Toyoza and Akira Kaga attended, but Akira left early. He said his leg was bothering him, and this was accepted as an obvious truth. Before he left, Omori introduced the younger man to Admiral Yamamoto. Akira appeared properly awed, and the admiral was deferential to the maimed young warrior.
The reception was at a park in Honolulu, a place where the fleet could be clearly seen, and the view by the water’s edge was particularly dramatic. The battleships and carriers were lit up in a vivid display. They were anchored so close to one another that they appeared as one solid, glowing mass.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” said Toyoza Kaga.
“Incredible, absolutely incredible,” Omori answered in a whisper. The sight was almost overwhelming.
“Will the lights be on all night? I do hope so,” Toyoza said.
Omori chuckled. “Yamamoto has ordered a celebration to dwarf all other Hawaiian celebrations. Some of the ships may dim their lights, but the majority will keep them on.” Then he laughed out loud. “They’ll need to so the crews can find their way back.”
Many of the fleet’s officers along with a number of enlisted men had been granted shore leave and were celebrating hugely throughout the Honolulu area. Bars and dance halls were enjoying a business bonanza, and the sounds of the celebrations reached the official reception at the park. It was even louder than when the American fleet was in port because there were few restraints placed on the Japanese sailors. Many people, Omori thought, might have ignored the reception in order to protect their property and their women.
“There will be many monumental naval hangovers tomorrow,” Kaga said with a smile. “I admit I am surprised that such activities are being permitted with the Americans always a threat.”
Omori laughed again. He’d had several drinks. His new favorite beverage was Scotch whisky, and it was making him unsteady. “The Americans are not a threat, my friend,” he said. “Their fleet is nowhere near the Pacific, much less Hawaii. We are as safe here as we would be in Tokyo harbor. Even so, we have planes aloft to watch the oceans as a precaution.”
“But what about the Americans on Hawaii?” Toyoza persisted. “What if they try to disrupt things?”
“If they’d been able to, they would have done it before or during the ceremony. No, they are isolated on their island. Lieutenant Goto did inform me that they intend to do something against Hilo this weekend, but it will be feeble and it will be repulsed. After that, we will seek out and destroy them. That will put an end to their nonsense.”
He had spoken more bitterly than he realized, and Toyoza noticed it. Omori must have been catching hell from Iwabachi and Yamamoto because of the continued presence of Americans on Hawaii. Too bad, he thought. Then he looked again at the Japanese fleet and its luminous presence. If they keep the lights on, a blind man could find them, he thought. He had news to signal to the Americans.
“I am an old man,” Toyoza said with an exaggerated sigh. “I will leave you now and get some needed rest. I will sleep tonight secure in the knowledge that Japan is preeminent among nations.”
Omori watched as the old man departed. Thank God there were a few people he could count on in these islands. Kaga might be a crook, but he fully understood where his future lay. Kaga was not an official member of the island’s new government, but he was one of the most influential men on Oahu and one whose advice Omori would seek out even more in the future.
We need more men like Toyoza Kaga, Colonel Omori thought. Then he decided he needed another drink.
CHAPTER 22
At first awkwardly, but then with growing speed and grace, the giant flying boats sped down the lagoon that was their runway and lifted off into the sky. Colonel Jimmy Doolittle was in the first plane, and he banked it to see the others as they made it safely into the sky. Overloaded as they were with fuel and bombs, any crash landing would be a flaming disaster for plane and crew.
Once safely airborne, they formed a loose single line and headed toward the west and Hawaii. Doolittle was under no illusions. He was chasing the night so as to be at Oahu an hour or two before dawn. He was going to attempt the nearly impossible, a night attack on a small part of a small island in the middle of the ocean over two thousand miles away.
Fuel was not a problem, and they’d been over the navigation time and time again. The Americans on Hawaii would be sending out radio beeps that would help them find their way. If they followed the beeps, they would be only a few hundred miles off course.
Only.
A few-hundred-mile error would be disastrous. It would give the Japs time to spot them and attack. No, he had to keep the radio beacon to his left and home in on where his figures said Oahu was.
Tailwinds or headwinds could either speed him up or delay him without his knowing it in the bleak night, while crosswinds would blow him north or south. He and his crews had to stay awake and alert. The lead plane, his, would have primary responsibility for navigation, while the others would follow his taillight and check on his math. Between the five of them, it was hoped that they would find Oahu instead of Australia.
“What else is going to happen tonight?” Doolittle wondered. His copilot glanced at him and turned away. He wondered the same thing.
When the Japs had attacked Pearl Harbor, they’d apparently homed in on the sounds of a Honolulu radio station. Doolittle wondered if he would be so lucky. Surely, they wouldn’t have kept the station on the air.
He also wondered just what impact his five planes, large though they were, could possibly have on the course of the war, even if they did find the Jap carriers in port.
“There has to be more than this,” he said. “There has to be.”
Corporal Matsumoto Fuji was as alert as he could be under the circumstances. Like most others in the Japanese garrison, he resented the fact that he was on guard duty at Wheeler Field while everybody else was celebrating and getting drunk, probably even laid. The fact that Wheeler was a virtual no-man’s-land was not lost on them either. If the high command didn’t think Wheeler was important, then why should they?
Thus, he and his comrades had felt little guilt when they’d had the opportunity to take a couple of drinks from revelers who’d passed by and offered them. After all, weren’t they fellow Japanese who’d just been brought back to the bosom of the homeland? Fuji hiccupped and thought, of other bosoms he’d rather be clasped to at the moment. The Hawaiian-Japanese had been good fellows and had done their best to make Fuji and the others on guard feel both wanted and good. As a result, Fuji and his companions were more than a little drunk.
Corporal Fuji was in charge of two four-man stations that guarded Wheeler Field’s closely parked planes. He and one soldier in the other sandbagged bunker were the only regulars on duty. The remaining six were mechanics and laborers who, while in the military, knew next to nothing about their duties. He blamed the higher-ups who had decreed one squad was all that was necessary to protect Wheeler. Let additional bodies come from other sources, and that meant he shared tonight’s duty watch with utter incompetents.
At least the long night would end in a few hours and he could get some rest. During the daylight hours, there were only four men protecting the planes, which Fuji definitely thought was inadequate.
“Someone’s coming,” one of the mechanics yelled.
The warning wasn’t very military, but at least the oaf was paying some attention. Fuji blinked and tried to focus in the night. There were no lights on in the field, and he squinted through the gloom. A column of men was marching down the runway toward Fuji.