by Jeff Shaara
It lurched forward now, into the spray, toward the rising bow of the ship. Genda held his breath, watched the Zero leave the end of the flattop, then drop, out of sight, and he felt a stab of horror, No, it cannot be. But the plane appeared again, rising.
Genda put his hands on his face, holding away tears, his mind letting go of all the uncertainty and all the doubt.
Close by, the next Zero burst into motion, the others lined up behind it, waiting their turn. Genda watched them all, the fighters followed by the larger horizontal bombers. Genda saw another smiling face, Fuchida, a manic wave toward Genda as the three-man plane moved into position.
The dive bombers followed.
Then, finally, the torpedo bombers.
Genda stayed in place through every takeoff, ignoring the winds and the spray and the tossing of the ship. He realized the skies had lightened, and he checked his watch: 0620. He looked up, the formations of planes coming together high overhead, the good training, his training. The planes were already at differing heights, the Zeros climbing high above, the others moving to their assigned altitudes. He heard a new sound, a formation of the heavy bombers flying low, passing over the bow of the ship.
Genda smiled, his heart racing again, knew it was Fuchida. It was the signal they had devised, a last salute as Fuchida took control of the first wave of the mission, 183 planes on their flight path toward Oahu.
Genda stared out to the formations of planes, growing smaller, more distant. He ignored the manic activity of the flight crews around him, preparing their planes for the second wave, and for a long moment, the ship seemed to pause: no movement, no thoughts, no sounds. In his mind, he could see the face of Yamamoto, the old man who offered few compliments, who so rarely smiled. I hope you are smiling now, Admiral. Today we will start a war.
THIRTY-TWO
Outerbridge
DESTROYER USS WARD, OUTSIDE PEARL HARBOR—SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1941, PREDAWN
The sighting had been radioed to the ship just before 0400, by a sharp-eyed observer on the minesweeper USS Condor. Even in the darkness, the Condor’s watch officer insisted they had spotted a submarine, mostly submerged, moving through an area where no friendly craft should be. The Ward had responded, moving closer to the minesweeper, observers and sonar equipment laboring to confirm what the Condor claimed was there. After nearly an hour, the search turned up nothing. Men on both ships started to believe that the contact was likely a whale or large fish, the most common source for so many false alarms.
Outerbridge had gone through this before, but he wouldn’t embarrass the skipper of the Condor with any pronouncement to the minesweepers that the search was a waste of time. He had ordered the search continued, even as the minesweepers had moved out of the area. Searching for submarines, or for any other unauthorized vessels in the channels outside the entrance to Pearl Harbor, was, after all, why the Ward was there. Despite the ongoing search, Outerbridge hadn’t communicated any sense of urgency to his bridge crew, because he didn’t feel any himself. As the destroyer swept in wide circles through the deep water, Outerbridge went back to bed.
* * *
—
He had tried to relax on the cot, in the small makeshift quarters close to the bridge, had thought about what it was the Condor had seen. Since he had been in Hawaii, Outerbridge had made a sport out of whale watching, and like so many others, he knew that the winter brought the whales down from the frigid waters near Alaska. As he lay in the darkness, he thought of the amazing sight the day before, a humpback making a complete breach, a massive splash that reached the main deck of the destroyer. What did we look like to him? he thought. A mate? Or maybe he thought we were the biggest damn whale in Hawaii. And is he out there right now, convincing trained observers that he’s a submarine? Careful, my friend. More than one whale has been blasted to hell by a gunner who made that mistake.
He didn’t expect more than a couple hours of sleep, but after the turmoil of the last few days, he would take whatever he could grab. For the first time, Outerbridge had been given command of his own ship, a posting he had begun to think might never happen. He had suffered for months onboard the Cummings, a destroyer commanded by a skipper Outerbridge despised. As the executive officer, it was reasonable for Outerbridge to hope that someone in the Fourteenth Naval District might take notice of him, consider him for a command vacancy, even on something smaller than a destroyer.
But then the unexplainable workings of the navy suddenly shined a light on him, orders coming for Lieutenant William Outerbridge to assume command of the destroyer USS Ward. His first response was overwhelming joy, for both the command and the fact that it was a destroyer. Adding to his celebration, the navy had granted him an escape out from under the miserable boot heels of Captain George Dudley Cooper, his tormentor on the Cummings.
There were new curses, of course. The Ward was one of the oldest destroyers in the fleet, and thus was nearing the end of its useful life. The ship had gone to sea during the Great War, and seemed to wear that age with less than pride. The old-style four-stack configuration identified her as one of those tubs soon destined for the scrap yard. But not yet; for now, the Ward would patrol the waters close around the shores of Oahu, seeking out any kind of craft, big or small, that wasn’t supposed to be there.
The other curse was a milder one, and seemed to draw pity to Outerbridge from some of his friends in other commands. Outerbridge was a graduate of the United States Naval Academy, which was not unusual among command officers throughout the fleet. But his crew now consisted of reservists, most of them from the state of Minnesota. Though Outerbridge was teased about the relative inexperience of his sailors, when he assumed command of the Ward, his first impression was that despite their relative lack of seasoning, these men at least had enthusiasm for their jobs. It was up to him to prove to them he could be an effective leader. Today, December 7, was his second day in command.
He stared up into the dark, thinking of his wife, Grace. She sent him a stream of letters across the Pacific that brightened every day he received them. Grace was in San Diego, along with their three young sons, and one of the frequent subjects of her letters had been a family reunion, the hope that his ship might make the journey to the mainland. He had sent off another letter of his own, telling her of his new post, and new ship, though he hesitated to tell her that “new” was not a word that applied well to the Ward. It was one more bit of abuse he had to suffer from his friends, that the Ward might not be capable of making it to the mainland at all; she might simply fall apart. Outerbridge took the ribbing for what it was, knew that those friends who mattered were happy over his new command, a posting similar to what most of them hoped to receive themselves.
But there was another kind of teasing Outerbridge had to endure. It was a secret well protected by his closest friends: He suffered from bouts of seasickness. For the Ward to be attached to the Fourteenth was a gift in itself. The Ward’s primary mission, as it was for several of the other “old tubs,” was to patrol the waters close to the island. Thankfully for Outerbridge, that usually meant pretty smooth sailing.
He had nodded off to the soft hum of the engines, was surprised to hear a loud shout.
“Captain to the bridge!”
The call jolted him, and he sat upright, tried to clear his brain. He reached for a robe, threw it over his pajamas, scrambled out through the hatchway. “What is it? Talk to me, Mr. Goepner.”
“Sir, we’ve been continuing the search, per your orders. But we’ve received a light message, from the Antares, over there, sir.”
Outerbridge eyed the ship moving across the Ward’s bow, a mile distant. “What message, Lieutenant?”
Goepner had a pair of binoculars in his hands, said, “Sir, the Antares is being trailed by something.”
Outerbridge stared that way, the faint daylight showing the details of the supply ship and her barge, and n
ow, something distinct in the water between. Outerbridge felt a jolt, a single thought: That isn’t a whale.
“Call General Quarters!”
The sharp whistle sounded and the ship seemed to burst to life, the crew emerging from the hatches, moving quickly to their positions.
Beside him, Lieutenant Goepner said, “Sir, is that…?”
“It’s a periscope. All ahead full.”
They accelerated quickly to twenty-five knots, covered the distance to the Antares in minutes. He kept his eyes on the small black object, could see now that it was on the far side of the supply ship, still moving in line with the Antares as though pulled along on a string. As the Ward drew closer, Outerbridge could make out more details, saw nearly two feet of a small conning tower protruding above the surface.
“Sir, we’re on a collision course!”
“Come left, Mr. Raenbig. Slip us between the sub and the Antares. I want to see what that fish does next.”
Beside him, Goepner said, “Sir, it’s like he doesn’t even see us.”
“I don’t care about that, Lieutenant.”
He heard the roar of a plane, looked up, saw a large flying boat, a navy PBY, making tight circles over the Antares. Two small balls fell from the plane, smoke pots, impacting the water near the sub.
Outerbridge said, “We’ve got a helper. Thank you, friend, but there’s plenty of daylight now. We see him just fine.”
Goepner stared out through his binoculars, the sub barely a hundred yards from the Ward, making no apparent effort to change course. “She’s not very big, certainly not one of ours. What are we going to do, sir?”
Outerbridge eyed the submarine, tried to imagine the crew, incredibly brave or incredibly reckless. Or both. “We’re going to sink her. Commence firing.”
The first gun erupted, forward of the bridge, and Outerbridge flinched at the sound. A geyser erupted well past the sub, a clean miss. Damn! The sub was closer still, and he could see more details: rust and barnacles, the glint of the glass in the periscope. Now the second gun fired, just aft. The impact was immediate, the shell piercing the conning tower, the sub suddenly veering, rolling to one side.
Outerbridge turned that way, called out, “Signal four depth charges!”
The whistle sounded, four short blasts, and he could only wait, the depth charges rolling into the churning foam from the ship’s engines. Almost instantly, the eruptions blew great fountains of water skyward, and Outerbridge heard cheers, the men reacting to the vast pool of oil now boiling up to the surface.
In seconds, one of the chiefs was there, smiling and out of breath.
“We nailed her, sir. No doubt.”
“Good job, Chief. Mr. Goepner, we should report this. Encode this message.” He looked at his watch. “Time 0651. ‘We have dropped depth charges upon subs operating in defensive sea area.’ Take that below, send immediately. Somebody ought to know about this.”
“Yes, sir!”
Goepner dropped into the radio room, and Outerbridge knew there would be no delay. But then Goepner returned, seemed concerned.
“Sir, I’m not certain that’s the best message. There have been so many false alarms out here, people shooting at every kind of fish. I think maybe we should be more specific. Only if you agree, sir.”
Outerbridge stared out toward the oil slick, the Ward circling slowly. “All right. Do this: ‘We have attacked, fired upon, and dropped depth charges and sunk submarine operating in defensive sea area.’ ”
“I think that’s better, sir.”
“Make sure they go out to the Fourteenth HQ. No delays. I wouldn’t bet that fellow was by himself. He was too small. Where the hell did he come from?”
Goepner went below again, and the helmsman, Seaman Raenbig, was looking at Outerbridge with an odd expression.
“Something wrong, Mr. Raenbig?”
“Um, sir, certainly not. I just thought now that things have calmed down a little bit, you might wish to go below and put on your uniform.”
Outerbridge followed the man’s gaze, looked down. “It seems I may have dressed too quickly. This was to be a gift to my wife, eventually. It was rather dark.”
Raenbig looked again to his post, stared out toward the bow of the ship.
“It is attractive, sir. Can’t say I’ve seen a man wear a kimono before.” Outerbridge could feel the man stifling a laugh. “Of course, sir, you are an officer.”
* * *
—
The messages from the Ward were received by the intended stations. A flurry of conversation and debates eventually reached all the way to the commander in chief, Admiral Kimmel. After long minutes of chewing over the significance of what the Ward claimed to have done, Admiral Bloch, at the headquarters of the Fourteenth, finally made the decision. He ordered that before further action was taken, they would “await further developments.”
THIRTY-THREE
Elliott
OPANA ARMY RADAR SITE, NORTH SHORE, OAHU—SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1941, 7:02 A.M.
“It’s 0700. I’m done. I got letters to write.”
Elliott kept his eyes on the oscilloscope, said, “Yeah, maybe. Could use some fresh coffee. Any idea why they only do these shifts for three hours? Seems funny to shut us down so early. Hell, if you’re gonna train somebody, train ’em when they can stay awake.”
“Hell if I know why they put us out here in the first place. It’s the middle of nowhere. I guess we drew the short straw. Or that captain, Jenks, he’s got it in for me. Six stations, and we’re out in the jungle.”
Elliott laughed. “This whole island is jungle. Even Honolulu. Different kind of jungle, maybe. I’d rather be in San Diego.” He twisted a knob on the oscilloscope, the image on the screen tilting slightly, as though he was squeezing it.
Lockard said, “Don’t do that. Keep the signal straight up and down. More accurate that way, so they tell me.”
Elliott twisted the knob again, then another beside it, the signal sharper. “See, Joe? That’s why we’re out here. So you can teach me stuff. You’re the old pro, and I kinda want to learn this stuff. Captain Jenks told me that this stuff could change the whole world, and if you’re an expert, you could get a hell of a good job someday.”
Lockard leaned in closer to the screen. “You believe him?”
Elliott shrugged. “No idea. But we’re here, and it’s pretty clear that you’re supposed to be teaching me how this gizmo works. Then, maybe you can tell me what the hell we need it for. What happened to using your eyeballs?”
Lockard stood straight, picked up a coffee cup. “Eyeballs don’t work in the dark, or see things miles away. This is the new thing, George. Get used to it. The army’s coming up with all kinds of newfangled gizmos, and not all of them shoot bullets. They sent you up here to learn, and you’re learning, right?”
“Whatever you say, Teacher.”
* * *
—
Private George Elliott had come to the army the year before, a twenty-two-year-old from Chicago. Though not entirely certain just where he belonged, the army had singled him out for training in the new technology of radar, as well as a variety of other electronic tools just being developed. Assigned to the newly constructed radar stations scattered across Oahu, he would serve first as an apprentice, assigned to learn the operation of the new equipment under the tutelage of Private Joseph Lockard, whose experience and expertise was only slightly more advanced than Elliott’s. Lockard’s seniority came from the training he had already received on the radio aircraft detection device at the Opana station. It was designated the SCR-270, a piece of equipment that was, to most eyes, top secret. Lockard and Elliott had been told it could detect an enemy attack well in advance. Since there had never been an enemy attack with the SCR-270 in use, no one actually knew if what the army was doing might just be a waste of time.
On Sunday, General Short’s office had declared that the radar stations were to operate for only a three-hour shift early in the morning, from four to seven. The young men whose job it was to stare into the round screen of the oscilloscope were usually grateful for the brief turn. Sunday morning followed Saturday night, and if any of these men had enjoyed the good fortune of a night on the town, they’d barely slept before manning their post.
* * *
—
“Hey, Joe, it’s after seven. No reason to stick around. I guarantee there isn’t a soul at any of the other stations. Most of those guys are ready to bolt out the door by 0659.”
Lockard stood, stretched, let out a long low groan. “There’s supposed to be a breakfast truck rolling up here. They’re always late. I need some coffee that’s better than this crap—it’s been boiling for an hour. Hang on, I’ll be shutting this thing down in a couple minutes, and I’ll show you how to do it. There are just a few switches.”
Elliott backed his chair away from the screen, said, “Hey, where’s my helmet?”
Lockard moved closer to the unit, said, “You weren’t wearing it. You must already be asleep. Hey, what the hell is that?”
“What?”
