“This is the first time we’ve spoken since the attack,” Kaga said. “I hope it will not be the last.”
“Nor I,” said Jake. “I used the information you gave me about the unlikelihood of sabotage and gave it to my boss, who gave it to General Short. Unfortunately, Short or his staff chose to ignore it.”
“A shame,” Kaga said and meant it. He was firmly convinced that a Japanese victory in the war would be a disaster for both himself and the Japanese living in Hawaii. “At least there have been only a few incidents against my people by American military personnel.”
“Do you object to the internment of the radicals?”
Kaga laughed. The Japanese population of Hawaii was 160,000 people, more than a third of the total population of the islands, and 120,000 of them lived on Oahu. Of these, about 1,500 of the most radical supporters of Japan had been rounded up and interned. These were all people who had visited Japan, sent sons to fight in her army, and made bellicose speeches on behalf of Japan’s right to conquer Asia. There were many others who had cheered on Japan’s earlier conquests, but both the FBI and the military government considered them nuisances and not dangerous. Toyoza Kaga’s eldest son was an officer in the Japanese army, but that was a well-kept secret and a fact that deeply disturbed Kaga.
Some of the fifteen hundred radical Japanese might have been enlisted as saboteurs for Japan, but none had known of the timing of the attack. Japan had not trusted them with the information, which both men thought was an interesting fact in itself. With weapons reasonably scarce on the islands, they were also unarmed. Now, with emotions running high and tens of thousands of armed U.S. military personnel looking out in all directions for enemies, anyone contemplating sabotage would have to be a complete fool or insane, especially if they had a yellow skin. There would be no attacks from the Japanese community on Oahu.
“No, Captain, I do not object at all. However, I would suggest that you move the internees from Sand Island and elsewhere and ship them off to the mainland. That way they cannot be used to establish a sympathetic puppet government when Japan attacks and conquers these islands. Even with them gone, there will be many who will collaborate with the Japanese, but they will lack the venom and enthusiasm of those your army has imprisoned.”
Jake’s eyebrows arched at the declaration. “You think that’s definite? The Japanese will attack?”
“Absolutely. And it will come sooner rather than later.”
“And your people?”
“The first-generation issei and the second-generation nisei differ fundamentally,” Kaga said. “Most of the issei have their homes here but are sympathetic toward Japan, and they are confused now that their two homelands are at war. They revere Japan and love her memory, but, after all, they left for good reasons. The nisei, however, by and large have no great love for a distant land most have never seen or care to see. Nisei, remember, are American citizens as well as holding Japanese citizenship according to Japanese law.”
It was a bitter point. The older generation, like Kaga, had been denied citizenship because of the race quota laws, and many resented it. Ironically, the children of the issei had automatically become American citizens by virtue of being born on American territory. To many people, Jake included, it made no sense whatsoever. However, the nisei had been declared Japanese citizens by the Japanese government and, technically at least, were subject to Japan’s military draft. A small but unknown number had traveled to Japan to make themselves available for conscription, but the overwhelming majority wanted no part of the Japanese armed forces. On the contrary, almost fifteen hundred nisei had volunteered for the Hawaiian Territory’s two national guard regiments.
“The vast majority of my people,” Kaga continued, “will do nothing but try to survive the conflict as best they can. I doubt there will be any acts of sabotage, even random ones. The fear of retribution is too great.”
“And what will happen if the Japanese do invade?” Jake asked. “Where will loyalties lie then?”
Kaga shrugged. “Like I said, get rid of the radicals and the rest will play a waiting game. When-not if-the Japanese invade, there will be confusion regarding their long-term aims. If Hawaii is to be a bargaining chip for a future treaty in which we will be returned to American control, then my people will be cooperative but quiescent. If the occupation is going to be long term, or permanent, then people will adjust to the new realities in order to survive.”
Jake agreed. It fit what he had learned about the Japanese-American community. Beleaguered, picked on, insulted, and discriminated against, most of them still thought there were more advantages in being American than in being part of the militaristic Japanese empire. He would report this to General Short and the rest of the Hawaiian command. This time perhaps they’d listen to him.
The Japanese submarine I-74 lay on the swells of the Pacific, rolling gently and using only enough power to maintain seaway. She was shielded by the night and the fact of her low silhouette. A panther, she lay in wait for her prey.
The I-74 was only a couple of years old. She’d been constructed at the shipyards in Kobe and was armed with eight torpedo tubes and a 4.7-inch deck gun, and could cruise for sixteen thousand miles.
Like most submariners, her captain preferred to attack while on the surface. Doing so meant more torpedo accuracy, as well as the ability to travel at more than twice her speed when submerged. The I-74 could move at twenty knots on the surface but only nine submerged. Underwater movement was saved for special situations, such as hiding from an enemy warship, stalking a dangerous or elusive target, or traversing dangerous waters. Submerged, a sub could last only a dozen or so hours before the batteries that drove her needed charging, or before the air became so foul that sailors started to pass out and die.
But who needed to stalk or hide when the enemy was being so cooperative? Commander Jiro Boshiro could not believe his good fortune and the stupidity of the Americans. The four freighters must have discounted the existence of the war; they still had their navigation lights on. They were more afraid of collision than of him. He did not think they had traveled together. It was more likely an unintended clustering, of the kind that frequently occurred near a major port, and they were less than fifty miles from Honolulu. Why they were together didn’t matter. The result was a fairly neat line of enemy freighters close up and inviting him to kill them.
Under normal circumstances, it was an enemy he would have ignored. Japanese naval doctrine called for submarines to strike only at warships and, preferably, capital ships. This doctrine was in keeping with the code of bushido and the way of the samurai warrior. Orders were so specific that submariners were told how many torpedoes could be launched against each target. Freighters and transports were considered unworthy for samurai to attack, and demeaned the spirit of the offensive.
Orders, however, had been changed. In the absence of major targets and accepting that Hawaii was under a sort of siege, submarines of the Imperial Japanese Navy had been instructed to attack supply ships heading toward the islands. Those leaving would only be taking wounded and civilians and should be left alone, thus conserving precious torpedoes. But those approaching the islands would be carrying war materials that would enable the United States to recover from Japan’s glorious victory of December 7. They must be destroyed.
It galled Commander Boshiro to obey the orders, but they came from the revered Admiral Yamamoto and, therefore, must be right. He chuckled silently in the darkness. As if Yamamoto had ever been wrong.