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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Kunisawa chuckled and translated.

  Fujimoto gave a wistful smile, stepped before Ingram, bowed and gave him a small salute. Then he walked over to a lathe and looked over a machinist’s shoulder for a moment, watching the man put finishing touches on the new set of firing pin guides.

  Lieutenant Tomo, the Admiral’s Aide, walked in and spoke with Fujimoto for a moment. Then he bowed and walked out.

  “Well, it seems the Shōsō will join us after-all and waits aboard the Namikaze. It sounds like tonight’s fun has just begun.”

  With a grunt of satisfaction to the lathe operator, Fujimoto took a last look at Ingram and walked out.

  Finish your meal in peace, Commander. Then they’ll take you to the brig. Until tomorrow.” He followed Fujimoto through the sliding door and thumped it shut behind him.

  Ingram took a deep breath and pushed his food aside, a third of it unfinished, his stomach winding into knots. The Turbot tonight, the ammunition barge tomorrow. What did it matter? In the next twenty-four hours everyone would be dead. He held his hands before his face to see them shaking. In fact, they had been shaking all evening, although he was damned if he was going to let Kunisawa or Fujimoto see. Then he picked up his cup of basi and knocked it back, letting the sweet, tender fire run down his throat. But instead of a soothing relaxation, it shocked him to the present; to the fact that over eighty officers and men aboard the U.S.S. Turbot were about to die, and there was nothing he could do. He sat, his head in his hands, rocking back and forth, frantically thinking of something. Anything.

  Two guards wordlessly lifted him by the elbows and prodded him to his feet, his chains clanking. Across the room the technicians twirled their screwdrivers, seating the new firing pin guides. They were cool, efficient, professional, as they snapped the firing pin a few times. Grunting in satisfaction, they began to insert the Mark 5 exploder into the cavity in the torpedo’s warhead.

  Ingram stumbled as the guards dragged him through the doorway and into the moonless night. One guard pulled the door closed and they stood for a moment to acclimate their eyes, Ingram slouching against the triple torpedo mount, looking into the gloom.

  He sensed something before he actually saw or heard it. Then the soft whine of ventilation blowers preceded a ghostly presence that eased its way down the repair barge’s port side. He was enveloped in the heat of a 27,000 horsepower engineering plant; it seemed like an evil spirit in a decrepit eighteenth century slum.

  Without running lights, the Namikazi's black shape slipped past like a wraith in the night. Water bubbled softy along her water line, and her tiny quarter waves slapped the barge. For a moment, he made out three figures grouped the starboard bridge-wing, their faces illuminated by the compass repeater’s red light, one of them pointing ahead; father, son and the ageless veteran who spanned both generations, toying with their war prize. The ship passed quickly, her silhouette vivid as she stood into the harbor entrance.

  Then the Namikaze slowed and stopped, almost as if frozen in place, going nowhere. In the distance, he heard a splash and the rattle of chain. Yes, she had anchored. With the blackout on the whole northern coast the Namikazi’s outline blended into Mindanao’s landmass.

  It came to Ingram that Fujimoto was content to stay right there, her nose barely poking from the harbor entrance, watching, waiting. At 0100, Lieutenant Jimbo, wearing Ingram’s uniform, would flash QQT from Buenavista. The Turbot would rise from fifty fathoms of water, just three hundred yards off the beach. Then, she would fling open all her hatches, bringing up five tons of cargo to load into twenty banca scheduled to swarm around her. That’s when Fujimoto would pounce. Cranking his ship up to thirty-five knots in complete darkness, he would be on the submarine in minutes and hit her without warning, blasting the Turbot to pieces with canon and machine-gun fire.

  The guards prodded him and, with chains clanking, he rose and shuffled aft, his lower back shooting pain each time he stepped.

  Behind, he heard a loud groan. Then another grunt followed by a soft splash. He turned to see a body tumble into the water between the barge and wharf. It was one of the guards, his body floating lifeless.

  What?

  Four figures emerged from the blackness. Two stooped at his feet, fumbling with the chains. Before him was Amador’s white mane, his arm in a crude sling.

  Then suddenly, a pair of arms wrapped around his neck. “Todd,” she murmured.

  My God. Her arms were around him. “Helen?” It was Helen. She kissed him, hard.

  Amador whispered, “Please, they can’t get to your chains.”

  Awkwardly, he stuck out his wrists; Helen still holding him with all her might. Keys jingled, the manacles and chains were softly eased to the deck. He threw his arms around her and held her close, kissing her neck, her lips. Her scent lingered in his nostrils; her arms around him. His Helen. His sweet, sweet Helen. “My God.”

  “Enough for now,” Said Amador, prying them apart. “Please.”

  He couldn’t help it, nor could she. They held one another, swaying and rocking as others pushed them into the dark seclusion of the midships passageway. They found themselves shuffling through a door and into a storeroom with just a seven watt bulb overhead. “Two minutes,” Amador whispered. The he closed the door softly.

  Helen shook as tears ran down her cheek. And he wiped them with the back of his hand only to discover tears ran down his cheeks as well.

  She stoked his hair, “It’s okay, honey.”

  He raised her head seeing her for the first time in six months, the pale light notwithstanding: Her face, her hair, and the whiteness of her teeth and the magnificent broad smile he had often dreamed of.

  “Helen.” He kissed her again and again.

  She managed to whisper, “You really came back to me.”

  He stood back, realizing that he’d lost her twice. And there was something to say before anything else got in his way. It had to go to her. Now. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” she squeezed hard, taking it and gently giving it back to him, something they would have forever.

  Ingram dipped his head to her neck once again to smell her sweetness. She wrapped her arms around him.

  “Owww.” Pain raged through his back.

  “What is it?”

  He quickly explained and then ran a hand over her face and looked into her eyes. “Your Mom and Dad say ‘Hi.’“

  “You met them?”

  “Yes. They had me for dinner. I met Fred and they showed me your baby pictures.” He cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her nose and ran his fingers on her cheek.

  Helen touched one of her burn-scars. “They haven’t healed all the way.”

  “Didn’t notice,” he kissed her cheek again.

  ‘Speaking of healing,” she ran a thumb along his cheek where his old wound had opened where Fujimoto hit him. “Why is it still like that?”

  “You threatening to stitch me up without anesthetic again?”

  “If I have to.”

  Embracing each other tightly, they kissed again.

  The door squeaked and several shadows filed in the room.

  “Never thought I’d see you again, Pablo.” Ingram slapped Amador’s back. “How’s your arm?”

  “Helen set it a few minutes ago. Hurts like Vesuvius.”

  “Maybe you should lie down.”

  “No time,” said Amador. “Listen. We hold the barge, but the Kempetai garrisons the town. It is their guards who patrol the wharf.”

  “What do we have outside?”

  “Two at the gangway, four on the second deck, and two more guarding prisoners.”

  “How did they pull this off?” Ingram whispered.

  “The Hapon’s made a mistake this morning when they conscripted women to clean the ship. What they got was Helen, Wong Lee, and eight other guerrilleros, all dressed as women and armed to the teeth. Even Carmen Lai Lai.”

  “Who’s that?” Ingram asked.

  Helen s
aid, “Someone who came to our side. She helped with this.” She opened the back pack and handed over the pouch to Ingram. “Here. The Jap torpedo stuff plus the page of notes.”

  Ingram was speechless as he thumbed through the Type 93 manual. All in Japanese, there were plenty of diagrams and mathematical tables. “Amazing. Rocko won’t believe this. Neither will BUORD in Washington D.C. for that matter.” He stuffed it back into her pouch. “How did you do this?”

  Helen shrugged and re-strapped the pouch.

  Amador said, “The rub is we have to find a way out.”

  “What’s the layout?” asked Ingram.

  “With the destroyer gone, there is just a skeleton crew here. We’ve taken them all prisoner, including, by now, the men in the machine shop.”

  Two shadows joined the others. One of them spoke. “Evening, skipper.” It was Seltzer.

  “Leo? You okay?” They shook.

  Seltzer smacked his lips. “I’ll make it.”

  Helen asked, “Who's this?”

  “A guy off my ship.” Ingram introduced them.

  Seltzer said, “You didn’t tell me she was so damned good looking, Mr. Ingram.”

  “Hey, stand aside, buddy. She’s mine.” It was Wong Lee.

  “Who’s this jerk?” said Seltzer.

  Amador said, “Meet Wong Lee, one of my bravest lieutenants.”

  “No you don’t, Pablo,” said Wong Lee. “Hell, I just want to go home.”

  “You an American?” asked Seltzer.

  “You betcha.”

  Amador said, “Helen tells me it was Wong Lee’s grenade that killed the Hapons conscripting women for the cleaning detail. His bravery paved the way for our rescue.”

  “We’re not out of here, yet, Pablo.” Wong Lee shook with Seltzer, then reached for Ingram’s hand. “Gotta cigarette, Commander?”

  “Gave it up a long time ago. So you’re the great Wong Lee. I’m Todd Ingram.”

  “That’s me. Why? You been to my place?”

  “Yeah. Great food.”

  “Did you meet my---”

  “Later,” said Amador.” We have to figure out what to do.”

  Ingram took a deep breath, finding his ribs still hurt. “We’re like walking wounded.”

  Amador said, “Doesn’t matter. We can all fit in that stake truck outside. If things go well, we can be in Buenavista in a half hour, neutralize Lieutenant Jimbo, and warn the Turbot to come back in three or four days. Then we go hide in the mountains. The riskiest part is getting past the guards on the wharf. They’re not fools.”

  “You need a diversion?” said Seltzer.

  “Like what?”

  “The barge. Let’s blow it. They’ll never know what hit ‘em. With all that confusion, we can slip under their noses.”

  Ingram said, “I don’t know, Leo. All that stuff, bombs gasoline. That thing blows and it may take us and half the town with it.”

  Amador said. “It may be our only chance.”

  Seltzer said, “Maybe we don’t need to take the truck.”

  “What do you mean?” said Amador.

  “There’s that landing barge tied outboard of the YFD.” When returning late that afternoon, they had seen a dilapidated forty-seven foot wooden landing barge, chugging alongside the Shs's twin engine Nakajima amphibian, loading boxes.

  Ingram said, “How do you get past Fujimoto and his boys?”

  Seltzer said, “hmmm,” and rubbed his chin.

  Just then the door burst open. A white faced Legaspi thrust his head in.

  “What?” barked Amador.

  Legaspi gasped, “Hapon sonsabits. Quick, Many out there.” He dashed out. Just then, a single shot rifle fired from the deck above. A machine gun on the wharf opened up in response, bullets thudding in the barge’s wooden superstructure,

  “Too late, growled Amador.”

  A search light snapped on, illuminating the passageway in a white hoary light.

  Ingram grabbed Helen’s hand. “Come on.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  17 November, 1942

  Service Barge 212, Nasipit, Mindanao

  Philippines

  Ingram dashed outside and yelled, “Emilio. Get that light.”

  He needn't have said it, for Legaspi was on his knees hoisting his Springfield to his shoulder. Machine gun bullets chewed the wooden bulkhead above his head as he squeezed off a round. With a crash of glass, the light fizzled out, plunging the wharf into darkness. The machine gun stopped firing and men cursed back and forth.

  Amador was right behind. “That will slow them for a moment or two.”

  In the relative quiet, Ingram couldn’t help but think of the irony of their situation. “We’ve been here before, Pablo.” They had been in the same fix five months earlier on the same wharf, barely escaping in the 51 Boat, after dynamiting the lumber mill.

  “There is one difference,” murmured Amador in the darkness.

  “Yes?”

  “This time we have Helen.”

  “But we have no dynamite,” Helen said.

  “There has to be a better way than blowing the place up.” Ingram stroked his temples. “Pablo. How many men have we?”

  Amador's answered, “Carillo and Estaque guard the gangway, two more guard the prisoners. Carmen Lai Lai and nine others are stationed topside.”

  “That leaves you, me, Helen, Wong Lee, Legaspi and Seltzer. Twenty against a garrison of, perhaps, a hundred. Nice odds, don’t you think?”

  They gaped at him.

  “Okay. Let’s move forward.”

  A truck pulled up, the tires crunching over gravel. Men jumped out. Their sandals thumped as they scattered along the dock. Someone yelled, and a truck-mounted spotlight snapped on, picking out Estaque at the gangway, the ex-Filipino Scout instinctively threw up a hand, shading his eyes. The soldiers kneeling around the truck opened up, the rest of the soldiers in the burned-out lumber mill joining in, with at least twenty-five to thirty weapons firing at the same time. Estaque's arms clawed in space; his rigid body jinking up and down before he collapsed on the deck, his rifle clattering to his side.

  “Felipe! Felipe!” Amador screamed. He stood, aiming a pistol with his good arm, methodically cranking off rounds, the muzzle blast flashing in the night. A rifle bullet blew off his planter’s hat, knocking him to the deck.

  In panic, Ingram and Helen crouched beside him, with Helen yelled, “Pablo?”

  Amador raised himself to sit against the bulkhead and buried his head in his hands, “Felipe was the finest...like a son...” His voice drifted off, as Helen put her arms around Amador and rocked him.

  Ingram pat him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  Amador shook Helen off and scrambled to his feet, broken arm and all. Picking up his pistol, he cranked out three more rounds. “These dirty Hapons.” The only thing they know is wanton rape and killing and stealing another man’s things.”

  Ingram grabbed Amador’s wrist. “Pablo. Later.” Helen’s expression said she’d never seen Don Pablo Amador so angry.

  “Just look at my mill, my beautiful mill. It’s been in our family since 1841,” Amador yelled, pointing in darkness.

  Ingram said, “That was my fault.”

  “Not your fault. It’s these Hapons. These filthy, greedy, Hapons who must conquer the world so they can have their oil and their rubber and their...” he waved toward his mill, “...their lumber.”

  Then his voice resonated into the night, “Well, you’re not going to get it you cheap, lazy bastards. Not a peso worth.” A bullet whanged off a stanchion, making everyone duck. But Amador, his eyes turned to slits, kept yelling. “And after Felipe is gone, and after I’m gone, there still will be others to cut the heads off the snake. We’ll dump them in your stew pots, you dirty...” Amador shook his fist as a machine gun stitched the wall close by. Ingram yanked him to the deck as Carillo and guerrilleros on the second deck fired back with their Springfields, smashing the truck’s spot-light and scatteri
ng the soldiers.

  Fifteen seconds of silence felt like an eternity. Wong Lee’s voice shook. “Boy, oh Boy. I didn't count on this.” He looked across the harbor. “Why don't we swim for it?”

  Amador growled, “We might. But they could retake the barge, turn on a searchlight and pick us off one-by-one.”

  “Better than getting picked off one-by-one, here.” Wong Lee began to unbutton his shirt.

  “Hold on.” Ingram called, “Where the hell is Leo?”

  Just then Seltzer trotted around the deck house, a Springfield cradled in this arms. He handed Ingram a .45. “Sorry, Skipper. Took a me a while. I found this rifle and two grenades.”

  “Where?”

  “Machine shop. Doubles as an armory.”

  The Japanese at the truck began firing, and soon they were joined by other riflemen on the wharf.

  “Jesus. How’d they get so close?” asked Seltzer.

  Ingram snapped. “The truck. Lob one on it, right now.”

  Seltzer needed no urging, “Got it.” He yanked the grenade’s pin, stood, and with a grunt, hurled it into the night while the others dropped to their knees and covered their ears.

  A blinding flash was followed by a ripping explosion as the truck’s fuel tank went up. An eerie quiet descended, punctuated by two prolonged groans.

  “That will give them something to think about,” said Ingram.

  Wong Lee said, “Now's our chance. Let's scram.”

  “How about crocodiles?” said Helen.

  “I'll take my chances. Better than getting shot by Japs,” said Wong Lee.

  “Hold on,” said Ingram. “What about the landing barge?”

  Seltzer checked his Springfield’s clip. “The thing's a junk heap, but it might work. All we need is to get the engine started.”

  Legaspi said, “I know that banca. Diesel. Sixty horses. Runs real good. I’ll do it.”

  Ingram rubbed his chin, “maybe...”

  “Where would you go?” asked Helen.

  Ingram said, “There’s still plenty of time to get to Buenavista and warn the Turbot. Maybe even set up another rendezvous time. Where's it tied up?”