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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  … it was the landing barge. He couldn't hear, but he knew by the thump-thump-thump vibration under his back and the rich odor of diesel exhaust, that the engine was running. He raised a hand to his face, and someone bent over.

  Helen. She wiped at his cheek with a rag.

  “My God, you're beautiful.”

  She smiled and said something he couldn’t hear because of the damned ringing.

  “We should get back in the shop.”

  Her lips moved. Why?

  “Lots of stuff on the shelves. The Jap’s exploder notes. Manuals, technical pubs, comic books, take-out menus, everything.”

  Helen took the pouch off her shoulder and held it before Ingram’s face. Stuffed with documents, it was much fuller than when he first saw it.

  He lay back and released himself to the sweet darkness...

  They must have been underway because the boat rocked gently and the engine vibrated with purpose.

  “Welcome back.” Helen bent down and kissed him on the forehead.

  The ringing was gone. It was her voice. It really was Helen this time. His own sweet girl. Not the voice of his dreams, or even the voice of her mother. But Helen. He reached up and stroked her hair. “Almost forgot.”

  “What’s that?”

  The boat jolted as it ploughed into a wave, slapping water in the air, making it fly over their heads. A few drops settled on his face and it felt wonderful. He felt alive. But then his side came alive too, sending electric jolts as if a demon were nested there. But something was different. A rigidity. Somehow, Helen had taped his ribs. When he took a breath, it didn’t hurt as much. Not bad. But his throat was dry. Never mind. She looked wonderful in the night, leaning over, her hair grazing his face. He pulled her head down and kissed her, ignoring the pain.

  “No sudden movements,” she said.

  He kissed her again, and she gently wrapped an arm around his head.

  After a moment, he reached in his pocket and handed over her class ring. “Your mom and dad wanted me to give this to you.”

  She recognized it at once, then slipped it on the fourth finger of her left hand. She ran a hand over his cheek. “I knew it was coming.”

  “What? How could you?”

  “When Pablo told me about the new date on the authenticator I knew you’d been up to something.”

  “Oh. For a moment I thought you were being clairvoyant.”

  “Not me. That’s mom’s specialty.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Ingram croaked, feeling tired again.

  “Did she really show you my baby pictures?”

  “Ummm. Hot stuff.”

  She whacked his shoulder. “And you met Fred?”

  “Purred like hell then went to sleep in my lap.”

  “Amazing.”

  Ingram’s eyelids fluttered.

  “I guess we’ll have a long time to talk about it.”

  “You bet.” Then he fell asleep.

  EPILOGUE

  You shall judge of a man by his foes as well as his friends.

  Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim

  * * *

  The Lord gave us two ends to use: one to think with and one to sit with. The war depends on which we choose --- heads we win, tails we lose.

  Fleet Admiral Chester W. Nimitz to Admiral William F Halsey

  EPILOGUE

  21 December, 1942

  Golden Gate Park

  San Francisco, California

  The man shifted his weight on the cement bench, the cold burning through his overcoat like an acetylene torch. The morning had brought low, thick clouds, the park nearly deserted on Monday. His bench was on a hill near Stow Lake, where one could usually see the twin orange towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. But squalls tumbled across the peninsula, obscuring the towers as rain whipped his face, smearing his glasses. He looked at his watch: ten thirty. His contact was a half hour late. He stood and paced around the bench again, checking his watch, oblivious to the rain.

  The cold felt better, Ingram ruefully admitted to himself, than the miserable malaria-laden humidity of the Solomons. Another gust whipped through, almost carrying away his fedora; rain blasted against his overcoat and dark grey slacks. He reached up and tightened his polka-dot tie, then drew the overcoat lapels close around his neck; a vain attempt to keep out fiendish little rivulets of rain that worked their way inside his shirt to run down his back.

  His Naval Academy ring was back on his forth finger and Ingram twisted it absently as he reviewed again who he was supposed to be: Dr. John Mickaeljohn, a physicist at the University of California at Berkeley. Through wire-tapping, Dr. Mickaeljohn had been overheard collaborating with Leonard Strong, a local Communist cell leader. Today was the day Mickaeljohn was to meet his Soviet control and turn over the first batch of documents for a project called VOSTOK. All they told Ingram was that VOSTOK was a major Soviet espionage mission aimed at the U.S., and that the real Dr. Mickaeljohn and Comrade Strong had been arrested earlier this morning. There remained only one more thing to do.

  A twig snapped behind him. Ingram turned to see a mufti-clad man in a hat walking stiffly toward him, using a cane with a shiny brass tip. Ingram figured he’d been watching from the thicket for the past half hour or so.

  Eduard Dezhnev walked up with extended hand, “Privert, Dr. Mickaeljohn.” Hello Dr. Mickaeljohn. Dezhnev’s grin was wide, his voice the same rich baritone.

  Ingram waited until Dezhnev stood face to face, then he took Dezhnev's hand with both of his and squeezed, hard. “Hello, yourself, you two-timing sonofabitch.”

  Dezhnev's grin disappeared as if whipped away by the squall. His mouth dropped, his lips working open and closed. His voice quivered as he said, “...you. It's...I thought you were...” He tried to jerk his hand away.

  Ingram squeezed harder. “Thought I was dead, you bastard?”.

  “Owww.” Dezhnev brought up a knee, trying for Ingram's groin. Just in time, Ingram twisted, parrying the blow. He threw a swift backhand across Dezhnev's face, flipping the Soviet agent’s hat in the air where it sailed away on the wind.

  Dezhnev managed to rip his hand free and step back, wiping a little rivulet of blood running from the corner of his mouth. “How did you... Look Todd. I'm sorry. They made me do it. You are my friend. I didn't want it to come to this.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Dezhnev whipped a small automatic from his pocket. It looked like a .22. He raised it to hip level and flipped off the safety. “What can you do? I have immunity, you know.”

  Ingram nodded to the pistol. “You really going to use that thing?”

  Dezhnev sighed and put the pistol away. “Do svedaniia.” Good bye. With a curt bow, he turned and walked away. He got no further than ten steps before finding himself surrounded by four men who quickly disarmed him and snapped on handcuffs.

  Dezhnev turned and looked at Ingram. His dark red hair was plastered to his forehead, water running down his face. “Todd, I'm really sorry. Perhaps we could have been friends in another time.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  “How can I turn my back on you, Comrade?”

  “But … but …”

  Three men lead Dezhnev down a path. One stooped to pick up his hat and jammed it on his head. The fourth man, Ingram knew him only as Agent Cassidy of the FBI, walked back up to the bench.

  “Is that it?”

  Agent Cassidy nodded, “Yes, that’s it. Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know he’d be packing a pistol. Kinda dicey there for a moment, but everything worked out. You okay?”

  Ingram's back ached and there had been a jolt of pain when he'd twisted to back-hand Dezhnev. “Not bad.”

  “It’s cold. We better get you back.” They started walking, their feet crunching on the gravel path.

  At length, Ingram asked, “how did you do figure this out?”

  “Lucky this time. We had a man posing inside the consulate as a waiter. Heard some juicy stuff.”


  “You mean we’re spying on our allies?”

  Cassidy shrugged. “You should see what they’re doing to us.”

  They rounded a clump of trees and stepped into a cul-de-sac. Three police and four unmarked cars were parked around a four-door olive drab Plymouth sedan with black U.S. Army markings on the door. Dezhnev sat in back, his hands cuffed behind him. His lips were tightly pressed, a tiny bit of blood trickling down his chin. Unblinking, his gaze was fixed straight ahead. Another man with a long nose, thin moustache and dark curly hair sat beside Dezhnev. His expression was as dour as Dezhnev's, and it was obvious he was cuffed also.

  “Ever see the other guy?” asked Cassidy as they walked by.

  “No. Who is he?”

  “His ID says he's Sergei Zenit, an agricultural attaché. But we know he's Captain Second Rank Sergei Zenit, of the NKVD.”

  Ingram turned his head. “Good God. NKVD?”

  “Yes. He is Dezhnev’s control. And there's another. Their driver. Georgiy Voronin, an NKVD enforcer. Unlike Zenit, he spotted our stake-out and took off. We'll pick him up before he gets to the consulate.

  “What happens to them?”

  “Persona non grata. Their ship, the Dzhurma, was here for overhaul. She's ready now and sails tonight for Vladivostok. Just before they get underway, we're going to shove those three bastards up the gangway, hands tied behind their backs, deportation orders pinned to their lapels.”

  “Um.” Ingram removed the glasses and handed them over. “I won’t need these anymore.”

  “Thanks. You sure you don’t need a lift?”

  “I’m fine. See you later.” Ingram turned to walk the quarter mile to where he’d parked Toliver’s Packard. It was raining now, but he didn’t mind. He wanted time to think. A virulent zephyr struck, bringing cold, hard rain. “Uhhhh-rah.”

  Cassidy called after him. “What?”

  Ingram shook his head. He had an errand to run, and to do it right, he had to forget what was behind him. “Let the dead bury the dead.” He walked down the hill, the rain turning to a soft mist.

  Ingram pushed through the revolving doors of the St. Francis Hotel. The gilded lobby felt warm, and as usual, was full of uniformed officers clamoring for rooms. At the check-in counter was Toliver, surrounded by a mountain of luggage and obviously registering, most likely for his twelfth floor suite reserved and for paid by the Manhattan law firm of McNeil, Lawton & Toliver. He called, “Ollie!”

  Toliver waved back, finished signing in, and tipped a bell-boy. With his brass-tipped mahogany cane in hand, he hobbled over, his greatcoat and combination cap still dripping with rain water. “Todd? What the hell? You dressed like an undertaker?”

  Ingram grabbed Toliver’s hand, “Ollie. Welcome back. How was Washington?”

  “Too much brass. No place to sleep. They made me stay in a BOQ. Me? Can you imagine that?

  Ingram chuckled. Although they’d talked on the phone from Honolulu, it was the first time he’d seen Toliver since that day on the Zeilin two months ago. His face was flushed. He’d gained weight, and from the way he’d just walked across the lobby, he seemed okay on his feet. In his new job as Twelfth Naval District Bureau of Ordnance Representative in San Francisco, life seemed to be agreeing with him. He clapped Toliver on the shoulder boards. “You’re looking okay, Ollie. How’s the hip?”

  .Toliver beamed, “They took me off the crutches a week ago. Say, how’s my car?”

  “No dings, yet.”

  “Good. Doctor says I can drive, now. I can’t wait.” Then he smiled at Ingram. “You’re looking well, too, Lieutenant Commander. How’re the ribs?”

  “Still a little sore, but fine.” After arriving in Honolulu on December 2 aboard the Turbot, Ingram had spent a week in the hospital. Then, for five days, Admiral Spruance put him up at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. Normally reserved for submariners, it was located on the pristine sands of Honolulu’s Waikiki Beach. The minute the Turbot docked at the submarine base in Pearl Harbor, an armed courier took custody of Helen’s Type 93 Torpedo Manual and Fujimoto's Mark 15 notes, boarded a four engine PB2Y Coronado amphibian and delivered them twenty hours later to the Twelfth Naval District Headquarters on Treasure Island in San Francisco. From there, Lieutenant Junior Grade Oliver P. Toliver III, took the documents on to the Navy’s Bureau of Ordnance in Washington D.C. for evaluation.

  Toliver said, “It’s time for another wetting down party.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Uhhhh-rah.”

  Ingram stared at the polished marble lobby floor.

  Toliver’s smile faded. “It’s true then? All I’ve heard about Ed?”

  Ingram nodded. They were being jostled in the mainstream of traffic, so Ingram drew Toliver to the side near the concierge’s desk. “The FBI arrested him this morning. His cronies, too. That’s why the get-up. They asked me to play the part of a contact to lure him in.”

  “Jesus. I thought I was a good judge of character. I trusted that bastard. He was Navy, like us. Shot it out with the enemy just like...us. We had good times. Shit.” He reached over the concierge’s desk and dropped his brass-tipped cane in the waste basket.

  Ingram watched it rattle around. “You remember saying anything to him?”

  Toliver raised his hands and let them flop to his sides. “Tidbits. That's all. Stuff about you and Helen...hell, I don't know.”

  “Anything on torpedoes?”

  “No. That was before your Nasipit stuff came through. That was too hot to tell anyone, I’ll say.”

  “Good.” Ingram took off his rain coat. “Now, how did it go at BUORD?”

  “I don’t think the Winslow River boys had any idea about how good the Jap torpedoes are. Even when I slapped Helen’s torpedo manual on the desk. The battleship brass just sat there, their lips flapping in the wind.”

  “Atwell invite you to play golf?”

  “He’s gone. Fired, I think. Someone commissioned him as an Army captain. He’s now supervising Quonset Hut construction in Greenland.”

  “Out of sight, out of mind.”

  Toliver nodded. “Nobody wants him talking.”

  “The BuOrd boys say anything about Mark 15s?”

  Toliver said quietly. “The Jap’s torpedo notes hit like a ton of bricks, too. The Winslow River people were slinking around, lower than dog shit. Especially when we started diagramming depth engine sensors and exploder foul-ups. Then they went to a closed door session and kicked me out. The word is that it’s not just the Mark 15 torpedoes that are screwing up. It’s all of our torpedoes. Aerial torpedoes, and especially the submarine Mark 14 torpedoes. Apparently, they're having terrible failures.”

  “You think our stuff did some good then?”

  “No doubt about it. They had no idea the Jap torpedoes were so lethal and that ours were so crappy. Combine that with the Jap’s excellent night tactics and you can see why they’re kicking our ass in the Solomons.”

  “So they’re taking in the whole picture?”

  “They’re giving torpedo design and naval doctrine a serious look. Maybe leadership, too. Too many peacetime ‘cover your ass’ types afraid to get out there and take chances.”

  Ingram rubbed his chin. “That’s basically what Spruance said.”

  “Look, Todd, come on up to my room and I'll tell you all about it while I change. Then we’ll go out, get loaded, and pick up some broads.”

  “I---”

  Toliver snapped his fingers. “Say, I forgot. Did you see Pablo? And...and...how is Helen?

  “Right here, Ollie.” Helen moved close, wearing a broad smile and a smart new dark blue dress.

  “Holy cow.” Toliver spun. He kissed her, then held her at arm's length. “My God, you’re beautiful as ever. And lookie here. High heels.” He whistled. “Where did you get those nylons? Snazzy.” He took her in his arms again and kissed her again. “Ummmm. Welcome back, honey. What ‘re you doing tonight?”

  “Looks like I’m going out to watch you get loaded and pick
up broads.”

  Toliver gave a lopsided grin, “Hell, you know what I...”

  She nodded. “I know just what you meant, Ollie.”

  “I was speaking figuratively.”

  Helen asked, “Can my folks come, too? They're due any moment.”

  Toliver stared at the floor for a moment. “Well, fine. I guess I could--”

  Ingram said, “How about Boom Boom, too? They’re ready to discharge him from Oak Knoll. You two guys can go out later and paint the town.”

  “What's he up to?”

  “Doing fine. He’s about ready to head out for the Howell.”

  Toliver nodded, “The old girl sails again.” He looked to Ingram, the question unspoken.

  “They’re taking me back as exec. And there’s talk of a command. They haven’t made up their minds, yet. I have to say, their confusion suits me just fine.” He wrapped an arm around Helen’s waist and pulled her close.

  She asked, “How was Washington, Ollie?”

  “Great. In fact those guys are amazed you were able to get that stuff out. How did you do it, anyway?”

  “I...” her face darkened. “Excuse me. I have to check the desk.” Helen dashed off.

  Ingram said, “The Army caught up to her.”

  “Ahhh.” Toliver called after her. “Hey, Helen. All that back pay. How ‘bout a loan?”

  She waved over the top of her head.

  Watching her go, Toliver said in a soft voice, “I think I upset her.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Toliver persisted. “What did I say?”

  “I don’t know. She just doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Really?”

  “Like us, she hasn’t regained all her weight. And she has nightmares. But when I try to get her to tell me what happened, she clams up.”

  Toliver nodded. “I still dream.”

  Ingram forced a smile. “Me too. It stays with you. But not so much now as before. It takes time.”

  Toliver sighed. “How about a drink in the Mural Room before dinner?”