Commander Watanabe approached him. “I have a damage summary, sir.”
“Go on.”
“No ships were sunk, and light damage was done to only a few. The Akagi was hit by one small bomb, but it did not penetrate her armored flight deck.”
Yamamoto stifled a chuckle. Admiral Nagumo had been asleep on the Akagi. The sudden explosion must have shocked him considerably.
“The fuel fire is under control,” Watanabe continued. “Only one tank was hit, and we were fortunate in that the ones beside it were empty. It may have been hit by one of our own antiaircraft shells and not an American bomb.”
“Very good,” Yamamoto said.
“Some other damage was also caused by wild antiaircraft firing. Falling shells struck several vessels and buildings, causing some spectacular-looking fires, including the fuel tank on the hill, but, again, no serious damage was done. No more than fifty of our men were killed or injured.”
So, Yamamoto pondered, the attack had been a pinprick. No ships had been lost, and most of the precious fuel reserve was intact. But the Americans would trumpet it like a great victory. He could not deny that he’d been attacked, and the American propagandists would have a field day, while Japanese government officials would cringe with embarrassment. He would have to apologize for his failures.
“Do you plan to sortie the fleet?” Watanabe asked.
“No, although I may wish to send a carrier out in the morning. Inform Admiral Nagumo of my intent. I’m sure he’s awake,” he said drily. “I am almost totally convinced that there is not an American carrier nearby, but I do not wish to take chances. I also wish to speak with Admiral Iwabachi. Where the devil were his fighters? He had responsibility for protecting us, and he has failed. I want to know why.”
Watanabe nodded. He too wondered how even a handful of American fighters had managed to slip in unnoticed until the last minute. The sharp-eyed lookout who had spotted them in the night would be commended. It occurred to Watanabe that he could hear no planes in the air. Were the skies over the fleet still empty of Japanese fighters? He would contact Admiral Iwabachi immediately.
Giant antennae on hills near the California coast picked up even some of the most minor conversations and broadcasts emanating from Hawaii. The commercial radio stations had both reported explosions in the harbor before going off the air, doubtless at Japanese insistence. In the heat of battle, a number of military messages were broadcast in the clear; thus, Admiral Nimitz was able to stay apprised of events virtually as they transpired.
Nimitz turned and looked gloomily at the others. “Some success, but not enough. There is no indication of their fleet moving, nor is there any indication of serious damage to any of the ships or the fuel tanks.”
Perhaps it had been a ridiculous idea, but what other choice had they? There were to have been three attacks at almost the same time. Yes, he’d accepted that such coordination over great distances was virtually impossible, but he’d hoped for better than this. Guerrillas had struck successfully at Wheeler, while fighters had attacked the fleet at anchor. The pilots would be trumpeting great victories, but experience had taught them all that these would be gross, albeit well-intended, exaggerations. Also, the pilots appeared to have attacked early. Someone in Nimitz’s headquarters had misunderstood the difference in time zones, and Magruder’s attack had been two hours too soon.
The third prong was Doolittle’s flying boats, and where were they? By now the Japanese would be recovering from their shock and preparing their defenses. A handful of flying boats attacking later would not stampede them out of the harbor, and that was the essence of the plan. Pearl Harbor’s Achilles’ heel was the narrow channel that was both its entrance and its exit. The Monkfish was placed by the entrance for one purpose-to sink a large Japanese vessel in the channel and block it. With the Japanese fleet thus trapped, Spruance was to attack.
The plan was daring, convoluted, cockeyed, and crazy, but, if it had succeeded, a tremendous blow would have been delivered against Japan. Would have been, Nimitz thought sadly.
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.