1942

CHAPTER 4

In Jake Novacek’s opinion, the office on the second floor of a nondescript Honolulu building was better suited for a small-time lawyer than for one of the most powerful men in Hawaii’s Japanese community. As the one receptionist-secretary recognized and greeted him, Jake knew that security personnel were just across the hall and were watching him carefully. He was in civilian clothes in an attempt to avoid undue notice. Many military personnel dealt with Toyoza Kaga, but few in an official capacity. If anyone was watching, he would be noted as just another soldier who owed Kaga money, wanted to borrow some, or maybe needed a compliant doctor for a girlfriend’s abortion.

After a moment, Kaga welcomed him warmly and by shaking hands, an unusual gesture for a Japanese. Most preferred to avoid physical contact with others. Kaga was average height for a Japanese, five four, thin, bald, and in his early sixties. He was one of the richest men in Honolulu, although he lived simply, without ostentation or extravagance.

“Captain,” Kaga said cheerfully, “have a seat. Coffee?”

“No, thank you. How is your empire prospering?”

“Mine or Imperial Japan’s?”

Jake laughed. “Yours.”

It was little known, but Toyoza Kaga had his hand in scores of businesses throughout the islands. Many he owned outright, and others he simply influenced and prospered from by dealing with them. Not all Kaga’s businesses were totally legal. There were gambling operations, minor bootlegging, and, of course, prostitution. By keeping tight control on the operations, he avoided the wrath of either the civilian or the military police, who all knew that soldiers and sailors had to have their ashes hauled every now and then. Kaga’s places were clean, nonviolent, and discreet, and therefore easy to ignore.

“This is the first time we’ve spoken since the attack,” Kaga said. “I hope it will not be the last.”

“Nor I,” said Jake. “I used the information you gave me about the unlikelihood of sabotage and gave it to my boss, who gave it to General Short. Unfortunately, Short or his staff chose to ignore it.”

“A shame,” Kaga said and meant it. He was firmly convinced that a Japanese victory in the war would be a disaster for both himself and the Japanese living in Hawaii. “At least there have been only a few incidents against my people by American military personnel.”

“Do you object to the internment of the radicals?”

Kaga laughed. The Japanese population of Hawaii was 160,000 people, more than a third of the total population of the islands, and 120,000 of them lived on Oahu. Of these, about 1,500 of the most radical supporters of Japan had been rounded up and interned. These were all people who had visited Japan, sent sons to fight in her army, and made bellicose speeches on behalf of Japan’s right to conquer Asia. There were many others who had cheered on Japan’s earlier conquests, but both the FBI and the military government considered them nuisances and not dangerous. Toyoza Kaga’s eldest son was an officer in the Japanese army, but that was a well-kept secret and a fact that deeply disturbed Kaga.

Some of the fifteen hundred radical Japanese might have been enlisted as saboteurs for Japan, but none had known of the timing of the attack. Japan had not trusted them with the information, which both men thought was an interesting fact in itself. With weapons reasonably scarce on the islands, they were also unarmed. Now, with emotions running high and tens of thousands of armed U.S. military personnel looking out in all directions for enemies, anyone contemplating sabotage would have to be a complete fool or insane, especially if they had a yellow skin. There would be no attacks from the Japanese community on Oahu.

“No, Captain, I do not object at all. However, I would suggest that you move the internees from Sand Island and elsewhere and ship them off to the mainland. That way they cannot be used to establish a sympathetic puppet government when Japan attacks and conquers these islands. Even with them gone, there will be many who will collaborate with the Japanese, but they will lack the venom and enthusiasm of those your army has imprisoned.”

Jake’s eyebrows arched at the declaration. “You think that’s definite? The Japanese will attack?”

“Absolutely. And it will come sooner rather than later.”

“And your people?”

“The first-generation issei and the second-generation nisei differ fundamentally,” Kaga said. “Most of the issei have their homes here but are sympathetic toward Japan, and they are confused now that their two homelands are at war. They revere Japan and love her memory, but, after all, they left for good reasons. The nisei, however, by and large have no great love for a distant land most have never seen or care to see. Nisei, remember, are American citizens as well as holding Japanese citizenship according to Japanese law.”

It was a bitter point. The older generation, like Kaga, had been denied citizenship because of the race quota laws, and many resented it. Ironically, the children of the issei had automatically become American citizens by virtue of being born on American territory. To many people, Jake included, it made no sense whatsoever. However, the nisei had been declared Japanese citizens by the Japanese government and, technically at least, were subject to Japan’s military draft. A small but unknown number had traveled to Japan to make themselves available for conscription, but the overwhelming majority wanted no part of the Japanese armed forces. On the contrary, almost fifteen hundred nisei had volunteered for the Hawaiian Territory’s two national guard regiments.

“The vast majority of my people,” Kaga continued, “will do nothing but try to survive the conflict as best they can. I doubt there will be any acts of sabotage, even random ones. The fear of retribution is too great.”

“And what will happen if the Japanese do invade?” Jake asked. “Where will loyalties lie then?”

Kaga shrugged. “Like I said, get rid of the radicals and the rest will play a waiting game. When-not if-the Japanese invade, there will be confusion regarding their long-term aims. If Hawaii is to be a bargaining chip for a future treaty in which we will be returned to American control, then my people will be cooperative but quiescent. If the occupation is going to be long term, or permanent, then people will adjust to the new realities in order to survive.”

Jake agreed. It fit what he had learned about the Japanese-American community. Beleaguered, picked on, insulted, and discriminated against, most of them still thought there were more advantages in being American than in being part of the militaristic Japanese empire. He would report this to General Short and the rest of the Hawaiian command. This time perhaps they’d listen to him.

The Japanese submarine I-74 lay on the swells of the Pacific, rolling gently and using only enough power to maintain seaway. She was shielded by the night and the fact of her low silhouette. A panther, she lay in wait for her prey.

The I-74 was only a couple of years old. She’d been constructed at the shipyards in Kobe and was armed with eight torpedo tubes and a 4.7-inch deck gun, and could cruise for sixteen thousand miles.

Like most submariners, her captain preferred to attack while on the surface. Doing so meant more torpedo accuracy, as well as the ability to travel at more than twice her speed when submerged. The I-74 could move at twenty knots on the surface but only nine submerged. Underwater movement was saved for special situations, such as hiding from an enemy warship, stalking a dangerous or elusive target, or traversing dangerous waters. Submerged, a sub could last only a dozen or so hours before the batteries that drove her needed charging, or before the air became so foul that sailors started to pass out and die.

But who needed to stalk or hide when the enemy was being so cooperative? Commander Jiro Boshiro could not believe his good fortune and the stupidity of the Americans. The four freighters must have discounted the existence of the war; they still had their navigation lights on. They were more afraid of collision than of him. He did not think they had traveled together. It was more likely an unintended clustering, of the kind that frequently occurred near a major port, and they were less than fifty miles from Honolulu. Why they were together didn’t matter. The result was a fairly neat line of enemy freighters close up and inviting him to kill them.

Under normal circumstances, it was an enemy he would have ignored. Japanese naval doctrine called for submarines to strike only at warships and, preferably, capital ships. This doctrine was in keeping with the code of bushido and the way of the samurai warrior. Orders were so specific that submariners were told how many torpedoes could be launched against each target. Freighters and transports were considered unworthy for samurai to attack, and demeaned the spirit of the offensive.

Orders, however, had been changed. In the absence of major targets and accepting that Hawaii was under a sort of siege, submarines of the Imperial Japanese Navy had been instructed to attack supply ships heading toward the islands. Those leaving would only be taking wounded and civilians and should be left alone, thus conserving precious torpedoes. But those approaching the islands would be carrying war materials that would enable the United States to recover from Japan’s glorious victory of December 7. They must be destroyed.

It galled Commander Boshiro to obey the orders, but they came from the revered Admiral Yamamoto and, therefore, must be right. He chuckled silently in the darkness. As if Yamamoto had ever been wrong.

At a thousand yards from the nearest ship, Boshiro ordered the first pair of Type 95 oxygen-propelled torpedoes hurled at the lead ship. Seconds later, another pair was fired at the next freighter. The forward tubes were quickly reloaded and the firing repeated.

The first torpedoes hit and exploded. Flashes of light were followed by plumes of white water and the crash of explosions as the four ships were hit and staggered in turn before they could flee. Two of them started to burn immediately, and the others quickly followed suit. All four began to settle as the sea rushed in to claim them.

Boshiro was slightly disappointed when none of the four burned in a way that would signify they carried either ammunition or fuel. Regardless, these were four ships that would never again carry cargo for the Americans.

The ships rumbled and creaked as they began to break apart and plunged to the bottom. Boshiro wondered if any sailors were trapped and screaming in their metal coffins. He shuddered. It was the submariner’s nightmare.

The deck crew of the I-74 saw lifeboats lowered and the surviving crew members scramble to safety. Brief thought was given to killing them, but Boshiro dismissed the option. Surely they’d had time to radio for help, which meant that either airplanes or destroyers would be on them in a short while. All the time the sub had been on the surface, lookouts had ignored the one-sided battle and strained instead for the sight of a warship or an airplane. The Americans were now patrolling the approaches to Pearl Harbor and, even though badly hurt, were still a dangerous enemy. They would delight in wreaking vengeance on a Japanese sub.

Commander Boshiro made a decision. He ordered the sub submerged. He would stay underwater until certain that his boat was safe, then he would head east, toward California. He would travel back along the route the four ships had taken from America and see if any other plums were ready to fall from the tree.

Perhaps next time he’d get a chance to sink something truly important.

Halsey and Nimitz had toured the harbor area and been brought up to speed on the damage to the ships. Admiral Chester W Nimitz was fifty-six, white-haired, and robust. He had an affable, easygoing personality, which hid a degree of toughness that often surprised others when it came to the surface. At first, Nimitz was not going to relieve the disgraced Admiral Kimmel until the end of the year, but realization of the scope of the fuel crisis, which threatened to cripple the Pacific Fleet, had accelerated his takeover.

Although three years older, Admiral William “Bull” Halsey was subordinate to Nimitz. Halsey was colorful, aggressive, energetic, and he made good press copy. Upon receipt of the pre-Pearl Harbor war warning, Halsey had not dallied. He had ordered his ships and planes to shoot any nearby Japanese and the hell with the consequences. While he wished nothing more than to have his two carriers unleashed against the Japanese, he accepted the logic that it was not possible until the supply situation was resolved and the fleet beefed up by reinforcements from the Atlantic.

It was for this reason that the two admirals met in Kimmel’s old office, overlooking the submarine pens. General Short had been invited to attend, and he was expected momentarily. In the meantime, the two admirals reviewed the catastrophe.

Of the eight battleships so neatly anchored off Ford Island at the time of the attack, two, perhaps three, would be of use by the end of 1942. For the others, it would take longer, perhaps forever.

The Arizona and the Utah were sunk and likely unsalvageable. The Arizona, in particular, was a charred hulk in which more than a thousand men were entombed, while the Utah had partially capsized.

The Oklahoma had also capsized and had been prevented from rolling completely over only when her masts snagged themselves in the harbor’s muddy bottom. The Oklahoma would be out of commission for years at best. It was very likely she would never be salvaged.

The California had also been sunk, but engineers had declared it was possible that she could be refloated by spring and sent to the mainland for repairs. So too would the heroic Nevada, the only battleship that had tried to escape the carnage at Pearl.

The West Virginia had sustained extensive damage and, like the Arizona, was a burned-out hulk. However, engineers were confident they could raise her in about a year and send her back for refitting. Nimitz and Halsey wondered if they would have a year to work with.

Not all the news was bad. The Tennessee had sustained damage to her number 2 and number 3 turrets but was otherwise unhurt. She had already departed for California. The Maryland, even though hulled by a bomb, had also departed for the States. During the attack, she’d had the ghoulish good fortune to be protected from Japanese attackers by the corpse of the Oklahoma, just as the Tennessee had been covered by the West Virginia.

That left the Pennsylvania. The battleship had been in dry dock and not anchored off Ford Island; thus, she had emerged relatively unscathed from the first attacks. The last one, however, had hurt her badly. Bombs had knocked out her forward fourteen-inch turrets, and a near miss had sprung her hull. Flames from the burning oil and fuel cascading from the storage tanks had caused additional damage, but her engineering plant was still intact and she could make headway.

“Get her the hell out of here,” snapped Halsey. “If the Japs come, they’d get the present of a nearly usable battleship. Send her to California just as fast as she can get there.”

Nimitz agreed and gave the orders for the Pennsylvania to depart as soon as she was minimally ready. With the departures of the Tennessee and the Maryland, along with escorting destroyers, the fleet anchorage was beginning to look empty and forlorn. Many other ships had been sunk or damaged, but they were replaceable, while battleships were not. The Colorado was on the West Coast, and additional help was arriving there in the form of the New Mexico, the Mississippi, and the Idaho from the Atlantic Fleet.

More important, in both admirals’ estimation, was the arrival in the Pacific of the carrier Yorktown. Nimitz and Halsey were convinced that the day of the battleship had passed and that the carrier was the new queen of the seas.

Until the damaged ships were repaired and new ones delivered, the balance of power in the Pacific still lay with the Japanese: ten carriers to three; and maybe a dozen Jap battleships to America’s four. The United States still had a number of cruisers, destroyers, and subs in the area, but these were more than matched by the Japanese. With the war raging in the Atlantic as well, it was unlikely that very many more reinforcements would be forthcoming from that arena.

General Walter Short entered the room and sat down. “I hear you’ve routed ships back to the States after yesterday’s attack on those freighters.”

“Yes,” said Nimitz while Halsey glared at the general, who, in his opinion, had been as negligent as Kimmel during the December 7 attack. Both admirals considered it hideously unfair that Kimmel had been sacked while Short retained his position. “Six civilian ships were sunk yesterday, and we believe four of them by the same sub. We have to prepare for convoy and escort duty just like we are doing in the Atlantic against Nazi U-boats. I decided that any ship that could be sent back to the mainland should be returned there. In the future, priority will be given to escorting ships carrying material that can repair the ships and the fuel depot. Anything else will have to wait.”

“You don’t understand,” said Short. “Those ships contained more than supplies. They contained food.”

“Food?” Halsey asked harshly. “Who the hell cares about food on a tropical island?”

Short met Halsey’s anger with his own. “You will in a little while, Admiral. This place may be tropical, but it grows everything except food. Much of what we eat is imported. No food ships and the people of Hawaii starve. Maybe you boys on your floating palaces have enough to eat, but the people of Honolulu are going to be hurting in a couple of weeks if the food ships stop coming in.”

Nimitz rubbed his eyes. It was another unexpected problem. “How many shiploads do you need?”

“Maybe fifty a month, depending on the size,” Short said. “More, of course, if the place is going to be reinforced. More construction workers and more soldiers mean more mouths to feed. It’s just that simple, gentlemen. And don’t forget that everything from razor blades to toilet paper has to come from the mainland. Counting military personnel, there are about half a million people who need the navy to keep them fed, clothed, and their asses wiped.”

Nimitz accepted the obvious. Precious resources would have to be allocated to feed and sustain the military and civilian population of the islands.

Short managed a tight smile. “Contrary to what’s being said about me, I am taking steps to alleviate the situation. As military governor, I am ordering the confiscation of all foodstuffs from stores and warehouses, and will institute a food rationing program within a couple of days. We’ll stretch what we have for as long as we can, but the civilians aren’t going to like it one bit. For one thing, I am going to give priority to my soldiers and the men working to repair the facilities.”

“I understand,” Nimitz said. “We’ll do what we can.”

“I’m also gathering all the gas and oil I can to keep my trucks and what planes I have left operational. We’ll be rationing civilian gas, and a lot of people are going to be walking or riding bikes. Without shipping, these islands are a goddamned mess. Look, I can’t even replace the planes I’ve lost without ships. Not a fighter in my air force or your navy has the range to fly from California to here. They all have to be ferried, along with the fuel to get them in the air when they finally do get here.”

With that, an angry Short left as abruptly as he had arrived.

“Now what?” Halsey asked. He still strained to go after the Japanese, although he would have loved to have vented his frustrations on General Short.

When Nimitz responded, it was in a voice filled with gloom. “You will take the Lexington and Enterprise to Australia.”

“Australia?” Halsey was incredulous. “The Japs are coming here!”

“You’re probably right.”

Nimitz knew that Halsey was more than right. As a recipient of Magic information that was denied Halsey, Nimitz had been told of troop movements in and around Japan, as well as another gathering of the Japanese fleet. Logic said that Hawaii was a possible destination. Under the circumstances, Nimitz had reluctantly concluded that the situation in the islands was temporarily hopeless.

“Oh my God,” Halsey said. “You’re abandoning Pearl, aren’t you?”

“Not entirely. But I cannot justify attempting to defend the place at this time. If the Japs don’t come and the repairs are made, we can return just as quickly as we left. The remainder of the fleet will protect our West Coast, while your carriers protect Australia. You might not like that directive, but it comes directly from Roosevelt.”

“But if the Japs do come here, the army’ll be overwhelmed.”

Nimitz nodded sadly. “The way things are, that’ll happen even if we stay. I’m returning to San Francisco by air and taking Kimmel’s staff with me. From there we’ll plot our next steps.”

“Chester,” Halsey said softly, “what about the dependents? There are thousands of wives and children of army and navy personnel here, not to mention ordinary civilians. Should we try to take some of them with us?”

Nimitz took a deep breath. It was the most agonizing decision he would ever have to make. “No. I have authorized the removal of the sick, the very old, and the very young, and that’s it. We cannot take them all, and I am not in a mood to play Solomon over who stays and who goes. Further, any attempt to evacuate other civilians will cause a panic. No, we’ll simply say that our actions in moving our ships from here are being taken to fight the Japanese, which is true. We’ll leave enough smaller ships to placate the civilians, and just maybe deter the Japanese, but the heart of the fleet must leave.”

“I hope it works,” said Halsey.

“So do I,” Nimitz answered in a voice that was almost a groan. “So do I.”

Jake Novacek drove his ‘38 Buick carefully down the darkened streets of Honolulu. There were very few cars on the road as a strict curfew was in effect. He’d been stopped several times, and only the fact that he was an armed army officer in uniform had kept the local police or Military Police from taking him in.

His apartment was across the street from a couple of stores. One was a grocery owned by an old Japanese man who also owned Jake’s apartment building. Jake wondered just how he’d fare with the nation at war with Japan. To his chagrin, Jake realized that, even though he’d shopped there often enough, he didn’t know whether the old man was a citizen or not. Jake just bought food and beer, and paid his rent. The old man was named Matsuo, and Jake didn’t know if that was his first or last name.

Jake was dirty, bloody, and exhausted. A bed, he thought, my kingdom for a bed. Oh, yeah, and a shower. He’d seen so much death and so much grief. He just wanted to get the hell away from anything military, if only for a few hours. His apartment was his oasis.

He was haunted by the faces of the families who’d lost loved ones, in particular the pain shown on the face of Alexa Sanderson. Such a beautiful lady in so much agony, he thought, and no possible way for him to help her, or all the others whose loved ones were still being pulled from the dirty waters of Pearl Harbor. He wondered if the funeral had provided any solace for her.

He pulled into his parking spot and wondered just how much longer he’d be able to drive his car, since gas rationing was inevitable. He made a mental note to get a lock for his gas cap. He wondered if somebody might someday steal his tires and what the hell he could do about it. Then he’d be reduced to riding a bicycle. He’d been reliably informed that he looked stupid on a bike. Of course, he’d been drunk the last time he’d attempted to ride.

Food rationing was inevitable too. Thank God nobody’d thought to ration beer. He had a dozen bottles of Budweiser in the fridge that he would cherish after drinking two of them tonight. Then another thought hit him. What would he do if the power went out? He disliked warm beer, but, he thought with a chuckle, he would drink it in the service of his country.

“Get out, you bums!”

“Fucking Jap!”

Jake turned quickly at the sounds. They came from Mr. Matsuo’s store across the street. Three young white men spilled out of the store, followed by an outraged Matsuo. The men were carrying food and beer.

“You pay, you pay,” yelled Matsuo. “Thieves, you thieves!”

The leader of the three, a tall, rangy man in his thirties, stopped and kicked the old man in the gut, dropping him to the ground, where he groaned and writhed.

Shit, Jake thought as he trotted across the street. His sidearm, a venerable but reliable.45 automatic, was already in his hand. “Enough, children,” he snarled. “Drop everything and get your hands up.”

“What the fuck?” said the leader. “Hey, you’re a soldier. You should be on our side. This is a fucking Jap, just like the bastards who killed our men.”

Jake held the pistol steady. The three were drunk. No surprise. “Yeah, and what branch of the service are you in?”

“Registered civilian,” said the leader, smirking. “Now, what are you going to do? You can’t arrest us. You ain’t no cop.”

“Don’t have to be,” Jake said. “There’s a curfew on, you’re robbing this guy, you’re drunk, you assaulted him, and, if you haven’t noticed, I’ve got a gun pointed right at your empty heads.”

Sirens could be heard in the distance, and they were approaching. Somebody had called the real cops. The would-be thieves heard them too.

“You ain’t gonna shoot us and you know it. We’re all white men and this is a yellow-skinned, slanty-eyed Jap,” the tall one said. “And we’re leaving right now.”

“No,” Jake said and pointed the weapon at the leader’s chest. “What you’re going to do is lie down on the ground and wait.”

“Bullshit,” the leader said. “Take him, boys.”

The three men lunged forward. Jake quickly reversed the pistol and smashed the leader in the face with the butt, turning his nose into a bloody mess and knocking out several teeth. He then wheeled on the second man and hit him alongside the head with the pistol. The man screamed and dropped to his knees. Jake kicked him in the ribs, and he fell over. The third man stopped and lay down on the ground, his eyes wide with terror.

“I’m dying,” said the leader, his voice distorted by his smashed face and the blood running from his mouth.

A squad car with one cop arrived seconds later, and the store owner, now shakily on his feet, quickly explained the situation. Equally quickly, Jake had wiped any blood off his pistol and put it back in its holster.

He recognized the officer as one of the good guys, a cop named Malone, who wasn’t stick-happy when it came to arresting drunken military types. Mr. Matsuo told Malone that the three louts had tried to rob him and that Jake had saved him.

Officer Malone looked at the three men and then at Jake. “They’re pretty messed up, Captain. Any idea what happened to them?”

Jake shrugged. “They may have run into each other while trying to run out of the store.”

“Yeah,” the cop said solemnly. “They look like clumsy types.”

Air-raid sirens went off again. Japs or another false alarm? Odds were a false alarm. There’d been scores of them since the attack. Malone swore, pushed the three drunks into his squad car, and sped off down the road, his own siren wailing. Jake looked around. It all had happened so quickly. He shook his head. Now more than ever he needed to clean up and rest.

Mr. Matsuo ran up to Jake and shoved a bag in his arms. “Thank you, Captain. And here.”

Jake grinned. He now had another six bottles of Budweiser.

The northern Pacific was bleak and windswept, but this was no deterrent to the men who loaded their precious cargo onto the decks of the Imperial Navy’s carriers. Victory was a fever, and the crews were flush with it.

Standing on the dock and looking at the ships a half-mile away, Commander Fuchida thought that the carriers looked top-heavy with the extra planes they carried and that they would capsize in the first strong wind or wave. He knew better, but the sight was unsettling.

Unseen, but even more congested, were the lower decks, where spare parts, ammunition, and additional fuel had been jammed into every available space. The men of the Imperial Japanese Navy would be damned uncomfortable for this crossing, but Fuchida was certain they’d all applaud the results. Japan was again going to punish the arrogant Americans, and Uncle Sam’s white beard would be singed by flames.

As strong as the task force that had destroyed the American battle fleet, this new incarnation of the Kido Butai was again commanded by Admiral Nagumo, and this was one of Fuchida’s few worries. Although Nagumo was again protected by two battleships along with numerous other cruisers and destroyers, Fuchida feared that the admiral might flee in the event the Americans were sighted before they reached their target, the island of Molokai.

Fuchida feared that the bold stroke might be too bold for Nagumo, but he dared not voice the complaint. He was too junior to take the risk, although the outspoken Commander Genda had sent whispers through the corridors of the high command.

The plan was marvelous in its simplicity. The fleet also included a regiment of Imperial marines, a battalion of engineers, and sufficient supplies to build and sustain airfields on Molokai.

Molokai had been chosen because it had a number of private airstrips that could be utilized until larger fields were constructed. Thus, immediately after the marines secured the area, the extra planes could be flown in from the carriers and operations against Oahu begun immediately.

Little resistance was expected; intelligence said there were no military units on Molokai, and any civilian opposition could be brushed aside. Molokai was large, but the marines could hold it and protect the air arm. When the planes landed, Fuchida was proud that he would command them and the subsequent softening-up assaults against the Americans. The carriers would linger only as long as necessary. They would depart and leave a handful of smaller ships to protect the new Japanese base. It was clearly understood that the Americans did not have the ability to launch a naval counterattack from Oahu, although Fuchida and most of the other officers wished they’d try. It was presumed, however, that air assaults would commence quickly, thus the need for the carriers to stay in the area until the base was fully operational.

Molokai had been chosen instead of Lanai for two additional reasons. First, Molokai was less rugged than Lanai, which meant more fields could be constructed, and, second, Lanai was considered entirely too close to Oahu. Even though the Americans had very few planes, any American counterattack against Lanai would be overhead before a warning could be made and countermeasures taken. No, Molokai was the perfect distance, although no one ruled out occupying Lanai at a later time.

Fuchida saw Admiral Yamamoto approach as he stood on the dock. He snapped to attention. Yamamoto greeted him warmly. “I am very pleased with your plans and your efforts,” he told Fuchida.

Fuchida bowed. “Thank you, sir.”

“Yours will be a brave endeavor, and one that will be instrumental in the conquest of Hawaii. Everyone is thoroughly aware of the importance of this mission. Everyone will support it to the utmost.”

Fuchida’s heart surged. Yamamoto would never criticize Nagumo in the presence of a junior officer, but he had just told Fuchida that Nagumo had been forcefully informed that he had better succeed or face dire consequences.

Yamamoto chuckled. “So many planes. Are you sure there’s room on the flight decks to get them airborne?”

Fuchida smiled, glad to change the topic. “Just barely, sir. Thank God we won’t have to land them back on the carriers.”

“Just remember,” Yamamoto said sternly, “pilots are more important than planes. We can replace planes from our warehouses and factories, but our brave pilots are irreplaceable.”

Fuchida understood. In the unlikely event that major American forces were located and did attack, the extra planes would simply be pushed into the sea to enable the others to return safely. It would be more necessary that the carrier pilots be preserved than that a landing be effected on Molokai. Many officers wished such an American attack would occur. It would give the navy an opportunity to smash the Americans again.

Japanese strategy called for such a battle, even planned on it. The navy’s ultimate goal was to lure large American forces away from their bases and toward Japan, where they would be ambushed by the overwhelming might of the Combined Fleet. It was for this reason that Nagumo had been given a strong force but not an overwhelming one. If the Americans took the bait, he was to inflict damage and withdraw in apparent retreat toward Japan, where Yamamoto waited with a force that included the secret superbattleship Yamato. The Yamato was twice the size of any other battleship, had eighteen-inch guns, and had been plucked from her sea trials to join the fleet. Yamamoto would keep his flag on the Yamishiro, but the Yamato would be the iron fist of the supporting fleet.

If the Americans did not rise to the temptation, then Molokai was secured. Either way, Japan won. But, as Fuchida had been reminded, winning could not come at too great a price.

The war was only a few weeks old, but a potentially serious problem was beginning to emerge. Japanese planes were superb and could be manufactured in sufficient numbers by Japan’s factories, but not so the pilots. Japanese naval pilots were considered the elite of the elite, the bravest of the brave, the fittest of the fit. In short, the standards for a carrier pilot were so high that they were almost impossible to fulfill and sustain.

Fuchida was a product of the system, and he had seen the vast majority of apparently highly qualified applicants fail to make the grade. Now he and others were wondering whether the standards were too high. For the moment, there were more than enough pilots to man the planes and enough replacements on hand for those lost, but the downward trend of the curve was inexorable and already unmistakable. If the coming air battles became ones of attrition, the quality of the Japanese air arm would suffer as incompletely trained pilots replaced the skilled ones.

America’s pilot standards were nowhere near as high as Japan’s, and this had already proven itself as American air-to-air casualties had been far higher than Japan’s. But the battles had not been totally one-sided. Japan had also lost planes and pilots. The Americans, with a larger population base to draw from, could simply replace their losses much more easily. Even if Japan shot down two planes for each one of her own lost, the Americans might prevail through the sheer weight of numbers.

Fuchida had a heavy responsibility. He must fight, but he must also preserve his forces. He must help defeat the Americans in Hawaii, which would bring the Americans to the conference table for a negotiated peace.

Yamamoto had walked a distance away. Fuchida had a wild urge to call after him and tell him that he understood, and that the mission would be a success. The commander laughed. After all, didn’t Admiral Yamamoto already know that?

The fleet would sail in the morning. There was time for a farewell dinner with Commander Genda, who would later be on the flagship at Nagumo’s side. Once again they would reenact the roles they had played at Pearl Harbor. Once again he was confident that there would be both surprise and overwhelming victory.