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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  "Expansion joints," Portman growled. He looked over, seeing the two usually unperturbed Marines at the crypto room door put on their helmets and secure chin straps. Their eyes were hidden but their lips were pressed almost white. Even after what those two had been through on Bataan; they looked scared--it was something one couldn't hide.

  KRUUMPF! Their world shook, the concrete seeming to jump from all sides.

  "Big sumbitch!" yelled Portman, looking from right to left. He held the table in a death grip with his left hand bracing the radio console against the wall with his right, as a smaller unattended receiver crashed to the floor, taking with it a case of light bulbs. "You all right?"

  Skinner screeched an unintelligible reply that was soon lost among other shouts and groans up and down the tunnel. Lieutenant Hadley kneeled in an alcove with tin hat on. The lights dimmed momentarily; the overhead fixtures swayed, masking a shape running full speed down the tunnel. Portman watched the figure for a moment, then said, "Another two hundred forty-millimeter, I'll bet. Japs throwin' that shit around like they was bowling balls."

  "I can't take this," Skinner squealed, shooting to his feet.

  Portman reached, barely in time to grab a handful of Skinner's shirttail. "Easy, kid," said Portman, pulling the squirming, panting Skinner back into his chair. "You go outside and them shells'll rip you to pieces. Remember Bogoslawski last week? Relax. They don't have enough ammo to keep this--

  Three shells hit almost simultaneously plunging the tunnel into darkness. One landed near the entrance and they felt the concussion. Dirt and papers blew through. Portman knew he was screaming and, at the same time, a macabre, detached sense told him Skinner screamed louder and more hysterically. Cabinets crashed to the floor; pictures and crockery shattered on the concrete.

  As if a diabolical ghoul controlled a master rheostat, the lights, swinging pendulously from the ceiling, cycled from full bright to dark to full bright again. Groans and hoarse shouts ranged up and down the tunnel. A glance over his shoulder told Portman that Skinner had bolted. His chair was empty. And the two Marines sat hunched on the ground with their backs pressed against one another, their submachine guns ready.

  The dust congealed into a thick, foglike mist. Portman couldn't see more than six or seven feet, as he tied a handkerchief around his face, and tucked it into what was recently his last clean shirt.

  He'd just finished when he heard horrible gurgling, worse than the general cacophony now dying in the tunnel. Someone was wheezing, maybe choking to death nearby.

  Damnit! It was getting closer.

  The fog eased a bit yielding the shape of a muted apparition.

  Ten feet visibility. The Marine sergeant and his corporal were crouched side by side now; they clacked the actuators on their Thompson submachine guns and flipped off safeties. The corporal tucked the stock of his Thompson in his shoulder and sighted down the barrel into the roiling muck.

  Needing no further urging, Portman jumped to his feet and reached behind the radio for his own weapon--a .45. Fumbling, the butt slipped away as the shapes came nearer. He secured a purchase, frantically worked the action, and aimed in a two-handed stance, as two dark profiles emerged weaving beneath the swaying lamps.

  "Take it easy. Damn! What's wrong with you guys?"

  "Who goes?" the Marine sergeant bellowed.

  "Lieutenant Ingram calling for Lieutenant Epperson. And I think I have someone who belongs to you."

  Their faces materialized. Ingram pulled a choking, wheezing Skinner by his belt. The man's tongue protruded and his eyes were bugged wide open. Glancing at his chair, he wailed uncontrollably.

  Portman tucked his .45 in his belt and took Skinner's arm. "Come on, Ernie. Sit down."

  The radioman shook his head and tried to wiggle away just as another shell hit.

  "It's okay," said Portman, holding a squirming, shaking Skinner. Ingram's grip slipped and he grabbed with both hands.

  The Marine sergeant walked up and threw a pitcher of water in Skinner's face and slapped him twice. Skinner blinked with surprise, then indignation. Still panting, he looked at the sergeant. Finally, the young radioman caught his breath, dropped his head, and braced his hands on his knees. "Okay."

  Ingram eased his grip.

  Skinner looked at him sideways. "I'm okay, Lieutenant. Thanks." He grappled at the back of his chair and sat shakily.

  Ingram eyed Portman. "Mr. Epperson here?"

  A shell landed, but it didn't seem as near. Portman nodded over his shoulder. "In there, Sir."

  Through a hoary haze laden with concrete dust, Ingram squinted to make out a sign that read: Radio Intercept File Room

  Authorized Personnel Only.

  Portman leaned close and whispered, "That's where the Lieutenant stores his tomato juice. Other goodies, too. Malone is supposed to be standing sentry duty inside, but I think the guy pissed his pants and bolted with the last barrage. Go on in, Sir."

  "Thanks." Ingram nodded and walked across the tunnel, opened the door and stepped in, just as a large shell smacked into Monkey Point. He stumbled backwards to pitch against the door, making it slam shut.

  He waited a few moments, regaining his balance and savoring the temporary calm. The room was much larger than the door indicated. The area was perhaps twenty by thirty, arranged with row upon row of light-beige file cabinets. Most of the drawers were open and empty of contents. Except, in one corner, he spotted a bank of cabinets of more sturdy construction with combination locks. Tucked in their drawer handles were large, striped red tags marked SECRET or, in a few cases, TOP SECRET. He wondered if the tomato juice and the rest of Epperson's hoard really was stacked in the rear, perhaps by the conference table.

  The dust was still thick; lamps swayed from the ceiling washing the cabinets to a mummified complexion. A desk stood near the front door. Papers were scattered on top. A mug half-filled with coffee stood near the corner. He spotted the conference table and stacked behind it were a dozen cases marked "Tomato Juice." He was surprised to see behind that, another pile of cases marked "Pineapple Juice." Stretching along the wall to the corner were boxes marked "Coke syrup," "Toilet Paper," and "Hershey Candies."

  "Dwight?" Ingram called.

  Four rounds thudded into the Rock in quick succession. But they seemed far away; perhaps at Corregidor's western end.

  "Hello?"

  The dust motes twirled more lazily. Now he could see across the file room; he took a few steps. Absent the impact of distant shells, the room was quiet and, even without air-conditioning, unnaturally cool. Solace washed through him. He'd been elbow to elbow with a horde of sweaty, terrified human beings for the past five months. What a wonderful place to retreat and read or just be quiet for awhile. Or, even sleep.

  "Dwight. Where the hell are you?"

  Nothing. Ingram checked the aisles. Zero. That radioman, like everyone else on the Rock, was out of his--

  "...uhhhh."

  Something thumped on the floor. Ingram spun and looked down an aisle on the far side of the room. At the end was a doorway. A sign over the top read: "Darkroom."

  There! Something thumped again. Ingram walked down the aisle. At the end, cabinets labeled TOP SECRET stood guard around a library-sized study table. A pair of supine, booted feet stuck out of the darkroom's doorway.

  "Son of a bitch!" Shoving aside armchairs, he rushed past the table. Looking inside, he saw an Army private stuffed under the sink. His face was blue and he stared at Ingram with surprised, wide eyes. But there was no blood. Ingram jabbed the wall switch. Nothing. But enough light crept in to illuminate another man on his back. He had a shiny bald head.

  "Dwight! What the hell?" Ingram kneeled down. Epperson's face was pale and his eyes were open. His mouth was a large oval expanding and contracting as a fish does when out of water.

  "Damn!" Ingram drew his hand away from a warm stickiness. He knew what it was. He'd seen too much, smelled too much of it over the past five months. He looked closer, finding
a large stomach wound.

  Epperson's eyes followed him.

  "Dwight. What happened?"

  "Ace?"

  "Yeah."

  "Cold. Can't move my feet."

  "Hold on, buddy. Let me get a doctor. We'll fix you--"

  "No time," Epperson wheezed. A bony hand gripped Ingram's lapel.

  "Come on, Dwight. I'll get you jiving again."

  "Listen, damn you." Epperson's eyes focused. He tried to take a deep breath. Instead, he coughed foamy pink spittle.

  "Jesus. Dwight. Hold on. Lemme get help."

  "...Todd. Radtke shot me with Malone's .45. Blew me across the room...uhhh...tried to garrote me first. I got the bastard by the nuts."

  Ingram looked to his left, seeing the .45 laying within arm’s reach. "Who?"

  "Radtke. My assistant."

  Ingram nodded to the sentry. "What happened to him?"

  "Strangled, garrote, I think."

  Ingram choked, "Why did...Radtke do this?"

  "Bastard had a Minox."

  "A what?"

  "Tiny camera. Disguised as a matchbox. Microfilm. He was shooting those files...up..." Epperson's hand raised toward papers and files scattered across the table just outside the darkroom. His hand fell. "He knows. Damn. The bastard figured it out."

  "What, Dwight?"

  "You have to stop him. You have to." Epperson's eyes glowed for a moment, then went watery as his chest heaved. As if in cosmic unity, the lights dimmed and Epperson's breathing stopped.

  Ingram moved an ear toward Epperson's clammy chest. He jumped when Epperson's lungs heaved; he wheezed and said loudly, "The Japs are going to invade Midway!" He blinked and his eyes darted.

  "I wouldn't be surprised," Ingram said. "They've bombed everything else. Why not Midway?"

  "AF," Epperson's voice turned to a gurgling rasp.

  "Huh?"

  "...shut up. Rochefort and I figured it out. AF." Epperson's eyes blinked rapidly as he focused on the ceiling. "We cracked their damn code. AF was the key."

  It dawned on Ingram. Epperson really was lucid and knew what was he was talking about. His classmate had dealt with important material. While Ingram and his ship had squirmed in its own milieu of survival, Epperson's outlook was global. "What's AF?"

  "Midway. Damnit." Epperson's tone was almost conversational. "That's their code. AH is Hawaii. AG is French Frigate Shoals. And damnit! AF is Midway! Nimitz believes us."

  "He does?" Reference to the Commander of the Pacific Fleet gave Ingram a heady feeling.

  "Yeah. The Nips will hit AF on June fourth. Gigantic force. Shit. Over a hundred Jap ships spread from Alaska to Midway."

  Both of Epperson's hands pulled on Ingram's collar. His voice was weak. "They outnumber us three to one. But we can win, Todd. We can win. Surprise the little bastards. Knock the wind out of all this Kido Butai bullshit. Sink their Imperial asses...buy time...why is it so damned cold?"

  A shell impacted overhead making the floor surge. Epperson's eyes squeezed shut with pain. He swallowed and his eyelids fluttered. "Todd?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Find Radtke. Kill him."

  "Dwight," Ingram almost wailed. "I don't understand any of this."

  "I don't either...except Radtke...he shot meeee...he knows too much...uhhh...shit it hurts..."

  "Dwight! Stay with me. Hold on 'til I get the Doc."

  "...cold..."

  "Dwight? Dwight! Damnit. Come on--"

  "On your feet, mister!"

  Ingram looked up into the barrel of a .45 caliber Thompson submachine gun. A helmeted figure stood above him with legs splayed, ready to fire. It was the Marine sergeant. The corporal hovered alongside; his eyes darting about the room.

  "Get up, I said. Now," said the sergeant.

  "This man's dying. He needs a doctor," said Ingram.

  "Sir," the sergeant said. "If you don't stand now, I'm blowing your damned head off."

  Ingram stood.

  "Kick that over here. Easy with it."

  Ingram caught Malone's.45 with his instep, sliding it across the linoleum to bounce off the corporal's foot. He pointed at Epperson. "Ask him if you don't believe me."

  The corporal stepped around Ingram, knelt, and put his hand on Epperson's neck. "Lieutenant's dead." He nodded toward the prone sentry. "Looks like Malone don't feel too good, either."

  "No!" roared Ingram. "He was just talking to me."

  The corporal stepped back and, to prove his point, gestured with a palm to Epperson's corpse.

  Ingram's jaw fell open.

  "What is it, Sergeant?" Lieutenant (jg) Hadley stepped through the main door and walked down the aisle. Looking around he said, "Jeeze this place is bigger than I thought."

  Seeing Ingram he said, "You were right, Sergeant. Who let you in here, Lieutenant?"

  Ingram stuttered. "The radioman. He--"

  "Sonofabitch!" Hadley's mouth fell open as he drew up, seeing the two bodies in the darkroom.

  "I can explain," said Ingram.

  "Better keep your hands where we can see 'em, Lieutenant," said the sergeant.

  "Who did this?" asked Hadley.

  "A man named Radtke, I think." said Ingram.

  "Where is he?"

  "How the hell should I know?" Ingram spread his hands.

  Hadley looked around the room. "Looks like he's off duty." His eyes squared on Ingram. "Who are you?" demanded Hadley. "And what are you doing in a classified area?"

  Two shells thumped overhead and they waited, staring at one another, until the ground stopped jiggling. Finally, Ingram identified himself and said, "Your radioman told me to come in. Said it was okay."

  "Who?" asked Hadley.

  "The guy in the dungarees. A first class."

  Hadley rubbed his chin for a moment. He looked at the sergeant. "Have Portman come in here."

  "Ssssir." The sergeant jogged out.

  A moment later, Portman's once thick frame stood before them. Seeing feet sticking from the darkroom door, his adam's apple bobbed up and down. With wavering voice, he said, "You wanted me Mr. Hadley?"

  Without taking his eyes off Ingram, Hadley said, "Portman. Do you know this officer?"

  Silence.

  "Portman?" shouted Hadley.

  The Marine sergeant stood at Portman's back and hissed in his ear.

  Portman gulped. "Seen him a couple of times, Lieutenant."

  "Did you authorize him to come in here?"

  Ingram swung and looked at Portman.

  Beads of sweat stood on Portman's forehead as shells rumbled in the distance.

  Hadley croaked in a tunnel voice, "Portman. I haven't got all day, damnit."

  The Marine sergeant prodded Portman's back.

  "...nnn...no-nossir."

  "What?" said Ingram.

  "Are you sure, Portman?" asked Hadley.

  "Y-yessir," said Portman.

  "Back to your post," ordered Hadley.

  Portman scurried back to his radio, while the sergeant closed the door and walked back to the group.

  Ingram was incredulous. "That man is lying. I came in here because I'm detailed to lead an evacuation party," he checked his watch, "that is supposed to shove off in twenty-five minutes. Lieutenant Epperson and Radtke were supposed to go. I came here to pick them up."

  "Lieutenant Epperson said nothing to me about evacuation," said Hadley. He spotted the .45 and nodded to the sergeant who bent and picked it up.

  "Call Major DeWitt over in Malinta Tunnel if you don't believe me."

  "We will," said Hadley. He looked at the sergeant. "Well?"

  With a flourish, the sergeant snapped the action and released the clip which dropped in his palm. He sniffed the breech and checked the clip saying, "One round fired recently."

  For a moment, all four looked at Epperson's unblinking eyes and wide-open mouth frozen in a last, futile gasp. His stomach was an enormous red blotch and blood pooled beneath his corpse.

  Hadley and the two Marines looked to
Ingram.

  Ingram felt like an ice-cold spike had been driven through him. Unaccountably, his cheek wound throbbed beneath the blackened bandage. "You're crazy."

  "Turn around, please, Sir, " said the sergeant, grabbing a length of twine from atop a file cabinet. "Put your hands behind your back."

  Ingram was astounded. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  Hadley stepped back two paces. "Better do as the sergeant says, Lieutenant."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  29 April, 1942

  South Dock

  Corregidor Island, Manila Bay, Philippines

  Within seconds of one another, a pair of shells smacked the water a hundred yards offshore. Strangely, they seemed not to explode, but lifted twin fifty-foot columns of hissing, debris-laden water, which hung in midair for a moment before cascading down.

  A residual mist enveloped the 51 Boat as her passengers lined up to await boarding. In twilight, Todd Ingram stepped away from the two Marines detailed to accompany him to the dock. He squinted at his watch's radium dial: 8:14. A glance told him it was calm out in the South China Sea: No wind chop and only low ground swells rolled toward land. They would have a smooth passage which was lucky, for the boat would be overloaded with passengers and their gear. Plus, fifteen gold bars were stored in the bilges: That was over a thousand pounds right there. The 51 Boat would ride low in the water tonight, but with the weather as it was, he reckoned they would have a smooth trip.

  Major Otis DeWitt, wearing campaign hat, jodhpurs, and shiny boots, raised a clipboard and screeched the names of those with the highest priority. A half dozen AAF pilots, none older than twenty-five, raised their hands.

  "Step forward, damnit, and get in the boat. Sit in the front." DeWitt took their names and checked them off as they filed past.

  One of the pilot's eyes was bandaged. His hair was gone, allowing his combination cap to rest on his ears; his face was a mass of oozing sores and scabs. He had great trouble finding his footing. Two other pilots helped him along. "Leon," Ingram yelled, and walked over, the Marines in tow.

  Beardsley raised his head as if sniffing the wind. "That you Skipper?"

  "Any tomato juice left?"