Jake pushed his face right up to Brooks’s. He was taller than the small, wiry Raider. “Damn right it won’t. You take any actions without my orders and I’ll bust your ass right down to buck private. Is that understood?”
“Yessir.”
“And another thing. I have just promoted Hawkins to the temporary rank of captain. Whether or not I have that authority, I don’t care.
I just want it clearly understood that he’s in command and not you if something should happen to me. Understood?” Brooks’s head bobbed up and down. “Good. You’re dismissed.”
Hawkins came over as Brooks departed, his shoulders slumped in dejection. “Everybody makes mistakes, Colonel, but he made a doozy. A hundred dead people because of his actions is a little hard to take. We gotta help him live with that so it doesn’t destroy him.”
Jake agreed. “I’ll ease up on him tomorrow. You’re right, I don’t want to destroy him as an officer or as a person. Let him spend a night thinking about it, though. Now, let’s talk about our new member. Who the hell is Charley Finch, and why does he make me uncomfortable?”
Hawkins chuckled. “For one thing, if he’s been on the lam for a couple of months, like he says, he looks too well fed and plump to me.”
“Right. Did you know him before the war?”
“I knew of him, but I never really met him. I saw him a few times at the NCO club and knew he was in supply, but we never hung around.”
“What was his reputation?”
“A low-level crook and overall shady character, which may explain why he is so plump and juicy. He’s one of those guys who could hustle his way out of anything, so he may have been doing exactly what he said he was, being fed and cared for by locals and by stealing anything that wasn’t nailed down.”
Finch had arrived the day before. He claimed that he’d escaped from a Japanese work gang a couple of months earlier, and that his fellow prisoners had all been shipped to Japan. He said he’d been hidden by sympathetic Hawaiians on Oahu who’d helped him make his way to Maui, where he’d stayed with an old Hawaiian woman who’d cared for him and kept him hidden. Then, as Finch explained it, she died and he made his way to Hawaii all by himself in a small boat he’d swiped.
“It’s a great story,” Jake said, “and there’s nothing that can be verified. His fellow prisoners are gone, the old lady’s dead, the boat’s stolen, and he’s already said he can’t quite recall the people on Oahu who helped him because he was so sick at the time. He may not be a yachtsman, but he just could be good enough to take a small boat from Maui to Hawaii. It’s less than thirty miles from one island to the other, and I don’t think he’d ever even be out of sight of land on a sunny day.”
Hawkins grinned. “I take it you don’t trust him.”
“Hawk, the old army was a small club, and the garrison on Oahu was an even smaller chapter of that club. Everyone knew everybody else, and, yeah, I knew about good ol’ Sergeant Charley Finch. Hell, everybody did. You’re right, he was a minor crook and a total shit. Keep this under your rusty helmet, Hawk, but he was under investigation by the FBI.”
Hawkins whistled. “Why?”
“Stealing army stores and selling them. I got involved in my intelligence capacity because the FBI thought he was selling weapons to gangsters and other people who didn’t like the United States.”
“Jesus, now what?”
“Well, we gotta remember that he was never arrested, never indicted, never tried, and never found guilty. Who knows, he may be innocent of anything major.”
Jake thought of the supplies he’d “liberated” before the surrender. Did they make him different from Finch? “At any rate, he’s the type of person who actually could show up fat and healthy when everyone else is starving, and that doesn’t necessarily make him a crook. In fact, it might make him the kind of cunning son of a bitch who could help us.”
“Okay, Colonel Jake, then what does it really make him?”
“Someone we watch very carefully, Hawk. Either he’s telling the truth, or he’s doing things I don’t even want to think about.”
Hawkins took a deep breath as he realized what Jake was implying. “The killing on Lanai? Those seven guys who got caught by the Japs? You think he had something to do with that?”
“It’s almost too awful to contemplate, isn’t it? I can’t believe a fellow American would have anything to do with it, but I can’t get the possibility out of my mind. Nobody has any proof, and you can’t send somebody to jail on my hunches. On the other hand, if Sergeant Finch is such a damned great hustler, he may be an invaluable asset to us. We’re gonna use him, Hawk, but”-Jake grinned tightly-”we’re going to watch him like a hawk.”
The giant flying boat wasn’t particularly difficult to get or keep airborne, although keeping it on the straight and narrow in a stiff desert wind was a challenge, even for a skilled pilot like Colonel Jimmy Doolittle.
Below him were a series of rectangles painted in white on the flat and barren ground east of San Diego. They were approximately one thousand feet by one hundred feet and were intended to simulate a very large ship, and a ship that was anchored. Doolittle and Nimitz had concluded that anyone could hit a tank farm full of large and combustible oil storage tanks. It would take real skill to hit a carrier if, by chance, one was in Pearl Harbor at the time of the strike.
The priorities were ironically like those given the Japanese on December 7. First were the carriers. In their absence, the oil storage tanks. Nowhere on the list were battleships. Even if there were battlewagons in Pearl, they were to be ignored in favor of the carriers and the oil storage facilities. My, Doolittle thought, how the mighty have fallen. His personal opinion was that battleships were particularly dramatic dinosaurs that could do damage only if they were permitted to get within range. The purpose of a plane was to keep them out of range and to sink them.
After numerous attempts, Doolittle and the other pilots had come to the conclusion that the Boeing Model 314 flying boat was a lousy bomber, and that hitting any target was extremely difficult.
Of course, if they’d been able to use one of the new, secret Norden bombsights, it might have been different. High command, however, had nixed that idea. Too much chance of the bombsights falling into enemy hands, they’d said, which pretty much told him what they thought of his chances for survival.
This conclusion was further reinforced when Doolittle was informed that he would be promoted to brigadier general on his return, and not before. He understood fully. Enough generals had been killed or captured in this war. They did not need another one for the Japanese press to trumpet as a triumph. Colonels, even bird colonels, were a dime a dozen.
The massive plane came in over the target at five hundred feet. Five other planes flew at the same height over other, similar rectangles.
The original eight planes had been reduced to six because of maintenance problems and had been cannibalized for parts.
The bombardier signaled and released the bags of flour that served as dummy bombs. The plane shuddered slightly as the bombs were dropped, and Doolittle pulled hard to lift her out of harm’s way. In his mind he could visualize scores of antiaircraft guns shooting at him, while a dozen Zeros streaked downward to blow him out of the sky. He decided that he must have been nuts to have volunteered for this.
“Got some hits,” exulted Bart Howell from the tail of the plane. The skinny little engineer was usually airsick, but this time he actually looked happy. Then Doolittle saw the caked puke on the front of his coveralls. Doolittle laughed. Howell was giving his all for his country, even his lunch.
Howell had worked day and night to install and then modify the bomb chutes, and those efforts had caused Doolittle’s and the other pilots’ impression of him to increase immeasurably. So what if he sometimes was a pompous jerk; the pompous jerk knew what he was doing.
“This is the right altitude, isn’t it?” Howell asked.
“Yeah,” muttered Doolittle, “five hundred feet.” There had been a number of attempts at altitudes that were higher and safer, but the only consistent hits came from flying low. It was almost treetop level, only there wouldn’t be any trees on the ocean. Five hundred feet was almost tantamount to suicide unless something happened to distract the fighters. With surprise on their side, they might just be able to make it through the antiaircraft storm, but the Zeros would follow them and swat them into the sea. “God help us all,” said Doolittle.
Sergeant Charley Finch thought that he might just have outsmarted himself. Local Hawaiians had been very
