The Pearl Harbor Murders (20 page)

Burroughs went in and retrieved the L¸ger, and followed after as the FBI man dashed toward the crushed-coral parking lot where the Ford waited, Hully right there at his father's side.

"Didn't miss the fire this time, Dad," he said.

"Wish to hell I had," O. B. said.

There were tears in his father's eyes, as well; but—as was the case with the FBI man—Edgar Rice Burroughs's jaw was firmly set.

FOURTEEN
Under Fire

At the same time as Edgar Rice Burroughs and his son Hulbert were sitting down for breakfast at the Niumalu, two barefoot young fishermen were settling in on the enlisted men's landing at Pearl City. Sitting on the pier in only their khaki trousers, having yanked their T-shirts off (once they'd slipped out of their mother's sight), the Morton boys—Don, eleven, and Jerry, thirteen—did not brandish poles: instead, they unfurled a simple ball of string out into the water.

The boys were old hands at this, though they were resigned to slim pickings, even if on occasion they had managed to snag a hapless perch; and while the morning's fishing would certainly be on the dull side, Don and Jerry would no doubt be entertained by the harbor's always interesting parade of ships and sailors, planes and pilots....

Puffs of wind gently stirred the glassy surface of the water, and the sun peeked from behind cotton-candy clouds, promising a hot, lazy day—a typical Sunday for the two boys, although the fish did seem to be biting, for a change.

Seeking more bait, Don scrambled up to their house, only two hundred yards from the landing, while Jerry lounged in the golden sunlight, squinting as he took in a view any kid might relish, the ships of the Pacific Fleet strewn before him like so many toys in his tub. Groupings of destroyers convened about their tenders, to the north and east; and cruisers faced into the Navy Yard piers, at the southeast. Farther south lay the cruiser
Helena,
and—in dry dock with two destroyers—the battleship
Pennsylvania.
To the west were more destroyers, in and out of dry dock.

Lording over it all, in the middle of the harbor, sat Ford Island, where even now the boys' stepfather was on duty at the seaplane hangars. Patrol planes and carriers were stationed there, carriers moored on the northwest side, battleships on the southeast. Only today, Jerry noted, the carriers were all out at sea.

But there was still plenty for a kid to look at—the
Utah,
a battleship turned target ship; the seaplane tenders
Swan
and
Tangier;
the mine layer
Ogala;
cruisers like the
Raleigh, Helena
and
Detroit;
the old gunboat
Sacramento
with its thin, old-fashioned smokestack; and—on the far side of Ford Island—an exciting lineup of funnels and masts, the "trees" of Battleship Row, the
Arizona, California, Maryland, Nevada, Oklahoma, Tennessee,
and
West Virginia.
What other kid's bathtub armada could compare to that?

Still, all of this was old news to Jerry, who was glad the fish were biting. Otherwise, this had the makings of another really dull Sunday—that must have been why somebody was playing with firecrackers, off in the distance someplace.

Twenty miles east of where Jerry and Don were fishing, on the windward coast of the island, Japanese fighter planes and dive-bombers were swooping down on Kaneohe Naval Air Station.

One moment all was quiet, the next men were running after guns and ammunition, shouting, cursing, as the enemy planes made scrap metal out of the big PBY patrol planes at the station, moored to buoys in the bay and sitting unmanned on ramps.

Thirty-three Army planes were either damaged or destroyed.

All were in flames.

Don Morton was halfway down to the pier from the house, bringing more bait, when an explosion pitched him onto his face. The eleven-year-old covered his ears, his head, as three more blasts rocked the world over and around him.

Then, scared spitless, he scurried back up the slope and ran inside the house, just as his mother was coming out, her face white, her eyes wide.

Standing there in the doorway, she leaned down, putting her hands on his shoulders. "Go down and fetch your brother—now! Hurry!"

Don did as he was told, even as planes were gliding by overhead, housetop level. The boy heard gunfire and realized it was coming from above, and the dirt road nearby puffed up, making little dust clouds, as the pilot strafed the area.

As dust danced on the road, Don—momentarily frozen—yelled, "Jerry!"

And then the boy turned and ran back to the house, and his mommy. When he got there, Don saw their next-door neighbor, a Navy lieutenant, in his p.j.'s., out on his own front yard.

The funny thing was, the grown man was crying too, crying for
his
mommy.

FBI agent Sterling was at the wheel of the black Ford with Burroughs in front, and Hully was in the backseat, sitting forward, like a kid.

As they headed for the Japanese Consulate, downtown, Burroughs was dismayed to see civilians failing to take cover, standing out in their yards and on the sidewalks, staring skyward, pointing at the plumes of black smoke, some laughing, convinced they were watching the military training exercise to end all such exercises.

Perhaps they were, he thought.

At first the traffic was nonexistent, the streets vacant, spookily, ominously so; and as the spectators began to get the point—as radios around the city informed them this was "the real McCoy!"—the citizens of Honolulu scrambled inside, leaving the sidewalks and front yards empty, as well.

For several blocks, the emptiness—punctuated by the muffled sound of explosions—was eerie, almost as if the world had ended, leaving behind only brick and concrete.

Suddenly, vehicles were everywhere, speeding, careening, civilian autos and taxicabs packed with sailors and soldiers desperate to get back to their ships and posts, delivery vans and ambulances and fire trucks, sirens screaming....

Soon the FBI agent's Ford was snarled in traffic.

Sterling, pounding the wheel impatiently, turned to Burroughs. "You really think Yoshikawa alias Mori-mura knew today was the day?"

Burroughs shrugged, sighed; the German's little automatic was in his hand. "Maybe not. Maybe he just knew that some Sunday soon, Oahu would be the target."

Sterling's smile was bitter; he shook his head. "All I keep thinking is 'poinsettias and hibiscus.' "

From the back, Hully said, "That radiophone call?"

"Code," Burroughs said.

Sterling nodded. "Code, all right—for certain kinds of ships."

Burroughs glanced at his son. "Maybe that bastard did know—our esteemed vice consul."

Traffic began to move again—as sirens wailed, and the sky roared.

"If we can ever get to the Consulate," Sterling said, through tight teeth, "we'll just ask the son of a bitch."

On a windy plain ten miles north of Pearl Harbor lay Wheeler Field, the Pacific's largest American fighter base. U-shaped barricades had been constructed to protect Wheeler's nearly one hundred fighter planes, Army Air Force P-40s and P-36s; this morning, however, the planes were clustered on the runways, wingtip to wing-tip—playing out General Short's antisabotage strategy, a policy the other Oahu bases were following, as well. Japanese planes pounced on the sitting ducks, dropping bombs, unleashing cannon fire and machine-gun blasts, chewing up the rows of parked fighters, fuel tanks igniting, leaving the hangars, enlisted men's barracks and PX in flames.

Dive-bombers swooped so low, inflicting their damage, that phone lines got snagged, and men on the ground could see the gold teeth in the grins of Jap pilots as they flashed by. No time to fight back, unarmed airmen died in their beds, or running for their planes, or for safety, though the base had no air-raid shelters. Their ammunition—locked away to keep local saboteurs from getting it, courtesy of General Short—was out of reach, stored in one of the burning hangars, bullets popping like popcorn in the conflagration.

Then the planes soared away, leaving thirty-nine men dead, and many more wounded.

Just north of Wheeler, at the suburban sprawl that was Schofield Barracks, sounds resembling explosions roused the interest of soldiers, who—upon glancing outside the mess hall—saw a plane with a black canopy and fuselage marked with a red spot, circling the roof of the building housing HQ. Breakfast trays in hand, several soldiers were arguing over whether this was a Jap plane or some strange Navy craft, when buglers trumpeted an alert. The men tossed their trays and ran from the mess hall into the quadrangle; others sought out rifles, and two artillerymen ran to the rooftop and fired at planes with Browning Automatic Rifles, emptying clips at the dive-bombers.

One of the Jap planes crashed.

Cheers went up.

Then a new topic of conversation took over among the frightened young soldiers: how much would it hurt to be shot by a Jap bullet? Was it true the Nips only used .25 caliber ammo?

Admiral Kimmel had gotten up early on this fine Sunday morning; every other weekend, he would meet with General Short for eighteen holes of golf. Today, Lieutenant Colonel Throckmorton and Colonel Fielder would be joining them.

He'd recently moved into this house at Makalapa Heights, about five minutes from HQ, and the place was underfurnished—severely lacking the touch his wife would have brought to it. On days off like this, he missed her dearly; but most of his time was so filled with work, he scarcely remembered he had any private life.

This week had been filled with protracted discussions over whether the fleet should be kept in Pearl Harbor or sent to sea; and now this business was looming of the supposed espionage activities that Adam Sterling—a good man, if overeager—and the ever-imaginative Ed Burroughs had brought to his attention last night.

He was still in his pajamas, and hadn't even shaved yet, when Commander Murphy, duty officer at HQ, called to say the
Ward
had ash-canned a sub near the harbor.

"Sorry to bother you on Sunday morning, sir," Murphy said.

Kimmel realized this was probably just another false alarm—incorrect reports of subs in the outlying area were common.

But he said, "You acted correctly, Commander—all submerged sub contacts must be regarded as hostile....I'll be right down."

Around five minutes later, freshly shaved and just getting into uniform, Kimmel again answered the phone and once more it was Murphy.

But this time the businesslike commander's voice was strangely shrill: "Sir, we have a message from the signal tower saying the Japanese are attacking Pearl Harbor—and this is no drill!"

Kimmel slammed the phone down and ran outside, onto the front lawn, into the garden which overlooked the base, buttoning his white uniform jacket as he went.

The sky was filled with the enemy—the Rising Sun on their wings. He knew at once this was no casual raid, by a few stray planes.

"Unbelievable," he murmured.

Aghast, he stood frozen among the flowers-poin-settias and hibiscus in bloom-watching Jap aircraft swoop down on the base, circling in figure eights, dropping bombs, turning and dropping more, machineguns chattering. Explosions rocked the sky-and ships, fires already burning fiercely on their decks. "Impossible," he whispered.

Four miles west of Pearl Harbor, the Ewa Marine Corps Air Station was hit by two squadrons of silver planes bisecting the field at two hundred mph, fishtailing to better lash their bullets into broad patterns.

Of the base's forty-nine fighters and scout planes, thirty were decimated on the ground.

Four blocks from Beretania Street, the black Ford managed to crawl through the traffic jam and make it across Kuakini Street, bordering Pauoa Park, where on the left-hand corner squatted the two-story concrete compound of the Japanese Consulate.

Sterling pulled up in front, into the no-parking zone, and Burroughs and his son hopped out, following the FBI agent up the stairs, where-oddly-Consul General Nagao Kita stood halfway down... in his dark blue silk pajamas.

Burroughs had met the usually affable Kita before, socially, as had Sterling-the consul general was short, plump, with dark thick hair, and a broad, bushy-browed face that, with its flattened pug nose, gave him the appearance of a cheerful ex-prizefighter.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Kita said, arms folded, smiling like a friendly genie.

"Don't you know there's a war on?" Sterling demanded.

Kita shrugged. "This is just another American exercise-an elaborate one, I admit."

"Take a look at the color of that smoke," Sterling said, nodding toward the sky. "It's black, not white- fuel oil. Your planes are bombing Pearl Harbor."

"Nonsense."

"I'm going to have to take you in custody, Mr. Kita. We're at war, and I have evidence of espionage on the part of your vice consul."

The smile disappeared into an impassive mask. "I'm a diplomat, Mr. Sterling. Even if we are at war-I have certain rights."

"You have no rights-American boys are dying right now in this vicious underhanded attack. Where is your vice consul? Where is Yoshikawa?"

Kita's eyes tightened. "I know no one by that name."

"I'll settle for Morimura, then."

A siren screamed and tires squealed as a police car came to a halt next to the black Ford. Three uniformed police officers-two Hawaiians and a Chinese- jumped out, shotguns in hand, and so did a plainclothes officer... Detective John Jardine, a .45 automatic in his fist.

Jardine took the steps two at a time and joined the little discussion group, nodding to Burroughs and Hully, then saying to Sterling and Kita, "We're putting this building under armed guard."

"Why?" Kita said, his impassive face finally offering up a frown.

"For the protection of the consul general," the Portuguese detective said, "and the members of your staff."