1942

The fighting had not been totally one-sided. There were far fewer American planes in the air; Japanese gunners had exacted a heavy price before being destroyed.

The eighteen-inch guns of the Yamato and the immobile Musashi had fired over land and into the approaching American fleet. They had all gained a measure of satisfaction when the Musashi sank a Brooklyn-class light cruiser that had ventured too close. However, it did not stop the American battleships and heavy cruisers from steaming close in at night and lofting shells into the harbor as their damned planes dropped flares and called the fall of shot.

The drawn-out battle reminded Yamamoto of a prizefight where both boxers were exhausted but only one had the strength to hurl punches and the other had no means of resistance. Both had been bloodied, but only one would soon be standing.

He had been informed that there would be no attempt at relief. The decoy fleet off Australia was both too small and too far away. The Japanese in Pearl Harbor had to escape or die.

There was a knock on his office door. He was still ashore as he saw no point in being aboard his flagship, which was under frequent attack.

“Come in.”

Commander Shigura Fujii, his chief of intelligence, entered hesitantly. It should have been his friend Watanabe, Yamamoto thought, but Watanabe’s ashes were in a box awaiting shipment to Japan. That is, he thought wryly, if we are able to get out of our prison. Even if they did, the ashes of the dead trailed behind the living as a priority for escape.

“What is it?” the admiral asked.

“Some good news,” Fujii said. “At last the channel’s clear.”

Yamamoto took a deep breath. Why hadn’t this happened earlier? The towing had managed to move the Akagi a little ways, and the final clearing effort had used explosives. A few hours before, engineers had blown her to pieces. They had waited only for confirmation that some giant piece of the carrier hadn’t shifted and blocked a different part of the channel. Several engineers had died trying to jam the carrier with explosives, because hot spots still existed and there had been several small, premature detonations.

“We will sortie immediately,” Yamamoto said grimly. “What are the Americans doing?”

“Waiting for us,” Fujii answered. “Their planes have been watching, and their ships are poised to pounce on us as we emerge from the channel. The American carriers are out of sight, but we can see four battleships and at least as many heavy cruisers. There are numerous light cruisers and destroyers as well. They will be waiting to cross our T”

Of course, Yamamoto thought. Crossing the T was the classic naval maneuver that every naval commander attempted to perform. In it, all of one fleet’s guns could be brought to bear on the head of an enemy column, which could use only a portion of its own guns. The fleet that crossed the other’s T was almost always victorious.

The Americans would cross his T, and there was nothing he could do about it. His ships had to exit the channel in a single line, into the teeth of the American guns and torpedoes. Fujii had neglected to mention the likelihood of American submarines.

“The destroyers will lead,” Yamamoto said, repeating what had already been decided. “They will attack the Americans with torpedoes and scatter them. Then the battle line will emerge, with the Yamato leading and the others following. As the Yamato’s guns destroy the American ships, the cruisers will search out and destroy the American carriers. Give Admiral Abe my congratulations on the great victory that he will win. I will wait here for his return.”

Fujii gasped. It was a death sentence for Abe and his ships. “Yes, Admiral.”

Yamamoto waited until he was alone again before burying his head in his hands. One or two ships might fight their way through, but the whole effort was what the British called a forlorn hope, an effort virtually destined for failure.

Yamamoto would not be waiting for their return. A submarine was positioned just off Honolulu, and, during the distraction of the battle, he and a handful of others would be rowed out and taken aboard for their escape to Japan. A transport ship also waited off Honolulu for the opportunity to escape with the irreplaceable remaining carrier pilots. The highly skilled pilots had never fought, and, with the exception of those lost on the Akagi and a few others, all were alive. With them, the handful of new carriers Japan was building could be staffed. Without them, the carrier planes would be flown by untrained personnel who would be slaughtered by the more experienced and increasingly skilled Americans. The sortie of the Yamato and the others was nothing more than a giant distraction. The pilots had to be saved.