son, you’ve enlisted and here you are. Now, if you know a better way of getting your planes in the air without building an airfield that the Japs would spot, you tell me.”
Magruder didn’t. “Now that I think of it, getting in the air might just be the least of my problems,” he said. “I have to find Pearl Harbor at dawn and without attracting attention, blow up the place, and then get safely out of there. Jumping off a cliff is a piece of cake in comparison.”
Gustafson nodded sympathetically. Magruder was only half his age and had his whole life before him. In the short while they’d been together, he’d begun to think of Magruder as the son he and his wife never had.
Gustafson was an immigrant from Sweden who’d arrived as a teenager. Before coming, he’d been told that the United States was a land of soft and spineless people who would never fight and couldn’t bear to be uncomfortable. Novacek, Magruder, and so many others had shown that assessment to be a lie. He put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “You can do it, Ernest.”
Magruder laughed. Nobody called him Ernest. “Thanks, Pop.”
“Now,” Gustafson said, “let’s see if that still we rigged up is working all right. We have a couple of days to prepare for your mission, and I think we could all use a drink.”
After what seemed an eternity, Jamie Priest had finally gotten a letter from WAVE-in-training Suzy Dunnigan. She said that she was doing well in the classroom portion of her training, and that the physical part was a breeze. Recalling her taut and lean body as they swam, ran, and made love, he had no doubt that she could march or hike circles around her peers.
Her only negative was that she had just come down with the flu and was puking her guts out. She said it was the navy’s fault for sending her from sunny California to Chicago. Jamie laughed at the joke. It was July, and the Great Lakes Naval Training Center was probably hotter than San Diego, so maybe it wasn’t the flu. Maybe it was something she’d eaten, like navy food, for instance.
Every day he had his security clearance brought him new discoveries and revelations. He now understood that Great Britain had been fully informed of the navy’s masquerade off Iceland. Thanks to some clever carpentry, the smaller vessels had been made over to look like their bigger brethren. Viewing from a distance, the German sub had been fooled and Berlin had passed the erroneous information on to the Japanese.
The British had intercepted both the message from U-123 and the subsequent signal from Berlin to Tokyo. They had forwarded the information to Admiral King in Washington, where it had been relayed to both Nimitz in San Diego and Spruance in the Pacific. Jamie wondered if King’s noted antipathy toward Britain had moderated. He doubted it.
You see what you expect to see, had been the plan. It had grown from that long-ago offhand comment by Jamie. The U-123’s was not the only sighting of the phantom fleet. A Spanish warship had been permitted to get close enough to see and then been abruptly ordered out of the area. The Spanish were ostensibly neutral but leaned heavily toward the Axis. The second confirmation must have really dazzled the Japs, he thought.
Another consequence of Jamie’s new status was the realization that Jake Novacek led the guerrillas on Hawaii and that Alexa Sanderson was there as well. Every time he thought of it he had to stifle a grin. He could see Novacek as a guerrilla, but Alexa? What the hell had happened to the quiet girl who had been the wife of his friend? Alexa Sanderson was almost a socialite, not a soldier. But then, he thought solemnly, circumstances force changes. Sometimes you have to adapt or die.
When Nimitz found out that he knew Novacek, Jamie was called into the admiral’s office. “Commander, do you realize that you are among a handful of people who have any idea who this fellow is?”
Jamie didn’t. “Sir, I’m very surprised.”
Nimitz gestured him to a chair. “Novacek is responsible for at least two aspects of Operation Wasp. Joe Rochefort worked with him for a short while and thinks highly of him, and the only other recommendation I’ve gotten is from a General Joe Collins, who sent a favorable report on Novacek to General Marshall. Some think Rochefort’s a little crazy, and I have no idea who this Collins person is, although I accept Marshall’s opinion of both him and his reference. Novacek might not be one of Marshall’s Boys, but Collins certainly is, and, if Novacek pulls this off, he might well be one too.”
Jamie stifled a grin. Even on a good day, Rochefort was at least unique, and crazy might not be that far off the mark. However, Rochefort was crazy like a fox. As to Jake becoming one of General Marshall’s favorites, Jamie found himself strangely pleased for someone he hadn’t known at all before December 7.
“Sir, I was very impressed with what little I saw of him,” he said and then explained that he really knew Alexa Sanderson far better. “All I can say is I think that we’re in good hands with Jake Novacek, and I’m very glad that Mrs. Sanderson is as well.”
Nimitz had only a dim recollection of once meeting Tim Sanderson, and none of his widow, although he recalled the name as a result of queries from some congressman. Admirals often had a hard time recalling junior officers with whom they had no contact, and Nimitz was no exception, even though he epitomized courtesy and consideration.
“It’s a strange world, Commander,” he said, “and it’s about to get even stranger in a couple of days, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t want this to fail,” Nimitz said gently. “There may be only a handful of people involved, but they are all human beings and I don’t want anyone to die needlessly. Novacek has control of at least a couple of parts of Operation Wasp, and I like to think he’s up to it.”
“I think he is, sir,” Jamie responded. He thought it both astonishing and in character that Nimitz would be so concerned about people. Once again, he felt honored and proud to serve with the man.
“Well, you get back to your work, and if you can think of anything else about Novacek, you tell me,” the admiral said.
“Sir, may I ask you a question? It may sound impertinent, but it isn’t.”
“Go ahead.”
“The way I see it, sir, there are at least five parts to Wasp, and most of them are supposed to occur around dawn of the second, and with forces approaching from all over the place. Do you really think that can be coordinated?”
Nimitz smiled tightly. “Nope. What we all hope for is that at least a couple of the disparate parts actually do work. You’re right that it’s impossible to time things so well when forces are converging from thousands of miles away from each other and different directions. I can only hope that, as events do unfold, the Japs are kept off balance and confused. That may just give us a level of success.
“As to the five separate events, if one succeeds, then it’s a pinprick to the Japs and we’ll have lost. If two or three are successful, then we’ve won a small victory. Four or five, son, and we may have won the war.”
Admiral Raymond Spruance was fifty-six years old and, not counting time at the Naval Academy, had spent more than thirty of those years as an officer in the navy. During that time, he was acutely aware that he’d never seen combat. Spruance had risen to command as a result of his skills, even though he lacked the flamboyance and apparent belligerence of some of his peers.
Spruance was quiet and unassuming, efficient and unperturbable, and those traits worked for him particularly well in times of stress. He was considered cautious, but that was only because he wished to accomplish his goals with a minimum of human cost. However, Spruance clearly understood that there had to be at least some human cost when engaged in war. Even the most lopsided victory would result in some casualties for the victor. He also understood that too much caution brought other dangers, caused by missed opportunities and letting an enemy take the initiative. Caution, therefore, could be as much a vice as it was a virtue.
“I will call the dance,” he muttered. “I will not become a punching bag.”
“What?”
Spruance grinned at his companion, Captain Marc Mitscher. “Pete” to his friends, Mitscher was a year younger than Spruance but, with his weathered and craggy face, looked decades older.
“I was thinking out loud,” Spruance said, “and mixing metaphors at the same time.” They were in Spruance’s quarters on the carrier Hornet, the flagship of the American task force that was anchored off Samoa. Spruance commanded the fleet, while Mitscher commanded the air arm.
Mitscher grinned. “Don’t let too many people hear you doing that. The men are worried enough as it is without an admiral who talks to himself. Don’t worry about mixing metaphors, though. Most of our pilots think a mixed metaphor is a Mexican drink.”
