“Fifty-four years ago this evening the Japanese fleet turned to the southeast in order to be in position to launch their first wave at 0600 Sunday morning,” Skibicki said.
He was smoking a cigarette, his years of training showing in the way he kept the glowing tip hidden in the cup of his hand.
Boomer looked down at the lights of Pearl Harbor and thought of all those men so many years ago, going to sleep at Taps in ignorance of their approaching doom. He had no doubt that Skibicki was almost as much an expert on the events here as his mother.
“The Jap fleet was bearing down on the island at twenty four knots. In Washington — at exactly 0238 local time, early evening here — the fourteenth part of the Japanese reply to the latest American peace proposal was received. The message ended by saying that the Japanese government found it impossible to reach an agreement through further negotiations.”
Skibicki’s voice was bitter in the darkness.
“Maggie told you that Marshall relayed a warning to the fleet. Of course it arrived over fifteen hours after Washington received the fourteenth part of the message. It did the men dying down there little good, but the message did manage to cover Marshall’s ass.”
Skibicki field-stripped the cigarette, putting the remains into his pocket.
“There was a battle of the naval bands that night in Honolulu. The Arizona band won.”
Skibicki suddenly stood.
“Time to be going.” He grabbed one of the scuba tanks to load it onto his jeep, but paused, his eyes focused on the spotlit memorial.
“It’s been a long time coming, but the men who were responsible for that morning are finally going to pay.”
The diver held his breath, kicked his legs up into the air, and slid under the waves. His right hand was on the thin nylon line that led down from the small buoy. The cord ran through his palm as he descended. The far end of the line was tied off on the bow of the deflated Zodiac twenty feet below the surface. Reaching the boat and gripping the line with one hand, the diver reached around in the dark water, searching by feel along the inside of the boat.
His fingers touched a canister. Quickly, his breath running out, he found the lanyard and pulled. The CO2 canister immediately began filling the five chambers. The diver held on as the boat rose and broke the surface. He scrambled aboard, sealing off the valves between the chambers. He checked the engine — the watertight seals still held.
Pumping the primer, he gave’a pull. The engine started on the second try.
The man looked around. Off the port side a second boat popped to the surface with his comrade on board. Once that boat was ready, the two turned toward shore. They beached the noses lightly and twelve men materialized out of the jungle abutting the shoreline, their faces darkened with camouflage paint and their weapons locked and loaded. Six men got on each boat and they pushed off. They had a long ride to their destination, and they had to be there long before the sun rose.
CHAPTER 26
The location of the submarine was not that far from where a Japanese mini-sub had anchored exactly fifty-four years ago awaiting an early morning mission against the Pacific Fleet.
The routine was the same as that of forty-eight hours ago. The SDV cleared the dry dock shelter and headed in, maneuvering very slowly.
This time though, the submarine followed at an agonizingly slow pace in an attempt to get as close as possible to the mouth of the harbor by dawn.
Eighty miles to the south, another submarine lay in wait, the control room crew shadowing their target. In the special compartment behind the control room, grim-faced men checked their weapons, loading the magazines round by round. Knives were sharpened, honing the razor-sharp edges even further. Breathing gear was tested one last time, and wet suits were slid on over muscled bodies.
“What is that thing?” Boomer asked.
“A listening device,” Skibicki answered.
“If they come in on a submersible I’ll be able to pick them up with this.”
He lowered the microphone into the dark water and settled the headphones onto his ears. They were on the west side of the final entrance to Pearl Harbor proper, just north of Waipio Point. The channel was less than 500 yards wide here and any traffic coming in would have to go right by them.
They were both ready for entry into the water, wearing cutoff fatigue shorts, weight belts, and tanks, with masks and fins at the ready.
Skibicki had given Boomer a double edged Fairbarn commando knife. It would rust after being exposed to the water unless cleaned, but as Skibicki had noted, he would only have to use it this evening and the edge was razor-sharp. Boomer had placed the diary pages inside a plastic Ziploc bag and tucked it into his shorts pocket. Harry was inland, providing security against the possibility of a police patrol stumbling on their position.
“You think they’ll still come?” Boomer asked.
“Trace has got to have gotten the diary to Maxwell by now.”
“If she got to him and wasn’t picked up by these DIA goons,” Skibicki said.
“We can’t take any chances.”
“What about the Joint Chiefs? They’ll be out there with the President in the morning. They wouldn’t be on the memorial if their plan was to blow it up.”
“They’ll come up with something,” Skibicki said. He indicated for Boomer to be quiet now and they settled in to listen.
Along the coast of Oahu, the two Zodiacs planed through the water at twenty-five knots, the men lying on the inside of the rubber hull, keeping their silhouette to a minimum.
A light machine gun rested on the prow of each boat, pointing forward, just in case.
The navigator in the lead boat checked his heading on his handheld GPR.
They were on course and would arrive in plenty of time.
The head air traffic controller for Hickam Field had been rudely awakened by a phone call fifteen minutes ago, but when he heard the voice on the other end identify himself all irritation fled. The E-4B Airborne Command Post was to be moved to the ready flight line and prepared for take off. The head ATE had “yes, sir red General Dublois and now he was ready, along with the plane. There was no flight plan filed but the E-4B didn’t need one. It could fly anywhere it pleased.
The plane was at the end of the runway, waiting, engines idling, surrounded by Air Police, their blue lights flashing.
The head ATE had no idea what was going on but he assumed it had something to do with the ceremonies coming up in a few hours.
“Stick with the plan,” Hooker said, and the four generals nodded.
“Your country is depending on you to steer a straight course.
General Martin stood, the other Joint Chiefs, minus the Commandant of the Marine Corps, a non-Naval Academy graduate, joining him. They left the superbly furnished V.I.P quarters and got into two limousines for the short ride to Hickam Field.
Hooker remained behind with his aides and bodyguards, watching the taillights of the cars disappear into the darkness.
There was no hint of dawn yet in the eastern sky.
Upstairs in a large room, the other members of the staff waited by the radios which they would monitor.