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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “Outboard on the port side,” said Seltzer.

  Even in the darkness, Amador’s eyes grew bright. “It just might work. And yes, Emilio is good with boats.”

  “Okay. Leo, you and Emilio go try and get the thing started. We'll hold off the Japs until you're ready.”

  “Got it.” Seltzer stood.

  A green flare shot from behind the lumber mill and hissed up into clear blackness where it popped a parachute and then gently floated down. “What the---?”

  Another search light, far brighter than the others, blazed at them from the harbor entrance.

  Wong Lee, shaded his eyes. “Aw, shit.”

  “Down, everybody,” said Ingram.

  Like an enraged tenement dweller probing for a cockroach, the Namikazi's search light flicked over the barge. After a moment, the long shaft of light slowly swept across the harbor to the jungle on the opposite shore. As if it had a mind of its own, the beam swept back to the barge, peering into windows, corners, seeking the enemy. That was soon followed by rattle of rifles and automatic weapons from the wharf, cordite smoke hanging in the air like a London fog. Bullets chewed up bulkheads and clanged against machinery. “Coordinated attack. They must be in radio contact with the destroyer,” Ingram muttered.

  As if in confirmation, the ship fired a fifty caliber machine gun in three shot bursts.

  Helen peeked over the rail. “We're trapped.”

  “That's it. I'm going.” Wong Lee started to unbutton his shirt.

  The others made to follow, but Ingram said, “Look at that.”

  “What?” said Amador.

  “They're shooting high. They're afraid of hitting something down low. On the first deck---that's it! Emilio. Do you really think you can start that landing barge?”

  “Yes, Sair.”

  Seltzer said, “Skipper. That piece of crap don't look like an option anymore.”

  Amador turned and looked at Ingram. “What’s on your mind?”

  Ingram squinting into the night. “They'll spot us when we jump from the ship and start swimming. After that, the Japs will rush aboard and it will be a shooting gallery.” He pointed at the Namikazi’s silhouette laying astride the harbor entrance, “Look at that damn thing, just waiting.”

  A machinegun thumped from the wharf blowing bits and chunks of wood as it swept down the barge. “Duck!” said Ingram.

  Someone screamed in pain topside. Framed in a spotlight was Carmen Lai Lai, standing now, firing a single shot Springfield.

  Several Japanese weapons responded, red splotches bursting on Carmen’s massive chest. She finally plunged through the rail, crashed to the maindeck and was still.

  “Carmen.” Helen mouthed.

  “What?” said Amador.

  “Like Felipe. Like everyone here. She...she...” Helen pat the pouch.

  Amador squeezed her hand.

  Seltzer's voice squeaked, “Mr. Ingram, damnit. What do we do?”

  “Over here and I’ll tell you.” Ingram ducked through a passageway and dashed over to the barge's port side, pain shooting up his back. He stopped and waited, panting and wheezing, as bullets thunked into the thin walls of the deckhouse on the starboard side. On second thought, it seemed desperate, scatter-brained. Would it work? And as they gathered around, he sensed their eyes upon him, searching his face. Like freshly caged animals, they were in near panic, searching for a way out of this hellish trap, its walls slowly squeezing in.

  Quickly he explained what he had in mind.

  “Seems the only way,” agreed Amador.

  Nobody had a better idea, so Ingram started forward. While Legaspi heading aft for the landing barge, Amador softly called instructions to his men on the second deck, telling them they to pull the other two off guard duty and hold the Japanese at bay for at least ten minutes.

  They stepped into the machine shop. After closing the doors, Ingram fumbled for a light switch and snapped it on. Then he said to Seltzer and Wong Lee, “Okay, you two look for the impulse charge.”

  “Right.” The pair dashed to the aft bulkhead, finding a row of double-locked cabinets with chains through the handles. Seltzer stooped and grabbed a length of pipe and began prying off the hinges. Wong Lee ripped open a drawer, pulled out a crow-bar, and attacked the other end.

  Two fifty-caliber rounds punched through, throwing splinters and smashing a lathe, shrapnel flying in every direction. Ingram and Helen fell to the deck where he threw an arm over her. They waited for a moment, then Ingram wobbled to his feet. “Anybody hurt?”

  The others stood, dusting themselves off, surprised they were okay.

  Helen gasped, “They must not realize we're in here.”

  “Let’s hope our boys topside keep them bamboozled just a little longer.” Ingram reached up and swung a chain-falls assembly along an overhead track until it was over the Mark 15 torpedo that had just been modified. Reaching over to the workbench he found a pair of hoisting lugs and tried to screw one in. But his fingers shook and it fell clanking to the deck.

  “Here.” Helen, eased him aside and twisted the lugs snug.

  Ingram snapped in the hooks then shouted over his shoulder, “Leo. Any luck?”

  Seltzer muttered, “Not yet. Shit, lookit this. Cotter-pins, swivel shackles, a year's supply of machine screws, nuts and bolts,---damnit.” With a growl, he yanked a carton marked ‘washers’ off the shelf and flung it aside, the contents jingling on the deck.

  Suddenly, there was a roar from the wharf as small arms concentrated on the aft section of the barge. The return fire from Amador’s guerrilleros on the second deck seemed pathetic by comparison. Amador stepped out the port side door and shouted up. Soon he stepped back, saying, “Two men are seriously wounded up there. How much longer?”

  “A minute.” Ingram wheezed as he set the stanchions. Then he dropped the torpedo skids into place, the sections leading from the torpedo rack to the double doors. A bolt of pain shot up his left side. Everything seemed to turn a hazy red, and he had to bite his lip and concentrate on staying conscious. When the wave passed, he called to Helen, “You about done?”

  “Set.” Helen looked at him. “You look awful.”

  He blinked a couple of times wiping blood off his split cheek. “I feel awful.”

  She walked over and pushed him toward a chair. “Here. Sit.”

  “In a minute.” Ingram rolled slack out of the chain-falls. The chains became snug and finally began to lift the torpedo from its rack. Helen, Amador and Wong Lee, moved in and helped hand-over-hand the chains. Soon the Mark 15 torpedo rose from its cradle and hung free.

  A fusillade roared at them. Wong Lee screeched, “These bastards don’t care what happens to their barge, do they?”

  Everyone fell to the deck again and covered their heads, their knees fetal, all wishing for a hole to climb in. Bullets ripped through the bulkhead; splinters flew, machinery and boxes and crates shattering above their heads; sharp, jagged pieces jabbing bouncing off their clothing. The air thumped their ears as the bullets crashed about, almost as if each one were a macabre drum beat. Miraculously, none hit the torpedo. During the roaring cacophony, someone yelled in terror. Impossible for Ingram to tell if it were Helen or Wong Lee or Amador or Seltzer. Or even himself. More shells crashed in the machine shop, mixing with the terrified screams. This time Ingram’s throat was raw; he’d been screaming, too,

  CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

  17 November, 1942

  Service Barge 212, Nasipit, Mindanao

  Philippines

  An explosion roared outside and miraculously, the gunfire trickled to nothing, a blissful silence descending in the smoke-filled room. Ingram was wedged under a drill press his arm around Helen. He raised to an elbow and looked into the blinking face of Wong Lee just three feet away under a workbench, his hands over his ears. “You okay?”

  “Huh?”

  “I said ‘are you okay?’“

  “Y...yeah.” Wong Lee sat up and flicked splinters and broken glas
s shards off his shirt.

  Ingram looked down to Helen. “How ‘bout you?”

  She stared wildly for a moment then nodded and gasped. “Yeah.”

  “Pablo?”

  Something tinkled on the far side of the room.

  “Pablo?” Ingram shouted.

  “We were blessed.” Amador rose from a pile of pipe fittings.

  Suddenly Ingram remembered--the torpedo! He swung around to see it untouched, still dangling from the falls.

  The door on the port side squeaked open and a breathless Seltzer dashed in holding up a grenade pin. “Last one,” he gasped looking around the room. “Jesus. Everybody okay?”

  “Looks like it.” Ingram scrambled to his feet and hobbled over to the torpedo.

  “What are you doing? Asked Seltzer.

  “Making sure.” Ingram ran his hands over the Mark 5 exploder. Yes, the Japanese technician had snugged the flush-mounted bolts properly.

  Wong Lee returned to the back of the room and started pawing through the wreckage. Suddenly, he yelled, “Hey!” He thrust a brass canister over his head. “How’s this?”

  Ingram yelled back, “Yeah! That's it.”

  Seltzer said, “Where'd you find it?”

  Wong Lee walked up and handed the canister to Ingram. “A case of four. First cupboard you looked in.”

  Seltzer groaned.

  Ingram turned the impulse charge in his hands, examining the primer cap on the base. “We’re in luck. It's percussion.”

  “Is that it, then? We all set?” Wong Lee’s voice squeaked like a sixteen-year-old on a Saturday night.

  “Help me with this, first.” Seltzer and Wong Lee joined Ingram at the torpedo, helping him whip the chain-falls to lower the torpedo. With a clunk, the 3,841 pound mark 15 fell to the skid. “One more thing.” Ingram quickly unhooked the chains, and unscrewed the lifting lug. “Ready.”

  Ingram searched their faces as they gathered around the torpedo. Out of breath, their faces were ashen; they were afraid to move; afraid to commit to the next deadly step. He tried to think of something profound, even heroic to say; something that would make them laugh or give them a sense of purpose. He wiped at his eyes and looked at them looking at him. Damn. They could all be dead in the next sixty seconds and yet, all he could think of was...nothing.

  Ingram raised his hands and slapped his sides in frustration. “All right. Here’s how we do this. Wong Lee. You kill the lights when I give the word. Then slide the doors open and come back to give a hand pushing the torpedo. Leo, you and I will lay down the last two skids as soon as the doors are open.”

  They stood rooted to their places, waiting for someone else to speak.: to make a move.

  Ingram shrugged. “All right, let’s go. You have to die of something.”

  Wong Lee stepped to the light switch. “You’d make a wonderful insurance salesman, Commander.”

  “Thanks.” Ingram grabbed a torpedo skid. “Ready?”

  Seltzer picked us his skid and nodded.

  “Go!”

  Wong Lee flicked the lights, plunging the shop into darkness. With a grunt, he gave the doors a push and they slid open, thumping at their stops. One by one, Ingram and Seltzer quickly laid the skids on the stanchions, the pathway now leading directly to the bottom right torpedo tube. While Seltzer yanked at the breech locks, Ingram gathered with the others at the back of the torpedo. “Go!” he barked.

  They pushed. Ingram pushed with them but saw only grays and darker grays as the torpedo moved away from him. Blackness swarmed through his vision and he felt as if Fujimoto had kicked him again. When he refocused, he found he’d dropped to his knees, the torpedo out of sight. He blinked for a moment and found that they had pushed the missile down the skids almost to the tube breech.

  “Hold it.” Ingram groaned, heaved to his feet and stumbled to the breech, checking the tube-lug. Satisfied, he flashed a thumbs up. With growls and groans, the others shoved the Mark 15 into the tube until it was fully seated. Then Seltzer slammed the breech door and dogged it. “Sonofabitch,” he puffed.

  “Okay.” Ingram reached for the impulse charge, but...he looked up with a foolish grin. He just couldn’t move.

  Helen stepped over and held Ingram’s’ shoulder. “Let someone else do it.”

  As if in a dream, Ingram watched Seltzer shove the impulse charge home, lock the chamber and arm the firing pin. Then the lanky boatswain’s mate climbed into the mount-trainer's seat and peered through the sight as he cranked the train wheel.

  But the wheel spun freely, the mount not turning. “Shit,” Seltzer muttered.

  “Shift to manual,” Ingram wheezed.

  “Check.” Seltzer reached behind, and fumbled at a lever. It was a task for the Mount Captain whose position was behind the mount trainer. It was too awkward for Seltzer and he couldn’t uncage the lever from where he sat. Ingram tried to reach and groaned with pain.

  “Let me.” Helen pulled over a box, stepped up and lay across the tube grabbing Seltzer’s hand and placing it on the lever.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled. With a yank, he uncaged the lever and swung it up into position. He tried the train wheel again; the torpedo mount squeaked right a few degrees. “Got it.”

  “It’s all yours,” puffed Ingram.

  Seltzer hunched over the sight again and cranked his wheel. “My, oh, my. Look what we have here.”

  “What do you see?” asked Amador.

  “Tojo smack dab in the cross-hairs.”

  “What’s he doing?” asked Ingram.

  “Target angle two-seven-zero. DIW,” reported Seltzer.

  “What the hell does that mean?” snapped Wong Lee.

  Seltzer cranked in a fine adjustment to the train wheel. “That means the little bastard's port side is facing us like a frigging barn door, and he’s dead ass in the water.”

  Ingram rasped, “Must be still anchored. Too bad. Okay, Leo. Set high speed. Depth four feet. No gyro angle.” His lungs seemed as if they were on fire. It hurt to breath or even talk, and once again he swam on the edge of darkness, except this time nausea welled and he had to work at choking it back.

  “Ready.” Seltzer pressed his eye to the sight.

  Then Ingram remembered something. “Leo. What's the range?”

  Seltzer’s eyes grew wide and his face turned as white as the destroyer’s searchlight beam. “Shit.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Three, four hundred yards, maybe. I can’t tell.” He looked down at Ingram, both aware the torpedo would have to travel at least 350 yards before the Mark 5 exploder armed itself. Anything less and the torpedo would not detonate. “What now?”

  Ingram peered into the night. What if the damned ship is less than 350 yards away?

  “How ‘bout disconnecting the arming mechanism?”

  “That means pulling the torpedo from the tube and taking out the exploder, and doing things to it I’m not sure would work. Besides, there’s not enough time.” Ingram took another breath. “Maybe if they weigh anchor and open the range?”

  “I dunno,” said Seltzer.

  “What’s wrong? Asked Amador.

  “Shoot the damned thing,” Wong Lee demanded.

  Just then, the aft four-inch mount on the Namikazi's fantail opened up. A shell whistled overhead and landed on the floating drydock, blowing away half the port side. “Fujimoto has guessed what we're doing,” Ingram wheezed. As he spoke the Namikazi's whistle blew six short blasts and a clanking noise ranged across the water. “They're raising the anchor.”

  “Who cares? Shoot that goddamned torpedo,” screeched Wong Lee.

  “What do you think, Mr. Ingram?” Asked Seltzer.

  “We have no choice.” Ingram turned to Amador. Pablo, could you step over here, please?”

  Amador moved up. “Yes?”

  “See that?” Ingram pointed at a gleaming brass trigger-grip mounted on Seltzer’s train wheel.

  “I do.”

  “One for the Hapon
s,” Ingram nodded at the wheel, his face grim.

  Seltzer sat back, locked the train wheel and lifted his hands. “It’s all yours, Sir.”

  “Thank you. I believe I will.” Amador stood on the little box Helen had used, reached over and squeezed the trigger.

  The mount belched as the impulse charge kicked the Mark 15 torpedo out of the tube where it hit the water with a splash and disappeared from view.

  Ingram did some rough math, figuring the torpedo run would be only about fifteen seconds at forty-six knots.

  Seltzer hopped off the mount and crossed his fingers. “Here’s hoping the range is over 350.”

  Ingram replied, “Here’s hoping Tojo knows how to fix depth engines and exploders.”

  Another four-inch round whistled in, landing fifty yards before them and twenty-five yards to the left, raising a tall water column.

  “They've got our range,” said Amador.

  Seltzer turned. “What if they---”

  WHACK! The night turned to day. Namikaze sailors spun up into the air. The old, four-stack destroyer rose from the water as if her midships were pried by an enormous lever, the ship cracking in two with bow and stern falling away. A much louder detonation followed, bringing a thunderous, ear-drum piercing, concussive roar, as the Namikazi's magazines exploded.

  The shock wave struck like a giant hand before they could take cover, flinging them backwards to the deck...

  The night sky. That was the first thing he saw; a cluster of stars; gently sloping hills on one side and the service barge rising above him on the other; all under a marvelous velvet night sky, the dew kissing his face, wetting his lips with a soft, sweet assurance that he was alive; that he could feel; and that he could see and enjoy what was to come...

  He knew he was prone because something was propped under his head for a pillow, a lifejacket perhaps. His ears were ringing, and several heads were gathered around; some he didn’t recognize. A white mane of hair. Amador, close, his brow furrowed then looking up, calling to someone. Another figure scrambled down a crude ladder into...?