Edge of Valor (7 page)

Except for one man, a gray-faced major who sat at a desk in the middle of the room. His black Bakelite nametag was emblazoned NEIDEMEIER. Books, manuals, and papers covered the surface of the desk, some spilling onto the floor. Behind him was a row of filing cabinets marked Top Secret. He wore stiff khakis with flashy collar devices that looked as if he'd just retrieved them from a box of breakfast cereal. Chewing his fingernails, he looked up to Ingram. “You are Commander . . .”

“Ingram.”

“That's right, you're Ingram.”

“That's who I am.”

Neidemeier narrowed his eyes. “I remember you now. Detachment B-27.”

“What is a B-27, Major? The message was very cryptic.”

“Oh, my God. Nobody told you?”

“Not a soul.” Ingram didn't like the sound of this. He looked around. “Maybe you can let me in on it.”

“Well, you're the last of my special assignments. Welcome to Project Sunrise.”

Ingram really didn't like the sound of this. “Project Sunrise?”

Neidemeier fanned himself. “There are bugs out here. I hate bugs!”

“Where you from, Major?”

Neidemeier sat up straight. “State Department. Washington, D.C. Special appointment, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

Neidemeier looked at Ingram.

Go along with it
. “Sorry, Major. I don't know much about bugs. I've been at sea for the past eight months and we don't have bugs out there except for cockroaches.”

“I hate cockroaches.”

“Major, please. Project Sunrise?”

Neidemeier looked at his watch, an expensive one. “Oh, my God. Seven-forty. You have to move—now. Report to the flight line and Major Radcliff. He's the—”

“I know him; an Air Corps throttle jockey. You put us in the same tent.”

“That's right.” Neidemeier stood; the man was no more than five eight. “Get your gear. You're flying to Manila today.”

“Manila? I don't need to go to Manila. I need to go back to my ship. They have—”

Neidemeier held up a hand and opened a file cabinet. Withdrawing a thick envelope, he handed it over to Ingram and said, “I'm just the messenger,
Commander. Somebody up there likes you. A fat assignment. Now grab your gear, get out to the tarmac, and report to Major Radcliff. There, you bard a C-54 for Manila.” He held up a clipboard. “Sign here first.”

Ingram signed. “For how long?”

“Two or three days. Then you'll return to your precious ship. And make sure you read your orders.”

In spite of his derogatory remarks, Ingram suddenly realized how precious the
Maxwell
was to him. He actually missed her. “Where am I going, again?”

“Manila.”

This doesn't make sense
. Last time he was in Manila was before the war. “What the hell for?”

“All in due time, Commodore. It's all—”

“Commander.”

“Ah . . . excuse me, Commander. As I said, it's all in your packet. You and a few others will be escorting sixteen high-ranking Japs down to Manila.”

“Japs? The hell I will.”

Neidemeier crossed his arms and frowned. “You're due on the flight line by oh eight hundred, Commander. I suggest you get going. And read your orders.”

The packet was heavy in his hand. Ingram took a deep breath. “Fine. Yes . . . I have to gather my gear. You have a Jeep and a driver?”

“Of course. You can ride with me. I'm going too.”

Neidemeier told the driver to pull up to a C-54 Skymaster aswarm with mechanics who were bolting the nacelle on the number three engine. High-ranking officers stood under the tail. Ingram spotted at least three generals and two admirals. Loosely gathered on the periphery stood a squad of Marine MPs looking sharp in class A uniforms. A group of Army Air Corp officers stood under one wing, Radcliff among them. Ingram pointed to Radcliff, and the Jeep driver pulled over and stopped. Neidemeier hopped out of the backseat and quick-stepped over to the senior officers, clutching a clipboard to his chest. Ingram unloaded his duffle and walked over to Radcliff.

“Good morning, Commodore,” said Radcliff.

“Commander.”

“Whatever.” They shook hands. A smirk and glance at Neidemeier brown-nosing with the flag officers telegraphed Radcliff's disdain. “Here, say hello to my guys.” He nodded to a tall, thin Army Air Corps first lieutenant. “Leroy Peoples is my copilot, but don't ask him to speak; he's from Arkansas and our next interpreter doesn't come on duty until fourteen hundred. So you should—”

“Very funny.” Peoples extended a hand to Ingram. “Pleased to meet ya, Commander.” Peoples' accent was thick indeed, but it fit his grin and easy manner.

Not missing a beat, Radcliff continued, “And this other guy is our navigator, who's pretty good when he's sober. Meet Jon Berne.” Captain Berne, thick and beefy, looked more like he belonged in the boatswain's locker than in an airplane using trigonometry to solve intricate navigation problems at night over the ocean with the plane bouncing and rattling through a thunderstorm.

Radcliff nodded toward Neidemeier and said, “I see he's briefed you.”

“Not really.” Ingram patted his orders. “Have yet to read these.”

“Shame on you.”

“Yes, shame on me.”

An Air Corps flight sergeant dressed in a flight suit with a label atop the pocket that said HAMMER walked up to Radcliff. “All set, Bucky—er, Mr. Radcliff. She's all gassed and we just finished the plug change on number three. She's as ready as she can get.” He handed over a clipboard.

Radcliff signed it and handed it back to Hammer with a nod. He said to Ingram, “Well, believe me, Commodore. Neidemeier doesn't know squat. He's a State Department catch-fart doing dirty work for others. Stick with us. We'll take good care of you and seat you up front with all the good coffee and doughnuts. Maybe even some—”

Both pricked up their ears at a familiar rumble—distant at first—from the northwest.

Initially Ingram thought they might be kamikazes in a last desperate raid.
Where are the air-raid sirens?
The rumble grew to a roar as the dots in the distance took shape. With a sigh of relief Ingram recognized P-51s carrying long-range wing tanks. The Mustangs were arranged in two flights of six each. Each flight was grouped around a B-24 Liberator bomber.

Ingram and the others gasped in unison. Ahead of each B-24 was a Japanese twin-engine Mitsubishi G4M2 “Betty” bomber.

“Oh, mercy, will you look at that,” drawled Peoples.

The cigar-shaped Bettys broke formation and began to circle, one behind the other, as the P-51s and B-24s swarmed overhead. “What have they done?” muttered Radcliff.

“I wish I knew,” echoed Ingram. Each of the Bettys was painted bright white with green crosses in place of the red meatball insignia formerly on the wings and fuselage.

A green flare whooshed from the control tower as the first Betty lined up with the runway. The plane was a tail dragger, and with lowered landing gear and flaps it flared over the threshold and made a perfect three-point landing, its engines softly backfiring as the pilot chopped the throttles. The Betty stopped, turned onto the taxi strip, and pulled behind a Jeep displaying a large Follow Me sign.

“Hope the Japs can read English,” quipped Radcliff.

“One wonders. I've seen them—”

“Oh-oh. Check this.” Radcliff pointed.

The second Betty was on its final approach and had begun its flare, but the pilot had not lowered the flaps.

“Oh, Lordy,” said Peoples.

“Deep shit,” said Berne.

The Betty flared but still had plenty of airspeed. It landed long, touching almost halfway down the runway. It bounced high, hit hard, and ran the length of the runway and onto an extension made from coral patch, its wheels sinking in. The Betty shuddered to a stop in a cloud of white dust. A U.S. Army Jeep raced up behind it.

The first Betty rumbled up to the C-54, spun a 90-degree turn, and stopped, facing the runway. Then the pilot cut its engines. The second Betty taxied up, also spun around, and drew to a halt beside the first one, its propellers scything to a stop.

Ingram whistled. Each Betty had more than a few bullet holes. The elevators of one were bare metal without fabric.

“Newest thang in air conditioning,” said Peoples.

Radcliff asked, “What do you think, Commodore?”

“I can't do that right now.”

“Do what?”

“Think.”

Radcliff sighed. “No wonder our Navy is so screwed up.”

The others chuckled as sets of stairs were pushed under the Betty's aft hatches. The hatches opened and Japanese began to descend: high-ranking officers and a few civilians as well. Ingram counted eight from each Betty. They stood stiffly near their aircraft, nervously looking over at the American contingent.

Ingram wished he'd had time to read his orders, but even so he realized something profound was going on.

A tall, leather-booted Army Air Corps colonel whistled from under the tail. He pumped a fist up and down.

Radcliff said, “Showtime, gentlemen. Come on, Commodore, you can board with us.”

Chapter Four

19 August 1945

Ie Shima Island, Okinawa Prefecture, Ryukyu Islands, Japan

T
he forty passenger seats in the C-54 were quickly filled. The Japanese were dispersed throughout the cabin, each with an MP seated next to him. American officers took up the rest of the seats.

Radcliff had motioned Ingram into a seat up front on the aisle. He was buckling up when Neidemeier hustled up and took the window seat. Buckling his seat belt he asked, “Read your orders yet, Commander?”

Ingram took a look aft and asked, “Who are all these guys?”

“What guys?”

“You know, Japs.”

“Read your orders and find out.” Neidemeier dug inside his briefcase, pulled out some papers, and began to read.

Ingram's stomach jumped. The enemy was seated right behind him, and he couldn't do a thing about it. “Read my orders, aye.” He lowered his tone. “By the way, Major Radcliff tells me we're going to have thunderstorms all the way down to Manila.”

“He what?”

Ingram sensed he had hit a nerve. “He says there are two enormous fronts to punch through.”

Neidemeier turned. His eyes darted around the cabin.

Ingram continued, “Usually, this flight would take four hours or so. But Radcliff is worried because we have a full planeload. He's not sure if we . . .”

Neidemeier unbuckled and stood, looking aft.

Just then, the hatches thudded shut and the flight crew secured them.

A Japanese navy captain in dress blues walked up front but found no seat. He looked at the MP behind him and shrugged. The MP, a Marine gunnery sergeant, said, “Full house. Looks like somebody snafued.”