“Will you notify Tokyo of your intentions?” Nagumo asked.
Yamamoto bristled. “No. I command the fleet and I do not need permission from anyone to do battle with the Americans.”
Nagumo nodded solemnly. “Keeping the attack a secret with only the fleet aware of what we hope to achieve will keep our plans even more secure. While the Americans cannot read our codes, there might be a blabbing mouth in Tokyo and news might somehow reach our enemies. As much as I would prefer that we receive blessings from Tokyo, I agree that this is something that we alone must do.”
Yamamoto smiled. He didn’t need anyone’s permission or blessing, but it still would have been good to receive. Now if only the existence of the American carriers could be verified. Their destruction would result in Japanese control of the Pacific for at least several more years. The longer the growing might of the United States Navy was kept at bay, the more likely the Japanese Empire would emerge from this war with an honorable peace that would provide Japan with both economic and military security.
There was another problem that could arise should they be victorious. There would inevitably be calls from the hierarchy in Tokyo to make additional punishing attacks on the United States. Perhaps there would be pressure on him to invade Australia and Oahu, stretching his slender resources. These would have to be dampened and tempered with reality. What some called “victory disease” could prove fatal.
Still, Yamamoto thought, he would use the fleet to make selective attacks on the United States after the victory in the Gulf of California.
Juan Escobar was a proud man who was both mystified and angry at what had happened to his once proud and orderly world. An aristocrat who considered himself more Spanish then Mexican, he deplored the fact that crude, illiterate peasants of Indian descent had done so much to change his world. Not only did he no longer receive the respect that was his due as a descendant of the conquistadores, but he saw thinly veiled contempt in the eyes of many from the lower classes. Even worse, these communist-inspired cretins had almost destroyed his beloved Holy Mother Church’s influence in Mexico with their liberal and egalitarian ideas.
Yes, there currently was a shaky accord in place between the Mexican government and the Church that promised to end the fighting, but his beloved Church remained in a seriously reduced role, and Escobar did not like that. The Church represented God and, therefore, should be in charge. His late uncle had been a bishop and had been adamant about the Church’s proper role in the world. He believed that all governments should be subordinate to the Papacy. He knew that some laughed at him and called his beliefs archaic, but he knew that his way was the truth.
It had come as no surprise to the fifty-year-old Mexican Army colonel that he found himself drawn to the ideas of Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party. Hitler knew what to do with the communists. Mexico needed its own Hitler. He held onto the now fading hope that it would someday be a man named Juan Escobar. Even though Hitler did little to support Catholicism, Escobar was confident that the Nazis would change when victory over utterly godless communism was theirs.
Escobar had even rejoiced when Germany declared war on the United States. Perhaps Mexico would join with Hitler and attempt to get back the lands stolen by the U.S. a century before.
Thus, he had been aghast when Mexico had declared war on Germany instead of on the United States. Still, he could do his part to ensure that Germany won. Too bad it meant having to help those repulsive little yellow men from Japan. Whenever he had doubts about what he was doing, he reminded himself that the friend of my friend is my friend as well.
Which was why he found himself bobbing up and down in a stinking little fishing boat off the city of Mazatlan and trying not to speak with the boat’s filthy, foul-mouthed, and sweaty captain any more than necessary. Fishing was a major industry in the area and the Gulf of California teemed with fish, including manta rays and numerous species of whales. Escobar cared nothing about the fish. All he wanted to do was get back to his home in Mexico City, have a drink, and have his mistress visit. He had flown to Mazatlan by private plane and had hoped to take the plane over the area where the American ships were said to be hiding, but his German source informed him that he might be shot down if he was spotted. The area was patrolled by both American and Mexican planes. The new American occupiers still permitted fishing. People had to eat. Thus, an innocuous fishing boat was the best alternative.
The waters in the Gulf of California—he still preferred to call it the Gulf of Cortes—were calm. The night was clear and the little boat chugged its way north and west to where the enemy waited, allegedly grouped against the western side of the gulf. Escobar’s instructions were succinct. He was to count and categorize American ships, especially and logically the larger ones, and under no circumstances was he to risk being discovered.
Ergo, he could not get too close, which was fine by Colonel Escobar. He considered himself to be as brave as the next man, but it had been decades since he’d seen combat, fighting against the American intruders in 1916.
The predawn light poured across the waters. On another day, he would have reveled in its beauty. A rare fin whale surfaced and splashed mightily. Despite his anxieties, it brought a smile.
In the distance, shapes began to emerge as the light grew better. He took out his binoculars—German of course—and focused on the distant objects. When he realized what he was seeing, he understood why the Japanese were so anxious. Clearly silhouetted were a host of American warships. His jaw dropped. Jesu’—two of them were aircraft carriers.
American patrol vessels were only a couple of miles away. He could not get closer, nor did he feel that he had to. He directed the slovenly Mexican monkey who owned the boat to return to Mazatlan and promised him a bonus if he hurried. The money belonged to Germany, so he was inclined to be generous.
The next night he was in his apartment enjoying an excellent French white wine. He had just completed and sent the message to his German associate, a man he’d help hide after the German embassy had been closed down. The German had been extremely grateful and promised that the Third Reich would take care of Juan Escobar when the war was over and the Axis nations triumphant. Escobar didn’t want money. He was already rich. He just wanted his world put back in order.
In an apartment a few blocks away, a thoroughly tired Roy Harris and two other FBI agents stopped listening. An observer on the street noted that all the lights in Escobar’s apartment were out. The colonel had doubtless called it a day. The Mexican’s phones had been tapped ever since the Germans, whose phones were also tapped, had contacted him. Harris had even managed to fly to Mazatlan in another small plane and had seen Escobar take the fishing boat out. He’d contacted the fleet and told them that the little boat’s trip was not to be interrupted. If necessary he could be chased away, but nothing more.
“Should we kill him now or later?” Agent Walt Courtney asked cheerfully.
Harris smiled. It seemed like such a great idea, but it wasn’t going to happen. For one thing, the Mexicans, always touchy, would be thoroughly angry if the U.S. preempted their right to take care of their own traitors. Only a handful of people in the Mexican government were even aware that the FBI was actively working in their country.