Edge of Valor (18 page)

I'm guessing we'll be back by early December. Everybody's in a rush, but I have to tell you, I have plenty of points. Too bad I'm career—first in, last out. By the way, I never told you this, but after our little Mindanao adventure I left a power of attorney in your name with your dad in case something goes haywire, so don't worry.

I'm beginning to sleep now, bit by bit, absent the specter of Jap air raids or torpedo attack. Strange feeling, waking up in the morning feeling rested and not looking over my shoulder. It's been so long. Hope it continues.

Only trouble with all this is that I think of you each and every waking moment. Jerry too. I bet he's turning into a handful just like his old man. So don't worry, I'll be home soon to give him some real competition. I love you so,

Todd

She sat back, letting the glow work its way through her. Home. Something we can hang on to. No more shooting, no air attacks, no ripping blasts in the night. Yet this letter was different. The war was already over when he wrote it. It should have been more upbeat, more forward looking, more . . . she couldn't put her finger on it.

She reached for the phone and gave the switchboard the number for Laura West's home in the San Fernando Valley.

Laura picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“It's Helen.”

“Hi ya, toots.”

“Guess what I have?”

“A fifth of scotch?”

“Not likely.” Liquor was scarce. Worse, Laura had taken to the bottle after her first husband, Luther Dutton, was killed in the Solomon Islands. Jerry Landa and Helen had brought her out of that. And she'd fallen for Landa. All to the good, but then she slipped into it again when Todd was trapped on a Japanese submarine. Now she seemed to be doing fine. At least Helen hoped so. Laura was unpredictable. “You working hard?”

“Yes, Toscanini is combining the East Coast and West Coast orchestras. More work, and the pay is not bad. We're scheduled for the score on three movies, so it looks like I'll be here for a while.”

“That's wonderful. Congratulations.”

“Trouble is, the old guy is still trying to run his hands up my dress.”

“Oh.”

“What do you have, toots?”

“A letter from Todd.”

“Wow! What's he say?”

“Well, the war is over. Jerry loves you and is anxious to set a wedding date.”

“That's good news.” She paused for a moment. “I have news for him; you too.”

Something nagged at the back of Helen's mind. She couldn't pin it down. What was it?

“Hey, toots, you there?”

“Yes, sorry.”

“You all right?”

“Yes, sure.”

“Is Todd all right?”

“Yes, yes, of course. The war is over. Boom Boom is all right too. That's why I'm calling.” She blurted, “You two
should
get married. It's been so long. You should set a date.”

Laura sighed, “Well, I tell you, toots, I'm ready. I'll send a letter today saying Arturo waits behind the door with a lupara.”

“What's a lupara?”

“An Italian shotgun. For a shotgun wedding. I think the Black Hand or the Mafia uses them. And that's what I'm trying to tell you.”

“So, tell me.”

“I'm pregnant.”

She squealed, “Laura!”

“How 'bout that, toots?”

“I had no idea.”

“I'm finally showing. You're the only one to know except Roberta.” Roberta Thatcher was the NBC Orchestra's business manager.

“Three months?”

“About that, maybe a little more. Last time Jerry was here for that special conference last May.”

“We'll have a baby shower.”

“Maybe a wedding too, huh? Say, toots.”

“Yes?”

“You'll be my best girl?”

“Wow. What an honor. Of course. What a time we'll have.”

“You bet! Hope and Crosby will be there. Maybe even Sinatra.”

Laura always thought big. She was a beautiful woman and a very talented pianist. She could sing too, but Toscanini hated that. Laura was given to gross exaggerations and prattled on constantly about the A-list celebrities she knew. Once Helen got around that, she loved to listen to her talk. Fact or fiction, she didn't care. It was all great fun. “Maybe Gene Kelly too?”

“Gene's on a shoot in New York City right now, but I know his agent really well. He'll fix it up. I'll have him stand beside you at the wedding reception. I'll rent the ballroom at the Beverly Hills Hotel. We'll have it catered by—”

“Hang on a second, Laura.” Sergeant Letenske stood over her desk. She covered the mouthpiece. “Yes, Sergeant?”

“Staff meeting. The colonel needs us just for ten minutes.”

“Right now?”

Letenske shrugged.

“Okay. Be right there.”

Letenske walked off. Helen said, “Duty calls, Mom. By the way, are you all right? Do you need any, ah, . . . medicines or anything?”

“Got anything for morning sickness?”

“Afraid not. Sorry. Try Seven-Up.”

Laura sighed. “That's an idea. Okay, toots. You stay out of trouble, and no hanging out at Shanghai Red's.”

Helen had no intention of hanging out at Shanghai Red's, an infamous waterfront dive in downtown San Pedro located, ironically, in the same block as the police station. The joint was a magnet for merchant and Navy sailors, and fights—including a number of stabbings—were common. The latest to hit the papers involved two prostitutes arguing over a john. Insults were hurled, and suddenly one was atop the other with a switchblade, disemboweling her on the dance floor. The downtown business association had once again clamored to close the place, but strangely, Shanghai Red's remained open for business as usual. Laura and Helen had gone there once for thrills and, even though it was a quiet evening, had an eyeful. “No, not likely,” she said. They said their goodbyes and Helen hung up.

Something swirled in her mind. Then she found herself leaning against the doorjamb. To her surprise, she felt like sagging to the floor but caught herself about halfway down.
What?
She stood, took a deep breath and shook her head.
What's going on?

Sergeant Letenske popped out of a door and walked past. “Captain, you okay?”

Helen rubbed her cheek and took a few faltering steps. “Yes, of course. You go on ahead. My leg fell asleep.”

Letenske moved on.

She grabbed a memo pad and began walking. Then it hit her. Todd's letter. A single sentence buried among all the others. “. . .
after our little Mindanao adventure, I left a power of attorney in your name with your dad in case something goes haywire
.”

She stopped and leaned against the wall. Power of attorney? Mindanao? That was two years ago.
Todd, why are you telling me this now? Haywire? Oh, God
.

“Okay, Captain.” Letenske ducked through another door.

Oh, my God, power of attorney
.

Chapter Twelve

22 August 1945

Kisarazu Air Base, Chiba Prefecture, Japan

P
-38
. Ingram sat up. You could tell the sound of a Lockheed P-38 by the growl of the turbochargers. Louder and louder. One, two, three, four of them zipped right overhead. Rooftop level.

He'd slept on a tatami in a relatively undamaged section of the officers' quarters. It must be late; he checked his watch: 9:37.
Jeeez!
He jumped up and ran to the door. The two Japanese guards who stood on either side glanced at him then looked nervously up to the windy, overcast sky. Sure enough, the planes circled around to roar in again at deck level. Four Army Air Corps P-38 Lightnings with drop tanks. In single file they blasted overhead with throttles firewalled, turbochargers whining. No sooner had they zipped over the top than he saw the silver glint of a C-54 lining up for the runway.

It was sideslipping.
Radcliff
. It was his signature. Or maybe it was Leroy Peoples, the Bucky Radcliff wannabe, doing the sideslipping this morning.

“They're well escorted.” Fujimoto had slept in the room next door. He was in working greens now, ready to go. He barked an order at the guards. They bowed and moved away.

“I'll say.” Ingram felt woozy, the aftereffects of yesterday's adrenaline rush. A fisherman had found them and alerted the air base. An hour later, a truck bounced up and took them to Kisarazu. The rest of the delegates were taken on to Tokyo while a still soaking Ingram and Fujimoto met with the mine-group staff. Within two hours they developed a thick portfolio of charts and instructions governing the minefields in upper and lower Tokyo Bay. The plans seemed complete to Ingram. After two more hours of deliberation he nodded his approval and had copies sent off to the Third Fleet. Fujimoto dispatched them via courier to the destroyer
Sagari
to rendezvous with destroyers of the Third Fleet. The
Sagari
would lead the fleet back into Tokyo Bay—a sacrificial lamb. Following her would be eight minesweepers in line abreast, then destroyers, then
cruisers, and finally the battleships. Hospital ships, troopships, and other auxiliaries would enter later, perhaps the next day.

“Sleep well, Commander?” asked Fujimoto.

“Well enough.” Ingram ran a hand through his hair. Three hours of sleep wasn't enough, but it would have to do. The P-38s had shocked him to consciousness as well as any alarm clock. “Good to see Major Radcliff is on time.”

Kisarazu Air Base looked far worse in the light of day than it had last night. The hangars showed extensive bomb damage. The tower was barely distinguishable, just a single wall that protruded up like a decayed, broken tooth. Wrecked planes were strewn everywhere: some tail-high, a few on their backs, most a blackened mess. Thankfully, the craters in the main runway where Radcliff was now headed had been filled. Yokohama, eighteen miles to the west across Tokyo Bay, was an amorphous hulking landmass in the gloom.

Watching the C-54 touch down, Ingram asked, “Can we perhaps have some coffee or tea for them?”

“Of course. But first, take a look.” Fujimoto pointed out into Tokyo Bay, where a destroyer was headed south, out to sea. The waves were choppy; the wind was up. Water peeled off the destroyer's graceful bow as she pulled a fifteen-knot wake. Forward, she had beautiful lines: a proud, high superstructure, raked mast, and funnels. Twisted wreckage littered the after part of the ship all the way to the fantail. “The
Sagari
.”

“So our instructions got aboard?”

“Ummm.”

“She's awfully beat up. Do you think she'll hold together long enough to get the job done?”

“Commander Watanabe is a good friend and fine seafarer. He'll get the job done.”

“Okay.” Ingram headed for the door. “Where can I wash up?”

Fujimoto pointed toward a set of double doors. “In there. To your right.” He paused. “Commander?”

“Yes?”

“The weather out there is quite poor. It's part of what we flew through last night. We have word that a typhoon may be headed our way. If this is the case, then the, ah, ceremony will be delayed by a few days.”

“What are you telling me?”

Fujimoto straightened. “A typhoon. We may have to wait.”

Ingram ran a hand over his stubble beard.
What next?
Admiral Halsey's Third Fleet had run into two typhoons within the last eight months. Ships had been lost, men washed overboard. Boards of inquiry were under way along with time-consuming finger pointing and name-calling. Now, with the war supposedly over, Halsey would of course wait out a typhoon. “What about the weather north of here?”

“Seems all right as far as we can tell.”

The C-54 pulled into a revetment about two hundred yards away and braked, its propellers windmilling to a stop. Immediately, a dilapidated fuel truck pulled under one wing. Its engine wheezed and backfired, and black smoke gushed from the tailpipe. “You sure they have good av-gas?” Ingram asked.