Rising Sun

CHAPTER 22

DANE’S FLIGHT TO TASK FORCE 18 HAD BEEN UNCOMFORTABLE, cramped, and exhausting, but surprisingly short. The American fleet wasn’t hiding anymore. It was on its way.

As to comfort, there simply wasn’t enough room in the PBY for all the additional people and their gear. They couldn’t move for fear of interrupting something important being done by the crew, and sleeping was done in fits while seated. They tried to find room for Spruance to rest, but he insisted on sharing their mutual discomfort.

Dane considered it a real miracle that their pilot found the small fleet in the vastness of the Pacific. When Dane looked down on it, he was both impressed and disappointed. The Saratoga and the Essex looked tiny and puny and only began to take on substance when they flew much closer. The two new battleships, the North Carolina and Washington, however, were sleek and deadly-looking creatures. Too bad they were already obsolescent, he thought. They looked like wolves straining to get among the sheep. Too bad the Japanese weren’t sheep. He also counted a good dozen destroyers in a loose circle around the carriers and battleships. Once it would have been an impressive array, but that was all changed.

The PBY put down alongside the Saratoga and the men were taken by launch to the carrier. Dane was mildly surprised to see the PBY crew with them. Merchant told him they couldn’t take the chance that the plane might be spotted on the way back and enemy fighters vectored back to the carriers. It made sense but it was a shame to see the perfectly good flying boat quietly sink beneath the waves.

Task Force 18 was so named because its predecessors, TF 16 and 17, and been destroyed either in the battle of Midway or its aftermath. Using the names of the predecessor units would have been bad luck and sailors were very superstitious.

Spruance’s group crossed the crowded flight deck, where planes and pilots awaited the word to go, and went to the flag bridge. They were greeted by Halsey, who looked like hell. He appeared exhausted and what was visible of his skin was covered by scabs. His skin disorder, psoriasis, had indeed flared up and the man appeared to be in agony. In Dane’s opinion, the belligerent little admiral looked far worse than when he’d last seen him in San Diego. He wondered if the psoriasis was caused by the intense pressure and responsibilities of command. He wondered if his thoughts were unkind. Halsey was a brave and capable man. The two admirals spoke quietly for a few minutes and Halsey left, his head down.

When Spruance returned to the group, his expression was grim. “Halsey’s going to sick bay. He’s turned command over to me. Nothing, however, is changing. We are steaming toward the Japanese. We will be in range in a very short while, much sooner than I expected. As soon as radar shows them launching their planes to strike at our dummy carriers, the Saratoga and Essex will turn loose our planes and hit them with everything we have.”

Merchant asked the first question on everyone’s mind. “When will Admiral Halsey resume command?”

Spruance sighed. “Not for a while. I think this battle’s going to be mine.”

Merchant continued. “Then what about Japanese radar? Do we still assume they don’t have it on their ships?”

Spruance paused. If the Japanese did have radar on their ships, the American force could be steaming into another ambush. His men needed to know what they were up against, but they weren’t cleared to know too much.

“Just like us, Captain, very few of their ships have radar, and, just like ours, it isn’t very reliable. All indications are that their ships do not carry long-range radar if any at all. I know it’s dangerous to presume, but we have no other choice.”

A young ensign burst in on them, saw Spruance, and saluted. “Sir, we just got word that the Japs’ carriers have launched their planes. They all appear headed for the Baja.”

Spruance paused for a moment and appeared to look upward. Dane wondered if he was seeing a chance at redemption or the likelihood of losing more carriers. Or maybe he was praying. Finally, he smiled. “We will attack immediately.”

As soon as the shelling appeared to stop, rescue parties began swarming over the smoking ruins that had once been a major naval base. In most cases, the buildings had been emptied, and their occupants fled to shelters or trenches like the one that had protected Farris and Nancy Sullivan.

Not so the hospital. Originally a three-story office building located on a rise outside the base proper, it had been struck and devastated by several Japanese shells. The temporary wooden buildings and Quonset huts surrounding it had been smashed and were burning. The stench of scorched flesh filled the air, gagging rescuers.

As an officer who’d volunteered to help, Farris was given a dozen sailors and Marines who didn’t seem to notice that their commander was from the army and that he was having trouble with his left arm. There were lives to save and no time for bullshit.

Farris’s shoulder now ached and he could hardly lift his arm. So much for getting better, he thought. Worse, though, was the information from Nancy that the hospital was where Amanda worked. Since she had not shown up to help with the injured, they could only presume that she’d been in the building when the shells hit. Even though he’d only met her a couple of times, she was now family and Steve was deeply upset that she might have been buried in the hospital.

A few people, most of them badly injured, had been found alive and carted off on stretchers, and Nancy had helped carry them. When he mentioned it, she shrugged it off, explaining that she’d studied Japanese fighting methods and that leverage more than compensated for brute strength.

More frequently, though, what they found were dead bodies or, worse, parts of bodies. One of the sailors near Farris pulled on a human leg and screamed when it came out of the rubble without the rest of the body. Farris tried to calm the young man down and sent him off when he couldn’t stop shaking. Unfortunately, the finding of bodies and partial bodies was all too common. He wondered if the hospital had been targeted intentionally and then dismissed the thought. Even though there were large red crosses on the buildings, he doubted that the Japanese could even see them. No, these were more likely random shots with tragic consequences.

“Lieutenant, over here!”

Farris scrambled over to where a small cavelike opening appeared in the debris, possibly leading to the basement. He stuck his head in. His spirits sagged as he smelled dust, smoke, blood, excreta, and death. If Amanda was in there, God help her. Regardless, the tiny opening would have to be enlarged.

Nancy was beside them. “Just make it big enough for me and get me a flashlight. I’m a lot smaller than you guys and can make it where you can’t. I only wish I hadn’t worn a skirt.”

The men nodded enthusiastically and began digging. Farris noted that nobody seemed to care anymore that she was part Japanese. Hell, everyone was too busy carrying dirt from the rubble.

A few moments later and Nancy slithered in through the slightly enlarged hole. She carried a flashlight and wore a helmet that looked incongruously large. Someone had slipped her a set of fatigues that, hopefully, would provide some protection from contact with the rubble; she wasn’t concerned about modesty, saying if somebody wanted to see her skinny legs, let them look. A rope was tied around her waist. If something happened, maybe they could pull her out. At least they’d know where to find her.

Inside the cave, she turned on the flashlight and recoiled. A man’s face was staring at her. His eyes were wide open but unseeing. She checked under his chin for a pulse and found none. A few other limbs protruded from the rubble. She checked and found no signs of life. She began to think that this was a dangerous waste of time. But she continued to look and scrambled farther in. She saw an arm sticking out and she felt for life.

“Oh, Jesus,” she said and began to crawl back.

Another few moments, and her head popped up in the sunlight. She saw Farris. “Get me some canteens and begin opening that hole real fast.”

Masao howled with glee as one of the evil looking twin-tailed American fighters broke in half under the impact of his guns and plummeted into the sea. It was his third kill of the day, and, even better, it appeared he was through the American planes defending the carriers.

His was not the only plane to break through to the enemy ships that were now nothing more than fat targets anchored in the bay. Others were ahead of him and beginning their bombing runs. Large splashes rose near the American ships and a couple of bombs struck the carriers, sending debris skyward. Masao thought the carriers looked strange and the flying rubble different than what he expected. However strange, he thought, the American carriers were going to die. He noticed there was no antiaircraft fire coming from them and he wondered why as he began his run. Perhaps their guns had been removed as part of the repair process.

“Abort, abort,” came the order over his radio. “Those aren’t real ships. Pull up! Pull up!”

Masao hesitated only for an instant before obeying. Even so, his momentum carried him over the “carriers” and he had the sickening realization that they were indeed dummies. Where then were the real American carriers? Had the Japanese planes been lured to this site so they could duel with the American planes, or was there a more sinister reason? If it was to be a duel of planes, he was confident that the American fighters were no match for his fellow Japanese, even though so many of the pilots were inexperienced replacements.

The radio crackled again, and this time his commander’s voice was almost frantic. “All planes, return to your carriers. The Americans are going to attack our carriers.”

Stunned, Masao turned and joined hundreds of others as they began to chase the American fighters who, he now realized, had let them slip through on purpose. He could see the American planes gaining altitude and disappearing in the direction of the carriers. He was astonished at the speed of the American planes and the altitude at which they were flying. Perhaps Toki had been correct—the Zero was indeed obsolete.

“The carriers are under attack,” the shrill voice came over the radio, but how, he wondered? The American planes were in sight and still a ways from them. The truth dawned. If they had just attacked the dummy carriers, then where were the real ones? They were now attacking the Japanese carriers, that’s where. He howled his rage and vowed vengeance on the Americans.

Toki stood behind Admiral Nagumo on the bridge of the Kaga and tried to make himself small and unnoticed, and to a large part, he succeeded. The admiral was obviously conflicted as he received the information that the American carriers weren’t in the waters off the Baja as expected. Both the American and Japanese airplanes were now en route to the Japanese carriers, with at least some of the Americans due to arrive ahead of the Zeros.

Toki listened as other staff officers outlined the dilemma. The Japanese planes had already made a long flight to California and now were headed back. They would have some fuel, but not enough to sustain a long fight. Thus, they would have to be refueled, and if the Americans were in the area, that would be both dangerous and chancy. Staffers argued about their options. Some said the Zeros should destroy the Americans using what fuel they had and take a chance on ditching.

Nagumo finally made the decision. All carriers would be ready to receive planes and refuel them as quickly as possible. It had to be done that way. If Japanese planes were forced to ditch, they and their pilots were as good as lost. So too might the carriers be lost without planes to protect them. Nagumo said the ambush was a serious setback but he was confident that Japan’s superior planes, pilots, and sailors would prevail, turning the situation into an opportunity for a decisive victory. After his uncharacteristic optimism earlier, Toki was not so certain. Nothing had gone right this day.

In the meantime, the fleet would prepare to defend itself against the Americans flying in from the east. They would meet a storm of antiaircraft fire that would hold them at bay until the Zeros closing in on them took over. It meant, though, that the carriers would be on their own for at least a little while. Toki found that idea very disturbing.

Toki joined the lookouts peering through binoculars, searching for first sight of the Americans approaching from California. This would be the first time he would truly see combat. Watching as pilots departed and returned wasn’t the same thing. He felt nervous, afraid. Did everyone feel that way, he wondered? At any moment he could be blown to pieces and he decided he didn’t like that at all.

A scream tore him away from his thoughts. A sailor was looking upward and pointing, and not toward the east. No, Toki thought, it can’t be. He heard others saying the same thing out loud, uselessly protesting against the obvious. High above, little dots were becoming larger ones. Enemy aircraft had found the carriers and were falling on them like hawks attacking a rabbit.

Antiaircraft guns were turned upward and began firing maniacally. Many of them couldn’t shoot, however. They’d been poorly positioned and couldn’t aim at a plane diving from above. The lead American dive bomber was hit and fell apart, but the second made it through, dropping its bomb in the ocean a few dozen yards off the Kaga’s bow, raising a spray of water that washed over the deck, sending several crewmen overboard to their deaths. Toki wrenched his eyes away and looked up again. Another bomb was falling and he threw himself onto the deck and curled up. A second later, the bomb struck the flight deck and exploded, causing fuel and ammunition to flame and detonate in a cloud of fire, but fortunately not coming too near him. He got up and could see dozens of men lying prone as flames consumed them.

A second bomb struck the stern, penetrated, and started another conflagration. Japanese planes were prepped belowdecks, which meant that large quantities of fuel and ammunition were stored below. Toki stood up, but an explosion from the guts of the ship threw him against a bulkhead. Finally, he got to his feet and looked to see if the other carriers had been hit. Perhaps Japan and Nagumo would be lucky and only the Kaga had been damaged. No, he sobbed, it would not be. The Shokaku and Junyo were also burning furiously.

An American dive bomber, its bomb gone, flew low and strafed the flight deck, starting more fires. Another explosion, this against the hull, and an enemy torpedo bomber flew insolently over the stricken carrier. The great ship convulsed and began to list.

Lieutenant Harry Hogg’s orders were to fly in the general direction where someone thought the Jap carriers might be. What a great idea, he thought sarcastically. He and his buddies were headed out in the middle of the world’s largest ocean in the general direction of China with the whole Jap air force chasing their asses, and they were supposed to somehow find enemy ships. Worse, he wasn’t carrying a bomb or torpedo. He and the others were supposed to kill the Jap planes protecting their carriers.

I’m going to die, he thought. Either I’ll be shot down or I’ll run out of gas, ditch, and float away. He figured he had more than enough fuel to make it back, but his orders were to find the Jap fleet. There was, he thought, one chance in a million of that happening.

Son of a bitch, he thought, and there they were. At least he could see smoke arising in the west from something that had to be ships. He laughed. Maybe he couldn’t bomb a carrier, but he could sure make life miserable for them.

As he drew closer, he could see several carriers on fire. No sense going after them, he exulted. They were already hurting. Harry spotted a smaller carrier that seemed to be untouched, signaled the others with a wave of his arm, and began a strafing run.

For the first time in his brief career, he fired his guns on an enemy ship. Almost oblivious to antiaircraft fire, he took his Lightning low and quick over the length of the flight deck. Something thudded against his plane and he realized he’d been hit. He checked the controls and everything was working. Well then, he exulted, it was time to do it again. He’d just finished a second run and was relishing the sight of many fires burning on the deck, when he felt a sudden and brutal jolt. None of his controls were working. For that matter, his chest was covered with something wet and sticky. His fading mind was still trying to process this when his shattered plane cartwheeled into the ocean.

Masao grimaced as the twin-tailed American plane died under his guns. The tiny Soryu, the smallest carrier in the attack force at only twenty thousand tons, was in flames, along with her larger sisters. He watched in dismay as other American planes found her and attacked. He gained altitude and looked for a carrier that hadn’t been damaged, but didn’t see one. In a short while he would have to put down and refuel, but where?

His radio crackled. He was ordered to fly in a new direction where the cowardly American carriers were supposed to be hiding. He looked at his fuel gauge. He fervently hoped that the Americans weren’t too far away, and, with equal fervor, hoped that he’d have a place to land his plane. All he saw now were burning Japanese carriers and the wide ocean.

Dane wondered if everyone else on the Saratoga felt as naked and exposed as he did. Almost all the carrier’s planes had gone to attack the enemy carriers, with only a couple in the air to warn of oncoming Japanese.

Radio traffic told of several enemy carriers burning and dead in the water. He recalled one pilot from the Battle of the Coral Sea exulting, “scratch one flattop,” a phrase that had become immortalized. How many flattops had been scratched this time and how many remained unscratched? How was the battle over the Baja going? The two battleships and the destroyer screen sailed in front of the two carriers as a buffer, but how many Jap planes might find them? All the Japs had to do was figure out which direction the American planes had come from and fly back up that way. Jesus, talk about your fog of battle.

Once again Dane was agonizing over Amanda’s safety. The bombardment of San Diego and Los Angeles, obviously designed to draw off American planes, was over. Was she okay? At least she was in a hospital, but did the damned Japs care about that? Hell, maybe they couldn’t even see a red cross at long range.

A terse announcement said that enemy aircraft were approaching. So much for being invisible, he thought.

Masao saw the two American carriers at the same time the other Japanese pilots did. There was no time to organize a proper attack. The pilots were on their own. Once again, he checked his fuel. He sucked in his breath. If the gauge was even remotely accurate, there was little possibility of him making it back to the fleet, if any of it even still existed. The battle had become a horror. Instead of another magnificent Japanese victory, it was clear from what he’d seen and heard that the empire’s carriers were being destroyed and with them any real chance of Japanese victory in this war. Toki was right. It was all turning into ashes. He had said he was willing to die for the empire, but not uselessly and most certainly not without taking Americans with him. Now Masao knew what he had to do.

Masao flew over the first carrier, quickly identified her as the Saratoga, and dropped his bomb. It missed the ship by a hundred yards, confirming that it was very difficult to hit a moving target, however large.

He cursed and moaned. He would never see his family again. He hoped there was an afterlife so they could all be reunited. He didn’t even care if silly Toki married his equally silly little sister. It would serve them both right. Maybe they would have a boy child and name him Masao. He prayed that would happen.

Masao only had a few moments left. American planes chasing him and his companions were gaining rapidly. He climbed for altitude, turned, and began his dive. His ashes would never be sent to the Yasukoni shrine, but his parents had hair and nail clippings. They would have to do.

“Banzai!” he howled as the Saratoga’s bulk grew larger in his eyes.

Dane and Merchant watched in helpless horror as the Japanese plane plummeted down and toward them. Tracers from a score of antiaircraft guns sought it out, but most missed. Those that did hit tore pieces from its wings and fuselage, damaging it, shaking it and maybe even killing it and its pilot, but not stopping its deadly plunge.

“He’s killing himself,” Merchant yelled. “You’re right about them, Dane. They’re all crazy!”

The dying Zero smashed into the flight deck near the bow of the carrier. Even though the suicide plane was almost out of fuel, there was enough to cause a large explosion.

Dane had thrown himself prone and felt heat and debris fly over him. Something heavy landed on his back, knocking the wind out of him. All around him, men were yelling and screaming. Was this going to be the sinking of the Enterprise all over again? If so, where was Spruance? Wasn’t he supposed to rescue the admiral? He couldn’t think straight. Something was terribly wrong.

Tim pushed himself to his hands and knees and vomited. His body wasn’t responding and he collapsed. What was happening? He looked for Merchant and saw him lying near. A large piece of metal protruded from his chest and the expression on his face was blank and lifeless.

Tim felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Spruance. “I’ll help you again, sir,” Tim managed to say. His voice was mushy and it sounded as if it came from another room rather than from his own body.

Spruance smiled kindly. “This time it’s my turn to take care of you, Dane.”

Tim was dimly aware that he was being put on a stretcher. He knew he was hurt, but why didn’t he feel any pain? “Are we sinking?”

The admiral had gone to check on others, so the medic responded. “Sinking? Not a chance, Commander. Damage control is doing its job. There wasn’t any problem with our hull and the fires are coming under control. Like you, we’ll need some good repairs, but we’ll be all right.”

Tim wanted to ask some more questions, but the medic had jabbed him with morphine. He fought it for a moment, but decided it was far better and nicer to let it do its job.

“Abandon ship.” The command was repeated until it stopped abruptly. The electricity on the Kaga had just gone out. Toki fully understood that the flames had won. The mighty carrier was in its death throes. Explosions rocked her and flames billowed skyward. The rumblings of more explosions from below deck made the Kaga seem like she was alive, not dying.

Abandon ship or be burned alive were Toki’s choices. He had already donned his life vest, so, looking down at the ocean and hoping that he wouldn’t be sucked into the carrier’s still-spinning propellers, and praying that he’d be picked up, he jumped.

Hitting the sea felt like hitting a wall. He blacked out and came to with a number of others from the carrier, some swimming and others flailing desperately. An empty life raft floated by. He grabbed onto it and climbed in. He offered his hand to several others still in the water, but only a couple joined him. The rest shook their heads solemnly and a couple managed to say they’d rather die than live with the shame of defeat.

One of the men with him said he too would join the others in dying if it appeared they would be rescued by Americans. Toki didn’t know what he would do. Overhead, the once-invincible Zeros circled and then, one by one, crashed in the ocean. The planes soon disappeared under the water and no pilots emerged. Toki visualized this happening all over the battle area. He knew he would never see his friend Masao again and he mourned for him, but only for an instant. Now he just wanted to live and go home to his family and Masao’s little sister.

After a few hours, he and the two others were alone. But then they weren’t. A destroyer maneuvered slowly through the waters, its crew searching and looking. They were spotted and the ship came close enough for them to see that it was an American. Toki’s companions moaned and slid off the raft and into the sea. They gasped and bobbed a few times and then disappeared.

Toki made up his mind. Only fools chose death when life was at hand. They had killed themselves for no good reason. He stood and waved a handkerchief that he hoped was white enough. With the skill of a dancer, the destroyer was maneuvered beside him. A row of armed Americans stared down at him.

“I speak English,” he yelled. “I surrender.”

There was silence from the angry-looking Americans. “Why the fuck should we save you?” one of them finally asked.

“I am Admiral Nagumo’s chief aide,” he said, lying only slightly. Like most Japanese sailors, he had received no instructions regarding how to behave if he actually was taken prisoner since it was assumed he would choose death instead. Thus, there was no reason to discuss or plan for the unthinkable.

There was a quick conference and an officer leaned over. “First, you will remove all your clothes, and I mean everything. After you’ve stripped down, you will then climb up the ladder which we will lower to you. When you make it to the deck, you will lie on your belly with your legs spread apart. We will examine you and tie you up. Understand?”

Toki understood fully. He too had heard tales of Japanese soldiers trying to take Americans with them as they killed themselves. “I understand. But may I take my wallet? It has my identification and pictures of my family.”

He thought the American might have smiled for a flickering instant. “Bring your damned wallet,” was the response.

Once again Torelli felt the freight train pass over him, shaking his sub like it was a toy. Jesus, that Jap battleship was big. And fast. Worse, it was going to be moving away, which meant a stern shot and a quick one.

He ordered periscope depth and all bow tubes open. They would simply fire off all four torpedoes the first clear chance he got. He looked through the lens. The battleship was a mountain and moving rapidly. He didn’t bother to look for escorts; he just assumed they were there.

The shot was as good as it was going to get. “Fire one,” he ordered, then two and three and four. As soon as he heard the sound of the torpedoes leaving, he ordered an emergency dive.

“What now?” Crowley asked. His eyes were wide with tension and fear. They heard splashes and then depth charges exploded. They were close, but not close enough to do damage. It looked like the Japs were more interested in clearing out than in attacking him.

“We wait,” Torelli said.

They listened through the rumble of the depth charges. Finally, they heard a different sound. An explosion, but what? They all looked at each other. Had they actually managed to hit the monster? If so, what damage, if any. Maybe it was like shooting a rhinoceros with a peashooter? Probably the damn thing wouldn’t even notice.

Yamamoto felt the battleship quiver. He barely heard the explosion and saw nothing. The battleship’s massive superstructure blocked his view and insulated him from any sound.

“Torpedo,” announced a grim-faced aide a moment later. “No apparent damage, sir.”

Yamamoto nodded. It was what he expected. What else could go wrong this terrible day? He had been totally outwitted and outfought by an American Navy he had thought was, if not dead, then moribund and too frightened to take risks. Now all he could do was try and salvage something out of the burning wreckage that had once been the pride of the Imperial Japanese Navy. Four of his prized carriers were in sinking condition and were being abandoned. If they didn’t sink on their own, they would be torpedoed by their own ships, a totally inglorious and shameful end to their careers. Two other carriers were seriously damaged, burning furiously, and might also be lost. Worse, if there could possibly be a worse, the carriers lost were the largest and most powerful the Imperial Japanese Navy possessed. The only carriers remaining were the smaller ones now being categorized as escort carriers.

Nor did it matter that the American carrier they’d sought for so long, the Saratoga, had at least been very badly damaged. The few Japanese pilots who had survived the attack on her reported her burning and, in their opinion, likely to sink. Yamamoto was not so confident. The Americans were magicians at saving and repairing ships and, besides, what did it matter if the Saratoga was sunk? The Americans had many others under construction. They would join up with what was thought to be the Essex-class carrier that had accompanied the Saratoga and do so well before Japan could recover from today’s disaster.

His thoughts returned to the doomed pilots. At least four hundred of them had been lost and that toll was likely to go higher. Four hundred highly trained carrier pilots could not be replaced. At the current rate of pilot graduation, any damaged carriers were likely to be repaired and ready long before the pilots were trained according to traditional standards. Thus, those standards would have to be relaxed, which meant that new Japanese carrier pilots would be lambs to the slaughter. Nor could the even larger number of planes lost be replaced in the foreseeable future.

Yamamoto accepted that the defeat was his responsibility. All decisions had been his. He would go to Tokyo and personally apologize to the emperor for his failure to bring victory to Japan. It wouldn’t matter that this was just as he had forecast that summer before the attack on Pearl Harbor. He had accepted command of the fleet and the blame was his. He would offer his resignation to the emperor and the prime minister. He didn’t think they would take it, although he now wished they would. He would let them change his mind about resigning, of course, and do his utmost to save the empire, but he would also try to convince Tojo and Hirohito of the need to negotiate a peace with the Americans. The British could be ignored, but not the Americans. The war in the Pacific would largely be a naval war and the Imperial Japanese Navy would be overwhelmed by the U.S. Navy if it went on much longer.

In order to do this, he thought, the Americans would first send forces to reestablish a forward base at Pearl Harbor, which would also rescue the Hawaiians from their near starvation. The blockade of Australia would be lifted and Japanese garrisons in the Solomons would have to be abandoned. Japan would have to pull back or be destroyed. It was his duty to convince the government of this inevitable fate.

Captain Miyazato Shotoku commanded the Yamato. He now approached the admiral with eyes down. He was clearly shaken and seemed almost afraid to speak.

“What is the news?” Yamamoto asked softly. From the man’s expression, it could not be good.

Shotoku took a deep breath and swallowed. What he had to say was painful in the extreme. “We were struck by one American torpedo. It has jammed our rudder. We are stopping so we can send down a diver to determine whether it can be repaired. Otherwise, we can only steam in very large circles. We are not optimistic about the outcome. It is very likely that we will not have the tools and equipment to effect the repairs. I believe it can only be done in drydock.”

Yamamoto sucked in his breath. It was almost the same thing that had happened to the German superbattleship, the Bismarck, in May of 1941. Unable to retreat and doomed to steam in circles, she had been surrounded by British ships and blown to pieces. Would the same happen to the Yamato, the pride of Japan? It was unthinkable. At least he’d had the dubious pleasure of watching as the Yamato’s mighty 18.1-inch guns fired over the horizon at San Diego. But would that be the ignominious end of her military career? Not if he could help it.

“The Kongo will take the Yamato in tow if quick repairs cannot be made,” Yamamoto said to Captain Shotoku. “We cannot sit here and wait. The Americans will be here shortly.”

Shotoku nodded and left. Orders would be made for the battleship Kongo to tow the larger Yamato out of danger. The two ships’ rate of speed would be slow and they would be vulnerable until they were out of range of American land-based planes. In the meantime, Yamamoto gave instructions that he and his staff would transfer to another ship, the destroyer Umikaze, which was close by. At less than one tenth the size of the Yamato, he and his staff would be cramped, but they would get away to fight another day.

But the crew of the Yamato would not be so fortunate. He had no illusions. It was extremely likely that the American planes and ships would find and attack the two battleships with overwhelming force. The gambler in him estimated the two battleships’ chances of survival as one in fifty.

Many of the Yamato’s crew would not look at him and those who did showed faces full of dismay, disappointment, shock, and anger. Japan had been defeated. How could that be? Yamamoto had no answer. All he knew was that the men of the Yamato would likely all die within the next few hours unless a miracle occurred, and he did not believe in miracles. He accepted their anger at him as his due. He had failed.

The floatplanes reported that the navy fighters and bombers had ceased their attacks on the two Japanese battleships. One, the Kongo, was reported to be down at the bow and barely making headway, while the other, the monster Yamato, still steamed slowly. The Kongo had been towing the Yamato, but they had separated.

American pilots confirmed that the Yamato was moving in a wide circle to starboard. Skillful ship handling had enabled the Yamato to lengthen the distance between herself and both the coast of California and the approaching American carrier. At the rate she was moving, however, it would take an eternity for her to make it to safety.

The United States Navy in the Pacific was again down to one aircraft carrier, the Essex, and she was just about out of ordnance. Her bombs had been used up and so too had her pilots. A couple of planes had crashed while trying to land on the Essex, which caused Admiral Spruance, now on the battleship Washington, to call a halt to the attacks. The Essex would be resupplied and her pilots rested before she resumed the fight.

Thus, the older battleships and Admiral Jesse Oldendorff entered the field of battle. The Colorado and Mississippi had been augmented by the Pennsylvania, a survivor of the attack on Pearl Harbor. The admiral now flew his flag on the Pennsylvania, which he considered appropriate when he thought of her history and her resurrection from Pearl Harbor. Admiral Nimitz’s foresight in moving his squadron from Puget Sound to join with the Pennsylvania at San Francisco caused Oldendorff to smile. He wanted nothing more than to strike back with his battleships before they were sent to a museum. The defeat of the Japanese squadron off Anchorage, while satisfying, had not been enough. He and the ships’ crews all wanted a shot at the enemy, battleship to battleship. It didn’t matter if the Kongo and Yamato were damaged; he wanted his ships’ guns in at the kill.

“Greene, how far can an eighteen-inch gun fire?”

Commander Mickey Greene rubbed his still-raw jaw. It was a hell of a question and nobody really knew the answer. Nobody had ever seen an eighteen-inch gun and had no idea of its range or velocity. A really good gun of that size had been considered an impossibility. Once again, the Japanese had been underestimated.

“I’ve got to guess at least twenty-five miles, sir, maybe closer to thirty.”

The admiral turned to the rest of his staff. “All of which means we’ll be within range of her guns before we can hit her. Assuming, of course, that the monster has any guns left that can fire after all the punishment she’s been taking.”

Greene swallowed. Of course the Yamato would have weapons left. No matter how many times the ship had been hit by bombs and torpedoes, she was still afloat and moving and had to be presumed dangerous.

Oldendorff gave the orders. “We will concentrate on finishing off the Kongo. The Mississippi and Colorado will go to port and we will go to starboard. She’ll be between us and we’ll bracket her quickly.”

It almost wasn’t necessary. The American ships opened fire on the badly damaged Kongo at just under twenty miles. Colored dye showed which splashes came from which ship and within only a few minutes, the battleships’ fourteen- and sixteen-inch shells began smashing what was left of the Kongo. Several explosions ripped through the Japanese battleship and she began to list to port. There was no return fire and no sign of lifeboats being lowered. Nor were any Japanese sailors jumping from the doomed vessel into the ocean. If there were any living souls on the Kongo, they had determined to go down with her.

Or maybe their officers wouldn’t let them run, Greene thought. The Japanese were all nuts, so their sailors would likely obey such an order and die at their stations. He saluted their bravery, but not their common sense. Why the hell would anybody want to die when they could live? At first he had wanted to die when he saw the mess the fires had made of his face, but that went away. Yeah, he would be scarred and they would remind him of his ordeal every day, but most of the worst had faded and he would live a reasonably normal life.

The Yamato was nearly forty miles away from the destruction of the Kongo. Even though over the horizon, smoke from the numerous fires slowly destroying her was plainly visible. Vectored in by the pall and the guidance of the floatplanes, the three battleships again began their dance. At twenty miles, they opened fire. Again the brightly colored splashes guided the shells until they too smashed into what had been the massive symbol of Japanese might.

There was no response and the American ships continued to move in closer until they were firing at only a few miles, point-blank range. The three American ships formed a line so their shells wouldn’t hit each other, and prepared to launch torpedoes.

“The damn thing won’t sink, won’t stop,” muttered Green.

Oldendorff heard and nodded. “We may be pumping shells into a corpse. If the torpedoes don’t kill her, we’ll just pull back and let her steam in circles for all eternity. For all we know, her engines are so well protected we haven’t done a thing to them.”

They moved closer, now only a couple of miles away. Through binoculars, Green and others could see the utter destruction on her deck.

Wait! Was that motion? Green stared at the sternmost turret on the ship, the “D” turret. Yes, it was slowly turning and her guns were rising. The sons of bitches had been lying low. The three guns pointed directly at the Pennsylvania like three massive eyes and then fired.

All three giant shells slammed into the Pennsylvania. The American battleship was well-armored but not against this. Two shells penetrated her hull and a third struck her superstructure. The ship reeled from the titanic shock. One, the shell that struck her superstructure, obliterated all traces of life there, while one of the shells that pierced her hull found one of her magazines. A few seconds later, the Pennsylvania exploded. She broke in half with the two pieces floating briefly before slipping beneath the waves and taking her entire crew with her.

In a vengeful fury, the crews of the two remaining American battleships ships first pounded the surviving turret into rubble and then fired every shell and torpedo they had, reducing the Yamato to a burning hulk. After an eternity, she rolled on her side and sank.

They had redeemed the Pennsylvania and sunk the mightiest battleship in the world. But at what cost?