The young lieutenant was almost up to Fuji, and the column was deploying around the other bunker as well as his. “Yamamoto’s orders,” he said stiffly, almost nervously, Fuji thought. “The revered admiral wants everyone to celebrate Japan’s great achievement. Our turn was earlier, yours is now.”
Fuji felt like hugging the lieutenant but thought better of the idea. He wondered why a full platoon was relieving his squad, but he knew better than to ask. Questions from inferiors often meant beatings from the superiors. He didn’t need that on a night he was going to spend in Honolulu. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and waved his men out of the bunker. The whole thing was very informal, but, hell, he didn’t care.
Then he noticed that the soldiers were carrying strange rifles. They were American Springfields. Fuji was about to say something when the stern-faced young lieutenant slashed a broad-bladed knife across his throat. The corporal tried to speak, but the gush of his blood stopped him. Before Fuji’s misting eyes closed entirely, he saw the rest of his men being stabbed and butchered like him, and he realized that the same thing was happening to the other guards.
Only a few grunts and groans proclaimed the slaughter. A moment later, the “soldiers” fanned out in the dark and headed to their other targets. First on the list was the control tower, where two men waited for the return of the six planes that were the base’s combat air patrol. Next came the pilots’ ready room, where the relief group of pilots was preparing for their turn in the night skies.
They took no prisoners. Akira Kaga had told them they were too few to afford the luxury. Besides, it would soon be necessary for them to melt back into the Japanese-American population. They could not leave behind anyone who would recognize them.
When the base was secure, Akira was driven up in an old Ford. He got out awkwardly and looked down on the slaughtered soldiers.
He was about to speak when a burst of gunfire erupted from the enlisted men’s barracks. Someone was awake and fighting. Two of Kaga’s men ran from the building. One was wounded and had to be helped away.
“What went wrong?” Akira asked. He had known it would be impossible for the plan to work perfectly. Nothing ever did.
“No idea,” the unhurt man said. “You want us to storm the place? There’s only a couple of them in there.”
It was tempting, but it would be a distraction and would entail taking casualties. “Later. Now just keep them pinned down while we do what we have to.”
Akira placed a few soldiers so that they commanded the barracks and told them to shoot anything that moved. Other soldiers had already ripped out the phone lines, and he doubted that the men in the barracks had a radio. His force was safe for the time being.
“Take care of the planes,” he ordered.
The destruction of the Japanese planes was simple and efficient. Some men opened gas caps and poured in a combination of dirt and sugar. Others took tools and ripped out spark plugs and smashed more sensitive equipment. The planes might fly again, but not for a very long while, and certainly not this night.
His men had taken over the control tower and called the combat air patrol. They didn’t know the proper signal, so they made up a story that there was a power problem at Wheeler and that the patrol should land immediately.
When the lead pilot protested, he was told that the carriers would be in charge of patrolling and that two groups of planes in the air at the same time could cause confusion, even a collision. The pilot grudgingly agreed, and Akira saw the first of the Japanese planes lining up for a landing. The runway was unlit, but it was wide, well marked, and impossible to miss.
The Zeros landed one at a time. The bodies of the dead were hidden behind sandbags and in buildings. The intervals between planes were sufficiently long to permit the pilots to taxi to their normal places. As they started to climb out, “mechanics” ran up to them and killed them.
Just as the last plane was touching down, one of the real Japanese soldiers in the barracks opened fire on it. The pilot whipped the plane around and began to race down the runway.
“Shoot it,” Akira yelled as he cursed the fact that one of the trapped Japanese knew how to think. Once the pilot was fully airborne, he would radio the fleet at Pearl.
The Zero gained distance as a hail of bullets chased it. As it lifted off the ground, a tongue of flame erupted from the tail. Seconds later, the tongue became a torch and the plane exploded.
It’s true, Akira thought grimly. The Zeros do blow up easily.
The plane crashed a mile or so from the runway. Flames billowed from the spot, and fire engines would be on their way shortly, while civilians phoned about to find out what had occurred.
Their secret would be out in a very short while, but it could have been far worse. Akira ordered some of his men to take care of the runways while he sent others to set up roadblocks. In each case, they would use dynamite and TNT brought in by submarine to Novacek. With secrecy no longer necessary, he took personal command of a captured Japanese machine gun and pulverized the wooden barracks. There was no return fire.
Akira was content. He and his men had done their part. Now the skies over Oahu were empty. Who would claim them?
Ernie Magruder led the first planes down the incline and toward the edge of the cliff. He was the loneliest man in the world even though he had just gotten best wishes from Captain Gustafson and Colonel Novacek. “Jesus, I hope this works,” he said to himself.
The brave part of him had hoped that the mission would go off, while the sane part had hoped it would be canceled. The radio signal from Oahu had eliminated all choices, and Novacek had given the order to take off. Magruder had no idea what had transpired to make his chances of success now minimally acceptable, but someone must already have done something to the Japanese. This meant that persons unknown had stuck their necks out to ensure that he could attack. The least he could do was make the effort.
Then he was out in the air and flying free over the white-capped ocean below him. His two companions were beside him. He watched and waited while the other Wildcats flew into the sky.
There were no mishaps, and an elated Magruder whooped. Their radios were off. There was to be no chance of someone hearing a conversation in English and being warned.
Magruder’s flock of geese formed up on his taillights. The night was partly cloudy, and the lights were a chance that had to be taken. He hoped that anyone seeing them would think they were stars or, better yet, not think at all. When he was satisfied that all was well, he turned and headed north. He would fly at a fuel-conserving height and speed. This would enable him to have as much fuel as possible left to complete his mission and get the hell away.
Get away? He laughed at the notion. If he was lucky, he might have an hour’s worth of fuel left after his mission and be able to land on one of the islands. There was no way in hell he was leaving the territory of Hawaii this night.
He tuned his radio to the commercial Honolulu station. As always, it was on, and he began to follow its signal as if it were a homing beacon. He wondered if it was the same station the Japs had followed in last December.
Then he could see the dark bulk of Oahu against the silver of the sea, and the glow of the illuminated Japanese fleet below. He thought there was a bonfire out toward Wheeler Field, but he was too far away to be certain. Besides, who the hell would have a bonfire going on a night like this?
Lieutenant Commander Tom Meagher was almost distraught. Before the war, he had flown the giant flying boat to and from Hawaii a number of times and knew he could find the place, but this night he had lost his companions.
Doolittle had designated Meagher’s plane “Tail-end Charlie” because of Meagher’s experience with the plane and the route, and now he had fucked up royally.
Frank Tomanelli, his copilot and a young lieutenant j.g., looked at him nervously.
“We’re not lost, are we, sir?”
“Of course not. I know exactly where we are. We’re over the fucking Pacific. Can’t you see?”
The attempt at humor was lost on Tomanelli, who was afraid of several things-Meagher, the Boeing 314, and the Japanese, in that order. Tomanelli was barely acceptable as a copilot of the giant plane, and this was his first lengthy flight in it. However, the lieutenant had volunteered for the mission, which made him a good guy.
The problem had been a minor mechanical glitch that had worked itself out. Meagher’d had to feather an
