Days of Infamy (19 page)

“Oh God, oh God …” Dave screamed.

The parachute flared and then collapsed, trailing smoke. The pilot plunged into the sea.

We’re getting slaughtered. We’re all getting slaughtered! He was suddenly aware of the pistol in its holster under his arm. He wanted to unsnap the safety loop, have it ready. Not like that, Jesus, I don’t want to die like that… Forgive me, I’ll shoot myself if I start to burn.

They were into the heavy bursts of five-and six-inchers. Another Devastator flashed into a fireball, a direct hit, the torpedo blowing up, the blast taking out the next Devastator to starboard.

Five, maybe six left at most. Two miles out.

Dave turned in sharply, trying to run down their length, ready to somehow cover their asses as they streaked in across the final deadly forty-five seconds of their approach… flying wide-eyed into what was almost a certain death.

Five Devastators left, they were almost within range… Drop and get out now, he silently begged.

Two Zeroes swung in, he squeezed off a burst, seconds later an explosion… The Zero disintegrated, spinning onto its back, was that me that did it?

A thousand yards out. Lieutenant Dellacroce, terrified, hung on with the four Devastators, kicking rudder back and forth, skidding behind them, and trying to throw off any Japs closing in on their tails, even though they were now flying through a blizzard of flak.

Release!

Two of the planes dropped, one of the two suddenly sheering off to starboard, almost standing on its wing, then rolling over on its back and going in.

Dave and another Wildcat stuck with the last survivor, heading straight at the carrier. Turn away now and get ripped to shreds. It was straight in and over and pray the gunners on the other side were asleep.

But the Devastator he was following didn’t climb up, flame pouring from under its cowling, and in that instant he knew.

My God, what a fate the pilot had just chosen. The kid in the back had not chosen it, though, but his fate was sealed as well. He bowed his head over, making the sign of the cross.

The strike angle was too shallow as the Devastator plowed across
the stern of
Soryu
, fifty meters aft of the bridge, smashing into two Vals, tossing the first one into the air, the second spinning around. Both were gassed up and exploded in flame. A shudder slapped through the ship.

Dave zoomed over
Soryu
, skimming the stern, the fireball from the Vals scorching his plane, blinding him for a split second, then he was into the clear, diving back down low, now past the carrier and racing away to the east.

No one fired at him for several long seconds, giving him a quarter mile lead before the first 25mm gun opened up on him. He skidded
slightly, looking aft at the fireball from the crashed Devastator, still expanding. He caught a glimpse of one other Wildcat… but no Devastators.

The look aft nearly cost him his life: a slight nudge forward on the stick, a sudden sensing of a change in lift, ground effect, meaning he was within feet of the world below, the rolling ocean. Panicking, he yanked back on the stick, zooming up a hundred feet, leveling out.

“The dive bombers!”

It was Gregory, closing up on his tail.

He looked aft again, didn’t see the dive bombers, or any impacts from the Devastators.

Christ in heaven, they were all dead, and not one hit. He felt tears welling up, but then tracers snapped past his canopy, and no emotion other then terror now held sway as he dived back down to skim the waves, jinking and weaving to escape.

AS HE
climbed up to attack position, heartsick, Struble watched the slaughter of the Devastators and the valiant attempt by the escorting Wildcats to hold the Zeroes back.

“Arm your electrical releases!” Struble ordered, and as he passed the order to the seven Dauntless dive bombers with him, he flipped up the toggle of the electrical release. This time he would do it right and nail the bastard below.

It was a new addition, according to the technicians who had installed it, a helluva lot easier than the old manual release lever. Once armed, you just pushed a button and the bomb was away, rather than having to reach over while in an 80-degree dive and pull a lever.

And as he flicked the switch, his plane surged up.

“God damn! Belay that order! Belay that order!”

“Son of a bitch, sir!” It was McCarthy. “I just lost my bomb!”

“I’ll kill those bastards if we get back!” It was Mullins, his bomb gone too.

“Don’t touch the damn switch!” Struble shouted again. “Count off. How many still have their bombs?”

FUMING WITH RAGE
, Halsey said nothing, though he’d personally make sure that whatever dumb bastard had thought up this new improvement sat out the war somewhere up in Alaska.

“Got mine, skipper …”

“Still have mine….”

Five had reported in. What was left of his strike force had nearly been halved by the most asinine of glitches.

As for the Devastators, they had heard the radio reports and then silence.

“All of us go in,” Struble’s voice crackled.

“And do what? Piss on them?”

“We all go in. Draw fire. Get ready …”

“Do it,” Halsey snapped. “Damn it, do it!”

“TO STARBOARD … NOW!”

Struble led the way, winging up and over, rolling his Dauntless onto its back and then pulling the stick in, the classic turn into a dive.

He was at near vertical, dive brakes spreading open on each wing, engine throttled back several hundred rpm. The Jap carrier was nine thousand feet below, still turning. Twenty seconds to release, it’ll travel three hundred yards in that time… calculate where it will be then.

They had practiced this a hundred times, but always on towed
targets. Now
Hiei
this morning, but damn it, after all the years of training my bomb is gone.

Line up anyhow… eight thousand feet… seven thousand…

DELLACROCE
caught a glimpse of them. Seven dive bombers coming down, nearly vertical. Fire in his direction had slackened, then ceased, all attention focused on the dive bombers.

He started to pull up, heading toward the base of the clouds. There was nothing he could do to help the dive bombers now, and he thanked God for that. To turn back into that kind of fire… he just thanked God he was beyond range.

“Where the hell are their fighters?” It was Gregory.

“On the bombers.”

“Now what?”

He didn’t reply, suddenly mesmerized.

The first bomber pulled out of its dive, but apparently
nothng fell away, the same with the second, this one in flames though, crashing astern of the carrier… but the third! Its bomb hit just aft of the bridge, a brilliant flash of light, fireball erupting heavenward, followed seconds later by another bomb hitting forward.

“Burn, you bastard!” Dave screamed.

“SHE’S BURNING. DAMN
, the whole carrier is burning! Scratch one flattop!”

The radio signal crackled, distorted. Cheers were erupting in the CIC. A chief petty officer interrupted, shouting for the men to be silent.

“This is Struble. That’s two hits confirmed …”

Halsey, arms folded, looked at the plot board, trying not to show any emotion. It was a strange mix within: exultation—they had finally hit back. Rage and frustration as well. If not for the damn electrical releases it could have been four or five hits.

One Jap carrier down… perhaps. Three, maybe four or more still out there. And they would be back and he was down to a combat air patrol of but two Wildcats, and a hangar deck emptied, where there had been nearly sixty planes before dawn.

“All Phoenix force, form on me.” It was Struble. “We’re heading to land.”

Halsey said nothing.

“Repeat please?”

Halsey realized the rest of the pilots had not been briefed on his decision that the strike force should head for land rather than attempt a return to Enterprise.

“God damn it. I’ve got two birds crippled, we’ll never get them back home, and besides, you want the bastards to follow us back?”

Wisely, he didn’t say a word about the damage to
Enterprise.

There were murmurs of approval around Halsey, and he nodded
in agreement. If he got out of this, and that pilot got out of it, he’d pin a medal on him.

“GREGORY, YOU GOT
that?” Dave asked radioing over to his friend flying a few feet away. Something didn’t seem to be right with him. His plane was badly shot up and flying erratically.

“Sure do. Fine with me.”

His voice was strained.

The question was, where the hell were the bombers anyhow? They were into the clouds, visibility damn near zero. He could barely make out Gregory by his side.

“You OK over there?”

“Hey Dave, I took one.”

“What?

“Shot. Shit, I’m gut shot.”

“Just stick close on the wing, buddy,” Dave replied, and now his voice was tight. He’d only known his wingman for three weeks, but what they had gone through in the last twenty minutes was a bond that could stretch across a lifetime.

“We’re heading to land. Stay on my wing.”

He looked at his compass, guessed that a heading around 70 degrees or so would take them in to Oahu.

“Just stick close.”

“LATEST DAMAGE CONTROL
report,” Halsey snapped.

Stubbs, who was in a corner of the CIC, phone pressed to his ear, ignoring all else that was going on, looked over at the admiral.

“Sir, fires on the hangar deck are contained.”

“Once the fire is under control”—and he looked at the plot board, the estimated position of the Jap carriers, and drew a reciprocal bearing, directly away—“turn to 130 degrees. We are getting the hell out of here. Flank speed.”

He paused. Do that for twelve hours and his destroyers would start running dry. This had been his biggest surprise operationally. The peacetime estimates of fuel use were totally wrong. The destroyers used far more fuel than expected when operating in wartime speeds. They would have to recalibrate everything to this new reality. By nightfall they could refuel the destroyers from
Enterprise
if they
had to. The big carrier held more than enough fuel for an emergency transfer to the destroyers. Then they would have to find a tanker or get to Pearl. He’d have to leave them behind and pray that somehow, someone could get an oiler to a rendezvous, otherwise in another two days she’d be without escorts. He’d worry about that later.