THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Read online

  “Just send it, Hank. I’ll talk to Jerry when we rendezvous.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Kelly hung up.

  Ingram turned, finding Duquette still on the bridge, a smile stretched across his face.

  Ingram followed his gaze, seeing the two men scaling down, the radar antenna turning. “Can we radiate?”

  “Looks like it, but we have to wait for them to get down,” said Duquette.

  “Very well,” Ingram said. “Clock. Tell CIC the SC-1 antenna motor is repaired . We’ll start radiating momentarily. Ask Mr. Kelly to so inform DESDIV11.”

  There was a loud screech, and Ingram felt something zip against his leg.

  “Damnit!” It was dark-faced Falco chasing the animal.

  “Falco,” called Ingram.

  The boatswain’s mate drew up, sharply. “Sir.”

  “What happened?”

  “Damn thing tried to bite me.” Falco jabbed his thumb in his mouth.

  “May I go, sir?” Duquette interrupted.

  “Sure enough, Tony. But, I want to see you and the exec in my day cabin, as soon as we secure from GQ.”

  Duquette’ s Adam’s apple bounced. He almost saluted, but thought better of it. “Yes, sir.”

  He seemed rooted to the spot, so Ingram said, “Go, Tony. Get back to combat and make those radars sing.” He slapped Duquette on the butt. The young officer’s leather souls clacked on the companion way as he dashed two decks down to CIC.

  Something squealed, and Ingram looked aloft, spotting Dexter, climbing up the mast via the starboard shroud.

  Falco gave a thin smile and drew his bosun’s knife, a converted bayonet, at least eight inches long. “Sort of trapped, ain’t he, Sir?”

  “Leave him alone, Falco. We’ve got more important—“

  Gunderson thrust his head out of the pilot house. “Captain, Jeez, you better take a look at this.”

  Ingram walked into the pilot house and bent his head to the hooded radar repeater, “Working okay?”

  Gunderson nodded.

  What Ingram saw made him suck in his breath. Eight dots were headed for the Maxwell directly from the west, range, he quickly twirled the knob: ten miles. “Damn! What are they doing way out here?” But then he realized they had snatched that PBY crew out from under the Japanese’ noses. A snooper must have spotted them and called in a strike. They were still within range of Guam airfields.

  Ingram dashed out onto the open bridge, spotted a rain squall and called over his shoulder, “Mr. Gunderson, come left to zero-zero-zero. Head for that squall.” With Clock in tow, Ingram walked through the pilot house to the port bridge wing.

  “Clock,” Ingram shouted. “Ask CIC if there’s any IFF on those contacts?”

  Clock pressed his talk button and spoke. Five seconds later he received his answer. “Negative, Captain.”

  “Very well. Tell Mr. Kelly to inform DESDIV 11. Tell him we need air cover, chop, chop.”

  The Maxwell heeled into a left turn, swinging to the north. Ingram called up to Jack Wilson, the gunnery officer. “Jack, you’ve eight bogies coming out of the sun, range about six miles. Get on it.”

  Wilson swung his binoculars to the west. “Sir.”

  Was there time to unmask batteries? Ingram guessed so. One more thing. He ordered, “Eric, increase speed to twenty-knots!”

  “Aye aye, captain.”

  “And Eric, double check your lookouts. See if they can pick up the targets before the fire control radar.” Ingram squinted into the sunset, willing his eyes to find the enemy. For some reason, he looked up, seeing Dexter in the shrouds doing the same thing, wind blowing at his fur. Where are they, Dexter?

  Clock reported, “Captain, bogies have split into two groups, four to the south, four to the north. Looks like a coordinated attack.”

  Damnit! “Mr. Gunderson, shift your rudder and come back to course two-seven-zero.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Looking aft, Ingram shaded his eyes against the setting sun. Before, it hadn’t seemed so bright. Now, he couldn’t see a thing. What he could see was that damned monkey half-way up the starboard forward shroud, peering into the sunset.

  “A hell of a lookout you are,” Ingram muttered.

  CHAPTER TWO

  7 June, 1944

  U.S.S. Maxwell (DD 525)

  North Pacific Ocean

  “Jack, split the battery: forward five-inch and forties, take the bogies to the north, the aft battery, take the south.”

  As Gunnery officer and coordinator of the ships battery, Jack Wilson was key to the ship’s defense. That’s why he was atop the pilot house with an unobstructed view in all directions. “Got it!” Wilson punched his microphone, designating the ship’s two forward five-inch and forty-millimeter cannons under the control of the main battery director; the after five-inch mounts and forties to be controlled by the secondary director aft. That way, they could engage targets attacking from different directions.

  While Wilson was setting up his split battery, Ingram grabbed the pilot house telephone hand set and punched COMBAT.

  “CIC.” It was Hank Kelly.

  “Hank, anything more on our air cover?”

  “Four F6Fs just took off. ETA fifteen minutes.”

  “Not soon enough.”

  “No.”

  “And no IFF?”

  “Zilch.”

  “Okay, keep me informed.” Ingram hung up and walked back to the starboard bridge wing.

  A lookout atop the pilot house screeched and pointed. “Bogies!”

  This had happened so many times before, and yet Ingram never grew used to it. Always, he felt as if twenty pounds of lead lay in his stomach. And lead was not only poisonous, but it slowed you down, didn’t it? Lethargic. Like the way he felt right now. This time was no different, as he forced his binoculars to his eyes, almost afraid of what he would find. Immediately, he picked out the four dots heading directly for them from the north. In a vee formation, they were at about five thousand feet.

  Wilson shouted, “On target and tracking, both groups. Look like Kates.”

  Ingram tightened his focus, seeing they were indeed Nakajima B5N2 single engine carrier attack bombers. Originally used for torpedo attacks, these Kates carried a 500 kilogram bomb under each wing.

  With Clock trailing, Ingram dashed through the pilot house and spotted the other four Kates approaching from the south. Much further away, he decided. Dashing back to the starboard bridge wing, he yelled, “Range?”

  “Ten thousand to starboard, fourteen to port,” replied Wilson.

  Time to get on with it. “Commence fire, both batteries!”

  All five of the Maxwell’s 5-inch guns erupted, spewing cordite laden smoke over the weather decks. Ingham’s world became thundering canon-fire and choking fumes that momentarily obscured the dive bombers headed for them. His eyes watered, and when he could finally see, two of the attacking planes had broken off and were circling back, while the remaining pair droned closer. In fact, now he heard their engines.

  A blotch of smoke blossomed beside the Kate on the right. Flame burst from its cowling and oily black smoke trailed, but somehow, the plane plodded on.

  Ingram asked, “Jack. How ‘bout the group to the south?”

  Wilson shaded his eyes. “Disbursed, Captain. I don’t--”

  “Down!” Clock jerked Ingram to the deck. A roaring and crashing caromed through the pilot house. Someone screamed. Metal ripped, glass shattered as enormous fist-sized holes punched into the bulkhead above Ingram. Seconds later, a Japanese Zero fighter roared overhead.

  “Where did he come from?” Ingram sat up, not believing the transformation on the bridge. What had been an orderly navigation and watch-standing area had been recast into hell’s operating room, the devil’s own surgeons using twenty millimeter cannon. Good God, I’m still alive. He bent to his talker. “Thanks, Clock.”

  Lying prone, Clock raised his head. His helmet was tipped onto his nose, but Ingram could see h
is lips wiggle with, “...ahhh...”

  “You okay?”

  Clock nodded, pushed his helmet back and gave a lopsided grin.

  Ingram pat Clock on his shoulder then rose, seeing a crazed tangle of bodies on the open bridge. Some moaned and tried to stand. In the pilot house, Billy Overton, a second class quartermaster, grit his teeth and wobbled to his feet. With a grunt, he stood clutching the ship’s helm, shaking his head and blinking his eyes.

  Ingham leaned into the hatchway. “Okay, Billy?”

  “...think so, Cap’n.” Overton’s gaze traveled to his right. His eyes widened and he drew a quick breath seeing -- Collins -- the lee helmsman, laying in a crumpled heap, his midsection a glistening dark-red. “Jeez!”

  Gunderson staggered out, holding his head. Blood ran down from a deep cut on his forehead, “Where the...what was that?”

  Ingram grabbed Gunderson by the shoulders, “Eric? Eric?”

  “Gimme a minute...”

  Another Zero zipped overhead, this time from the port side, raking the ship with its twenties. These shells were directed aft of the bridge, spewing into the men on the forward torpedo mount. But the Zero’s luck ran out, as mount forty-one walked a stream of forty millimeter rounds into the plane as it screamed for safety. A shell hit the gas tank, and the plane exploded with a soft ‘puff.’ Parts twirled in all directions, eventually smacking the ocean, leaving a grimy, flaming oil slick.

  Ingham yelled, “Falco, Falco?”

  “...uh, Sir?” Glass crunched under the boatswain mate’s feet, as he rose amongst a tangle of bodies.

  Ingham leaned in the pilot house and said, “I have the conn. Take over the lee helm! Get those phones on and tell main control I want full power. Then ring up all engines ahead flank and make turns for thirty-two knots.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” Falco eased the sound powered phones off the dead leehelmsman and then stepped over his body to work the engine order telegraph. The bells clanged as he rang up ‘flank.’ The ship vibrated momentarily as she dug in her stern and leapt forward.

  “You with me, Overton?”

  The helmsman’s gaze was still a bit distant.

  “Overton!”

  He straightened his helmet. “Yes, Sir.”

  “What’s your course?”

  “Two-seven-zero, Sir.”

  “Very well.” Ingham turned to his talker. “Clock! Tell combat that a couple of Zeros came in on us from the deck, undetected. Tell them to tune that damned radar.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And damnit, ask them about our air cover.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Another Zero zipped overhead, pouring its cannon fire into the bridge. Once again, they dropped to the deck as white-hot chunks of metal flew about. Simultaneously a bomb smacked the ocean a hundred feet to port sending up a tall column of grayish-white water. Then another, further aft.

  Ingham struggled to his feet. Damnit. Get busy. He looked up, seeing two more Kates at about their release point. Soon two black specs detached from under their wings and began their deadly journey down.

  “Overton, left ten degrees rudder. Steady on two-six zero.”

  Overton repeated the order and eased his rudder over. The Maxwell lunged into her turn, leaning to starboard. Soon four bombs crashed into the ocean, straddling the track where the ship would have been.

  “Shift your rudder. Steady on three-zero-zero.” Whipping his head around, Ingham said, “Clock, what’s combat doing? We need target info. Clock? Clock? What the--”

  Rupert, a corpsman, bent over a sailor wearing sound powered phones. It was Clock. The corpsman turned to Ingham and slowly shook his head.

  “Wait a minute; he just saved my life.”

  The ocean roared, as another pair of bombs hit, nearly obliterating Ingham’s words.

  “Sorry, Captain.” Rupert rose and walked over to Gunderson, who had collapsed to the deck.

  “My God.” Ingham looked at Clock’s limp body. “Rupert!” He choked.

  The hospital corpsman looked up. “Sir?”

  He was ready to say, ‘You can’t be that sure, can you?’ “Sorry, take care of Gunderson.”

  Then Ingham shook his head and yelled to Wilson, “Jack, tell combat to send up a talker for me. Clock is dead.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  More bombs exploded to starboard, as the Maxwell’s guns raked the sky. Ingham kicked himself. He’d lost the picture. Too many distractions. Frantically, he scanned with his binoculars, trying to find the closest planes. Another burst of cannon fire tore into number one stack, rupturing the steam line to the whistle. A roaring white cloud leaped into the air. Ingham yelled up to Wilson, “Get that sonofabitch. They’re chopping my ship to pieces. Jack? Jack?” Ingham stood on his tiptoes.

  Wilson sat on the fly-bridge deck, his feet splayed, his back braced against the director barbette.

  “Jack!”

  “...Sir...?” Wilson’s eyes blinked.

  “Get up!”

  Wilson looked at Ingham, his gaze unfixed. Then he grimaced and clamped a hand over his right shoulder, blood oozing between his fingers. Above Wilson, the main battery director was riddled with large holes. On top of the director, the mark 22 fire-control radar antenna was crumpled as if a giant hand had smacked it. Inside the tank-like structure, seven men were dead or injured, he figured. Shutting his mind to the carnage in there, he marveled that the ship’s guns had shifted to local control and still fired. But that’s what they had practiced time and time again.

  “Rupert! Can you get up there and help Mr. Wilson?” Ingham stepped up on a pedestal to get a better view of his gunnery officer.

  Rupert whipped a field dressing around Gunderson’s head. “Almost done here, Sir.”

  “Good.” Then Ingham shouted into the pilot house. “Falco, call CIC and tell Mr. Kelly to get up here.”

  Just then, Mt. 52 roared, its muzzle no further than fifteen feet from Ingham’s face. He’d been standing high on a pedestal and the muzzle blast knocked him against the bulwark. He was grabbing for the bulwark when another explosion went off, this one with an incredible white-hot heat. An enormous compression instantly followed. He thought he’d never draw another breath. He was spinning and tumbling through a slow-motion kaleidoscopic journey. Then, nothing...

  The shock of the water brought him to consciousness. Coughing and gasping, he struggled to keep his head above water. Take a breath. Easy now. Something detonated close by. He tried to open his eyes, but they seemed welded shut. An airplane roared overhead. Another explosion.

  With great effort, Ingham opened an eye, his left, he thought. Through a miasma of vaporous clouds, he saw the sun kissing the horizon, its shape flattened by a heavy mist. To his left, the Maxwell’s fantail swooped past, her guns firing port and starboard. Suddenly, the white-foamy quarter wake lifted Ingham, then dropped him into an enormous trough where he tumbled and rolled and choked, fighting for air. It seemed to go on forever. And beyond forever, as he twirled and spun. Desperate for breath, Ingham wondered if he could last. Maybe I should just pack it in and suck in a lungful of ocean water.

  Instinct took over. He clawed at the water. Which way is up?

  After a torturous sixty seconds, the water became smoother. But it was dark.

  Eyes open, damnit!

  Salt stung his eye as he cranked it open. It was still dark.

  Which way is up?

  He raised a hand and kicked. Bursting to the surface, he heaved his lungs just before a wave lapped over him. He was under for another swirling, tumbling ten seconds before he came up again. Gasping desperately, he fought to keep his head above the foamy surface, kicking against the Maxwell’s churning, boiling, thirty-two knot wake. Heaving his lungs, he again opened his eye.

  “Where the hell’s my ship?” he gurgled, spitting water. Spinning, he finally spotted the Maxwell’s upper works, ghosting into a rain squall, her guns still blazing. Overhead, the attackers buzzed about like vultures
to carrion. His last glimpse of the Maxwell was of smoke pouring from her riddled superstructure. And she carried a list to starboard. Then, she disappeared.

  CHAPTER THREE

  7 June, 1944

  North Pacific Ocean

  This is some sort of ludicrous joke. Ha, ha, ha. They’ll be back for me soon.

  But when the sun dipped below the horizon, it struck home that the Maxwell was gone. Really gone. They can’t do that to me. Come back! “Get back here!” He shouted.

  Darkness rushed in. Waves rose and fell, lifting, and then dumping him into troughs. With each wave, the finality grew more imminent. They aren’t coming back. The ship was heavily damaged, her crew desperately fighting to survive from the bomb hit, or whatever it was. Many would have been killed or injured. The dead, wounded, and missing wouldn’t be sorted out until the damage was contained. That could take a long time.

  A wave washed over Ingham, punctuating the possibility that maybe the Maxwell had gone down. When Ingham last saw her, she’d been listing to starboard and smoke was pouring from either the forward fireroom or the deck-house itself, he couldn’t tell which. A hit in the fireroom could have been fatal. Forward of that was CIC and the officer’s living quarters. Less fatal, but a chance of more men killed and wounded. With so many dead or missing, Ingham would be assumed lost among them, and that would be that. It could take hours, maybe days to sort it all out. One thing he didn’t know is that they wouldn’t deploy a serious search and rescue effort tonight. No searchlights. Too many enemy planes and submarines about.

  Ingham wondered if he could last the night. Maybe not. Maybe this is my his last night on earth. Will I ever feel land beneath my feet or see God’s golden daylight again?

  Shut up and stop sniveling. Take stock.

  He listened, hearing nothing. No gunfire, no airplane engines. The Japs must have withdrawn. Water lapped in his mouth and an occasional wave washed over his head, making him kick to stay on the surface. The kicking made Ingham realize his waterlogged shoes were still on. Off! He bent to untie them, but remembered something in the survival manual. Leave on your shoes or tie them together and hang them around your neck. You’ll need them when you go ashore. I am going ashore, aren’t I?