On Seas So Crimson

by James Young

  “Captain,” Jensen said icily, “I hope your next two alternatives make more sense than the shit you just pulled out of your ass and handed to me.”

  Greenman felt his pulse begin to race. In his mind, that was a viable option and not the least likely by any means. Reports from Europe had indicated that the Germans had made extensive use of Fifth Columnists in their rampage through Western Europe. The Japanese were far more underhanded and shifty than the Germans, which meant that it was entirely plausible that they had secreted an aircraft, machine gun, and pilot onto Oahu.

  There was a pregnant pause, the air full of Jensen’s suppressed anger and Greenman’s obvious fear.

  “Continue, Captain,” Vice Admiral Bowles snapped. Looking over at him, Greenman felt faint.

  “The second alternative, sir, is that the Japanese have detached a force of a seaplane carrier and one or two cruisers to keep an eye on our fleet,” Greenman continued. “These ships would have set up a base somewhere within range and launched aircraft to try and determine when we sortied. Such a base would require a sheltered inlet far from observers…”

  The look on Jensen’s face made Greenman stop dead in his tracks. It was obvious that the Admiral had heard enough on the second theory. Gathering his thoughts, he prepared to go into his final theory when Jensen raised his hand.

  “Admiral Bowles, I want you to personally see to Captain Greenman’s transfer to another post, preferably the worst, ass-backward post in the entire Navy,” Jensen said, his voice resembling what Greenman imagined Jehovah’s had sounded like in the Old Testament.

  Oh God, I am ruined, he thought.

  “Captain Greenman, I am sure the Honolulu zoo has baboons that can do better intelligence analysis than you performed. I want you out of my sight, now!” Jensen thundered. Greenman turned to grab his cap.

  “What part of now are you not understanding, Captain?!” Vice Admiral Bowles asked. “You can go without a damn cover; you’re not fit to wear one anyway!”

  Greenman turned and looked at the man.

  “Sir, you can go to Hell,” he snapped. Before he could say anything else, Captain Loftman was handing him his hat.

  “Captain Loftman, stop helping that idiot!” Admiral Jensen barked. “Inform Vice Admiral Fletcher I want an immediate air search launched, and the Army informed that there is a Japanese submarine somewhere in the area that is likely surfaced waiting for a seaplane to return. Fifth column my ass!”

  Greenman was stepping out of the compartment when he realized that Vice Admiral Bowles was right behind him.

  “How dare you tell me to go to Hell, Captain?!” the senior officer roared. “So help me God, you’re going to be in Alaska commanding a barge moving Eskimo shit by the time I’m done with you.”

  Bowles was obviously not expecting Greenman to laugh at his comment.

  You have no idea how absurd you look right now, Greenman thought, then mentally got a hold of himself.

  “Sir, if my third theory is right, there won’t be any of you left alive to write those orders,” Greenman snapped.

  Bowles drew back in shock, then laughed in the other man’s face. It was a short, sharp bark, similar to the one given by a schoolyard bully when he is promised that his favorite victim will get even some day. It said, in no uncertain terms, that the last thing the laugher was worried about was the threatened event coming to pass.

  “What was that theory, Captain Greenman?” Bowles asked with a laugh. “Japan making an alliance with Mars and little green men arriving in space ships to kills us all? Let me run downstairs and see if we can raise Flash Gordon on the radio to see if he can save us,” Bowles snapped, the disdain in his voice clear.

  There are none so blind as those who will not see, Greenman realized. He brought himself to the position of attention.

  “Sir, I do not recall my third theory,” Greenman sneered. “I will proceed to the bridge and inform Captain Van Valkenburgh that your orders are for me to return via floatplane to Pearl Harbor immediately.”

  “You smug bastard,” Bowles snapped, the veins in his neck becoming visible. “You’re lucky that I don’t have you put overboard. That seems like a fair solution to your idiocy. Make it happen. I do not expect to see you when we return to Pearl Harbor, understood Captain?”

  “Yes, sir, completely,” Greenman responded. Bowles favored the man with one more glare, and then turned around to return to the chart room. With a start, Captain Greenman realized that the Marine Gunnery Sergeant had moved beside him from his post guarding the ladder leading up to Flag Country.

  “Sir, may I speak freely?” the tall, fit Marine asked as soon as Bowles was out of earshot. Greenman turned towards the man, the surprise evident on his face.

  “Certainly, Gunny,” Captain Greenman replied.

  “With all due respect, sir, you should’ve knocked him out,” the Gunnery Sergeant said. “ We Marines occasionally get struck with temporary blindness.”

  Greenman looked at the blonde haired man in shock. Before he could recover, the Gunnery Sergeant executed a sharp about face and returned to his post.

  He’s right, I should’ve. Not like I could get in any more trouble, Greenman thought a few moments later as he descended to the Arizona’s bridge.

  Opana Radar Station

  0730 Local (1230 Eastern)

  “Hot damn. I’ve got several blips, bearing oh two zero!” Private Jessup shouted, his voice cracking embarrassingly on the last syllable.

  A sinking feeling in his stomach, Corporal Lockard rushed over to the screen.

  First our relief gets a flat tire, now the equipment goes on the fritz? Lockard thought. Good ol’ Murphy is outdoing himself to…oh my God.

  If the screen was malfunctioning, it was a type of malfunction Lockard had never seen before.

  “Don’t think that’s a bunch of folks out for a joyride, Corporal,” Jessup observed quietly. Lockard could tell the man was not being snide, as the enormity of the moment was registering with him as well.

  The Japs are here, Lockard thought. Snapping himself out of it, he grabbed the handset that connected him to the plotting room at Fort Shafter. Spinning the handle like a man possessed, Lockard waited patiently for someone, anyone to pick up on the far side. Five long minutes later, he heard a voice on the other end.

  “This is Opana Station,” Lockard said rapidly. “We have multiple plots, bearing oh two zero, speed approximately two hundred and twenty knots, altitude unknown.”

  Unbeknownst to Lockard, there was pandemonium on the other end. The report of the downed reconnaissance aircraft had managed to make its long, tortuous transition down the Army chain-of-command to the plotting room at Fort Shafter.

  “Opana, stand-by, we are handling a situation right now,” the young private responded, a captain shouting instructions in his other ear. The young soldier quickly switched the lines, silently wishing he had never come to work that day.

  On Lockard’s end, the frustration nearly made him throw the handset across the room. Turning back to the radar screen, he was about to open his mouth when suddenly the radar screen and lights flickered once, twice, then went completely out.

  “Dammit!” Jessup shouted. He and Lockard locked eyes with one another. Both of them had forgotten that the alert had required them to start the generator that powered all of their systems two hours early. Lockard had intended to refill the generator when their relief had arrived, but the pair of men being fifteen minutes late meant that the radar had died at precisely the worst possible time.

  “Jessup, you take this phone and you tell the bastard on the other end you’ve got important information,” Lockard said. “I’m going to go out and restart the generator.”

  As he ducked out the door, he heard Jessup begin talking into the headset.

  “This is Opana! We have lost power, but we had a shitload of blips before the screen…”

  Waving over the duty captain, Pfc. Darnell looked down with shaking hands at Opana stat
ion’s last report.

  “Sir, Opana just reported a shitload of bogeys,” Darnell said excitedly, running a hand nervously over his buzz shaven head.

  “How about you give me an actual report, private?” Captain Charles Wray asked. A reservist, Graham was already unhappy at having been stuck with “The Shaft,” as his squadron’s pilots called duty in the plotting station. As Darnell corrected himself, Wray looked at the two NCOICs conferring with each other on the other side of the map table. Suddenly what the private was saying registered.

  “Wait, did you say Opana thinks they have several dozen blips heading towards Oahu?!” Wray asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Darnell replied, his exasperation showing.

  Wray looked at the man unblinking for several seconds until he regained his bearings.

  “Sergeant Ash, sound general alert, enemy aircraft inbound!” Wray shouted.

  Minutes later, Army pilots rushed towards their aircraft across Oahu. It would be at least ten minutes before they were able to get into the air in any appreciable strength, another five minutes before they were formed up and at a decent altitude. Unfortunately, it would be later, in the midst of recriminations and accusations, that Captain Wray’s error in repeating the vector to the NCOs present with him in the plotting room would be discovered. As over thirty P-38 and P-40 interceptors thundered off to the northwest, the Japanese strike force passed to the northeast of Honolulu toward Tone No. 6’s last reported position.

  U.S.S. Nautilus

  0745 Local (1235 Eastern)

  First had come the planes, at least two hundred of them, their collective engines loud in darkness. The instant he had heard the aircraft, Lt. Commander Freeman had ordered a crash dive, taking the Nautilus down to one hundred feet for thirty long minutes as they waited for bombs to begin falling. When no explosions had been forthcoming and a periscope search had revealed nothing but the brightening sky, Lt. Commander Freeman had brought the submarine back to the surface. Ordering radio silence, the Nautilus’s master had immediately ordered full speed and begun to head north on the surface. Now, low on the horizon, was smoke, and a great deal of it. In that instant, Nick realized that his commander was a brilliant man. Taking his eyes from the binoculars for a moment, Nick looked at his superior.

  “How did you know they would come south, sir?” he asked.

  “Carriers always want to make the range shorter,” Lt. Commander Freeman said. “Those planes were bound for somewhere, my guess being Pearl Harbor.”

  “Sir, shouldn’t we warn the fleet?” Nick asked.

  Freeman looked at him with a slight smile.

  “The Army has radar stations, patrols, and observers to detect strikes—they won’t catch us by surprise, not unless something horrible happens,” Jason said. Turning back to the horizon, he gave a feral smile.

  “These bastards coming south, on the other hand, aren’t going to know that we are here unless we tell them,” Freeman continued. “I’m willing to bet, judging from those smoke trails, that they sail close enough for a shot. After that, I’ll make a damn contact report.”

  This man is either crazy or the most intelligent officer I’ve ever met, Nick thought, his eyes wide.

  “All right gentlemen, I have those ships sailing at twenty knots almost directly at us,” Freeman observed. “Anyone else seeing something different, now is the time to tell me I have buck fever.”

  There was silence on the Nautilus’s bridge.

  “Very well then,” Freeman said, stepping to the voice tube. “All hands, rig for dive. Lookouts coming below!”

  Like a well-oiled machine, the bridge crew moved down the conning tower’s hatch, Nick then Freeman being the last two. As the hatch clanged close, Nick could already feel the submarine starting to sink and hear the sound of air rushing out of the ballast tanks, eliminating the submarine’s buoyancy reserve.

  I really hope that’s not the last time I see the sun, Nick thought morbidly.

  “All stations rigged for dive, taking her down, sir,” Lieutenant Harold Banes reported from his perch behind the planesman. The Nautilus’s executive officer was slated for promotion within the next six months, with a boat of his own likely within the next year. A tough officer, with pale blonde hair, Banes was four inches taller than Nick at five pounds less weight.

  Every time I see the XO I want to lock him in a restaurant for four months, Nick thought.

  “Take her to seventy-five feet, stop all engines, rig for silent running. Once we’re there, sound tell me what you hear,” Freeman barked. Barely skipping a beat, he turned to Nick.

  “What’s my fish status, Cobb?” Lt. Commander Freeman asked. Nick saw Ensign Workman, junior officer of the boat and his assistant torpedo officer, flash him six fingers than four.

  “Sir, all twelve tubes are loaded,” Nick replied.

  “Ensign Workman and I checked the weapons ourselves,” Senior Chief Petty Officer reported from the back of the compartment. Pound was the current Chief of the Boat, the most powerful enlisted man aboard the Nautilus. Standing all of 5’ 5” and skinny as a pipe cleaner, Pound often commented he had the voice of an elephant in the body of a field mouse. Like Lt. Commander Freeman, Pound was revered by all of the men aboard the Nautilus.

  Thank God he’s here, Nick thought appreciatively. He’s been in submarines since the Great War.

  “Sir, contact, high-speed screws, bearing two eight oh,” the sound operator said.

  The old man was right, Nick thought. Freeman nodded in acknowledgement and then turned to the gathered officers and chief.

  “Figure at least four carriers based on how loud those planes were,” Freeman said. “They’ll probably have at least six tin cans, possibly a couple of cruisers, maybe even one of those fast Kongos.”

  Nick swallowed as he thought of just how many ships that meant.

  “Gentlemen, I’m not planning on being greedy,” Freeman continued. “We’ll shoot at one ship, two if another blunders in front of the stern tubes. I assume contact warheads on the fish?”

  “Yes, sir,” Nick and Ensign Workman said simultaneously.

  Was there any other acceptable choice? Nick thought wryly, far more successful in hiding his smile than Workman. Lt. Commander Freeman’s disdain for magnetic exploders was well-known to his officers. A simple man, Freeman thought relying on a magnetic warhead to work perfectly after being jostled during loading and possibly sitting in a tube for hours on end was the height of stupidity. Nick was inclined to agree with that assessment.

  Don’t really care if the folks at the Bureau of Ordnance swear it will break a ship’s back, Nick thought. Too many things that can go very, very wrong, whereas hitting a ship in the side with a metal pin has worked for decades.

  “Very good,” Freeman said. “Six shots bow, four stern, so we have something in reserve, then we head down to take our licks. Questions?”

  There was dead silence in the control room.

  “All right, let’s go do our jobs,” Freeman said grimly.

  Scarlet Two

  0815 Local (1315 Eastern)

  “All Scarlet fighters, all Scarlet fighters, this is Scarlet base,” Peter’s headphones crackled. “Multiple bogeys, bearing oh three oh relative. Come to course oh seven zero, angels one zero, gate.”

  Peter snapped back to paying attention to flying with a start, the replaying mental images of Lieutenant Commander Lovelace’s cockpit shattering being forced from his mind. As odd man out from his division, he had taken up a position two thousand feet higher and upsun, weaving to cover the rear of the others. It was not a preferred position, being in direct violation of Lieutenant Commander Thach’s principles of teamwork and mutual support, but it was better than forming a three-plane section that would unbalance the formation.

  “Roger Scarlet, intercepting bogeys,” Lieutenant Noel Gayler, Scarlet Three, acknowledged. Peter skidded the fighter to take a glance into the sun. It was still clear, no sight of enemy aircraft anywhere. Coming back o
nto course, Peter listened to the Saratoga’s other two divisions acknowledge the orders from their carrier.

  “Scarlet Two go ahead and come back down here,” Gayler started to say. “I’m not sure I like dangling you up there in the…”

  “Scarlet Eight, Scarlet Eight, would you care to join the rest of your flight?” another voice interrupted.

  Peter started to key his throat mike to ask for Scarlet Three to finish his sentence, but was jammed out of the frequency by the Sara’s controller ordering everyone to clear the fighter control net.

  That could be a problem, Peter said, starting to bank and descend as Gayler and directed. With all of Sara’s fighters on one frequency, things were going to be quite chaotic once contact was made.

  We need better radios, he thought to himself. There had been rumors about such radios being in the works, but that was right up there with some gull-winged wonder fighter that was allegedly being developed to replace the Wildcat. Personally, Peter would believe both of them when he flew either.

  “Two, did you copy my last transmission?” his headphones crackled. Just as he keyed the mike, the Lexington’s controller came onto the net, trying to talk them into contact with the multiple bogeys.

  Someone get this annoying bastard off of the radio, Peter thought.

  “Enemy fighters! Twelve o’clock low!” someone called out over the radio.

  Alerted, Isoro strained to see the enemy fighters.

  “All chutai, attack!” Lieutenant Commander Itaya barked. Like a well oiled machine, the three-man flights broke from the squadron formation, descending like hawks upon rabbits. His nose down, Isoro finally spotted their short, tubby targets.

  The unfortunate recipients of Itaya’s attack were the first two divisions of VF-2, the Lexington’s fighter squadron. As with all combat organizations, leadership determined a great deal of a unit’s effectiveness. In the case of VF-2, the commanding officer was a careerist who was better suited for an administrative job rather than leading men into combat. While VF-2 now had the highest maintenance, gunnery, and efficiency ratings in the fleet, its pilots knew very little about what it took to survive in the air. Thus, as the twelve F4Fs struggled for altitude, their communications frequency jammed with the directions of Lexington’s talkative FDO, none of them thought to look above and behind them.