by Jeff Shaara
“The fewer people who know my mission, the less that risk. Everything is fine.”
“Can you not at least use some discretion with your whiskey bottles? Or the number of women you bring to your cottage? And is it necessary for you to sleep half the day?”
“I will try to be more discreet. But I will sleep as much as I require. Is there anything else?”
Kita seemed defeated, said, “No. Enjoy your airplane flight. Will you be alone?”
Yoshikawa thought a moment. “No. I will appear more the tourist if I have a wife accompany me. I will stop first at Shuncho-ro Teahouse. The geishas are most friendly, and any one of them would enjoy the flight.”
* * *
—
The flight was barely thirty minutes, and there were few surprises, beyond the graphic image now in his mind of just how the various bases on Oahu were spread across the island. Civilian aircraft were not allowed to fly over the harbor itself, but there was no difficulty, even from a distance, in mapping out the positions of specific ships, from great to small. From the air, however, Yoshikawa could make an observation denied him by the gates and fences around most of the bases. For the first time, he had a clear view of the harbor itself, the anchorages around Ford Island, the submarine base and dry docks near Hickam Field, and the way the harbor squeezed down to a narrow passageway at its entrance.
As he flew near the airfields, he was able to sketch out the directions of the active runways, while also noting the configuration of the hangars and other buildings. But the greatest surprise, for which he put pencil to paper, was a change in the positioning of the fighter aircraft, short-range bombers and training craft, at nearly every field. He had no idea what Tokyo would do with this information, and what value it might have. But he had never noticed before that on each of the fields, dozens of aircraft, big and small, were parked together wingtip to wingtip, in long straight lines, as though they were on parade.
* * *
—
He was not at all comfortable handing over his reports to the wireless operator, whose job was to translate Yoshikawa’s observations into the latest codes used by the intelligence offices. He preferred to encode his messages himself, before anyone else in the consulate could read them. It was one more element in his shield of personal security that Yoshikawa valued above all else.
The transmissions were something new, born of necessity. It had once been possible, though more dangerous, to deliver the reports to the intelligence officers directly by hand. The Japanese ocean liner Taiyo Maru had steamed into the harbor at Honolulu on November 1, just one of several passenger ships flying the Japanese flag that made scheduled voyages to Hawaii. On this journey, its passengers were mostly family members of Japanese-Americans on the islands, and some were Americans emigrating back home from Japan. For them, this journey was a halfway point, most waiting for the next voyage of the Lurline to take them to the American mainland.
With the Taiyo Maru and many other passenger liners flying the Japanese flag, there was nothing unusual about a ship being visited by the Japanese consul general, and of course, his chief deputies. Though the passengers were observed dutifully by the FBI, the Japanese government officials were given free passage and were never violated by a search. Consul General Kita and his associate, Tadashi Morimura, made several visits, ostensibly to discuss various matters with the ship’s officers. But once onboard, out of sight of American security, they instead met with low-level crewmen and stewards who were in fact high-ranking Japanese naval and intelligence officers. Yoshikawa’s lengthy and detailed reports had thus been delivered by hand directly to those men who would make the best use of the information.
But the growing animosity between the United States and Japan made passenger travel increasingly unwise, especially with anxious submarine commanders on both sides now prowling the sea lanes. On November 5, the Taiyo Maru sailed westward from Oahu, severing the last personal link between Japan and the U.S. For Yoshikawa, that link had been a symbolic lifeline, a possible escape route to Japan should American intelligence sniff too closely. So far that had not happened, but merely knowing that he was now alone on an island made his sleep just a bit more fitful.
JAPANESE CONSULATE, HONOLULU, HAWAII—SATURDAY, DECEMBER 6, 1941
It was another morning like so many others, a woman and a bottle, but he was up early, a nagging itch that this job was becoming more complicated, and possibly, more dangerous. The wires had been coming steadily from Tokyo, an odd sense of urgency to the frequency of their questions.
Even at this hour, the woman was already gone. He bent down, picked up the whiskey bottle from the floor. Empty. He tossed it onto the bed, knew that someone would clean it up.
He thought of breakfast, knew his request would bring grousing but that they would still serve him. The secretaries do know their jobs, after all. I don’t ask them to type or write my letters. All I want is breakfast.
He looked outside again. It was clear and blue, a perfect day for wandering through cane fields, or whatever else they would ask of him. He dressed as always, in another Hawaiian shirt, never the same one in any given week. Again he would play the role of the mindless tourist, wandering aimlessly through the sites, awed by the distant warships. Perhaps now, he thought, I am not a tourist. The passenger ships are gone, after all. Now I am one of them, the Japanese Hawaiians who are not Japanese, pathetic lackeys with menial jobs who say they are Americans. I look like them, but I will never behave like them. I’m not sure how I could ever live among them, pretend to do their jobs, even while I do my own.
Since he had been in Hawaii, his cover had included a variety of strange and, to him, demeaning jobs. He had washed dishes at an army officers’ club, had performed menial labor, exposed himself to ridicule and insults from co-workers and superiors, all for one purpose. In every case he had been an excellent listener, picking up any piece of information that would add value to his real job. On the island of Maui, he had posed as an extravagant businessman, buying drinks for military officers who laughed at the jokes he told on himself. There were still the gates he could not enter, places he could not go, but he pushed through in other ways, flattering the drunk sailor, asking with innocent curiosity what might lie beyond the fences. But now, from a peaceful ride in a small tourist airplane, he had seen it for himself with astonishing ease.
He adjusted his clothing in the mirror, glanced again at the unmade bed. He tried to remember the woman, one of the geishas from his favorite teahouse. What kind of men are there for them here, in this place? Bartenders and gardeners. It is truly a shame I can never tell them what I do here.
He finished buttoning the garish shirt, bright yellow this time, laughed. Perhaps the geishas are agents of the FBI. Surely we are all being watched here, their police with a file on each of us. If they still believe I am Tadashi Morimura, then I am fortunate indeed. Or perhaps they are utterly inept.
All right. I’m hungry. He picked up the telephone, dialed the numbers, waited. “This is Morimura. I am ready for my breakfast.”
He didn’t wait for a response, hung up the receiver. The phone rang and he picked it up, heard Kita’s voice. “The wires continue to arrive. Come to my office.”
Yoshikawa thought, Well, they can bring me breakfast in his office.
He crossed the open path, entered the main office, the eyes on him, as always. “You may bring my breakfast in here. But knock first.”
He stepped into Kita’s office, saw a paper in Kita’s hand.
“The wires are growing more frequent. They expect your responses without delay.”
“I never delay.”
There was a soft knock, and he saw the disgust on Kita’s face. Yoshikawa turned, opened the door, took the tray from an annoyed young woman, was pleased to see she had included the morning’s newspaper. He watched her as she backed away, said to her, “You would be very goo
d as a geisha. Consider it. I can get you a position.”
The woman bowed, moved out quickly, with forced politeness. “Thank you, sir.”
Yoshikawa stuffed the seaweed in his mouth, drank the soup in one gulp. He laughed. “She wasn’t very appreciative of my offer.”
Kita said, “Her husband wouldn’t appreciate it either. He is a police officer. I have no authority to tell you what to do. But there are times when you should just be quiet. We do not need the police, any police digging around here, especially an angry husband.”
Yoshikawa pushed the tray farther onto Kita’s desk, wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “My superiors are asking for more of the same information, I assume.”
Kita tried to ignore the tray. “As much as possible. And soon. Here, read this. A list of questions, much as before.”
“Why soon?”
“I don’t know. And there is no point in asking. Just do your job.”
* * *
—
The taxi drove up toward the grassy heights, the reliable and aging Mr. Mikami behind the wheel. The land was very familiar, and he stared out toward the harbor, the tops of the largest ships coming into view. He sat back in the seat, ignored it all, thought, One more time, I will get my pants dirty in a cane field, scuff my shoes in the mud and rocks. I do not understand why they ask this of me every day. Is it so different from a week ago?
The car slowed, pulled off the road, and Yoshikawa climbed out. Mikami sat quietly, as always, patiently waiting. Yoshikawa stepped into the tall grass, the cane spreading down the hill to his left. He kept clear of that, noticed his own tracks, made days before, and days before that. He crested the rise, the harbor now spread out in front of him. It was never as satisfying to be here as he would like, without a close enough vantage point to pick out the details he sought. But he dared not bring binoculars, nothing to show that his interest was any more than that of a sightseer. Across the harbor, he saw the battleships along Ford Island, and he searched now for the aircraft carriers. His brain snapped awake, and he scanned again, so many details, so many of the other ships committed to memory. Where, he thought, are the carriers?
He had seen the Enterprise sail out earlier that week, and there was nothing unusual about any one of the flattops leading a handful of smaller warships out to sea. It had become a pattern, surely some training mission, repeated again and again. Like clockwork, they would return, as would every battleship and their support vessels. But for one to leave, he thought, and then, the other two…that has not happened before.
He moved quickly up the rise, through the grass, slid into the back seat of the taxi.
“Take me to the tearoom. Fast.”
* * *
—
As always, the women greeted him with smiles, but he ignored them and moved upstairs to the sun deck, grateful there was no one there to interfere. He swung the telescope toward the harbor, scanned the ships again, the view here much more detailed. Did I miss the carriers, he thought; are they somehow obscured? He took his time now, thought, There is a reason they want this from me today. They know something about the carriers being gone. Or they don’t and they require confirmation. Take your time—no mistakes. He fingered the pad of paper in his pocket, the short stub of a pencil. It’s all right out there. They want information, so I will give it to them. I will give it all to them.
SATURDAY, 6 DECEMBER—NOW PRESENT IN PEARL HARBOR
Nine battleships
Three light cruisers, plus four in dry dock
Seventeen destroyers, plus three in dry dock
There are no carriers in port
There is no sign of barrage balloon equipment
In my opinion, the battleships do not have torpedo nets
There is little to no aerial reconnaissance in operation
The American military forces show no state of alert
I imagine in all probability there is considerable opportunity left to take advantage for a surprise attack against these places.
THIRTY-ONE
Genda
AIRCRAFT CARRIER AKAGI, AT SEA—SATURDAY, DECEMBER 6, 1941
“From the beginning, I have been concerned that there are so many pieces to this puzzle that it could simply come apart. I respect Admiral Yamamoto, and I know that he placed great faith in my skills in commanding this fleet. But we are so far from home and so close to our targets, and I cannot just ignore all that could happen, all that could go wrong.”
Genda had heard these speeches many times from Admiral Nagumo. He has so much authority over us all, Genda thought. He has been given so much responsibility for the success of the mission. I wish he could feel what the airmen are feeling, that we are the tip of a great spear, a weapon that reaches all the way across this ocean. Genda tried to form words, some kind of argument to blunt the admiral’s concerns. Around the long table, he could see Nagumo’s staff officers watching him, as though they expected the “lunatic” Genda to erupt like a volcano. Nagumo was silent now, as though inviting Genda to speak. The words came slowly, with painful effort to control his usual manic outbursts.
“Admiral Nagumo, with respect for all of your concerns, I must quote a wise saying. There are times when you must use courage to push yourself up the mountain, even if you know you will not come down from the peak. Often it is the wisest decision to happily jump off.”
Nagumo looked at the younger officers, then at Genda. “I am not familiar with that saying. Is it from the emperor?”
Genda had not expected the question. “No, sir. It is from…my mother.”
There was low laughter around the wardroom table, the loudest from Fuchida, the man who would command the planes over Hawaii.
Genda ignored the good humor of the others, kept his eyes on Nagumo, who said, “Admiral Yamamoto places great confidence in you, Commander. The emperor and the Naval Ministry place confidence in me. We can only rely on ourselves, and neither you nor I are accustomed to the responsibilities we have been given. Neither of us has our superior officer with us, guiding us, judging what we do.”
“Sir, the judgment will come from our deeds. We have no control, no influence on what will occur anywhere outside of this fleet. If those men in their fine suits and their well-pressed uniforms agree to embrace peace, then we will as well. But if this is to be war, then there can be no hesitation, no second thoughts, and no fear. The pilots are prepared to die for this fight.”
“Commander, I cannot expect you to know what I feel. The ships of this fleet, they are very much like my children. I treasure them all. There is enormous risk in what we do.”
Genda tried to find sympathy for Nagumo. This could be his last campaign, he thought. But we cannot wrap ourselves in the fear of risk.
“Admiral, respectfully I must say, we are not out here to avoid risk. We are here to damage one American fleet. It is no more complicated than that.”
Nagumo stared at Genda, nodded slowly. “Well spoken, Commander. But I worry about the intelligence we have received. What if we have miscalculated? What if the American fleet is much larger than we have estimated?”
Genda smiled. “Then we shall have a great many more targets.”
“We are targets as well, Commander. Perhaps when you are older and the weight of these decisions rests on your shoulders, you will understand my concerns. We are to attack a great world power. Your confidence is welcome, but I am concerned that we might sail home to Japan with half of what we came with. Perhaps, we may not sail home at all.”
Genda looked at the admiral with the hard glare that Nagumo had come to know so well. “Then, sir, they will build shrines to us. I would welcome that, as would my pilots.”
A young ensign appeared at the wardroom door. “Sir! Excuse me.”
Nagumo looked up, said, “What has happened?”
“The destroyer Isokaze reports
contact with a vessel, most likely a merchantman, sir.”
Nagumo stood up nervously, the others as well, and beside him, one of his officers said, “Sir, we must confirm the identity of the vessel with all haste.”
“Yes, of course. We cannot allow them to send any communication. Ensign, instruct the Isokaze to prepare to sink the vessel on my command. Let us go topside.”
Genda kept his seat as the others flowed out, thought, This is not good, not good at all. There should be no other vessels in this part of the Pacific. A merchantman in disguise, perhaps? Their radios sending warnings back to their navy, setting the trap?
He tried to calm himself, knew his edginess was just one more symptom of the stress of the mission. He let out a deep breath, then another. The admiral’s men will do their jobs. They will communicate with that ship, determine who they are and why they are out here, so far from the common shipping lanes. If they must sink a ship that flies a foreign flag, any flag, it could cause Tokyo a great many problems. But Tokyo must worry about those things. We have more important tasks to complete.
He stood, said to his aides, “I will go to my quarters now. Admiral Nagumo and the crew of this ship do not need us in their way.” The two men stood at attention, backs against the bulkhead. He stopped at the door, said, “I will brief the flight leaders one more time before they retire tonight. The weather has taken a turn for the worse. I want to test their confidence for those conditions.”
He moved out, down a narrow passageway, passed Nagumo’s palatial quarters, a guard standing tall outside the door. Genda ignored the young man as he moved by, thought, This is what admirals do, I suppose, flaunt their authority. Or perhaps he fears thieves. He reached his own quarters, stepped inside, stood quietly for a long moment, so many thoughts rolling through him, so many details. He flexed his fingers, trying to relax, took deep breaths. Yes, Admiral, I have my concerns as well.
