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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Nimitz reached to the sideboard and recovered the folder Layton had given him. He laid it flat and looked up.

  Instead of seeing Rochefort roasted, English realized he'd been sucked into a strategy session.

  Nimitz held up a long, two-page flimsy radio message. "Jack broke radio silence. He's on a beeline for home."

  Draemel, English and Rochefort sat up. CinCPac referred to Admiral Jack Fletcher, Commander of Task Force 17, just disengaging from a battle with the Japanese in the Coral Sea.

  Nimitz allowed himself a small smile, "They sank the Ryukaku. The Shokaku is damaged and is on her way to Truk. But--"

  Rochefort and Draemel threw their fists over their heads and cheered. The Ryukaku was a light carrier; the Shokaku a heavy carrier, one of the Kido Butai.

  Nimitz put a hand up. English noticed it shook just a little. "We lost the Lexington."

  "But...but, she was okay, they said," gasped Draemel. "She'd just resumed flight ops."

  Nimitz flipped a page and pressed his lips. "...mmmmm..."

  They fell silent as he ran a finger down the page. "...here it is. Bomb hit ruptured gasoline lines," said Nimitz. "Damn! One-hundred-octane vapors settled deep inside her. Finally exploded. Must have been like a volcano in there. Fires went out of control. They had to abandon and torpedo her."

  The three stared. Nimitz continued, "Jack is on his way back." His steel blue eyes flicked to Rochefort. "ETA afternoon of the twenty-seventh. But the Yorktown is seriously damaged."

  Rochefort stood and braced his fists on the table.

  Nimitz looked up and said, "She's trailing an oil slick ten-miles long. The hull is perforated, many compartments damaged. They estimate a ninety-day stateside overhaul."

  Draemel stood, turned, and walked to the window. He ran the back of his hand over the blackout drape seam making sure light didn't leak through. "That's it then. Shit outta luck."

  Nimitz said, "Sit, Milo."

  English started to rise, "Should I leave, sir?"

  "No, Bob. You're part of this. Milo, sit, please."

  Draemel threw his hands in the air. "Lex gone. Yorktown out of action. We're screwed!"

  "Sit!" barked Nimitz.

  Draemel turned, his eyes red. He pointed toward the west facing windows. "Yamamoto. That sonofabitch has over one hundred fully ready, chickenshit-loaded, combat ships. That includes eight carriers, Chester!"

  "Sit!"

  Draemel took a deep breath and sat. Rochefort, English noticed, puffed his cigar, watching the others through hooded eyes.

  Nimitz rattled his flimsy, "Jack says the Yorktown's engineering plant is fine. Her elevators work, the flight deck and catapults are okay. We can patch her fuel tanks. There's some hull puncturing but we'll get her shored up and arrest the flooding."

  "How fast can she be turned around?" said Rochefort, resuming his seat.

  Why didn't CinCPac order him to sit? thought English.

  Nimitz looked in the distance. "Depends..."

  English lost patience. "Admiral, I don't understand."

  Rochefort puffed on his cigar and spit a piece of tobacco into shadows. Draemel seemed to remember his own cigar and regarded it as if it were something very important. Then suddenly, he stubbed it out and ran his napkin over his forehead.

  "Midway," said Nimitz.

  "They're hitting Midway?" said English.

  "Their whole damned combined fleet," said Nimitz. "Yamamoto wants to draw us out. Sink us." He faced English. "Would you believe they've named the officer who is to take over the Naval station there on August first?"

  "Nossir," said English.

  Nimitz said, "How many ships, Milo?"

  "Over a hundred twenty, counting submarines," moaned Draemel. "Their whole damned Kido Butai."

  "Good God!" said English.

  "Six carriers actually," said Rochefort, his voice sharp.

  The others gave a start. They'd forgotten about the lieutenant commander. He pointed at Nimitz's radio flimsy. "One sunk in the Coral Sea. Another damaged. And two more carriers are going to Aleutians. So we'll be up against four. Not eight."

  "What have we got?" ventured English.

  Nimitz said, "Looks like we're down to three carriers."

  "If we can repair the Yorktown," Draemel growled. "And that leaves us with forty-five ships. Total. Sonofabitch."

  English looked at Nimitz. "You want submarines." So this is why I'm here, he thought.

  "In spades," said Nimitz. "Everything you've got. I want a double perimeter to the west of Midway. How many can you give us?"

  English said, "Admiral, I--"

  "How many, Bob?" Nimitz's eyes were like lightning bolts.

  "Twenty-five, give or take. I'd have to figure it out. Two enroute for overhaul from Fremantle. Three new ones from Stateside. Five in refresher training. I've got two boats dedicated to the torpedo snafu. They'll be replaced by two 'S' Boats on their way from--“

  "Send 'em out," said Nimitz. "All of them. And forget torpedo problems for the time being. We have to go with what we've got."

  English hadn't heard. He muttered, thinking aloud. "Let's see. The Barbfish is overdue and presumed lost. She--"

  "That's Bob Fox's boat," said Nimitz.

  It was quiet. At length English said, "Yessir."

  "What's her area?" said Nimitz.

  "Bashi Channel."

  "Oh." Nimitz looked into the distance for a moment then nodded to English.

  "--um, what else? The Wolffish is in the Sibutu Passage to intercept Shokaku. But you say Shokaku has diverted to Truk?"

  Nimitz nodded.

  English said, "Okay. No sense her hanging around Sibutu. Let's toss in the Wolffish, too." But then he remembered something, "Uh, Admiral. She has a batch of evacuees from Corregidor. They're supposed to be dropped in Darwin."

  "Cancel the Darwin drop," said Nimitz. "Send her right on to Midway. She can offload her passengers there and refuel. Then, station her on the inner picket line."

  After a pause English said, "Aye aye, Sir." Inner Picket Line? English had no idea what Nimitz was speaking about, but he knew Nimitz or Draemel would take care of that shortly, and that his "In" basket would be full over the next few weeks.

  Rochefort said, "Perhaps we can have the Wolffish try and intercept Shokaku’ s track on her way to Truk. In case she tries to double back?"

  Nimitz rubbed his eyes for a moment. "Not a bad idea. Milo?"

  Draemel stood, walked over to a side table, and examined a chart. "Not far out of her way, Admiral."

  "Okay with you, Bob?" Nimitz smiled.

  "Yessir," said English. Nimitz had effectively thrown it into his lap. "I'll divert the Wolffish to run past Truk."

  "Good," said Nimitz.

  English sat back. Who the hell is running this navy? he thought.

  Nimitz asked Rochefort, "Have you been able to nail down the time, Joe?"

  It was quiet, the bomb dropped. Instinctively, English knew Nimitz was asking Rochefort to commit. A clock ticked somewhere in the darkened house. Outside, a whistle echoed up from Pearl Harbor. English cocked his head at the prolonged blast. It sounded like a destroyer getting underway. Damn tin cans always had a brittle, challenging hoot.

  Rochefort's eyes clicked over the three admirals, taking a long pull on his cigar. "Morning of four June. It'll be Nagumo with four carriers of the Kido Butai. He'll launch his first strike at 0600 local time."

  Draemel gave a long exhale. His shoulders sagged, and he shook his head slowly. Vice Admiral Chuichi Nagumo had led the attack against Pearl Harbor.

  Nimitz drummed his fingers. At length he said, "You sure?"

  The tip of Rochefort's cigar glowed red. "Best I can do. Layton agrees," he said, exhaling. The smoke didn't quite rise to the ceiling this time. It stayed at eye level and clouded his face.

  Silence. The destroyer's whistle hooted again with five short blasts: the danger signal.

  Nimitz said, "Okay. We'll go with that. I'll call
Ernie King." He turned to English. "That means we need your boats on station by noon of three June, Bob. Can you do it?"

  Who the hell is running this Navy? thought English. "Of course, Admiral."

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  9 May, 1942

  Calancan Bay, Marinduque Island

  Philippines

  A thin overcast blurred all but the brightest stars. Moonrise wouldn't be until 4 a.m., yet visibility was, for some reason, tolerable. With Don Aguilar and Augustine Vega leading the way in a small banca, the 51 Boat cleared the reef. An hour later, Marinduque lay off their starboard quarter and Ingram stood at the tiller, heading for Mompog Pass.

  "Anything Forester?" Forester and Whittaker were keeping lookout astern in case any one came after them.

  "Nossir," said Forester.

  "Good." Ingram breathed easier with each deep swell that rolled between the 51 Boat and Marinduque.

  Amidships, Yardly, DeWitt, and Holloway worked over the formless, groaning shape they had carefully loaded just before pushing off.

  Ingram couldn't see what was going on except when one of them occasionally reached for the water jug or yanked something from the medical bag. Growing impatient, he barked, "Yardly."

  Yardly rose, walked aft, and stood beside Ingram, wiping his brow.

  "Well?"

  "Touch and go, Skipper. Those bastards did about everything to her. Beat her up, cigarette burns, razor cuts, cracked ribs, maybe a ruptured spleen. Might be leaking blood internally."

  Ingram gripped the tiller in a cold rage.

  Yardly waved a hand at the ocean's expanse and his voice cracked, "Out here...we got nuthin'. How can I be certain what the hell's wrong let alone figure out how to treat her?"

  There was a long silence before Ingram said, "Did they...well...you know...?"

  "Hell, I can't tell. And I'm not going to go looking in there, right now. I don't think there's any discomfort there but we won't know for a while. Right now, she's dehydrated and has a high temperature. Where was she, anyway?"

  "Small room, no windows. Maybe a storage area at one time."

  "How long?"

  Ingram shrugged.

  "Well, if those bastards didn't feed her or give her water for two or three days, then that would explain it. She probably roasted in there during the daytime."

  The image of that little room swept through Ingram's mind. "Probably did."

  "I think she's in heat shock. We're dripping water into her mouth with a rag. But I don't think that's going to be near enough."

  "Have you cleaned her up?"

  Yardly shrugged. "A little. She still smells like shit. But I wish we had some ice. I have to figure a way to get the temperature down. It's up to a hundred five. Then we have to rehydrate her. And she keeps talking about--"

  "Jesus! She conscious?"

  "Not really. I--"

  "Bones!" Holloway's tone was urgent.

  "'Scuse me." Yardly ran back to the huddle and kneeled among them.

  "Forester," called Ingram.

  "Sir." Kevin Forester stepped up.

  "Take the helm. Steer zero-eight-five."

  "Yessir."

  Ingram moved forward, dropped to his knees, and squeezed next to Yardly. Helen's mouth was open wide and she inhaled in a great wheezing gasp.

  Yardly looked sideways for a moment, then put an ear to her chest, lifting her wrist and checking his watch. "Can't tell..."

  Helen's chest heaved, her breathing erratic. But then she moaned. "...almost home..."

  "What's that?" said Ingram.

  "She's said it twice." said Yardly. "Feel this."

  Ingram followed Yardley’s hand to her forehead, finding it hot.

  The corpsman said, "A thready pulse and her heartbeat is erratic, although it's hard to tell with that damn engine pounding in my ears."

  Helen's chest heaved again. "Ahhhh..."

  "Damn." Ingram bent close to Helen's ear, stroked her forehead and said, "Hold on now, Honey. It's okay now. We'll take good care of you."

  "...beautiful..." She gasped.

  Ingram said into her ear, "You're safe, Helen. Hurry up and get well. I need you to fix my cheek again."

  "...see you." She gave a long sigh, her mouth half open.

  Ingram looked at Yardly.

  Yardly grew tense. "Damnit!" He ran his stethoscope over her chest. "Can't hear anything. Could we throttle back for a moment?"

  Ingram called aft, "Whittaker. Kill the engine."

  Whittaker said, "Skipper, it's going real good now. I don't think--"

  "Kill it, damnit!" said Ingram.

  Whittaker switched off the engine. The 51 Boat slowed, then lay dead in the water, rising and falling on the swells under a gathering overcast. Everyone crowded around, seeing that Helen did not move.

  Yardly listened, pushing the stethoscope around her chest. After a while, he shook his head and looked up.

  "What?" said Ingram.

  "Gone." Yardly choked.

  "No!" said Ingram. "Helen you can't," he almost shouted.

  Yardly lay a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry, Skipper."

  He pressed close, seeing an alabaster-white Helen Durand, hair plastered to her forehead, her mouth halfway open. "What for?" Ingram looked to the sky. "What the hell for?" He almost bit through his lip. Why had this woman's death, more than any of the other grisly deaths he'd seen on Corregidor, affected him so much? Even before the question surfaced, he knew the answer and was angry at himself for being selfish, that he would have to suppress the feelings he had for her. That they never existed. To do it right, he would have to tell himself that she never existed.

  Impossible. She does exist. She's right here before me. She did...exist...

  "A good kid," Bartholomew muttered. "I guess we ought to get some canvas and sew her up. Let's see. For weights we can--"

  Helen's chest heaved; she gave a great gasp.

  "Jesus, Bones," said Sunderland. "Do something."

  "Maybe she needs artificial respiration," said Bartholomew.

  Helen's chest heaved again, drawing in another lungful of air.

  Junior Forester said, "I took artificial respiration in lifesaving. All you do is--"

  "Quiet!" Yardly slapped his stethoscope over Helen's heart. "Sonofabitch. It's goin'" He grabbed her wrist. "Pulse is back to where it was. She's breathing normally." He looked up. They all crowded around, the farthest man four feet away. "Alright," Yardly said. "Step back. She needs air."

  Bartholomew came to his senses and growled, "Back everybody."

  Ingram stood and moved away. With the others, he watched Yardly thumb open her right eyelid and shine a penlight. He did the same with the left, then stared at the deck. "That's it," he said.

  "What?" said Ingram.

  "We got some work to do. And quick," said Yardly. "Mr. Ingram? Mr. Holloway?"

  Both said, "Yes?"

  "Take her clothes off. Everything. Now, please." Yardly started digging in his bag, pitching packages and instruments on the deck.

  "What?" said Ingram, incredulous.

  "Now, gentlemen. No foolin'" said Yardly, fumbling with a long tube.

  Holloway said, "But--"

  "Do it, now. Take my word, it's important." Yardly raised a hand and pointed. "Mr. DeWitt. Mr. Toliver. Get a couple of blankets and soak them in sea water.

  "Sunny, grab that bucket, fill it with seawater, and pour it all over her."

  "Now?" said Sunderland.

  "Yes, now. Hurry up. And keep dumping water on her until I say stop."

  Sunderland picked up the bucket, Toliver and DeWitt grabbed blankets and leaned over the side. Ingram’s lips were pressed; his Adam's apple jumped up and down as he bent over Helen with Holloway and began tugging off Helen's clothes. Ingram tried not to look but couldn't help noticing her body was covered by thin cuts, some still bled. Prominent were beet-red cigarette burns. A few were festered and oozed pus. And the odor. Ingram gagged as he tore away what was left of h
er blouse...

  "Pants, too?" asked Ingram, barely choking back his rage.

  Yardly leaned over. "Yeah. But rinse 'em out and save 'em." He nodded to a tube lying beside his kit and said to Holloway, "Burn ointment. Start dabbing."

  "This enough, Bones?" asked Sunderland, gently pouring a bucket of water over Helen's body.

  "Keep it going 'til I say stop," said Yardly.

  "Okay to start the engine now? We need to get going," said Ingram.

  "Okay," Yardly said absently, looking into his medical bag.

  "Whittaker," said Ingram. "Start the engine and let’s go. Forester, zero-eight-five. I'd like to--what are doing?"

  Yardly had Helen's head pulled way back, elevating her chin. Now he stuck his fingers in her mouth then eased a long, rubber tube after it. Without looking up, he said, "...never done this before."

  "What?" asked DeWitt, bending close.

  "Feeding an NG tube into her stomach. Hope I don't--could one of you hold that flashlight? Thanks; damn thing could go into her lungs. I'm in deep...ah...made it. Sunny, gimme that bottle." He snapped his fingers.

  Sunderland fumbled near the medical kit.

  "No, you dope, that's rubbing alcohol; there, the bottle on top of...labeled saline...yes..."

  Sunderland handed it over with a you-better-know-what-the-hell-you're-doing look.

  Yardly held up the bottle of clear liquid. "Here's what's happening, folks. Team effort. Now. Chop-chop. She's into heat shock and dehydration. That's why she almost died. Temperature needs to come down, so keep pouring water over her."

  "And get this damned bilge pump going," barked Bartholomew. He pointed to water sloshing about their feet. "This is your baby, Junior."

  “Count on it, Chief.” Junior Forester inserted a big lever in the pump and wiggled until it gurgled with great sucking sounds.

  Bartholomew leaned over the side watching water squirt out the discharge hole. “Keep it going.”

  Yardly said, "Worst of all she needs water and a bunch. Right now, pure water would kill her so it has to be saline. I got only one quart, she needs at least a gallon so, Rocky--"

  "What? Me?" said Bartholomew.

  "Yeah. You're elected. Make up four more quarts," said Yardly.