1942

CHAPTER 21

Lieutenant Ernie Magruder paced the distance from the cliff to where the planes would commence their runoffs. In a few days he would launch eleven Grumman Wildcats against the might of Japan. The Wildcat was a good, solid plane, although obsolescent and due to be replaced by a newer Grumman model. The newer plane was not going to be risked in an operation as chancy as this. There was too much possibility of it falling into Japanese hands.

The Wildcat carried six machine guns but only two one-hundred-pound bombs. It had a range of just over seven hundred miles, which meant they would not have all that much time over Pearl during the raid. In and out, drop and run, shoot and scoot were his instructions. Even so, there probably wouldn’t be enough fuel to take them back to the Big Island if they had to do much fighting or high-speed maneuvering, so they were to land on abandoned strips on Molokai. From there, they were to run like hell and hide. Ironically, these now-abandoned fields were the ones that had first been used by the Japanese earlier in the year. Locals had helped repair them after the Japanese left.

The Wildcat was considered overmatched by the Zero, which was faster and more maneuverable. But Magruder knew that his plane could still cause a great deal of damage to the Zero, which had a wonderful propensity to blow up when hit, while his tough little plane could absorb punishment and get away.

His job wasn’t to take on the Zeros. His task was the carriers, if any, and the fuel. He had been told that his appearance over Pearl would be a complete surprise to the Japanese. Magruder sincerely hoped so. It was the Japs who had a death wish, not Ernie Magruder of Montgomery, Alabama.

Of course, that presumed he and his trusty planes got airborne in the first place.

“What’s the problem?” asked Captain Gustafson. “You take off from a little ship in the middle of an ocean, don’t you? So what’s wrong with jumping off a cliff?”

Magruder laughed nervously and conceded that the jut-jawed captain had a point. Launching from Hawaii was planned to be simplicity itself. Three abreast, planes were to taxi as fast as they could downhill toward the cliff, then launch themselves into space. According to Gustafson’s calculations, the planes would drop but a few feet before becoming stable flying machines. Magruder had his doubts and could visualize himself plummeting a thousand feet into the ocean. “Captain, I just want you to know that, if this doesn’t work, my last words will be ‘You fucked up, sir!’ “

Gustafson laughed hugely. “What’s the saying? If you can’t take a joke, you shouldn’t have enlisted? Well, son, you’ve enlisted and here you are. Now, if you know a better way of getting your planes in the air without building an airfield that the Japs would spot, you tell me.”

Magruder didn’t. “Now that I think of it, getting in the air might just be the least of my problems,” he said. “I have to find Pearl Harbor at dawn and without attracting attention, blow up the place, and then get safely out of there. Jumping off a cliff is a piece of cake in comparison.”

Gustafson nodded sympathetically. Magruder was only half his age and had his whole life before him. In the short while they’d been together, he’d begun to think of Magruder as the son he and his wife never had.

Gustafson was an immigrant from Sweden who’d arrived as a teenager. Before coming, he’d been told that the United States was a land of soft and spineless people who would never fight and couldn’t bear to be uncomfortable. Novacek, Magruder, and so many others had shown that assessment to be a lie. He put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “You can do it, Ernest.”

Magruder laughed. Nobody called him Ernest. “Thanks, Pop.”

“Now,” Gustafson said, “let’s see if that still we rigged up is working all right. We have a couple of days to prepare for your mission, and I think we could all use a drink.”

After what seemed an eternity, Jamie Priest had finally gotten a letter from WAVE-in-training Suzy Dunnigan. She said that she was doing well in the classroom portion of her training, and that the physical part was a breeze. Recalling her taut and lean body as they swam, ran, and made love, he had no doubt that she could march or hike circles around her peers.

Her only negative was that she had just come down with the flu and was puking her guts out. She said it was the navy’s fault for sending her from sunny California to Chicago. Jamie laughed at the joke. It was July, and the Great Lakes Naval Training Center was probably hotter than San Diego, so maybe it wasn’t the flu. Maybe it was something she’d eaten, like navy food, for instance.

Every day he had his security clearance brought him new discoveries and revelations. He now understood that Great Britain had been fully informed of the navy’s masquerade off Iceland. Thanks to some clever carpentry, the smaller vessels had been made over to look like their bigger brethren. Viewing from a distance, the German sub had been fooled and Berlin had passed the erroneous information on to the Japanese.

The British had intercepted both the message from U-123 and the subsequent signal from Berlin to Tokyo. They had forwarded the information to Admiral King in Washington, where it had been relayed to both Nimitz in San Diego and Spruance in the Pacific. Jamie wondered if King’s noted antipathy toward Britain had moderated. He doubted it.

You see what you expect to see, had been the plan. It had grown from that long-ago offhand comment by Jamie. The U-123’s was not the only sighting of the phantom fleet. A Spanish warship had been permitted to get close enough to see and then been abruptly ordered out of the area. The Spanish were ostensibly neutral but leaned heavily toward the Axis. The second confirmation must have really dazzled the Japs, he thought.

Another consequence of Jamie’s new status was the realization that Jake Novacek led the guerrillas on Hawaii and that Alexa Sanderson was there as well. Every time he thought of it he had to stifle a grin. He could see Novacek as a guerrilla, but Alexa? What the hell had happened to the quiet girl who had been the wife of his friend? Alexa Sanderson was almost a socialite, not a soldier. But then, he thought solemnly, circumstances force changes. Sometimes you have to adapt or die.

When Nimitz found out that he knew Novacek, Jamie was called into the admiral’s office. “Commander, do you realize that you are among a handful of people who have any idea who this fellow is?”

Jamie didn’t. “Sir, I’m very surprised.”

Nimitz gestured him to a chair. “Novacek is responsible for at least two aspects of Operation Wasp. Joe Rochefort worked with him for a short while and thinks highly of him, and the only other recommendation I’ve gotten is from a General Joe Collins, who sent a favorable report on Novacek to General Marshall. Some think Rochefort’s a little crazy, and I have no idea who this Collins person is, although I accept Marshall’s opinion of both him and his reference. Novacek might not be one of Marshall’s Boys, but Collins certainly is, and, if Novacek pulls this off, he might well be one too.”

Jamie stifled a grin. Even on a good day, Rochefort was at least unique, and crazy might not be that far off the mark. However, Rochefort was crazy like a fox. As to Jake becoming one of General Marshall’s favorites, Jamie found himself strangely pleased for someone he hadn’t known at all before December 7.

“Sir, I was very impressed with what little I saw of him,” he said and then explained that he really knew Alexa Sanderson far better. “All I can say is I think that we’re in good hands with Jake Novacek, and I’m very glad that Mrs. Sanderson is as well.”

Nimitz had only a dim recollection of once meeting Tim Sanderson, and none of his widow, although he recalled the name as a result of queries from some congressman. Admirals often had a hard time recalling junior officers with whom they had no contact, and Nimitz was no exception, even though he epitomized courtesy and consideration.

“It’s a strange world, Commander,” he said, “and it’s about to get even stranger in a couple of days, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t want this to fail,” Nimitz said gently. “There may be only a handful of people involved, but they are all human beings and I don’t want anyone to die needlessly. Novacek has control of at least a couple of parts of Operation Wasp, and I like to think he’s up to it.”

“I think he is, sir,” Jamie responded. He thought it both astonishing and in character that Nimitz would be so concerned about people. Once again, he felt honored and proud to serve with the man.

“Well, you get back to your work, and if you can think of anything else about Novacek, you tell me,” the admiral said.

“Sir, may I ask you a question? It may sound impertinent, but it isn’t.”

“Go ahead.”

“The way I see it, sir, there are at least five parts to Wasp, and most of them are supposed to occur around dawn of the second, and with forces approaching from all over the place. Do you really think that can be coordinated?”

Nimitz smiled tightly. “Nope. What we all hope for is that at least a couple of the disparate parts actually do work. You’re right that it’s impossible to time things so well when forces are converging from thousands of miles away from each other and different directions. I can only hope that, as events do unfold, the Japs are kept off balance and confused. That may just give us a level of success.

“As to the five separate events, if one succeeds, then it’s a pinprick to the Japs and we’ll have lost. If two or three are successful, then we’ve won a small victory. Four or five, son, and we may have won the war.”

Admiral Raymond Spruance was fifty-six years old and, not counting time at the Naval Academy, had spent more than thirty of those years as an officer in the navy. During that time, he was acutely aware that he’d never seen combat. Spruance had risen to command as a result of his skills, even though he lacked the flamboyance and apparent belligerence of some of his peers.

Spruance was quiet and unassuming, efficient and unperturbable, and those traits worked for him particularly well in times of stress. He was considered cautious, but that was only because he wished to accomplish his goals with a minimum of human cost. However, Spruance clearly understood that there had to be at least some human cost when engaged in war. Even the most lopsided victory would result in some casualties for the victor. He also understood that too much caution brought other dangers, caused by missed opportunities and letting an enemy take the initiative. Caution, therefore, could be as much a vice as it was a virtue.

“I will call the dance,” he muttered. “I will not become a punching bag.”

“What?”

Spruance grinned at his companion, Captain Marc Mitscher. “Pete” to his friends, Mitscher was a year younger than Spruance but, with his weathered and craggy face, looked decades older.

“I was thinking out loud,” Spruance said, “and mixing metaphors at the same time.” They were in Spruance’s quarters on the carrier Hornet, the flagship of the American task force that was anchored off Samoa. Spruance commanded the fleet, while Mitscher commanded the air arm.

Mitscher grinned. “Don’t let too many people hear you doing that. The men are worried enough as it is without an admiral who talks to himself. Don’t worry about mixing metaphors, though. Most of our pilots think a mixed metaphor is a Mexican drink.”

“What do you think of our orders, Pete?”

He shrugged. “Ours not to reason why?”

They had discussed them numerous times. Spruance was to do battle, but only if the circumstances were right, and he was not to take any undue risks. The navy would make their move only if Operation Wasp was successful.

But how would they know it was successful? What if the Japs located the radio transmitter on Hawaii and knocked it out? What if Wasp was successful and no one could relay the information in a coherent manner?

Wasp was warfare on a shoestring, and every one of the few people involved in it could be killed and the operation still be successful. It would be tragic if his fleet was in the middle ocean awaiting word that would not come in time to use it. An opportunity bought with American blood would be lost because he would not permit “undue risk.”

“What would happen if we lost this battle?” Spruance asked.

“I don’t think about defeat.”

“I forgot,” Spruance said drily. “But indulge me. What would happen if this fleet were destroyed?”

“We’d replace it and the navy would replace us. Hell, we’ve got more than a dozen fleet carriers under construction right now, and it hurts my head to think of how many battleships, cruisers, and destroyers we’ll have in another year or so. It’d be tough, but we’ve the resources to make good any losses.”

“So I’m not Jellicoe, am I?”

Admiral John Rushworth Jellicoe had commanded the Royal Navy at Jutland in the previous war and was the subject of many naval studies. Jutland was the largest naval battle in world history to date, but Jellicoe had been acutely aware that Britain had no backup fleet and defeat by the Germans would turn the oceans over to their mortal enemy. Britain would then be blockaded and starved. Britain would have to sue for peace.

Jellicoe knew that he alone could lose the war in a single afternoon. Britain could not make good on her losses; thus, Jellicoe had been quite content to let the Germans return to their bases after an inconclusive battle.

“You’re right, Admiral,” Mitscher said softly, “you’re not Jellicoe. If anybody’s in that position, it’d be Yamamoto. He’s got just about all the navy Japan has and just about all she’ll ever have. Japan cannot replace her losses in any significant manner.”

“So why are we being so cautious, and how would you now define undue risk?”

Mitscher grinned. “I’d define it a lot more loosely than some people.”

Without putting it in so many words, their orders strongly implied that the American task force should not even begin to move northward unless Operation Wasp was successful. Even under the best of circumstances, that meant the Americans could not arrive within range of Oahu for two to three days after the critical morning of August 2.

“I think we should give ourselves a head start,” Spruance said. “I think we should be ready to pounce on them as soon as we can. If Wasp works, I don’t want the Japs to have a couple of days to solve their problems. I want to hit them hard and fast, and before they know what’s happening to them.”

Mitscher almost felt like purring. “Excellent.”

Spruance and Mitscher walked to the bridge and looked out on the ships that surrounded the Hornet. “We’ll divide the force into two groups. The carriers, the fast battleships, and other ships that can maintain speed will be in the van. The old battleships, slower cruisers, and supply ships will bring up the rear. That way, if we’re wrong and all the Japs in Hawaii start chasing us, the old and slow ships will have a head start. Maybe some of them can get away.”

Mitscher visualized Jap ships erupting from Pearl Harbor like angry bees or wasps from a hive. The Japanese had enough power to overwhelm the entire task force, not to mention a divided one. Spruance was going to divide an inferior force in the face of a superior enemy. Who the hell said he was too cautious? If events didn’t work out, Spruance would have put the entire fleet at risk of being sunk.

But what if the Japs couldn’t get out of their hive? Mitscher thought that would be the irony of Operation Wasp. Spruance was right. Brave men were going to put their lives on the line in an outrageous attempt to stop the Japs. Being prepared for the results of their efforts was the least they could do.

The captain’s wrinkled face split wide with a grin. “Then let’s us get this fleet moving.”

Lieutenant Goto felt like spitting in the face of Sergeant Charley Finch. Goto believed that using turncoats and traitors like Finch brought dishonor to Japan’s warrior race. He sometimes thought that defeat with honor would be preferable to victory aided by scum like Finch.

However, Finch had brought important news. Goto and Captain Kashii had been surprised and impressed by the audacious American plan to attack Hilo. Now they would be prepared and would inflict a stinging defeat on the Americans. Along with being prepared to repulse the minor aerial attack, Kashii would send two companies of infantry on trucks to where the plane or planes were based.

For his part, Finch considered his work done. He had no desire to return to the American base camp. He wished to get laid and get rich, in that order. He made it clear that both Omori and Goto owed him a lot.

“That disgusting snail,” Kashii snarled after Finch had left them. “He expects to be treated like a lord when he should have his head cut off and shoved up his ass.”

Goto laughed. “I wonder how he’d like the view.”

Both men had been drinking homemade liquor to pass an otherwise dull afternoon and had added a couple more drinks to celebrate their new find. They weren’t drunk, but the raw booze had loosened many of their inhibitions. Finch was out getting screwed by one of the local whores. He’d wanted a white woman but decided to settle for what was available, which wasn’t much.

“I am quite certain that Colonel Omori has an interesting end in store for Sergeant Finch,” Goto said. “Perhaps even something like what you have in mind. Personally, I would like to see him cut to little pieces and forced to watch while pigs eat his living flesh.”

“I like that idea,” Kashii said and lumbered to his feet.

Outside, Sergeant Charley Finch stood frozen in horror. His hand was scant inches from the knob. He’d gotten his ashes hauled real fast by an ugly whore and wanted to talk some more with Goto. He still wasn’t fluent in Japanese, but he understood what Goto and Kashii were saying well enough to get that he was going to be betrayed by the Japs. Any thoughts of a reward were now gone. He had to be concerned with his survival.

Finch thought quickly. Now what? There was no other choice. He would leave Hilo and return to the Americans. On his way, he would alert the farmers, just like he was supposed to do. He would return to Novacek’s band with his mission completed and be in good standing with them. Kashii and Goto would doubtless send troops against the air base, but that could be blamed on something else. He knew he was clutching at straws, but that was all that was available. Damn! How could things have gotten so fucked up so quickly?

He would be in tremendous danger if the Americans got hold of Jap records and found out he’d been a spy. But that was a bridge to be crossed in the future. Right now, Charley Finch was concerned about staying alive for the next few days.

Maybe he could destroy the records. No, that was unlikely. Maybe he could convince the Americans that he was playing a double game and doing it for America.

Yeah. He grinned as he slipped off into the darkness and out of Hilo. That was it. He could still come out of this mess a hero.

August 1, 1942, had been an emotional drain for Colonel Omori. On his head rested the security of the island of Oahu during the visit by the fleet and Japan’s dignitaries. He was exhausted by the need to keep his emotions under control. It wasn’t every day that Japan annexed a new province and declared a new land to be a part of Nippon. But it had happened, and the ceremony had gone off without a hitch. After hours of boring speeches, several thousand native Japanese and Hawaiians who had gathered for them had applauded tepidly and wandered off. Several hundred had been invited to a lavish reception that featured foods unseen on the islands for several months. Most showed up, but many others did not bother to attend, which disturbed both Omori and Admiral Iwabachi. Admiral Yamamoto, the guest of honor, apparently did not notice or chose to ignore the slight.

Toyoza and Akira Kaga attended, but Akira left early. He said his leg was bothering him, and this was accepted as an obvious truth. Before he left, Omori introduced the younger man to Admiral Yamamoto. Akira appeared properly awed, and the admiral was deferential to the maimed young warrior.

The reception was at a park in Honolulu, a place where the fleet could be clearly seen, and the view by the water’s edge was particularly dramatic. The battleships and carriers were lit up in a vivid display. They were anchored so close to one another that they appeared as one solid, glowing mass.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” said Toyoza Kaga.

“Incredible, absolutely incredible,” Omori answered in a whisper. The sight was almost overwhelming.

“Will the lights be on all night? I do hope so,” Toyoza said.

Omori chuckled. “Yamamoto has ordered a celebration to dwarf all other Hawaiian celebrations. Some of the ships may dim their lights, but the majority will keep them on.” Then he laughed out loud. “They’ll need to so the crews can find their way back.”

Many of the fleet’s officers along with a number of enlisted men had been granted shore leave and were celebrating hugely throughout the Honolulu area. Bars and dance halls were enjoying a business bonanza, and the sounds of the celebrations reached the official reception at the park. It was even louder than when the American fleet was in port because there were few restraints placed on the Japanese sailors. Many people, Omori thought, might have ignored the reception in order to protect their property and their women.

“There will be many monumental naval hangovers tomorrow,” Kaga said with a smile. “I admit I am surprised that such activities are being permitted with the Americans always a threat.”

Omori laughed again. He’d had several drinks. His new favorite beverage was Scotch whisky, and it was making him unsteady. “The Americans are not a threat, my friend,” he said. “Their fleet is nowhere near the Pacific, much less Hawaii. We are as safe here as we would be in Tokyo harbor. Even so, we have planes aloft to watch the oceans as a precaution.”

“But what about the Americans on Hawaii?” Toyoza persisted. “What if they try to disrupt things?”

“If they’d been able to, they would have done it before or during the ceremony. No, they are isolated on their island. Lieutenant Goto did inform me that they intend to do something against Hilo this weekend, but it will be feeble and it will be repulsed. After that, we will seek out and destroy them. That will put an end to their nonsense.”

He had spoken more bitterly than he realized, and Toyoza noticed it. Omori must have been catching hell from Iwabachi and Yamamoto because of the continued presence of Americans on Hawaii. Too bad, he thought. Then he looked again at the Japanese fleet and its luminous presence. If they keep the lights on, a blind man could find them, he thought. He had news to signal to the Americans.

“I am an old man,” Toyoza said with an exaggerated sigh. “I will leave you now and get some needed rest. I will sleep tonight secure in the knowledge that Japan is preeminent among nations.”

Omori watched as the old man departed. Thank God there were a few people he could count on in these islands. Kaga might be a crook, but he fully understood where his future lay. Kaga was not an official member of the island’s new government, but he was one of the most influential men on Oahu and one whose advice Omori would seek out even more in the future.

We need more men like Toyoza Kaga, Colonel Omori thought. Then he decided he needed another drink.