Pearl Harbour - A novel of December 8th (44 page)

What the hell do I do?

He kept his thumb down. Watched the tracers from his guns. They were plunging down, under the Jap. Pull back, raise your nose, drop them in on him!

When it hit, there was no sound, just the shattering of the forward canopy as a 20-millimeter shell from the Zero that had been turning to his port side slammed a 30-degree deflection shot straight into his engine, a dozen 7.7-millimeter machine- gun bullets stitching across his cockpit, severing rudder cables, one bullet slicing through his stomach. The Zero coming head- on opened up at nearly the same instant, the pilot shaking his head, the American firing far too soon, one of the Zero’s 20- millimeter shells tearing into the guts of the Wright Cyclone engine, severing the gas line, the explosion of the shell and the heat of the engine igniting the hundred-octane fuel that sprayed out.

A second later the plane turned sharply into an accelerated stall, snap-rolled, and went into a spin, flame blowing into the cockpit.

Lieutenant Jeremiah Sims tried to struggle with the canopy release but already the Gs were building up from the spin, disorienting him, the explosion of flame searing into his lungs.

It was all happening too fast, dear God. The mountains, they’re so green.

“Hail Mary, full of grace ...”

Headquarters CinCPac, Pearl Harbor: 2:47p.m. Local Time

The phone rang, silencing the room. Admiral Kimmel picked it up, listened, features fixed.

“Sound the alert,” was all he said, and he hung up. “It’s a third attack coming in!”

Only seconds after he spoke the spine-chilling warble of an air-raid siren sounded, rising in pitch. All across the harbor more sirens began to echo, joined by the distant clarion call of a bugle aboard a cruiser sounding battle stations.

James stood in the far comer of the room. He had not said a word throughout the chaotic hour-long conference but felt throughout that he wanted to scream, to denounce, to scream a warning as the admiral, and vice admirals, captains, and commanders of all the various departments argued and recriminated and debated, with Kimmel silent, issuing few orders, his gaze at times drifting to the window with its shattered panes, the roar of ships burning along battleship row, a background symphony of disaster.

“Spotters along the northeast coast report an incoming wave of Japanese planes, fifty plus,” Kimmel finally announced.

“Can we be sure?” a captain asked. “This is the fifth alarm since this morning.”

“It was confirmed by a pilot in a P-36 out of Wheeler. He reported eighty-plus planes coming in.”

Kimmel hesitated, looking back out the window.

“Said he was closing to engage, then contact was lost.”

“Jesus Christ,” someone whispered, “one of those antiques against a Zero.”

James struggled against the nausea. He was enough of a pilot now to know what that lone pilot would accomplish.

“Gentlemen, go to your posts,” Kimmel said quietly.

James looked over at Collingwood. What were their posts? During the infrequent drills for those on shore, they were told to simply put helmets on and stay in place down in the basement. They had men listening for any Japanese radio transmissions. There might be something for them to work on decoding. But now, with another attack coming in?

The room quickly emptied, men scattering; already there was gunfire. He looked out the window: a destroyer out in mid-harbor, racing past the burning battleships, with its forward and aft five-inch mounts pointed high, was already firing on something.

Kimmel remained motionless, and James realized that this man, at this moment, wished to be like the ship’s captain of old, in fact was most likely praying for that fate. He would stay here, stand by the window, and pray that this time they hit him. A chief with hash marks halfway up his arm stood behind the admiral, and for a brief instant caught James’s gaze of admiration, the flicker of his gaze indication for him to get the hell out and leave them.

He followed Collingwood out into the corridor. It was a flood of men rushing back and forth, some in panic, tin hats being put on, a few purposeful, grim-faced; it was like an ant nest stirred up into chaos.

“Let’s get our people out,” Collingwood shouted. “This place is a death trap.”

James nodded in agreement, and racing toward the door to their basement lair, he noticed that the marine guard was no longer there. Collingwood was far ahead of him, down the stairs, James unable to keep up. He had refused any morphine or treatment for his arm, sliced by something just above the stump of his hand. One of the female secretaries down in the basement had bandaged it with a tom-up piece of towel, blood soaking through, now dark, and by God it was hurting like hell now.

Collingwood, far ahead of him at the bottom of the stairs, again no guard there, fumbled for his keys, then pulled the door open.

“Everyone get the hell out!” he shouted. “Out now, we got another attack coming in!”

James felt absolutely useless and backed up against the wall as those who had worked for months trying to decipher warning of this moment began to race up the stairs. He wasn’t sure what to do, some looking at him.

“Just get as far away from this building as you can,” he offered. “Find some cover. We’ve got about ten minutes!”

The room emptied, Collingwood reappearing.

“Shouldn’t we leave someone behind to guard?” James offered.

After all, this was perhaps the most secured room of any room operated by the navy in the entire Pacific.

“It won’t be here in ten more minutes,” Collingwood said, almost grinning at the absurdity of James’s offer. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

As they reached the top of the stairs and then ran out the main doors, they were greeted by a thunderous roar. The sound, the sight of it was spectacular. Of the eighty or so ships that had survived the first two attacks, only about a third of them had managed to round up crews, get a head of steam and start for sea, but every last one of them now had their guns manned. And most were firing, tracer shells arcing up, concussions from five-inchers, even some of the eight-inchers on the cruisers firing their heavy loads, hopefully fused to air- burst. James looked up at the blackening bursts of clouds dotting the skies over Pearl Harbor. He did not see a single plane, but by God, if an attack was coming in, it’d give them something to think about.

Six Miles Northeast of Pearl Harbor: 2:55 Local Time

Canopy still open, Fuchida took the sight in, trying to stay calm, focused. So far only a scattering of American fighters had dared to intercept, their burning wreckage littering the landscape from Kahuku to the outskirts of Honolulu. His lead squadron of fighters was starting its dive on Hickam, ready to jump any opposition that was left and dared to come up.

But that was not his concern now. It was the wall of antiaircraft fire ahead. The sky was black with it. Panic firing, that was obvious, shells bursting at random altitudes from a thousand feet all the way up to fifteen thousand feet or more. Below he could see several explosions igniting in the city, their gunners most likely forgetting to set for an altitude burst, the shells just arcing straight up and then coming down to kill on the ground. Indicator of their training, their panic ... but still, the sight of it chilled him. This was not going to be like the first two attacks.

He slid the canopy closed, slapped his pilot on the shoulder, and leaning forward pointed straight ahead. Over Genda’s objections, he had announced that this time he was going to personally lead the torpedo attack on the massive dry dock, rather than standing back. He wanted this, to add his own personal blow, and besides, his men needed this example now if they were going to brave what was ahead.

His plane banked over to the north, swinging wide, the other seven Kates of his attack group following, circling to the north of the harbor and then dropping down low, to race straight in and release at three hundred yards from the gates of the dock.

He felt his stomach surge up as his Kate nosed over and started to dive.

Hickam Field 2:59 p.m. Local Time

Don Barber, moving awkwardly on what he called his “peg leg,” stuck his head into the open cowling of a P-40, trying to help the crew chief trace back the wiring from the main solenoid, which must have been severed. It was one of the few surviving planes from the first attacks but had been hit by half a dozen rounds and some shrapnel. They had tried repeatedly to get the engine to turn over, but it refused to fire up.

He had no real business being here. It’d been nearly twenty-five years since he had flown for the army and had part of a leg blown away in the skies over France. But on Sunday mornings he liked to drop in, have coffee with “the boys.” A couple of his old comrades from 1918 were still active on this base, with plenty of brass on their hats or hash marks on their sleeves, and a pass onto the base was no problem.

He had arrived an hour before the first attack and since then had pitched in, helping with trying to get the few remaining planes airworthy in case the Japs came back.

The shriek of the air-raid siren had been background noise until someone came running toward them shouting that this was the real thing, not another false alarm.

“I think I got it!” the chief cried, pointing his flashlight up into the bowels of the Allison engine. Sure enough, several wires were clearly severed by what must have been a shell fragment not much bigger than a dime.

Without being prompted, Don pushed up a roll of black electrical tape. No time to replace the wires; splice and tape. Hell, that’s how it was done back in the last war.

The thought struck him hard. The last war. We’re in another war.

“Goddamn it, chief! Fix it. I can see Japs!”

It was the pilot. The kid had missed the first two strikes but had finally made it into the base and had spent the last four hours strapped into the cockpit, ready to go up as soon as they figured out what the hell was wrong.

Don stuck his head out from under the cowling.

“We got it!” he said, trying to offer a reassuring grin. He could see the kid was scared, face pale, sweat soaked. He must be roasting in there, Don realized, remembering his own time, over twenty years ago, waiting to go up, ready to vomit with fear, and then trembling with anticipation when the engine of his Sopwith fired over, plane shaking, coming alive. Now he was reduced to just hanging around the base, watching with envy, offering flying lessons to civilians like his friend Watson, who had the luck of being called back in. The army had not seen fit to call him up, but damn it, he could still do something this day, even if it was just to hand up some tape to repair a plane and get back at the bastards.

“Shit, I need some more wire!”

The chief was halfway up inside the engine cowling, hand reaching back. Don looked around. A corporal was tearing into a toolbox, pulling out a strand of medium gauge, a foot-long section.

“Strip the ends,” Don shouted, the corporal using a pocketknife, blood suddenly spluttering from his thumb as he severed off the end of the wire rather than strip it.

Don grabbed the wire and the knife, worked to strip both ends clean.

“Give me the damn wire!” the chief shouted.

“It’s coming,” Don replied, trying to sound calm, he had to stay calm.

“Jesus Christ, they’re coming in!”

Don looked up, saw several men were pointing toward the east end of the runway: razor-sharp silhouettes banking out of a diving turn, lining up, coming in. Men working on the few surviving planes began to scatter, running in every direction; there was a cacophony roar of gunfire. Hundreds of guns opening up, machine guns, but mostly handheld weapons, Springfields, a sergeant with perfect poise leveling a .45, a corporal with a tommy gun.

From one of the two Zeroes, he could see flame bursting from a wing. It started into a roll... it was coming straight toward them.

Goddamn, it was coming straight at them.

“The wire, give me the damn wire!” The chief mechanic was still up inside the guts of the engine, oblivious to what was about to happen.