by James Young
“I am sorry for my man’s disgraceful actions, squadron commander,” he said, his tone terse. Itaya nodded, then continued as if nothing had happened.
“I will suggest to Commander Fuchida that we do not tie the Shiden’s to the strike group,” Itaya stated. “Today showed that we will land with far too little fuel if we do so, and because we are heavier than the Zeroes it takes far more time to move us into place for the next strike.”
While I am growing to like the Shiden, I do miss the fact we could fly forever in the Zeroes, Isoro thought. It is going to be a long swim if our plan does not work.
“Lieutenant Honda, what are your thoughts?” Itaya asked, startling Isoro.
“Sir, I have concerns about the American Army fighters,” Isoro said. “If the enemy stays close to shore, we may have to fight our way to their fleet or back out.”
Itaya smiled.
“Not worried about the Grummans after flying against them last week?” the Akagi’s squadron leader asked.
Isoro grinned. The Akagi’s air group had been given the opportunity to fly against several captured Royal Navy Martlets, as the British had called the Grumman Wildcats, just two days before.
“It cannot climb and it is underpowered,” Isoro replied. “I am not saying I do not fear them, but we will be able to dictate the range at which we fight them.”
Itaya nodded.
“Do not be too confident,” the squadron leader cautioned. “The Germans tested several to destruction in front of Captain Genda. He said it is a very rugged aircraft, and that the machine guns will probably rip through anyone dumb enough to blunder in front of one.”
Well that seems like a pretty good reason not to do something so foolish, Isoro thought. He felt the Akagi shift under his feet, the bow coming around.
“Hmm. It appears we are not going to try a fourth launch after all,” Itaya noted, looking back at the flag bridge. “We will continue this discussion in the ready room.”
“How many more men would you like to see killed, Captain Genda?!” Rear Admiral Kusaka sneered. “I am sure Captain Aoki can replace some of his deck hands with the galley staff.”
Vice Admiral Yamaguchi continued to look out the windows of Akagi’s flag bridge as Kusaka and Fuchida sparred. Grasping his hands behind him, he watched as two other pilots dragged the semi-conscious warrant officer towards the carrier’s island. Behind the trio, a handful of deck hands were already moving forward with mops and buckets to clean up the large spot of blood from the two dead plane handlers.
“We must launch four strikes! If we send only two, we will allow the Americans to mass their combat air patrol and interceptors against them! Our losses will be far heavier than…” Captain Genda began, his voice full of heat.
“You dare to speak to me that way, Captain?!” Kusaka barked, cutting the junior officer off.
Enough of that, Yamaguchi thought.
“Rear Admiral Kusaka, it would likely irk Admiral Yamamoto greatly if I were to have to ask him for Captain Genda’s brevet promotion,” Yamaguchi said simply, not turning around. “Captain Genda, you will speak to Rear Admiral Kusaka with more respect no matter how fervently you disagree with him. I need you to both work together, not fight like a pair of starving tigers.”
As he heard both men come to attention and begin voicing their contrition, Yamaguchi turned around.
“Captain Genda, Rear Admiral Kusaka is right,” Yamaguchi continued. “We cannot launch four strikes in a single day, no matter how hard we push the deck crews now. They have gotten noticeably faster, but as we just witnessed there is a point where they become clumsy.”
Captain Genda nodded, his face impassive. Yamaguchi saw the beginnings of a smirk cross Kusaka’s face.
“Rear Admiral Kusaka, you are requiring us to hold back too large of a combat air patrol,” Yamaguchi said. “You are more cautious than a schoolgirl’s father.”
Well that wiped the smile off his face, Yamaguchi thought.
“We will not use any of the Shiden for combat air patrol,” Yamaguchi directed. “We will also launch the first strike only one hour after the search planes depart.”
Genda and Kusaka’s faces both paled.
“Sir, what if the search planes do not find the American fleet?” Kusaka sputtered.
“The declaration of war will arrive, at most, five hours before dawn Hawaiian time,” Yamaguchi said. “Tell me, with cold boilers, how long would it take to get our entire fleet out of Kobe or Yokosuka? ”
“Our last estimate was four hours,” Kusaka answered.
“That estimate assumed steam was up, all ships were manned, and preparatory orders had been given,” Yamaguchi replied. “Pearl Harbor has a single narrow channel, and I doubt that the Americans always have their ships fully manned. I do not think we will catch them in harbor, but if we launch in darkness we will catch them as they are still forming into their fleet formation.”
“What if they have carriers at sea, sir?” Captain Genda asked.
“The Tone is being equipped with a Type 11 radio detection set,” Rear Admiral Kusaka interjected. “This, plus the set on Shokaku should give us plenty of warning of an inbound raid.”
“There are still land-based aircraft to be concerned with,” Genda replied. “I do not want us to shoot all our arrows at unworthy targets while an enemy task group strikes us in the back.”
“We will do a search in all directions with the other vessel’s aircraft,” Yamaguchi said, his tone indicating the finality of the discussion. “There is a reason I asked for our escort to be reinforced with the Mikuma and Mogami. Even so, the Americans have only four carriers in their entire Pacific Fleet. The consulate in Victoria has reported that the Enterprise and Victorious have begun joint training to integrate the latter into the Pacific Fleet. That leaves three carriers to our six.”
He is still unconvinced, Yamaguchi thought as he looked at Kusaka’s face. Before he could open his mouth, the group was interrupted by Commander Fuchida entering the flag bridge.
“Ah, Fuchida-san, good to see you,” Captain Genda said, relief evident in his voice.
“Sir,” Fuchida said, coming to attention and saluting. Yamaguchi returned the salute, then gestured for the steward who had followed him in to bring them some tea.
“Commander Fuchida, how many strikes do you think we can accomplish?” Vice Admiral Yamaguchi asked.
“Two, sir,” Fuchida replied without hesitation. “Three if we discover another target of opportunity.”
The junior officer’s response surprised Vice Admiral Yamaguchi.
“Explain,” Yamaguchi stated stiffly.
“Sir, there will be damaged aircraft and wounded pilots,” Fuchida said flatly. “We have now flown mock strikes for two weeks, with the target ships noting when they first detect us and the defending fighters limited to reacting based solely on that information. Not once have we been able to fight our way to the target without facing heavy interception, and the ships have always been able to man their anti-aircraft batteries.”
Yamaguchi pressed his lips together, noting that Kusaka was much better at concealing his satisfaction.
“The other problem will be ordnance,” Fuchida continued. “Even storing as many of the new torpedoes as we can, we barely have enough for two waves. If there is a third strike, we would have difficulty destroying anything larger than a cruiser. I am not sure the risk would be worth it.”
At least the man is honest in his assessment, Yamaguchi thought disappointedly.
“Very well,” the Kido Butai’s commander said out loud. “Plan for two waves, forty-five minutes apart. The first wave will launch forty-five minutes after the reconnaissance aircraft to give them time to radio in the enemy’s position. If we only come away with a handful of cruisers for our trouble, I will take responsibility. “
Ascalon Estate
Upstate New York
0900 Local
8 December 1942
“Here you go, Adam
,” the tall, powerful looking man in the Packard truck’s driver’s seat stated solemnly. With a high forehead and close-cropped black hair, Don Blakeslee looked every inch the squadron commander he had been in the RAF.
Adam looked out the truck’s windshield into the gathering gloom on the western horizon. Judging from the high drifts to either side of the road, the approaching clouds would simply add more to an already abundant snowfall.
Lake effect snow at its finest, Adam thought.
“You sure you’re okay to keep driving?” Adam asked. “You’ve already put in eight hours and that sky does not look good to the west.”
“That storm’s at least two hours away from dropping serious snow,” Blakeslee replied, his blue eyes matching his smile. “Plus if I’m gone, it’s harder for your father to kick you back out.”
Adam gave a grim smile.
Without mother to stop him, I don’t think the angel Gabriel could dissuade the man from doing so, Adam thought. But that’s not your problem.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Blakeslee said.
“Not your fault the fucking Feds were arresting us,” Adam said heatedly. “I think J. Edgar Hoover better pray I never meet him face to face. He just might find out just what one of his ‘lawless mercenaries’ can do.”
“I’m told that the Army’s looking for anyone with combat experience,” Blakeslee said. “That light colonel I told you about said if you go down to Dayton Field with your log book, they can see about getting you commissioned based on how much you’ve flown. I imagine they’d make you a colonel!”
“Look who’s talking,” Adam grunted as he lifted out his two pieces of luggage. “Eight Germans for sure, another couple you probably sent home with dead crew.”
“Yeah, and look all the good it did us,” Blakeslee replied, his voice haunted.
“Well at least we’ve got a country again,” Adam stated emphatically. “Get out of here, and I’ll be in touch.”
“Definitely,” Blakeslee replied. “If they give me a squadron, I’m serious—I’ll make you a flight commander.”
“I’ll think about it,” Adam said. “Might have to sit this next one out. I keep seeming to pick the losing side.”
Blakeslee shook his head.
“You can no more sit this next one out than I can sprout wings and fly,” he replied. With that he dropped the truck into gear, then started pulling away. Adam watched the blue truck pull back onto the New York state road a half-mile away, its engine rumbling away into the distance.
Well, glad President Roosevelt finally gave all of us a collective pardon, Adam thought. Was getting awfully sick of sitting in Canada.
Grabbing his luggage, Adam began the quarter mile walk up the gravel driveway to the gates of Ascalon. Named for St. George’s lance, the estate had originally been purchased by his great grandfather during the Gilded Age. While Jeremiah Haynes had not been a robber baron, he’d dabbled in enough of their operations to become reasonably rich in his own right.
“You will never find us in the history books, but our fingerprints are always there,” Adam thought, hearing his grandfather Jonathan’s voice in his head. He set his shoulders as he approached Ascalon’s main gate, seeing two figures in the gate house. The one that stepped out into the cold was a truly massive man, closer to seven feet than six, with a barrel chest and build that was better suited for a lumberjack than a gate man. Recognizing Adam, the man took his hand from inside his great coat.
“Well at least my father has not indicated I should be shot on sight, Mr. Keefe,” Adam said.
“No laddy, I suppose not,” Rioghnan Keefe, Ascalon’s security manager, said in his faint brogue. Second generation Irish, Keefe’s red hair had finally started to go to gray, and his blue eyes had crow’s feet that indicated his advancing years. Still, even if he were armed, Adam was reasonably certain Keefe could kill him where he stood without even a second’s hesitation.
He actually looks relieved to see me, Adam thought, somewhat surprised. Keefe was not an expressive man, but Adam could swear he could see the start of a smile on the older man’s face.
“If you’ll leave your bags here, I’ll have someone from the house staff get to them,” Keefe said. “Your father’s expecting you in the main house…”
“Of course,” Adam said tiredly.
“But I think that there’s going to be a problem with the gatehouse phone after we call one of the household staff,” Keefe said, showing no emotion at being interrupted. “Can’t leave only one man here, so I guess the news will have to go back with your bags.”
Adam looked at Keefe in shock.
My father is not exactly the type of man you cross like that, Adam thought. Not at all.
“You can go talk to your Mum before you talk to him,” Keefe said, a hint of sadness in his voice. “She tried to hold on as long as she could.”
Adam clenched his teeth, fighting back the tears that wanted to fall from his eyes.
“Thank you,” he rasped.
“You’re welcome,” Keefe replied, his voice also slightly choked. “Now get on before someone sees you.”
The estate’s gate whirred open on its electric motors. With a nod to Keefe, Adam passed through the opening for the first time in almost two years.
A brisk fifteen minute walk in the increasing wind brought him to the Haynes family cemetery. Set on a small rise about a half mile behind the main house and bordered by a waist high stone wall, the plots had been gouged from a dense copse of cedars. The massive trees made the gloomier day even more so as Adam finished walking up to the newest plot. Decorated by a square, granite headstone upon which two angels stood grasping hands, the slightly mounded turf and muddy ground around the stone were the only indication a service had occurred the week prior. Mora Haynes had apparently had a large turnout, the circle of disrupted dirt going at least forty deep.
That’s what happens when you spend the majority of your life helping others, Adam thought with a mournful smile.
“Hi Mom,” Adam said, fighting back a sob. “Sorry I could not make it back in time.”
The wind echoing through the graveyard was the only response Adam received. Sighing, he stepped forward and placed his hand on the granite headstone. As if the tactile touch was some trigger, his tears burst through his reserve. For five minutes Adam sobbed uncontrollably, his shoulders shaking as the last four months’ worth of emotion poured from him.
It was only when he heard footfalls coming up the path behind him that he forced himself to stop and draw erect. Extracting a handkerchief from his pocket, he blew his nose and gathered himself. Making his face impassive, he started to turn around.
“I will need a ride to the train…” he started, then stopped in shock.
When Adam had left, Seth Haynes had still possessed a full head of thick, brown hair and had looked ten years younger than his fifty-five years. Although the man before him still stood erect, Adam’s father’s severely lined face, thinning gray hair, and dull blue eyes made it look as if he’d aged in dog years.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Son,” Seth said quietly. “Or just an old man who has lost the love of his life.”
“Thank you for sending someone to find me,” Adam said flatly. “If that bastard Hoover…”
“I know why you didn’t make it, Son,” Seth replied. For a brief moment, Adam saw anger in the other man’s gaze before it was once again subsumed by abject grief. “How long are you staying?”
“I can leave as soon as you want me to,” Adam said. He was shocked to see his father recoil from him as if he’d suggested conducting a séance.
“I am sorry, son,” Seth said after a moment. It was Adam’s turn to be startled as his father continued, his voice shaking. “I am sorry for the things I said when you returned from Spain, and for what I told you before you left for England. Please, please forgive me.”
Who are you, and what the Hell have you done with my father?
“Your mothe
r made me promise that we would stop what she called ‘our senseless fighting,’” Seth said after a moment, seeing that Adam was speechless with shock.
“And poof, just like that, I’m no longer your vagabond, ne’er do well son?” Adam asked, trying to keep his tone level but failing miserably.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me ‘just like that,’” Seth said, his voice sad. “But in the time your mother and I had before she died, I came to realize it was fear that drove me to say horrible things to you.”
“I doubt you have ever suffered true fear a day in your life, Father,” Adam said bitterly. “You’ve suffered the fear that you’ll lose status, or be embarrassed, but name one time you’ve actually feared death.”
“When you were six months old with the measles,” Seth snapped, then caught himself. “You are my son and the only heir to this fortune that generations have strove to build, Adam. Your grandfather and his father did not expend their sweat and blood just to have it pass to some unscrupulous men who married your cousins.”
Adam rolled his eyes.
Yes, because the possibility that said men may actually be decent people in their own right rather than the money grubbing scoundrels you always made them out to be never crossed your mind, Adam thought.
“Again we start with the familial obligations,” Adam snarled. “When the damn Nazis are knocking at the door you’ll still be reminding me I’m your only son and heir.”
“I did not come out here to revisit our numerous arguments before you left for England, Adam,” Seth said wearily. “There are men I have known since before you were born who were murdered by Himmler’s goons, died in London, or who Halifax’s government turned over. The Nazis are abominations which must be stopped by any means necessary.”
Adam looked at his father, his eyes narrowing.
“Don’t give me that suspicious look,” Seth replied. “You got your mule headedness from your mother, not me.”
Adam saw the flitter of pain that passed over his father’s face even as the two men smiled at the old family joke.
