than what the Japanese could put against them. It would also be much smaller than the fleet the United States had under construction and would have afloat in a year or two if they wished to wait that long. They didn’t.
“The Indiana won’t be ready by then,” King said and ventured a small smile. “Maybe I can do something else for you.”
Colonel Omori sat in the back of his car as it rolled slowly down the almost deserted streets of Hilo. The few people who remained were that handful of Hawaiians and Japanese who were sympathetic to the Japanese cause, or who pretended to be that way. Omori trusted none of them. The rest, the majority, had gone inland to the other villages and hamlets to escape the possibility of yet another massacre. Omori gestured, and the driver stopped quickly. The colonel got out, and Lieutenant Goto, who’d been in the front seat, quickly stepped alongside him.
Omori looked toward the mountains that glared down on Hilo. The colonel could almost feel enemy eyes on them. If the Americans ever got artillery on the hills, they could pound the small Japanese garrison into little pieces. The two Japanese destroyers at anchor in Hilo Bay gave him some comfort. Their four-inch guns would return fire at anyone who chose to insult Japan.
At least for now they would, which made it all the more imperative that the Americans be rooted out. The size of the island and the difficult terrain-forested and nearly jungle on the Hilo side, barren and craggy on the other side-meant it would be impossible to find the Americans without help.
Omori scuffed idly at a pebble with his boot. He fully understood the difficulty Goto was having in finding the Americans. “And your Mr. Finch, has he produced?”
Goto shrugged. “He’s disappeared into the interior, and we believe he’s in contact with the Americans. What he’s found out, we won’t know until he gets back to us.”
“The American presence is as big an insult as is this abandoned town,” Omori said with a touch of petulance. “Tell me, are the Americans here capable of doing anything to disrupt the coming arrival of the fleet?”
“Then it’s true?”
“Indeed. Yamamoto will personally command a major force that will arrive in late July. They will bring with them an official proclamation declaring the Hawaiian Islands to be part of Japan. Now, what can the Americans do about it?”
Goto pondered a moment. “When will the navy’s arrival be announced?”
“When the fleet arrives, and not sooner.” Omori did not need to add that, after that, the entire world would know.
“Then the Americans will be helpless. They might try something childish to embarrass us here, but they have no military capability that would hurt us.”
This was Omori’s assessment as well. Yet he was not totally comfortable with the almost cavalier dismissal of the American guerrillas. The fact that they survived, perhaps even thrived, pointed to a sophisticated organizational and support structure. They should not be taken lightly.
A part of him recalled that, somehow, Alexa Sanderson had been spirited away. Omori was confident that she was with the Americans in the hills of the Big Island. When he found her, she would be turned over to Goto, and, when that sadist was through, the rest of the army could have her. She had caused him embarrassment and aggravation beyond her usefulness. More important, her presence on the island meant that she’d had help on Oahu. The Americans had to be destroyed.
Goto read his mind. “Do you want Captain Kashii to send patrols out farther into the hills? The captain would very much like to go chasing the Americans.”
Omori nodded. “Yes. Keep the Americans worried that a Japanese patrol could be right behind them.”
Even as he said it, the colonel knew it was wishful thinking. An entire army could hide in the hills and crags that glowered down on him. It was an amazing island. There were even active volcanoes and flowing lava out there. How the devil did an army deal with a lava flow? The Americans would be found either through Finch’s treachery or blind, dumb luck. He’d put his money on Finch.
Kentaro Hara laughed and bowed. “How do I look? Am I not a worthy soldier of the empire of Japan?”
Akira Kaga laughed at his friend’s antics. “No, you do not look like a Japanese officer. For one thing, you are too neat.”
Hara pretended to be hurt. “I have my pride.”
“And so do the Japanese soldiers,” Akira answered seriously, “but they show it in different ways, and looking slovenly is one of them. The true warriors in the Japanese army are contemptuous of spit and polish. They prefer to affect the look of a rugged warrior, a seasoned campaigner; thus, their uniforms always look like they’ve been stolen from someone larger and slept in for a great while.”
Hara sighed as he took off the Japanese army tunic that had been made for him by one of several seamstresses employed to copy Japanese uniforms. It had been determined that it would be easier and safer to have them made by trusted people. Thefts would alert the Japanese to the fact that not everyone wearing a uniform was on their side. The conspirators’ infiltration was something they wanted kept hidden for as long as possible.
Akira was pleased with the progress they’d made. Already there were enough uniforms to outfit thirty volunteers, and he had more than that ready to fight.
“All right,” Hara said. “I’ll get something that doesn’t fit, but I won’t be happy. It won’t be up to my standards.”
“Screw your standards.” Akira laughed. Behind him, his father entered the room.
“A marvelous display,” the older man said.
“Too bad they don’t allow one-legged officers in the Japanese army,” Akira said with regret. Although several of his volunteer force had experience in the national guard, none had served in the Japanese army and none had seen combat. His men would have the benefit of his experience, but he could not lead them.
“Is there still no word as to what will be expected of us?” Hara asked.
“None,” Toyoza answered honestly. The Americans on the Big Island had been silent about what a rebel force of Japanese might be used for. The message sent to Colonel Novacek had been received with surprise and apparent delight. The colonel had responded that he would be happy to coordinate with a force of Japanese- Americans at a time in the not too distant future.
But as to what, when, and where, Novacek had not said. Either he was being prudently tight-lipped regarding his plans or he hadn’t figured out what to do. Toyoza Kaga suspected the latter. A force that could pass as Japanese was not to be squandered.
“Weapons,” Akira said. “What good are all the uniforms in the world if we don’t have weapons?”
“The Americans said they would take care of that,” his father said tolerantly. Again, just how they would accomplish this had not been mentioned.
“And I want to lead, Father,” Akira said angrily. “No, I have to lead.” Toyoza Kaga nodded his head sadly. He had regained his son and did not want to risk losing him again. “I know. It will be done. I’ve contacted a doctor who will direct the making of an artificial leg for you. You won’t be able to run or march very well, but, yes, you will be able to lead.”
CHAPTER 18
Jake rubbed his eyes and squinted out into the near dark that signaled the end of one of the longest nights of his life. He had been up all night, and only anticipation was keeping him going. He longed for a cup of coffee, but that was a commodity that had been unavailable for a very long time, along with cigarettes and beer. He rarely smoked, but he craved a cigarette now.
Standing beside him, Captain Karl Gustafson fretted and worried. Gustafson was a large and rawboned man with an out-thrust jaw. An engineer for more than twenty years in civilian life, he wore what remained of his uniform in uncaring disarray. Unlike most Swedes, who were impassive and calm, he paced nervously, waiting like an expectant father to see if his idea was a good one or if it would die at birth.
Small fires staked out an area more than a hundred yards wide and half a mile deep. It was a rectangle that
