Haskell shook his head. “Fine, just leave the log.”
“Come on, Larry, people are gonna die,” urged Sabovik.
Again, Haskell shook his head.
Nitro said, “Look at it this way, Larry. There are two of us and if you don’t let us pass, we’re going to beat the shit out of you.”
Haskell stood straight. “Not without a fight.”
“Boys, boys,” said Diane.
Sabovik silenced her with a dark glance.
“Maybe so.” Nitro reached behind his back and whipped out his .32 automatic. “I hope you don’t mind eating a little lead in the meantime.” He snapped the action.
“Boys!” shouted Diane.
“Easy, hon,” said Sabovik, keeping his eyes on Haskell.
Haskell spread his arms and said, “What will the director say?”
“Screw Hoover,” said Sabovik.
Haskell gave an exaggerated sigh, “All right, screw him.” He stepped aside. “Godspeed.”
* * * * *
Leaving Diane to help Haskell and the FBI, they jumped in Walt Logan’s Chevrolet and raced for town, the dark blue coupe popping and backfiring as they went. They pulled up before Sabovik’s office, unlocked the door, and dashed inside. Sabovik grabbed the phone and was relieved that Admiral Egan pick up the line almost immediately. Sabovik explained what had happened; Egan soon agreed to send the message to SERVRON 10 in Ulithi. “Then we wait,” Cactus Jack Egan said. “I’ll get back, shouldn’t take long. Maybe half an hour or so.”
Sabovik looked at his watch. “Sir, it’s nearly 1400. That thing’s due to go off in a little more than four hours.”
“Well, if you keep sniveling, I won’t be able to send the message, will I?” Egan said drily.
“No, sir. Sorry, sir. Good-bye, sir.” But Egan had already smashed his phone down. Sabovik glanced at Nitro, who judiciously kept his face averted.
Nitro went for coffee, and they waited and walked and grunted at one another for the next twenty minutes. Then Sabovik sat and wadded-up paper, shooting baskets from ten feet away.
Nitro joined in. They began betting, with Sabovik getting the better: thirty-five minutes.
“Do you suppose we should call him?” asked Nitro.
“He’d rip our heads off,” said Sabovik, tossing a paper wad. Miss: “Dammit.”
The phone rang. He ripped it off the hook before the second ring. “Sabovik.”
“Okay, Egan here. Sorry this took so long. Everyone in Ulithi is still spooked about what happened. But they’re eager to help. They had a lot-number match for us within ten minutes. Now I’ve been trying to get a top-priority message off to the ship, which is out in the war-zone. But shit! You wouldn’t believe the red tape around here. The weasels here in COMTWELVE wouldn’t budge an inch until I threatened to call Ernie King. Are you sure you’re cleared? the sniveling bastards kept asking. Hell, they’ve got radio equipment gathering dust here that can reach Buck Rogers on Pluto, but they were afraid to spin the dials for me.”
“We should have sent some Marines,” said Sabovik.
“I’ll say. Luckily, these bastards don’t realize Ernie King is in London at a Joint Chiefs of Staff conference. Otherwise it would have been a no-go. Anyway, I got the message off to her. I signed it with your name because I’d just as soon stay in the background with this.”
“Why is that, Admiral?”
“I have my reasons.”
Sabovik wasn’t sure whether or not to thank Egan, so he said, “Well, yes, sir. Is the ship still in Ulithi?”
“Not at all. She’s right in the middle of it off Leyte, dishing it out to the Japs.”
“Who is she, sir?”
“A tin can. USS Matthew,”
CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT
24 October, 1944
USS Lexington (CV 16)
Philippine Sea
Commodore Arleigh Albert Burke was a forty-three-year-old blond, blue-eyed Swede who’d grown up on a farm in Colorado. He was the oldest of five siblings; his mother, Clara, was a schoolteacher who soundly developed her son’s intellectual appetite. On the other hand, Burke’s father taught his boys the physical rigors of farm life, especially surviving cold winters. Burke wanted to attend West Point as he neared high school graduation. The family applied to their local congressman but was turned down because all the West Point appointments had been issued. The Burkes asked again, this time for the naval academy. The answer was yes, and after attending Columbia Prep School, Burke entered the naval academy in June 1919, one of 709 midshipmen.
As a farmer’s son, Burke flourished under the academy’s physical demands, even joining the wrestling team. His mother’s rigorous training gave him the academic wherewithal to pass his courses and graduate in 1923 with a decent class standing of 71st out of 413.
A surface warfare officer through and through, Burke first served in battleships, then cruisers, and later his beloved destroyers, constantly studying gunnery and torpedo tactics. By 1939, he’d risen to command the destroyer USS Mugford (DD 389).
Burke’s World War II action began in the Solomon Islands campaign when he was appointed commodore of Destroyer Squadron 23 – eight Fletcher-class destroyers nicknamed the Little Beavers. In November 1943, Burke performed brilliantly in the battle of Empress Augusta Bay in Bougainville, where his Little Beavers torpedoed several Japanese warships. A month later, he repeated his performance at the battle of Cape St. George, New Ireland, and thus obtained the sobriquet of Arleigh “31 Knot” Burke as his Little Beavers dashed from action to action. By the time he was relieved, Burke’s destroyers had sunk: one enemy cruiser, nine destroyers, one submarine, and several small vessels. Additionally, they had shot down more than thirty enemy planes.
Burke was shocked at his next assignment. Instead of further rising in the surface navy as he’d expected, he was sent to the carrier navy, a whole new world. He was appointed chief of staff to Vice Admiral Marc A. Mitscher’s Task Force 38, the main carrier striking force in the Pacific. Burke wanted no part of the carrier navy and did everything he could to get out of it. Mitscher, slight of stature and a craggy-faced quiet man who could have as easily passed for a tire salesman, didn’t want Burke either. “An acerbic pioneer of naval aviation, he had no use for a nonflying “black-shoe” – as they were called. Mitscher, who had flown planes from the navy’s first carrier, the USS Langley, wanted a seasoned combat pilot as his chief of staff. No finer example of oil mixing with water ever existed: both ignored each other for the first two weeks.
But the two were soon forced to put aside their differences and plan the June assault on the Marianas. Mitscher’s keen strategy and Burke’s planning skills resulted in his pilots shooting down 395 Japanese planes, accounting for about 92 percent of the enemy’s pilots, a death blow to their air arm.
Mitscher was so impressed with Burke’s performance as his chief of staff that he put him in for promotion to rear admiral, jumping him over several other captains. But Burke, believing himself unworthy and afraid of negative notoriety, asked Admiral Nimitz not to endorse the recommendation. Like a jilted lover, Mitscher resented Burke’s refusal to accept the promotion, and the two went back to war, glaring and hissing at each other. A compromise was reached with Burke elevated to the wartime rank of commodore, which required neither congressional approval nor an increase in pay.
Thus Commodore Arleigh “. Burke was chief of staff of the most powerful naval force in the history of mankind. Mitscher’s Task Force 38 consisted of four task groups of about four carriers each. In all, the four groups totaled eight fleet carriers, eight light carriers, six fast battleships, six heavy cruisers, nine light cruisers, and forty-eight destroyers, with Mitscher flying his flag in the attack carrier Lexington (CV 16).
Another reason the Mitscher/Burke team worked so well is that Burke had a strong bodily constitution and could back up the admiral when he became physically exhausted. Mitscher, the brilliant strategist, often became weak and frail in the
tropics. “ year before, he’d become very ill, his weight dropping to 115 pounds. Nimitz took him off the line for six months to recuperate. Restored to a semblance of health, the old man maintained it by eating well and getting plenty of rest, which meant early to bed and reading himself to sleep with his favorite form of fiction, seedy detective stories.
* * * * *
The weather was ugly as Task Force 38 pounded its way north at sixteen knots. Battleships and cruisers buried their finely crafted noses into enormous waves with white water billowing all the way back to the bridge. The cumbersome carriers simply plowed through waves, while the little destroyers pitched and bucked in troughs, struggling to keep station.
Wind howled as the Lexington drove herself into a great rolling wave. Green water flooded the forty-millimeter gun tubs on the bow and vicious stinging spray whipped across the flight deck.
But it had been a humid day and now, at 2200, everyone sweated in the flag bridge. Admiral Mitscher leaned on the conference table, talking to Commodore Burke and Commander James H. Flatley, a short dark Irishman who was the task force operations officer. They had just received a radio dispatch from the carrier Independence that one of her search planes reported the Japanese Center Force was once again on an easterly course through the Sibuyan Sea, headed toward the San Bernardino Strait. More alarming was that the navigation lights had been turned on in the Strait, something that hadn’t happened since the Japanese conquered the Philippines in 1942.
Mitscher yawned, reread the dispatch, and patted his mouth.
“What about this?” asked Burke.
“What about it?” retorted Mitscher.
Burke held up the dispatch. “Should we ask Admiral Halsey for orders, sir?”
“He knows what to do. Call me at 0600. Good night, fellas.” With that, Mitscher walked through the door and to his stateroom, where he would don his dressing gown, climb into bed, grab the latest Dashiell Hammett, and fall asleep within five minutes.
With Mitscher asleep, Commodore Arleigh A. Burke was, in effect, commander of Task Force 38.
And he felt uneasy.
Not uneasy about the weight of command on his shoulders; Burke was uneasy about what the Japanese were up to. Something was missing.
That afternoon, Task Force 38 was putting the finishing touches on mauling the Japanese Center Force in the Sibuyan Sea, a performance that included sinking one of those two monster battleships. The ships were last seen retiring in a confused mess west toward Borneo. Halsey believed his bomber and torpedo plane pilots when, exuberant after a victorious day, they reported the Japanese Center Force was finished and no longer a threat. Halsey, infected with their enthusiasm, sent a message to General MacArthur and Admiral Nimitz saying so.
The victory in the Sibuyan Sea was overshadowed at 1540 when the third piece of the puzzle fell into place. Elements of a Japanese northern attack force were sighted by a reconnaissance plane about three hundred miles north: four carriers were sighted an hour later. At 2022 Admiral William F. Halsey Jr. ordered Mitscher’s entire Task Force 38 north to launch an attack early the next morning. As a backup plan, Halsey formed a group on paper called Task Force 34. It was supposed to be composed of four fast battleships, two heavy and three light cruisers, and sixteen destroyers, and was intended to defend the San Bernardino Strait. But Halsey never executed the plan, and now all of the fast battleships and cruisers were going north to engage the Japanese northern fleet.
Except for a few sea gulls, the San Bernardino Straits lay unguarded.
The Japanese were steaming east again, hell-bent-for-leather toward the San Bernardino Strait. And Arleigh Burke had a queasy feeling.
Flatley brought the carafe over and poured coffee for both. “What do you think, boss?”
Burke stirred from his reverie and said, “Those boys up north don’t have enough planes to hit us or they would have done it by now.”
“Makes sense. So where do we go?”
“Well, I’m wondering what they’re doing up there to begin with?”
“Yes?”
“I’m wondering if the northern fleet is a decoy?” said Burke.
Flatley rubbed his Irish jaw, liberally covered with five o’clock shadow. “Jeepers, now wouldn’t that be something?”
“If the Center Force gets through the strait, they’ll have everybody in Leyte Gulf for lunch.”
“Do you think we should ask the admiral?” asked Flatley.
“No.” Burke knew Mitscher would skewer him if he awakened him so soon. “Better wait.”
Burke filled his pipe and smoked while Flatley ran a dead reckoning plot. Later they drank more coffee and talked of the Japanese Southern Force now headed for the Surigao Strait. Burke was confident admirals Kinkaid and Oldendorf had that situation in hand. It was the Center Force that worried him. He dithered until 2305 when a messenger from radio central walked in and held out a message board. Burke signed, detached a copy, and read it. “Holy cow,” he said.
“What?” said Flatley.
“Another Independence search plane reports the Japs are now heading east through the San Bernardino Strait. The navigation lights are still on.” He looked up. “It’s happening.”
“Shall we awake the admiral?” asked Flatley.
“Not yet, hold on.” Burke yanked a TBS handset from the bracket and called, “Pickle Barrel, this is Bald Eagle, over.” Pickle Barrel was the call sign for Halsey, Bald Eagle, for Mitscher.
“Pickle Barrel, over.”
Burke took a deep breath, “This is Bald Eagle. Interrogative if you have Running Bears’s 242330. Over.” Running Bear’s 242330 was the Independence’ reconnaissance report of the Japanese Center Force in the San Bernardino Strait.
“That is affirmative. Pickle Barrel, over.”
Burke’s fist clenched as he asked, “Do you have any instructions for Bald Eagle? Over”
“Bald Eagle, this is Pickle Barrel. Negative. Out.” The radio clicked loudly.
“Dammit,” said Burke. He twirled a pencil for a moment, then looked up. “Better go in there.” He nodded toward Mitscher’s stateroom.
“Shit to pay,” said Flatley.
Burke nodded. “Either way there is.” They eased past the marine guard in the passageway and knocked. There was no answer so after the third knock, Burke opened the door. “Admiral,” he called softly.
“I hear you,” Mitscher croaked. Covers rustled, and his bunk light clicked on. He wore his favorite dressing gown. “Go ahead,” he said, raised on an elbow.
“I’m sorry to waken you, sir,” Burke began.
“Hell, you’ve already done that. Now what is it?” growled Mitscher.
Burke replied, “We have a report from the Independence. One of her planes spotted the Jap Center Force. They’re going through the San Bernardino Strait. The navigation lights are on and they’re steaming east.”
Mitscher blinked. “Navigation lights still on?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does Admiral Halsey have that report?”
Burke replied, “Yes, sir.”
Mitscher looked up to Flatley then leveled his gaze on Burke. “If he wants my advice he’ll ask for it.” He reached up, fumbled at his light, and clicked it off.
“Good night, Admiral,” said Burke, walking out of the stateroom.
They didn’t speak until they reached flag plot. A tote board showed the Japanese Southern Force about to enter the Surigao Strait. Flatley turned to a radarman, “Can you get their TBS broadcasts?”
“Sometimes.” The radarman turned up the speaker.
Burke leaned against the plotting table while the speaker screeched and growled. “What if the Jap Center Force is for real? At last count, they still had four, maybe five battleships, including another one of those big bastards. What then, Jimmy?”
“I’d say those guys in Leyte Gulf better hunker down, sir.”
“I’d say you’re right.”
While he was thinking this over, the TB
S loudspeaker squealed and screeched with news of the fight developing down in the Surigao Strait with the Japanese Southern Force.
The radarman, a skinny dark-haired second class named Kupps, reached over and twirled a knob just as the speaker barked, “Ipana, this is Horse Trader. SITREP. Over.” Horse Trader was the call sign for Admiral Thomas Kinkaid’s Seventh Fleet Command Center aboard the command ship USS Wasatch (AGC 9), anchored in San Pedro Bay. He was asking for a situation report from Ipana, the call sign for Rear Admiral Jesse Oldendorf’s main battle line of six battleships defending the Surigao Strait.
The speaker squealed for a moment then said, “... my peter tares now engaging enemy. So far, so good.”
Burke and Flatley exchanged glances. They’d seen the Oldendorf’s op plan for defense of the Surigao Strait. Right now the Japanese force was trying to push its way through a line of thirty-nine PT boats, There were three battle lines after that. The first two consisted of twenty-eight destroyers; next were four heavy and four light cruisers. Topping it off was the main battle line of six battleships, five of them veterans of Pearl Harbor.
Kupps twirled the squelch dial again. Beads of perspiration stood on his brow. He locked his intense blue eyes onto Burke in a near-death-grip, “What do you think, sir? Do we have enough firepower down there to handle the Japs?” It was no secret that Kupps had a brother, a radarman aboard the battleship Pennsylvania.
Burke puffed his pipe and clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Plenty of firepower down there, son. Your brother’s going to do fine. You just listen.” He was glad Kupps hadn’t asked the sixty-four-dollar question. Where was the firepower to oppose the Center Force now transiting the San Bernardino Strait?
CHAPTER FORTY NINE
25 October, 1944
IJN Nachi
Mindanao Sea, Philippines
Vice Admiral Kiyohide Shima’s Second Striking Force dashed through the night at twenty-five knots. The sea was lumpy and it was overcast, making the outlying islands guarding the Surigao Strait invisible. Rain occasionally pelted the heavy cruiser Nachi as thunderstorms roiled, lighting bolts flashing in the night. Luckily, they’d just had radar installed, making station keeping and navigation easier, especially on a dirty night like this. Steaming over a period of three days from Beppu Bay, Shima’s force of three cruisers and seven destroyers was trying to rendezvous with Vice Admiral Shoji Nishimura’s Southern Force of two battleships, one cruiser, and seven destroyers. And so far, there was no radar contact up ahead. Just a myriad of small islands, so characteristic of the Philippine archipelago.
A CALL TO COLORS: A NOVEL OF THE BATTLE OF LEYTE GULF Page 41
