Days of Infamy (10 page)

The world was darker now. He could barely see the flash; everything was drifting out of focus.

“Proud of you, sir.” It was the petty officer, laying him down on the blood-soaked deck. “You did it.”

But Draemel no longer heard him as he drifted off, some memory floating for a moment, strange, not here. The grandkids, God, I’ll miss them growing up….

He was already gone when seconds later a direct hit from one of the
Hiei
’s six-inchers burst in the forward magazine, delivering the death blow to a gallant ship and all but twenty of her hands.

“I WANT A
damage report now!” Nagita shouted, looking back at his wide-eyed staff.

Phones in the bridge were ringing, but he didn’t need to be told that they were losing headway and the ship was no longer answering the helm.

His senior damage control officer was on one of the phones, talking rapidly, and yet still maintaining a sense of calm. Nagita knew he too had to regain control of himself.

The officer finally hung up the phone and turned back to face his admiral.

“One torpedo amidships, port side, detonating in a fuel bunker. Damage can be contained, but we’ll lose most of the fuel. Transfer pumping has started.

“The second, though, sir. It struck portside astern. Possible damage to portside screw, and the rudder is not responding to the helm, sir. It’s either gone or bent. We don’t know yet.”

Nagita took it in, saying nothing.

Yamamoto’s foolishness, he thought bitterly, and now this. He looked to starboard. The enemy coast was little more than four miles away, shoreline bright with fires.

“The enemy?”

“All ships apparently destroyed, sir, or retiring.”

He nodded.

“Foolhardy,” he whispered, “but valiant. I never expected such courage from them. They could have launched from twice, three times the range but did not.”

No one spoke.

“Signal our destroyers to prepare to take us into tow. We must clear these shores before dawn.”

He walked back out onto the open bridge and leaned over the railing to look aft along the port side. Even in the dark, illuminated now by the burning hulks of two of the enemy destroyers, he could see where the water was darker and flattened out. They were hemorrhaging their precious oil and with each passing second slowing down, even as
Hiei
started into a uncontrolled turn to starboard, now listing as well. Back on the bridge he could hear his chief engineer taking control of the situation, ordering counterflooding to balance out the list, and to prepare a harnessed diver to go over the side to examine the rudder.

It was not yet two in the morning local time. In a little more than three and a half hours, the eastern horizon would begin to glow—and they would indeed be bait for the American carriers, if they were out there. He now wondered if that was Yamamoto’s intent all along, a
damaged battleship that the American aircraft carrier commanders could not resist attacking, and thus reveal themselves. If so, and he survived, he would take this to the Naval Board, the government, if need be even the Emperor. To toss aside a battleship for their flimsy carriers was criminal and must be punished.

THE RADIO IN
the CIC had been silent for over ten minutes, no one speaking, many still looking at the loudspeaker as if somehow it would come back to life.

My God, Halsey thought, Draemel had guts. An inner voice whispered to him that the man was dead. It’d be like him to go out like that.

He inwardly raged at the silence. There had been one garbled transmission from one of the destroyers, unidentified, reporting two hits on the Jap battleship, but no follow-up as to extent of damage.

One of those monsters, bigger than anything the Navy now had afloat, could take three or four torpedoes and keep right on going… but then again, one crucial hit, like the legendary shot on the
Bismarck
… she just might be crippled!

He looked over at the plot board, illuminated by the dull red glare of the lighting in the CIC, a seaman first class standing with grease pen poised, ready to mark the latest position.

All they had were two Jap battleships. Where the hell were the carriers?

What was their admiral doing? Who was it? With this aggressiveness, it felt like Yamamoto.

They had to have at least four carriers out there, maybe six, perhaps even their entire known fleet of eight. If so, his sense of pride and honor would most likely mean that Yamamoto had sailed with them. He had read everything he could on the man. He’d been the topic of conversation more than once since word was revealed of his promotion. Several had met him, saying he was one helluva poker player, a master of the bluff, the audacious move, ready to gamble all on the throw of a card and yet with a razor-sharp mind, instantly calculating the odds. He was, as well, a man who seemed to be blessed with that rare gift, luck, the throw of the card usually going in his favor. If that was indeed him leading out there, from the front, in the tradition of Nelson, Farragut, and John Paul Jones, it showed him to be a man of guts.

He could have pulled a raid and by now be hundreds of miles away. No, he was hanging on—and his desire? Perhaps an invasion itself, but something told Halsey that wasn’t the case. CIC had been monitoring reports for over eighteen hours now. The Japanese were hitting everywhere at once, across nearly a sixth of the earth’s surface. They had to be spread thin when it came to logistics, transports, troops, the nuts and bolts of staging an invasion and then holding an island like Oahu. Perhaps the gambler Yamamoto was going for that.

Perhaps.

That was a probable the more panicky would grasp on to. He was focused on the moment, and invasion or not, he knew with utter certainty what Yamamoto was really after this morning: him. The surviving American carriers, that was what he was throwing the dice for now.

In spite of the panicked radio broadcasts out of Honolulu, the reporter on the air giving a blow-by-blow account of the fight out at sea, as if reporting on a ball game—and not knowing a damn
thing about what he was talking about—at least had given them one valuable clue: the bombardment had stopped, at least for the moment.

There were reports of Jap paratroopers landing in the Dole plantation, another of landing craft coming in at Kaneohe. He doubted both. The Japanese simply did not have the transport planes to reach Hawaii with paratroopers.

He looked at the chronometer: 02:05 local time.

Until someone dragged a dead Jap paratrooper or Imperial marine in front of him, the hell with those reports. What he did know for certain was that Draemel had gone down fighting and possibly crippled one of their battleships, which was most likely limping away from the coast at this very moment.

“I want air crews awakened at 03:30, and make sure they have a damn good breakfast,” he announced.

He didn’t add the grim thought that for many it would most likely be their last.

“Entire crew to stand to at 04:00. Search planes to launch at 05:15.”

His air boss, Lieutenant Commander Wade McCloskey, stood silent, but he could read the man’s thoughts. McCloskey had been temporarily promoted to CAG, Commander Air Group, replacing, at least for the moment, Commander Howard Young, who had flown on to Pearl yesterday morning, taking off at dawn to return to base. It was standard procedure, planes flying back in once in range of the island, giving the men some added air time, and a morale booster for those selected, since it meant they got back home hours ahead of their ship.

But yesterday’s morale boost had flown straight into disaster. Young had taken off with eighteen planes from VB-6 and VS-6, all Dauntlesses, what could have now been part of his big punch. Most of them were dead, either dropped by the Japs or shot down by panicky sailors and soldiers on the ground.

The air units McCloskey now commanded were little more than half the normal strength for
Enterprise.
He had but nineteen
Dauntlesses and eighteen Devastator torpedo bombers on board. Halsey thanked God he had not sent on the boys from VF-6, his fighter squadron, so he still had nineteen Grumman F4F-3 Wildcats, enough to provide a screen for an offensive strike while at the same time enough remained behind to cover this task force. It meant he had a total of fifty-six aircraft on board, just a little over half of what
Enterprise
was capable of handling… and here they were now in the middle of a war and he felt like a pugilist with one arm already tied behind his back.

McCloskey stood silent, waiting for any additional orders. Being pulled off the line and up onto the bridge obviously rankled the man, but he was damn near forty years old, Halsey thought when making the decision, a very old man indeed to be out there in a dogfight. McCloskey would have to run things from the bridge, and he was a man Halsey knew could be trusted to see it done right.

“Can I lead?” McCloskey ventured, looking him straight in the eye, but already sensing the answer.

Halsey shook his head.

“I’ll need you here. Besides, when was the last time you slept? Those going up at dawn need to be fresh, and you’ll be up the rest of the night getting the strike ready. Sorry, Commander, your place is here with me.”

McCloskey nodded reluctantly.

“I know the boys aren’t trained for night launch, but we can’t wait for dawn. First search planes out at 05:15, fully loaded strike force prepared and on the deck as well.”

“Yes sir,” and the reply was wooden, without emotion. Both knew that given the experience of their pilots, more than one of them would most likely crash on takeoff in the predawn darkness.

“I want every plane available for launch at 05:45. Ten fighters to be held back as CAP, five of them in the air at all times, other five ready to launch immediately.”

“Sir?”

“Didn’t you understand me? At first twilight we start to launch our strike wave.”

“Sir, without a report from the scout planes?” McCloskey asked. Halsey pointed back to the plot board.

“They got a battleship out there that is hit, maybe crippled. By dawn it will have moved only forty, maybe fifty miles at most.”

“That’s still thousands of square miles of ocean to find him in, sir.”

“That bastard will run due west to the Marshalls,” and Halsey walked over to the plot board, stabbing at it with a stubby forefinger. “He’ll be there, and the Japs will have fighters over her. If we can get in there by dawn, ahead of their own air support which they’ll send in to cover the cripple, then maybe, just maybe we can track the incoming fighters sent to cover the battleship, do a reciprocal bearing, and find the carriers!

“We’ll make full steam due north till it’s time to turn into the wind. That puts us a hundred miles south of them. Our boys will be over her before dawn, ahead of the Japs, and we’ll find those carriers and get in a first strike.”

“And if they aren’t there or get there ahead of us?” McCloskey asked cautiously. “Then what?”

“If that’s the case,” Halsey replied with a sarcastic smile,” on December ninth, I’ll be beached, and someone with more sense will be in command.”

He didn’t add that chances were that finding the Japs first or not, they’d most likely be dead before nightfall. With less than forty strike planes, half of them antiquated Devastators, flying death traps, his boys would be lucky to take out one, at best two of their carriers, leaving at least one, maybe upward of three or four of their carriers to launch an overwhelming attack in reply.

Caution whispered to him. Turn about now, stay out to sea, try to link up with
Lexington
as he had first planned to do, until the third strike wave had hit Pearl and all communications via CinCPac had ceased.

But now? The Japs were most likely finished with Pearl. With a damaged battleship to sweat over, they’d head back to the Marshalls. Newton might be running south to try a hookup, or then again, north
in an attempt to cut off the Japs if they were indeed north of the island. He wasn’t going to gamble
Enterprise
on such guesses. But regardless, if he could get a solid first strike in now,
Lexington
could do a killing follow-up.

This was about pride now as well. The Navy, across a hundred and sixty-five years of her history, had never taken such a blow as it had this past day. If he turned tail and hid, sure there’d be defenders who would say he had made the wise, conservative choice. But in his mind the name of the
Enterprise
and his own would be forever besmirched as the ship and the admiral who turned and ran, rather than go in harm’s way, perhaps even leaving
Lexington
to die alone.

Admiral Draemel had had the guts to do what he knew had to be done, knowing the odds. With such an example, could he do anything less?

He paused, looking at the plot board, drawing an arc from northwest of Oahu to its west.

“Four scout planes to go up, and that is it, the rest of VS-6 to stay with VB-6 as a strike force. Scout planes to first proceed toward where their battleship will be. Hell, if she is crippled, we’ll find her soon enough, then fan out and try and pick up the bearings of any Japs coming in. Once they are well clear of our group, have a couple of the pilots radio into Pearl, see if they can raise someone and coordinate a search with whatever they have there. If need be they should draft some damn civilians and anything left that can still fly to search to the west and north of the island just in case the Japs do play cautious and pull back.”

“What about the rest?” McCloskey asked, pointing out the other two hundred and seventy degrees of ocean surrounding them.

He emphatically shook his head.

“Searching that will take another dozen planes. We’ve only got thirty-seven strike aircraft, minus the search planes on board, and nineteen fighters. We conduct a full-out search and our remaining strike force is cut in half.”

He shook his head. It was a damn tough balancing act. If
Enter prise
were at full strength he could afford to send out twenty planes as scouts and still have upward of sixty attack planes ready to go. Every additional plane sent out as a scout was one less bomb dropped on their carriers in what he assumed would be his one and only chance to take a swing at the bastards. It was all a gamble. He’d be leaving tens of thousands of square miles of ocean unsearched, and if he was wrong, if the entire Jap task force had circled with the battleships, they could very well be southwest or due west of him, and not northwest off Oahu as he now assumed and was betting his pile on.