Pearl Harbour - A novel of December 8th (3 page)

If trouble does come, we will ensure America can be proud of the big E, he thought to himself. He took another long sip of coffee, his gaze focused eastward, taking in the beauty of an approaching dawn over the Pacific, the moment, a peaceful one.

Two Hundred Ten Miles North of Oahu 7 December 1941 (8 December Tokyo Time): 5:50 a.m.

The Imperial Japanese Navy carrier Akagi turned eastward into the wind. Standing in the cockpit of his “Kate” three-seater torpedo bomber, Commander Fuchida braced his hands on either side of the open canopy, fearful that his trembling would be visible.

Akagi heeled over as it turned, pounded by towering forty- foot waves that, as their heading shifted from south to southeast and now to east, became a stomach-lurching sea. Spray from the crests of waves scudded over the bow with each downward plunge of the 34,000-ton aircraft carrier.

With each plunge a shudder ran through the ship, deck crews bracing themselves, more than one doubling over, the sickness of the sea overtaking them. Yet the excitement of the moment drove them on, and even retching they would continue with their efforts.

The quartering wind was now head-on, and he could feel the vibration coursing up from the steam turbines in the engine room, through the flight deck, up the struts of the landing gear of his plane, striking the soles of his feet, the trembling of the ship matching his own trembling of excitement. They were racing up to flank speed, 133,000 horsepower, from the nineteen steam boilers turning the four drive shafts, the roar of the exhaust screaming out of the starboard side stack audible even above the howling of the wind. She was alive, her 850 feet of deck swarming with life, the nearly fifty aircraft of the first strike wave. The Zeroes were forward, the lightweight fighters needing the least room to launch, followed by the Kates and Vals, all laden with torpedoes or bombs for the total strike force to be launched from six carriers; over fifty of those bombs were actually sixteen-inch naval artillery shells, a ton in weight, mounted with stabilizing fins. The specially picked pilots of those planes would have a tough time on rollout, their planes launching with half a ton of weight over their design limits.

Deck crews raced about, the chief mechanic of each plane standing to one side, watching intently, listening, eyes scanning back and forth. The engines had been running now for over twenty minutes, were warmed up, the shifting of the wind forcing more air through the cowling intakes. Over the shoulder of his pilot in the forward seat, he could see the temperature gauges for oil and manifold dropping slightly. Good, there was always the danger of overheating. The fourteen-cylinder Sakai air-cooled engine rated at just over one thousand horsepower for takeoff, was running smooth.

All checks had been run, magneto switches thrown, the crew chief listening carefully to the slight drop in rpms with each magneto check, able to tell without even looking at a gauge that all was well. Carb deicer was cleared and off, oil pressure good, fuel pressure good, artificial horizon and tum-bank indicator swaying back and forth with the rocking of the ship.

He caught the eye of his chief and nodded; the chief had given him the traditional headband that he now sported like a samurai of old. He grinned and gave a thumbs-up signal that all was well.

Assistants knelt under either wing, hands wrapped taut around the ropes that would pull the wheel chokes clear. In this mad, rolling sea, there’d be a disaster in the making if they were removed too early. A plane rolling back or forward into another, since they were spaced but a few feet apart, could set off a chain-reaction explosion that would sweep the deck and in an instant shatter the entire plan.

He faced into the more than fifty-knot blow sweeping the deck. It was refreshing, bracing. Three days ago, as they steamed down from the northern waters, it had been bitter, freezing, ice forming on the deck. But in the last day and a half they had shifted into more tropical waters and now, in his heavy flight suit, padded with rabbit fur, the heavy boots, kapok life vest, revolver in shoulder holster, padded leather flight helmet, he was sweating profusely and knew that once at altitude that sweat could be dangerous.

The wind was a cooling blessing.

He checked his chronometer: it was just after 6:00 a.m. local time.

He shifted his gaze to the bridge and made eye contact with his friend, the intellectual architect of this moment, Commander Genda.

Years ago it was Genda who first postulated this type of plan. He was met with such violent reaction that his lectures had to be curtailed, and yet he had persevered, citing every source from the German Clausewitz and the concept of the Schwerpunkt, to the teachings of the American strategist Mahan. For any hope of victory, Japan must effectively end its naval war on the first day, with the first crippling strike that would shatter enemy morale and cripple his ability to respond. We did so at Port Arthur in 1904, he said, the decisive blow as the opening move, the true tradition of the samurai who in one blinding sweep ends the duel before it has really started. It was Genda who had finally risen to the inner circle of naval advisors, and his words had reached Yamamoto when the government finally made its choice to turn “south” rather than “north,” meaning a naval war to seize the rich colonies of the collapsing European powers rather than confront the beleaguered Soviet Union for control of Siberia rich in resources yes, but a nightmare to organize and make productive for an industrial nation. Besides, the army had bungled its probing attacks in Mongolia the year before, crushed by the power of Soviet armor and artillery.

Fuchida caught Genda’s eye, salutes were exchanged between two old friends, and he knew Genda was in agony, wishing to go with them and not be tied to the deck command bridge.

The shuddering of the engines leveled out into a steady pulsing, drumming rumble. The bow of the great ship rose up on the waves, paused, and crashed down. Even in this, the most rigorous of services, if this was an exercise, the operation would be canceled. But not now, not today. A typhoon could be blowing, and yet still they would struggle to launch.

It was a few minutes after six local time. The tropical twilight was brightening to the east, arcing under low, scudding clouds, the trailing wisps of the storm front that had covered their advance across four thousand miles of northern seas breaking apart in the morning light.

A bosun’s pipe shrieked over the ship’s public address system. He went rigid, eyes focused on the string of signal flags just aft of the bridge, heart pounding. And there it was, the legendary Z flag, the flag that had been reverently brought out from its honored place aboard the old flagship Mikusa and with full honors brought aboard this ship, to be used for this moment.

The very flag that Admiral Togo had raised in 1905 to signal the commencement of action against the Russians at the Battle of Tsushima.

Another shriek of the bosun’s pipe and the flag that was at half-mast ever so sharply rose to the top of the signal mast. At the sight of it thus, a wild shout went up. The years of training now came to the fore. Within seconds he could see the first Zero begin to roll forward into the near sixty-knot wind, its rollout timed so that the deck would be level and dropping away.

It lifted easily, fifty feet shy of the bow. Already behind it rolled a second Zero, then the third. To meet the plan a plane had to clear every fifteen seconds. If the pilot lost an engine now, he was ordered to press over, go into the towering seas, and thus meet his fate. There was no time now for delay.

Ten of the Zeroes were clear. A last look over at his crew chief, who was twirling his raised right hand in a tight circle, signal to the pilot of his plane to rev up.

The plane shuddered with its pent-up fury, massive radial engine thundering, exhaust whipping back. Fuchida was actually tempted to remain standing, but knew that was foolish bravado.

He slipped down into the cockpit, quickly buckling his harness on, pulling the shoulder straps tight, slapping his pilot, directly in front of him, on the shoulder.

Now seated, he could not see ahead and could only catch a glimpse of the wingtip of the Kate in front and to their port side.

The crew chief continued to circle his fist, faster and tighter, the plane shuddering as the engine roared at full throttle, only the chocks and the pilot with both feet locked to the toe brakes keeping it from leaping forward. Unlike with a ground takeoff, there was no room to zigzag into place. The massive bulk of the engine forward blocked the view ahead.

With a dramatic gesture the crew chief pointed down with his left hand, signaling the crews holding the lines to the chokes to pull them clear. At the same instant he looked back up at the pilot, saluted, and then pointed directly forward.

The heavy Kate began to roll forward, the launch chief, up on the bridge, timing the moment so that the deck was pitching up; thus by the time they reached the end of the deck, it would be pitching back down.

“Wind speed seventy,” the pilot shouted, “seventy-five.” They were past the bridge. Though indicated speed was seventy-five, in fact they were just barely moving at little more than twenty-five knots. The pilot already had his stick slightly forward to raise the tail up, the big rudder aft biting into the wind with plenty of right rudder by the pilot to counteract the tremendous torque generated by the engine. He could feel a lightness to the aircraft, a slight buffeting from the torque, the pilot feeding in more right rudder, stick easing back, the deck dropping away beneath them. The Kate felt sluggish, hovering on a stall, pilot nosing her down slightly, running parallel to the deck for a few seconds so that it looked like they were heading straight into the sea.

Deck behind, Fuchida looked back. He felt a sinking in his gut, the pilot easing the stick back, the control stick between his legs moving, but he kept his hands clear. Today it was not his job to fly. He was sitting in the bombardier’s seat, now his command perch, and his job was to lead. True air speed was now rapidly climbing. A mistake novices sometimes made when taking off from a carrier was to forget they were taking off into headwinds, sometimes as high as sixty knots per hour. A sharp turnout before true speed was up would trigger a fatal stall.

He looked back as they started into a shallow banking turn to port. The next Kate was clearing the deck, another just starting its takeoff roll. Overhead, assembling several thousand feet up with their faster rate of climb, the Zeroes were circling into formation.

Canopy was still back, wind blowing at a thousand feet up, already a bit cooler. Coming out of the turn they flew westward, racing down the port side of the Akagi. In the distance, like mayflies rising, planes were lifting from the decks of the other five carriers, circling to form.

He caught sight of the Z flag, and he felt a tightening of his throat. Memories of the academy, where one day of the year the flag would be removed from its sacred shrine aboard Togo’s old flagship, Mikusa, and brought down to Etajima, the Naval Academy, for the parading ceremony, a lesson to the future of the glories of the past.

He saluted, heart swelling with pride and flashes of memory. Memory of Etajima and those whom he’d met there, some few who in less than two hours would be his enemies.

Mitsuo Fuchida, strike leader for the entire attack, two waves, 363 planes, the largest such carrier-based attack in the history of warfare, circled over Akagi twice, waiting for formations to tighten up.

He checked his transmitter. The slip of paper tucked over the transmit switch was still in place, a precaution against accidentally sending a signal; for those planes using telegraphs, pieces of paper were placed between the contact points. Not until the target was in sight would he give the signal.

The groups were now all but formed, circling, waiting, and he knew all eyes were on his distinctively marked plane, sporting a broad yellow stripe around the tail. The six carriers were below, pounding forward through heavy seas, deck crews already bringing up the planes of the second wave and spotting them into position. Farther out, the protective screen of destroyers and cruisers kept watch, far aft, barely visible on the horizon, the resupply ships the admiral had ordered forward to everyone’s surprise, the precious oilers laden with the black gold that in so many ways had become the reason for what was about to begin.

He reached forward, slapped his pilot on the shoulder, and gave him a thumbs-up. A second later the plane rocked back and forth three times and, leveling out, turned on to a heading of south-southeast. Crossing over Akagi, now several thousand feet below, he could just see the flutter of the Z flag, ship turning south to move closer to the target while deck crews were already racing to bring up the second strike wave from below.

He looked down at his Swiss chronometer. It was 6:20 a.m. local; in Japan, it was 8 December 1941. The island of Oahu was one hour and twenty minutes away.

Etajima--Japanese Naval Academy; 10 April 1934