Tuga was at it again. "Where was he going?"
"...steamboat..."
"I know that, bitch. Where was he going?"
Helen tried to think. What was Tuga getting at? Everybody knew Pablo Amador was going to Nasipit.
"Don't pass out. Answer me." With all his strength, Tuga shook her shoulders.
"...Nasipit..."
Tuga threw her back. "Damn. I didn't realize it. Amador was on that submarine. I almost had him." He said to Watanabe in Japanese, "What was that Filipino's name?"
"Roberto."
"Why didn't he say anything about Amador earlier?"
"He was holding out for more money."
"Well, kill him."
"With respect, Sir. This man gave us Aguilar and Diaz."
"I said kill him."
"Yes Sir."
"Now call headquarters and order a boat. I'm going to Nasipit."
"What about her?"
"No good to me now." Tuga reached down and ran the back of his hand over her face.
They went out. Helen hadn't understood anything except Tuga's last words: "Santo Tomas."
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
8 May, 1942
Maricaban Island
Philippines
They crept up to Maricaban, a narrow island two miles off Luzon. It was an hour before sunup as the thirty-six-foot boat worked its way through the reef and anchored in a shallow, uninhabited cove a half-mile south of Sepoe Point, the island's northwestern tip. The day grew humid as they lay thirty yards off a beach carpeted with unspoiled white sand and deep green palms. Otis DeWitt had, by default, been appointed intelligence expert, but he scratched his head and sucked through crooked teeth when Ingram asked about enemy garrisons on the island. Without better information, Ingram was reluctant to allow anyone ashore, so he restricted them to the boat. His sailors passed the day tossing and turning under a thick canvas tarp. With the oppressive heat, they jumped in and swam about for a few minutes. But the water was near the temperature of blood so they scrambled over the gunnel, where water evaporating from their clothes cooled them off. After forty-five minutes the process started over again.
Whittaker and Kevin Forester tried their luck at fishing, but grew tired after an hour or so. Yardly offered rations at four in the afternoon, but they were too hot and too grumpy to eat. And so, seconds stretched to minutes, and minutes mercifully to hours until darkness fell and they weighed anchor, happy to escape "Caldron Cove" as Holloway called it.
With Forester at the helm, they chugged easily through the Maricaban Strait, and by nine-thirty headed into the Verde Island Strait, a major shipping route in peacetime. But it was a tricky passage, known for masses of water surging from the Pacific through the San Bernardino Strait which lay over two hundred miles to the southeast. From there the water ran along Luzon's southern coast and into the Verde Island Strait, accelerating to near eight knots, causing violent rips and eddies. Here, the current would change directions unpredictably, giving sailors great cause for concern whenever they transited.
Tonight there was a thick overcast and the situation was made worse since buoys and lighthouses had been yanked from service by the Japanese. Ingram was forced to dead reckon in the murk without any navigation references. By ten-fifteen they were almost through the narrows, when dead ahead, he spotted ominous shapes silhouetted against the blackness. He told Forester to come right and was soon astounded to discover they had closed three anchored ships.
"Further right, Forester!" Ingram hissed.
There was no doubt in Forester's mind the ships were Japanese and he needed little urging to swing his tiller further. Ingram was amazed to see two of the ships were the largest submarines he'd ever seen; they were anchored in a nest with exhausts blasting to charge batteries. Nearby, was a sulking destroyer. All three brooded at darken ship like nocturnal predators, eager to spring upon an unsuspecting victim.
Minutes later, when the 51 Boat neared the Passages’ southeastern end, Ingram spotted what looked like a campfire near Luzon's Arenas Point. He peered at it for a while, discovering the light didn't draw aft. In fact--my God! The light moved forward, rather than aft, of their beam. Even at full power, they were being set back into the narrows.
Ingram opened his mouth to yell, but he couldn't find words.
"Current!" wheezed Farwell.
"Whittaker!" shouted Ingram, finally discovering his vocal cords.
The engineer bent to the Buda and coaxed out a few more rpm. But it didn't help. The current still shoved them back toward the narrows, where coal-black silhouettes of the anchored Japanese warships again took shape.
"Come on, Pete," Bartholomew urged through clenched teeth. He stood with hands on his knees, peering over the engineer's shoulder. Whittaker ignored him as he beseeched more power from his engine, but it overheated and began sputtering and making clanking noises.
"Overhaul," Whittaker muttered.
Bartholomew nearly yelled, "Screw the overhaul. You get us out of here, Pete, and I swear, I'll give you a new La Salle when we get back to the States.
"Cadillac," corrected Whittaker.
"Hey, what's wrong with a La Salle?" said Bartholomew, nervously looking aft. With the raging current, they had closed to within five hundred yards of the submarines and destroyer.
Whittaker reached in, fine-tuning the fuel flow. "Ain't a Cadillac."
"Yes, it is," said Bartholomew. "My brother-in-law's got one. Ride's smooth as a baby's butt."
The ships were getting bigger. Over the Buda's pathetic laboring, they could once again hear the throaty rumble of the submarine's diesels. And with the menace more imminent, they imagined they could feel the resonating thump of those engines.
"Hell with this." Ingram ran forward. "Toss the anchor."
Ingram, Brian Forester, Sunderland, and Yardly all jumped to the bow and cursed and scrambled to shove aside the crates, water tins, clothing and rifles that were scattered over the anchor locker. Working frantically, the four finally exposed the hatch.
Ingram sneaked a quick look over his shoulder, seeing they had drifted even closer to the nested submarines, the Buda's laboring notwithstanding.
A rusty latch squeaked. Sunderland ripped open the hatch and gave a satisfied grunt. "Got the Sonofabitch. Stand back."
Junior Forester said, "Wait. Is--?"
"Outta my way, Junior." growled Sunderland. He heaved and the anchor hit the water with a satisfying splash. Rode and line quickly zinged out of the anchor locker.
"Shit!" said Yardly.
"Huh?" said Sunderland, not realizing he'd forgot to check the anchor's bitter end. It wasn't tied to the boat. In seconds, everything would be gone.
Forester frantically grabbed what was left of a section of coil that hadn't ran. He tried to secure it around a cleat, but the slack paid out, making the line burn through his hands. Ingram, Sunderland, and Yardly jumped in to help. Forester, hissing in pain, had the line almost secure. The other three grabbed a bight and finished manhandling the line securely around the cleat.
The boat lurched. Ingram checked the campfire, finding there was no more sternway. The anchor held. "Shut it off," he yelled in a hoarse whisper.
Whittaker switched off the engine as Forester stumbled aft and sat on a thwart, sucking at his right hand and groaning.
Ingram kneeled beside him. "Stick your hands in the water," he said.
"I'll kill the bastard." Forester said, as he leaned over the gunnel and dipped his hands.
"Even seasoned sailors forget," Ingram mused, patting young Forester's back. "Do me a favor. Wait 'til we get to Australia before you kill him."
Forester said through clenched teeth. "Don't be surprised if he ain't here when you wake up some morning." Yardly made his way aft and dressed the young quartermaster striker's hand. Ingram watched for a while, then double-checked their position as they bobbed with the surge.
It was spooky being this close. Three hundred yards away, the submarine's dies
els thundered and the destroyer's exhaust blowers whined as they waited helplessly. To Ingram, the shadows of Verde Island materialized into Imperial Japanese Marines running across the water, waving swords high in the air and shouting "banzai" in a screaming suicidal charge.
Then, strangely, the 51 Boat swung almost violently in the opposite direction. Now they were pointing toward the submarines as the current rushed to the southeast.
Ingram stood quickly and said, "Let's go."
With a whoop, Sunderland, Farwell, and Whittaker hauled in the anchor. Bartholomew started the engine. Kevin Forester grabbed the tiller ready to conn the boat. Soon, they popped through the narrows like a cork in rapids; it was almost as if someone had picked up the 51 Boat and hurled her through the Strait.
* * * * *
It was early twilight when Ingram picked out Mount San Antonio on Marinduque Island. He stood at the helm studying the roughly circular island. The chart had told him it was twenty miles in diameter and lay in an area called Tayabas Bay fifteen miles off Luzon's west coast. By sunrise he eased them around San Andres Point and idled into Calancan Bay looking for an uninhabited cove. He'd conned them only two hundred yards off the coast, but it was still dark inshore, and he had trouble picking out a spot to hide out for the day.
Suddenly, two Zero float planes blasted through Mompog Pass, fifty feet off the deck.
"Down!" cursed Ingram, making sure everyone scrambled for cover.
"What the hell's going on?" muttered DeWitt.
"We're heading for the beach," Ingram yelled, throwing the tiller hard to starboard. "Whittaker. Full power!"
Whittaker cranked in throttle, and the 51 Boat headed directly for Marinduque as everyone cringed on the deck. Bartholomew was curled up in a little ball. Junior Forester lay jammed under a thwart next to Yardly. But Sutherland sat up, propped his BAR and rammed in a magazine.
They held their breath as they drew close to shore and soon, white water boiled about fifty feet ahead. Ingram looked over his shoulder to see the Zeros circling at low altitude, only a mile or so away. He looked ahead to the white water.
Sunderland shouted. "Reef!"
Decision time. He looked desperately at the waves nearby, trying to find a dark spot that would indicate an entrance.
No chance.
Whittaker asked, "Slow down, Skipper?"
"No." Ingram looked over his shoulder. One of the Zeros banked around and headed straight for them. He was sure the pilot had them in his sights. He said. "Everybody ready to jump."
Wait. Here comes a big wave. Ingram wiggled the tiller a little to make sure he was lined up perpendicular to the long comer as it picked them up and carried them toward the reef at dizzying speed. Too late. It was out of his hands.
The Zero continued in its bank just as the ground swell lifted the boat, sending her over the reef and leaving the roaring waters behind.
"Sonofabitch," said Farwell, looking aft.
"What's going on?" sputtered Bartholomew, his teeth gritted.
Farwell said, "See for yourself."
They rose to their feet and gawked. It had all happened so fast, and Ingram was as surprised as anyone else to see the reef's turbulence astern. It almost seemed incongruous to him that he was now motoring serenely in a lagoon, heading for what looked like a dark, sheltered cove. He checked over his shoulder to see the Zeros still circled the same spot. He also noticed the 51 Boat pulled a large, frothy wake over the lagoon's crystal waters.
"Whittaker, dead slow," barked Ingram.
Whittaker throttled back and they coasted toward shore. The Zeros continued to buzz and dip and circle, then suddenly broke and ambled off to the northwest. Two minutes later they were gone.
An indentation in the cove provided a perfect anchorage with thick trees, roots, and vines on three sides while a canopy of leaves stretched overhead. Finding a rock outcropping, Forester tossed out the anchor, making sure the bitter end was properly secured to the boat this time. Whittaker switched off the Buda. Expecting a sweet silence, Ingram heard a distant rumbling.
Suddenly, Bartholomew grinned broadly, whipped off his chief's hat and wiped beads of perspiration from his balding forehead. "I'll be damned," he said.
"What?" muttered Sutherland
"Gotta be a waterfall," said Bartholomew. "What do you say, Junior?"
Junior Forester scrambled over rocks and up to a tree to tie a sternline. "I think so. Mist is rising just beyond those trees." He pointed to a thick grove of coconut palms just yards away.
Ingram said. "Okay, Forester. You and Rocky check on it. Take two canteens each. Major DeWitt. Why don't you grab a pistol and stand guard for them?"
"Glad to," said DeWitt, squaring his campaign hat. With just a little pomp, he strapped on a pistol belt and stepped ashore, where the overgrowth swallowed him along with Bartholomew and Forester.
With the growing light, Ingram decided he was satisfied with their anchorage. In fact, the growth was so thick it was almost like a tunnel. He peered at the dawn's first brilliant rays shining on a small stretch of sand twenty feet away. And, for the first time since Corregidor's siege began, he smelled the ancient Asian odor of dead fish, rotting leaves, and mud. This wouldn't be a bad place to spend a day or two, he thought.
"Whittaker," Ingram said, "Maybe we can beach the boat here and overhaul the engine?"
Whittaker fussed with an oil can and said, "Fine with me, Skipper. She's ready for it, I'll tell you."
"Mr. Holloway," said Ingram.
The tarp had been rigged overhead, and the jaygee was already stretched out ready for sleep. "...uh, Sir?"
"Go ashore and find out--"
"Skipper!"
Ingram looked up, finding Young Forester standing on the rocks. "What?"
"Big waterfall, Sir. Fresh water pool. Like in the movies. Everything except Dorothy Lamour and Jon Hall. Mr. DeWitt says to jump in. The water is fantastic."
"He sent you?"
"Yessir. It's only fifty yards that way."
"Baths?" said Beardsley.
"What the hell's a bath?" growled Sutherland. The nine men looked up to Forester as if he were a messenger from heaven.
Forester grinned. "You ought to see Rocky and Major DeWitt bare-assed. Like a couple of two-year-olds."
"That's it," said Ingram, throwing his hands in the air. "Who volunteers for guard?"
Whittaker stuck up his hand while the others grabbed canteens and five-gallon water cans with guffaws. They poured over the gunnel with catcalls of "...last one in's a rotten egg." Toliver and Yardly caught a grinning Beardsley, as he tumbled over the side. The three stumbled with the B-17 pilot over the rocks, where they clambered up an embankment to follow their shipmates into the palm grove.
Ingram laughed and hooted with the others while they clumped into deep greenery, as if headed toward Coney Island. But laughter soon gave way to thrashing and cursing as they slogged through thick underbrush with clanking canteens and five-gallon water cans snagging on vines.
The sun soared off the eastern horizon just as Ingram broke into a clearing, perhaps a hundred feet in diameter. It was surrounded by coconut palms and jackfruit trees. Hills rose to his left where clean, glistening water spewed through thick undergrowth, tumbled over rocks and fell ten feet roaring into a natural pool. From there it ran through a gravel mini-delta, meandering the last hundred feet to the lagoon.
A ghostly white Bartholomew stood at the waterfall's top, wearing nothing but his chief's hat. With a broad grin, he waved, jumped, and pulled his knees to his chest, smacking the pool with a large splash. Just as Bartholomew hit, Otis DeWitt surfaced, then stretched out to float on his back spitting water in the air.
The cascading waterfall masked a collective, joyous bellow from the men of the 51 Boat. In seconds, they ripped off their putrid clothes; water containers clanked to the ground and they plunged in, immersing themselves in the healing, smoothness of fresh water for the first time in six months. The last was Beardsley
, who yanked off his khakis and staggered about following the splashing sounds. "Any soap?" he asked.
Holloway yelled from the pool's middle. "What's the matter, Leon? Navy guys too dirty for you?"
"Crustiest bastards I ever met," Beardsley shouted, running toward Holloway's voice. He got as far as a foot deep, tripped, and fell on his face, while the others cheered.
Ingram ran past Beardsley, dove in, and swam underwater reveling in the cool layers five to seven feet beneath the surface. He rose, bumping into rocks on the far side of the pool and watched his men frolic back and forth, while the palm leaves turned from a deep red to bright gold to deep green as the sun climbed higher, giving the promise of another hot day. Beneath the rich sunrise the Forester brothers stood at hip level in the shallow end, backhanding enormous sheets of water at each other. Sunderland pushed Yardley’s head under while DeWitt and Holloway crawled up the boulders toward Bartholomew's diving platform. Even Toliver grinned as Beardsley knocked him aside with an elbow then splattered a handful of sand up his back. Ingram looked up into the dawn's brightening sky, thinking it was like he hadn't lived with danger for the last six months, hadn't seen death, nor heard the incredulous screams of the dying, as he and his shipmates jumped and splashed and swam and shouted through the waterfall's unrelenting roar.
Ingram tread toward a sheer drop, not unlike the deep end of a swimming pool where he looked straight up to see a flailing Fred Holloway leap into space and hit the water in an enormous cannonball.
It felt so good. Ingram ducked underwater and pushed off again, pulling deeper with his hands. Luxuriously, he scooped the cold that surrounded him in a fresh, comforting cloak.
Thirty feet away he bumped against another near-vertical rock, kicked off and swam easy laps underwater. At each end he popped to the surface, took a breath and returned to the cool, enveloping deepness.
After five minutes he'd swum twelve laps or so and felt lightheaded. Time for a break, he thought. Ingram rose to the surface under Bartholomew's rock and gazed up to see a body fifteen feet overhead perfectly framed against the sky in the form of an impeccable swan dive...
THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1) Page 29
