Rising Sun

CHAPTER 11

The headlines on the San Francisco and Oakland newspapers said it all. The United States Navy had won a major victory over the Japanese and the nation was exultant. The string of agonizing defeats had ended and there would be more victories.

Amanda, Sandy, and Grace were not immune to the festive air as they walked down Funston Avenue near the Presidio in San Francisco on their way to the law offices of Goldman and Swartz. The articles following the headlines made for sparse reading, as it was obvious that the government wasn’t releasing much in the way of information. Nothing was said about which Japanese ships had been sunk, except to say that four were cruisers and five were destroyers. It was painfully evident that no Japanese carriers or battleships had been involved, which meant that the main Japanese battle fleet remained unscathed. Nor was anything said about what American ships were involved or where they’d been based, except to say that two battleships had done much of the work. The article also said that Japanese army shore installations had been pounded and destroyed, and that a large number of terribly mistreated American civilian refugees had been saved from Japanese clutches.

It was like a cloud lifting. The litany of defeats had come to a screeching halt. Now the United States would continue to strike back; at least, that was the prevailing hope and thought. There was, however, the nagging sense that the Japanese would seek revenge for the slaughter.

Even reading between the lines, it did not look like something Tim Dane would be involved in, and for that Amanda was thankful. Captain Harding had dropped by that morning with copies of their nursing credentials, which meant they could get a job, and gasoline ration coupons that would enable them to drive to San Diego in the ’38 Buick they’d purchased.

The law firm of Goldman and Swartz consisted of one person, Richard Goldman, Swartz having died several years earlier. The offices were on the second floor of a nondescript building that had a men’s clothing store on the first floor. Goldman was a small, frail man in his sixties and the women had asked for an appointment with him because Mack had suggested him.

“I’m sorry to hear of Mack’s passing,” Goldman said. “I’ve known him for a very long time, and yes, he did do some very questionable things when he was young and aggressive, but nothing that would have put him on the wrong side of the law. I think what you heard was his conscience speaking. He felt responsible when he made money while others lost theirs. Perhaps it was best that he wound up on a beach in Hawaii. Maybe I’ll go there myself someday.” He sighed. “Of course, I’d look like the devil in a bathing suit, so perhaps it’s best I don’t.”

Goldman took the envelope containing Mack’s will. “Alleged will” is how the lawyer phrased it.

“We have to prove its authenticity and, unfortunately, the only ones who witnessed it are the supposed heirs, you people, which is an obvious conflict of interest. You shouldn’t be witnessing something that will reward you; however, I don’t know what else you could have done. Also, we’ll have to prove that Mack is actually dead, and, since you are the witnesses as well as the heirs, the police might want to talk to you about the possibility that you killed him for his money. Again, however, since any alleged crime took place on the high seas, and likely out of anyone’s jurisdiction, that would be an uphill fight for the cops unless one of you wanted to confess, of course. If one of you would kindly implicate the others, I’ll get whoever confesses first a light sentence.”

“I didn’t kill him, I loved him,” lamented Grace.

“And I’m joking,” said Goldman. “Unfortunately, it was a bad joke.”

“I’m confused,” said Amanda. “Are you implying there’s enough money involved for someone to want to murder him?”

Goldman shrugged. “Who knows? He apparently cashed out all, or at least most, of his investments and put whatever he got into the safe-deposit boxes for which you have the keys. What’s in them we won’t know until and if they are opened.”

“Do you think it’s worth the effort?” Amanda pressed.

“I’d say probably. By the way, the legal effort will include someone, me, locating any of his living relatives who might file a claim that the will is invalid as well as dealing with the State of California, who might also say that the will is invalid and the contents of the boxes belong to the oppressed citizens of the state. What they’ll probably do is negotiate a percentage if it looks like you might prevail in court. By the way, we haven’t discussed my fee.”

Amanda sighed. “And how much will that be when you consider that we don’t have all that much money?” She decided not to mention the cash “refund” they’d recovered from Mack.

“Normally, I charge twenty-five percent of the proceeds. But, since you’re Mack’s friends, I’ll only charge a third.”

“What!” said Amanda.

Goldman laughed. “Glad to see you’re paying attention and understand basic math. Twenty-five percent is my fee.”

They agreed, signed a contract and some other forms, and left. It was time to go to San Diego and start earning a living. Goldman had a relative named Zuckerman in San Diego and they would communicate through him. Zuckerman was an attorney as well as an investor in real estate.

“I hope we’re doing the right thing,” Sandra mused as they waited for the ferry that would take them across the bay to Oakland and their car, “but I don’t know what the wrong thing could be.”

Amanda was about to answer when air-raid sirens went off. They looked about and scanned the skies along with thousands of other people who were staring skyward, puzzled and confused.

“There,” Grace shrieked and pointed. Hundreds of tiny dots were approaching from the south and heading over the Bay.

The Japanese were striking back.

Masao Ikeda piloted his Zero with the consummate skill of an experienced Japanese pilot, the best in the world. He and close to two hundred others flying both Zeros and the Nakajima B5N2 two-man carrier-based bombers had approached from the south of San Francisco because senior officers said that American radar likely did not extend that far. So they had circled behind where they thought radar would be, and apparently they were right. Radar was only dimly understood by the average pilot, and Japanese planes and most ships did not have it yet.

The waves of Japanese planes had flown at very low levels, well below what the experts also said were the limits of the radar devices that could identify a flying plane that could not be seen by the human eye. They had flown only a hundred feet above the ground and had been more concerned about trees and power lines than American warplanes. By coming from the south, it looked as if they’d also managed to avoid being spotted by any patrolling planes and ships.

The flight was both stressful and intoxicating. The terrain south of San Francisco surprised Ikeda. Unlike Japan, where cities were jammed with teeming multitudes, there was so much empty space and room for growth. He idly thought that he would like to visit the place some time. Perhaps after the successful conclusion of the war, where he would be treated as a conqueror and take his pick of white-skinned American women.

Today, though, he and his comrades would take revenge on the Americans for their disgraceful ambush of the Japanese convoy in what was a massacre unworthy of warriors. The planes from four carriers were taking part in this raid that saw them sweep unmolested over the rugged terrain south of San Francisco. Their knowledge of the area was minimal and they’d been reduced to reading road maps and magazine maps from sources like automobile clubs and National Geographic. Even so, it was impossible to miss the coastline and San Francisco Bay. Once over the bay, they turned north and east and headed toward the naval base at Mare Island. The bombers, referred to by the Americans as “Kates,” would drop their loads while the hundred and fifty Zeros dueled with American defenders. The Japanese did not think they could destroy the massive base with the fifty bombers and their relatively small loads. The purpose of the attack was to show the arrogant Americans that Imperial Japan could and would strike their home cities at will.

Ikeda had another hope. He was still a virgin when it came to enemy kills, and he was sick and tired of the teasing from his comrades. He would not even think of discussing the fact that he was a virgin when it came to women as well.

“Many enemy fighters!” came shrilly over his radio. “All directions.”

Ikeda looked around. Yes, American planes were swarming like angry bees from a hive. He exulted. There was no way he would not emerge with a kill; perhaps several enemy planes would fall to his guns. Another order sent the Kates back toward San Francisco, their secondary target. There were far too many American planes between them and Mare Island for the Kates to force entry. Now they were to bomb the city itself and then return to their carriers.

A shape flew across his nose. It was gone too quickly to fire at and Ikeda again cursed his luck. There! An American P47 was in his sights. He fired a burst and his tracers showed that the shells had fallen short. He fired again and the American plane lurched as pieces fell off. It began to smoke and headed toward the ground.

A kill, a kill! He howled with pleasure. He got his Zero on the tail of another P40 and blew it apart. A third plane, another P47, fell to his 20mm guns. He had to be careful, now. He didn’t want to run out of ammunition while surrounded by enemy wasps. He looked down and saw a number of parachutes. He thought about strafing the cowardly American pilots, but that would be a waste of ammunition.

“Break off. Return home.”

He snarled at the order, but it had to be done. A flash to his left and he saw a Zero explode. He fired a last burst at a P47, saw the shells hit but not kill the plane. Rumors said that the American plane was sturdy and the rumors, he thought ruefully, were correct. A flaming Zero fell from above him. He looked around and saw many, many American planes. The far fewer Japanese planes were all headed out to sea.

The Americans would chase the Japanese planes far to where the carriers waited along with the planes left behind to ambush any pursuit force. Ikeda tried to count the Japanese planes now flying west with him. He presumed that almost all the Kates had left the area and flown to safety, which meant there should be close to a hundred and fifty Zeros left. But where were they? Ikeda roughly counted much less than a hundred. Could the Americans have shot down so many? Nonsense, he thought. They must be scattered or following farther behind. Japan had won another great victory by bombing an American city and shooting down scores of enemy planes.

Even better, he, Masao Ikeda, was a virgin no more. Three confirmed kills and a possible fourth would tell all his comrades that he was a Japanese warrior.

Amanda cowered in the doorway of an office building while sirens continued to wail. There were many large plate-glass windows and she could visualize explosions sending knifelike splinters into the many hundreds of people running around screaming in panic. She saw a little girl knocked down and trampled. Amanda ran out and got the screaming child. Luckily she was only scared and bruised. A moment later, her sobbing mother took her and ran off. There were no bomb shelters. Of course not, she thought. San Francisco would never be a target despite all the hysteria regarding the possibility of a Japanese invasion. Damn politicians were wrong again, she thought angrily.

Explosions rocked the area. Bombs seemed to be dropping indiscriminately, which caused even more panic. Which way to run when you didn’t know what was the target? There was no safety. She saw a handful of Japanese planes fly overhead, heading west. They were low enough to see the empty bomb racks. There was a pause but no all-clear signal. After a few minutes, a large number of Japanese fighters headed west and they were followed by an even larger horde of American planes.

“Shoot the bastards down,” Grace yelled, and others joined in. How dare they bomb a helpless American city! How dare they attack civilians?

With bombs no longer falling, the panic slowed and ceased. Previously terrified people took a deep breath and regained control. Amanda realized that there appeared to have been very little real damage. She could smell smoke in the distance, but there were no massive conflagrations, and the San Francisco fire department seemed to have the situation under control.

Amanda dusted herself off. She was thankful that she’d not worn any stockings as her leg was bruised and she’d likely have torn them. Even cotton stockings were rare and nylons almost impossible to find. She shook her head at the inanity of worrying about stockings during an air raid. The sirens decided it was time to sound the all clear.

“Well, should we find a hospital and volunteer?” asked Sandy.

They did, and found that their services weren’t needed, that everything was under control. Only a small number had been killed or injured, and most of the injuries had occurred as a result of panic, not the bombing directly. A few dozen people had broken bones and bruises from being shoved and trampled, although few of the injuries seemed serious. A nurse in the emergency room was of the opinion that the bombing raid had been a bust.

“Police radio said a lot of Jap planes had been shot down. What a shame, huh?” the ER nurse said with a grin.

“What do we do now?” Grace wondered.

Amanda smiled. “We do what we planned. We cross the bay to our car and start driving south. On to San Diego!” she laughed, and thought, on to Tim Dane. Ready or not, here we come.

Masao Ikeda landed on the Akagi with empty guns and only fumes in his tanks. The engine actually sputtered as he pulled up on the flight deck. He dismounted from the cockpit to the cheers of his fellow pilots. As he walked by they congratulated him on his kills and that he was no longer a cherry. He laughed and took a moment to swallow a few mouthfuls of rice and half a gallon of water while mechanics refueled the plane and replaced ammunition. There was no time to waste. The American planes that had pursued him and his companions were overhead and fighting with the planes left behind to protect the precious carriers.

A moment later and Masao was airborne again and dodging among the American planes. He was astonished at the number and variety of Yank fighters. Models included the pitiful P40 and the very rugged P47, along with a couple of types he didn’t recognize. One, with twin tails, looked very interesting and also very lethal.

The Americans were not interested in dueling with Zeros. Their goal was the carriers, just as it had been the Japanese Navy’s goal back at Midway. They sent enough planes to skirmish with the Japanese cover force and keep them at bay, while torpedo planes and dive bombers attacked the four carriers that made up the Northern Force. The Akagi, Ryuju, Shinyu, and Soryu were arrayed in a square and their antiaircraft guns were killing Americans as they approached.

Even though Masao hoped and prayed for the best, it was inevitable that some American planes would get through. He watched in horror as a dive bomber dropped its load on the flight deck of his own Akagi, blowing a hole in it and clearly destroying the elevator. Fires erupted but were quickly brought under control. However, no planes would be landing on the Akagi for quite some time.

Another American plane strafed the Ryuju, starting fires in the bow area as poorly stored fuel ignited. Someone would be severely punished for neglect, he thought. Unless, of course, that the poor person had been immolated, and that would be poetic justice.

In the meantime, Masao had shot down two more planes, including one of the twin-tailed ones. He wondered just how much longer the Americans could linger over the Japanese fleet before they ran out of gas. The carriers were already more than a hundred and fifty miles offshore, and heading westward at top speed.

His question was answered when he suddenly realized that there were no more American planes in the air, instead they were dots fading in the distance.

He’d had a marvelous day and so, he thought, had Japan. They’d avenged the ambush of Admiral Hosogaya’s force in Cook Inlet and bombed the city of San Francisco. But at what price, he found himself wondering as the exhilaration of battle faded and cold reality set in. Had they really won a victory? Two carriers were burning and would be out of the war for months, if not longer. They had not succeeded in bombing the base at Mare Island, and he was certain that the few bombs the Kates had dropped on San Francisco had been too few and too small to be significant.

He was ordered to land on the Soryu. She and the Shinyu were undamaged. Masao wondered just where they would find room on two carriers to park the planes from four carriers when he realized to his dismay that there would be plenty of room. Victory? Where were the Japanese eagles? Where were his comrades? What kind of price had Japan just paid?

An angry and frustrated Admiral Yamamoto held court in his quarters on the massive Yamato. Was ultimate victory slipping away? Again he clutched his mangled hand. It was reminding him of his mortality.

The two men with him were his senior admirals, Takeo Kurita and Chuichi Nagumo. Kurita’s northern force now consisted of only two carriers and escorts, while Nagumo’s southern force included five carriers. It was an imbalance that he would have to correct. He would send the carrier Zuikaku north in partial replacement for the two that had been damaged in the attack on San Francisco.

“I have radioed my apologies to the emperor for the disaster in Cook Inlet,” Yamamoto said. “Both he and Prime Minister Tojo were polite and consoling, but nothing can change the fact that Cook Inlet was the first defeat the Japanese Navy has suffered in modern times. Our only consolation is that the defeat is a minor one. No carriers or battleships were lost.”

“Our intelligence failed us,” Nagumo said. “No one expected two American battleships to suddenly appear so far north.”

“And without air cover,” Kurita added grimly.

It upset them that the Imperial Japanese Navy possessed overwhelming air superiority but hadn’t used it. Nor had the Americans used any of their air power, including their lone carrier, the Saratoga. They had sent their battleship force naked and vulnerable in an attack that was both bold and unexpected. For the Americans to not use their planes had been an act of desperation, for the Japanese to not use them was an act of stupidity. At least one carrier, even a small one, should have been sent to cover the relief force.

Yamamoto nodded. “We must accept the fact that the Americans are getting more aggressive. They have great numbers of planes protecting their major areas; therefore, we will not attack large cities again. Our planes and pilots are superior, but the Americans are good enough and can overwhelm our pilots by sheer weight of numbers. We will not directly challenge their air fleets again. There are more than enough smaller targets to satisfy our needs and make the Americans squeal. Nor will we use our carriers when we attack them. Instead, we will again use cruisers and destroyers, along with our submarines, to bombard them and bring pain to California and the northern coast.”

“Then what of the carriers?” Kurita asked. “I hope you’re not suggesting they stand idle.”

Yamamoto laughed bitterly. “While some of our carriers are looking for the Saratoga, the others will be in reserve and will hopefully be able to ambush overeager Americans.”

The other two admirals nodded their approval. Carriers and battleships were too valuable to waste in smaller skirmishes. Japanese battle doctrine called for the Japanese fleet to engage major enemy forces in a climactic battle that would end the war. There had been some hope that Pearl Harbor would have accomplished that, but the absence of American carriers there had dashed that hope. Later at Midway, when the American carriers had been sunk, hopes had risen that the Americans would see reason and negotiate an honorable end to the war, one that would see Japan keeping her conquests. Those hopes had ended in disappointment. The Americans were not ready to negotiate and were not going to come out and fight a great battle; therefore, the Japanese fleet must change its strategies.

Yamamoto continued. “I did not tell the emperor of our losses in the San Francisco attack. After all, we suffered no ships sunk even though the Akagi and Ryuju will be out of action for at least six months, probably longer. And we shot down nearly two hundred American planes, if our pilots can be believed.”

They all laughed. Even at this late date in the war and with almost all pilots being experienced, they were still prone to unintended exaggerations. For too many, any plane they fired on had to have been destroyed.

Yamamoto continued. “We lost seventy of our own planes and, of course, their pilots. That is roughly the equivalent of a fleet carrier’s entire flight crew. Replacement planes and pilots will be sent as soon as possible, of course, but it is doubtful that the pilots will be of the caliber of the men we lost. It does not help that our inventory of replacement planes is so small. We simply cannot produce enough planes to replace out losses.”

“Have we had any success in locating the Saratoga?” Kurita asked. Like so many of his contemporaries, Takeo Kurita was a battleship admiral, but he recognized the need to eliminate the one remaining American carrier. Yamamoto felt that Kurita was not totally a supporter of the war. Well, he had his own doubts as well.

Yamamoto laughed. “No, and perhaps she too is back in Shangri-La.”

The others laughed as well and then grew somber. “What about our forces in Alaska?” inquired Nagumo. “Admiral Hosogaya and the survivors of the defeat have joined with Colonel Yamasaki’s army forces and are moving toward the Alaskan city of Fairbanks.”

Yamamoto shook his head sadly. “For the time being they are on their own. The Americans are doubtless building airfields at several locations and will soon be able to bomb Yamasaki’s forces at will, as well as being able to inflict too much damage on any forces attempting to relieve or evacuate them. In short, our forces in Alaska are doomed. I have spoken with Prime Minister Tojo and he understands the situation. He is confident that Colonel Yamasaki and his men will fight on to the end as true Japanese warriors and will honor the code of bushido.”

Yamamoto scowled. “In the meantime, we must double and redouble our efforts to find that one remaining carrier. She and her escorts must be sunk if we are to continue with our position of strength. We must put pressure on all our intelligence resources to find her.”

More likely, he thought, she was no longer in the Pacific. He had to find out one way or the other. If the Saratoga had moved to the relative safety of the Atlantic, so be it. But if she was somewhere within striking range, she had to be destroyed, if only as a symbolic gesture.