Genda looked down at himself. Then he spied his uniform jacket hanging on a hook welded to the sick-bay door. He threw it on over the thin cotton pajamas. “This will do. Now get out of my way.”
If the pharmacist’s mate tried to stop him by force, the man could. Genda didn’t have the physical strength to oppose him. But he had a blazing strength of will, and the bigger, healthier man gave way before him. I might as well be Japan against the United States, he thought, and headed for his battle station.
When he reached the bridge, Captain Tomeo Kaku took one look at him and snapped, “Go below.”
An order was an order. Dejectedly, Genda turned to go. “Wait,” Admiral Yamamoto told him. To Kaku, Yamamoto went on, “Genda-san is not as well as I wish he were. But the illness affects only his body. His mind remains what it always was, and it is keen enough that I think he will be valuable here.”
“As you wish, sir,” Kaku answered. Most Japanese officers would have left it there, especially when a godlike man like Yamamoto had spoken. But Akagi ’s new skipper showed he had nerve, for he continued. “I was concerned for the commander’s well-being, sir. He would be safer down in sick bay.”
Yamamoto laughed raucously. “If we are hit, Captain, nothing and no one on this ship is safe. Or will you tell me I’m wrong?” He waited. With a small, sheepish smile, Kaku shook his head. “All right, then,” Yamamoto said. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” He moved aside half a pace to make room for Genda beside him. Genda bowed and took his place. Yamamoto barked a question at a signals officer: “Zuikaku and Shokaku are properly dispersed from us and from each other?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” the young lieutenant replied. “They are following your orders, just as you gave them.”
“Good.” Yamamoto turned the word into a satisfied grunt. “We won’t leave all our eggs in one basket for the Yankees.” For Genda’s benefit, he added, “They’ve grouped their carriers very close together. We have them all under attack, and we’ve struck a hard blow against at least one.”
“I’m glad to hear it, sir,” Genda said, wishing he could have had more to do with the operation under way. Before he could say anything else, the thunder of antiaircraft guns from the screening ships and, a moment later, from Akagi herself penetrated the steel and bulletproof glass armoring the carrier’s bridge.
“All ahead full,” Captain Kaku called down the speaking tube to the engine rooms. He stepped to the wheel. “I have the conn.”
Genda didn’t like Kaku as much as he’d liked Captain Hasegawa, whose outspokenness had got him sent back to Japan. No denying Kaku could handle a ship, though. Akagi was a converted battle-cruiser, but he handled her as if she were a destroyer, sending her twisting this way and that across the broad expanse of the Pacific.
None of which might matter even a sen’s worth. No matter how swift she was, no matter what kind of evasive action she took, Akagi was a tortoise when measured against the airplanes attacking her. Antiaircraft guns and, most of all, the Zeros overhead would have the biggest say in whether she lived or died.
Admiral Yamamoto folded his arms across his broad chest. “We’ve done our part,” he said. “We have put this force in a position where it can achieve victory. Now we rely on the brave young men we have trained to give it to us.”
“Yes, sir,” Genda said. Maybe I should have stayed below, he thought. What can I do up here? The fight will go as it goes, with me or without me.
A plane smashed into the Pacific, two or three hundred meters ahead of the Akagi. Genda couldn’t be sure whether it was American or Japanese. American, he thought, for after the column of seawater it kicked up subsided there was no flame floating on the ocean. As if to show the contrast, a Zero went into the sea a moment later. The stricken Japanese fighter lit its own brief funeral pyre.
“A second Yankee carrier under attack, sir,” the signals officer reported. “Heavy American resistance.”
“They need to make a coordinated attack,” Genda said: “torpedo planes and dive bombers together. That way, the enemy won’t be able to concentrate on any one group.”
“Send the message,” Yamamoto told the signals officer. “Send it in Genda’s name.”
“Sir?” the lieutenant said in surprise.
“I’m sure it’s not necessary, Admiral,” Genda said quickly. “Commander Fuchida will have given the same order-he knows all there is to know about these attacks.”
“Send it,” Yamamoto repeated. “The Americans already know where Akagi is-they’ve proved that. And Fuchida and everyone to whom he relays the message will be glad to hear Genda-san is on his feet.”
“Domo arigato,” Genda whispered, and punctuated the words with a couple of coughs.
“Torpedo in the water on the port side! ” Captain Kaku was swinging the helm hard to port even before that alarmed cry rang out. Genda didn’t know whether he would have swung the carrier into the torpedo’s track or away from it. His specialties were air power and attack planning. He’d never been anything more than an ordinary ship-handler.
Tomeo Kaku was definitely out of the ordinary. He hesitated not even for an instant, wrenching Akagi around so she offered the torpedo the smallest possible target. Now Genda could see the wake, drawing closer with hideous inevitability. The track looked very straight-but the torpedo slid past, missing by no more than five or ten meters.
“Not bad, Captain.” For all the excitement in Yamamoto’s voice, he might have been talking about the soup course at a fancy dinner.
Two American torpedo planes went into the drink in quick succession, both before they could launch. The Yankees were still flying the hopelessly slow Douglas Devastators they’d used when the war broke out. The pilots in them were brave men. They had to be, because they attacked in flying death traps. The Devastator was far slower and less agile than the Nakajima B5N2. Like most American planes, it could take a lot of battle damage-but not as much as the Zeros and the ships’ antiaircraft guns were dishing out. Another torpedo plane crashed, and then another.
“I hope they haven’t drawn all the fighters down to the deck with them,” Genda said. “We’ll need some up high for top cover against dive bombers.”
“Send that, too,” Yamamoto told the signals officer. He gave Genda a smile. “You see? You are earning your keep. Thank you for coming up.”
“Thank you, sir,” Genda said. “I’m sure someone else would have thought of it if I hadn’t.”
Admiral Yamamoto shook his head. “I’m not. Too much going on in the heat of battle. People get excited pursuing the enemy and make mistakes. They get so caught up in the now, they forget what may happen five minutes further down the line.”
“Torpedo! ” The cry rang out again. In spite of everything the Japanese could do, another Devastator had got a fish in the water.
“I’ll tend to it,” Captain Kaku said. Then he laughed. It was gallows humor, as he proved a moment later: “And if I don’t, you can tie me to the wheel, and I’ll go down with the ship.”
“That is not a good tradition,” Yamamoto said severely. “Not at all. The Empire loses brave, able men who could still serve it well.”
Kaku only shrugged. “You may be right, sir, but it’s a way for officers to atone for failure. Better than living in disgrace, neh? ” He didn’t wait for an answer, but spun the wheel hard. Akagi answered the helm more slowly than a destroyer would have, but still turned into the path of the oncoming torpedo. As she swung that way, her new skipper let out a sigh of relief. “Track on this one’s not as straight as the last one was. She’ll miss us by plenty.” Plenty was about a hundred meters, or less than half the carrier’s length. Maybe Captain Kaku was trying to impress Yamamoto with his coolness, or maybe he really did have more than his fair share.