Josh tapped the gray crate with his toe, making sure it was out of sight. Then he slumped his shoulders and ran a hand through thick sandy hair, pushing it from his forehead.
Finesse it. With a sigh, he said, “All right Captain. I’ll wrap it up and start first thing tomorrow morning.”
Ashton clapped Josh on the shoulder. “Good. Now, look. I won’t be seeing you for a few weeks.”
“Oh?”
“Out to the South Pacific: Tulagi.”
“Hey, my brother’s out there. In the Navy, that is.”
“Is he on a ship?”
“The Howell. A destroyer. He’s the skipper.”
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. I’m going to visit the Howell. How about that?”
“Well, please give him my best. His name is Jerry.”
I’ll do that. And Josh?”
“Yes?”
AI’m going to tell Gordon to come up here in ten minutes and throw you out if you’re not done.” Again, the signature smile. By comparison, Josh’s teeth were dull, the lowers very crooked. It had bothered him ever since his teens. Jerry, the well-built football player with the championship smile. Girls followed him everywhere. Josh, the anemic ninety-pound weakling with terminal acne. Girls couldn’t run fast enough to clear the room.
Ashton pulled on his grey kid gloves, straightened his blouse, and then arranged his peaked hat with a tilt, emulating an old salt with years at sea. Picking up his briefcase he winked and said, “Good night.”
Josh switched off the oscilloscope and speaker, tossed his journal into his briefcase, and began throwing tools in the drawer. “...night. Have a good trip.”
“...thanks.” The door closed but Josh walked over and opened it, hearing Ashton’s loud, confident footsteps going downstairs. His voice echoed with Gordon’s as they bid each other good-night with the front door slamming behind Ashton, Gordon throwing the double locks. To make sure, Josh raised a corner of the blackout curtain and watched Ashton climb into his gray Plymouth coupe and drive off.
Quickly, Josh turned on the oscilloscope, rearranged his tools, then grabbed his journal and swept aside junk and extraneous litter. While the scope warmed, he flipped switches to turn on the speaker, and then made a journal entry in careful printing:
January 25, 1943
1.) COMMENT; ASHTON’S TEST INSTRUCTIONS (COPY ENCLOSED) DO NOT PROVIDE FOR REMOVING THE TETRYL BOOSTER. FURTHER, ASHTON’S INSTRUCTIONS HAVE THE USUAL BOILERPLATEB “DO NOT DEVIATE FROM THESE INSTRUCTIONS WITHOUT EXPLICIT WRITTEN PERMISSION.” I SHOULD POINT THIS OUT TO ASHTON AFTER RECEIVING OFFICIAL AUTHORIZATION TO TEST THIS FUZE.
2.) COMMENCING TEST OF MARK 32 FUZE AGAINST EXTERNAL RADAR INTERFERENCE. WILL BEGIN IN THE 100 CENTIMETER BAND.
Carefully, Josh reached under the bench and pulled out the wooden crate. It was somewhat larger than a shoebox with: TOP SECRETBMARK 32 FUZEB TOP SECRET, stenciled in black letters on top. It took ninety seconds to remove four large screws and ease off the lid. Inside, packed in shredded newsprint, was a gleaming fuse. Josh took a deep breath, cradled the fuse with both hands, and reverently lifted it from the box and set it on the bench.
About the size of a pint milk bottle, the mechanism was streamlined, yet menacing looking. Just beneath a cone-shaped nose cap were machined threads that allowed the bottom two thirds to fit inside a five-inch 38 caliber projectile. Essentially, this fuse was a miniature radar set. Made from hardened plastic, the nosecap housed the antenna. Beneath was a small compartment packed with four, pencil-thin vacuum tubes. A wet cell battery was housed below that. At the base was a two ounce tetryl booster charge. When fired from a gun, a five inch cannon in this case, the wet-cell activated and brought the fuse to life, sending radar beams out against an aerial target.
Forcing himself to exhale, Josh carefully set the Mark 32 fuse in a jig, then bent close to examine it. Tuve and his boys had done it! The physics were judged insurmountable when the project began just two years ago. The fused projectile, when shot out of a cannon, sustained set-back forces equivalent to 20,000 times the force of gravity. If that wasn’t hard enough, everything had to work while the projectile was in flight, spinning at 500 revolutions per second. The beauty was that the fuse was designed to blow up in the proximity of the airplane’s path, nullifying the usually erroneous range estimate from the fire control team on board ship. Now, all the shipboard gunners had to do was to aim the shell properly. The Mark 32's circuitry would do the rest, triggering an air-burst within seventy feet of the airplane, knocking Japanese and German airplanes from the skies like clay pigeons on a skeet range.
This fuse had been designated for the Dahlgren test range down river on the Potomac. But with Herb Randall’s help, Josh had intercepted a shipment and carved this one out for ‘further inspection at the glass-ware substation as stated on the packing slip.
Footsteps tapped on the main stairway. He checked his clock. Damnit! Gordon! Ten minutes. Where had the time gone? Quickly, he ran over and locked the door.
He carefully unscrewed the cap, then the base-ring, removed the keeper, and exposed the vacuum tubes packed below the nosecap. There, off to the side, was the elegant little thyratron, its tube made of hardened glass. Tiny wires ran from the thyratron down to the booster charge at the fuse’s base.
Knuckles rapped on the door. “Dr. Landa?”
He called over his shoulder, “Done in a minute. Just wrapping up.”
Safety first, as Ashton said. Josh carefully unclipped the thyratron wires making sure they were pulled well away from the fuse. With a pair of alligator clips, he connected a tall battery to the amplifier. Two other alligator clips served to connect the amplifier to the oscilloscope, making it hum in a steady monotone -- its white horizontal curser ruler-straight across the gridwork of a green cathode ray tube. Uncapping his fountain pen, Josh scratched notes in his journal, the black ink flowing across the page.
Gordon knocked again, louder. “Dr. Landa. Please.”
“Okay, okay. Keep your shirt on!”
Now for the thyratron. Quickly, he reached for a screwdriver, not realizing he had knocked a small metal base ring-plate against the thryatron’s wires.
Hurry! Josh’s face was inches from the fuse as he reached to unclip the amplifier. Worse, he was unaware that the oscilloscope had begun to warble.
“Dr. Landa!”
“Go away!”
“Captain Ashton left instructions.” The doorknob rattled.
“What?” Josh’s eyes flicked from the oscilloscope to the metal base ring-plate. “Noooo!”
The oscilloscope cursor wiggled horribly across the screen, the speaker warbling louder and louder. Inexplicably, Josh reached to turn down the gain. In a millisecond he realized his mistake, that he should have gone for the plate that completed the thyratron circuit to the booster charge.
Too late. The last thing he remembered was an impossibly white-hot flash and something tearing into his head.
CHAPTER FIVE
3 March, 1943
San Pedro, California
Helen had just turned on the Kraft Music Hall when the phone rang.
“Helen, it’s Laura.”
“Really?” That must have sounded stupid. Reaching to the radio, Helen eased down the volume, not wanting to lose Bing Crosby entirely. As she did, the realization hit her that she was speaking with Laura West Dutton, the concert pianist and wife of Todd’s shipmate.
“I can prove it, honest,” Laura laughed. She lived in Beverly Hills, a fair distance, which made the connection sound scratchy.
Having just finished dinner, Helen had laid a fire, its crackle helping to mask the occasional rumble of an oncoming storm. “How good to hear from you,” she said.
She eased back in the overstuffed chair, letting Fred, her gray tabby cat jump in her lap and curl up.
“The honor’s all mine, Helen. Luther and I enjoyed our time with you and Todd.”
“I’m flattered you remembered.” Just before Todd
and Luther shipped out three weeks previously, Laura had given a USO sponsored piano concert at the Long Beach Naval Shipyard base theater. Surprisingly, it was a sell-out, the crowd wildly cheering at the program’s end. She did an encore, then the crowd called for another. To their surprise, a Navy lieutenant in dress blues rose from the audience, mounted the stage and opened a violin case. It was Luther Dutton. He nodded and they began Laura’s second encore: The Meditation. The crowd was ecstatic.
Later, the Ingrams and the Duttons had drinks at the Villa Rivera Hotel in downtown Long Beach. At the theater, Laura wore rimless glasses and her sandy hair was pulled-back into a bun, her air professional, almost arrogant, a perfect match for her husband. But as she walked in the Villa Rivera, she whipped off her glasses and undid her hair. The change was phenomenal, with Laura’s smile now vulnerable, open and genuine. Helen, a tee-totaler, drank only ginger-ale while the others had cocktails. Laura on a dare from Luther, had a martini that night. Soon, she was smashing sentences as if calling a tobacco auction. Then she got the hiccups and began a laugh which soon had them all going
And now, it was almost as if they were back in the Villa Rivera. Helen asked, “You still a one martini girl?”
Laura chuckled, “I remember one thing that night. You said you were going to take up piano.”
“Well...”
“Did you?”
“Well, this place has a piano and I’ve been practicing. Running scales, you know: do, re mi? Chopsticks?” Todd and Helen had rented a two bedroom furnished home on Alma Street three houses away from San Pedro High School. The view of Los Angeles Harbor was breathtaking and it was only a five minute drive from her duty station, the Fort MacArthur Base Infirmary. The furniture was mahogany, and an ancient, out-of-tune, upright Gulbrandsen piano, stood in the corner.
“You started lessons?” Laura asked.
“Not yet.”
As if on cue, Fred rose, stretched, then hopped onto the floor. He walked over to the piano, jumped on the bench, then the keyboard. Discordant notes sounded as Fred sauntered up the keyboard, a feline glissando. When he reached the end, the gray tabby squarely planted his hind feet, and loosed a crescendo as he hopped onto the widow sill. From there, he bound onto the floor and disappeared into the guest bedroom.
Hearing the cacophony, Laura said, “Good God, hon, you do need help.”
“That’s Fred.”
“What?”
Helen told her.
Laura laughed. “Sounds like Fred is coming along just fine. But what about you? You promised you would take lessons.”
“Haven’t gotten around to it yet.” That night at the Villa Rivera Helen had vowed to resume her piano and they’d shaken hands solemnly. “I have a study guide. That’s what I use.”
“No. Get a teacher. You’ll thank me in the long run.”
“Teachers are expensive.”
“All right. Then I’ll come down and give you lessons myself.”
“Anytime.”
“Seriously, how ‘bout dinner some evening. I’m bored.”
“I’d love to. By the way, when’s your next concert?”
“Actually, I’m out of the concert game for a while. I just signed with the NBC Orchestra. But they have me standing by and there’s nothing on right now. And that’s why I’m bored”
“NBC! That’s keen.”
“Thanks. How about next Saturday night?”
“Well, okay. I’m clear.”
“Good. It’s settled, then.”
“Your best bet is to take the Pacific Electric to downtown L.A., then transfer to the San Pedro line.”
Laura yawned, “No thanks, I think I’ll drive.”
“Oh.” Helen remembered that Luther and Laura had driven up to the Villa Rivera in a light green, 1941 Cadillac convertible with gleaming white sidewall tires.
“Any good restaurants down there?”
Helen thought for a moment. “Olsen’s. Great fish, abalone, even a steak now and then.”
“Okay. Maybe we could go someplace for a drink before dinner?”
“That would be Shanghai Red’s”
After a pause, Laura said dryly, “I just want a martini. I’d rather not get raped.”
It was Helen’s turn to laugh. “Oh, no. The police station is practically next door. We couldn’t be safer.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Static clicked for a moment, then Laura asked, “Uh, you heard from Todd?”
“Just one letter, one page. It sounded like he was in a hurry. “ Helen bit her lip. She didn’t mention that Todd had finished his letter with best wishes from the wardroom and that Luther Dutton was gone for a couple of weeks, filling in on the Barber. “You?”
“...nothing. Damnit. Just nothing. It’s driving me crazy. How often do you write?”
“I...I try to get something out once a day. Keep things going. You know?”
They hung up, looking forward to Saturday night.
A loud, stuttering meow ranged from the guest room, a sure sign Fred had trapped a bug of some kind. Helen rose, shivering. Even with the fire and the ancient floor heater going, it seemed the old bungalow was still damp. It didn’t help when Pacific storms whipped around the Palos Verdes Peninsula to buffet the house with forty knot winds.
“...what are you up to?” Helen muttered. All she could see of Fred were his eyes, gleaming in the dark. She padded to the guest room door and pushed it open. The room was small, perhaps ten by twelve and furnished with a single bed, dresser, and bedside table with lamp. But it had become a storage facility for Jerry Landa, the consummate ship-bound bachelor. In addition to suitcases and boxes and boxes of stuff ranging back to high school, the room held Landa’s skis, golf clubs, chemistry set, and punching bag. The tiny closet was stuffed with his civilian clothes and to round things out, a steamer trunk had shown up just this morning. Apparently, it belonged to his brother and for lack of room anywhere else, ended up at the foot of the bed.
Helen flipped on the overhead light and stepped in, just as a gust of wind smacked the house, making kitchen dishes rattle. “...cockroach?”
Fred walked to the window, rose on his hind legs and pawed at the roller blind. Suddenly, the blind snapped up, going ‘flap-flap-flap’ at the top. The terrified cat spun around, all paws pumping furiously on the hardwood floor, failing to gain traction. Finally, Fred hurtled into the living room and hid behind the piano.
“You dope.” Helen eased between two large boxes and reached for the blind, noticing a driving slantwise mist outside, not quite a rain. After drawing the blind, she clicked out the light and closed the door. Fred peeked around the piano and she said, “Boo!.”
Later, her ablutions done, Helen crawled into bed, the cat curling at her feet. Taking up her pad she penned a note to Todd. After a page of chat she finished with,
“...they test fired Fort Macarthur’s guns again last Friday. Everything: 14 inch, 6 inch, machine guns. Jeepers, those things put out a roar. But then both of us heard worse when we were ‘out there.’ Even so, the ground bucked all the way down to the infirmary. Kids at the high school were wide-eyed. I heard a couple of classroom windows broke.
They didn’t warn us. I wonder why? When I got home our dinning room window was cracked all the way across. You know, the one with the BB gun hole, so I hope we get a new one courtesy of Uncle Sam. I have a call into the landlord.
My new boss at the Fort infirmary is a Colonel Moore. He called today, saying I’ve been promoted to Captain. So watch it buddy, I’m catching up to you.
By the way, Railway Express came by this morning and delivered a steamer trunk that belongs to Jerry’s brother. Why would they do that? You should see it. It’s a big green thing. The only place for it was at the foot of the guestroom bed, and it almost blocks the door. I’ll tell you, all that junk in there. Can you ask Jerry to maybe find another place to store his stuff?
Mom and Dad send their love. He can’t wait for you to get ba
ck on the ranch and run the tractor. Think I’ll go up there next week.
Oh, I almost forgot to say, Laura Dutton just called, you know, as in Laura West Dutton. We had a good chat and she’s coming down next Saturday night for dinner. She’s threatening to teach me piano. Maybe I’ll pour molasses in the keyboard. She seems okay, not taken up by her fame and all that. I hope the four of us remain good friends after this is all over.
Ummm. Time for dreamland. Wednesday night. Missed Bing Crosby when Laura called, and it’s raining outside with the storm getting raucous. It scares Fred, his ears lay back every time a gust of wind hits the house.
I miss you honey and ache for you to come home soon. Going to curl up now and dream of you.
All My Love
Helen
...glissando. Racking her out of a graceful sleep. Up the keys. Damnit, Fred!
She’d forgotten to close the keyboard. In the gloom, the dial of her alarm clock read three-thirty-five.
“...uhhh.” Helen lay back, and, cocking an ear to the outside, heard neither wind nor rain. The storm was down. Thank Heaven.
Another two keys thudded. Helen groaned and after a moment, whipped her covers off, the cold biting through her nightgown. “I’ll kill ‘im.” She rose and marched through the living room toward the --
The guest room door swung open. A figure stood in the doorway.
Helen’s mouth opened. She tried to scream.
Just then, the guest room blind zipped up, going ‘flap-flap-flap,’ backlighting the figure. With that, Fred streaked past the apparition, through the living room and disappeared into the bedroom.
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 5
