2 December 1945
Conference Room B, Headquarters Building, U.S. Army Air Base, Atsugi, Japan
It was cold outside; snow blew in patches, dusting the runways with a brilliant white softness that melted almost immediately and ran into benjo ditches. Ingram stood at the window, drawing his parka around his neck and wondering why the Army engineers hadn’t yet figured out how to heat the building. They’d have it fixed by tomorrow, no doubt; meanwhile people were freezing all over the building. He yearned for the warm comforts of Southern California and hoped this would be over quickly. He’d landed yesterday, and with eight hours of sleep and breakfast, he felt rested and ready to go.
Instead of reporting to the Oregon City, he had been ordered to attend a meeting in Atsugi. Quiet. He was the first one here. He zipped his parka tighter and examined Conference Room B’s ornate table. The muted black satin finish on the top and delicate gold trim and scrollwork on the sides shouted power and wealth. A large bonsai commanded the table’s middle. Seven elegantly understated chairs finished in matching dark wood with gold trim at the edges lined the sides. The eighth chair, which stood at one end, was not so understated. It had a beautifully carved back with intricate scrollwork. And it was strategically placed so that light coming through the window silhouetted the chair’s occupant, making the person’s expression inscrutable to others in the room. Whoever sat there had been Atsugi’s top Japanese dog, Ingram figured. Pictures in groups of four had once graced the cream-colored woven wallpaper. Only blank spaces remained, the peripheries smudged with yellowish-orange tobacco smoke. Oddly, three bullet holes stitched the wall opposite the table’s head.
Ingram was musing on that when the door creaked and Major Neidemeier walked in carrying a well-stuffed briefcase. He looked much more the Army major in his dress uniform than he had in sweaty khakis on Okinawa. He walked directly to the chair at the table’s end and set down his briefcase. A tall civilian wearing coat and tie entered next brushing snowflakes off his camelhair overcoat. He had dark, slicked-back hair and a pockmarked face. Somewhere along the way he had broken his nose, which tilted a bit to the right, the tip swollen.
Neidemeier pulled out the ornate chair and sat. Ingram decided not to pull rank and stifled a grin as Neidemeier disgorged papers from his briefcase. He looked up. “Oh, Commander Ingram, good to see you again.”
Ingram nodded.
“And this is Harlan Ferguson from the State Department.”
Ingram reached across and they shook hands. Ferguson said, “A pleasure to meet you, Commander. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
“Thank you, I—”
Two more men walked in the door. The first was a stranger, an Air Corps second lieutenant. Behind him was . . . “Leroy! Good to see you.” Ingram jumped up and pumped Leroy Peoples’ hand.
“You too, Commander.”
“Ahem,” grunted Neidemeier.
In his thick Arkansas accent Peoples said, “I ain’t too good at this, but please say hello to Lieutenant Richard Lassiter, my new copilot.”
Ingram stuck out his hand, “Welcome, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir, thank you sir. A pleasure.” Lassiter was short and stocky with broad shoulders and a freckled red face.
Peoples asked, “Where would y’all like us to sit?”
Ingram waved at the table. “Grab a seat anywhere.”
“Okay.” Peoples took the chair opposite Ingram.
Ingram said, “Glad to see you have your own airplane, Leroy. And a copilot. What will they think of next?”
Peoples grinned. “Yep. Hauling guys home for Magic Carpet. Nine trips so far—two trips with wounded. But I had a week’s layover and Bucky asked me if I wanted in on this.”
“You fool.”
“Well. This counts toward my rotation. This and two more trips and I get to go home and fly from the other end.”
“Leroy, you’re working the system.”
“Bucky’s showin’ me the ropes.”
“So, how is Bucky?”
“Funny thing. He was detailed for this trip and signed me on along with Berne and Hammer. But then—”
Neidemeier interrupted, “Welcome, Mr. Peoples.”
“Good morning, Major,” said Peoples. “Isn’t Major Radcliff supposed to be on this trip?”
“Something came up. General Sutherland needed a pilot to fly some congressmen up from Manila and I reassigned him.”
Peoples slowly nodded. “I see, sir. Well, I reckon we can get along okay without him.”
Neidemeier said, “You sound unconvinced, Lieutenant. Don’t you feel comfortable with this assignment?”
“Oh, I’m very comfortable, Major.”
Neidemeier said, “Because if you’re not, you can walk out right now. No hard feelings.”
Peoples’ jaw sagged.
Ingram interrupted, “From personal observation, I’m sure Lieutenant Peoples can carry out his duties.”
“I’m not sure if he’s cleared,” muttered Neidemeier, rummaging around in his briefcase.
Peoples said, “Hell, I was on the plane that flew Japs to Manila and Todd here to Karafuto—”
Neidemeier held up a hand, “Sakhalin. Our Russian friends call it Sakhalin. You would do well to keep that in mind since you’ll be seeing them once more.”
“That’s interesting,” said Peoples. “The last time we saw them they was shooting at us. All in a friendly way, of course.”
“Of course. Nevertheless, please keep it in mind,” said Neidemeier.
“Yes, sir, I will,” said Peoples.
“Good.” Neidemeier checked his watch, “Very well, gentlemen. Let’s get started. We have only an hour before takeoff.” He nodded to Ingram, “Your gear is being packed on Mr. Peoples’ plane, Commander.”
Ingram nodded. “Thank you.”
Neidemeier said, “I would like to introduce Harlan Ferguson, who is posted to the special projects section of the State Department, reporting directly to Secretary of State Byrnes. You should know that Mr. Ferguson used to be Captain Ferguson of the 101st Airborne. He parachuted into the Netherlands with Operation Market Garden a year ago last September and was seriously wounded. He was awarded a Silver Star and two Purple Hearts. After recovery, he was honorably discharged and joined the State Department. We’re privileged to have him with us. That said, I’ll turn it over to Captain Ferguson.”
Ferguson stood. Ingram noticed that his left arm dangled at his side and there was a black glove on the hand. “I have to say that my hat’s off to you guys. You’ve all seen combat and know what it’s like. Congratulations to you for surviving the war, and congratulations on your fine service to your country. I’m not going to dilly-dally here. This is a tense situation, and you fellows have done this before and know what could be a simple mission can turn out to be very dicey.”
Ferguson held up his forefinger. “First, we need diplomacy. That’s why we’re sending Mr. Blinde. He’s got that in spades. And he speaks Russian and some Chinese, I’m told.”
“Blinde is going? Where is he?” asked Ingram.
Ferguson said, “Plane’s delayed, Commander. Engine trouble. Should land any minute. But we told the ramp people to direct him directly to Lieutenant Peoples’ plane. He knows the brief and he’ll be the on-scene commander.”
Ingram said, “I have a hard time taking orders from a civilian when people are shooting at me.”
Ferguson nodded. “Absolutely right. If that happens, you take over. And we’re sending a squad of Marines again with plenty of weapons, including a bazooka.”
Ingram said, “Thank you. That increases our survival time from fifteen seconds to thirty-seven seconds.”
Peoples grinned. Lassiter sat poker-faced.
Neidemeier said, “Commander Ingram. Every possibility has bee—”
“Has been evaluated,” interrupted Ferguson. “We think we have it all covered. Please let me explain. This mission has been approved at the highest levels of our two governments.”
“Really?” asked Peoples.
Ferguson smiled. “None other than my boss, Secretary of State James Byrnes, and Foreign Minister Vyacheslav Molotov of the Soviet Union.”
“Okay. So, what is it you want?” asked Ingram.
“I thought you knew.”
“Something about an extra crate. I was hustled out of town rather quickly.”
Ferguson gave a smile. “Well, the Navy can do that to you. Yes, there was a second crate left behind on Sakhalin.”
Ingram decided to play dumb. “What’s in those crates that’s so important, Captain?”
“Harlan, please. I’m a civilian, now.”
Ingram said, “As long as you’re giving orders, you’re still Captain Ferguson to me.”
Ferguson smiled. “As you wish.” He cleared his throat. “All I can say is that there is information in those crates that is prejudicial to the security of the United States.”
Amazing, Ingram thought. Yes, those photos and the cover-up could ruin a few reputations and treaties at home and abroad. World opinion would be scathing. “I see.”
Ferguson continued, “Blinde was aware of it, but he didn’t have time to let you know because the Russians had, unfortunately, gone over to the offensive.”
“I’ll say they did,” said Peoples. “Made us run like a pack of hounds.”
“Well, Secretary of State Byrnes has taken care of that. No rough stuff this time. The Russians are not aware of the missing crate. They think you are coming to pick up Major Fujimoto and his staff. The rest of the Japanese garrison, about two hundred of them, will return on a destroyer, the USS Maxwell.”
“That’s all that’s left?” Ingram straightened a bit. “Two hundred out of a thousand?”
Ferguson said, “I’m given to understand there was some bitter fighting.”
“Sounds like it.”
“I also understand that the Maxwell is your former command.”
“That’s true.”
“Good. As we speak she’s under way for Toro. She should arrive there late tomorrow afternoon. You will embark the balance of the Japanese garrison aboard the Maxwell, which will then set sail for Yokosuka. In the meantime, you will locate and load the second crate on the C-54 and send it back. Also, you should know the tactical situation.”
“Has it changed?” asked Ingram.
“Yes and no,” said Ferguson. Captain Dezhnev is now in charge of the garrison. He—”
“Dezhnev’s back in Toro?”
“Well, yes.”
Ingram muttered, “Damn, he works fast.”
Neidemeier held up a hand. “I hate to keep jumping on this, but Toro is no longer Toro.”
“The Russians are calling it something else?” asked Ingram.
“Yes.”
“How ’bout Commietown,” said Peoples.
“Lieutenant,” said Neidemeier.
“Sorry, sir.”
Neidemeier continued, “They’ve renamed it,” he checked a page and then pursed his lips, “Shakhtyorsk, part of the Sakhalin Oblast. Apparently, that’s what they called it before the Japs took over in 1904.”
Lassiter wrote furiously. Peoples rolled his eyes at Ingram. Ferguson’s attention was drawn to a speck of dust on his coat as Neidemeier said, “I’m sorry, but that’s how we must refer to it henceforth.”
“Yes, I have it,” said Lassiter.
Peoples raised a hand.
“Yes, Lieutenant,” said Neidemeier.
“May I ask if this here Shakhtyorsk has a beacon?”
“We have diplomatic channels,” said Ferguson. “So I can ask. I’ll get right on it as soon as we finish. In the meantime, you should know that the Soviet invasion force is gone, retired back to Port Arthur or Vladivostok. The remaining garrison numbers about five hundred NKVD naval infantry. There is also a station ship: the Admiral Volshkov, a cruiser, a war prize from the Germans. She recently arrived as an adjunct to their Pacific Fleet.”
Ingram was curious. “Do you have anything on her?”
Ferguson opened a folder and flipped pages. “Hmm . . . she was the Würtzburg, captured nearly intact at Kiel; 6,000 tons, 554 feet overall, complement of 571. She carries nine 5.9-inch guns in three triple mounts. And . . .” he flipped a page, “four torpedo tube mounts—two triple mounts to starboard and two to port, each shooting a 19.7-inch torpedo.” He looked up. “Is that enough?”
“How old is she?”
“Ummm . . . built Wilhelmshaven in 1927.”
Peoples said, “Nuthin’ we cain’t handle, right Todd?”
Ingram ignored Peoples and asked, “How about her engineering plant?”
Ferguson said, “Six Schulz-Thorneycroft boilers, two geared turbines, rated at thirty-two knots. Uh . . . you wanna know about armor plate?”
“Might as well.”
“Three to four inches on the sides; two inches on the gun houses; three inches on the conning tower. Tell you what. I’ll send this along with the rest of your packet.”
“Thank you. Except there’s still one problem.”
“What’s that?” asked Ferguson.
“I have no idea where that crate is. Walter Boring was close to death’s door when we pulled him out of there. There was only one crate in the room with him. He didn’t mention a second one.”
Ferguson asked, “You’re not aware of what Walter Boring told Colin Blinde?”
“The only thing I know is that Colin Blinde said he killed Boring,” said Ingram.
Ferguson gave a start.
Neidemeier nodded. “He told us Boring was nearly comatose and could hardly breathe. That he gave Boring cyanide to put him out of his misery.”
Ferguson said, “Well, it’s obvious there’s a mix-up here. You two work it out on the plane, because I’m given to understand that Blinde knows where it is.”
Ingram tossed his hands in the air. “Okay. Anything else?”
“Radio procedures,” said Ferguson. “We’ll have four channels open to you. We want an hourly sitrep in the air or on the ground. And we want a sitrep on landing and on contact with the Russians. Your radio operator has the frequency data.”
“Okay,” said Ingram. He looked over to Peoples.
Peoples said, “Sounds good to me. We have a full load of fuel; should be plenty to get us there and back.”
“Amen,” said Ferguson.
There was an uneasy silence. Neidemeier said, “Operations has your weather.”
Peoples said, “Already have it, Major. Might be a little bumpy going up.” He checked his watch. “I’d like to land before sunset and I’m not sure about the visibility at Toro, er, Shakhtyorsk. If we don’t get going now, we’re going to need that beacon for sure. So can we light the fuse now, please, gentlemen?”
Neidemeier said, “Right. You all go board your plane. I’ll call operations and make sure they call Mr. Blinde’s plane and have the pilot taxi right up to yours.”
“Sounds good to me, Major. The sooner the better.” They shook hands with Ferguson and walked out.
A Marine gunnery sergeant and his thirteen-man squad were gathered under the C-54’s wing chatting with the Air Corps people as the Jeep drove up. Ingram jumped down and walked up to introduce himself. Unlike the refrigerator-shaped Harper, this man was tall and had a large Adam’s apple. His deep voice was the clincher for Ingram. The man exuded confidence. He stuck out his hand and introduced himself. “Gunnary Sergeant Horace T. Boland, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you, Commander.”
“None of it good, I expect.”
“Better than good. Ugly tells me you’re top drawer, and that’s good enough for me.”
“How is Ugly?”
“Rotated stateside. Camp Pendleton. He’s probably swilling beer in Oceanside as we speak.”
“Life is hard.”
Boland grinned. “That it is, Commander.”
Ingram said, “I’m told you have a bazooka.”
“Yes, sir. That and some other surprises.”
“Such as?”
“Well, I stocked a .30-caliber machine gun, fifty pounds of C-4, twenty claymore mines, and extra rounds for my boys.” He winked. “We’ll be going out heavy.”
“Sounds good, Sergeant. Let’s hope we come back heavy.”
“That goes for me, too, Commander. Nothing like soft duty.”
Boland didn’t look to Ingram like a man to run from a fight. “Yeah, I think we should—”
Peoples walked up, checking his watch. “We gotta skedaddle.”
Ingram said, “I agree; let’s go.”
Peoples cupped his hands to his mouth. “Everybody aboard!”
“I can take a hint,” said Boland. He turned and howled something to his men. They must have understood because they all gathered their packs and equipment and began boarding.
Ingram was halfway up the ladder when another C-54 whipped over the threshold and flared for a landing. “That’s them,” shouted Peoples. “Mr. Lassiter, wind ’em up, if you please.” He twirled a finger over his head.
Lassiter poked his head out the cockpit window. “Yes, sir.” He shouted, “Clear four!” The outboard starboard propeller began turning and caught, the engine belching blue smoke. Soon the other three were going as well.
Ingram stepped into the cockpit and found Hammer and Berne at their usual stations. “Well, hello. You guys don’t give up, do you?”
Berne snorted. “Flight pay is flight pay.”
Hammer said, “Good to see you, Commander.” He waved a hand. “Here’s your hot seat. We wired it this time in case you give us trouble.”
Ingram said, “Think I’ll sit back aft. There’s more room this time.”
“Don’t tell me we scared you,” said Berne.
They all laughed.
Peoples climbed into the left seat and strapped in. “Cain’t believe it. We’re all buttoned up. Mr. Blinde is aboard and out of breath. Hey, you not stayin’ up here?”
“Going aft to spread out.”
Peoples drawled, “Peace and quiet for a change.”
Ingram smiled. “See you later.” He walked out.
Peoples popped the brakes, and the C-54 worked its way down the taxi strip. Then they stopped to test magnetos.
Ingram walked into the main cabin. Blinde was two rows back, stretched across two seats. The Marines and their gear were scattered throughout the rest of the cabin.
Blind’s eyes were closed and his mouth drooped open.
Ingram walked up. “Hello, Colin. Glad you could make it.”
Blinde’s eyes snapped open. He blinked for a moment then focused on Ingram. “You!”
“Hell yes, it’s me.” Ingram held out a hand. Blinde’s hand felt like a damp sponge.
“You okay, Colin?” Ingram asked. “How was your flight?”
Blinde turned a shade between pale white and green. An odor of sweat and exhaustion, and even fear mixed with his Aqua Velva. He turned away and looked out the window as the cockpit crew ran up the engines, making conversation difficult. As the plane taxied onto the active runway Blinde said, “The flight was awful. We lost an engine an hour out. The pilots were worried about fuel. It wasn’t fun.”
What the hell is going on? Ingram sat opposite and strapped in.
Peoples didn’t lose time. Engines roaring, the C-54 lunged into its takeoff run. Heavy with fuel and people and equipment, it took a while for the plane to build up speed.
Blinde’s mouth moved.
“What?” yelled Ingram over the bellowing engines.
Blinde shouted, “You . . . feel . . . all right?”