Hully was nodding, emphatically, as O. B. said, "Sure-how?"
Sterling's smile had a sneer in it. "I want to get over to that Japanese embassy and arrest that son of a bitch, Morimura/Yoshikawa, plus I want to take all those other Nips into custody, right down to General Counsul Kita….You got a gun, Ed?"
O. B. nodded. "I still have Otto's L?ger-in the bungalow."
"Get it. That is, if you want to help out."
"Oh, I want to help." Eyes so tight they seemed to be shut, O. B. stood almost nose to nose with the FBI agent (or would have if Sterling hadn't been so much taller) and said, "Listen, Adam-Pearl knew more than just Morimura's last name, I'm sure of it That bastard Morimura or Yoshi-something knew about this attack. This invasion got Pearl killed, and that Terry fella as well-they're the first casualties of this new war. Well, the Army and Navy have their hands full right now-you bet we'll be glad to help the FBI get that bastard."
Sterling and Hully tagged along as O. B. headed back to the bungalow to get the German's gun. As they approached, Bill Fielder-in his bare feet, his green sportshirt unbuttoned, zipping his chinos-came tumbling out, bumping into Hully.
The young ensign's face was unshaven, his eyes red, his dark hair sticking out here and there with sleep-induced cowlicks.
"Christ, have you heard?" Bill asked.
With bombs bursting in air-just like "The Star Spangled Banner"-this was a fairly absurd question.
"It's no drill," O. B. said.
"I gotta get to the Arizona," Bill said desperately, wheeling from Hully to O. B. to Sterling. "You gotta drive me there! I gotta get in this! I gotta help!"
"Keys to the Pierce Arrow are on the coffee table," O. B. said, pointing to the nearby screen door. 'Take it-try not to get my buggy shot the hell up… or yourself."
"Thank you, thank you," Bill murmured, and ran back inside the Burroughs cottage.
Sterling paused for just a moment, watching Bill through the screen, and Hully was surprised to see that the FBI agent-this strong-jawed six-foot-two Tarzan type-had tears welling.
"The men on those ships getting bombed," he said softly, voice catching, "they're all boys like that-average damn age is nineteen."
O. B. whispered, "Dying out there, right now."
Then Bill, clutching the car keys, came streaking past them, flashing a nod of thanks and a grimace of a smile.
Burroughs went in and retrieved the L?ger, and followed after as the FBI man dashed toward the crushed-coral parking lot where the Ford waited, Hully right there at his father's side.
"Didn't miss the fire this time, Dad," he said.
"Wish to hell I had," O. B. said.
There were tears in his father's eyes, as well; but-as was the case with the FBI man-Edgar Rice Burroughs's jaw was firmly set.
FOURTEEN
At the same time as Edgar Rice Burroughs and his son Hulbert were sitting down for breakfast at the Niumalu, two barefoot young fishermen were settling in on the enlisted men's landing at Pearl City. Sitting on the pier in only their khaki trousers, having yanked their T-shirts off (once they'd slipped out of their mother's sight), the Morton boys-Don, eleven, and Jerry, thirteen-did not brandish poles: instead, they unfurled a simple ball of string out into the water.
The boys were old hands at this, though they were resigned to slim pickings, even if on occasion they had managed to snag a hapless perch; and while the morning's fishing would certainly be on the dull side, Don and Jerry would no doubt be entertained by the harbor's always interesting parade of ships and sailors, planes and pilots….
Puffs of wind gently stirred the glassy surface of the water, and the sun peeked from behind cotton-candy clouds, promising a hot, lazy day-a typical Sunday for the two boys, although the fish did seem to be biting, for a change.
Seeking more bait, Don scrambled up to their house, only two hundred yards from the landing, while Jerry lounged in the golden sunlight, squinting as he took in a view any kid might relish, the ships of the Pacific Fleet strewn before him like so many toys in his tub. Groupings of destroyers convened about their tenders, to the north and east; and cruisers faced into the Navy Yard piers, at the southeast. Farther south lay the cruiser Helena, and-in dry dock with two destroyers-the battleship Pennsylvania. To the west were more destroyers, in and out of dry dock.
Lording over it all, in the middle of the harbor, sat Ford Island, where even now the boys' stepfather was on duty at the seaplane hangars. Patrol planes and carriers were stationed there, carriers moored on the northwest side, battleships on the southeast. Only today, Jerry noted, the carriers were all out at sea.
But there was still plenty for a kid to look at-the Utah, a battleship turned target ship; the seaplane tenders Swan and Tangier; the mine layer Ogala; cruisers like the Raleigh, Helena and Detroit; the old gunboat Sacramento with its thin, old-fashioned smokestack; and-on the far side of Ford Island-an exciting lineup of funnels and masts, the "trees" of Battleship Row, the Arizona, California, Maryland, Nevada, Oklahoma, Tennessee, and West Virginia. What other kid's bathtub armada could compare to that?
Still, all of this was old news to Jerry, who was glad the fish were biting. Otherwise, this had the makings of another really dull Sunday-that must have been why somebody was playing with firecrackers, off in the distance someplace.
Twenty miles east of where Jerry and Don were fishing, on the windward coast of the island, Japanese fighter planes and dive-bombers were swooping down on Kaneohe Naval Air Station.
One moment all was quiet, the next men were running after guns and ammunition, shouting, cursing, as the enemy planes made scrap metal out of the big PBY patrol planes at the station, moored to buoys in the bay and sitting unmanned on ramps.
Thirty-three Army planes were either damaged or destroyed.
All were in flames.
Don Morton was halfway down to the pier from the house, bringing more bait, when an explosion pitched him onto his face. The eleven-year-old covered his ears, his head, as three more blasts rocked the world over and around him.
Then, scared spitless, he scurried back up the slope and ran inside the house, just as his mother was coming out, her face white, her eyes wide.
Standing there in the doorway, she leaned down, putting her hands on his shoulders. "Go down and fetch your brother-now! Hurry!"
Don did as he was told, even as planes were gliding by overhead, housetop level. The boy heard gunfire and realized it was coming from above, and the dirt road nearby puffed up, making little dust clouds, as the pilot strafed the area.
As dust danced on the road, Don-momentarily frozen-yelled, "Jerry!"
And then the boy turned and ran back to the house, and his mommy. When he got there, Don saw their next-door neighbor, a Navy lieutenant, in his p.j.'s., out on his own front yard.
The funny thing was, the grown man was crying too, crying for his mommy.
FBI agent Sterling was at the wheel of the black Ford with Burroughs in front, and Hully was in the backseat, sitting forward, like a kid.
As they headed for the Japanese Consulate, downtown, Burroughs was dismayed to see civilians failing to take cover, standing out in their yards and on the sidewalks, staring skyward, pointing at the plumes of black smoke, some laughing, convinced they were watching the military training exercise to end all such exercises.