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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  After forty-five minutes of chewing up the ocean, Fujimoto resumed the conn, and rang up all ahead flank. At maximum speed--the knotmeter hovered at just under thirty-five knots--and raced by the ammunition barge, clearing it by no more than ten meters, everyone laughing as the barge violently heaved and bounced in their wake.

  A shadow crossed Fujimoto’s face as he called, “Action stations, surface. Stand by for torpedo exercise.” Then he turned the conn over to Kunisawa, as the crew ran to their stations. Walking aft, he joined the Shōsō and his flag lieutenant near the signal bridge. Noticing his father’s raised eyebrows, Fujimoto said, “Kunisawa is the best shiphandler in the Navy. Let him make the attack. Besides, I’ve had my fun for the day.”

  The Shōsō nodded in agreement. “What type of approach do you intend?”

  “Straight on.”

  “Ummm. Not much of a challenge.”

  “I agree Sir, but the purpose of this exercise is to prove the depth-engine retrofit design. So I want to reduce the margin for error, and Kunisawa’s exact conning is one way to ensure that.”

  “Ummm.” The Shōsō scratched his chin. “I agree.” Then he looked up with glittering eyes. “Hisa, you’ll make a Naval officer, yet.”

  Fujimoto nodded in acknowledgment of his back-handed compliment. He added, “Well, I---”

  Just then they heard shouting on the main deck. The three of them leaned over the bulwark to see four sailors pulling aboard a struggling Pablo Amador from over the side. As they flung him to the deck and jumped on him, Fujimoto cupped his hands and yelled, “Petty Officer Abe?”

  Abe, a thin gunner’s mate looked up, while holding Amador’ jerking right leg. “Yes, Sir?”

  “What happened?”

  “He jumped, Sir. We just caught his leg in time.”

  “Don’t let him be harmed, Katsi. We need him in Manila,” said the Shs.

  “Yes, Father.” Fujimoto yelled down again. “Tie him to the boat davit. Make sure he can see the barge. Have a guard standing by to make sure his eyes are open.”

  Yes, Sir.”

  “You better give him some water.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Very good, Katsi,” said the Shs.

  Fujimoto was keeping score. His father, always remote, standoffish, forever distant, had complimented him twice today. Amazing.

  The sound powered phone buzzed. Fujimoto snatched it from its bracket and snapped, “Captain.” He listened then said, “that’s right Ogata. Confirm twenty-five knots own ship’s speed. Launch torpedoes at three thousand meters. Use high speed setting on the torpedoes and set depth at one and a half meters. Now read that back to me. What? Yes. Set depth at four feet then.”

  Fujimoto nodded as Ogata repeated the instructions. “Very well.” he hung up and called forward, “Carry out your orders, Mr. Kunisawa.” In an aside to his father he said, “you should have let the old man die. He’s been a thorn in our side for months.”

  The Shōsō rubbed his chin, “You have your prize for the day, your Commander Ingram. I need mine. I need Amador in Manila. If the Filipinos think Don Pablo Amador is cooperating with Vargas, then the whole resistance movement will shatter; not just here, but on Luzon, and Leyte, as well.”

  Fujimoto held his tongue. He supposed his father was right but he would just as well have seen Amador tied up and chained on the barge with Ingram.

  Kunisawa opened out to ten thousand meters, then eased into a turn to port, reduced speed to twenty-five knots, and began his run in. Clean, white water peeled off the Namikazi’s bow as she steadied on course; her stern-wake a straight, chalky, foam extending far behind.

  Fujimoto almost had to bite his lip as the barge grew larger in his binocular lens. The fact that the American was going to die far outweighed any proof of concept on the Mark 15 torpedo. That’s what they all were here. To watch an execution. After all, Japan’s Type 93 was far superior, so why worry? Fujimoto knew his father, and judging from the way the Shōsō licked his lips, he felt the same way. Everyone wanted a big explosion and damnit, that’s what he would deliver. He propped his elbows on the bulwark, steadying his binoculars, to watch the problem develop. As expected, Kunisawa was conning a perfect run. A thousand meters to go, everything had been--Damnit!”

  “What?” said the Shs.

  “I forgot to give Ogata the gyro angle.” Fujimoto reached for the sound-power phone.

  The Shōsō reached and held his arm. “You trained Ogata?”

  “Of course.” He jerked against the pressure of the Shs‘s hand. “Please, Sir, it’s almost time.”

  “Let’s inject a variable element in this exercise, Katsi. Under normal conditions, Lieutenant Ogata is supposed to determine his own gyro angles. Correct?”

  Fujimoto jerked at the phone, but his father wouldn’t let go. “Yes---correct.”

  “Then, take it easy. You have nothing to worry about. After all, you trained Ogata. Let’s see if he uses initiative and enters the correct gyro angle.”

  “Sir-- “

  “Isn’t this what Kunisawa taught us? To be sailors? To develop our own initiative?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Fujimoto let the phone go, then checked the range indicator. It was almost too late anyway, with the target range showing thirty-two hundred meters. Again, he raised his binoculars, trying to pick out the three figures chained to the barge’s deck. One’s head was on its knees. It must be the Filipino; he wore the blue denim sinamay of the defunct Philippine Army. On the other side was the sailor, also in denims and the white hat of the U.S. Navy. In the middle was--

  The forward torpedo mount coughed, a Mark 15 torpedo leaping from its tube, it’s counter-rotating propellers already spinning as it hit the water with a soft splash. Two more torpedoes quickly followed at two second intervals, leaving bubbling wakes that streaked directly for the barge.

  Fujimoto checked the range indicator. Perfect, three thousand meters.

  “Looks good, Katsi,” said the Shs, loudly, to all those in earshot. “Lieutenant Ogata used his initiative. And he fired at the right time. Yes?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Fujimoto muttered. He hated it when his father subtlety crushed him in front of others.

  The bridge was quiet as they watched the torpedoes race directly to the barge.

  “Captain?” It was Kunisawa, a grin stretched across his face.

  “Yes, Mr. Kunisawa,” Fujimoto growled louder than he intended.

  Kunisawa reached for his flask, but thought better of it. “How close do you want to get to that thing before it goes ‘boom.’“

  They were still on their firing leg; a course that would take them close to the barge. Yes, it was time to turn, and Kunisawa was being insolent. Fujimoto ground his teeth knowing he would have to deal with it later. Trying to sound as detached as possible, he said, “Please come left to a retiring course, Mr. Kunisawa.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” Kunisawa ordered a gentle ten degrees left rudder eventually steadying on a course to open the range comfortably, while still providing the Shōsō and his entourage a magnificent view of the fireworks off the Namikazi’s starboard quarter.

  The three wakes, as if riding down an invisible wire, continued their sprint directly toward the barge.

  Ingram had said his prayers over and over. After a while, Seltzer joined, and then sobbed as the Namikaze steamed toward them, “The bastards have launched!”

  Ingram felt cold, as if he were already dead, squinting to find the wakes, but they sat too low to the water.

  After a while, Seltzer jerked against his chain and cried out, “Jesus.”

  Ingram saw them too: Three missiles of death, spearing there way right toward them. “My God.”

  On they came, long white arrows, reaching at them from the horizon.

  The destroyer eased into a shallow left turn to clear the impact area and Ingram sobbed again, “Oh, God.” If he had a machete he would have cut off his hands and legs and jumped clear. No!
How can you cut off your hands and legs and jump?

  He looked again, fascinated, as the deadly wakes grew larger. Here they--

  BONG! CLUNK!

  The third torpedo missed the bow by two feet and raced on toward the Butuan coastline.

  The ancient, mongrel seagull that had been sitting on the roof, squawked and flapped its wings, rising to circle the barge, scanning the blue waters of Butuan Bay for a late afternoon meal.

  They gaped at it. “Popeye,” grunted Seltzer.

  “It’s like he knows more than we do.” Ingram watched the gull rise and play off the little air currents eddying around the barge.

  Seeing nothing of interest, Popeye squawked again and soared back to the roof landing with a flourish. He shook himself, then tucked his beak under a wing, resuming his nap.

  Seltzer clanked at his chains, “Sir?”

  “Yeah?”

  “The guy who said there’s no atheists in foxholes really was right, wasn’t he?”

  “You bet.”

  CHAPTER FORTY NINE

  17 November, 1942

  Service Barge 212, Nasipit, Mindanao

  Philippines

  The dimly lit machine shop was crammed with grinders, lathes and drill presses. A set of double sliding wooden doors gave onto the bow and rumbled open and closed each time someone came in. For now, they were open and Ingram could see stars twinkling over Butuan Bay; a sight, six hours ago, he thought was lost to him forever. On the far bulkhead were three, gleaming torpedoes sitting in racks, the top two fueled and ready to go, their warheads packed with 600 pounds of torpex. These were two of the three that had been fired at him today, grim reminders that the man with the dark robe and scythe had taken a twenty-four hour rain check.

  But something was wrong. There were three torpedoes. Two of them looked like the normal Mark 15s, but... My God. The third torpedo was unlike anything he’d ever seen. It was at least six feet longer than the twenty-four foot Mark 15, and much wider. Yes! It was just like the torpedoes he’d seen on the bottom of Tulagi Harbor; the ones that had tumbled from the Japanese destroyer into the sand. The torpedo, whose plans, according to DeWitt, were in Helen’s hands.

  I hope you’re safe, honey.

  A technician walked over to one of the Mark 15 torpedoes and inserted a set of calipers into a nine-inch diameter hole in the warhead. It was a cavity Ingram knew that contained the Mark 5 contact exploder. With a grunt of satisfaction, he returned to the bench, where Fujimoto and three more technicians muttered to one another as they flipped through manuals. Like a cadaver in the morgue, a Mark 5 exploder lay dissembled before them, its glistening little parts scattered over the workbench.

  One torpedo had missed today and sank at the end of its run The other two torpedoes had buried their noses a foot or two into the barge's side and failed to explode. The heavily compartmented barge was in no danger of sinking and an enraged Fujimoto sent over a crew of nervous, fingernail-chewing torpedomen, who tip-toed around, deadly afraid of jostling the torpedoes’ arming device. With Ingram, Seltzer, and Legaspi holding their breath, the torpedomen managed to rig a chain falls, ease the two torpedoes out far enough, where, very carefully, the exploders were unscrewed, pulled from the torpedo warhead and disarmed, no easy task since the Mark 5 exploder weighed ninety pounds.

  After that, the torpedoes were hauled out and hoisted aboard the Namikaze. Fujimoto sent over a diver, who slapped a temporary patch over the two holes and soon the Namikaze towed the ammunition barge back to Nasipit, where the torpedoes were offloaded for servicing.

  And now, Fujimoto and his torpedomen clanked their tools, Kunisawa paced before Ingram, his convoluted sense of humor gone. Perhaps he was too drunk, Ingram thought. He’d been hitting his flask all day. Even now he took another swig. “Today, we were ashamed, and embarrassed before the Shs. And you know why?” Kunisawa pointed at the Mark 5 exploder. “It’s because your torpedo is a piece of crap. Not only are your depth sensors faulty, your,” he asked Fujimoto a question who grunted an affirmative, “yes, it's the firing pin blocks in that exploder that are all wrong.” He pointed. “That damned exploder looks like it was designed by the Marx Brothers. No wonder you Americans are losing the war. Who’s running things in Washington anyway? John Dillinger? Al Capone? I mean, this is so embarrassing, the Shōsō plans to return to Manila first thing tomorrow morning. He’s disgusted with the whole mess. And damnit, so am I.”

  Ingram looked up from a bowl of rice to see Kunisawa’s face was flushed, almost as if the warrant officer really cared about what was happening in the United States. Then, Ingram took a long drink of water, shoveled some rice, then returned to rich chunks of lechon, roast pig, that Fujimoto’s orderly had brought in.

  Kunisawa saw Ingram’s eyes flick to the Japanese torpedo. “You like it?”

  Ingram nodded. “A monster.”

  “It’s our Type 93. Goes like hell. Blow up a battleship. In fact, we sank your carrier Hornet with just four of these.”

  For a moment, Ingram scanned the Type 93. It was big, and it looked very, very deadly. “How big’s the warhead.”

  “About a thousand pounds.”

  Good Lord. No wonder the thing had blown Toliver off the pilot house. “That’s nice.”

  Kunisawa ignored the remark, then bent over. “You know why you’re eating so well, don’t you?”

  The lechon was good and they had also given him basi served in a delicate little cup. He'd set it aside, saving it for last. “Ummmmpf, thanks,” he said, around a mouthful of roast pork.

  “You’re welcome. The truth is, we want you to be healthy. To feel your best. Rather than a moaning, delirious, derelict, we want you to be totally conscious when you see those torpedoes coming at you tomorrow. We want you to know you’re finally going to get it,” Kunisawa hissed, dropping to his knees, trying to catch Ingram’s eye.

  Ingram kept munching.

  “How did it feel today?” Kunisawa took another swig.

  With the food, Ingram felt a lot better, the sugar hitting his system like a shot of adrenalin. Yet, it still hurt to breath, and his left side throbbed in the kidney area. But he couldn’t resist the food and said through stuffed cheeks, “One torpedo missed. Crappy aim. Thought you were better than that.”

  Kunisawa stood over him. “Now you’re getting cocky.”

  Fujimoto shouted and stood up grinning, triumphantly waving a small part in the air.

  Kunisawa slapped his knee and shouted back, “Hei, Hei,” and bowed. Then he leaned down to Ingram. “You hear that, Commander?”

  “Every word,” he said, his cheeks crammed with baked noodles.

  “Very funny. Your firing pin blocks are too heavy. At the high-speed setting, they can’t handle the inertial forces at impact...”

  Ingram stopped, his wooden spoon half-way to his mouth.

  “...I thought that would interest you. The firing pin guide pins are made of steel. They’re too heavy, their weight makes them bend and go cross-eyed when the torpedo hits the target. That means the firing pin can’t reach the detonator...”

  Ingram took his bite.

  “...the fix is relatively simple. Tonight we're going to make a much lighter set of guide pins. Instead of steel, Commander Fujimoto has specified an aluminum alloy. Less weight, the firing pin can slide on the guide, as designed, hit the detonator and Bam!” Kunisawa whacked a palm with his fist.” Tomorrow we find out. Maybe you’ll be lucky and something else will go wrong, and you will live another day. Then you can slop up more roast pig, ehhh?” He checked his watch against the clock on the bulkhead. “Umm. Nine o’clock.” He wound it and looked at Ingram, a thin smile playing across his lips. “Nice watch. Radium dial. Glows in the dark.”

  “Have a good time, Tojo.”

  Kunisawa blinked and then spoke to Fujimoto. “Time for us to get underway, Commander.” He picked up a flashlight and thumbed out Morse code for the letters QQT.

  Ingram couldn't control the involuntary
flinch. QQT. It was the recognition signal he was supposed to flash to the Turbot. How did he know? Unless they had read the cheat sheet he’d packed with the supplies.

  Kunisawa must have been enjoying Ingram’s discomfort. “Yes. QQT. Thanks for being so thorough and writing everything down, Commander. Lieutenant Jimbo is on the beach now at Buenavista wearing a set of your khakis and cap, waiting to flash the signal when the sub surfaces. He speaks pretty good English so he should have no trouble with the walkie-talkie. And after we’ve dusted off the Turbot tonight, you and your friends get to go for another joy-ride tomorrow.”

  Fujimoto came up and tested Ingram’s chains and nodded to a guard who stepped back. Then he looked at Ingram and spoke at some length.

  “Strange,” said Kunisawa. “Commander Fujimoto says he is no longer angry with you. He feels only pity, and sadness. He wants to respect his enemy. And you, he respected until he saw the shabby torpedo design. ‘How can you be a proper warrior without the proper equipment,’ he wonders. How can you have a fair fight?”

  Rage rose within Ingram. How could this bastard refer to his country’s rape and murder of millions of civilians a fair fight? He swallowed rice and said quietly. “Are you asking me?”

  Kunisawa nodded. “You could do him the courtesy of an answer.”

  Ingram’s chains clanked as he shifted in his chair. “It’s our own brand of chivalry. We’ll out produce you.”

  Kunisawa laughed, then translated.

  Fujimoto must have understood, for he immediately smiled and then spoke.

  “Please, Commander Fujimoto says. You can out produce us with all the Mark 15 torpedoes you can make. But it still will not be a fair fight.”

  “No. We’re going to do it with typewriters.”

  “What?”

  “Typewriters, Tojo. We’ll build so damn many, that all we have to do is stack the crates thirty feet high on the beachheads. We’ll crush you to death. Then, when the war's over we'll have all these typewriters ready to go, instead of a bunch of surplus tanks.”