Another long minute passed, and then he nodded to Fukada, moving back towards the Admirals where they were closely watching him, their attention sometimes pulled to the dazzling screens and displays of instrument panels lit up by rows of lights.
“Gentlemen,” he said, a hollow feeling in his heart that he tried to mask. “If Admiral Ugaki is correct, and these are American bombers, then Takami will now defend the fleet.”
“Mister Honjo!”
“Sir!”
“Designate inbound track as hostile and stand up the SM-2s. I will be on the bridge.”
“Aye sir, designating contact as Tango 1 and hostile. Standing up Standard Missile 2 system on forward cells.”
Now Harada looked at the two Admirals. “We are locking our targeting radars on those inbound contacts. We could conduct this engagement here, but I think you would have a much better view of things on the main bridge. First Officer Fukada will lead the way. I will be with you shortly.”
Yamamoto stood, and the Admirals followed Fukada to the nearby hatch, with Ugaki taking a last look over his shoulder, finding the Captain as he stooped over one of the stations, his finger pointing at the strange colored display.
Harada had passed a moment with his CIC crew, and with Hedeo Honjo. “I won’t hide the fact from you all that we think those are most likely American B-17s inbound out there, so this is a difficult situation here. We came here to try and convince these men we could matter enough in this war to set it onto another course, but here it is. We’re still trying to make up our minds on all of this, but the war has found us, and it’s twenty minutes out and heading our way. If I let those planes come in and they bomb this harbor….”
No one said anything.
“Well, we can’t allow that just now. They’ll have to be stopped, and I don’t think a polite radio chat would do the trick. I know I’m asking you all to make a choice here, and if any man feels this is the wrong decision, you may stand down and nothing will be said about it. It will be treated as a matter of conscience and there will be no negative consequences. You all know who that was sitting there a moment ago, but beyond that, this can also be considered a matter of self-defense. Now… I’m going to let this contact get fairly close so the Admirals can see what happens when we fire. Those planes will be lucky to hit the broad side of a barn here, but if they do, a 300 pound bomb would not make us feel very good.”
That brought a few smiles, a small measure of humor relieving the tension. “So we’ll take them just outside 30 klicks. Very well… Carry on, and Lieutenant Honjo will handle any crew replacement necessary for this engagement. I will be on the bridge.”
Known as the “Shield of the Fleet,” the AN/SPY-1D radar resembled an elongated octagonal panel, 12 feet wide, and flush to the conning section of the ship. It was a ‘Phased Array’ system that had panels on every side of the ship for a constant 360 degree surveillance of the air and sea around the ship. It was keyed in to the VLS missile launchers, so if Lieutenant Honjo had an order, he could have a missile in the air ten seconds after first contact. It could perform detection, tracking, target illumination for over 100 active contacts, and could also be used in the terminal phase of missile approach for target guidance. That help would not be needed that day.
The SM-2 missiles being fired were not out after a stealthy 4th or 5th generation strike aircraft, or a sleek sea-skimming missile. The targets were going to be lumbering B-17s, completely unaware of what was about to happen to them. With his conscience heavy, Captain Harada decided to fire a two missile salvo first, and then see what the reaction was on the target side. Yet even as he sent the order to the CIC to fire, he knew he was likely killing fifteen or twenty men.
Strangely, the same quick equation ran through his mind that had plagued both Volsky and Fedorov. Who were those men out there? They were here, sailing in the waters of their ancestors, but those men were also someone’s grandfather, or even great grandfather. Did any of them end up surviving this war? Who dies with them when they go down in a flaming wreck this hour? How many men or women that might have been alive in his time would never be born, and how far forward did that go in time? He realized that he was striking down multiple generations now, unseen faces, each with a long life line and personal history that could now be obliterated.
The order was given; the shrill alarm sounded. The hatch opened on the forward deck and the hot yellow flame erupted, directed upwards as the missiles appeared in a wash of fire and white smoke. Up they went, out after the men and planes of the 19th Bombardment Group that morning, one of the oldest outfits in the US Air Force.
Yet First Officer Fukada had not spent enough time in the ship’s library that day, and the five planes approaching Davao had a dual mission. They weren’t coming to bomb, but to simply photograph it. Two would make a moonlit recon run, and the other three would divert north to Del Monte, still in Allied hands as it was 200 kilometers away, on the north coast of the island. The Japanese eventually took that field, but they did not have it yet in this history, and those three planes were out to make a very special rendezvous.
1st Lieutenant Frank P. Bostrom was one of the men out there that day, and yes, he would have a son if he survived this mission. Someone very important had been belly-aching and throwing his weight around, and a directive went out that the best planes available to the US Army Air Force, and its most competent pilots, were to be mustered for a special mission. Unfortunately, the battered old B-17s of the 19th Bombardment Group were barely flying, but three newer planes had just been transferred in, and Bostrom had one of them.
A man of 34 years, the 1st Lieutenant had jet black hair, but with a flash of premature grey at the temples that made him look just a little older when he was wearing his hat, and his darker hair could not be seen. He was a bit on edge that day, and for three good reasons. The first was the coffee, nearly eight full cups he had slogged down in preparation for this flight. It was going to be a long run out to Mindanao, some 1500 miles, and he needed to be fresh and alert at all times, particularly since it would be a night landing on an old, muddy field, lit by little more than a few flares.
The second reason was the fact that his flight path was going to see the bombers thread a thirty mile wide needle between two Japanese air bases in the Celebes. Though the war was young, the B-17 pilots had come to fear and respect the Japanese Zeroes, and he hoped that by taking most of the approach leg in darkness, they might avoid being intercepted.
The third reason was the mission itself, because the man who had been rattling everyone’s cages for his aircraft and pilots was the self-styled lord high master of the Pacific, one General Douglas MacArthur. Leaving the Philippines just a bit earlier than he did in Fedorov’s history, the General and his family and staff had arrived on the north coast of the island after a long and very wet journey on PT boats, and was waiting at Del Monte Airfield for a ride to Darwin. Word was that he saw a single old plane there when he arrived, pronounced it as totally inadequate, and then bent ears all the way to Washington D.C. to wrangle the planes that were now in the air. He wanted Army planes, not Navy, and he wanted the best pilots available.
I guess that’s me, thought Bostrom, inwardly pleased to have been counted in the handful of men who would be sent out that day. Five B-17s were found, two for the recon mission, and three more that would divert to Del Monte to pick up his Highness, the General.