Edge of Valor (50 page)

Ingram finished the thought with, “Otherwise they get fat and complacent like us. And Stalin and Mao don't want that.”

“Something like that.” Toliver rubbed his chin. “Look, Todd, did Ed say anything about what happened on Sakhalin?”

“You sound like this is official; not a casual question.”

Toliver exhaled. “Yes, it is an official question. We're very interested in what this guy is doing.”

Ingram grinned. “You mean this is a real inquiry with a long case number stamped Top Secret? Guys in topcoats peeking between venetian blinds, wearing dark glasses, writing with disappearing ink and—”

“Todd!”

Ingram shrugged. “Okay, okay. We talked a little bit. He said that he directed the fire away from us when we took off. That's why we didn't get hit. It wasn't luck, according to him.”

“Interesting.”

“Our landing was a different story. They fired for effect. Said he had orders to do so but that he didn't know I was aboard.”

“Nice people, those Soviets.”

“Well, by that time I was ready to kill him, wedding party or not.”

“But you didn't.”

“No, I listened to what he had to say.”

“Smart decision. He has diplomatic immunity.”

“Right. Just like the good old days.”

Toliver nodded.

“He did say something interesting: they're putting him in submarines. I'm guessing that's the reason for the new prosthetic leg. So he can get around in cramped spaces.”

“Submarines? That doesn't make sense.”

“It didn't seem to make sense to him either. But that's what they want, so that's what he'll be doing. He starts submarine school soon.”

“What else?”

“Well, he's still wearing that damned belt buckle you gave him. Thinks he looks like a movie star.”

“We were drunk that night. I'm surprised he hasn't thrown it away.”

“He loves it.” Ingram lowered his voice. “There is something else.”

“Shoot.”

“He told me they're trying to kill me.”

“What? Who?”

“His people. The NKVD. You know, the Russians' Gestapo.”

“Jesus. Are you taking this seriously?”

“Hell, I don't know. It all sounds so stupid. People have been shooting at me since 1941. By more than a few small miracles I, no—you and I—survived all that. And now it's supposed to be over, except now I hear the damned Communists are after me.”

“What the hell for?”

“They think I know too much. That I spent time with Walter Boring and learned all his secrets in sixty-five seconds. They don't want me around to talk about it.”

Toliver looked away. “I wonder what got them so pumped up?”

“Me too. I can't figure it out. But the little I did see will last me a lifetime. Sometimes I dream about it. I mean guys with their heads cut off, or just heads, or open chest cavities with nothing in them. Our guys. Healthy guys. Looked like they walked in yesterday. Others too. Chinese, Brits, Aussies.”

“What did Ed say about killing you?”

“He said he was just passing it on. That he didn't know anything else.”

“Is that it?”

He thinks he's doing me a favor. He said that he was supposed to bring the order to the United States for ‘others' to carry out. But someone else is involved.”

“Who?”

“I don't know. He didn't seem to, either.”

“You should have told somebody right away.”

“Who?”

“Start with your boss.”

“Jerry? He would have mobilized the squadron and sent us to sea. No, I have been thinking about it. But there was so much going on with the wedding and change of command that I haven't had time to do anything.”

“Well, I have news for you, Commodore. You don't screw with these people. If they want you dead, they can make it happen.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

“I'm serious. They've been infiltrating operatives into this country for years, just like good old Ed in 1942 up in 'Frisco.”

Ingram fixed Toliver with a stare.

Toliver said, “Really. They can do it.”

“Helen? Jerry?”

“I don't know, but I'm going to put a tail on you.”

“Shit! You'll do no such thing.”

Toliver waved him down. “Sixty days. That's all. You won't even see him, or her. They'll be part of the landscape. They're really good.”

“Not you?”

“Not me.”

“No peering through my blinds?”

“No. I promise.”

“I don't believe you.”

Toliver tossed a thin smile.

“What?”

“There's something else. It may be connected.”

Ingram sighed. “Here it comes.”

“No, listen up. It's serious. The State Department is involved.”

Chapter Forty

27 November 1945

USS
Wallace
(DD 549), Long Beach Naval Station, Long Beach, California

I
ngram and Toliver descended the two ladders to Ingram's cabin on the main deck in silence. Ingram gestured to a chair, sat at his desk, and leaned back. “What are you selling, Ollie?”

“How about an all-expenses-paid trip to the Orient?”

“Last guy to try to sell me that was Ray Spruance.”

“Who won?”

“He did, but he's an admiral. Last time I checked you were . . .”

“Yes, I know, a lowly commander.”

“So, tell me about the State Department.”

Toliver straightened. “Okay, here's the deal. The Red Cross contacted us about Walter Boring's personal effects. Something is missing.”

Ingram had a sinking feeling. “What?”

“A crate.”

“A crate of what?”

“Photos. Turns out there were supposed to be two crates, not just one.”

“I don't like this.”

“Hear me out. This may work to your advantage. The Red Cross contacted the State Department. They tried the OSS, but those guys won't even admit that it exists, so the State Department kicked it over to ONI. From there, it landed on my desk.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

Toliver evaded the question. “When does DESDIV 77.2 get under way?”

Ingram rubbed his chin. “We finish our tender availability in the next two weeks, give or take a few days. Then Christmas, then some training, and then on 1 February 1946 we leave for Operation Magic Carpet.”

“Where are you going?”

“Yokosuka, to replace DESDIV 77.1. Like them, embark as many GIs as we can, steam in formation with eight GI-filled attack transports, and bring them home. Then DESDIV 77.1 remains here for tender availability.”

“Is that it?”

“Well, yeah, then—” There was a knock at the door.

Ingram said, “Come.”

A dark-complected Navy commander in working khakis opened the door and walked in. He leaned over and made a show of plopping a stack of papers on Ingram's desk. “Here you go.”

“How you feeling, Walt?”

“Ugly. I came in today to make sure the paperwork was done on your gun barrels. So read 'em and don't weep.”

“Sorry, Walt. Ollie, say hello to Walt Hodges. He's the pork chop over on the
Piedmont
.”

Toliver stood for a handshake, then Hodges waved him back into his chair and turned to Ingram. “That stack, my friend, is for the receipt and installation of five 5-inch 38 Mark 2 mod. 1 gun barrels. I need your signature there, there, and there.”

“We can't accept delivery unless you have the bullets to go with them.”

“Sorry. That wasn't in the work order. I hear you can find 5-inch ammo on discount at Louie's gun shop on Gaffey Street. Better hurry, though; sale only lasts 'til Saturday.”

“All right, all right.” Ingram signed and handed the papers back to Hodges.

“Thanks,” Hodges said. “Now if you'll excuse me, I'm headed for the barn.” He held out a hand. “Don't worry. Sally's picking me up.”

“That doesn't sound good.”

“So damned tired.”

“Still have the runs?”

“Like a fire hose. And I'm getting this cough.”

“You better see the doc.”

“First thing tomorrow morning.”

Ingram gave Hodges a closer look. Dark bags hung beneath his eyes, and he seemed to have lost weight. “Okay. See you tomorrow. Thanks for expediting the paperwork. We'd still be shooting with old barrels.”

“You're most welcome.” Hodges shuffled out.

Ingram said, “He lives a couple of blocks from me. We take turns driving.” Then Ingram sat forward. “Come on, Ollie. Spit it out. What's on your mind?”

Toliver didn't beat around the bush. “We'd like to send you back to Sakhalin for a couple of days.”

Ingram felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. “Karafuto.”

“Not any more. Sakhalin.”

“Just a couple of days?”

“Well, maybe three or four.”

“And the orders come from?”

“CNO.”

“You're kidding.”

“I suspect that the State Department is pulling his chain. Somehow, somewhere, you're famous, and they want you back in.”

“And you got stuck with telling me.”

“I'm sorry, Todd.”

“Right. What else?”

Helen was still in uniform as she whipped up dinner. Ingram was seated at their small kitchen table playing quietly with Jerry, who was strapped into his high chair. The more Helen rattled dishes, the more guilty he felt. Her belly was getting larger by the day and he hadn't done much to make things easier.

“Cat got your tongue?” she chirped.

“Ummm.”

“I see. Time to feed the beast. I'll have it up in a moment.”

“Thanks.”

Landa's absence and his new job made Ingram's workdays even longer. He just couldn't manage to get home in time to help Helen. And Toliver's bombshells today had stopped him cold: spies, death threats, orders for Japan. He didn't know what to say.

Turkey soup and turkey sandwiches again. Thanksgiving leftovers. He picked at his sandwich. But Helen had managed to grab a head of iceberg lettuce at Gino's Market, a rarity. The salad made up for what was lacking in the main course.

Then she plunked down two ice-cold bottles of Schlitz.

“Huh? How'd you do this?” he asked, flipping off the caps.

“Gino says hello. He saves these for his favorite customers.”