Edge of Valor (64 page)

Chapter Fifty-One

4 December 1945

Shakhtyorsk Air Base, Sakhalin Oblast, USSR

I
n spite of the deep overcast Dezhnev knew the sun was close to setting. There were no shadows and it was getting dark. Time to get moving. He yelled to Borzakov, “I said I am taking these men back to the tower to recover some of their radio equipment. There are codebooks and I want to confiscate them.”

“How are you going to do this?”

“We march out there, pick up the radio equipment, and march back here.” Dezhnev lowered his voice. “That's where you come in, my friend.”

“What do you mean?”

“When we return, I will be ‘examining' their radio with you next to me. That's when I will pass the codebooks to you.”

Borzakov rubbed his chin. “It could work.” Then he asked, “How did you learn of all this?”

“I overheard them talking and convinced them we could go back to recover the codebooks. We will return in twenty minutes. In the meantime, make sure the rest of them get aboard the boat and out to the destroyer so they can offload their gear. Believe me, we'll save time.”

“What about these men here?” protested Borzakov.

“Our coxswain will tell the Americans to send their motor whaleboat back and pick them up.”

“But—”

Dezhnev stood close, their noses almost touching. “This could be an intelligence coup, for you, comrade. People in Dzerzhinsky Square will be very pleased.”

“But these men have their rifles. Who authorized that? And what if . . .”

“What if a handful of Americans go up against us? What then?”

“I . . .”

“We'll squash them like bugs.” Dezhnev waved his PPSh.

“I don't know . . .”

“Comrade, we're out of time.”

Borzakov sighed. “All right. Go ahead.” He stepped aside.

Dezhnev turned to Boland. “You may proceed, Sergeant.”

Boland puffed out his chest. “Aye, aye, sir.
Deeeee-tail. Ten-hut
!”

The men snapped to attention.

“Hight—shoulder—harms.”

Six M-1 Garand rifles were yanked from the ground and plopped on the Marines' right shoulders.

“For-aaaaarrrrd . . . harch! Leph . . . Lehp . . . Lehp ha-rih lehp.”
The remaining Russians cleared a path as Boland marched his men past the 36-foot shore boat. Ingram and the other Marines were already on board, their gear stacked high. The mooring lines were taken in; the engine roared, and the coxswain twisted the boat from the pier and then backed away. For an instant, Ingram and Dezhnev locked eyes, Ingram with crossed fingers jammed to his chest, Dezhnev with the slightest of nods. Another member of Dezhnev's detail was Pfc. Edwin Amaya, who winked at Ingram as he marched past.

The Russian sailors watched Boland, his six Marines, and Dezhnev march down the pier and onto the coast road.

The whaleboat growled through the waves on the way out to the
Maxwell
. The Marines' gear had made the boat a bit top heavy, and it rocked drunkenly from side to side.

The closer they came to the destroyer, the better the view of the
Admiral Volshkov
. From the pier they had seen only a stern aspect as she swung at anchor. As they approached the
Maxwell
, the single-stacked cruiser was unveiled in a broadside view, her sleek German lines graceful, functional, and deadly. A cold wave of apprehension swept over Ingram as he realized Dezhnev was right. The cruiser's two portside torpedo tubes were trained out and aimed at the
Maxwell
. Each mount carried three torpedo tubes, making a total of six torpedoes aimed at the
Maxwell
. Each torpedo was most likely a German-design G7a, 21-inch, 44-knot torpedo with a warhead packing 617 pounds of hexanite high explosive. The little 2,100-ton destroyer would be vaporized in one salvo. Also, it hit Ingram that if the
Maxwell
tried to weigh anchor or train out her own guns or take any other defensive action, Kulibin would fire early to remove the threat.

He looked to the rapidly darkening sky.
Hurry
.

The Russian coxswain backed the boat's engine as it slid next to the accommodation ladder dangling over the
Maxwell
's port side. Tubby White stood above on the main deck, hands on his hips. Beside him were Andy Markham,
the executive officer, and Julian Falco, the gunnery officer. A number of sailors crowded behind them.

Ingram turned to a short, bull-chested lance corporal and said, “Karzarian, we have exactly ninety seconds to get our men and gear off this boat. After that, I'm shoving them off.”

“Aye, aye, Commander.” Karzarian called to his men and they began tossing their gear up to the waiting sailors.

Ingram scrambled up the ladder, throwing a salute first at the flag and then at Tubby White. Not standing on formality, White demanded, “What the hell do those Commies want?”

Waving Markham and Falco over, Ingram said, “There's not much time.”

“I gathered that,” said White.

Ingram said, “Get your men to GQ, but don't sound the alarm. I don't want them to notice anything out of the ordinary.”

“I've already done that.”

“You have?”

“Todd, what would you do if you had six Commie torpedoes pointed right at you?”

“Good, except don't exercise the gun mounts. Just keep them at ready air. And nobody visible in the topside 40- or 20-millimeter mounts. I don't want the Russians to figure out what we're trying to do. And get a couple of boatswain's mates ready to slip the anchor.”

“What the hell? Cut my anchor?”

“That's the idea. And have main control ready to answer all bells. And Tubby, very important . . .”

“Shoot.”

“Make sure no one on the weather decks is visible to the
Admiral Volshkov
, especially the guys on the foredeck.”

“Yes, sir.” White turned to a talker and relayed the orders to the bridge.

Ingram turned to Falco, “Can you have all mounts load a round of AP and stand by for salvo fire?”

Falco asked, “You mean ram them too, sir?”

“Absolutely.”

Falco and White locked eyes.

“Do it, Julian,” said White.

“Aye, aye, gentlemen.” Falco took off at a dead run for director 51.

White said, “Todd, except for the 20-millimeters, all topside 40-millimeter mounts are manned and ready. But they're to be stooped down behind the gun tubs, not visible to the cruiser.”

With a roar of its diesel, the Russian shore boat backed clear, spun, and steadied on a course for the
Admiral Volshkov
. In a glance, Ingram saw that his six Marines were on board the
Maxwell
, their gear piled against a bulkhead.

Ingram caught Karzarian's eye. The lance corporal reached in a pack, pulled out a walkie-talkie, and walked over. “Will this do, Commander?”

“Thanks, I hope so. Is the battery okay?”

Karzarian checked a tiny dial. “Says it's up to full charge, sir.”

“Okay.” Ingram held up the walkie-talkie and keyed the mike. “John Wayne, this is Roy Rogers, over.”

He switched to receive. Nothing. Ingram listened again.

“. . . Roy . . .” Static.

“John Wayne, your signal weak, over.” He looked at Karzarian.

The corporal shook his head.

Suddenly Boland's voice boomed, “Wagons are circled. We're ready.”

Ingram yelled, “Hear you five by five. Commence fire!” To White, he nodded toward the bridge, waving Karzarian to follow. They had just stepped on the open bridge when they heard a report from the beach.

Ingram peeked over the bulwark in time to see the 105-mm shot land well over the
Admiral Volshkov
. Grabbing a set of binoculars, he rose up and looked again. The men surrounding the
Admiral Volshkov
's torpedo mounts were looking forward, not bent over their sighting mechanisms.

Ingram keyed the walkie-talkie mike. “This is John Wayne. Down two hundred, right one-fifty—over.”

“
Zzzzzhhhhr
! . . . one-fifty! Out.”

Again, the 105-mm boomed from shore. The round splashed alongside the cruiser's bridge, raising a tall column of brownish-gray water.

“Not bad for a bunch of jarheads,” said White.

Ingram glanced at Karzarian.

Karzarian's eyes twinkled. “Boland's done some can-cocking in his time.”

“Well, it shows.” Ingram bellowed into the walkie-talkie, “Right fifty. Fire for effect!”

Zzzgggh
!! The 105 boomed.

Almost simultaneously, the aft turret of the
Admiral Volshkov
belched out a salvo toward the beach.

Falco shouted from the director. “Torpedoes in the water.”

A 105-mm round landed on the
Admiral Volshkov
's 01 deck, blowing away her single stack.

The aft mount barked back.

White jumped to the pilothouse and shouted, “Foredeck, slip the anchor. Main control, all ahead full.” He looked at Ingram, “You ready to shoot at a bunch of Commies?”

“They fired at us first,” said Ingram.

White bunched a fist and yelled up to director 51, “Mr. Falco!”

Falco's head popped from the hatch. “Sir?”

Pointing at the
Admiral Volshkov
, White barked, “Guns free. There's your target.”

On the bow, one of the two boatswain's mates swung a sledgehammer and smacked the pelican hook releasing the anchor chain. Then he ran aft for the protection of the deck house as the anchor chain raced like a writhing black snake from the chain locker with a resounding clatter; its bitter end capable of killing anyone in its path.

At the same time, Tubby's full-ahead bell was transmitted from the bridge to main control in the forward engine room. The enginemen were ready and instantly spun their wheels, cracking the throttles. The
Maxwell
's screws dug in and she surged forward.

Boland's next round landed near the
Admiral Volshkov
's bridge, flinging wreckage and bodies high in the air.

Ingram couldn't dwell on that now. The sobering reality was that torpedo wakes were racing toward the
Maxwell
. Except there were only four torpedos. Where were the other two?

One passed ahead, missing by no more than twenty yards.

Another raced by well astern, its white-streaked wake trailing bubbles.

The next passed just twenty yards aft of the
Maxwell
, still building speed. Ingram's heart sank. The next torpedo headed right for the forward fire room. There was no dodging that one. He gripped the bulwark tightly.
Dear God
.

The torpedo hit with a loud clank.

Karzarian recovered first. “No shit! A dud.”

Ingram crossed himself. Others on the bridge did the same.

Falco had shifted all five of the 5-inch gun mounts to automatic control, linking them to the main battery director in deadly synchronization. He swung them to port, and now the 16-foot-long barrels were laid directly onto the
Admiral Volshkov
. He yelled down from the director. “On target. We have a solution.”

White called back, “Where are you aimed, Mr. Falco?”

“At a spot right under the number 1 turret.” For show, he held up a portable brass gun trigger connected by a thick rubber cord to the inside. “Why?”

Normally, that would be an impertinent question, but these two had worked together for a long time and were complete professionals. “Just curious,” said White.

Ingram urged, “Tubby they still have two more torpedos to fire.”

White yelled, “Commence fire!”

Falco squeezed.

The ship recoiled as all five of the 5-inch guns belched a 54-pound armorpiercing projectile equipped with a base-detonating fuse at a muzzle velocity of 2,600 feet per second. The projectiles reached the
Admiral Volshkov
in 1.1 seconds, all impacting within a 20-foot diameter of where Falco's giant optical sights were aimed. The
Volkov
's foredeck blazed with light. Then her bridge. A gigantic plume of black smoke gushed from where her funnel had been. With an enormous
crack
the ship rose ten feet, spewing wreckage and streaming columns of
smoke and bodies, the light shimmering and suddenly glowing with the intensity of a hundred suns.