species of whales. Escobar cared nothing about the fish. All he wanted to do was get back to his home in Mexico City, have a drink, and have his mistress visit. He had flown to Mazatlan by private plane and had hoped to take the plane over the area where the American ships were said to be hiding, but his German source informed him that he might be shot down if he was spotted. The area was patrolled by both American and Mexican planes. The new American occupiers still permitted fishing. People had to eat. Thus, an innocuous fishing boat was the best alternative.
The waters in the Gulf of California—he still preferred to call it the Gulf of Cortes—were calm. The night was clear and the little boat chugged its way north and west to where the enemy waited, allegedly grouped against the western side of the gulf. Escobar’s instructions were succinct. He was to count and categorize American ships, especially and logically the larger ones, and under no circumstances was he to risk being discovered.
Ergo, he could not get too close, which was fine by Colonel Escobar. He considered himself to be as brave as the next man, but it had been decades since he’d seen combat, fighting against the American intruders in 1916.
The predawn light poured across the waters. On another day, he would have reveled in its beauty. A rare fin whale surfaced and splashed mightily. Despite his anxieties, it brought a smile.
In the distance, shapes began to emerge as the light grew better. He took out his binoculars—German of course—and focused on the distant objects. When he realized what he was seeing, he understood why the Japanese were so anxious. Clearly silhouetted were a host of American warships. His jaw dropped. Jesu’—two of them were aircraft carriers.
American patrol vessels were only a couple of miles away. He could not get closer, nor did he feel that he had to. He directed the slovenly Mexican monkey who owned the boat to return to Mazatlan and promised him a bonus if he hurried. The money belonged to Germany, so he was inclined to be generous.
The next night he was in his apartment enjoying an excellent French white wine. He had just completed and sent the message to his German associate, a man he’d help hide after the German embassy had been closed down. The German had been extremely grateful and promised that the Third Reich would take care of Juan Escobar when the war was over and the Axis nations triumphant. Escobar didn’t want money. He was already rich. He just wanted his world put back in order.
In an apartment a few blocks away, a thoroughly tired Roy Harris and two other FBI agents stopped listening. An observer on the street noted that all the lights in Escobar’s apartment were out. The colonel had doubtless called it a day. The Mexican’s phones had been tapped ever since the Germans, whose phones were also tapped, had contacted him. Harris had even managed to fly to Mazatlan in another small plane and had seen Escobar take the fishing boat out. He’d contacted the fleet and told them that the little boat’s trip was not to be interrupted. If necessary he could be chased away, but nothing more.
“Should we kill him now or later?” Agent Walt Courtney asked cheerfully.
Harris smiled. It seemed like such a great idea, but it wasn’t going to happen. For one thing, the Mexicans, always touchy, would be thoroughly angry if the U.S. preempted their right to take care of their own traitors. Only a handful of people in the Mexican government were even aware that the FBI was actively working in their country.
“Later,” Harris said, “and we’ll let the Mexicans do it. By communicating with the Germans and running errands for them, he’s just proclaimed himself a traitor to Mexico. Maybe they won’t put him in front of a firing squad. Maybe our Mexican allies will make him work at hard labor in a Mexican prison for the rest of his life and be guarded by those peasants he hates so much.”
Agent Courtney appreciated the thought. “And just maybe he’ll get himself cornholed each night by his jailors or fellow inmates. I kind of like that idea.”
Harris decided he did too. Nobody likes a traitor, even though the actions of this jerk might just change the course of the war.
“Crowley, get your pink young ass in here and close the door!”
Lieutenant Ron Crowley, executive officer of the
It was night and the sub was running on the surface. Her hatches were open as she swapped fetid air for fresh, recharged her batteries, and let the crew take turns standing out in the open and enjoying the simple act of inhaling and exhaling. Of course, everyone on deck had to be watching carefully for any sign of Japanese planes or ships. Lieutenant Commander Torelli, the
Crowley picked his way through the passageway. The lights were off so not even the hint of a glow would make its way out, but there was no problem, the XO knew every step, nook, and cranny by heart as did all of the crew.
“Present and accounted for, Skipper,” he said as he entered Torelli’s cramped quarters.
“Tell me, young Lieutenant, which did you like the most up in Alaska—waiting and waiting or sinking that destroyer?”
“Is this a trick question? I loved sinking that Jap and so did you. It’s what we’re out here for, isn’t it?”
“Maybe not, Ron. We just got orders and they are more of the same. We are to hurry up and wait. We are to take up station and patrol an area off of San Diego and look for the Japanese fleet, which may be coming just over the horizon. But when we do spot the slanty-eyed yellow pricks, we are not to attack. In fact, we are not to do anything except stay out of the way and make sure we are not spotted. When we deem it safe, we are to report in and that’s it. It was strongly implied that if we were spotted we would be in more trouble than we could ever imagine even if we should manage to survive the encounter.”
Crowley sat on a small stool. With both men seated in the tiny cabin, their knees were almost touching. “I suppose they have their reasons, Skipper. It sounds like they want to do something sneaky to the Japs and I can’t see anything wrong with that.”
Torelli grinned. “I can’t either, but I don’t like letting them off scot-free if we do find them.”
Crowley looked at Torelli in surprise. “Are you implying that we might not obey orders? I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be court-martialed or spend the rest of my life supervising KP.”
“Don’t fret, Ron. I’m crazy, not stupid. We will obey both the letter and the spirit of the orders. But I want to be totally prepared if we do get the opportunity to hit Hirohito’s fleet. I want every torpedo inspected and inspected again. I want to eliminate the possibility of duds as much as we can.”
Crowley declined to remind his captain that they’d been working with the torpedoes since leaving the base at Mare Island. The problem with malfunctioning torpedoes had not gone away. The navy hierarchy out east in Washington’s BuOrd was adamant that there was nothing wrong with the torpedoes and that the sub skippers were the ones screwing up. The men on the subs felt just the opposite.
The navy’s highest brass had come down with a firm directive that the sub crews may not tamper with or try to improve the torpedoes. Torelli, like a number of others, had quietly and privately thought that the brass in Washington should go screw themselves. Admiral Lockwood, now firmly in charge of American subs operating in the Pacific was on the side of the crews and generally looked the other way when they tweaked the torpedoes. After all, they were the ones who had to deal with the after effects of dud torpedoes, which included highly enraged Japanese warships coming down the throats of their American tormenters.
“What’s happening now, Lieutenant?” asked one of the crew as Crowley emerged.
“Just the usual, we hurry up and wait. After all, this is the navy.”
CHAPTER 20
