A CALL TO COLORS: A NOVEL OF THE BATTLE OF LEYTE GULF

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “You have discriminating tastes,” said Diane drily.

  “Have you looked in the chicken coops?” asked Nitro.

  Sabovik scooted from under the sink. “Dammit.” He looked up to Nitro. “Stupid jarhead.”

  “Right,” said Nitro.

  * * * * *

  They started on the first of Harry Ferguson’s three remaining chicken coops. Boards squeaked in protest as the FBI trio pried at them with crowbars. They entered and poked around. At length they walked out, shrugged, and went to work on the second coop.

  “Here we go,” one of them called. He walked over carrying a board. Bulky and with dark curly hair, his name tag read: HASKELL. Sabovik bent to see shiny common box nails protruding from the board’s four corners. “Looks like Milo Lattimer made a mistake,” he said. “Keep at it.”

  “Right.” Haskell walked back into the coop.

  Moments later, a board squeaked in protest. Someone shouted, “Hold everything.”

  “Let’s go,” said Sabovik. They walked into a dark, musty space, perhaps ten by fifteen feet. The chicken cages were still in place, but boards were missing from the back wall. One could see blue sky, vegetation, and a creek running down the gully.

  Haskell pointed. “Here.” He pushed a chicken coop aside. Beneath was a dirt-covered trapdoor. He bent to pry it up with a crowbar.

  “Better not,” said Nitro. He walked over and stooped alongside Haskell. “This is my department.”

  Haskell looked at Sabovik. “What the–”

  “He’s EOD,” said Sabovik.

  With an exaggerated bow, Haskell said, “Please, be my guest.” He rose and stepped away.

  Nitro studied the trapdoor for perhaps two minutes. Then he carefully felt along the door’s edges. Rubbing his chin, he looked up to Diane. “You carrying your stethoscope?”

  “Of course.” She pulled it from her lab coat pocket and handed it over.

  Nitro listened for a good thirty seconds and turned to Haskell, “You, sir. Can I use your flashlight and crowbar?”

  Haskell handed them over.

  Nitro said, “You all should know that in this business, I keep my last will and testament updated at all times. How about you?” He eyed them. When there was no response, he continued, “I thought so. That means you must leave this room and stand at least fifty feet away. I’ll call if I need anything.”

  Sabovik said, “Nitro, don’t you think that–”

  “Come on, John, we’re wasting time.”

  Moments passed. Finally Haskell said, “Okay, it’s your neck.” He beckoned to his partners and eased out.

  Sabovik took Diane’s elbow and gave her a gentle push toward the door. “Nitro, what if I–”

  “John, it’s only a precaution. Now get going. I’ll be done in a minute. Please.” He waved toward the door.

  “Call if you need anything. “ said Sabovik.

  “Right.”

  Outside, they made small talk for ten minutes. Then, the conversation ran out. Birds chirped and locomotives hooted in the distance. Sabovik checked his watch. “He’s been in there twelve minutes, dammit.”

  Diane tensed. “Maybe he’s passed out.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked Haskell.

  Sabovik said, “Yeah, he could have passed out or something. I’m going to–”

  Nitro walked out, flipping something in his palm. “Sorry, took a little longer than I thought.”

  “What is it?” asked Sabovik.

  “Neat little deal. Simple pressure switch hidden under the trapdoor. Almost didn’t see the little bugger. He had it set to go off if the timer wasn’t deactivated in sixty seconds.”

  “And?”

  “Took me forty-two seconds to find it.”

  “For crying out loud,” said Sabovik.

  “Find what?” asked Diane.

  “About five pounds of plastic explosive,” said Nitro.

  She gasped. “Good God!”

  “And you should see what else is down there,” said Nitro.

  “What?” asked Sabovik.

  “His chess set.”

  CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

  24 October, 1944

  Lattimer Home, 224 Poplar Lane

  Roseville, California

  Nitro led a wide-eyed Sabovik, Diane, and Agent Haskell down a steep ladder into a neat but cramped room perhaps ten by twelve. The walls and floor were finished in concrete; a long hip-level workbench, its plywood top varnished to a high gloss, ran along one side. Above the bench was a wooden bookcase stuffed with journals, manuals, and a number of manila folders. Surrounding the bookcase was a large selection of Peg-Board mounted tools. Beneath the bench was an electric heater and two stools. A small portable record player sat on one end. Milo Lattimer’s chess set was perched at the other end. Its intricately carved alabaster pieces were perfectly spotted on a mahogany board inlaid with ebony and ivory. A sink with hot and cold running water was at one end of the bench. On the opposite wall were an electric drill press and lathe. Floor-to-ceiling cabinets were built against the other wall. An overhead fluorescent light fixture cast good light.

  Nitro waved an arm. “Everything a grown man could want. Take a look at that.” He stepped over to the portable player and shuffled through records.

  “Do you mind?” asked Agent Haskell.

  “What?” said Nitro.

  “We’d like to dust for fingerprints. Do you mind?” Haskell reached in his pocket, pulled out rubber gloves, and passed them around.

  “Good idea,” said Sabovik, snapping on gloves.

  Nitro did the same and resumed examining the record albums. “Hmmm. Here’s Moon Over Monakura. He flipped through. In the Mood and Stardust.He looked around. “No Wagner or Beethoven down here. What’s this?” He picked up a handkerchief and sniffed. Then he handed it over to Diane. “Same stuff?”

  She took a whiff and murmured, “Arpège. He brought her down here?”

  Sabovik pointed to two stools tucked under the workbench.

  “Oh.”

  Nitro coughed politely and said, “The guy dug out the room and pitched the dirt into the gully. Neat.” He pointed to a package on the workbench. It was wrapped in shiny water-proofed paper, red and green wires trailing from within. “And here’s his little bundle of joy.” Nitro flipped it in the air. “About five pounds of plastic bonded explosive. It was taped under the workbench and connected to the pressure switch.”

  “Geez! Take it easy,” said Haskell.

  “It’s safe, don’t worry,” said Nitro.

  “Just the same,” cautioned Haskell.

  Nitro slid open one of the cupboards. “This guy wasn’t fooling around.” He waved to a number of neatly stacked bundles. “Here’s his stash of plastic explosive.” He slid open another cupboard and looked inside, finding four Samsonite suitcases. He lifted one out and undid the snaps. “Wheeeow. Take a look at this.”

  They walked over. “Holy smokes,” said Sabovik. The suitcase was stuffed with neatly bundled twenty-dollar bills. “Must be thousands.”

  Nitro peeked in the other three suitcases. “Wow. Enough for some really good times. What do you say, Diane? Hubba hubba, baby. You and me down Havana way?” He snapped his fingers over his head and twirled a circle.

  “Pig.” Diane turned her back.

  Sabovik closed the first case and yelled up at the trapdoor. “Gentlemen?”

  Two faces appeared.

  “Here you go, fellas,” Sabovik said. “Count and tag it.” Puffing mightily, Sabovik, Nitro, and Haskell hoisted the four suitcases up to waiting hands.

  “What else?” Sabovik stepped to the bookcase and pulled out a journal.

  Nitro opened another cupboard. “Here, John, take a look.”

  Sabovik’s attention was riveted to the journal. “Holy smokes,” he said.

  “John?” asked Nitro.

  “Wait one.” Sabovik waved him away.

  “Okay then,” muttered Nitro. “Mr. Haskell, give me
a hand?”

  “Call me Larry.”

  “Larry it is. Over here, please.” Haskell walked over, and together they hoisted a bulky crate and carried it to the workbench, laying it down with a thud.

  Sabovik looked up from his journal. “What do you have?”

  Nitro pried the lid off the crate. Inside was a complex shiny device. “Yeah. “ full, in-the-raw mark 6 exploder.”

  “A what?” asked Diane, adjusting her glasses.

  “Exploder,” said Nitro. “A trigger, basically. Makes the torpedo blow up.”

  “Good God!”

  “Now take a gander. Here, gimme a hand, Larry.” Carefully, Nitro and agent Haskell lifted the exploder out of the crate.

  “This guy was crazy,” grunted Larry as they set it on the bench.

  “That ain’t the half of it,” muttered Nitro.

  “Weighs a ton.”

  “Ninety pounds,” gasped Nitro. Carefully they rolled the exploder to its side, revealing a rectangular stainless-steel baseplate formed to fit the front curvature of a torpedo warhead. A sinister array of gears and shiny steel parts greeted them. A wire coil encircled part of the mechanism. The baseplate was twelve by fourteen inches, the circumference ringed by twenty-four countersunk screw holes. Yellow letters were stenciled on the plate:

  DUMMYB EXPLODER COVER

  USE CAUTION WHEN REMOVING

  DO NOT LEAVE CAVITY OPEN

  RE-INSTALL MARK 6, MOD 13 EXPLODER IMMEDIATELY

  REF: BUORD INST 24-15 (a) 1905.1

  Nitro said, “This is supposed to be a dummy baseplate. Fits in the bottom of a Mark 15 torpedo warhead. All a dummy plate does is protect the exploder cavity while the warhead is in shipment. Keeps out dust and corrosive material. There’s nothing else to it.” He looked up. “Okay so far?”

  They nodded.

  Nitro said, “But here’s the trick. Somebody just looking at it thinks it’s a dummy baseplate as labeled, but it’s a real exploder.”

  Sabovik whistled.

  Nitro continued, “Milo Lattimer was a railroad conductor. He had access to manifests and figured a way to defeat the locks on cars carrying ammunition. So he sneaks into a car with torpedo warheads and inserts these exploders with phony cover plates.

  “He must have been trying to insert one of these that night I surprised him at Jasper Flats. Come to think of it, that’s the first time he bopped me over the head. I should have learned my lesson.

  “Here’s how it works.” He pointed. “This component here is the detonator. And this one is the booster charge. Putting it simply, the detonator fires the booster charge, which detonates the torpedo warhead. Now, the detonator is triggered by a contact fuse or a magnetic fuse which should be in this area here. But look. He’s removed the arming impeller mechanism and in its place – geez, look at the workmanship – he’s installed a timer and a battery. Like a Swiss watch, except this one is German.” He waved to the machinery behind him. “He used that equipment to build the timers. Must have been a master craftsman.”

  “He was that,” agreed Diane. “Fixed everything around the house, even our grandfather clock.”

  “Okay,” Nitro continued. “So he sets this timer for, say, ten days, or ten weeks, or ten months. When it counts down to zero, it closes this switch here see... see this?”

  They nodded.

  “The circuit is complete,” he went on. “The electricity hits this detonator, which kicks off the booster charge, which zaps all of the 825 pounds of HBX in the torpedo warhead. Now, that packs a hell of a wallop and can sink a good-sized ship -- say, a destroyer or worse, an ammo ship or dump.”

  “Dirty bastard,” said Haskell.

  “Hey, look at that.” Nitro pointed to another crate under the workbench. “Strange, that box is labeled differently. Maybe we should take a look. Larry... ?”

  “I dunno. Think I blew out a hernia with the last one,” said Haskell.

  “Come on, girls,” said Sabovik, pitching in. Huffing and puffing, they uncrated another exploder.

  They watched as Nitro poked around. Finally he unscrewed the cover from one of the components. “Holy shit!”

  “What,” said Sabovik.

  “This guy really had it in for us,” said Nitro. “What if the exploders are booby-trapped as well? That means an unsuspecting torpedoman on a destroyer or cruiser can install a booby-trapped exploder into a warhead, thinking it’s okay. He doesn’t know that Lattimer has this thing rigged to go off in his face when he launches the torpedo.”

  “Sonofabitch!” said Haskell.

  “We have two versions of this thing?” asked Sabovik.

  Nitro said, “Looks like it. He continued. “Here, look at this. Once aboard ship, dummy plates are removed and the torpedoman installs the exploder, no more the wiser.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Sabovik, leaning in for a closer look.

  “Well, to the average torpedoman, this looks like a real exploder. See here? Impeller, everything in place. But right here” – Nitro tapped the magnetic sensor case – “this device is a factory-sealed unit. Torpedomen in the fleet are not supposed to open it.” Quickly he unscrewed eight screws from the cover, lifted it off, and pointed to a little spring-actuated mechanism inside. “See these pawls? He has it rigged so that once they flip over, the charge goes off if you try to remove the exploder. Also, it’s set to go off when it engages the firing lug in the tube. The beauty here is that the whole thing utilizes this timer – see it here? – so either way, you’re screwed.”

  Sabovik sat back and rubbed his chin. “But this thing is so damn heavy.”

  “I grant you that, but then Milo Lattimer was a very strong man. After all, he carried Mike Donovan into town. He could handle something like this.”

  Diane sat back, her face white. “My God. This is so hard to believe.”

  “Believe it,” said Nitro.

  She said, “You don’t understand. He damn near raised me, especially after Mom died. Did you ever consider that maybe someone framed him?”

  “I know, hon,” said Sabovik. He nodded to Haskell. “After they dust for fingerprints, you’ll know one way or the other.”

  She ignored him. “He and Daddy are best friends. They work on the railroad. They play…”

  Nitro slid over the mahogany board.

  “... chess,” she said softly. Her shoulders sagged.

  With a sigh, Sabovik opened the journal and flipped pages. “This is his log of the ships the torpedoes were loaded on. Here’s an entry for the E. A. Bryan in Port Chicago. Here’s another entry for Regina Dalmatia which blew up on her way to Hawaii. He has check marks by both.” He said to Diane. “What more proof do you need, hon?”

  Diane turned to face the wall.

  “Commander?” said Nitro.

  “What?”

  “Sometimes you can really be a boor.”

  “I only... “ It dawned on Sabovik and he said, “Diane, I’m sorry. I really am.”

  She nodded, moved to the far side of the workbench and reached for a record album, instead knocking over a jar of machine screws. “Sorry,” she said softly, adjusting her glasses. Then she picked up a record album: Gene Krupa.

  Sabovik said, “Look at this last entry. It’s for the Mount Saint Helens.”

  Nitro said to “gent Haskell, “That’s the ammo ship that went that went up in the Ulithi Atoll three weeks ago.”

  “I see,” Haskell said.

  Checking back in the log, Sabovik said, “Oh, God.”

  “What?” the others said.

  “We may not be done with this guy. According to this, he got a version one – a warhead with a dummy booby-trapped cover plate – and a version two, a booby-trapped exploder, aboard the Mount Saint Helens.”

  “What type of ships use those exploders?” asked “gent Haskell.

  “These are for mark 15 torpedoes: cruisers and destroyers.”

  “We should consider,” Nitro offered, “that both versions could have been
aboard the Mount Saint Helens when she blew up. Therefore we may not have anything to worry about.”

  Sabovik said, “Do you want to take that chance?”

  Nitro sighed. “Not on your life.”

  “I don’t either,” agreed Sabovik. “And I’m saving the worst for last. See this column?” He pointed to a series of numbers in the page’s last column.

  “Date-time group?” said Nitro.

  “Exactly,” said Sabovik. “Get a load of this. Here is the time that version two exploder is set to blow up.” He pointed to an entry.

  “Yikes!” said Nitro. “Today: 1800.”

  “Geez.” said Haskell. He checked his watch: 1:22 PM. “Less than five hours.”

  Sabovik said, “Right. Not a moment to lose. We have to find out which ship received that version two exploder and let them know.”

  Haskell said, “Hell, that thing could be anywhere in the world. How you going to get a message to her?”

  “Things get easier when you have Admiral Cactus Jack Egan pulling strings,” said Nitro.

  “Who?” asked Haskell.

  Sabovik quickly explained, then said, “Nitro. Let’s get over to my office. Maybe ask Admiral Egan to call in a message to SERVRON 10.”

  “What’s that?” asked Haskell.

  “Service squadron ten. They’re responsible for ammo ships in the Pacific, specifically Ulithi. If they’ve kept good records, we should get a match on lot numbers so they can tell us which ship has the rigged exploder.”

  “You can do that? You have priorities for that kind of radio traffic?”

  Sabovik replied, “Like I said, Cactus Jack Egan speaks with the authority of Admiral Ernest J. King. We can radio anywhere in the world with the highest priority and get answers almost immediately. Let’s hope he’s in.” He turned for the ladder and said to Nitro, “Bring that log.”

  “I’m sorry, that’s evidence,” protested Haskell. He moved next to the ladder, barring their exit.

  “What?” said an incredulous Sabovik.

  Nitro said, “Agent Haskell, you’re a nice guy, but we have an explosion to stop before it happens.”