Days of Infamy (8 page)

OK, which was Dolphin one and two? Had that fire control adjustment just placed them in the crosshairs?

Long seconds passed and then they heard it, more incoming, a bracket of explosions igniting in and to either side of the channel, one shell bursting little more than a hundred yards away, more shattering glass showering the room.

“God damn,” Collingwood hissed.

“Dolphin two, Dolphin two, on target, fire for effect.” James went over to the operator and tapped him on the shoulder, motioning for him to stand up, and took his headphones.

He scanned the face of the radio, not sure of the dial arrangement.

“Switch me to transmit.”

The civilian leaned over and threw a switch. James picked up the heavy, stand-mounted microphone.

“Dolphin two, correction, correction,” he said in Japanese, trying as best as possible to mimic the voice and accent of the observer orbiting above them. “Return fire to first target, eight hundred meters north.”

As he spoke, he wondered who he was calling death down on. Target one was most likely the burning oil tank farm. Some poor souls might die, but the last salvo had wrought terrible havoc along the channel, impacting ships that could not escape the harbor.

There was a pause of a few seconds.

“Dolphin two, ignore that last. It is an American trick. Maintain fire.”

“Dolphin two, ignore that last transmit, he is the American!”

Only Collingwood and a few others in the room knew what James was saying, but there were chuckles as it was obvious the two were arguing.

“Dolphin two, switching to frequency seven. American bastards.”

“You’re the American bastard,” James snapped. He could hear the carrier wave snap off.

“Tell the Emperor he can kiss my ass, you sons of bitches,” he shouted in English, and there were loud chuckles even as everyone ducked yet again. The salvo had stopped for a brief moment in the confusion, but had now resumed.

James took the headphones off, looked back at Collingwood, and shrugged.

“Nice try.”

“It’s the
Ward.
She’s transmitting in the clear.” All turned to one of the operators on another radio, and Collingwood called for him to put it on loudspeaker.

“Repeat. Plan Alpha, initiate now!”

“That’s Admiral Draemel,” one of the seamen announced. “I can recognize that old man’s voice anywhere. He is one crazy son of a bitch and a damn good fighter. Hit ’em back, damn it, hit ’em back!”

“Repeat. Plan Alpha. God be with all of you, now let’s get the bastards!”

All stood silent. Plan Alpha? James wondered. Whatever it was, he sensed it was desperation and he felt a deep sense of desperation as well. With a proper communications hookup here on the island, at this very moment they could be helping to coordinate, staying in contact with the task groups
Lexington
and
Enterprise
, and the distant group of the heavy cruiser
Indianapolis
five hundred miles to the south off Johnston Island. Such coordination could help organize something of a response. He could see that was indeed where he might be able to help bring order out of chaos over the next day, and to try and monitor the Japanese broadcasts and maybe glean some tidbit of information upon which a battle might very well depend.

But at this moment there was nothing he could do but stand there, silent, listening, unable to help.

“Damn,” he sighed, “I wish I was out there with them rather than here, taking this shit.”

Another salvo came screaming in. Obviously James’s subterfuge of the moment had not changed anything. All ducked back under the benches. Dianne was again by his side, and as the thundering roar of the incoming increased, he knew it would be close, damn close, and he pulled her in protectively.

CAPTAIN NAGITA ACTUALLY
smiled at the obscene interchange between one of his spotters and the American who had momentarily interrupted their fire control, even though his final insult was directed
against the Emperor, which triggered cries of outrage in the radio room from those who understood English. Clumsy—the man’s accent was obviously foreign, colloquial Japanese, not the precise, highly trained phraseology that all observers were drilled in as a precaution against just such a measure. But still it had delayed one salvo.

So far, they had fired off one hundred forty rounds of high explosive shells, nearly half of their entire allotment, the firing mission to leave sixty high explosive shells in reserve. Their full reserve of one hundred sixty-five armor-piercing rounds for any ship-to-ship action was, as yet, untouched.

He had ordered that each magazine hoist have armor-piercing shells ready to shift over immediately if any enemy ships did attempt to sortie, but so far, according to the spotters, it appeared as if the main channel was still blocked, and the two submarines that had supposedly gained position at the entryway into Pearl Harbor had not reported in.

The klaxon sounded again. Seconds later, each of his four turrets lit off in sequence with their massive loads, the ship actually heeling over, its thirty-six-thousand-ton bulk shoved nearly half a meter to port by the concussive blows.

The infirmary already was reporting nearly a score of injuries, including one man dead in number two turret. He had not stepped clear of the terrifying recoil of the gun breech, and the life was crushed out of him in but a fraction of a second. Though the crew was well drilled, this was their first taste of actual combat.

The lighter five-and six-inch guns continued to bark away, firing randomly into the general area of Pearl Harbor. Their random fire was intentional, designed to sow confusion and fear, shells striking without warning between the heavier impacts of the main batteries.

He looked up at the bulkhead chronometer. A little more than four hours to the beginning of nautical twilight; an hour and twenty minutes left to this mission.

Yamamoto might be cavalier about risking battleships, but then again he always was heretical in his views. Five miles off the enemy
coast Nagita felt naked. The fires lighting the shore from Waikiki over to Pearl Harbor were a glowing beacon that could silhouette any ship even twenty miles out. He had always felt that the number of escorts assigned to the entire task force was far too small: only nine destroyers, two heavy cruisers and one light one, and now his commander had split the fleet, Yamamoto giving him but two destroyers and the cruiser
Tone
as protection against submarines or the prospect that the Americans might have been able to slip something out of the harbor, or for that matter bring something up from farther out to sea.

Regardless of what Yamamoto wanted, he’d stay on station here for only one more hour, then find reason to pull out and put a good hundred nautical miles between this prize of the Imperial Japanese fleet and any enemy shoreline.

They had reduced their rate of fire to a salvo every four minutes to conserve ammunition and also to give the guns time to cool. A sustained rate of fire much beyond that, justified in a battleship-to-battleship fight, but not here, would cause excessive wear on the precious gun barrels.

He could feel the rumble of the turrets slowly shifting as the ship made a steady ten knots, running due west. In seven more minutes they would come about and trace back, fire lifting to hit Hickam again, and then back over to Fort Shafter, which to everyone’s amazement was continuing to fire back defiantly, but with absolutely no result other than a single near miss on a destroyer more than half an hour ago.

“Enemy ships to port!”

Startled, he turned away from gazing at the distant shore, cursing inwardly, night vision dulled by the glaring fires.

The warning had come via an observer aloft in the fire control tower, rung down and announced from the phone by a young ensign, obviously rattled by the news.

Nagita fixed him with a cool gaze.

“I want a bearing, and repeat the order calmly or you will be ordered off this bridge!”

The ensign gulped, nodded, spoke into the phone, and then looked back up.

“Sir. Enemy ships to port, bearing 170 degrees, range estimated nine thousand meters!”

“Fire star shells from our secondary batteries to port!” Nagita announced fiercely, his attention now turned away from the bombardment. “Order all main batteries to shift to armor piercing!”

REAR ADMIRAL DRAEMEL
was silent out on the open bridge, night binoculars raised, trained straight ahead.

The silhouettes of the Jap battleships stood out clear against the blazing skyline of Oahu. Each bursting salvo on the all but defenseless base and city was a nightmare to watch.

How he had managed to slip out unnoticed was still a mystery to him. He had tried to sortie with every available ship that could turn screws, but after getting but three destroyers out to rendezvous with
Minneapolis
, his cruiser,
Detroit
, hung up on the wreckage in the main channel, blocking it off.

Ward
had come in to pick him up. He was a bit surprised the young commander had risked this until he was piped aboard and recognized him as one of his cadets from the Academy, the young man grinning as he welcomed him. Together they had set off at flank speed to rendezvous with
Minneapolis
, which had remained twenty miles out to sea. He had planned to transfer his flag over to
Minneapolis
, but there was no time now. He’d use
Ward
for his flagship in this fight.

What an agonizing wait it had become once the Japanese bombardment started. Turn and go in for a straight-on encounter off of Diamond Head, or wait out here? The bastards were not just going to bombard the east coast, he reasoned, but then again, they just might. Several scenarios postulated an initial landing there to gain a
land-based airfield so the carriers could offload and then put farther out to sea. The bombardment over there could be the opening move for an invasion.

No, to bombard Pearl at night would be too much of a temptation. Let them come in, let them sink their teeth into it, and maybe, just maybe, he could slip in and deliver his punch. Try to meet them head on, their guard will be up and they’ll start clobbering us at twenty thousand yards. Let them focus on the other target, though it would be devastating to sit back while they clobbered Pearl, and then slip in for the kill.

So for the last hour and a half that was exactly what he had been doing, slipping in at just under twelve knots, trying to keep the wakes of his ships down at slower speed. At high speed, the wake boiling up astern of a destroyer could easily be spotted by a scout plane. In tropical waters, it would actually glow from the phosphorescence of the plankton stirred up. What was equally nerve-racking was the moon, now high in the southern sky. How could they not have been seen by now? Spotters aloft on the battleships were most likely half blinded by the flash of the big guns, and naturally, nearly all attention was focused on their target.

But still, by God, they should have a scout plane out to sea, and at least one destroyer!

The tension was overwhelming. He’d kill for a cigarette, but they were under strict light security.

He stood silent, listening to the litany of his spotters.

“Range, nine thousand two hundred yards, closing… range nine thousand yards, closing …”

They were now within easy gunnery range, the popgun turrets forward, a single four-incher ever so slowly adjusting, lowering barrels an inch at a time.

“Range… eight thousand, eight hundred yards, closing …”

He looked quickly to port and starboard. Damn if it was not like Nelson’s battle line closing in at Trafalgar, or a cavalry charge of old, the nine destroyers and destroyer escorts in line abreast, four hundred yards separating each vessel, while
Minneapolis
approached from two
miles astern, ready to come about and open with all guns once they were spotted, staying farther back due to her higher silhouette. He felt a knot in his stomach looking at the moonlight glinting off the churning wake astern. He could actually see the outline of the heavy cruiser.

For God’s sake, can’t they see us?

“We are well within torpedo range, sir.”

It was the captain of the
Ward
, a damn good lad. It had taken guts doing what he did this morning, actually firing off the first shot of the war, nailing a Jap sub at the entry to the harbor a full hour before the bombs began to fall. Though he would not curse the name of a dead comrade, nevertheless, Kimmel should have been on that in minutes and had the base on full alert, rather than still berthed and sleeping.

Not now, don’t think of it now.

“Wait,” was all he said. “I want it close, real close.”

He raised his heavy Zeiss night binoculars, not government issued; he had paid for them himself, and at this moment they were worth every dime. He trained them straight ahead. The Jap battleship stood out clear against the flame-bright shoreline. It was hard yet to identify it precisely, but a young ensign, inside the glassed-off bridge, had the reference books out and was claiming it was either the
Hiei
or her sister ship
Kirishima.
Eight fourteen-inch guns, sixteen six-inch guns, eight five-inch guns, thirty-six thousand tons displacement—one ship that outweighed his entire attacking force. The secondary batteries on that one battleship were capable of matching every gun he had.

“Range eight thousand six hundred yards, closing …”

Flashes of light winked from the battleship… from its port side.

He held his breath, waiting.

“Range eight thousand four hundred …”

A burst of light high above, several hundred yards directly ahead, bright shimmering blue of a magnesium parachute flare. A dozen more bursting within a second, illuminating the sea with a harsh, lurid light.

“Flank speed!” Draemel roared. “Signal all ships. Flank speed and engage!”

Within seconds he felt the surge hit. My God, he had not been on a destroyer in years. It took a stately battleship or heavy cruiser long minutes to build up momentum; this was like a race car. The stern actually sank down as the twin engines accelerated up, even on this old World War I veteran, the engineering officer below having waited for this instant, hands most likely clutched to the steam valves, ready to spin them full open.