The streets of Honolulu were dark and empty, but far from quiet. Off to the west, the battle for Pearl Harbor still raged. By all the signs, fighting was getting closer to the city. If that submarine didn’t come in now, it would never have another chance. Jiro could plainly see that. The Japanese occupation was finished. He sighed. He wished things had turned out different. Even if he wasn’t here to hear it, Hiroshi and Kenzo would be saying, I told you so.
Barricades and roadblocks slowed the journey down to the harbor. The special naval landing forces who manned them were alert, even jumpy. But Consul Kita talked his way past them every time.
Other little parties made their way to the harbor, too. Some of them were Japanese, others Hawaiians and even haoles who’d gone along with the new regime. They had a good notion of what they could expect when American rule returned. But the king and queen were staying behind. Yes, they were brave. Did they have any common sense?
He stared out past Sand Island, which helped protect the approaches to Honolulu’s harbor. The Americans hadn’t landed there yet; they probably hadn’t thought they needed to. A Japanese garrison still held the place. If U.S. troops had taken the island, the sub would have had a much harder time getting in-and getting out again afterwards.
Off to the west, tracers-American red and orange and Japanese blue-made a fireworks display against the night. They shed enough light to let Jiro see everyone else looked as worried as he felt. One of the Japanese, a bureaucrat in a civilian suit, said, “Where is the submarine?”
Not five minutes later, like a broaching whale but ever so much bigger, it surfaced by the pier. A hatch came open at the top of the conning tower. A moment later, several people exclaimed in disgust. Jiro didn’t, but he came close. The air that wafted out of the hatch was as foul as any he’d ever smelled, and fishermen knew everything there was to know about stinks. Too many people too close together for too long, foul heads, and sour food all went into the mix. So did the stink of oil and several other things he couldn’t name right away. He wondered how the sailors stood it, then decided they had to be so used to it, they didn’t even notice it any more.
An officer popped out of the hatch. “Is everyone here?” he called. “We can’t wait for stragglers, not if we want to get out in one piece.”
“The King and Queen of Hawaii are not coming,” Consul Kita said. “They have refused our invitations.”
“It’s their funeral,” the officer said. Jiro thought that was likely true. The officer climbed out of the hatch. Sailors followed him and laid a gangplank from the pier to the sub’s iron hull. The couple of dozen escapees came aboard. A sailor guided them to the ladder up to the conning tower. Another ladder led down into the dark, smelly bowels of the submarine. As people started down that ladder, the officer took their names. Nagao Kita vouched for Jiro. “Oh, yes.” The officer nodded. “When we were surfaced, I would pick up his broadcasts myself. Good man.”
“Arigato,” Jiro said shyly.
“Do itashimashite,” the officer answered. After the last person came aboard, he asked, “Where is Commander Genda? He’s supposed to be here, too.” When no one answered, the man muttered, “Zakennayo! The order for his recall comes from Admiral Yamamoto, no less. Well, we’re not going to wait, no matter what.”
Only dim orange lamps lit up the inside of the submarine. Pipes and wires ran overhead; even short men like Jiro had to duck all the time. Machinery was everywhere-above, below, and to either side. Whatever space existed for people seemed an afterthought.
The hatch clanged shut. The officer dogged it. He came down the internal ladder, his shoes clattering. He gave a series of crisp orders. The sub backed away from the pier and then went under, air bubbling out of the buoyancy tanks and water sloshing in. Slowly-Jiro gradually realized everything underwater happened slowly-it turned and started out the channel by which it had entered the harbor.
He sighed with mingled pleasure and disappointment. On the way home at last!
MINORU GENDA HAD NEVER IMAGINED he would disobey an order from Admiral Yamamoto. He looked to the commander-in-chief of the Combined Fleet as an example, a mentor, a friend. Yet the Japanese submarine had presumably come and presumably gone. Assorted dignitaries were presumably aboard the boat. He remained somewhere between Honolulu and Pearl Harbor, doing everything he could to hold back the advancing Americans.
Cynthia Laanui had nothing to do with it.
So Genda told himself, and believed he told himself the truth. The Queen of Hawaii made a wonderful diversion. He liked her more as a person than he’d thought he would, too. But none of that was reason enough to throw away his naval career.
Hawaii was.
This invasion had been Genda’s idea from the beginning. He’d proposed to Yamamoto the notion of following up the air strike with ground troops. Only with Hawaii under the Rising Sun, he’d said, could it serve as Japan’s shield rather than America’s outstretched arm. He’d persuaded Yamamoto. Yamamoto had persuaded the Army-a harder job, since the conquest of Malaya and the Dutch East Indies and their vital resources had to move more slowly. But Yamamoto made the generals believe Japan had a better chance of keeping her conquests if she held Hawaii.
For close to two years, Hawaii had done what it was supposed to do. With a Japanese garrison here, the USA had to fight the Pacific war from its own West Coast. Its reach wasn’t long enough to do Japan much harm from there.
Now, though… Now Hawaii was falling back into U.S. hands. Genda was no fool, but no blind optimist, either. He knew the signs of defeat when he saw them, and he saw them now. The fall of Pearl Harbor was perhaps the next to last nail in the coffin.
And if he took credit for the victory of 1941, how could he not shoulder blame for the defeat of 1943? To duck it would make him into a liar, and he refused to lie to himself. He intended to atone in his own person for his plan’s failure. He thought Yamamoto would understand.
He had an Arisaka some soldier or naval landing force man would never need again. He wished he had a uniform that gave better camouflage than his Navy whites. By now, the whites had so many dirt and grass stains, they hid him better than they had a couple of days earlier. He wasn’t the only man in whites to form a part of the Japanese skirmish line. That made him feel better. He wasn’t the only officer determined to make the Yankees pay for everything they got.
The enemy skirmish line was a couple of hundred meters away. The Americans weren’t pushing forward right this minute. Every so often, they would fire a few rifle shots or a burst from a machine gun or a Browning Automatic Rifle to discourage the Japanese from attacking. The men on Genda’s side would do the same.
Genda didn’t think his countrymen could attack. They were a motley mix of Army and Navy men. An Army captain seemed to be in local command. Genda outranked him, but didn’t try to throw his weight around. The Army officer sounded capable, while he himself knew as much about infantry combat as he did about Paris fashions. He was learning fast, though.
As for the Americans… By all the signs, they were waiting till they built up overwhelming force. Then they would hit the Japanese line somewhere and pour through. The defenders would have the choice of dying where they stood or falling back to try to stop the enemy somewhere else. Genda had already seen the Yankees do that once. They didn’t take many chances. If he’d enjoyed all their materiel, he wouldn’t have taken many chances, either.
A senior private squatted in the foxhole along with Genda. He was filthy and weary, but managed a smile of sorts when he noticed Genda’s eye on him. “Hard work, sir,” he said wryly.