by Jeff Shaara
Biggs tried to clear his head, a single word all he could manage. “Why?”
Kincaid ignored him, stepped away, out the hatchway, down the nearest ladder, and gone. Biggs pulled his legs in, one hand on the bulkhead, steadied himself, stood slowly. He was dizzy, a hard knot on the back of his head, his face numb, one thought: sick bay.
He kept one hand on the bulkhead, reached the first ladder, started up, voices above him, “Jesus. What happened to you?”
He realized they were officers, two young, one older.
“Sorry, sirs. Going to sick bay.”
“What happened to you, sailor?”
“Fell down the ladder, sir.”
There was silence, and the older man said, “You know the way?”
“Yes, sir.”
They moved past him, and he could feel their eyes on him. He had no idea how his face looked, how swollen, if there was blood. He climbed, knew they were still there, watching him, was relieved when he was out of their sight. He moved forward, down the familiar passageway, stepped inside. He heard the voice of Dr. Johnson, “Be with you in a second.”
The doctor came out of the office, didn’t show any recognition, then leaned closer to Biggs, said, “Good Christ, Mr. Biggs. I didn’t know it was you. What in God’s name happened to you?”
He couldn’t ignore his embarrassment, looked away, said in a low voice, “Fell down the ladder, sir.”
Johnson stood back, moved from side to side, taking in every angle. Biggs could feel his head clearing slightly, could see Johnson’s face, an angry scowl.
“That ladder had fingers, Mr. Biggs. You want to try again?”
Biggs looked down. “No, sir. I fell down the ladder.”
Johnson slid a chair closer, sat. He looked at Biggs for a long moment, then said, “You been drinking?”
Biggs was surprised by the question, looked up at him. “No, sir. Not at all.”
“Who hit you? Or rather, who slapped you? That’s a tried-and-true method for kicking someone’s ass without blood or busted teeth. Without evidence.”
Biggs dropped his head again. “I fell down the ladder.”
Johnson crossed his arms, said, “Let me tell you about that ladder. You just listen. You’ve got a shipmate who’s a real ass, a big-mouth. Maybe he’s in your compartment. Maybe he’s your petty officer. I know you, Mr. Biggs. You’re not the type to pick a fight, to open up your mouth and say something stupid. And right now, you’re keeping your mouth shut about what happened to you because…well, you’re scared of what might happen next, or you’re ashamed.”
“Maybe both, sir. I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t want to say any more.”
Biggs kept his eyes down. He couldn’t look at Johnson, hated himself for lying.
“Have it your way, Mr. Biggs. Either way, I’ll fix you up. An ice pack will reduce the swelling—and you’ve got a hell of a lot of swelling. Not sure if you’ll have a bruise in the next couple of days. The ice may help that too.” He ran his hand around Biggs’s head, felt the lump. “I thought so. An ice pack there too. Aspirin will help. You didn’t lose any teeth. That’s good. Sometimes it happens. Let me get the ice.”
Johnson moved away, to the freezer Biggs had cleaned many times. He returned, wrapped a thin cloth around the ice pack, put it in Biggs’s hand.
“Press. You know how.”
Biggs put the ice to his face, fought the shock of the cold, kept his eyes down, still too embarrassed to look at Johnson.
“By the way, Mr. Biggs, Dr. Condon told me you were going into town today, to do some shopping. Tell you what, since you’re not going to look that handsome wandering around those fancy stores, how about I give you a pass for Monday instead?”
“No, thank you, sir. I don’t have a lot of time to mail a package for Christmas. I’ve been looking forward to just doing something for my mom. I wish I could do more. Maybe even for my pop. They don’t have much of anything.”
“That’s up to you. Hey, I just thought of this, since you know that saxophone player, Mr. Cox. Tonight is the semifinals of the Battle of Music. You know that our band’s right up there. Tonight will decide who we’ll compete against. The championship is scheduled for twentieth December. I may be biased, but I think we’re the best band in the fleet, and I think the rest of the fleet knows that too.”
“I think so too, sir.”
“Well, look, I was heading over to Bloch Arena tonight to hear the bands, size up the competition. You want to go?”
“No, thank you, sir. I just want to do my shopping, come on back to the ship. It’s gonna be hard enough explaining my face to my buddies…Well, you know, sir.”
“Yes, well, that makes sense. You’ll be pretty sore tonight, so if you need more aspirin, stop by. Dr. Condon comes on duty at 1600. When your start your shift tomorrow, I’ll give you the full report about the band competition. It’ll be great, pretty sure of that.”
* * *
—
Biggs had one mission to accomplish before he made his way to the high-end stores. He was surprised that the crowds were as large and as raucous as they were, the sailors massed along the streets as they always seemed to be. He realized he had been wrong about the draw of the football games, though he still assumed the university stadium had to be a mob scene. But his interest was very different, and within a few minutes of leaving the taxi, he stood in front of the Blue Moon, scanning the faces of the men in white for the one he sought.
“There you are, you ugly bastard!”
Biggs didn’t have to see him to know the voice, and to sense that Russo had been there for a while already. He turned, saw the wide smile as Russo shuffled out of the bar, and Biggs said, “Hello, More Ugly. How many have you had so far?”
Russo straightened himself, said, “Damn, Tommy. Nobody’s as ugly as you right now. What the hell happened to you? Your face…”
“Yeah, I got a face. Took a wrong turn and ran into a pineapple.”
“Come on, Tommy. Somebody belted you. You get in a few too?”
“Can we let it go? It’s just a little swollen. I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“I don’t care. You’re my buddy. Somebody roughs you up, I wanna help. The marines jump you? Those pissed-off soldiers who lost the game last week?”
Biggs looked around through the crowd, leaned closer to Russo. “There’s just a bastard of a petty officer, has it in for me. The guys warned me about him, and they were right. He just hates my guts.”
Russo studied his face. “Yeah, I’ve heard about guys like that. I think some guys get more pissed off the older they get. Hell, I don’t know. Maybe they’re afraid of having to quit, leave the navy. What’s a guy do?”
Biggs shrugged. “Don’t know. He’s about to retire, doesn’t seem too happy about it. I just try to stay out of his way.”
“Okay, Tommy. I just hope you’re okay.”
“I’m okay. Now, how many beers you had?”
“Oh, just a couple. I’m trying not to do this stuff anymore. I can’t go home a damn lush. My mama’s already saying a novena for me, and every other prayer she can come up with. If she could, she’d ask the pope to put in a good word.”
“So, Ray, you loading up on Christmas presents? I just need one, for my mom. Hell, you got a whole high school worth of sisters.”
“Yeah, I’ve got a few ideas for Mama. Not sure about the girls. They’d be happy with some souvenirs.”
Biggs couldn’t help thinking of Dr. Condon’s teasing about straw dolls and snow globes.
Russo rubbed his chin. “What about you? Where you planning on shopping?”
“I’m gonna hit the fancy shops near the big hotels.”
“Well, how-de-do, Mister Big Shot Biggs.”
“Yeah, but I’ve been saving up. Mom deserves something d
ecent for putting up with Pop, and I don’t think I ever really tell her how much she…I mean…”
Russo shoved him lightly on the shoulder. “Yeah, I know. They gave us all they had, and sometimes, there’s nothing left for them. I’m damn sorry you don’t have it so good at home, not like I did. But you’re looking out for your mom. That’s great. I’d do anything to bring back Papa.”
Biggs didn’t know what to say, put a hand on Russo’s shoulder. “Look, I’m gonna hop on the trolley, head over to the Halekulani. You wanna go?”
“No, I’ll mess around here for a while. You wanna stay for one beer?”
Biggs was tempted, fought it. “I know what’ll happen: You’ll talk me into six more, and that’ll be the end of my money, and my shopping.”
“Well, then, as long as I’m alone, I might as well not be too alone. The line’s not too long over at Mama Hula’s. There’s a redhead in there—holy cow.”
Biggs laughed. “You’re completely full of crap. You wouldn’t go near that place. Look, if you’ll hang around here, I’ll come back. If I’ve got any dough left, I’ll buy you that beer. If I don’t, you can buy it for me.”
* * *
—
The salesgirl had been short and pretty, a native Hawaiian who seemed wary of his appearance. But the size of his budget had cured her uneasiness. She had pointed him finally toward the silk scarves, and he chose the prettiest one in the store, blue and soft pink. The price had given him pause—it was more money than he’d ever spent on anything in his life—but he had cash in his pocket and the salesgirl was just persuasive enough.
As he walked farther down the street, he passed more shops, more possibilities, had to assure himself that his first instinct had been the right one. He passed the Halekulani, was tempted to wander in, maybe buy a drink, but he felt awkward and very out of place. The only sailors he saw going in were officers. The swelling in his face was no help either, was sure to raise some alarm from hotel security. Nope, he thought. Ray’s where I need to be. And I could really use a beer.
THIRTY
The Spy
JAPANESE CONSULATE, HONOLULU, HAWAII—FRIDAY, DECEMBER 5, 1941
He woke up to a sharp glare of sunlight, put one hand to the side, the bed empty. She should have stayed, he thought. It is a great honor for her to lie with me. He swung his legs to the side of the bed, yawned, stood slowly. He moved to the window, stared out at the blue sky, his mind already working on the duties that lay in front of him today. He dressed quickly, looked at his watch. It was close to noon, and he thought about where he was going—something new. He glanced skyward again, imagined flying, how different that would be, how much more useful to see beyond the tall gates and barbed wire.
The plane had been chartered by the consulate, using his alias, Tadashi Morimura, as if he were just another privileged tourist, eager to see the beauty of Hawaii from the air. On the floor beside the empty dresser was a pile of clothes, and he shuffled through, chose the brightest Hawaiian shirt, purple this time, what any undignified tourist would wear with pride. He examined himself in the mirror, smiled. Perfect.
Yoshikawa glanced around the cottage, searching for his camera, didn’t see it. Never mind. Better without one, even as a prop. They will know that I am so excited to be here by my smile alone, my eagerness to experience the beauty of the island. There is no need for photographs, after all. What I see remains inside my mind, and details on my notepad.
He walked outside, ignored the flowers, the other touches of beauty spread out around the grounds of the consulate. The place meant nothing to him. The main consulate office was a short walk from his private cottage, and he pushed through the door, ignored the rows of secretaries, the other offices where men labored over their papers. He did not hesitate, stepped into the office of Consul General Kita, saw the man scribbling on a pad of white paper.
Yoshikawa said, “I am off to the airplane ride.”
Kita pointed to the door, and Yoshikawa closed it.
“Do your people know nothing of my mission here? After so much time?”
Kita seemed annoyed. “What they know or do not know is not your concern. We have completed transmitting your last reports by wire. Tokyo has received them by now. Do you anticipate another report today? If so, I shall have the wire operator stay at his post until you return.”
Yoshikawa shrugged. “If there is something to report, I shall report it. They continue to send me questions, and I continue to answer them. It is as simple as that. I do not require assistance.” He paused. “And I do not require minions who follow me around, doing the same job I have already completed. It is unnecessary and dangerous. I know I am to obey my superiors in Japan, and I have done so. But I do not understand why they insist that more people in this role will do a better job. I am inconspicuous because I practice the art, because I know my place here.
“So they send me a German as an associate? This man, Otto Kuehn, is nothing more than a lazy pig, who prances about claiming he is related to Heinrich Himmler. That is supposed to earn him respect? Does he do his job any better than I do? Why would anyone in the Naval Intelligence Office believe him to be of value to my work here? He reports nothing useful, has made no observations except that there are occasionally women here who prefer spending time with a German than with any man who possesses a hint of dignity.”
Kita was watching him with wide-eyed distress, and Yoshikawa realized his voice was carrying beyond the office.
Kita said, “Please. I am aware of the disadvantages with Mr. Kuehn. But he has influential friends, and they believe him to be of value here.”
“I do not. Are you aware that he has proposed that our fishermen put signal lights on their sailboats, flashing code to our patrolling submarines, as though no one in the American navy would notice that at all?”
Kita lowered his head. “Yes, he has presented that idea to me. It will not happen.” He looked up at Yoshikawa now. “But what of Seki? He respects your work, and is of service to you in any way you choose.”
Yoshikawa sat now, his arms on Kita’s desk. “He should clean my room. All he has accomplished is to wander the hillsides, walking in my own footprints, making the same observations I have already sent to Tokyo. He is so ill-prepared for the tasks assigned to him that he had to request a copy of that textbook on American weaponry, Jane’s Fighting Ships. He would not know a battleship from a tugboat. If these men seek glory, let them find it on some path that I have not already flattened with my shoes.”
Kita seemed to struggle with his patience, said, “I respect what you are doing. It is important work, as the foreign ministry tells me. But it does not require genius to count ships, to study airplanes.”
Yoshikawa stood again, sniffed. “I will ignore your insult. However, there will come a time when Tokyo recognizes what I am doing here, in the only way that matters to the intelligence officers. I have not been caught. And I shall never be caught.”
Kita was worn out yet again by Yoshikawa’s speeches. He folded his hands in front of him, tried to guide the conversation back to his own job. “We have observed movement in the harbor, perhaps more than usual. It is not unusual for the Americans to put some ships to sea while others are brought home. But there seems to be much more, and Tokyo has requested more detailed information. As well, there is concern that the Americans are launching aircraft in new patterns, that they are sweeping the skies in every direction, perhaps reconnaissance patrols that extend far from Oahu.”
“Or perhaps they continue to train their pilots. I have observed nothing unusual. But I shall continue to find the answers to the questions they sent me three days ago, which is why this airplane tour today will be useful.”
“Do you have a copy of those questions?”
“Of course not. I do not always rely on paper. Carelessness could result. I keep a single small pad in my pocket that can be de
stroyed quickly. I do not take foolish risks. This evening, when I return, I shall eliminate much of the bulk from my files, burning anything I no longer need.”
“We have all been ordered to do exactly that. There is danger we will draw the attention of the Honolulu Fire Department.”
Yoshikawa shook his head. “Or the FBI. Do you not feel it would be prudent to burn what we are instructed to burn very slowly, creating a minimum of black smoke?”
“Smoke is not dangerous. Coded documents are. It is not necessary for you to teach me my job. I am not so concerned that American security will invade my office.” Kita pulled a paper from his desk, handed it to Yoshikawa. “This is the decoded message from December second.”
Yoshikawa thought, Keeping these decoded messages in your desk is abominably stupid. But he said nothing about it, leaving Kita to his own consequences. He read the paper.
“Yes, I recall all of this. They are requesting a count of all warships of all types in the harbor, daily, through the next several days. They also wish to know if the American ships are protected by torpedo nets, and if they are employing observation balloons over the harbor.” He was feeling impatient now, unwilling to spend any more time with Kita. “My airplane is waiting.”
Kita seemed to hesitate, said, “I must say one more thing. I am receiving complaints about your activities, including the performance of your duties in the consulate.”
“I have no duties in the consulate.”
“Well, yes, I know that. But there is an entire consulate full of capable, hard-working people outside this office who are not aware of just what you are supposed to be doing. Can you not make some effort to disguise your mission by sitting at a desk, or engaging in conversation with them? Some of these people are laboring on your behalf, transmitting and receiving messages, scheduling things for you, including your airplane flight today.”
