1942

CHAPTER 22

At first awkwardly, but then with growing speed and grace, the giant flying boats sped down the lagoon that was their runway and lifted off into the sky. Colonel Jimmy Doolittle was in the first plane, and he banked it to see the others as they made it safely into the sky. Overloaded as they were with fuel and bombs, any crash landing would be a flaming disaster for plane and crew.

Once safely airborne, they formed a loose single line and headed toward the west and Hawaii. Doolittle was under no illusions. He was chasing the night so as to be at Oahu an hour or two before dawn. He was going to attempt the nearly impossible, a night attack on a small part of a small island in the middle of the ocean over two thousand miles away.

Fuel was not a problem, and they’d been over the navigation time and time again. The Americans on Hawaii would be sending out radio beeps that would help them find their way. If they followed the beeps, they would be only a few hundred miles off course.

Only.

A few-hundred-mile error would be disastrous. It would give the Japs time to spot them and attack. No, he had to keep the radio beacon to his left and home in on where his figures said Oahu was.

Tailwinds or headwinds could either speed him up or delay him without his knowing it in the bleak night, while crosswinds would blow him north or south. He and his crews had to stay awake and alert. The lead plane, his, would have primary responsibility for navigation, while the others would follow his taillight and check on his math. Between the five of them, it was hoped that they would find Oahu instead of Australia.

“What else is going to happen tonight?” Doolittle wondered. His copilot glanced at him and turned away. He wondered the same thing.

When the Japs had attacked Pearl Harbor, they’d apparently homed in on the sounds of a Honolulu radio station. Doolittle wondered if he would be so lucky. Surely, they wouldn’t have kept the station on the air.

He also wondered just what impact his five planes, large though they were, could possibly have on the course of the war, even if they did find the Jap carriers in port.

“There has to be more than this,” he said. “There has to be.”

Corporal Matsumoto Fuji was as alert as he could be under the circumstances. Like most others in the Japanese garrison, he resented the fact that he was on guard duty at Wheeler Field while everybody else was celebrating and getting drunk, probably even laid. The fact that Wheeler was a virtual no-man’s-land was not lost on them either. If the high command didn’t think Wheeler was important, then why should they?

Thus, he and his comrades had felt little guilt when they’d had the opportunity to take a couple of drinks from revelers who’d passed by and offered them. After all, weren’t they fellow Japanese who’d just been brought back to the bosom of the homeland? Fuji hiccupped and thought, of other bosoms he’d rather be clasped to at the moment. The Hawaiian-Japanese had been good fellows and had done their best to make Fuji and the others on guard feel both wanted and good. As a result, Fuji and his companions were more than a little drunk.

Corporal Fuji was in charge of two four-man stations that guarded Wheeler Field’s closely parked planes. He and one soldier in the other sandbagged bunker were the only regulars on duty. The remaining six were mechanics and laborers who, while in the military, knew next to nothing about their duties. He blamed the higher-ups who had decreed one squad was all that was necessary to protect Wheeler. Let additional bodies come from other sources, and that meant he shared tonight’s duty watch with utter incompetents.

At least the long night would end in a few hours and he could get some rest. During the daylight hours, there were only four men protecting the planes, which Fuji definitely thought was inadequate.

“Someone’s coming,” one of the mechanics yelled.

The warning wasn’t very military, but at least the oaf was paying some attention. Fuji blinked and tried to focus in the night. There were no lights on in the field, and he squinted through the gloom. A column of men was marching down the runway toward Fuji.

Corporal Fuji identified the newcomers as Japanese soldiers. This was a relief, although he wondered what they were up to. He nudged his companions, and they shifted their rifles to more aggressive positions, although one of them was having a difficult time standing. Fuji hoped the officer in charge of the approaching column wasn’t a prick who’d write them up for celebrating on this day of special days.

Fuji signaled to the soldiers in the other bunker, who acknowledged that they too had seen the other soldiers. Who the hell were these guys and what was going on?

“Who goes there?” Fuji demanded. The column was scant yards away, and an officer was leading them.

“Your relief,” replied the officer, a lieutenant, which meant that someone should go and wake Fuji’s superior, the officer of the guard. That fool, an off-duty pilot, was drunker than anyone, and that was saying a lot. God help the empire if some of the pilots had to take off right away, Fuji thought.

Then it dawned on him. They were getting relieved. Wonderful. “What has happened, sir?”

The young lieutenant was almost up to Fuji, and the column was deploying around the other bunker as well as his. “Yamamoto’s orders,” he said stiffly, almost nervously, Fuji thought. “The revered admiral wants everyone to celebrate Japan’s great achievement. Our turn was earlier, yours is now.”

Fuji felt like hugging the lieutenant but thought better of the idea. He wondered why a full platoon was relieving his squad, but he knew better than to ask. Questions from inferiors often meant beatings from the superiors. He didn’t need that on a night he was going to spend in Honolulu. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and waved his men out of the bunker. The whole thing was very informal, but, hell, he didn’t care.

Then he noticed that the soldiers were carrying strange rifles. They were American Springfields. Fuji was about to say something when the stern-faced young lieutenant slashed a broad-bladed knife across his throat. The corporal tried to speak, but the gush of his blood stopped him. Before Fuji’s misting eyes closed entirely, he saw the rest of his men being stabbed and butchered like him, and he realized that the same thing was happening to the other guards.

Only a few grunts and groans proclaimed the slaughter. A moment later, the “soldiers” fanned out in the dark and headed to their other targets. First on the list was the control tower, where two men waited for the return of the six planes that were the base’s combat air patrol. Next came the pilots’ ready room, where the relief group of pilots was preparing for their turn in the night skies.

They took no prisoners. Akira Kaga had told them they were too few to afford the luxury. Besides, it would soon be necessary for them to melt back into the Japanese-American population. They could not leave behind anyone who would recognize them.

When the base was secure, Akira was driven up in an old Ford. He got out awkwardly and looked down on the slaughtered soldiers.

He was about to speak when a burst of gunfire erupted from the enlisted men’s barracks. Someone was awake and fighting. Two of Kaga’s men ran from the building. One was wounded and had to be helped away.

“What went wrong?” Akira asked. He had known it would be impossible for the plan to work perfectly. Nothing ever did.

“No idea,” the unhurt man said. “You want us to storm the place? There’s only a couple of them in there.”

It was tempting, but it would be a distraction and would entail taking casualties. “Later. Now just keep them pinned down while we do what we have to.”

Akira placed a few soldiers so that they commanded the barracks and told them to shoot anything that moved. Other soldiers had already ripped out the phone lines, and he doubted that the men in the barracks had a radio. His force was safe for the time being.

“Take care of the planes,” he ordered.

The destruction of the Japanese planes was simple and efficient. Some men opened gas caps and poured in a combination of dirt and sugar. Others took tools and ripped out spark plugs and smashed more sensitive equipment. The planes might fly again, but not for a very long while, and certainly not this night.

His men had taken over the control tower and called the combat air patrol. They didn’t know the proper signal, so they made up a story that there was a power problem at Wheeler and that the patrol should land immediately.

When the lead pilot protested, he was told that the carriers would be in charge of patrolling and that two groups of planes in the air at the same time could cause confusion, even a collision. The pilot grudgingly agreed, and Akira saw the first of the Japanese planes lining up for a landing. The runway was unlit, but it was wide, well marked, and impossible to miss.

The Zeros landed one at a time. The bodies of the dead were hidden behind sandbags and in buildings. The intervals between planes were sufficiently long to permit the pilots to taxi to their normal places. As they started to climb out, “mechanics” ran up to them and killed them.

Just as the last plane was touching down, one of the real Japanese soldiers in the barracks opened fire on it. The pilot whipped the plane around and began to race down the runway.

“Shoot it,” Akira yelled as he cursed the fact that one of the trapped Japanese knew how to think. Once the pilot was fully airborne, he would radio the fleet at Pearl.

The Zero gained distance as a hail of bullets chased it. As it lifted off the ground, a tongue of flame erupted from the tail. Seconds later, the tongue became a torch and the plane exploded.

It’s true, Akira thought grimly. The Zeros do blow up easily.

The plane crashed a mile or so from the runway. Flames billowed from the spot, and fire engines would be on their way shortly, while civilians phoned about to find out what had occurred.

Their secret would be out in a very short while, but it could have been far worse. Akira ordered some of his men to take care of the runways while he sent others to set up roadblocks. In each case, they would use dynamite and TNT brought in by submarine to Novacek. With secrecy no longer necessary, he took personal command of a captured Japanese machine gun and pulverized the wooden barracks. There was no return fire.

Akira was content. He and his men had done their part. Now the skies over Oahu were empty. Who would claim them?

Ernie Magruder led the first planes down the incline and toward the edge of the cliff. He was the loneliest man in the world even though he had just gotten best wishes from Captain Gustafson and Colonel Novacek. “Jesus, I hope this works,” he said to himself.

The brave part of him had hoped that the mission would go off, while the sane part had hoped it would be canceled. The radio signal from Oahu had eliminated all choices, and Novacek had given the order to take off. Magruder had no idea what had transpired to make his chances of success now minimally acceptable, but someone must already have done something to the Japanese. This meant that persons unknown had stuck their necks out to ensure that he could attack. The least he could do was make the effort.

Then he was out in the air and flying free over the white-capped ocean below him. His two companions were beside him. He watched and waited while the other Wildcats flew into the sky.

There were no mishaps, and an elated Magruder whooped. Their radios were off. There was to be no chance of someone hearing a conversation in English and being warned.

Magruder’s flock of geese formed up on his taillights. The night was partly cloudy, and the lights were a chance that had to be taken. He hoped that anyone seeing them would think they were stars or, better yet, not think at all. When he was satisfied that all was well, he turned and headed north. He would fly at a fuel-conserving height and speed. This would enable him to have as much fuel as possible left to complete his mission and get the hell away.

Get away? He laughed at the notion. If he was lucky, he might have an hour’s worth of fuel left after his mission and be able to land on one of the islands. There was no way in hell he was leaving the territory of Hawaii this night.

He tuned his radio to the commercial Honolulu station. As always, it was on, and he began to follow its signal as if it were a homing beacon. He wondered if it was the same station the Japs had followed in last December.

Then he could see the dark bulk of Oahu against the silver of the sea, and the glow of the illuminated Japanese fleet below. He thought there was a bonfire out toward Wheeler Field, but he was too far away to be certain. Besides, who the hell would have a bonfire going on a night like this?

Lieutenant Commander Tom Meagher was almost distraught. Before the war, he had flown the giant flying boat to and from Hawaii a number of times and knew he could find the place, but this night he had lost his companions.

Doolittle had designated Meagher’s plane “Tail-end Charlie” because of Meagher’s experience with the plane and the route, and now he had fucked up royally.

Frank Tomanelli, his copilot and a young lieutenant j.g., looked at him nervously.

“We’re not lost, are we, sir?”

“Of course not. I know exactly where we are. We’re over the fucking Pacific. Can’t you see?”

The attempt at humor was lost on Tomanelli, who was afraid of several things-Meagher, the Boeing 314, and the Japanese, in that order. Tomanelli was barely acceptable as a copilot of the giant plane, and this was his first lengthy flight in it. However, the lieutenant had volunteered for the mission, which made him a good guy.

The problem had been a minor mechanical glitch that had worked itself out. Meagher’d had to feather an engine and then restart. It was one of those things he’d never truly understand. Probably a piece of crud in the engine that had simply disappeared. It had been only a few minutes, but it had caused him to fall back, and now he couldn’t distinguish the other four planes in the sea of stars and blackness ahead of him. This was getting seriously like the last time he’d flown the 314 from Hawaii. That was many months ago, when he’d ferried a number of high-ranking brass out of Pearl and even dropped off some soldiers on the Big Island. He sometimes wondered what became of them.

Meagher toyed with the idea of speeding up, but that carried the probability of passing the others and arriving over Honolulu too early. The thought of crashing into them was discounted as just too improbable, considering the vastness of the ocean.

“Where are the others, sir?” Tomanelli asked.

“Out there,” Meagher said sharply, and Tomanelli shut up.

Meagher checked his fuel. By his calculations, they would arrive over Hawaii with more than half remaining. At least that part was going right. With his bombs gone, his return load would be much lighter.

Tomanelli had regained his courage. “What’re we going to do now?”

“Lieutenant, we are going to do what we’re supposed to. We’re gonna fly to Hah-vah-ee and see if we can find us some Japs to plaster with all this crap the government has assigned to us.”

Tomanelli gulped audibly. “Alone?”

Meagher looked at him in mock surprise. “Of course not, boy. We’ll have our guardian angels with us.”

Sergeant Charley Finch hated moving during the night through what he thought of as jungles. There was nothing to see, and, with his miserable tracking skills, he might turn around and be headed back to Hilo before he realized his mistake.

Something slapped at his leg, and he swore. It was only a branch, not a snake. He’d heard there were no snakes in Hawaii, but who the hell knew for certain? No, he could not return to Hilo, not after what he’d heard from Goto. He had to make peace with Novacek. Thank God the asshole colonel had no idea what he’d been up to.

Suddenly, Finch was flat on his face and spitting out dirt that had been forced into his mouth by the impact. Something heavy landed on his back, forcing his breath out in a whoosh while a sack was pulled over his head and tightened around his neck.

Hands and arms held him on the ground while his pack was taken from him. Finch’s panic grew as his wrists were tied behind him. In an instant, he was helpless and blind. Nearby, but muffled, he could hear voices, and they were Japanese.

“And what do we have here?” a voice queried in heavily accented English. “An American guerrilla who’s been visiting his friends? This is most fortunate.”

Finch thought it was time to change sides again. “I’m a friend,” he said through the thick cloth. “I’m on your side.” He realized how foolish it sounded as soon as he said it. “Colonel Omori can vouch for me. So can Lieutenant Goto.”

“Omori is gone,” said the voice. “He was removed because he could not catch you people. I am his replacement in the kempetei, Major Sendai. You are an American guerrilla, and, after I have questioned you thoroughly, I am going to let my men chop you into little pieces with their bayonets. Before you die, I will even make you eat your testicles so you do not go to hell on an empty stomach.”

Finch writhed against his bonds as fear overwhelmed him. If only he could see. “No. I helped Omori. I can prove it.”

The unseen Jap punched him hard, and he felt his nose crunch. Blood began to flow from his nostrils and into his mouth, sickening him.

“How?” asked the Jap. “And if I think you are lying, I will crush every bone in your body.”

Finch spat out the blood. “You read his files on those guys on Lanai, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

Finch saw a ray of hope in the darkness of the sack that covered his head. “I did that. I was sent in by Omori and got them to trust me. Then I led Goto to them and got them to surrender.”

“What else?”

“Uh, there were some guys in the prison camp who ran a radio. I got them for Omori.” He didn’t add that he hadn’t expected them to be executed. That would have made him sound soft. “Then I got the FBI agents Omori’d been looking for.”

“If all that is true,” Sendai said softly, “what were you doing here?”

More hope. Sendai was at least listening. “Omori sent me to work with Lieutenant Goto and get the American guerrillas. Look, I just warned him that there was going to be an attack on Hilo, and he’s making preparations for it now. Why don’t you take me to him and ask him?”

Finch was pushed to a sitting position and the sack pulled from his head. He blinked and found himself staring into the face of the devil incarnate, Lieutenant Sammy Brooks. The marine’s face was a mask of mud and grease war paint that helped him blend into the night. The eyes, however, glowed with hatred.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Brooks said with a Japanese accent. He’d been Sendai.

“Oh, Jesus,” Finch moaned. He felt a wetness in his groin as his bladder emptied. “I can explain.”

“Don’t bother,” said Brooks.

A shadow came from behind a tree. It was Alexa Sanderson, and she was similarly disguised. “Tell us about Melissa Wilson,” she said. Finch was dimly aware of others with them.

“Who?”

“Melissa Wilson. The blond woman whose picture you’re carrying and who you tried to tell me was your girlfriend. She was my neighbor and my best friend. She would never be a friend of yours.”

Once again faint hope buoyed Finch. Maybe he had information he could bargain with. “Why should I tell you anything?”

Alexa knelt beside him, and Finch thought he’d never seen such feral hatred and contempt on a person’s face. She slapped him across his broken nose, and he saw flashes of light through the sudden pain. “Because you are a traitor and you are going to die right now. It’s your choice whether it’s quick and painless or whether I let Brooks skin you alive. Maybe he’ll even make you eat your balls, just like he said when he pretended to be a Jap.”

Finch began to cry. “I told Omori I wanted a white woman, and he got her for me. I don’t even think she ever told me her name. The picture was in her purse, and I found it on the floor after she left one time. She was drugged up all the time, and we just fucked. She was fucking Omori and all the Japanese officers. I don’t know anything more, I swear it.”

Alexa took a deep breath and tried to keep control of her emotions. What had happened to Melissa was what would have happened to her had she remained on Oahu. “What about her child?”

“What child? I don’t know.” Finch’s voice was almost a shriek. Brooks held a wide-bladed knife in his hand. It was a skinning knife. “Please, I don’t know anything about the woman or her child. Please don’t let him hurt me.”

Alexa acknowledged the sound of terrified honesty in his voice. If he’d had anything to tell, he would have. “Quickly,” she said to Brooks and strode away. “I don’t want it to be slow. That’d put us on the same level as him.”

“Sergeant Finch,” Brooks said, “Hawkins wanted to be here to do this because you disgraced the army you both serve in, and I’m a marine. But Novacek thought he was too important to come, so this is from him.”

Brooks wrapped a length of wire around Finch’s neck and paused.

“By the way, the info you gave Goto was all false. We planted it out there to tempt you, and you bit like the dumb fish you are. We’re actually doing you a favor. We could’ve let Goto finish you when his raid on a nonexistent airfield turned into shit.”

Finch could scarcely groan.

“You’re a lucky bastard, Finch,” Brooks said as he pulled on the wire with all his strength. “I really wanted to skin you and shove your balls down your cocksucking throat.”

Finch couldn’t answer. His neck was broken.

Colonel Omori heard the pounding through his sleep. When he was finally awake enough to think, the pounding continued, both on the door to his bedroom and in his tortured skull. He cursed himself for drinking as much as he had. He would have a terrible hangover. At least he could stop the noise from outside his quarters.

“Who is it?”

“Captain Mikura,” came the reply. “I have an urgent message from Admiral Iwabachi,”

Omori slid out of bed and put on his pants. Then he told the captain to come in. Mikura was a marine officer on Iwabachi’s staff, and one of the brighter ones. Omori’d considered recruiting him for the kempetei.

“Sir,” said Mikura, “one of our soldiers just showed up at a police station and said that our base at Wheeler was under attack by other Japanese soldiers.”

“Really? And how drunk is this poor man?”

Mikura flushed. He wasn’t used to sarcasm. “I was told he appears fairly sober and terrified. He said that several score men who were dressed as Japanese soldiers and who look Japanese have taken over the field, killed just about everyone there, and shot down at least one of our planes. He has no idea how all this was accomplished. He said he was in his barracks and had just finished cleaning his rifle when armed men burst in and started stabbing sleeping soldiers. He says he fired at them and thinks he hit one of them. He later fled out the back of the barracks and into the brush, where he watched as all this occurred.”

It was far-fetched, but it contained the chilling germ of truth. However, the thought of Japanese soldiers perpetrating the attack was beyond belief. Something was terribly wrong.

“What have you done?”

“Sir, I immediately contacted the admiral and then attempted to raise Wheeler by phone. I could not get through. After that I contacted one of the carriers and asked them to try to raise the combat air patrol out of Wheeler, and they were unable to do so either.”

Omori was now fully awake. “Then Admiral Iwabachi is aware of this?”

“Yes, sir. He directed me to awaken you. As we speak, a motorized column is being organized to drive up to Wheeler to investigate. It will take a while as we don’t want to send a handful of men into an ambush if the soldier is telling the truth.”

Which he probably is, Omori thought in dismay while he continued dressing. As his head cleared, he again wondered about the men who had attacked Wheeler. They could not have been Japanese. They must have been whites made up to look like Japanese. In the darkness and panic, the survivor must have been confused. Obviously, the raiders had worn what must have looked like Japanese uniforms, and the power of suggestion had resulted in the rest. The soldier would not be punished for his mistake. He had performed his duty under the circumstances.

“You’ve done well. Have Yamamoto or his staff been informed?”

“Admiral Iwabachi said he will wait until we confirm that something is truly wrong, and that it is a threat to the fleet.”

Omori dismissed the captain and prepared to see Iwabachi. He would have to swallow the bitter pill of failure. Of course the soldier’s reports were correct. He had thought the Americans incapable of a guerrilla raid on Oahu, and he’d been wrong. He would have to accept both the blame and the shame for his error in judgment.

This meant that Lieutenant Goto had failed as well. Again. He would send that stupid, spoiled child back to Japan no matter who he was related to. Whatever had just occurred at Wheeler must have had its origin with the Americans on the Big Island.

He would also wreak vengeance on the men who’d launched the traitorous attack. What they had done was unspeakably evil, and both they and their families would pay severely. Perhaps he would keep Goto around just long enough to do the interrogations.

But what was their purpose? A raid on a distant field was a minor thing. Why betray themselves for such a matter? It would be an embarrassment, but one that could be hidden from anyone outside of Oahu. In no way would it affect the fleet or change the course of events in Hawaii. The annexation had already taken place, so what was the reason?

Omori stepped outside. It was a couple of hours until dawn. He could see the fleet, and most of the ships were still illuminated. In the distance, he could hear the drone of planes. At least the fleet was well protected.