After a while, the American flier said, “You’re not throwing anything back, are you?”
“Not these days,” Hiroshi answered. “We used to, sure, but now it gets eaten as long as it’s not poisonous. Like we said before, nobody’s fussy.”
“If there were any fussy people, they starved a long time ago,” Kenzo added.
“What are you going to do about me?” Burleson asked.
“Drop you on a beach somewhere and say good luck,” Kenzo told him. “What else can we do? We’ll take you to Kewalo Basin if you want to surrender to the Japanese. They’ll have soldiers there to take charge of the catch.”
Burt Burleson shuddered. “No, thanks. I’ve heard about how they treat prisoners. You guys know anything about that?”
“We’ve seen labor gangs. The POWs in ’em are pretty skinny. I don’t think they get fed much,” Kenzo said. “The soldiers who run ’em can act pretty mean, too.” All that was true. If he told Burleson how big an understatement it was, the flier might not believe him.
What he did say seemed plenty. “Okay, I’ll take my chances on the beach,” Burleson said, and then, “Um-can you pick one close to a place with lots of white people so I blend in better?”
So they won’t turn me in, he meant. But Kenzo and Hiroshi both nodded. It was a legitimate point. Hiroshi said, “Don’t trust a haole too far just because he’s a haole. There are more Japanese collaborators, yeah, but there are white ones and Chinese and Filipinos, too.”
“Terrific,” Burleson said bleakly. “Sounds like we’re gonna need to clean up this joint-clean out this joint-once we get it back.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Kenzo said, and tried not to think about his father.
For somebody who’d sneered at raw fish, Burt Burleson put away a hell of a lot of it. Kenzo didn’t begrudge him. Floating on the Pacific wondering whether you’d live or die and sure your buddies were already dead couldn’t have been much fun.
Kenzo waited till sundown to start the Oshima Maru back towards Oahu. He wanted to get there in the wee small hours, when people were least likely to see Burleson splashing ashore. He steered by the stars. He and Hiroshi had both got pretty good at that.
Burleson stayed awake, which surprised Kenzo a little. When he asked about it, the flier laughed and said, “I slept as much as I could in that goddamn raft-what else did I have to do? I can stay awake for this. Besides”-another laugh-“now I can see where I’m going, not where I’ve been like in the PBY.”
The moon crawled across the sky. Oahu came up over the northwestern horizon, pretty much where Kenzo had expected it to be. He steered for Ewa. There were Japanese everywhere on Oahu, of course. With the population a third Japanese, there wouldn’t be many places without them. He wondered if Burleson realized that. But he would do what he could for the flier.
He almost ran the Oshima Maru aground doing it. That wouldn’t have been so good, which was putting it mildly. But Burt Burleson went over the side with a muttered, “God bless you guys.” He struck out for the beach, which wasn’t very far. Kenzo steered away from the coast to give himself some sea room.
Dawn was staining the sky with salmon-belly pink when the sampan came into Kewalo Basin. Nobody got excited about that; sampans went in and came out all the time. As usual, Japanese soldiers took charge of the catch. They paid Kenzo and Hiroshi by weight, and winked at the fish the brothers carried off “for personal use.” The noncoms in charge of the details got fish from the Takahashis and other fishermen to make sure they didn’t fuss about things like that. One hand washed the other.
“Everything good out at sea? Spot anything unusual?” this sergeant asked.
“What could we spot? It’s just lots of water.” Kenzo sounded as casual as he could.
“Hai. Lots of water.” The sergeant drew the kanji for ocean in the air. It combined the characters for water and mother. “You understand?”
“Oh, yes,” Kenzo said. “A mother of a lot of water.” The sergeant laughed at that. Kenzo added, “But nothing else.” The Japanese soldier asked no more questions.
IF YOU PAID ENOUGH OR HAD CLOUT, YOU COULD STILL EAT WELL IN HONOLULU. If you had enough clout, you didn’t have to pay through the nose. Commander Mitsuo Fuchida fell into that category. When he had Commander Genda along with him, the proprietor of the Mochizuki Tea House bowed himself almost double and escorted them to a private room.
“Thank you for coming here, gentlemen. You honor my humble establishment, which does not deserve the presence of such brave officers.” He laid the ceremonial on with a trowel, bowing again and again. Fuchida had to work to keep a smile off his face. No matter how formal the man acted, his accent was that of an ignorant peasant from the south. The impulse to smile faded after a moment. Starting as a peasant, the fellow would have had trouble rising this high had he stayed in Japan.
Kimonoed waitresses fluttered over Fuchida and Genda as the two of them sat cross-legged at the low, Japanese-style table. “Sake?” one of the girls asked. “Yes, please,” Fuchida said. She hurried away. He eyed the menu. “We can get anything we want-as long as we want fish.”
Genda shrugged. “I’ve heard this place used to have fine sukiyaki. But beef…” He shrugged again.
“Karma, neh?”
“Shigata ga nai,” Fuchida answered, which was self-evidently true: it couldn’t be helped. “The sushi and the sashimi here are good-and look. They’ve got lobster tempura. If we’re going to be honored guests, we ought to make the most of it.”
“What’s that saying the Americans use? ‘Eat, drink, and be merry, because tomorrow-’ ” Genda didn’t finish it, but Fuchida nodded. He knew what his friend was talking about.
Back came the girl with the sake. That was brewed from rice, and there was, finally, just about enough rice to go around in Oahu-and on the other islands of Hawaii, though they mattered much less to the Japanese. Fuchida and Genda both slurped noisily from their cups. The stuff wasn’t bad, though it wasn’t up to the best back in the home islands.
After the food came, the waitresses knew enough to withdraw and let the Japanese officers talk in peace. Fuchida spoke without preamble: “We’re going to have to fight the Americans again.”
“Yes, it seems so.” Genda dipped a piece of tuna into shoyu heated with wasabi. He sounded as calm as if they were talking about the weather.
“Can we?” Fuchida was still blunt.
“I don’t expect them to come after us right away-they’re busy in North Africa for the time being,” Genda answered. Fuchida nodded and sipped at his sake again. The USA had shipped an enormous army around the Cape of Good Hope and up to Egypt. Along with Montgomery’s British force, they’d smashed Rommel at El Alamein and were driving him west across the desert.
Fuchida ate some sushi. He smiled. Barbecued eel had always been one of his favorites. But, again, the smile would not stay. “Did you notice one thing about that attack, Genda-san?”
“I’ve noticed several things about it-none of them good for us,” Genda replied. “Which do you have in mind?”
“That it didn’t use any American carriers,” Fuchida answered. “What the Yankees have left, they’re saving-for us.”
“I’m not worried about what they’re saving,” Genda said. “I’m worried about what they’re building. Admiral Yamamoto was right about that.” He invoked Yamamoto’s name as a bishop might invoke the Pope-and with just as much reverence.