A fuel tank on a hill erupted like a volcano, and the concussion shook his plane. Or had he been hit? Magruder checked his gauges, and they were okay. He could keep on, but without bombs he was useless. He flew low over a destroyer and strafed it with some of his remaining ammo. As he flew away, he banked slightly and saw a fire on the destroyer’s stern. Hot damn, he thought. A carrier and a destroyer! But how much damage had he actually done?
After only a few moments, the raid was over. Magruder flew out over the ocean, where a line of Japanese destroyer pickets was also firing at the moon. He again broke radio silence and called for his flock to gather on him.
Four of them found him-that was all. As they flew away from Pearl Harbor, Magruder tallied the cost. He had lost six of his eleven planes. But, judging from the fires he’d seen, they had caused immense damage to the Japanese fleet. There were still no Zeros in the sky, and this meant he stood a chance of getting to another island in safety.
To sortie or not to sortie, thought Admiral Yamamoto, that was the question. He was mimicking some of what he’d learned as an English language student at Harvard before the war while he waited for damage reports in what had been the offices of Admiral Kimmel. When he got them, he would consider his options, and sortieing the fleet was one of them.
The idea of anchoring the entire fleet in Pearl Harbor had been a good one. Had he anchored a good portion outside the defended confines of Pearl, those outside the harbor would have been at the mercy of American submarines, which were getting more and more aggressive. It occurred to him that a pell-mell exodus from Pearl might just lead him to a wolf pack of waiting submarines.
In order to stay out of the clutches of the submarines, those ships outside the harbor would have had to keep in motion, maneuvering to keep the tracking subs confused. That would use up precious fuel, which was to be expended while attacking Alaska and bombarding the American West Coast. The fuel storage tanks were less than half full; thus, he had no real fallback reserve.
But the appearance of American carrier planes had been a complete shock. Cursory examination of the wreckage of one had identified it as an F4F Wildcat.
So where was the carrier? Was there a carrier? Was there more than one carrier? Despite the chaos of the attack, Yamamoto was convinced that only a handful of planes had struck and then fled. Why only a handful? A shame he couldn’t ask any of the pilots, but they’d either been killed or had not been found yet.
There was no carrier, he realized with a smile. Even a light carrier had many more fighters than had been thrown at his fleet. Thus, the planes had come from one of the other Hawaiian islands. Yamamoto concluded that they must have been hidden since before the invasion. The logical place was the Big Island of Hawaii, the only area where there was any American guerrilla activity. On such a large island, it wouldn’t have been difficult to hide the planes, and he grudgingly admired both the bravery of the American pilots and their ingenuity.
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.