Edge of Valor (40 page)

“Amazing.”

“Yeah, from number seventy-nine to commander, Task Force 38. Can you believe it?” McCain was being modest. He had entered flight school at the age of fifty-two and won his wings. He rose through the ranks of naval aviators to command of all air forces in the dark days of 1942 on Guadalcanal. And he'd won. He'd beaten Yamamoto.

“I can believe it, sir. You did a great job.”

“And you're pumping out even more bullshit. You'll definitely make admiral. Maybe even CNO. When you do, I hope you throw crap on all those pinkos
on Capitol Hill. Believe me, I saw plenty of 'em when I was running the Bureau of Aeronautics. They can't find their asses with both hands.”

Ingram wouldn't back down. “You made a great name for yourself, Admiral.”

“Names. You wanna know my real name?”

“I'll bite.”

McCain's eyes glittered again. “It's Casper Clubfoot.”

“Who?”

“I write adventure stories under a plume de nom.”

“Casper Clubfoot,” Ingram chuckled. “Nom de plume.”

“Whatever.”

“With a name like that, your books will sell like hotcakes.”

McCain settled back. His eyes seemed to flutter.

Time to go
. Ingram rose. “Cribbage later, Admiral?”

“You bet.” McCain focused on him. “What's with your wife?”

“That's what I'm going to find out, Admiral.”

“From what I hear, she should have a Navy Cross, like you.” He gave a phlegmy cough.

“Coming from me personally, Admiral, I'd say that's an understatement.”

“It is. Some of her torpedo discoveries hit BuOrd and set them back on their asses. Really brilliant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“She's still working, right?”

McCain was up on things. “Yes, sir. She's an Army nurse in the psychiatric ward in Fort MacArthur, San Pedro.”

“Get her out of the wacko ward. That's probably what's pulling her into it.”

“I had the same idea myself, Admiral.” Ingram offered his hand. “Thank you, sir, and thank you for letting me tag along.”

McCain took it. “You're most welcome. What's her name?”

“Helen.”

“Helen. Beautiful name. You give her our love. And come and see us in a couple of weeks. I live on Coronado. Make sure you bring her. On second thought, just send her and you stay home and play pool or something.”

“I wouldn't leave her alone with a brown shoe, Admiral.”

McCain tried to laugh, but it came out as a deep rattling cough.

“We'd love to come see you. Thank you.” He made to move off. “You're going to be just fine, Admiral.”

“Don't worry, son. There are worse things than death for some people—take life, for instance.” He turned on his side and drew up the blanket.

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

“It's Todd.”

“Thank God. You're here.”

“Almost.”

“Where?”

“North Island, waiting for a ride.” Briefly, he explained about his trip with Vice Admiral McCain.

She gave a long exhale. “Your “aloha oe” made me so happy. When will you get here?”

“Aloha oe.” He'd sent a telegram when they stopped for fuel at Pearl Harbor. “Depends on where the ride comes from. I'm logged in for space available here, but this place is like the last night on earth. Guys are pouring in from overseas, and they all want to go someplace.” Ingram had never seen so many people in one spot. Hundreds spilling out of the waiting room and into the parking lot, sitting on their duffle bags, waiting for rides to homes all over the nation. He continued, “Outside of that, I wait for the next train, which leaves in,” he checked his watch: 5:15 p.m., “a little over two hours.”

“Can't wait.”

“Me neither.” A long pause; static crackled on the line. He asked, “You okay?”

“I have so much to tell you.”

“Me too. How's Jerry?”

“Well, I . . . ah . . .”

Her voice. He knew that tone. She was being coy. He imagined her head on the pillow and felt a surge of desire for her. “Spit it out,” he chuckled.

“Jeremiah and Mrs. Peabody are reading a book this evening. I believe he prefers to stay there and enhance his reading skills.”

“Ah.” Ingram yearned to see his son, but for tonight that would be just fine. “Well, I hope she endeavors to challenge and enlarge his intellectual horizons.”

“Yes, I'm sure that's what is going on. I believe the subject of their study this evening is Donald Duck.”

Again, that tone of voice. Deep, husky. He felt like bursting from the damned phone booth and running all the way up to San Pedro, 120 miles distant. “I—” Someone tapped on the phone booth window. It was a Marine light colonel with lots of salad on his tunic; five battle stars glittered. His face was deeply pockmarked, and his eyes were slits, as if he were sitting behind a water-cooled .30-caliber machine gun hosing down the jungle.

“Gotta go, hon. Here's a lovesick guy wants the phone.”

“The hell with him.”

“Baby, there's ten guys in line. Six of them are Marines, and they all want to kill me.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Home soon.”

“Home soon.”

He hated it, but he hung up. Her last words sounded so desperate. He opened the accordion door. The Marine stood there, blocking his way. “Hi,” said Ingram.

“Yeah.” Grudgingly, the machine gunner stepped aside letting Ingram escape into the smoke-filled lobby. He headed toward his B-4 bag resting against the opposite wall near the “space available” desk.

Someone touched his elbow. “You Ingram?”

He turned. “That's right.”

It was a lieutenant (jg) in greens with aviator's wings. “Name's Leonard Hitchcock, sir. You the one headed to Allen Field?”

Ingram's heart soared. “You bet.”

“Looks like we're in luck, Commander. They tell me this field is so loaded with aircraft that they're flying out the excess just to make space. So they detailed me to fly a TBF up to Allen Field, which is home for me and maybe home for you too?” His eyebrows went up.

“That's right.”

“Well then, not bad duty for either of us. So if you don't mind rattling and shaking in the backseat, I think I can promise you Allen Field in a couple of hours.”

“When do we leave?”

“Now. There's six of us going out. Just like a Tokyo raid or something.”

A quick glance at Hitchcock's blouse showed no campaign ribbons. But that meant nothing. Many veterans preferred not to wear their ribbons. Ingram wore his two Navy Crosses because he'd been ordered to do so by senior officers from Capt. Jerry Landa to Adm. Raymond Spruance.

Hitchcock turned and headed for a door marked Operations. Ingram followed. The young man had a swagger. And his overseas cap was punched down in front and tilted to the left, the eagle and anchor a bit green. Yes, Hitchcock had been “out there.”

Hitchcock breezed through the check-in process, looked at the weather, and signed for his airplane in ten quick minutes. No time to call Helen. Then they walked through a door and onto the field to a waiting stake truck. Five other pilots, all in flying jumpsuits, were already on board along with their passengers: a rear admiral, three captains, and a Marine bird colonel. Ingram, a mere commander, felt their cold stares. He turned to Hitchcock and muttered, “What the hell did
I
do?”

The truck started up and bounced out toward the airfield, passing row upon row of parked aircraft. Hitchcock muttered back. “They're pissed, Commander.”

“What for?”

“I guess one of their buddies got bumped.”

“What?”

“You must have some pull Commander. And I'm not touching that. You seem like a regular guy. But I'm enrolled in Boldt Hall Law School starting next month, so I'm just leaving all this alone and concentrating on flying. Between you and me this is my last flight. They have me tucked into position six, which is okay with me. Hell, life could be worse. One of these ghouls could be ordering me to make a run on a Jap battleship, and I've had enough of that.” He gestured to Ingram's medals. “You too, Commander?”

Ingram sighed. “You're right. This is just fine.”

Takeoff was delayed for an hour while they waited for mechanics to install a new generator in one of the TBFs. Finally, at 7:45, they took off into a blazing red sunset over Point Loma. Hitchcock's TBF was the last to roll, and it took five minutes to join up. Hitchcock tucked smartly into the number six position of the right echelon.

Quiet. The TBF's R-2600 engine vibration began lulling Ingram to sleep. But then Hitchcock's words came back to Ingram as they droned northwest into the crimson sky:
You must have some pull
.

Chapter Thirty-One

5 September 1945

En route to Allen Field, Terminal Island, California

T
he formation droned northwest at five thousand feet through a clear and moonless sky, the air soft and smooth as velvet. The interval between the six Avengers was loose, about one hundred feet, and they flew with their running lights on, something forbidden in the war zone. Off to his left Ingram counted the running lights of five ships at sea, also forbidden until a few weeks ago.
Looks like Christmas time
.

Ingram and Hitchcock were quiet for most of the trip, each lost in his thoughts. But their attention was soon drawn by pools of light that grew larger and larger as they flew up the coast. Laguna Beach, Newport Beach, and Huntington Beach slid beneath the Avengers' wings like scattered diamonds. By 9:30 the ground was ablaze with a solid carpet of lights as Seal Beach became Long Beach and Terminal Island, and San Pedro beyond. To the northeast, the dazzling lights of Los Angeles beckoned.

Ingram marveled that there were still places in the world not wrecked and darkened by day and completely lifeless at nightfall.