Rising Sun

Japanese fleet because they had no carriers at sea, although they would surely have some land-based planes guarding their ships. Ergo, there was no need to retain planes to fight off any American planes.

With a roar, Masao was airborne. The sight of the vast aerial armada took his breath away. A mighty host of planes was headed toward the American coast. He exulted. In a short while the two American carriers would be at the bottom of the Gulf of California.

As he and the others drew closer, they could see dots in the air. Yes, the Americans were rising to meet them. Good, Masao thought, victory would be even more complete when they were all shot down.

Soon he was both high enough and far enough along to see the distant shapes of the American ships. They appeared to be dead in the water. Something nagged at him. They didn’t look quite right. He dismissed the thought. After all, weren’t they in the Gulf for repairs? That must be why they looked strange.

He wiped any distractions from his mind. There was no time for daydreaming. First, he had to fight his way through a surprising number of American planes that were racing to meet him. The more of them to shoot down, he thought happily.

* * *

Lieutenant Harry Hogg had similar thoughts as he and his fellow pilots waited for the order to take off. It seemed like they were going to wait for the Japs to get real close before taking them on, which seemed like a dumb idea. He’d much rather get them as far out as possible.

When the order finally came, he and hundreds of others took off from dozens of hastily scratched-out fields and flew over the waters of the gulf. He laughed as he thought that his P38 probably cleared the end of the runway by a hair. Now where the hell were the Japs?

Radar directed them toward the Japanese air fleet. After a few minutes, they didn’t need radar. The sky was filled with enemy airplanes.

“Jesus, look at them all,” Harry announced. For many this was their first combat flight and radio discipline was lousy.

“Every fucking plane in the world,” someone said with awe in his voice.

“Shut up and remember your orders,” snarled the major. Yeah, Hogg thought, our orders.

There was no longer time to think, only react. Planes swirled and turned. Tracers streaked through the air as the two immense forces mingled in a giant lethal dance. A Japanese plane appeared for an instant in front of him and Hogg fired a short burst, missing. Damn it to hell, he raged. Another Zero appeared and it exploded, shot down by somebody else. A P47 spiraled downward, missing one of his wings by mere feet. He urged the pilot to bail out but saw nothing. He couldn’t watch. He had to take care of himself and follow his damned orders.

More planes exploded or tumbled to the sea. He shot at a Zero and it burst into flames. He yelled with happiness until the major again told him to shut up and remember his orders. Fuck the major, he thought. He had just shot down a Zero.

Suddenly, he was through the swarm. He looked about and saw that a number of other twin-tailed planes had also cleared the brawl. They formed up and headed west. They had their orders. Hogg wondered if other squadrons had similar orders.

* * *

Torelli and the Shark had lain low while the Japanese battleships and cruisers headed toward San Diego. Other than sending a quick burst of information describing what they’d seen—four battleships and eight cruisers, along with a dozen destroyers—they’d honored their orders and stayed submerged.

It annoyed Torelli that he hadn’t been able to tell fleet headquarters that the biggest, baddest battleship in the world had just roared over his sub as they hid below the waves. Like everyone, he’d heard rumors that the Japs had a monster ship with bigger guns than anyone else had, but hadn’t lent any credence to them. Now he knew that everyone’s nightmares were true.

He figured the enemy battleship at seventy to eighty thousand tons, far more than anything the U.S. Navy could throw against it. He dreaded the thought of what the shells from her mighty guns might do to San Diego and the naval base, much less what they could do to an American warship.

When the sound of ships’ engines faded and he thought it was safe, he ordered the sub to periscope depth and looked around. Nothing. He raised the radio antenna and immediately got a signal from Pacific Fleet. The gloves were off. Now any Jap ship was fair game. Los Angeles and San Diego were being bombarded.

“I wonder why we couldn’t attack before?” Crowley asked.

“Ours not to reason why and all that high command type bullshit,” Torelli answered with a smile.

“Any chance we’ll get a shot at that big one?”

“If we do, will our torpedoes work?”

Crowley grimaced. “We’ve done our damndest.”

Torelli patted his young executive officer on the shoulder. “Then get them loaded and ready to shoot.”

CHAPTER 22

DANE’S FLIGHT TO TASK FORCE 18 HAD BEEN UNCOMFORTABLE, cramped, and exhausting, but surprisingly short. The American fleet wasn’t hiding anymore. It was on its way.

As to comfort, there simply wasn’t enough room in the PBY for all the additional people and their gear. They couldn’t move for fear of interrupting something important being done by the crew, and sleeping was done in fits while seated. They tried to find room for Spruance to rest, but he insisted on sharing their mutual discomfort.

Dane considered it a real miracle that their pilot found the small fleet in the vastness of the Pacific. When Dane looked down on it, he was both impressed and disappointed. The Saratoga and the Essex looked tiny and puny and only began to take on substance when they flew much closer. The two new battleships, the North Carolina and Washington, however, were sleek and deadly-looking creatures. Too bad they were already obsolescent, he thought. They looked like wolves straining to get among the sheep. Too bad the Japanese weren’t sheep. He also counted a good dozen destroyers in a loose circle around the carriers and battleships. Once it would have been an impressive array, but that was all changed.

The PBY put down alongside the Saratoga and the men were taken by launch to the carrier. Dane was mildly surprised to see the PBY crew with them. Merchant told him they couldn’t take the chance that the plane might be spotted on the way back and enemy fighters vectored back to the carriers. It made sense but it was a shame to see the perfectly good flying boat quietly sink beneath the waves.

Task Force 18 was so named because its predecessors, TF 16 and 17, and been destroyed either in the battle of Midway or its aftermath. Using the names of the predecessor units would have been bad luck and sailors were very superstitious.

Spruance’s group crossed the crowded flight deck, where planes and pilots awaited the word to go, and went to the flag bridge. They were greeted by Halsey, who looked like hell. He appeared exhausted and what was visible of his skin was covered by scabs. His skin disorder, psoriasis, had indeed flared up and the man appeared to be in agony. In Dane’s opinion, the belligerent little admiral looked far worse than when he’d last seen him in San Diego. He wondered if the psoriasis was caused by the intense pressure and responsibilities of command. He wondered if his thoughts were unkind. Halsey was a brave and capable man. The two admirals spoke quietly for a few minutes and Halsey left, his head down.

When Spruance returned to the group, his expression was grim. “Halsey’s going to sick bay. He’s turned command over to me. Nothing, however, is changing. We are steaming toward the Japanese. We will be in range in a very short while, much sooner than I expected. As soon as radar shows them launching their planes to strike at our dummy carriers, the Saratoga and Essex will turn loose our planes and hit them with everything we have.”

Merchant asked the first question on everyone’s mind. “When will Admiral Halsey resume command?”

Spruance sighed. “Not for a while. I think this battle’s going to be mine.”

Merchant continued. “Then what about Japanese radar? Do we still assume they don’t have it on their