1942

Fuchida smiled. “Admiral, the battleship Pennsylvania is in one of the dry docks, as are the cruisers San Francisco and Honolulu, and we do not believe either is badly damaged. Therefore, when we get the docks, we will sink the Pennsylvania and the other ships, adding another battleship to the tally.”

Nagumo was in turmoil. Genda was right about the desirability of destroying the oil tanks and the dry docks, and the virtually unharmed Pennsylvania was a truly tempting target. Fuchida was right about utilizing only a small number of planes in a localized attack on a target that was tantalizingly close to the safety of the ocean. Japanese planes would be able to attack directly from the sea and not overfly much of Oahu at all. They would not be subject to antiaircraft until the very last moment. It was brilliant. It would save lives.

“Admiral,” Genda said, “the planes are fueled and armed, and the pilots are ready to go. This entire event can be over and done with in little more than three hours. At that time, the fleet can steam northward and be many miles away from here before nightfall.”

“How will you select the pilots?”

Genda chuckled, and Nagumo smiled at the foolishness of his own question. “Admiral, if I ask for volunteers, everyone will step forward. No, I will select only those I consider the best and bravest from among the best and bravest men in the world.”

The first attack had been launched at six in the morning, while the carriers pitched in the deep swells. There had been no mishaps, and the second wave had followed forty-five minutes later. By eight o’clock, the assaults had commenced and war with the United States had begun with a tremendous Japanese victory. Two hours later, it was over and almost all the planes had returned. Only twenty-nine had been shot down, and another seventy damaged.

Nagumo again fretted and regretted the loneliness of command.

He wondered what Yamamoto would do and heard himself answer that his intimidating superior was a predator who would go for the throat. Yamamoto would not let the opportunity to further hurt the American navy pass by. If Pearl Harbor could be denied to America as a base for her reinforcement fleet, the final attack could easily be as great a victory as the destruction of the battleships in the first two.

If he gave in to Genda and Fuchida, it would mean turning the fleet southward, as it was already heading northwest on a course that would take it back to Japan. Such a turn might place the Kido Butai in the path of the two American carriers. However, there was nothing to indicate that the Americans had any idea he was to the north of the islands. Planning back in Tokyo had presumed that the Americans would think the attack had come from the west or south; thus permitting an easy withdrawal. So far, nothing had happened to indicate otherwise.

Nagumo knew that he had recourse by radio to Yamamoto himself. The senior admiral commanding the Combined Fleet had already received notice of the victory. It would be a small matter to ask for advice.

No, Nagumo thought angrily. He would not ask for advice. Yamamoto had entrusted him with command and he would command. He, and not Yamamoto, was the man in charge of the battle, and he, not Yamamoto, would make the right decision.

Then Nagumo smiled. Genda was right. What if the carriers did find him? He outnumbered them three to one, and, even if attacked while Fuchida’s planes were away, he still had the firepower to destroy any American attackers and achieve their third goal, the destruction of the carriers.

“Go,” he ordered simply.

CHAPTER 1

The day threatened to be pleasantly uneventful for U.S. Army Captain Jake Novacek as he dressed and got ready for another Sunday in paradise. After a hard week’s work, he thought he might go to Waikiki, lie in the sun, and stare at the attractive young women in their bathing suits.

His only concern was that he still ached from Saturday’s Army-Navy touch football game with other officers. They were ex-athletes like himself, but unfortunately, they were several years younger than Jake’s thirty-six and had nearly run him into the ground. Jake was larger than most at just under six feet and almost two hundred pounds, which somewhat compensated for the age disparity when he managed to catch up with one of the young navy pups. It may have been touch football, but some of the touches were damned hard.

Jake grimaced from a stiffness in his shoulder as he finished shaving. He was in his overnight quarters at Hickam Field’s officers’ club instead of the small apartment he had in Honolulu, and admitted he had no one but himself to blame for the situation. But then he grinned. Touch football or not, it was fun to knock a sailor-boy officer on his ass every now and then. He checked his thick black mustache- which pushed the limits permitted by the army-and trimmed a couple of errant hairs.