THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  "Minefield chart."

  Holloway ran to the bridge. In two minutes he returned with the chart.

  They unrolled it and lay it on the deck next to the engine room hatch.

  Just then, the Pelican's diesel coughed into life.

  Bartholomew's head popped out the hatch, his chief's hat at a rakish angle. "Sweet sound, huh, Skipper?"

  "I'll say."

  Bartholomew whipped off his hat and scratched his bald head. "Keep your fingers crossed. That's our last spare cam shaft. We'll have the bilge pump on the line in a few minutes."

  "Good work, Rocky."

  Bartholomew looked skyward, "What's the word on Hambone?" Hampton was the electrician injured at the forward three inch gun mount.

  "Yardly thinks it's a broken femur. He's on an IV and we may have to send him over to the beach."

  "That's the last thing we want."

  "I know."

  Taking a last look at the stars, Bartholomew filled his lungs with fresh air. "Have to make sure the injectors are okay." He disappeared down the hatch.

  Ingram looked at Epperson. "A lot of good it'll do. We only have a few gallons of fuel oil left. Maybe a day's worth of steaming."

  "Why not scuttle and go ashore?"

  "That's what General Moore wants. But I convinced him to let us stay out here."

  "Why?"

  "We can still fight. We can still kill Japs. Hitting the beach would split up my crew. And those damned tunnels do something to me. An hour or so in there and I'm jumpy as hell. I can't sleep. I don't see how you put up with it."

  Even without the bombardment, Epperson had the tunnel hebbie-jeebies, too, but he wasn't going to say anything. "What are you going to do? Sooner or later..." Epperson's crackling voice trailed.

  "Wish I knew. Stay together as long as we can. Maybe make a break for it."

  "Where?"

  "I don't know. China."

  "You're kidding."

  "I heard some sections of the coast aren't patrolled. Make our way inland, maybe."

  "Yeah?"

  Ingram went back to the chart and ran a finger over a crosshatched strip blocking the mouth of Manila Bay. "Minefield."

  "Here?" Epperson pointed to a grid-work off Luzon's coast labeled with double letters and a number.

  "Ummm. Yes." Ingram jabbed a finger. "Southwest corner of Yoke Yoke two. That's two and a half miles straight out. But I won't waste fuel taking you in this thing. Any other ideas?"

  "How 'bout a thirty-six foot shoreboat?"

  "That would be nice."

  "Right there."

  Ingram peered outboard. Through the darkness a shoreboat’ s silhouette bobbed alongside.

  Epperson said, "I think there's three left. The rest, are matchwood."

  Ingram had seen the wreckage at South Dock; his recollection was there had been twenty-five to thirty boats in the pool. Clicking off the flashlight, he said, "I'll make you a deal."

  "Todd--"

  "You heard my chief engineer. We have a seriously wounded electrician. Broken femur my quack says. He can die without proper care. Take him with you. Submarines usually carry a pharmacist's mate. They...Dwight?"

  "What's wrong with the hospital?"

  "That's what I'm afraid of. It's like a damned death sentence. All they can do is lay him out in the tunnel with all the others...to wait for the Japs."

  Epperson's head shook slowly. "I can't. This is top secret. You weren't supposed to see that message."

  "Hell, I know the Sea Condor. Remember Bob Fox? He's her exec. I know he'd take Hampton if I asked."

  "Todd, no. Radtke and I are manifested with thirty people." He ticked off on his fingers. "Eighteen nurses, a couple of generals, leftovers from MacArthur's staff and three civilians. As it is, that sub is taking a big chance breaking through the Jap pickets. With all of us on board she'll be stuffed to the gills."

  Ingram yanked Epperson's lapels bringing the code analyst to his tiptoes; he felt feather light. "The hell with all those people and the hell with MacArthur. Hampton will die without proper care!"

  "No."

  "Screw you. Get your own pilot." Ingram let go.

  "I can order you."

  "Bullshit!"

  "I have the authority. I can have the commandant order you. If you don't obey, they'll arrest you and put you in the brig."

  Ingram said, "Fred!"

  Holloway replied, "Sir?"

  "See that Lieutenant Epperson is safely escorted to his boat," Ingram said in a thick tone.

  Holloway walked up and cocked his head just as a thunderous shell exploded between San José Point and Malinta Tunnel.

  Epperson flinched.

  Holloway's pointed teeth gleamed. "If you'll follow me, Lieutenant?"

  Epperson turned to Ingram as cannon flashes flicked from Cavite. "You'll be under arrest within the hour." Epperson waited. After a prolonged silence he walked to the rail as the Cavite-launched rounds erupted near the Topside Barracks. With the Pelican low in the water it was an easy jump into the shoreboat. Three sailors moved lethargically to get her going. The engine started after a lot of cranking.

  Ingram had to yell, "Dwight?"

  "Yes?"

  "Would you really do that to me?"

  "What's that?"

  "Let them toss me in the brig?"

  "Yes."

  "To Hampton?"

  "Who?"

  "My electrician, damnit."

  "Yes."

  Holloway threw the bow line into the night; it dropped into the shoreboat with a "plop." Farwell, a second class quartermaster, another of the Pelican's starving wraiths, did the same with the sternline.

  Ingram paused as the boat drifted. Two bullet holes decorated the starboard bow almost at gunnel level. One hole pierced a stained white "51."

  Corregidor's Battery Geary belched a twelve inch mortar round toward Bataan, making everyone stand out in backlighted cameo.

  "Okay," Ingram shouted.

  Epperson's boat had drifted ten feet. "What?"

  Ingram cupped his hands to his mouth. "I said "okay". Can you give me five cases of tomato juice?"

  Epperson said at length, "I know where I can lay my hands on at least three."

  "That's something, anyway. When do you want me?"

  "Ten hundred. Bring your charts."

  "Can't. We're underway at dawn."

  "Very well. Make it 0430. You'll be back here by first light."

  "Where are you?"

  "Conference room in Lateral Four. I'll leave your name with the guard. See you later, Ace." Epperson nodded to his cox'n who clanked a bell. The engineer shoved her into gear, eased in throttle, and the boat roared toward what was left of the South Harbor Docks.

  The Pelican wallowed in darkness. Residual heat from the day's sun penetrated Ingram's soles. He looked fore and aft finding exhausted off-watch men laying on blankets tossing and turning in a demented synthesis of sleep. Others, with gaunt eyes, stared at the heavens watching the masthead scribe slow arcs across constellations.

  He followed their gaze and tracked the Pelican's yardarm as it swept over Venus. "Holloway!"

  The jaygee stepped up. "Sir?"

  "What's the word on the forward three inch?"

  "Recoil spring is fixed, but they're still working on the breech block."

  "And?"

  "It doesn't look good."

  Ingram rubbed his eyes and started forward. "We're gonna need that--damn!" Ingram stopped. "Is the stokes litter fixed yet?" It had been mutilated by a Zero's twenty-millimeter cannon.

  "Nossir."

  "I want it ready to go before tomorrow night."

  "Is it for Hampton?" A round exploded halfway up Ramsey Ravine illuminating the OOD's grin.

  "Just get it fixed. Okay?"

  “Yessir.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  20 April, 1942

  Naval Radio Intercept Tunnel, Lateral Four

  Corregidor Island, Manila Bay, Philippines
r />   Radtke stood behind Portman watching the radioman pound his key. As he waited, he glanced again at the clock: 0305. So what? he thought. In here, it could be three in the afternoon as far as anyone knew.

  Portman finished and yanked the five-digit group message from his typewriter. Without looking, he handed it over his shoulder.

  Radtke reached; Portman pulled back. "Com' on rat's-ass. Tell us when our battlewagons are gonna blow the nips to smithereens, huh?"

  "The message please, Portman."

  The once rotund radioman made a show of passing the message over his other shoulder, making Radtke reach with his left hand, the one with the deformed ring finger. He jerked it away. "I wanna know when to start packing, claw-fist. You should--"

  With both hands, Radtke grabbed a corner of Portman's chair and jerked it out from under.

  Portman spilled to the floor. Sputtering, he turned to pick himself up. "You sonofa--"

  Radtke was on top of the sweating radioman within a half-second. His knee pinned Portman's throat, two fingers spread to gog his eyes. With tunnel dust in their lungs and limited diets, both wheezed horribly. Without breaking eye contact, Radtke reached over and grabbed the message from Portman's fist.

  "Hey, you two! Break it up." Hadley, a lieutenant junior grade rushed over, slapping a palm on Radtke's shoulder.

  Radtke shook off Hadley's hand and kneed a little more pressure into Portman's throat, making the radioman choke and gurgle.

  "Hey! Hey! Radtke, stop. You're on report" Hadley squealed.

  Getting up, Radtke stood over Portman and hissed. "Make fun of me again and I'll rip out your fat guts before the Japs get their chance."

  Radtke walked to the crypto room just as the door burst open. Epperson stuck out his head. "What the hell's going on?"

  "Your man's fighting with one of mine," said Hadley, standing between Radtke and the crypto room door.

  Radtke said, "Shove it, Hadley." He eased past the two officers and padded into the code room.

  With a roar, Portman sprang to his feet, jumped around Hadley and charged after Radtke. Epperson barred his way. "Classified area, Portman. Forget it."

  "That sumbitch been askin' for it."

  "Get back," barked Epperson.

  Hadley peered over Portman's shoulder. "Your man profaned a United States Naval officer, Dwight. I'll have him on charges."

  Epperson bellowed, "Sergeant!"

  Just then a shell hit the mountain. The room shuddered; dust and papers swirled.

  Through the fog, two Marines clumped from their position at the front door. One was a sergeant, the other a corporal. Both wore jungle-rotted fatigues and carried .45 caliber Thompson submachine guns, .45 caliber pistols, grenades, and bayonets. Both had fought the Japanese on Bataan; both of their faces were shrouded with the "thousand yard stare."

  Epperson stepped before the Marines. "Sergeant. These are my orders to you. For the rest of this watch, your post is on either side of this door. If any unauthorized personnel attempt to enter this room without my permission, you will shoot them. Is that clear?"

  The sergeant's eyes were hooded as he said, "sssir." To Epperson, it sounded like a cobra's hiss.

  Portman moved closer and glared. The sergeant swiftly raised his hand to his neck and scratched. Portman jumped back, his mouth open. Slowly, the sergeant shouldered his Thompson and leaned against the wall. His left hand produced a Lucky Strike from his top pocket and he stuck it between thin lips. With a flourish, the corporal produced a Zippo and lit the cigarette. After a long drag the sergeant blew smoke directly in Portman's face.

  Portman stepped forward with a low growl, but stopped, finding the sergeant had silently drawn his bayonet. With a mirthless smile the marine raised his eyes to Portman's and thumbed the blade's tip, the Lucky dangling from his lips.

  "Sheyyaatt." Portman turned and walked back to his radio, righted his chair, and sat making a show of putting on earphones and twisting knobs.

  Epperson watched Portman making sure he remained seated. Satisfied, he drew Hadley in the doorway saying, "We've been down here too long, Jim."

  Hadley's face turned ashen when a round exploded directly above, making the whole lateral shake.

  Skinner screeched, "Yipppi-i-yay. Ride 'em cowboy." He slapped his thigh and mimed riding a horse. "That wuz one of them one-hundred-fifty millimeters."

  "Nah, dope." Portman roared. "It was a two hundred forty millimeter mortar."

  "I tell yah, Portman. It wuz a one-fifty." Skinner yelled.

  "Two forty, lame-brain..."

  Hadley's voice quivered as he watched the bickering radiomen. "We're not getting out, are we?"

  Epperson shrugged.

  The young jaygee looked around and spoke softly. "What do you think the Japs'll do to us?"

  "Prison camp."

  "They didn't sign the Geneva Convention. Those guys captured on Bataan...they..."

  "Easy!" Epperson said. "They won't have any reason to--"

  Hadley's voice cranked up a notch. "Remember what that Filipino Scout said? They marched them on the Cabcaben Road, bayonetted the guys who couldn't keep up and threw 'em into binjo ditches."

  The Marine sergeant turned to them with a curious look. Epperson grabbed Hadley's forearm. "Come on, Jim. Easy."

  Epperson waited until Hadley's breathing slowed then nodded to the front door. "Better call the guard shack and get another detail up there."

  Hadley nodded slowly.

  Trying to smile, Epperson backed in the crypto room, closed the door, and walked to his desk.

  The cryptographer sat before Lulu, lining the message on the board. Without turning he said, "you want to do this one, Sir?"

  "Go ahead. I'll keep working the burn bags." Cramming documents in the canvas sack, Epperson was amazed how much material Op-20-G Cast had left behind: Stuff he wasn't cleared for. They'd been in such a hurry to rendezvous with their submarine.

  He watched Radtke peck for a minute, then said, "And lay off Portman. I know you lead him on."

  Radtke's ramrod-straight index fingers punched Lulu's keyboard. "The guy is a jerk."

  Epperson opened his mouth to speak just as another shell landed nearby. The room shook, dust rose reducing visibility to ten feet. Radtke's key crunching stopped. Lulu was covered, Epperson knew.

  The dust cleared and both went back to work. Epperson decided to let the Portman matter go and kept pitching classified papers and manuals in canvas sacks called "burn bags".

  It was another five minutes before Epperson heard, "Lieutenant?"

  He looked up finding his assistant standing patiently before his desk, his arm outstretched with the message in hand. He took it and read:

  TOP SECRET

  04201754Z

  FM COM OP-G-20 HYPO

  TO COM OP-G-20 CAST

  BT

  1. SEA CONDOR DEPTH CHARGED BASHI CHANNEL HEAVY DAMAGE. ENROUTE HYPO.

  2. WOLFFISH ASSIGNED.

  3. ETA 04252130H SW CRNR YY2.

  4. PRIORITY SAME.

  5. PREPARE DESTRUCTION MATERIALS/EQUIPMENT MOMENT'S NOTICE.

  6. ACKNOWLEDGE.

  BT

  Epperson felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach. Another five days! With this barrage, they'd be dead and the Rock reduced to cinders in five days.

  Sledgehammers loaned by the shipfitters stood in the corner. The IBM tabulating machine had been smashed and dumped in Manila Bay but somehow, they had put off wrecking Lulu. Epperson rubbed his chin. The irony was, had they put Lulu to the sledges earlier, they wouldn't have been able to decrypt this message. And tomorrow night, they'd be bobbing with Todd Ingram in the southwest corner of area Yoke-Yoke two waiting for a submarine that would never come. Now, Lulu gave them something to do for five days.

  Another thought touched Epperson. Those Marines outside. They'd been conveniently posted just last week, having relieved two wobbly-kneed Army privates. The bayonet wielding sergeant and the cigarette lighting corporal would b
e the ones who could easily carry out orders to kill both him and his assistant. Epperson would have to keep watch if he wanted to live. Possibly bring Radtke in on it; maybe devise a plan of escape.

  Todd Ingram.

  China.

  That's an idea. He wondered if--

  Radtke interrupted Epperson's train of thought. "Somehow, I knew it wasn't true. This dump will be crawling with Japs before that sub gets here."

  Not looking up, Epperson filed the message on his clipboard, "We'll still be here. The Japs will still be over there. Don't worry. Now, send an acknowledgement."

  "Yessir."

  Trying to look nonchalant, Epperson grabbed a sheaf of papers he'd worked on with Commander Joe Rochefort at HYPO. They were labeled:

  IJN COMBINED FLEET

  PROJECTED CENTRAL PACIFIC CAMPAIGN

  "What are you looking at?"

  Tucking his left hand behind his back, Radtke's eyes quickly darted from the papers in Epperson's hands. "Nothing, Sir."

  "Forget you ever saw these."

  "How can I Mr. Epperson? I ran the mimeograph."

  "We're not supposed to talk about it."

  "Yessir."

  "Give the encrypted message to the marine sergeant. Let him hand it to Portman."

  "With pleasure."

  Epperson watched his assistant set up the acknowledgement to HYPO. Sitting back, he was afraid to admit he agreed with Radtke, the man who was so self-conscious about his left hand he kept it tucked behind his back making him appear as though he were on a drilling compound ready to snap to parade rest.

  But all one had to do was cock an ear to the bombardment outside; any fool could tell the tempo had increased. He didn't give much for their chances of lasting another five days.

  Epperson lifted the phone, telling the Army signal crew to send a flashing light message canceling Todd Ingram's visit. He sent a another message to Major Otis DeWitt over in Malinta Tunnel. DeWitt, General Moore's adjutant, would pass the new schedule to the rest of the evacuation party.

  That done, Epperson yawned, grabbed the IJN COMBINED FLEET report, stood, and shuffled to a cot in the far corner. He lay down and, in spite of the dust, lit a Chesterfield. Artillery rumbled as he absently flipped dog-eared pages marked TOP SECRET.