Sirens could be heard in the distance, and they were approaching. Somebody had called the real cops. The would-be thieves heard them too.
“You ain’t gonna shoot us and you know it. We’re all white men and this is a yellow-skinned, slanty-eyed Jap,” the tall one said. “And we’re leaving right now.”
“No,” Jake said and pointed the weapon at the leader’s chest. “What you’re going to do is lie down on the ground and wait.”
“Bullshit,” the leader said. “Take him, boys.”
The three men lunged forward. Jake quickly reversed the pistol and smashed the leader in the face with the butt, turning his nose into a bloody mess and knocking out several teeth. He then wheeled on the second man and hit him alongside the head with the pistol. The man screamed and dropped to his knees. Jake kicked him in the ribs, and he fell over. The third man stopped and lay down on the ground, his eyes wide with terror.
“I’m dying,” said the leader, his voice distorted by his smashed face and the blood running from his mouth.
A squad car with one cop arrived seconds later, and the store owner, now shakily on his feet, quickly explained the situation. Equally quickly, Jake had wiped any blood off his pistol and put it back in its holster.
He recognized the officer as one of the good guys, a cop named Malone, who wasn’t stick-happy when it came to arresting drunken military types. Mr. Matsuo told Malone that the three louts had tried to rob him and that Jake had saved him.
Officer Malone looked at the three men and then at Jake. “They’re pretty messed up, Captain. Any idea what happened to them?”
Jake shrugged. “They may have run into each other while trying to run out of the store.”
“Yeah,” the cop said solemnly. “They look like clumsy types.”
Air-raid sirens went off again. Japs or another false alarm? Odds were a false alarm. There’d been scores of them since the attack. Malone swore, pushed the three drunks into his squad car, and sped off down the road, his own siren wailing. Jake looked around. It all had happened so quickly. He shook his head. Now more than ever he needed to clean up and rest.
Mr. Matsuo ran up to Jake and shoved a bag in his arms. “Thank you, Captain. And here.”
Jake grinned. He now had another six bottles of Budweiser.
The northern Pacific was bleak and windswept, but this was no deterrent to the men who loaded their precious cargo onto the decks of the Imperial Navy’s carriers. Victory was a fever, and the crews were flush with it.
Standing on the dock and looking at the ships a half-mile away, Commander Fuchida thought that the carriers looked top-heavy with the extra planes they carried and that they would capsize in the first strong wind or wave. He knew better, but the sight was unsettling.
Unseen, but even more congested, were the lower decks, where spare parts, ammunition, and additional fuel had been jammed into every available space. The men of the Imperial Japanese Navy would be damned uncomfortable for this crossing, but Fuchida was certain they’d all applaud the results. Japan was again going to punish the arrogant Americans, and Uncle Sam’s white beard would be singed by flames.
As strong as the task force that had destroyed the American battle fleet, this new incarnation of the Kido Butai was again commanded by Admiral Nagumo, and this was one of Fuchida’s few worries. Although Nagumo was again protected by two battleships along with numerous other cruisers and destroyers, Fuchida feared that the admiral might flee in the event the Americans were sighted before they reached their target, the island of Molokai.
Fuchida feared that the bold stroke might be too bold for Nagumo, but he dared not voice the complaint. He was too junior to take the risk, although the outspoken Commander Genda had sent whispers through the corridors of the high command.
The plan was marvelous in its simplicity. The fleet also included a regiment of Imperial marines, a battalion of engineers, and sufficient supplies to build and sustain airfields on Molokai.
Molokai had been chosen because it had a number of private airstrips that could be utilized until larger fields were constructed. Thus, immediately after the marines secured the area, the extra planes could be flown in from the carriers and operations against Oahu begun immediately.
Little resistance was expected; intelligence said there were no military units on Molokai, and any civilian opposition could be brushed aside. Molokai was large, but the marines could hold it and protect the air arm. When the planes landed, Fuchida was proud that he would command them and the subsequent softening-up assaults against the Americans. The carriers would linger only as long as necessary. They would depart and leave a handful of smaller ships to protect the new Japanese base. It was clearly understood that the Americans did not have the ability to launch a naval counterattack from Oahu, although Fuchida and most of the other officers wished they’d try. It was presumed, however, that air assaults would commence quickly, thus the need for the carriers to stay in the area until the base was fully operational.
Molokai had been chosen instead of Lanai for two additional reasons. First, Molokai was less rugged than Lanai, which meant more fields could be constructed, and, second, Lanai was considered entirely too close to Oahu. Even though the Americans had very few planes, any American counterattack against Lanai would be overhead before a warning could be made and countermeasures taken. No, Molokai was the perfect distance, although no one ruled out occupying Lanai at a later time.
Fuchida saw Admiral Yamamoto approach as he stood on the dock. He snapped to attention. Yamamoto greeted him warmly. “I am very pleased with your plans and your efforts,” he told Fuchida.
Fuchida bowed. “Thank you, sir.”
“Yours will be a brave endeavor, and one that will be instrumental in the conquest of Hawaii. Everyone is thoroughly aware of the importance of this mission. Everyone will support it to the utmost.”
Fuchida’s heart surged. Yamamoto would never criticize Nagumo in the presence of a junior officer, but he had just told Fuchida that Nagumo had been forcefully informed that he had better succeed or face dire consequences.
Yamamoto chuckled. “So many planes. Are you sure there’s room on the flight decks to get them airborne?”
Fuchida smiled, glad to change the topic. “Just barely, sir. Thank God we won’t have to land them back on the carriers.”
“Just remember,” Yamamoto said sternly, “pilots are more important than planes. We can replace planes from our warehouses and factories, but our brave pilots are irreplaceable.”
Fuchida understood. In the unlikely event that major American forces were located and did attack, the extra planes would simply be pushed into the sea to enable the others to return safely. It would be more necessary that the carrier pilots be preserved than that a landing be effected on Molokai. Many officers wished such an American attack would occur. It would give the navy an opportunity to smash the Americans again.
Japanese strategy called for such a battle, even planned on it. The navy’s ultimate goal was to lure large American forces away from their bases and toward Japan, where they would be ambushed by the overwhelming might of the Combined Fleet. It was for this reason that Nagumo had been given a strong force but not an overwhelming one. If the Americans took the bait, he was to inflict damage and withdraw in apparent retreat toward Japan, where Yamamoto waited with a force that included the secret superbattleship Yamato. The Yamato was twice the size of any other battleship, had eighteen-inch guns, and had been plucked from her sea trials to join the fleet. Yamamoto would keep his flag on the Yamishiro, but the Yamato would be the iron fist of the supporting fleet.
If the Americans did not rise to the temptation, then Molokai was secured. Either way, Japan won. But, as Fuchida had been reminded, winning could not come at too great a price.