WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “Leo!”

  The mast smacked the water, taking four shrieking sailors with it.

  “Leo, for crying...” Ingram started swimming toward the capsized wreck. But a hand grabbed him and pulled him back. “Let go!”

  “It’s okay, Sir.” It was one of the sailors from the Pence’s bridge crew.

  Ingram struggled for a moment, then finally let it go. “Okay.”

  They kicked their way out of a patch of burning fuel oil and wiggled toward a life raft. Two hands grabbed his shirt; he slithered aboard, joining seven other wet, oil-soaked, exhausted men. He lay on his back for a moment then turned to his side, looking into the eyes of Ralph Druckman. The captain’s face was almost completely black, smeared with fuel oil. He coughed and spat; blood ran from a corner of his mouth. Finally Druckman gasped. “Todd. I’m sorry. I really wanted to give you a fine ship.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Druckman rolled to his back and spoke to the smoke-filled sky. “I’m really sorry. Those were my boys.” He clasped his palms to his chest. His mouth quivered, “God, I’m so sorry.”

  Ingram sat up. He reached over and clapped Druckman’s shoulder. “Not your fault, Ralph. You did all you could.”

  “I’m really sorry.” Was it sea water or were tears at the corners of Druckman’s eyes. He struggled to a sitting position. “Damn ship wouldn’t come around. Shoulda missed that torpedo.”

  “It’s okay, Ralph.”

  The raft pitched suddenly, and Druckman fell into Ingram’s arms.

  Both looked up as the Pence gave a mighty groan. Fully capsized, her dull red bottom glistened just as her forward section slid under, leaving her stern canted high at an impossible angle. Amongst hissing steam, collapsing bulkheads and the tortuous grinding of metal, she began her final plunge, ten or so men frantically swimming to get clear.

  Druckman gave a loud groan as the Pence slipped under the waves, rumbling and erupting as she headed for the depths of Iron Bottom Sound. Great air bubbles vomited skyward, leaving a pool of fuel oil, her life blood, glistening on the surface. while dunnage of the living and dead bobbed about in stunned silence.

  Still holding onto Druckman, Ingram darted about the swirling, oil-soaked wreckage. “Leo, you damned fool.” He urged. “Come on, Leo.”

  PART THREE

  There is nothing that gives a

  man consequence, and

  renders him fit for command,

  like a support that renders

  him independent of

  everybody but the state

  he serves.

  George Washington

  * * *

  For is it not true that the furious intensity of searching for somethhing is often merely a mask for our fear of actually finding it?

  James Webb

  The Emperor's General

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  9 April, 1943

  Intelligence Center for the Pacific Ocean Area (ICPOA)

  Pearl Harbor Naval Base, Hawaii

  Mike Novak hung up the phone. Captain Roland Ferguson, Commanding Officer of the U.S.S. Santa Barbara had just confirmed his suspicions. Damnit! Now he had a major security problem. Looking out his window into a bullpen of cryptographers, he drummed his fingers for a moment, then dialed Major Robert St. Clair who, in addition to his duties as brig commander, was now director of FRUPAC security.

  A sleepy voice answered, “Hello?”

  “Bob. It’s Mike.”

  St. Clair coughed spasmodically. At length, he managed. “It’s late.”

  In the background, Novak heard St. Clair’s Zippo click, then his exhale. “Bob, do you remember me telling you about that two and a half striper who rode with me on the PB4Y out from Long Beach?”

  There was a moment of silence. “You mean the guy you think saw your, ahem” St. Clair cleared his throat in respect for an unsecure line, “ah, stuff while you were unconscious?”

  “Precisely. I just rang off with a cruiser captain who was sitting in the seat behind. He not only told me the lights came on right away, but he saw Ingram reach in the aisle and pick up my...stuff.”

  “That was nice of him to help you out.”

  “Damnit. The sonofabitch lied to me, Bob. It wasn’t dark like he said. The lights were on. He could have read all that material without anyone the wiser.”

  “So what can you do about it?” Taking another drag, St. Clair picked tobacco bits off his tongue.

  “Well, I’m wondering if we should bring him back here, so we can find out what he knows. After all, he could pop off to someone.”

  “Isn’t this guy a destroyer skipper? The one with the Navy Cross?”

  “...yes.”

  “Don’t you think that’s overkill?”

  Novak drummed his fingers.

  St. Clair came back with, “I’d be glad to help you out, but we should be sure.”

  “If I am sure, what can you do?”

  “Well, I would send someone to bring him back.”

  “Bring him back? Why do we need someone to bring him back? Can’t we just send him orders?”

  “Well, I would suggest Augustine Rivera.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “You’ve met him.”

  “I have?”

  “Yes,” St. Clair exhaled. “That day with Sujiyama.”

  The Japanese torpedo officer off the ill-fated I-1. A cold tremor ran down Novak’s spine. “I thought he was just a jailer.”

  “Far more than that. He’s a very talented man.”

  “How is Sujiyama?” Novak hadn’t interviewed the coke-drinking, cigarette-puffing officer for weeks.

  “He’ll be okay.”

  “Okay from what?”

  “Well...he fell down and broke his jaw.”

  “Did Rivera do that?” blurted Novak.

  “Of course not. But I must say, Rivera does enjoy interviewing our little friends. But his real specialty is war-zone security. You send a guy like him down there to make sure your boy does come back. To make sure your orders aren’t overridden.”

  “You send a Marine Major to do that?”

  “Actually, he’s a specialist warrant officer from Naval CID. So I can make him anything I like. Right now, he wears a Navy lieutenant’s bars. We use him to track down AWOLs in SOWESPAC. You know, some kids get scared. They hide out with natives. Marry a fat old native wahine and lay low. That sort of thing. Augustine Rivera knows how to dig ‘em out.”

  “That’s a drastic step. Almost like bringing back a prisoner.”

  “Well, you’re the one who’s on edge. And that puts me on edge. I’m only doing my job, here.”

  “I don’t know...”

  “Consider what’s at risk, Mike.”

  “I got it.” Novak snapped his fingers.

  “Got what?”

  “My cousin. Frank Ashton. He knows Ingram. Let me call him first. Check on Ingram’s reliability. Then I’ll get back to you. Is this Rivera available right away if we need him?”

  “He just brought a guy back and is enroute to Noumea.”

  “Let me think about it. I’ll get back to you.”

  “When?”

  “Five, six hours.”

  “Don’t let it drag out.” St. Clair gave a long exhale and ground out his cigarette.

  With a shudder, Novak hung up.

  Novak pulled every trick to get an overseas line. It took two hours and fifteen minutes before one was available: near one a.m. mainland time. First, the operator connected him to Ashton’s rental in Belmont Shore. No answer. She dialed Ashton’s office at the Long Beach Naval Shipyard. It rang once, then, “Ashton.”

  “Frank, it’s Mike.” The line swirled with static.

  “Who?”

  “Mike Novak,” he shouted.

  “Cousin Mike? All the way from Hawaii? What are you doing up so late?”

  Novak grinned at the irony. It was two hours later in Long Beach. “Working, damnit, just like you. Look. I need some help.
I...uh met a fellow on my trip back to Pearl and, without going into this too deeply, I ran into a bit of a security problem.”

  As bad as the connection was, Novak heard Ashton’s chair squeak as he sat up. “Yes?”

  “I believe you know this man.”

  “Yes?”

  “And I need your opinion on his reliability.”

  “Okay.”

  Novak ran the precautions through his mind. The line was not secure. But then there was no specific project to discuss. No highly classified subject. The hell with it. He leaned back, plopped his feet on the desk and said, “His name is Todd Ingram.”

  Novak heard Ashton exhale. But he knew his cousin didn’t smoke. Unlike St. Clair, Ashton was too neat and fastidious. Sound modulated terribly on the phone line, but Novak clearly heard, “You mean Lieutenant Commander Todd Ingram? The one with the Navy Cross?”

  “That’s him, all right.”

  The line clicked, but Novak heard noises on the other end, indicating Ashton was still there. Or was he? “Frank? Hello? Frank”?

  “Yes, yes. Don’t forget, this is an open line.”

  “I know that.”

  “Okay. Yes, I considered having Ingram work for me.”

  “And?”

  “Well, I met him in the South Pacific and thought he was a pretty squared away guy. Then I heard his ship was damaged, or something, and that he was here in Long Beach for prospective CO training. So, I looked him up.”

  “Yes?” Novak dropped his feet to the floor and carefully placed both elbows on his desk. “In what capacity?”

  “Basically, I wanted him to run a Combat Support Unit here, as part of the Eleventh Naval District.”

  Novak scratched his head. “What’s a Combat Support Unit?”

  “The main interface from the fleet to the Department of Terrestrial Magnetism.”

  “Good God.” Novak decided to let that one rest. He hadn’t heard of the Department of Terrestrial Magnetism and wondered if it had anything to do with Buck Rogers and Buster Crabbe.

  Ashton continued, “I needed to know more about him and did some checking.”

  “And?”

  “He’s been known to bully senior officers.”

  “What?”

  “I discovered a charge has been filed by an Army Colonel over at Fort MacArthur that Ingram was using his Navy Cross to throw his weight around.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Something about trying to obtain preferential treatment for his wife, who was a nurse there. Trying to go over the heads of senior officers, just to get her orders changed.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “...I don’t know. Because he thinks he’s God. So, if you ask me, Mike. The man’s not reliable.”

  “You think he would lie?”

  “In a flash. Anyone as disrespectful as that is capable of anything.”

  “What about his character?”

  Ashton seemed to think it over. Then he said, “I thought that’s what we were talking about.”

  “Overall, I mean.”

  “Like I said. The man’s not reliable.”

  Novak drummed his fingers.

  Now it was Ashton’s turn. “Mike? Mike?”

  “I got it. Thanks, Frank.” Novak hung up.

  In Long Beach, Frank Ashton hung up and his chair squeaked as he sat back. He cupped his hands and held them over his nose for ten long seconds, inhaling and exhaling. He looked down seeing his trousers wrinkled. And his shirt had turned a putrid gray-whiteish; in fact, this one, he’d worn for the last three days.

  “God.” He muttered. He hated to do that to Ingram but the man had turned him down, hadn’t he? And that damned Army Colonel from Australia, Otis DeWitt had been sending messages asking questions. Ashton had ignored them but now, he picked up the flimsy on his desk, here was one from Colonel Charles Willoughby, Douglas MacArthur’s Intelligence Chief. In Brisbane Australia. How the hell did she finagle that?

  Slow them down, that’s all he could do. Even the selection committee; they were asking questions, now.

  Ashton pressed his hands to his temples, trying to understand why things were closing in so quickly. A fog horn blew in the harbor; the forge thumped down the alley signaling to Ashton the round-the-clock ferocity of the Long beach Naval Shipyard’s dedication to defeating the enemy. With all of his being, he wanted to be a part of it. And yet...

  He looked down to his shoes.

  Scuffed.

  Strange. That gave Ashton some solace. Scuffed shoes were something he could take care of. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out his shine kit and methodically laid everything out on his desk. He took off his shoes and thought for five long minutes about which one he should do first.

  The left one, he decided. Like they taught him as a plebe in the Naval Academy, always start off with your left foot. At one ten in the morning, Ashton soaked the cotton in water, dabbed it in the shoe polish and began his spit shine.

  The morning was clear, the ocean blue, sparkling, as the twin-engined R4D lined up for the main runway at Noumea. Having just graduated from flight training, Ensign Julian Carruthers had been in the fleet for two months. Instead of going on to fighter pilot training as he wanted, he’d been assigned to multi-engined aircraft, and now was attached to the Naval Air Transport Service. He only had thirty-five hours in “Gooney Birds” and now, he had just been ordered to land this thing.

  “Don’t you think we should make another pass, Lieutenant?” Carruthers pointed to the ocean. “Look at the white caps.”

  All Carruthers knew was that the pilot’s name was Lieutenant Gilbert. Carruthers had never met him before. Gilbert, a slim, sinewy, dark man with a pockmarked face just nodded and said, “It’s all yours, Ensign. Like I said, pretend you’re in command. Now go ahead and land this airplane. In one piece, I might add. And don’t forget, I’ll be watching every move.

  “Y...Yes, Sir.” Gilbert eased the Gooney Bird down to 2,500 feet and flew over the runway. What he saw made him feel as if his stomach were full of cement. The wind sock stood straight out, almost perpendicular to the runway. And the radio had pooped out long ago, so they couldn’t obtain wind and barometer conditions. Carruthers, a short stocky high school math teacher in civilian life, said, “‘Scuse me, Lieutenant, but that sock is straight out.”

  “So?” Gilbert’s eyes were dark, almost malevolent.

  Carruthers gulped. “Looks like a twenty knot cross-wind from the north.”

  Gilbert slouched back in his seat and folded his arms. “Like I said, you land this bucket, Ensign. And you’re being rated, so it better be good.”

  The tower flashed them a green signal light. They were low on gas, and there were no other aircraft in the area.

  Time to go.

  Sweat stood on Carruthers’ forehead as he eased the R4D into a downwind leg and headed back out to sea, going through the check list. On a couple of occasions, he had to show Lieutenant Gilbert where things were, like the landing gear and flap levers. But things were moving faster and faster. They were soon lined up on final at 1,000 feet. And the Gooney Bird bucked and yawed in the gusts.

  One of Caruthers’s check pilots had been a Texan who often yelled, ‘Yeeehaw’ or ‘Ride ‘em Cowboy,’ when they hit turbulence.

  What the hell? Carruthers figured, so he pulled back more throttle and screeched, “Ride ‘em cowboy.”

  His grin to Gilbert earned him another icy stare.

  A hundred feet. The plane bounced on the gusts as if it were a ping pong ball.

  Shiiiit. What did that crazy Texan say about cross wind landings?

  Lining up with the upwind side of the runway, he again stole a glance at Gilbert, seeing a bit of moisture on his brow as well. Hope the sonofabitch can save our ass if I screw up.

  Fifty feet. With ailerons, Carruthers dropped the right wing and kicked in left rudder, sideslipping the Gooney Bird over the runway threshold.

  You can do it...r />
  He yanked the throttles all the way back, letting the plane settle. With satisfaction, he heard the right wheel squeak as it kissed the runway. Ahhh, just like the book says.

  Just then, a gust hit and the plane bucked. A spasm of terror shot up his spine, as he realized the plane was trying to fly.

  “Ahhh!” Carruthers heard his own voice as he kicked in more opposite rudder to keep the plane lined on the runway. And then the right wing lifted and the wheel broke free. They were airborne!

  “Shit!” yelled Carruthers. “Flaps up!”

  Gilbert’s hand rummaged on the pedestal. “What the hell?”

  Carruthers took a hand off the yoke for a moment and pointed. “There!”

  Gilbert shoved the lever up, raising the flaps, killing the lift. Soon, the plane settled on both wheels and began to slow. The tailwheel dropped to the runway stabilizing their rollout. Soon, they were heading for a jeep that waited to lead them to their parking area.

  Carruthers looked over. “Sorry about that, Lieutenant. I’m kind of new at this.”

  Gilbert pushed his garrison cap back on his head and gave a twisted grin. “That’s okay, Ensign. You did okay.”

  “Really?”

  “Only thing I would have done differently was to raise the flaps a little sooner.”

  “Does that mean...”

  “Yes, you pass. You did well.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  Augustine Rivera waited until Carruthers stepped into the operations hut. Then he walked in the opposite direction and found an unattended jeep near the base fuel dump. But it had no keys.

  It took him ten seconds to hot-wire it. In another forty-five seconds, he was off the base and headed for the waterfront. Better not do that again he thought, as he unpinned the pilot’s wings from his khaki shirt. He loved impersonations. Once, he’d impersonated a doctor up in Espiritu Santo and had caught an AWOL kid who wandered in, wanting treatment for crabs. But today, he knew he’d gone too far. And yet, he’d done it, flying all the way from Pearl Harbor in the guise of a pilot. Everyone had bought it, even Carruthers who he had picked for the leg from Palmyra. And yet...that landing. He hadn’t figured on poor flying conditions.