1942

Finch bowed. He had not been invited to sit. “I’m fortunate in that most of the POWs on Oahu have been sent to Japan. I will say that I escaped during transit, made it to Molokai by boat, was hidden on a farm, and then fled to Hawaii with the purpose of meeting up with the Americans. It is a simple story, and one they won’t be able to check out.”

Goto grunted. Finch couldn’t tell whether he agreed or not. “When you find the Americans, how will you contact us?”

“Sir, on Lanai I was able to drop notes in a stump by the road. This island is too big for that sort of thing. I’m afraid I will have to desert the Americans when the time comes.”

That answer did not totally please Goto. It meant that Finch could be used only one time and that his fat commander would have to be induced to move rapidly, something that just wasn’t likely.

However, like Finch, Goto had no choice. He would use the tools at hand, not the ones he wished he had.

On the other side of Hilo, Lieutenant Sammy Brooks, USMC, crouched in the hole he’d dug in the side of the hill overlooking Major Shimura’s quarters. Shimura had commandeered a large and stately house on the outskirts of Hilo that must have belonged to someone with money.

It was daylight, and he had several hours more to wait. Beside him was his rifle, the ‘03 Springfield he thought of as his best friend. Brooks was an outstanding shot, and, in his opinion, the Springfield was a more accurate sniper rifle than the new Garand being issued to the army. Screw the army, he thought, he’d keep his Springfield.

As a marine, he had been well taught in the craft of stalking a prey. He would not be found except in the unlikely circumstance that someone literally stumbled onto where he was hidden. He knew that what he was doing was against Jake Novacek’s orders, but he just didn’t care. It was impossible for him to be on the same island with a pack of Japs and not strike out at them. He’d heard of Novacek’s ambush of the Jap patrol and knew that the Japs hadn’t launched any offensive against them. He was confident the same would be the case this time.

Brooks hadn’t intended an ambush. His original plans were for several days of in-depth reconnaissance of the Hilo garrison, but, when he realized how small and ineffective the Jap force was, he knew he could strike and flee into the interior with little concern.

He had lied to both his commander in California and Novacek. His brother wasn’t in a Jap prison camp. His brother was dead. Word had come from the Philippines, through a civilian who both knew his brother and had seen him die, that Captain John W. Brooks had been bayoneted for insolence en route to a prison camp after the surrender at Bataan. His insolence was begging for water. He was then buried alive in a sandpit by fellow prisoners, who would have been killed themselves had they not cooperated. When the grievously wounded man had clawed his way out of his grave, he had been reburied. John W Brooks did not escape death a second time.

Although he detested it, Sammy Brooks understood the need for patience. Already he had spent almost a day in his hole. He ate sparingly of his rations, drank sips from his canteen, and relieved himself into a hole dug in the bottom of his hideout. The waiting was agony, but he would be well paid for it.

Finally, shadows faded into a gray night. There were plenty of stars, which was both a blessing and a curse. His target would be easy to see, but so would he as he fled. He would count on confusion and a defensive reaction to his attack to enable him to get into the safety of the hills.

A car pulled up in front of Shimura’s quarters. A guard got out of the front seat and ran to his station at the rear of the house. The driver exited and opened the rear door for the fat major to get out. He then ran to the porch to open the door for Shimura, after which he would take up duty as a front sentry. Brooks knew that they changed every four hours from a guardhouse that was a couple of miles away.

In short, Shimura’s security was incredibly lax.

The major walked to the house and waited for the guard to open the door. The range was three hundred yards. Brooks squeezed the trigger, and there was a startling blast of sound and light. Shimura’s head exploded in a froth of gray and red while the sentry gaped in astonishment.

“Damn,” muttered Brooks. He’d been nervous, and his shot had ridden high. He had aimed for the Jap’s torso, not his head. It was too easy to miss the smaller skull. He had been lucky.

He worked the bolt and fired a second time, dropping the shocked guard beside his master. The second guard raced from the back, and another bullet toppled him. This was excellent. Anyone who had heard the gunfire was unlikely to investigate, and there was no one to notify the other soldiers at the guard shack. Someone in the area might phone, but it was unlikely. No one would want to get involved. The Japanese reaction would take time.