Edge of Valor

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Wet. He’d wet his diaper. Scared stiff. She clicked on the light and busied herself changing him and putting everything right. After some cuddling and tickling Jerry was cooing again. She wrapped him in a blanket, clicked off the light, and held him close.

  In the darkness she saw Eddie Bergen in the doorway. Quickly she clicked on the light. Nothing. The baby slept on, and she held him tightly. As close as she could to her heart.

  Emma Peabody awoke with a belch. The damned alarm clock was ripping into a peaceful world with the 7:30 imperative. Time to get up and go next door to take care of Jerry. Again she belched. Too much beer last night—it stayed with her. She made her own in the basement, and this new batch was particularly good—a dark lager with an unpronounceable Bavarian name.

  Sunlight streamed into the window. Emma rose and stretched. Damn, that was a good batch. Maybe she’d have another sip or two this afternoon. But for now, it was up and off to work. She slipped on a housecoat, washed her face, and walked into the kitchen and started the coffee. There was a smile on her face as she looked forward to the best time of the day. Playing with Jerry was more a joy than a job. He was crawling like a gorilla now, getting into cupboards and redistributing pots and pans with enthusiastic clamor.

  Emma Peabody looked up to the picture of her late husband, Leo. They were unable to have children but they had everything else, especially love. Leo worked as an engineer for the Southern Pacific, Emma for the phone company. Then both retired and Leo happily went to work in their basement, setting up a brewery, building a photography laboratory, and starting a shortwave station.

  But a heart attack stopped it all. At a young sixty-four Leo was gone, leaving Emma with no children, only the house and the basement.

  Having the Ingrams living next door had given Emma back her life. They became great friends, and Helen actually paid Emma Peabody to babysit. To mother a child. To watch him laugh and throw things around and grow up—something denied to her by a quirk of nature.

  She stepped into her house slippers and walked out the back door. Soon, she was through the fence and on Helen’s back porch. She knocked. “Hello?” She flipped open her pocket watch. It was Leo’s, a retirement gift from the Southern Pacific Railroad in appreciation of thirty-six years of service, thirty-two of them as an engineer. The watch was a genuine Bulova pocket timepiece featuring a twenty-one-jewel movement with a gold case and long gold chain. Accurate to within one one-hundredth of a second each day. It had seemed ironic. Leo didn’t need such precision after he stopped driving the monstrous 4–8-8–2 cab-forward engines for the SP. The watch read 7:42. Emma rapped again. “Better get a move on darlin’. You’re gonna be late.”

  Nothing.

  This doesn’t feel good. Emma Peabody reached into her pocket and pulled out the house key Helen had given her for emergencies. She rapped again, loudly. “Helen!! You there? Yoo-hoo!”

  She put her ear to the door. A baby cried. That’s it.

  Emma shoved the key into the lock and turned it. The crying was loud, and she was overwhelmed by the odor of cat pee. Helen hadn’t let Fred and Bubbles out. She quickly walked through the kitchen. Everything cold. No coffee. No breakfast. Emma dashed into Helen’s bedroom.

  The baby crawled on the floor toward her, screaming. Emma scooped him up. “Jerry! What’s wrong?”

  Helen’s bed was empty, unmade. Jerry’s bottom was wet, and the screaming was a sure sign he was hungry. She lay him on his changing table and began to unpin the diaper as he writhed, his little fists wiggling in space.

  A low moan, a squeak.

  Emma picked up the baby, stooped, and peeked under the bed. Her heart skipped a beat. “Darlin’ what are you doing?”

  Helen was squeezed against the wall. She blinked.

  “Dear girl, come on out of there.”

  Helen focused. She gave a thin smile. “Hi, Emma. I had a bad night.” Her grin was almost sheepish.

  “Well, get out of there and tell me about it.”

  Helen wiggled out and said, “Give me a minute.”

  “Take all the time you want.”

  Helen sat on the bed and pinched the bridge of her nose. Then she looked at the clock. “My God!”

  “Don’t worry about it, dear.”

  “I have to.” She stood.

  “Where you going?”

  “Shower and to work.”

  Emma cradled little Jerry. “If you must. But I think you should see somebody.”

  Helen wasn’t listening as she turned on the faucets.

  Emma made coffee, toast, and scrambled eggs while Helen showered and dressed. Then, gulping her breakfast at the same time, Helen described what had happened last night.

  “So you’re okay, now?” asked Emma.

  “Much better. The shower was therapeutic, as was the breakfast. Thank you.” She patted her tummy and stood, gathering her things.

  Emma sipped coffee. “You’re lucky, you know.”

  “Yes?” Checking a small mirror, Helen adjusted her cap.

  “You have a hospital and staff full of doctors who can help.”

  Helen leaned down and kissed her son on the forehead. “Can’t do that,” she said, checking her watch. “Ye gads.”

  Emma’s eyebrows went up.

  “Do you realize what happens if some snoop finds out I’d been seeing a shrink?”

  “You need help.”

  “Not that kind of help. People gossip. They think you’re gooney. They steer away from you.”

  “So, phooey on them.”

  “They’d think I was crazy. Men with butterfly nets would come and get me.”

  Emma sighed. There was a certain truth to that. Even in civilian life, seeing a psychiatrist was stigmatic. But when you need help, you need help. “Darlin’ you can’t do this all by yourself.”

  Helen slipped into a windbreaker and opened the front door. “Oh, but I can. Now that I’ve identified the problem, I know how to treat it.”

  “But—”

  Helen put a finger to her lips. “Not a word to anybody. Promise?”

  Emma was riveted by Helen’s eyes. They exuded confidence, warmth, and femininity. Unlike the pale, trembling woman she had seen thirty minutes ago, Helen could now be a Vogue centerfold or a Coca-Cola poster girl. It was hard to look away. Her ebony hair, pulled into a ponytail, glistened in the morning light. Her smile was beautiful, engaging. In her Army uniform she looked radiant; her silver captain’s “railroad tracks” sparkled.

  “Okay?” she asked again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  22 August 1945

  Toro Airfield, Karafuto Prefecture, Japan

  Ingram and Fujimoto broke from the brush to see a Russian command car with two white flags on its front fender parked beneath the C-54’s nose. An officer walked unsteadily back and forth, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Three other Russians sat stiffly in the command car, fully aware that they were the focus of Harper’s well-armed Marines and a number of Japanese soldiers. Ingram waved to Harper at the edge of the brush. The sergeant set his end of Boring’s stretcher down and then fanned out his men.

  The Russian looked up and smiled. Flicking away his cigarette, he shuffled toward Ingram, hand outstretched. “Todd, how the hell are you?”

  Ingram knew that voice and that walk. “No!”

  “Hey, come on, it’s me.”

  “Eduard?” He couldn’t believe it. It was the flamboyant Eduard Dezhnev, once naval attaché to the Soviet consulate in San Francisco. But the FBI had caught him and his control, Sergei Zenit, in a sting operation and had them deported, persona non grata.

  “That’s right. Good to see you, comrade.” He grabbed Ingram’s hand, pumped it, and then gave him an awkward bear hug. “You’re looking great.”

  Ingram pulled away. Dezhnev had gained weight since the last time Ingram saw him. His 5-foot 11-inch frame now carried about 190 pounds instead of the 160 Dezhnev had weighed when Ingram knew him in San Francisco. His dark red hai
r was still combed straight back, his face was fair complected, and his broad shoulders exuded confidence. And he was walking better, without the limp he’d had two and a half years ago after losing the lower half of his left leg in a skirmish with German E-boats in the Gulf of Riga.

  Dezhnev caught him looking. “New prosthesis—American, actually. Mail order, and not bad—I walk almost normally.”

  “Waste of time. I thought by now they would have tied you to a chair and put a bullet behind your ear.”

  Dezhnev gave a broad grin. “You have it all wrong. There’s a war on. They need me. Look, I’m a captain third rank now.”

  “I’m so impressed.”

  Colin Blinde walked up. “Good to see you two have met up. I wondered what would happen.”

  “This is a farce, Colin. What’s he doing here?”

  Blinde stammered, “I thought you were old friends. You know, from your San Francisco days.”

  “Yes, San Francisco,” said Dezhnev loudly. He pointed to his gleaming belt buckle, which featured the outline of a series of buildings. It was stamped with the legend ALCATRAZ. “Remember?”

  “No, I don’t remember.”

  Dezhnev scratched his head. “Must have been while you were gone. Toliver and I had a night on the town. Went to Wong Lee’s and then strolled through Chinatown. He bought this for me.” Oliver P. Toliver III, now a commander in naval intelligence, was a shipmate and close friend of the Ingrams. He had been one of the eight, including Otis DeWitt and his then girlfriend Helen Duran, who had escaped Corregidor with Ingram in a 36-foot launch.

  Dezhnev stuck out his chest. “Gold plated, too. Ollie had that done for me.” Toliver came from a wealthy family.

  “You should melt it down and sell it,” said Ingram. He turned to Blinde. “You knew about this all along?”

  Blinde said, “Ahhh, yes. It was meant to be a surprise. A backup if things went wrong. Something to smooth the waters, so to speak. I just wasn’t sure if Captain Dezhnev would be in this particular spot. We knew he was in the area.”

  “Peachy keen,” said Ingram. “And things did go wrong.”

  Dezhnev said, “Look, Todd. I can explain. We have all this—”

  Ingram turned to Harper. “Get that man aboard, Sergeant. We leave momentarily. Please ask Major Radcliff to step out here, and I’d like your men to set up a perimeter around the plane.” He added quietly, “Stick the crate and boxes in the cargo hold.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Harper. He whistled, and several of his men hustled the stretcher carrying Boring from the brush to the C-54. Another stretcher followed with Boring’s crate.

  Dezhnev said, “Is that one of your men?”

  Blinde said, “You see, Captain—”

  “Yes, that’s one of my men. He was shot when your people fired on my plane, Captain Dezhnev.” Ingram nearly spat the last word. “He was treated at the field hospital here. Now we’re trying to get him home.”

  Dezhnev rose on his tiptoes to watch Harper and his men carry their loads to the C-54. “Yes, of course. Perhaps our doctor could examine him. We have whole blood. Everything you need. Here, let me—”

  “No need to bother, Ed,” said Ingram. “American doctors can do just fine.”

  Dezhnev took a step toward the C-54. “No, I insist. We can do a much better job right here.”

  “We have it all set, Ed. He’ll be in good hands by this evening.”

  Dezhnev persisted, “Our doctor really must examine him. I have to show proof that—”

  “Not to worry, Ed. I’ll vouch for him.”

  “And I’ll need to examine that crate. It’s contraband.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “You are standing on territory of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and are taking equipment that belongs to us. I demand that you turn it over.”

  Blinde muttered under his breath, “Ixnay, Commander.”

  Dezhnev said loudly, “Ixnay? Ixnay? What sort of charade is this?”

  Ingram said, “Colin, I want you to meet Eduard Dezhnev, captain third rank, Bykovo graduate, stage actor, expert in colloquial English, and consummate bullshitter.”

  “You forgot, NKVD, Todd,” said Dezhnev.

  “Oh, so you’ve been elevated? Now they’ve taught you how to pull fingernails?”

  Dezhnev rolled his eyes. “Please, Todd, you’re making it difficult.”

  Time. Play for time. “No need to shoot up my airplane, Ed.”

  Dezhnev pulled a face. “You killed eight of my men.”

  Ingram said, “After you fired on an unarmed American transport on a peaceful mission, killing a U.S. naval officer, injuring another man, and crippling this aircraft. Then your M-16 blocked our path on the runway and threatened to fire on us. Yes. We killed a few of yours, Ed, and I’m hoping your superiors will find you at fault and finish the job they failed to do three years ago and shove you down a hole.”

  Dezhnev wiped a hand over his face. “I came in a gesture of peace, Todd, for you. We demand the surrender of this garrison and everything here, including your airplane.”

  “My airplane? What do you intend to do with it?”

  Dezhnev didn’t answer that. “You’ll be guests of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, of course. You’ll be interned in Vladivostok and treated well while you’re there. In no time you’ll be returned to your loved ones.”

  Radcliff walked up. With an eye on Dezhnev he asked, “What’s up, Skipper?”

  Ingram said, “Excuse us, please?”

  Dezhnev said, “Of course. Take your time while I get to know Major Fujimoto a little better.”

  Ingram, Blinde, and Radcliff walked away—ten paces.

  Before Ingram could say anything, Blinde hissed, “Why are you treating Captain Dezhnev like a schoolyard thug?”

  “Because that’s what he is. What do you know about this guy?” replied Ingram.

  “That he is the area commander.”

  Ingram said, “I can’t believe your spy buddies haven’t shown you the file.”

  “What file?”

  “The FBI file. That son of a bitch betrayed our friendship. He spied on the United States while working in the Soviet consulate in San Francisco.”

  Blinde said, “That’s all diplomacy. Half of it’s gobbledegook. You’re not cleared for those levels. You don’t know.”

  “Let me put it on a personal level for you. Dezhnev knowingly tipped the Japs via radio of my wife’s whereabouts while she was hiding out on Mindanao awaiting rescue. The bastard did his best to turn her in—to screw us.”

  “You have no proof. Look, this is important. We must keep the Soviets happy and—”

  “Mr. Blinde. Our mission is to rescue Walter Boring, and we are doing that. Isn’t that right, Bucky? Is he on the airplane?”

  “Yes,” said Radcliff.

  “Can we take off, Bucky?”

  Radcliff said, “Normally, yes.”

  “Normally?”

  Radcliff glanced down the runway. “That’s a five-thousand-foot strip, which would be marginal to okay for a three-engine takeoff. But now that piece of crap is parked out there eating up the last seven hundred to five hundred feet. Dicey.”

  “How dicey?”

  “Very dicey to maybe not.”

  “You’re saying we can’t take off?”

  Radcliff tilted a hand from side to side.

  “Decide, Bucky.”

  Radcliff looked up to the sky, threw up his hands, and asked, “Is this important enough to die for?”

  Ingram said, “Extremely important. They used the phrase ‘prejudicial to the security of the United States.’ And I believe it.”

  “It has to do with what’s in the cargo hold and that guy they brought on board?” asked Radcliff.

  Blinde said, “Commander, you’ve said enough.”

  Ingram nodded toward Radcliff. “Mr. Blinde. If this man is about to die, he should know why, don’t you think?”

  “Under normal circumsta
nces, yes.”

  “Are there any abnormal circumstances when you die, Mr. Blinde?”

  Radcliff said, “Okay, you guys. Quit the bickering. I can do it.”

  Ingram and Blinde looked at one another. Ingram asked, “You sure?”

  Radcliff said, “I’m sure, Todd. Look, I just said I can do this. What more do you want?”

  Ingram said, “All right, let’s do it then.”

  Blinde nodded.

  Ingram said to Radcliff, “Get back aboard and wind ’em up. And ask Berne to inform Okinawa of our intentions.”

  “Got it.” Radcliff trotted back to the C-54.

  Ingram and Blinde walked back to Dezhnev and Fujimoto, who stood silently ten feet apart. After a pause, Dezhnev spoke first, “Are you aware, Major, that Toyahara has fallen? The capital of the Karafuto Prefecture and the headquarters for Japanese military operations on the island are no longer in your hands.”

  Fujimoto said, “I am.”

  “You have orders to surrender, then.” A statement.

  “It has been left to my discretion, Captain,” said Fujimoto.

  Dezhnev said, “Major, we can squash you like a grape.” He waved a hand toward the sea. “On a moment’s notice I can have twenty T-34s charge down this runway in line abreast, roll over your stupid pillboxes, and grind your troops into the soil. You’ll all be dead within twenty minutes.”

  Ingram muttered, “Now that’s what I call negotiating.”

  Blinde said, “There’s more to this than meets the eye.”

  Dezhnev said, “I don’t follow you, Mr. Blinde.”

  Blinde said, “Isn’t it true that the Soviet Union intends to invade Hokkaido?”

  Dezhnev paused. “Marshal Vasilievsky doesn’t disclose his plans to me.”

  Ingram had heard the name somewhere. “Who is Marshal Vasilievsky?”

  Blinde said, “Marshal Vasilievsky is the theater commander. He reports to Stalin.”

  “Generalissimo Stalin,” corrected Dezhnev.

  “Yes, the generalissimo,” said Blinde. “Well, let’s take a hypothetical case. Let’s say that the Soviet Union does plan to invade Hokkaido. Maybe even as early as tomorrow. But Major Fujimoto and his people here are tying up his right flank. And Marshal Vasilievsky needs the tanks that are here for his amphibious operation tomorrow or the next day.” He turned to Fujimoto. “I’m sorry Major; you seem to be interrupting Marshal Vasilievsky’s plans.”