Pearl Harbour - A novel of December 8th (32 page)

“Are you prepared to tell the Emperor that we will go chasing the Dutch and the British in the south, but the Americans might soon have carrier aircraft flying over the Imperial Palace? But he should not worry?”

Neither could reply as he invoked the name of the Emperor.

“Gentlemen, I am deeply opposed to fighting America. I have great respect for the power and the determination of the Americans. If they have the capacity to hit us, they will take great risks to do so. If we are forced to fight them, I want to limit their capacity so decisively that it affects their will. Otherwise we will inevitably be defeated by their industrial capacity. You are both right. This is a daring and dangerous plan. Other plans would have fewer tactical risks.

“However, this is the only plan. I repeat, the only plan that gives Japan a chance to win the war.

“If you decide you cannot implement this plan with full enthusiasm I suggest you ask for a transfer, and I will ensure it is granted today.”

Neither spoke in reply and with a curt wave, he indicated their dismissal.

He settled back behind his desk. Such a strange evening. If victory was achieved, the letter would be forgotten of course and all would be eager for reward. If failure resulted, then they had their cover, their proof... damn them.

Hiroshima Bay 15 October 1941

Heart pounding, Commander Fuchida pulled back on the stick of his Zero, feeding in right rudder and then stick over, turning into a sharp banking circle directly above the Kate torpedo bombers.

Formation was excellent, perfect after the relentless drilling of the last two months.

He did not need to give the command; it was instinct now. The first torpedo dropped away, two seconds later the next, then the third, fourth, and fifth.

He held his breath, waiting.

Yes!

He could not contain a shout of triumph, radio switched on, all hearing it, both crews on the planes and on the deck of the Akagi!

It had worked. One after another the five torpedoes surfaced in the shallow thirty-five feet of water, high-pressure oxygen-powered turbine engines running true, foaming wake visible ... and at each point of impact a spreading wake with four simple slabs of wood bobbing on the gentle waves of the harbor.

It had been so simple, the British having invented it a year ago for their raid against the Italian fleet at Taranto. Strap breakaway wooden paddles fore and aft on each torpedo. Upon impact, the light wooden strips of bent laminated wood holding the paddles to the sides of the torpedoes would shear off, having served their purpose, absorbing a fair part of the energy of the drop, acting as brake, thus slowing the descent of the torpedoes as they then dived under the water, but now they would be going down only twenty-five to thirty feet before leveling out and then rising back up to the predetermined depth for their run into the target.

It meant they could launch torpedoes in the confines of a shallow bay ... such as Pearl Harbor. The target ship, an old destroyer, was steaming at ten knots, its starboard side draped with heavy matted padding. The ship steamed on, the crew aboard standing on deck, watching, the captain most likely more than a bit nervous, not sure of the promise of Genda and others as to what would happen next.

Four of the five torpedoes were running true, racing forward at nearly forty knots, the fifth one, apparently with rudder jammed, was sheering off into a left-turning circle. Troublesome, but still 80 percent were on target.

They closed in, the planes having dropped their loads, following proper evasion tactics, racing straight at the target destroyer, pulling up to barely clear the deck, roaring over the ship, dropping back down to near surface level then kicking into evasive turns to throw off antiaircraft fire. The Zeroes, assigned as escorts to keep off enemy fighters, flew higher and astern; mission done, they too broke away, swinging wide to avoid the destroyer but then ready to drop in behind the Kates they were assigned to protect.

The four wakes closed in on the target ship. The first one passed just astern, continuing on. The second ... a hit! Followed two seconds later by the third torpedo . . . another hit!

There was no explosion of course, just the bubbling wake converging on the destroyer slamming into the side.

For the men aboard the ship, it would be something of a shock. Half a ton of metal racing at forty knots, even without an explosive warhead, could punch through the thin skin of a destroyer, but the heavy padding slung over the side took most of the blow, the torpedo shattering on impact.

Expensive, damn expensive; they could not be retrieved like standard training torpedoes but the test had to be done under real conditions and not just at a static target. The fourth torpedo passed fifty meters in front of the bow. Actually not a wasted shot, for in a real situation the target would have been maneuvering violently, in the thirty-second interval between drop at six hundred meters and impact, enough time for a ship to start to turn, to speed up. Bracketing fore and aft ensured it would not escape unscathed.

The old ship would most likely have to go back to drydock after this, have plates below the waterline repaired, but it was worth it.

They had done it!

He could not resist the joy of throwing in a touch of reverse rudder and then stick hard over into a victory roll, excited voices on the radio breaking silence, exclaiming over the triumph until Fuchida ordered them to silence.

Granted the radios were short-range plane-to-plane, but still, stranger things had happened with atmospheric skips, or perhaps an observer on land, listening in.

Akagi loomed straight ahead, several miles farther out to sea, steaming leisurely at fifteen knots, the Kates turning wide to go into landing formation. Fuchida announced he was taking the lead, feeding in throttle, swinging out wide to the port side of the carrier steaming south, tip of his wing just barely obscuring the view of the ship as he raced down her length, three hundred meters above the ocean, clearing the aft end of the ship, counting to five, then banking over sharply. It was a little too sharply, but he could not resist showing off a bit.

As he came out of his 180-degree turn, the deck was lined up straight ahead.

He ran through the final checklist, switching to main fuel tank, checking oil pressure, temperature, air speed, throttling back, nose high to bleed off speed, leaning to one side of the cockpit for a better view past the engine cowling. Air speed dropping, plane sinking, no challenge bringing a fighter in to land on a carrier in the calm seas of Hiroshima Bay.

He cleared the threshold, ready to slam the throttle up if something went wrong at the last second, felt the arresting gear snag a cable--a point of pride that it was almost always the first one--and then lurching to a stop. The deck crew chief was standing to one side, arms raised and crossed as others pulled the cable free of the tail hook, signaling now to throttle up, taxi forward, and to the starboard side, clearing the path for the first of the Kates coming in. The safety barrier net was dropped to let him pass, raised up again, and then the signal to throttle down, cut magnetos, shut down.

The propellor whirled down to a stop, noise and vibration stopping, that strange instant of silence until one of the deck crew was up on the wing, helping to slide the canopy back.

The boy looked down at him, excited, helping him to unsnap his shoulder harness, offering a hand to stand up.

“Congratulations, sir!” the boy gasped, and Fuchida smiled, slapping him on the shoulder, and then stepped out of the cockpit, springing down to the deck, all around him gazing with admiration, stiffly saluting, then closing in with shouts of laughter. Because of the highest level of security, only half a dozen men on the entire ship knew the truth of the mission they were training for, though speculation was rife and more than one, he had heard, had correctly guessed the target. To try and stop the rumors was impossible, to come down hard on those who had guessed right would draw attention, but the order was strict in one sense: not a word of anything they did or saw to be spoken while ashore. Secret military police would indeed trail some of them, and if they spilled anything, anywhere, it would be transfer to a discipline battalion in Manchukuo, or worse. Several had already suffered that fate, including one pilot who got drunk at a geisha house and boasted how he would sink an American carrier at Pearl Harbor. That man was going to spend the war, or at least until after the attack, in an isolation cell.

He stepped back around his Zero to watch the first of the Kates come in, less than a minute behind him. If this were a full combat rehearsal, it would be one plane every thirty seconds, but then again Akagi would be cruising at flank speed to ensure slow landing speeds for the planes. The cost in fuel even for half an hour was a major concern and thus this more leisurely approach.

The landing was perfect, as he expected.

“Congratulations!”

He looked over to the entry to the conning bridge. It was Genda!

He had no idea that his friend was aboard Akagi, and the two raced toward each other, both stopped for a second to go through the ritual of saluting, before embracing and slapping each other on the back.

“You did it!” Genda cried excitedly. “Two hits it’s reported. The captain of that poor old tub already complaining he has to go back into port for repairs.”

Fuchida grinned.

“Imagine what they would have done if loaded with explosives rather than sand.”

Genda smiled and made a motion with his hands like a ship sinking.

“Even a battleship,” Fuchida said quietly.

Genda’s features stiffened for a moment then relaxed.

“Come below where we can talk more freely. I have some things to show you.”

They entered the doorway onto the bridge, and Fuchida followed Genda down a flight of stairs, which emptied out into the vast cavernous hangar deck. Dozens of aircraft were lined up, Vals, Kates, Zeroes, still a few of the older M96s, more than one with mechanics and crews laboring over them, cowlings pulled off, inspection plates removed from wing and fuselage surfaces, every plane constantly being inspected and reinspected.

Everyone knew something was building, and the mere sight of the legendary Fuchida walking with Genda over to a side room guarded by marine sentries would of course set the whole deck to buzzing with speculation.

Genda pulled the door shut behind him and locked it. It was one of the briefing rooms, but the large table used for maps had been broken down and removed. An object a dozen feet square covered by canvas filled the middle of the room; another object, rounded, a couple of meters in length and as thick around as a barrel was to one side, the heavy dolly it was resting on barely concealed beneath. “I wanted you to see it first. Once our pilots start to study it, they will be confined to this ship until the operation ends. Just one look at it, and their liberty ashore is finished until the mission is completed.”

“Including me?” Fuchida asked, with a grin. “I can already guess, at least, what is under one of those tarps.”

Genda nodded and with no slight fanfare, gently started to roll the canvas cover back off the tablelike object filling the middle of the room. He motioned for Fuchida to help on the other side. One turn of the canvas back and he could see it was an exquisitely made scale model, hills painted green and water blue, a true work of craftsmanship.

The canvas was rolled back to reveal a model of Pearl Harbor, exact, Fuchida could see, in every detail.

Ever since Genda had let him in on the secret back in the spring, he had studied the photos and maps made available to him, but this was the first time he had seen it thus so perfectly displayed.

There was Ford Island, the narrow sounds, miniature scale models of PBYs lining the tarmac of the naval air station on the island, and there, to the west of Ford Island, in what they were calling battleship row, the berths of the great battleships of the American Pacific Fleet, with three models representing the carriers Enterprise, Lexington, and Saratoga anchored to the north of the island.

“It is exact to the scale of how you will see it at three thousand meters above the base when the model is resting on the floor. Shortly, squadron leaders will be introduced to it, and then we begin to plot out attack routes. I think, already, that the only way for the torpedoes you tested to be launched correctly will require some remarkable flying. You will have to approach here,” and he pointed out a narrow sound to the east of battleship row. “Your torpedo bombers dropping down to fifty feet above the water and throttling back, perhaps bracketed by antiaircraft fire from gun positions flanking that sound and the ships within them.

“Clear into the main sound, align, and drop. They will have less than ten seconds to acquire target and release; it will be no open approach by sea.”

“No chance then for their battleship gunners to fire back.”

Genda nodded.

“Let’s hope so.”

“My men are like racehorses,” Fuchida announced. “They are training for a race, but they know not when or where. Delay too long, and they will be overtrained, anxious, and could make mistakes.”