Days of Infamy (15 page)

Eight seconds later the first bomb hit the ocean a quarter mile to starboard, just forward of the bow, and at half-second intervals the other nineteen bombs walked in toward
Hiei
, each hit sending a tower of foaming water two hundred feet into the air, concussion racing through the ocean, rattling the thirty-six-thousand-ton mass of the ship.

The drop from the one bomber walked across the bow of the ship, missing by less than fifty yards.

Someone pulled him down flat, his damage control officer, and then it hit, the eighth bomb from the lead 17 impacting into the starboard side of number one turret, the blast not penetrating through, but nevertheless tearing across the deck, wiping out three of the twenty-five-millimeter mounts, annihilating their crews, splinters howling across the width of the ship and halfway back to the stern, shattering a window of the bridge, decapitating the assistant helmsman. A fragment of bomb casing penetrated the wall aft, killing two more men in the corridor.

Nagita picked himself back up, and looked over the railing. Smoke was still swirling around number one turret. Though the bomb had not penetrated, it was obvious the blast had dismounted the gun from its bearings. It could have been worse.

“They’re diving!”

He looked up.

The American dive bombers, at least ten of them, were beginning to wing over.

IT HAD NOT
taken James long to find a scattering of paper outside the wreckage of CinCPac. In fact the ground was carpeted with paper, shattered filing cabinets, and what he suspected was even part of one
of their ultrasecret IBM calculating machines used for decrypting.

Dianne had finally spotted a blank sheet bearing the letterhead of the Office of Personnel, CinCPac.

Dianne had a pen in her purse, which somehow she had managed to hang on to throughout all this insanity, and he quickly forged an authorization that the bearer of this note was temporarily drafted to assist with the repair and deployment of radios, by direct order of Admiral Kimmel, authorizing the bearer to commandeer whatever personnel and equipment needed, dated it yesterday, and with a flourish made an indecipherable signature, since he could not, at this moment, possibly remember the man’s name.

He hung on to the note and with its power in less than ten minutes had a Navy deuce and a half, with a driver and three armed marines, who seemed to be glad to be dragged away from standing around, guarding the still burning ruins of CinCPac. He loaded his team into the back of the truck and headed for Joe’s radio shop. James rode up front, ready to stick the note in the face of any Shore Patrol or cop who tried to stop them, and stuck Joe in the back, out of sight, since the appearance of someone Japanese might trigger an undesirable reaction.

With the truck backed up to the front door of the shop, Joe busily directed the team as it stripped out shortwave radios, ham radios, and bins full of radio tubes and tools, loading them onto the truck.

James stood silent, watching, the thought crossing his mind that at this moment, this man was loading out thousands of dollars worth of equipment, and there was no damn inventory. It’d be a snowball’s chance in hell that he’d ever get compensated.

Joe was on the phone, which amazingly was still working, at least in this part of town, making calls, and within minutes several cars pulled up, Joe introducing them as friends who knew radios.

“Hey, everyone come over here,” one of them cried, bursting into the doorway of the shop and pointing out to his polished black Cadillac.

He ran back to his car, popping the doors open. The car was still running, and mounted in the dashboard was what looked to be a very expensive radio with shortwave frequencies.

“It’s the President. He’s going to speak!”

Everyone fell silent, work for that moment forgotten. The crowd gathered round the open doors, with James standing to one side. Farther down the street he saw where a car had come to a dead stop in the middle of the road, the driver shouting for some men futilely training a couple of garden hoses on a burning house to come over.

“Mr. Speaker, the President of the United States …”

The sound of the applause wavered, distorted, the owner of the car gingerly working the tuning dial.

James’s focus shifted. Dozens of plumes of smoke rose nearly straight up in the still morning air, flattening out several thousand feet above Honolulu. One could easily pick out where Pearl was, a solid black column of smoke darkening the western sky. A lone ambulance raced past, weaving around the car in the middle of the street, where a crowd was gathering, bell clattering. As it roared past he could see that the sides of the ambulance were flame scorched and had been pierced by shrapnel.

And as it receded all seemed strangely quiet: small crowds gathering around parked cars. Somewhere off in the distance, a loudspeaker was on. So strangely quiet and hushed. And then that voice, that voice familiar to the entire world could be heard, crackling on some radios, sharp and clear on others.

“Yesterday, December seventh, 1941, a date which will live in infamy …”

Infamy. He hadn’t heard that word used in years. It had a Victorian era ring to it. He looked back at the oily black smoke twisting up into the morning sky over Pearl, heard the distant receding rattle of the ambulance, an air raid siren warbling in the distance, aware now that it had been shrieking thus ever since they had arrived at the radio shop.

“Always will we remember the character of the attack against us …”

He thought of the dead marine by his side, of watching as
Oklahoma
rolled over in its death throes, taking hundreds of young men with her, of his mother-in-law, sobbing as she salvaged but a single photo of her dead grandson before fleeing their home. He remembered
the row of bodies, not even decently covered with a sheet or blanket, lined up outside the ruins of headquarters, while he and Dianne had picked around between them, looking for a blank sheet of paper to forge a document.

“Our answer …”

How do we answer, he wondered. Damn, I hate the bastards, but how do we answer? With what?

A distant explosion rumbled over them. He looked back toward Pearl. Something had blown; a fireball was climbing heavenward. God, was there anything left there to blow up? Was the bombardment starting again?

He suddenly felt all so tired, beyond exhaustion. When did I sleep last? He’d been up the entire night before the attack, and his
left arm was throbbing He looked down at the bandage, stained dark from congealed blood. Two days now without sleep?

He tried to focus on the President’s words. Should I be at attention? It was the commander-in-chief speaking. Does he know what is really going on out here?

He looked at the group gathered around. All were silent. Joe’s hands were clenched with anger barely suppressed. Dianne had started to cry, tears coursing down her cheeks as she shuddered and held back a sob.

“… a state of war exists between the United States and the Empire of Japan …”

No one spoke. Another explosion rumbled across the island: a cruiser hit during the night bombardment was torn apart as its forward magazine ignited.

“… and win through to the inevitable victory, so help us God.”

There was an eruption of applause on the radio, but around him all were silent, grim.

Several turned to look back to him. He was in command here.

Am I supposed to say something, he wondered. The fireball from the exploding cruiser was spreading out in a dark oily plume, its burnt offering mingling with the hundreds of other fires out of control.

“Let’s get back to work,” was all he could say. The President had said what needed to be said. Now it was time to get back to work.

What happened next he wasn’t quite sure. For a moment he thought it was Margaret, and then to his shock and embarrassment a whispered voice.

“It’s Dianne, I’m not Margaret.”

Apparently he had collapsed and was now in the backseat of the Cadillac, jacket off, and she was gently moving his good hand away from her waist.

“He OK?”

It was Joe, looking in anxiously.

“Just exhaustion. The guy hasn’t slept in days.”

Joe was holding a cup of water. Dianne took it and held it to his lips, and he drained it.

“This might hurt,” she said, and she lifted up his left arm, bringing the bandaged stump to her nose, loudly sniffing at it.

“What are you doing?” he whispered.

“I once thought about being a nurse, did a semester at school, but didn’t have the stomach for it,” she said. “Anyhow, I don’t smell any infection, but I don’t like the looks of it.

“Keep the bandage on, sir. Now why don’t you grab forty winks.”

“Can’t.”

She smiled and patted his cheek lightly.

“Just like my Jeremiah,” she said softly.

“Who?”

“My boyfriend. Never sleeps.”

“How would you know?” he ventured.

She gave him a playful pat.

“None of your business, sir.”

“Where is he?”

“With the Air Corps. Flies P-36s, based at Bellows. I bet he got at least one of ’em yesterday.”

He could hear the strain in her voice.

He didn’t reply, remembering the message of yesterday, that a lone P-36 out of Bellows was going up against the entire third wave. Chances were, her Jeremiah was dead.

“I should get back to work,” he whispered, and in spite of her protests he got out of the car, still lightheaded. The men loading up the truck looked at him appraisingly, no one saying anything. A war was on, and they had work to do rebuilding the radio grid, and that was his job now.

COMMANDER STRUBLE, OF
course, had no idea whatsoever of what the President was saying at that exact moment, nearly five thousand miles away. He was too busy trying to stay alive, skimming over the Pacific at less than thirty feet, slamming rudder hard left and then right, skidding, jinking his plane to throw off the antiaircraft gunners who were still hammering at him, geysers of water kicking up to either side of his plane.

“Did we hit it?” he shouted. “Damn it, did we hit it?”

“Johnson got her, sir. God damn, look at it! He nailed her good!”

He spared a quick glance aft as he went into a left skid, caught a glimpse of a fireball erupting aft, black smoke soaring up from amidships.

“What about us?”

“Didn’t see, sir,” and he knew his tail gunner was lying. Damn it, he missed, he knew he missed by a good fifty yards or more. He had completely forgotten about the new electrical release switches that had just been installed, forgotten to tell his men to turn them on, and had released his bomb the old way, using the manual lever. At that
speed, to divert attention for even a second with one hand off the throttle could throw aim off by fifty, a hundred yards or more.

“Damn it!”

He was half tempted to come about and at least strafe the son of a bitch with his two forward thirty-calibers.

Insane.

They were out of the range of the 25mm guns, though an occasional five-or six-inch burst nearby, aim off.

“How many with us?”

“I count seven, sir. I think Greenspan and Kelly bought it on the way down.”

How was he going to face his squadron when they got back? At least two of them had made solid hits, and he’d missed. And then there was the admiral to face for disobeying orders and going for the battleship rather than turning aside and hunting out the carriers, which had to be out there.

“Keep a sharp watch for any fighters,” he finally said. “Now let’s go home.”

He set a course bearing south-southeast, the expected rendezvous point with
Enterprise
, slowly climbing back up to three thousand feet once clear of the five-inchers. The dogfight between the Wildcats and Zeroes was over. He had no idea where that was now, or who had won.

Nor did he see the lone Zero, at over eighteen thousand feet, directly above them, the smoking engine of one of the surviving Dauntlesses leaving an unmistakable trail, while a dozen miles to the east, the five surviving Wildcats, also heading back, were being stalked back to their carrier as well.