by Peter Albano
“Please, Commander,” Toda’s voice trembled. “This isn’t necessary.”
“I’m afraid it is. You see, I’m particularly interested in the Aleutians and Bering Sea area.”
“But what in the world could Colonel Muira — Unit Seven-Three-One have to do with the north Pacific?”
“They experimented with bacteriological warfare, Doctor.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Balloon-carried bacteria, Doctor, in ceramic pods. These pods were designed to carry infected rats by balloon to the West Coast of the United States.”
“You suspect bases were established in the north Pacific somewhere, Commander? Why is this important now? It’s been so long.”
“I don’t know why it’s important. I have been instructed to interrogate Colonel Daisuke Muira — see if he can assist.”
The old doctor placed his palms on his desk, shook his head. “The man’s not even coherent. But if you wish … ” He gestured to the door.
*
The maximum security room was tiny, windowless, and barren of furniture. Strapped to a mattress in the middle of the floor was a shriveled old man: thin, hairless, with black eyes that glowed from dark hollows like holes burned in parchment. A green smock covered his body; a steel padlocked belt held him to the mattress.
Standing between Doctor Toda and Noriko Kuwahara, Randall said, “I didn’t know he was this bad.”
Doctor Toda spoke in a flat, professional tone. “Brain damage from toxic gases. It happened over four decades ago.”
Randall sighed, “Lord.” And then he turned to Toda. “You called him ‘the ice man.’ Why?”
“I think he will tell you, Commander.”
Randall returned his eyes to the mattress. The scabrous face was turned toward him, fire glinting in the two dark hollows. The eyes moved down his blue uniform to his black shoes and then back to the American’s face. Silence. Randall shifted his weight from one foot to another. The furrowed flesh cracked with a smile — a smile that seemed to hint at recognition of someone else at a distant time, far, far away. Then the voice, flat, airy, rustling like falling leaves, “The ice — the ice. It will come from the ice. The seventh one.” Saliva ran from his lips, dripped off his chin. Then smiling, the old head turned away. The frail old body convulsed.
“He’s laughing, Doctor.”
Hiroke Toda looked up at the American silently. The hatred was undisguised.
*
“Gentlemen,” Adm. Hiroshi Fujita said with zeal that lifted decades from his shoulders, “the signal to attack Pearl Harbor, ‘Climb Mount Niitaka,’ was transmitted on two December, 1941. We will execute Operation Z in less than fourteen hours.”
There were shouts of “Banzai” from three officers standing at attention, facing his desk: the tall, youthful Cmdr. Masao Shimizu flanked by two short, elderly officers. Behind the admiral, Cmdr. Masao Kawamoto — pointer in hand — stood at a huge chart of Oahu mounted below the emperor’s picture. The communications men were at their posts, Hironaka seated with pad and pencil.
Fujita spoke, “At 0600 tomorrow morning, we will be at launch point, longitude 1S8 degrees west, latitude 24 degrees, 30 minutes north, approximately four hundred kilometers north of Pearl Harbor.”
More shouts of “Banzai.” Fujita raised a hand. “All of you are acquainted with Operation Z as planned by Commander Kameto Kuroshima and — ” he nodded — “Commander Masao Shimizu.” Nods were returned. “But you are the flight leaders, and we must review our plans before you brief your men at 0400 tomorrow morning.” The admiral hunched forward. “We will execute the plan almost exactly as originally designed — launch point is the same, estimated time of arrival over target, 0800, the same. But Admiral Naguma had Kaga, Akagi, Hiryu, Soryu, Shokaku, and Zuikaku in Kido Butai. And I am sure you know he had an escort of two battleships, three cruisers, nine destroyers and twenty-four I-class submarines posted around Oahu.”
“We have Yonaga,” Kawamoto shouted.
“Banzai” resounded.
Again Fujita quelled the bedlam with a raised hand. “True. With our Yamato damashii, we can scale any peak.”
“Even Mount Niitaka,” Shimizu said softly.
Fujita rushed on. “The original attack was delivered by 360 aircraft in two strikes; we will send 94 in one. Nine Zeros will remain with Yonaga as CAP.” He drummed the table. “Because of our reduced numbers, we will devise tactics to confuse the enemy — attack from all points of the compass.” He moved his gaze to the officer on Shimizu’s right. “Lieutenant Araki, you will detach five of your Aichis to dive bomb and strafe the strip at Kaneohe. Lead the remaining thirty-one south, low over the Koolau Mountains. Then you will detach five for Wheeler, five for Ewa, and five more for Hickam.” Kawamoto moved the pointer.
“The orders have already been given, Admiral,” Araki said.
The admiral went on as if Araki had said nothing, fists clenched on the desk, obviously reciting something that had played in his mind many times. “That will leave you with seventeen bombers: seven horizontal bombers with our special fourteen-inch AP naval shells which are to be dropped from no higher than four thousand meters and ten dive bombers armed with our usual 370-kilogram bombs — release altitude no higher than five hundred meters.”
“I understand, Admiral. No change from the tactics of 1941.”
The admiral’s eyes flashed to the bald, shriveled little man on Shimizu’s left. “Lieutenant Toyofuku, once Oahu is sighted, lead all thirty of your Nakajimas in a wide swing to the west. Come in low over the Navy Yard and Submarine Base from the south.” He gestured over his shoulder. Kawamoto moved the pointer. Toyofuku leaned forward, squinting.
Fujita continued. “You can line up on Southeast Loch and be in perfect position to torpedo any vessels moored to Ford Island. Our last intelligence indicated the Americans like to moor heavy vessels here.” Kawamoto moved the pointer horizontally just south of Ford Island.
“Battleship Row, Admiral,” Toyofuku said.
Although every man had studied the plan for years, they all nodded as if hearing new information, savoring every detail.
Fujita said, “Correct, Lieutenant. And remember, the harbor is only fifteen meters deep. Drop your torpedoes from no higher than thirty meters. Our special fins will keep them shallow, but high drops could still send them into the mud. Do not waste any on mud; we want steel.”
“Understood sir,” Toyofuku snapped.
The admiral’s eyes found the tall fighter pilot. “Commander Shimizu, you are our flight commander — the most important man on this mission.”
Shimizu stood rigidly, tight jaw pinching the hollow cheeks even more. “Three of your Zeros will cover Araki’s attack on Kaneohe and three each to his attacks on Hickam, Wheeler, and Ewa.”
The admiral moved his eyes to Lieutenant Araki. “We can spare no more.”
“Understood, sir,” the bomber commander said.
And then to Shimizu, “Your men are to give top cover at the airfields. Strafe only if no enemy fighters are in the air. Understood?”
“Understood, Admiral.”
“And Commander Shimizu, you will be left with twenty-three Zeros. As planned, take them to four thousand meters and maintain top cover over Pearl Harbor.” He paused, breathed deeply. Struck the desk with a single bony fist, moved from Araki to Toyofuku. “And do not forget your radio silence. It can only be broken by Commander Shimizu. You know he will transmit, ‘Tora, tora, tora,’ if surprise is complete. But surprise or not, the attack will be pressed home.”
Again, a chorus of “Banzais” stopped by the raised hands.
“You know our target priorities — carriers first.” The men nodded. Silence. The old man drummed on the desk. “The New Jersey,” he mused, “according to American radio, she should be there.”
The officers looked at each other. Murmured. Smiled. This was new information.
“Get the New Jersey,” the admiral spat. “She is of our generation
. Their broadcasts have told of her slaughter of our comrades on Ponape, Saipan, Tinian, Majuro, the Philippines, even the home islands.”
“But we know this cannot be true,” Araki said.
Silence. “It makes no difference, Lieutenant. The Americans believe this and gloat. This indignity is unacceptable to samurai. We cannot escape our sacred traditions — the thirst for the vengeance of the forty-seven ronin — the code of bushido — the knowledge that a man can travel, as every man here has, to the most remote byway on Earth, and still not be able to lay aside his heritage and sail away from it.”
The officers pounded each other, shouting, “Tenno heika banzai!”
The shouts of “Long live the emperor,” brought a smile to Fujita’s face. For a long moment, he remained silent while the bedlam continued. Again, the raised hands. The officers stood rigidly.
Fujita’s voice was a drumbeat. “And Emperor Meiji showed us how to live — how to die with his immortal rescript … ”
The communications men leaped to their feet, Hiroshi pushed himself erect. Every man raised a clenched fist, shouting in unison, “Death is light as a feather, duty is as heavy as a mountain.” Then more shouts of “Tenno heika banzai!” Not one face was free of tears.
*
Ted Ross had expected to find the sick bay on the second deck, but instead his guards led him to a large compartment near the aft end. Entering the room, he noticed not more than twenty bunks, stacked in pairs two deep from the bulkheads. In the center of the room, there was a desk surrounded by cabinets filled with medications. A white-clad orderly sat at the desk while another stood over a patient. Every face was ravaged by time. Even the orderlies were bent and shriveled.
Ross realized this was not the usual sick bay. In fact, it had the appearance of a geriatrics ward. Glancing around at the white walls, the American guessed he was probably in old chief petty officers’ quarters. Most of the old chiefs had probably died and their quarters converted to a dying place for old men.
The wraith at the desk turned, fixed Ross with rheumy eyes, and pointed a bent finger at a corner. There, flat on his back in the only detached bunk, Trigger saw Todd Edmundson. Ross looked to his guards. Both slouched against the bulkhead just inside the door. One nodded. Ted moved to his seaman’s side, sat on the mattress, and leaned over him. The young man was unfettered but appeared sedated. The eyes cracked open.
“Captain. Thank God you’re here,” the young man said slowly. “How did you get away?”
“I didn’t, Todd. Admiral Fujita gave me five minutes.”
Todd’s eyes widened. “The devil.” The head came off the pillow. “We’re almost there.”
“Easy, Todd. Today’s the sixth. It’ll be tomorrow.”
“Oh, Lord.” And then with new alertness, “Where am I?”
“In the sick bay.”
“Where on the ship?”
“Aft, on the island, looks like old chief petty officers’ quarters. Their main sick bay must be down below.”
“They’re keeping us away from the hangar deck.”
Trigger nodded. “And they’re watching us very closely.” His eyes moved over Todd’s face. “You feel better!” It was more of an opinion than a question.
Edmundson released his breath audibly. “They gave me a jolt of something. I’ve been sleeping.”
Suddenly, both men turned their heads as a bulkhead-mounted speaker came to life, filling the room with the sounds of ukuleles. Old heads came from pillows, turned, stared, smiled. There was an excited murmur.
“What is it, Captain?”
Suddenly, the music stopped and a smooth voice announced, “This is KIKI, Honolulu’s favorite radio station.”
“No,” Todd shouted. “It can’t be.”
Trigger placed a hand on the seaman’s shoulder. “Easy, Todd.” Then some voices sang a ditty about toothpaste, and the music resumed. But there was another sound, cheers — wild, frantic cheers screamed by over two thousand voices from the foretop to the engine room. And in the compartment, the old men raised their heads, a few propping themselves on elbows and croaking joyfully like old frogs.
Suddenly, the music stopped. All eyes turned to the silent speaker. A single brittle voice began to sing. Ross recognized Fujita’s voice. The guards and orderlies came to attention. Two patients slipped from their bunks and staggered erect. Fire burned in every eye.
“What is it, Captain?”
“It’s their anthem. They made me learn it when I was a POW.” He began to chant with a dull, frightening, faraway look in his eyes, “Corpses drifting swollen in the sea depths, corpses rotting in the mountain grass. We shall die, we shall die for the emperor. We shall never look back.”
Then the singing swelled. First, Fujita was joined by the old men in the compartment and then by hundreds of voices pouring into the room through the speaker, the vent, through the steel itself. And the singing was in perfect unison as if rehearsed for decades. Over and over the refrain pounded the Americans’ ears.
Suddenly, Todd reached down to the deck between his bunk and the bulkhead. Then he came erect, holding a crude crucifix made from the two rulers Ross had found in their compartment.
Holding the cross high over his head, he shouted, “You can never defeat Jesus. Never! Never! Never!”
But only Trigger could hear him over the bedlam.
*
Seated at his desk, facing three seated visitors, Rear Adm. Mark Allen, Capt. Mason Avery and Ensign Brent Ross, Cmdr. Craig Bell fingered a dossier, first raising it from his desk and then thumbing it downward as if convinced enough pressure would force it through the solid oak and out of existence.
“What we are about to discuss is top secret,” the commander said. And then to the admiral, “We will need your expertise, sir; that’s why I requested your attendance.”
Mark Allen raised an eyebrow but remained silent. Mason Avery glanced at Allen — a glance burning with hostility that had separated the two since Allen had wooed Keiko Morimoto and married her in a Tokyo chapel in 1954. Madly in love with the Japanese beauty, Avery had never married or forgiven.
Mason turned to Craig Bell, “Where’s the cryptographer?” he asked derisively. “Looking for her Rosetta stone?” Brent Ross stirred restlessly. Squared his shoulders.
“They’re making progress with Fox-Blue-Able, Captain,” Bell answered. “They may have found a priming key.”
Avery nodded. Glanced at the dossier. “Well, Commander, what’s the big secret about?”
Bell spat his words like a man who had bitten rotten fruit. “A wrecked Zero was found on Tagatu Island this morning.”
“Sir,” Brent said, suddenly coming to life. “You kept it from me.”
“Of course. Everyone — pending verification.”
“Verification of what? What’s the big deal with secrecy?” Avery said. “World War II hardware turns up all the time all over the Pacific.”
“But not pilots,” Bell said.
“Pilots?” Mark Allen said.
Mason Avery raised a hand. “What’s so unusual about a skeleton? There are plenty of them all over the Pacific. Tell that Jap bone-picker on Attu. He’ll bake it and send it home.”
“This pilot,” Bell continued, “was seventy-five years old and had been dead for two days — not forty years.”
Ross sighed, muttering, “I knew it. I knew it.” Mark Allen’s eyes narrowed, but before he could speak, Avery groaned, “No, no — they can’t — couldn’t — my God, are you sure?”
Brent Ross turned to Mason Avery and said in a flat voice, “There’s your hardware.”
“His age,” Avery said, regaining his composure and ignoring the ensign. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because we’ve identified him as Commander Susumu Aoshima. Here are a few high points of his career.” Bell pulled a sheet from the dossier and spoke in a rapid-fire monotone, “Born 1908 — graduated from Eta Jima in 1930 — qualified in pursuits in 1932 — served in China
in ’38 and ’39 — scored three kills, two Illusian Sixteens and one P-Forty — died four December 1983 of an apparent heart attack, not from the effects of the crack-up.” He stopped, eyes moving over stunned faces. “In 1940, he was sent on special assignment to the Army’s Unit Seven-Three-One — you’ve all heard of that outfit.” The men nodded. “And then he vanished.”
“You must have more,” Avery said, voice a trifle unsteady.
“We’ve only been on this since this morning,” Craig Bell said. “Naval Intelligence, Tokyo, has done a great job — come up with some interesting data in spite of the fact huge amounts of military records were destroyed by air raids or by Japanese officers at the end of the war.” He tugged at his chin. “They tried to destroy all evidence relevant to Seven-Three-One’s activities. But we do know, in addition to Commander Susumu Aoshima, 130 of Japan’s finest naval aviators were assigned to the unit in 1941. But damn it.” He slapped the desk. “We have nothing else. None of this stuff is computerized. They had to dig it out by hand.”
“How do you intend to handle this?” Avery asked.
“I’m calling for a staff meeting for 0800 tomorrow morning. I’ll personally coordinate a search of naval documents in Tokyo, Washington, and London, even Moscow, if possible. Also, we’ve intensified sea and air searches of the Aleutians. I intend to turn in a full report to the Chief of Naval Operations by eight December.”
Mark Allen pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. “I was handed this message as I left my office.” He held the paper up. “We — ” he nodded to Brent Ross — “have been doing a little investigating of our own.”
“Your friend,” Brent said, eagerly, “Commander Keith … ah — ”
“Commander Keith Randall, Brent.” Mark Allen moved his eyes from Mason Avery to Craig Bell. “Keith Randall interviewed a surviving officer of Unit Seven-Three-One.”
