DEZHNEV

  SUBJ: KOMET

  FOLLOWING SUGGESTED FOR FORWARDING TO TATEKAWA.

  1. RE: AMERICAN NAVY IN THE SOLOMONS:

  A. INTERVIEW WITH OFFICER/SURVIVOR OF CAPE ESPERANCE BATTLE SUGGESTS AMERICAN NAVY STILL COMPLETELY UNAWARE JAPANESE TORPEDO CAPABILITY.

  B. AMERICAN TORPEDOES CONTINUE TO BE INEFFECTIVE AND SUFFERING HIGH FAILURE RATES.

  C. AMERICAN NAVY NIGHT TACTICS IN SOLOMONS NOT WELL COORDINATED AND INEFFECTIVE DESPITE ADVANTAGE OF RADAR.

  2. RE: YOUR REQUIREMENTS FOR INFORMATION ON MINDANAO

  A. LEADER OF NORTHEAST MINDANAO (NASIPIT) IS PABLO AMADOR, LAND BARON AND ONCE DEPUTY MINISTER OF FINANCE TO PRESIDENT MANUEL QUEZON.

  B. ASSISTING HIM IS AMERICAN NURSE,( EX CORREGIDOR), HELEN DURAND, FIRST LIEUTENANT, U.S. ARMY.

  C. CHINESE-AMERICAN, WONG LEE, OF SAN FRANCISCO APPARENTLY TRAPPED ON MINDANAO AFTER JAPANESE INVASION. IF STILL ALIVE, COULD HAVE JOINED A RESISTANCE GROUP.

  D. VERTICAL AUTHENTICATOR, CHECKERBOARD CODE ‘ 1939.

  MESSAGE ENDS

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  12 November, 1942

  Buenavista, Agusan Province

  Mindanao, Philippine Islands

  Wong Lee carefully lowered the radio into the underground vault while outside lightning flashed and thunder rumbled. Through pounding rain he shouted, “Damn thing work okay?”

  “Good enough.” Amador leaned over his message pad, decoding. Helping in a seat opposite was Felipe Estaque.

  While Amador and Estaque worked, Legaspi gave Wong Lee a fierce look.

  Refusing to meet Legaspi’s eyes, Wong Lee scrambled down the ladder to arrange the equipment in the pit. The guerrillero was still angry at him Wong knew. Legaspi watched his every move. After all, wasn’t it Wong Lee’s fault that the transmitter was broken to begin with? It took nearly two weeks of tinkering to fix after night Wong let the rope slip through his hands, the transmitter crashing into the pit.

  And it was Wong Lee’s fault they missed the Needlefish. On the road to Cabadbaran that Saturday night, they hid in a grove when a Japanese patrol surprised them, dashing up from the rear. But Legaspi hid them in a swampy backwater. After an hour or so, the Japanese became confused and started yelling at each other. Giving up, they headed back to the road. A truck pulled up and they began to board.

  Wong stepped on something that slithered. He screamed, loudly.

  The Japanese sergeant shouted. Soldiers poured from the truck as a powerful spotlight snapped on and began sweeping. Soon, it outlined a skirmish line of soldiers two hundred yards long.

  Legaspi cursed and heaved a grenade shoving everyone further into the overgrowth. With the explosion, he deftly led them through the pitch-black swamp, while the Japanese fired flares and set up a machine gun. With the machinegun thumping away, Legaspi maneuvered them to higher country and away from the eager hands of the Kempetai.

  And away from Cabadbaran and the Needlefish rendezvous. Soldiers searched for them the rest of the night, and all next day. So much so, that Amador commented, “If I didn’t know any better, you’d think they were tipped off.”

  With a cigarette dangling from his lips, Wong Lee quickly climbed up the ladder, closed the trap door and kicked dirt over the top. Still avoiding Legaspi’s eyes, he brushed the floor with a sawali, a piece of split bamboo used for thatching. Then he stood aside waiting for Amador and Estaque to finish their work.

  Wong Lee took a last drag and was poised to flick the butt out the window when Legaspi waved a finger. “Jackass.”

  Wong Lee looked at the night. “It’s raining, who cares?”

  “Hapons pick it up, we dead.” Legaspi glared again, making Wong Lee feel as if the Filipino had thrust
his dagger right through him.

  “Okay.” Wong Lee squeezed out the ember between thumb and forefinger, field-stripped the cigarette, and stuffed the wadded paper in his pocket. He turned to Amador. “What’s the dope?”

  “Ummm.” Amador held up a match and lighted a piece of foolscap he’d used for a worksheet; then he dropped it into a metal ashtray. When the fire was out, he ground the ashes and scattered them out the window, and shouted at the door. “You done yet?”

  Helen Durand’s voice drifted in. “In a second.”

  “We’ll wait. You should hear this.”

  Something in Amador’s tone drew Wong Lee’s attention.

  Another bolt of lightning lit the night. Thunder crashed as Helen walked in, a large coil of uninsulated copper wire looped over her shoulder. “Anything exciting?” she asked, rain dripping off her floppy planter’s hat.

  “Just you.” Wong pointed to the antenna wire. “Another bolt like the last one and we see you become Mrs. Frankenstein.”

  Amador nodded. “You really should be careful, dear.”

  “I should be so lucky.” She finished coiling the wire and handed it to Wong Lee, who climbed up to a rafter and shoved it among the nipa palm.

  Amador leaned against an empty crate and read, “All right. Here it is. Otis is sending another submarine.” He slapped the message with the back of his hand. “It’s the U.S.S. Turbot and she’s bringing in five tons of equipment including,” he looked at Wong Lee, “a new radio. They’re giving us new M-1 carbines, it says; ammunition, grenades, food and medicine...umm let’s see, they’re due on the seventeenth, next Tuesday. Good, there should be no moon. And listen to this. They’re going to air-drop in a naval officer as a beach master to coordinate the landing. We pick him up at the Amparo Emergency Airstrip Early Tuesday morning.”

  Wong Lee offered, “I hope the weather clears.”

  “What else did Otis have to say?” Helen murmured.

  Running a hand through his long white hair, Amador smiled. “Colonel DeWitt sends his congratulations on getting the Japanese torpedo book. He has ordered you out, as before.”

  “Me too?” asked Wong Lee.

  “As long as you don’t step on snakes.”

  “Hubba hubba.” said Wong Lee.

  Helen put an arm around Wong’s shoulder. “They’re just being mean, Wong. Don’t worry.”

  Amador’s brow furrowed. “Actually, it was a most fortunately missed-rendezvous.”

  “Yes?”

  Amador re-read the message. “The Needlefish was lost with all hands a day out of Brisbane.”

  Helen sat on a crate and whipped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

  “Apparently, she hit a floating mine.”

  Wong Lee lit another cigarette, forgetting the one he’d balanced on the end of an empty oil drum. He looked at Legaspi. “Damn snake was my good luck charm.”

  Legaspi growled, “Too bad you weren’t on it.”

  Wong rose to his feet. “I’ve had enough of your shit.”

  Felipe Estaque shot to his feet and stood between them. “Let’s cool off.”

  Amador stepped over and crushed out Wong’s cigarette and stripped it for him. “He doesn’t mean it, Wong. Life goes on. You get to go home.”

  “You bet I’m going home. I’m a civilian. I’m tired of fighting this jerk’s wars for him.” Wong Lee thrust his chin toward Legaspi. “You can take your bug-infested country and stuff it, Mac.”

  Legaspi lunged at Wong Lee, but Estaque and Amador held them apart.

  Amador said, “Grow up, you two. Let’s not do the Hapon’s work for them.”

  Wong Lee took a seat across the room and crossed his arms. Suddenly, he yelled, “you sonofabitch. I’m an American you turd. And don’t you forget it.”

  Again, Legaspi tried to lunge but Amador and Estaque held him back. “Enough,” Amador shouted.

  Helen took a seat beside Wong and began massaging his back. “Come on Wong, what’s wrong with you?”

  Wong dropped his head in his hands. “Jitters, I guess. Too much of this. Going stir crazy, you know what I mean?”

  “I do.”

  Amador turned to Estaque and Legaspi. “The submarine will be vulnerable during offloading. So we must have lots of barrotos, Emilio.”

  With a final eye toward Wong Lee, Legaspi exhaled and nodded. “Si. All the barrotos not sunk by the Hapons.” Shortly after the occupation, the Japanese swarmed into Buenavista, seizing food and fishing equipment. Then, for good measure, they machine-gunned their boats.

  Amador asked, “How many do you think you can get?”

  “Oh, lots, lot of them.”

  “‘How many,’ I asked.”

  “Plenty, no worry.”

  An exasperated Estaque held out his hands. “From where?”

  “All over.”

  While they bickered, Helen recounted the past few days. She’d been lucky. Very lucky. The Japanese hadn’t seen through her leper ruse, Yawata hadn’t got his way, she’d recovered the torpedo manual and now this revelation. She’d missed the Needlefish. God had well blessed her. Please Lord, just five more days.

  Lightning flashed across Wong Lee’s face. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  Wong shook his head slowly, “Nothing’s getting in my way this time. Snakes or no snakes, I’m catching that pigboat.”

  “Can you believe it? Your snake saved us.”

  Wong shook his head. “All I know is that I’ve had enough of this crap. One way or another, I’m going to get on that sub and go home.”

  “What if she hits a mine?”

  “Then I’ll get out and push.”

  The storm settled to a steady downpour, pelting the storehouse. For a moment Helen watched the ceiling, amazed at the nipa’s durability. There were no leaks. “Some people are never satisfied.”

  “You have to reach for it, honey.”

  “Yes, but then you go home and they’ll probably draft you,” she said.

  His eyes twinkled. “Not this kid. I’m too old for the draft.”

  “Old enough to breath, old enough to serve.”

  Wong Lee grunted. “They’ll need a whole battalion to yank me from my restaurant.”

  “They’ll do it anyway. And after they capture you, you’re back in the Army.”

  “I’ll make a great cook.”

  “Just before they send you overseas, they give you lots of shots.”

  “Ouch.”

  “And then they send you right back here. So, why bother to leave at all?”

  “Not a chance, honey. Wong Lee is critical to the war effort. They need me home to make fortune cookies.”

  Helen smiled.

  “I love it when you do that. I bet he does, too.”

  “Who?”

  “Your Mr. Todd. Where’s his ring?”

  She grabbed Todd’s ring, then let it drop. “I told him I would keep it safe for him.”

  “He’s a lucky sonofabitch.”

  Her face grew dark and she looked outside. “Don’t count on it.”

  “Helen? I’m sorry.” A second ago she was laughing, holding my hand. What made her so mad?

  She whipped around. “How can anybody know in this mess? Maybe he’s dead. Maybe he has a girlfriend in...” she pointed east, “...in San Francisco. Maybe they sent him to Europe. Why should I care? He’s there and I...we’re here.”

  “But we’re soon going to be there.” Wong Lee shouted over booming thunder.

  She shouted back in the relative quiet, “But he doesn’t care. Why should he? San Francisco is soft and cushy. Women on every street corner.”

  “My God, Helen, what started this? I said I was sorry.” Wong reached for her.

  She stepped back and rasped, “Well, if he doesn’t care, then I don’t care, either.” She tugged at the ring, trying to rip it from her neck. But the lanyard was too strong. “Ohhhh. It doesn’t matter. Really it doesn’t. We’ve had so little time together. I hardly know him
.” Jamming her hat over her eyes, she dashed out of the hut and disappeared into the rain.

  Legaspi, Estaque and Amador watched her go. “What on earth? “asked Amador.

  Wong Lee scratched his head. “You know, Pablo? She really does love that guy. Heaven forbid if he crosses her. And if he does, I kill the sonofabitch myself. “

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  14 November, 1942

  U.S.S. Pembroke (DD 248)

  Moreton Bay, Queensland, Australia

  Built in 1918, the Pembroke, named after Commodore Thomas C. Pembroke, a Naval engineer of the previous century, was a four-stack destroyer of 1,340 tons and a once-proud member of the U.S. Asiatic Fleet based in Manila. In early 1942, she escaped the horrors of the Japanese attacks on Naval bases in Manila Bay, Cebu and Mindanao. Eventually, she made her way south to Australia just ahead of Japan’s invasion forces roaring through East Asia, on their way to occupy the Dutch East Indies. Now, the creaky destroyer, limped about on convoy duty, from Brisbane to Noumea to Fiji as far east as American Samoa, then back again. Rarely using more than two of her four boilers, the Pembroke could still make twenty-two knots, ducking among her brood of merchantmen, which doggedly plowed in their columns at a frustrating ten knots. It was a comfortable assignment for the old greyhound which was one of the few four-stackers that hadn’t been eviscerated for conversion to a high-speed troop transport, nor a minesweeper, minelayer, or seaplane tender. Indeed, she had her original engineering layout of four boilers and twin turbines, her four ancient, four-inch cannons, and two triple-mount torpedo tubes. Last month, her low, thin, silhouette was barely altered with the addition of new surface search radar. In December, she was scheduled to be fitted with modern scanning sonar, which would make her far more capable of sniffing out enemy submarines along her routes.

  But the Pembroke had been shifted from convoy duty to a strange task. For the past three days, she’d been assigned to firing torpedoes into a net hanging off a barge anchored three miles northwest of the Mooloolaba Harbor. No longer wallowing over moonlit, azure seas at ten knots, her crew grumbled as they stood at battle stations, their ship dashing past the barge at speeds varying from five to thirty knots, shooting Mark 15 torpedoes. Two sixty-foot torpedo retrievers, stood by recovering the torpedoes then delivering them back to the Pembroke for the next day’s firing. This meant the crew, primarily the Pembroke’s torpedo gang worked through the night, preparing their ‘tin fish’ as they called them, for the next day’s tests.