1942

He could, however, attack when the Japanese fleet attempted to exit. However-God, how he hated that damned weasel-word-he must make certain that it was the fleet trying to leave and not just a ship or two heading out on routine patrol. When he’d asked Admiral Lockwood for a clarification, the admiral hadn’t bitten off his head, as was his normal practice with junior officers who asked questions. Instead he’d been quietly sympathetic with Fargo’s predicament.

“You’ll know, son, you’ll know. If the Jap fleet starts to come out in a big-ass rush, then it’ll be your time to act.”

So what the hell was going on, Fargo wondered. He wouldn’t run out of fuel or food; extra quantities of both had been stuffed into his already cramped vessel, but how long was he supposed to sit there like a bump on an extremely dangerous log?

At least he’d found what he hoped was a fairly safe place to hide the Monkfish. He was off to the side of the entrance of the harbor and opposite Hickam Field and Fort Kamehameha, about where the antisubmarine boom had been. The boom had been destroyed and not yet repaired, which surprised Fargo. So much for the myth of Japanese industriousness, he thought.

The ruined hulk of an American destroyer jutted out of the water by the shore. In the channel, the water was more than forty feet deep, but, alongside the entrance, it sloped upward to well under that. Thus, it was fairly simple to lie alongside the wreck and stay submerged during the day, only rarely raising the periscope for a look-see. At night, he cautiously raised the Monkfish to where he could open the conning tower hatches, let in some fresh air, and recharge the batteries. His only fear was that a Jap officer would come and inspect the hulk, or some kid would use it as a fishing pier. Otherwise, he was confident that his boat merged with the background.

The wait was unnerving to both him and his crew in the crowded and stifling submarine, but they gradually got used to it. What the hell, Fargo thought, what choice did they have? He allowed normal conversation but forbade any loud or sudden noises. His crew called this “Fargo’s Don’t Fart Rule.”

Fargo’d gotten command of the Monkfish because he was familiar with her and her crew, and had taken her safely from Hawaii to California. Commander Griddle had never fully recovered from his wounds and had been given a medical discharge. This was Fargo’s opportunity, and he wasn’t going to screw it up. If Admiral King wanted him to penetrate the harbor and lie in wait, then he would do it. Hell, he’d taken the Monkfish right up the Japs’ asses.

He chuckled as he decided he didn’t really like that analogy.

Jake Novacek met his unexpected allies in a small dilapidated house outside the village of Kahuku, just off the northernmost point of Oahu. It was, he thought, about as far from Honolulu as you could get and still be on Oahu.

He had arrived in one of Toyoza Kaga’s fishing boats, hidden in a false compartment in the hull. It stank of old fish, and now so did he. Jake was sure Alexa would love this.

He’d landed at night and been hustled off to the house where Kaga and his son, Akira, were waiting.

“You give off a delicious scent,” Toyoza said, grinning. “Try not to get near any cats.”

“After the war, I’ll never eat fish again,” Jake said, then got to the point. Every minute on Oahu was fraught with potential danger, and he wanted to get back to Hawaii and Alexa as quickly as possible. “I understand your dilemma, Toyoza. You have men but no weapons.”

“Correct.”

“And we have Japanese uniforms,” his son added. Akira paced the small room with a pronounced limp. He was still trying to adjust to an artificial leg.

“What will you do with weapons if I get them for you?” Jake asked both men.

“Kill our common enemy,” Akira responded.

“They will be Japanese,” Jake persisted.

“I know,” Akira said sadly. “But that is how it must be. We will kill Japanese soldiers just as many white people must kill their German and Italian cousins. Japan is now our enemy. It may have taken some of us a while to realize it,” he said with irony, “but we understand it now.”

“How many are you?”

“Just under fifty,” Akira answered, and Jake noted that the older man was deferring to the younger.

“If I were to question their loyalty,” Jake said, “you would tell me that they are all totally committed to your cause. However, I have to tell you that a solid cadre that was smaller in numbers would be better than a more dubious larger group.”

“I understand,” said Akira, “but I am certain of them. They have all been initiated, shall we say.”

Akira explained that the group had kidnapped two Japanese soldiers when they were drunk and off duty. Each conspirator had plunged his knife into the body of one of the soldiers and, therefore, had shared in the murder. The corpses were then dumped into the ocean and, according to Toyoza Kaga, were considered to have deserted. Foul play was not suspected by the military police or kempetei.