“BBC radio broadcasts. Shiota got an earful last night—a big offensive underway in Russia.”
“That I can understand.”
“Except from what she could gather, the Germans were in Moscow, and the Russians were trying to push them out. Well, I went down to the ship’s library. Come to find out, the Germans never set foot in Moscow. They got close, but the Russians held them off, yet not according to these news broadcasts. And here’s another thing. There’s been a mention of a man named Sergei Kirov running things over there.”
“Some Russian General?”
“The title was General Secretary—of the Communist Party!”
“Wasn’t that Stalin?”
“Right. He held the office until 1952, but there’s been no mention of him at all. It’s all this Kirov fellow. Whatever’s going on here, things appear different. The history is already twisted—just like that damn volcano was never supposed to erupt this year. I looked that up too. It was supposed to happen in 1883. Something is really strange in all of this.”
“That’s one hell of an understatement.” Harada looked very troubled. “This can’t be happening XO. It just can’t be happening.”
“We better get past that sir, and quickly. It is happening, just like Kimura said. We’re here, and right in the middle of the Miso soup. The only question we should be asking ourselves now is what we’re going to do about it.”
Chapter 23
It was three days from the coast of Borneo north of Batavia to the port of Davao in the southern Philippines. That was good news insofar as their concerns about fuel had been uppermost in mind. There they saw a sight that put an end to any vestige of doubt in the minds of any who saw it, the mighty battleship Yamato, 72,000 tons of steel reality anchored well out in the bay, and surrounded by a gaggle of destroyers. Lieutenant Commander Fukada stared and stared, in awe of the ship, and the realization of what they were now planning to do. There, within that massive fortress at sea, the legendary Admiral Isokoru Yamamoto was waiting, if they could convince him to receive them.
A medical team accompanied them to see to General Imamura’s comfort, along with Katsu Kimura and three Marines. They moved the General and the other man out by a route that would reveal as little as possible of the inner workings of the ship, and soon they were in a launch and scudding across the bay towards the imposing hulk of the great battleship.
Yet, as Fukada had predicted, there was a good deal of curiosity directed their way as well. Men on the destroyers gawked and talked among themselves, wondering what this new ship was. While it’s design certainly made it seem like a warship, they had more guns on their small destroyers than this ship had. Perhaps it was a secret courier ship, they reasoned, or a ship devoted to command level operations at sea. Here it was delivering an Army General, Commander of the 16th Army in the current Java Campaign, so it must be important.
Sergeant Kimura waited at the launch below, sending one Marine up the gangway with the officers and medical team. The General’s leg had healed enough to allow him to walk, and he asked the medics to remain below, as a matter of face. He would not greet the Admiral of the Fleet as walking wounded. He was, in fact, the senior officer in the Imperial Japanese Army for hundreds of miles in any direction, and he acted as if he expected everyone else around him to know that. It was no surprise, then, that they were greeted respectfully, piped aboard, and politely escorted up to the Admiral’s conference room in the main superstructure of the great battleship, a trip that delighted Fukada. They were all decked out in their dress whites, ghosts from a distant future, walking among legends of the past.
Reaching the conference room, an aide invited the Captain and his First Officer to a table set with white linen and a stylish tea serving. Imamura was greeted with respectful bows, and ushered through a door on the far wall.
“May I ask a moment of the Admiral’s time after this conference?” said Captain Harada. “We have urgent news that could not be transmitted by signal for reasons of security.”
“Very well,” said the aide, a smallish, flat haired man with round wire eyeglasses. “I will make the request to the Chief of Staff, but cannot promise anything myself.”
Some moments later, a man entered the room, dour faced and well decorated. Recognizing authority when they saw it, the two men immediately stood, bowing politely and saluting.
“Rear Admiral Ugaki, Chief of Staff,” said the Aide.
“Be seated, gentlemen,” said the man, his eyes hard, taking notice of their uniforms and insignia, and with a look that bordered on suspicion. He softened briefly, seating himself. “I am told General Imamura owes you a life. Your rescue operation was most fortunate, and you are to be commended.”
“Thank you sir,” said Captain Harada.
“You have news that needs to be conveyed to the Admiral?”
“We do, sir. It concerns our ship, among other things, and it is imperative we speak with him privately.”
“Privately? That will not be possible,” said Ugaki. “But you may speak with me here. What is this news you bring along with General Imamura?”
Captain Harada’s concerns about being on the other side of a wall from Yamamoto were now realized. Here was a human firewall, the tough Chief of Staff of the Combined Fleet, who had decided to fly a final Kamikaze mission personally, to atone for the inability of his pilots in 1945, and he did so after he heard the Emperor’s order for all forces to lay down arms and surrender.
Captain Harada was not familiar with the man, or the long naval history that saw him reach this position of authority, but Fukada was. He had taken it upon himself to study up the previous evening, knowing he would have to navigate the waters of the Combined Fleet Headquarters with its floating command center, the battleship Yamato.
“If I may, sir,” he said quietly. “Meaning no disrespect, we have been sent with this information for the ears of Admiral Yamamoto only.”
“Sent? On that ship?” Ugaki folded his arms, eyes narrowing with that look of suspicion. “Are you aware of the fact that the name you have given for your ship does not presently exist on the registry of commissioned ships in this navy? For that matter, that ship is not familiar to me at all. It is most unusual. And now you tell me you were sent here with this important information? Explain! Are you Kempeitai? Tokkeitai? Who sent you here?”
Captain Harada gave his First Officer a disparaging look. He had not expected this story from Fukada, and his instinct was that it would come to no good. It implicitly took the line that they were men of this day and time, on some nefarious operation, and with a ship that had been held in secret, even from the highest officers in the Navy. It did not seem like it would wash, then again, he could think of no alternative to what Fukada was saying. They simply could not come out with the truth, and tell this man they were time travelers from the future, here by accident, and with information vital to the outcome of this war—at least not right at the outset. They had barely been able to convince themselves that was what was happening here, but convincing this man, or a no-nonsense realist like Yamamoto, now seemed an impossible task, and something that would be ludicrous to even attempt. But what else could they do?
That was perhaps the reason Fukada took this approach, he thought. We can’t tell them who we really are yet, because we would simply not be believed, at least not in a situation like this conference. It was going to take a little shock and awe, as the Americans of their own time might put things. If they could demonstrate the amazing technical superiority their ship represented, then they might get their first hold on these men. But even then, could they move them in any meaningful way? This whole scenario seemed a dangerous and fruitless thing to him now. They should have fled for any open sea they could find, and stayed as far from the men of this era as possible. They should have sailed for South America, beached their ship, and set the destroyer on fire. Yet that was a sea journey of over 11,000 miles, impossible unless they found fuel along the way.