Days of Infamy (41 page)

It was a seaman first class, standing stiffly.

“Go ahead.”

“Sir. Combat Information reports radar detecting an inbound, twenty miles to the southwest. Two of the Wildcats have already been ordered to intercept.”

For a moment he was tempted to tell Sherman to countermand the intercept order. It was most likely a Japanese scout plane. Perhaps it’d miss them, but the presence of the Wildcats would by their mere presence confirm the existence of this carrier and its possible location.

He looked at the sky, brightening by the minute. There was a scattering of low-hanging stratus, morning mist rising off the ocean, but no buildup yet of cumulus or the towering cumulonimbus of later in the day, which might conceal beneath it an entire fleet.

Sherman went into the bridge and up the steps to the Combat Information Center, room bathed in red light, still under nighttime conditions. He followed.

The radar screen, small oval wonder, its magic images impossible for him to interpret, flickered green. The operator, seeing the approach of the admiral and captain stiffened, then pointed to a wavy point in the lower corner, hard to discern with so many other points and lines appearing and disappearing.

“That’s it, sir. He must have been flying low and then started to pop up. Definitely tracking from the west-southwest, and heading straight toward us.”

Even within the confines of the CIC, he could hear the thunder of the strike wave, having formed up, now tracking southwest, bearing 220 degrees, toward the position of at least four carriers reported by the submarine. The search plane was from nearly west, behind them.

Were their carriers closer? Should part of the wave be diverted to scout it out?

A radio loudspeaker crackled to life. It was one of the Wildcats reporting a visual, a Japanese float plane. They were closing to engage.

At nearly the same instant one of the radio operators turned to announce a transmission on a Japanese frequency, loud, extremely close—most likely the scout plane calling in their position.

“We better get ready,” was all Sherman had to say, turning away and heading up to the bridge.

“CONFIRMED. ONE
SARATOGA
-CLASS
carrier, half a dozen escorting ships.”

Damn!

His pilot went into a sharp banking turn, diving. He had caught a glimpse of movement, an American plane.

“We are under attack! Repeating coordinates!”

The spotter looked again at his navigational clipboard. They’d been aloft for little more than twenty minutes.
Tone
was thirty-five
miles away, so close there was a chance that smoke from the American ships could be spotted and closed on at full dawn. He could clearly see dozens of American planes aloft moving across the eastern horizon, outlined by the early light of dawn.

He was barely able to get the message out one more time, warning as well that an American strike wave was outbound, apparently bearing south, before the combined firepower of two American Wildcats slashed into the fuselage, wings, and cockpit, killing both him and the pilot.

In flames, the plane rolled over on its back and dove into the sea.

ADMIRAL YAMAMOTO TURNED
away from the seaman still clutching the flimsy sheet of paper, noting the coordinates radioed in by the scout plane, which had just gone off the air, obviously shot down, and gazed at his signals officer.

“Pass the order and radio immediately, all ships. Turn to a heading straight into the wind, 050 degrees. Launch all aircraft immediately, strike aircraft to receive coordinates momentarily.”

“Radio?” Genda asked.

“They know where we are,” Yamamoto snapped. “We heard their transmission from Pearl, in spite of whatever damn language it is they are using, and part of the message sounded like it was reading off numbers, coordinates of longitude and latitude. We can’t waste a minute with flags or Morse blinkers. Send it now! Helm, bring us about to a heading of fifty degrees, order flank speed.”

He strode over to the chart table, scanned it, circling a spot with a pencil.

“They’re to our northeast! They must have slipped around the flank during the night, and
Tone
is less than thirty-five miles away!”

He looked back at Genda.

“It is them; it is their remaining carrier fleet! Order all planes to
launch.” He looked again at the chart. The American planes were slower but were already aloft.

“We have forty-five minutes at most.”

Genda saluted and dashed from the bridge.
Akagi
was already responding to the helm, and even before general quarters sounded, all knew that something was up, already heading to their stations.

“Sir!”

He looked up from the chart. It was Fuchida, standing there eager, already dressed in a flight suit, almost trembling like a racehorse just before the gate opened.

He felt a surge of trepidation. This man was too precious to lose now. His experience of leading at Pearl, both the successes and failures, had to be thoroughly reported, rewarded where necessary. Already he had planned for him to be moved up to a position parallel to Genda’s. And beyond all that, he was almost like a son. He loved this eager pilot, and the thought of sending him to his death caused a surge of pain.

And yet he could not say no to such a samurai.

“Go then!”

Fuchida grinned, saluted, and started to leave.

“Wait.”

There was hesitation in Fuchida’s eyes as he looked back, almost fearing that the admiral was about to reverse his approval. “Not in a torpedo bomber. Besides, yours is gone.”

“What then, sir?”

“Take one of the Zeroes. One with a radio so you can lead. Stay out of the dogfighting, keep above the enemy fleet. I want the attack coordinated, well directed, and reported on accurately. There was too much confusion yesterday. I demand that you come back and report.”

He could sense the touch of frustration.

“No compromise. You can fly, but you are to lead as a daimyo of old, not to draw a sword and fight. You are to lead.”

“Yes, sir.”

Yamamoto extended his hand.

“Go, my son, and may the gods protect you.”

Fuchida seemed overwhelmed by emotion, as if almost ready to embrace his admiral. He drew back, saluted, and sprinted down the stairs to the deck.

On the flight deck, planes had already been spotted into position. Crew chiefs were in cockpits, engines beginning to turn over, warming up as
Akagi
swung around from a westerly heading to northwest, the quartering breeze blowing the exhaust from the planes across the deck. The dark horizon to the west was being replaced by early dawn to the east.

He could see other ships beginning to turn. Signal pennants were going up from the flying bridge of
Akagi
giving the coordinates of the American fleet as last reported, Morse blinkers relaying that data as well.

Pilots were pouring out of the ready room, Fuchida in the lead, running to the port-side wing of the lead Zero.

They were now running fifty degrees north, speed still picking up, past twenty knots, the glorious old ship surging ahead.

He knew he’d burn more fuel in the next hour than in an entire normal day. It would make the margin to reaching the Marshalls slim indeed, but this was the gamble of war. One solid strike and the mission would finally be accomplished. Then he could afford to limp slowly toward the tankers and their invaluable replenishment.

He turned his binoculars to the south and could barely make out on the horizon the wounded
Soryu
, with
Kirishima
steaming astern. They were now turning as well. He debated whether they should move on west ahead of the others or not, but decided against it.

“Hoist the Z flag,” Yamamoto announced, and a moment later that legendary banner unfurled from the highest mast, a cheer erupting on the deck.

He caught a last glimpse of Fuchida standing in his cockpit, looking back at him, saluting, then sliding down, crew chief helping him to buckle in, then jumping off the wing. The forlorn pilot whom Fuchida had replaced stood dejected to one side, obviously humiliated, head lowered.

The launch director, standing on the deck, holding signal flag
aloft, waved it in a tight circle. Fuchida revved up his engine, and smoke whipped out of the exhaust pipes. At the signal the deck crews pulled back the wheel chocks. With a leap the Zero started forward into the wind, tail up in a matter of seconds, rudder angled against the torque, and he lifted off well short of the bow, plane after plane following, while strike waves from the other carriers, but minutes later, started aloft as well.

THEY HAD STAYED
submerged since their failed attack on the Japanese carrier, and to the captain’s utter frustration, the enemy fleet was pulling away, his old tub unable to match their speed while submerged in a stern chase.

But now?

“Repeat the signal in the clear, damn it,” he snapped, not taking his eyes off the periscope.

“Entire Jap fleet coming about and launching aircraft. Give our coordinates again and keep repeating!”

THE DRIVE INTO
base had been tough, but he had managed it. More roadblocks were up, manned by national guardsmen. One near the base was a heavily manned position of regular infantry from the Tropical Lightning Division, Schofield Barracks. It was sandbagged, with two .30-caliber water-cooled machine guns posted. Margaret had found his wallet, tucked into his uniform pocket after all, and he had it out. The sight of his arm in a sling, amputated hand obvious, ID held up, had won through. Near the base entrance a lieutenant in charge had even ordered one of his men to drive the commander the rest of the way in, for which he was damn grateful. He was feeling light-headed and now a bit foolish over his earlier bravado.

“Sir, you lose that in the fighting on Sunday?” the corporal driving him had asked, after several sidelong curious glances.

“No. I was on the
Panay
when I lost my hand. Got nicked by some shrapnel, though, when
Arizona
blew.”

“What’s the
Panay
, sir?”

He did not reply. It was a question asked him hundreds of times since 1937, and he was sick of it. Damn it, didn’t they now know?

His driver got him to what was now the radio center for both Hickam and Pearl. As he came into the open hangar, there were nods of recognition. He saw Joe, apparently at work for over a day now without sleep, with several of his ham operator friends, rigging up yet another set. More than twenty radios were up and running,
antennas crisscrossing like a spiderweb high up in the rafters of the hangar.

He was glad he had come. Collingwood was passed out, asleep on a cot in the corner. Lacey smiled and handed him a mug of coffee.

“Something’s up,” she said, pointing to the radio that he knew was monitoring a frequency used by the Japanese fleet.

He sat down by the operators, who motioned for him to pick up a headphone set. He started to listen in.

They weren’t coding. The message was in the clear, chatter between scout planes already aloft, and then the frantic report of the plane that had located a target before being shot down.

“Who’s in charge here?” James shouted, looking back from the radio.

An Army brigadier came over.

“I am,” was all James got. “Who are you?”

“I’m Commander Watson. Until all this happened I was with cryptanalysis and monitoring for CinCPac.”

The brigadier eyed him for a few seconds, noticing the sling.

“I heard about you. OK, what’s up?”

“Relay this to our fleet. They definitely have been spotted and should expect an attack. Damn, does anybody have charts around here?”

He half stood up, looking around, but there wasn’t a nautical chart in sight.

Yet more information came in a few minutes later from a sub, a report that it had been trailing the enemy fleet. James called for its data, too, to be relayed to the strike force. If anyone had good navigators on board who could pinpoint a location, the subs did.

In a sense he felt part of it all now—he was doing something to hit back—but at the same time he felt impotent, like a spectator in far away bleachers while the real game was played out beyond his reach.

THE TWO OPPOSING
waves could actually see each other, the Japanese attack force, a hundred and twenty-two planes, tracking ten miles to the west of the ninety-two planes of the American force heading in the opposite direction.

Fuchida looked at them hungrily, fighting the temptation to lead one squadron over, to slash in. It would only take a few minutes to close upon them, standing out clear against the sunrise.

But his orders were firm. The few Zero pilots with radios begged to be cut loose, but he ordered them to stay on track, to protect the strike force, which was still not in any semblance of formation, raggedly attempting to form up.