1942

Jamie Priest stood quietly against a wall and tried not to stare at the admiral. He didn’t envy Nimitz at all. The admiral’s normally ruddy complexion was pale. People had died this night, and many more would die. High command was a terrible burden, and Jamie was glad he had none of it.

“What should we tell Admiral Spruance?” asked a more senior staff officer.

“Nothing. We’ll let him wait until we’re absolutely certain that this has failed. There’ll be plenty of time to recall the fleet to California.”

Off California, the smaller American fleet would have to confront Yamamoto in open battle, where they would be greatly outnumbered and outgunned. Defeat would be almost inevitable. Of course, he could save the fleet by holding it back and letting Yamamoto’s ships bombard California’s cities unopposed. What a helluva choice, Nimitz thought. He would have to tell Admiral King, who would have the pleasure of telling President Roosevelt. King had been worried about FDR’s health, and this would not help.

Nimitz decided. He would save the fleet. They would not interfere with Japanese operations off California. It would likely be destroyed in any confrontation with the Japs and the West Coast bombarded anyhow. The civilians would have to watch out for themselves. In a perverse way, Admiral King might actually be pleased. He could use the attack as another lever to prod Roosevelt into sending more forces into the Pacific and not into Europe. Nimitz wondered if that was such a good idea. While he strongly desired to defeat Japan, he recognized that both Britain and Russia needed to be propped up or the United States would be fighting both Japan and Germany all by herself.

Damn it, he thought.

“Sir,” ventured Jamie, “should we recall Colonel Doolittle?”

Damn. Why hadn’t he remembered that sooner? Nimitz was about to give the order when he had second thoughts. Doolittle had wanted the opportunity, begged for it, and, besides, the American flying boats were probably making their runs right now. How late could they be?

“No,” he said, “let Doolittle use his discretion. However, you may send a signal getting the Monkfish out of there.” Then he paused. “But first wait until we hear from Doolittle.”

Akira Kaga was one of the few remaining “Japanese” soldiers at Wheeler. Their task done, the others had been sent to their homes with orders to keep their mouths shut, bury the rifles, and destroy the Japanese uniforms. They all knew that if one of them was captured and talked, all of them would ultimately die horrible deaths at the hands of the kempetei.

“Here they come,” said John Takura, one of the “sergeants.”

They could see the headlights of a column of vehicles approaching the entrance to the base. Akira smiled. Whoever was in charge was being fairly prudent in bringing a large force but still didn’t understand what had happened. A staff car led a number of trucks that easily contained a full company of infantry. With their lights on, they might as well have been driving in a moonlight parade.

“Now,” Akira said, and John pushed the handle on a plunger. An instant later, the road where the staff car and the lead trucks had been erupted in a bright flash and the thunder of several explosions. Vehicle parts and bodies flew through the air until the dust and smoke swallowed them.

Akira nodded again, and a second plunger was pushed. A series of larger but distant explosions rocked the air. Immense clouds showed where Wheeler’s runways, now cratered, had been. A series of smaller bangs, and the parked planes, already sabotaged, were obliterated. This last part was a luxury. Akira hadn’t thought they’d have time to do any more than ruin the engines.

Akira surveyed the ruined column of vehicles. Screams and shouts could be heard, but no one had begun a move toward the base. He must have beheaded their leadership. Akira nodded to his companions and allowed himself a smile. “I think we’ve done pretty well. Now let’s go to our homes and forget we ever knew each other.”

Admiral Yamamoto was livid. Iwabachi had not kept him properly informed. There were no fighters flying over the fleet, and none were available. Wheeler’s runways had been cratered, and all the planes there had been blown up. It was now even more imperative that a carrier and its escorts be situated outside the confines of Pearl Harbor.

For the moment, aerial surveillance was being performed by the handful of floatplanes attached to the cruisers and battleships. As these were lightly armed at best, they could hardly be considered a combat air patrol. But at least they could watch the area outside the islands, and they had confirmed that no enemy warships were in the vicinity.

The floatplanes had limited range, however, and Yamamoto had ordered the larger seaplanes recalled from Hilo and elsewhere for longer patrols.