Rising Sun

by Robert Conroy

  Even better, he, Masao Ikeda, was a virgin no more. Three confirmed kills and a possible fourth would tell all his comrades that he was a Japanese warrior.

  * * *

  Amanda cowered in the doorway of an office building while sirens continued to wail. There were many large plate-glass windows and she could visualize explosions sending knifelike splinters into the many hundreds of people running around screaming in panic. She saw a little girl knocked down and trampled. Amanda ran out and got the screaming child. Luckily she was only scared and bruised. A moment later, her sobbing mother took her and ran off. There were no bomb shelters. Of course not, she thought. San Francisco would never be a target despite all the hysteria regarding the possibility of a Japanese invasion. Damn politicians were wrong again, she thought angrily.

  Explosions rocked the area. Bombs seemed to be dropping indiscriminately, which caused even more panic. Which way to run when you didn’t know what was the target? There was no safety. She saw a handful of Japanese planes fly overhead, heading west. They were low enough to see the empty bomb racks. There was a pause but no all-clear signal. After a few minutes, a large number of Japanese fighters headed west and they were followed by an even larger horde of American planes.

  “Shoot the bastards down,” Grace yelled, and others joined in. How dare they bomb a helpless American city! How dare they attack civilians?

  With bombs no longer falling, the panic slowed and ceased. Previously terrified people took a deep breath and regained control. Amanda realized that there appeared to have been very little real damage. She could smell smoke in the distance, but there were no massive conflagrations, and the San Francisco fire department seemed to have the situation under control.

  Amanda dusted herself off. She was thankful that she’d not worn any stockings as her leg was bruised and she’d likely have torn them. Even cotton stockings were rare and nylons almost impossible to find. She shook her head at the inanity of worrying about stockings during an air raid. The sirens decided it was time to sound the all clear.

  “Well, should we find a hospital and volunteer?” asked Sandy.

  They did, and found that their services weren’t needed, that everything was under control. Only a small number had been killed or injured, and most of the injuries had occurred as a result of panic, not the bombing directly. A few dozen people had broken bones and bruises from being shoved and trampled, although few of the injuries seemed serious. A nurse in the emergency room was of the opinion that the bombing raid had been a bust.

  “Police radio said a lot of Jap planes had been shot down. What a shame, huh?” the ER nurse said with a grin.

  “What do we do now?” Grace wondered.

  Amanda smiled. “We do what we planned. We cross the bay to our car and start driving south. On to San Diego!” she laughed, and thought, on to Tim Dane. Ready or not, here we come.

  * * *

  Masao Ikeda landed on the Akagi with empty guns and only fumes in his tanks. The engine actually sputtered as he pulled up on the flight deck. He dismounted from the cockpit to the cheers of his fellow pilots. As he walked by they congratulated him on his kills and that he was no longer a cherry. He laughed and took a moment to swallow a few mouthfuls of rice and half a gallon of water while mechanics refueled the plane and replaced ammunition. There was no time to waste. The American planes that had pursued him and his companions were overhead and fighting with the planes left behind to protect the precious carriers.

  A moment later and Masao was airborne again and dodging among the American planes. He was astonished at the number and variety of Yank fighters. Models included the pitiful P40 and the very rugged P47, along with a couple of types he didn’t recognize. One, with twin tails, looked very interesting and also very lethal.

  The Americans were not interested in dueling with Zeros. Their goal was the carriers, just as it had been the Japanese Navy’s goal back at Midway. They sent enough planes to skirmish with the Japanese cover force and keep them at bay, while torpedo planes and dive bombers attacked the four carriers that made up the Northern Force. The Akagi, Ryuju, Shinyu, and Soryu were arrayed in a square and their antiaircraft guns were killing Americans as they approached.

  Even though Masao hoped and prayed for the best, it was inevitable that some American planes would get through. He watched in horror as a dive bomber dropped its load on the flight deck of his own Akagi, blowing a hole in it and clearly destroying the elevator. Fires erupted but were quickly brought under control. However, no planes would be landing on the Akagi for quite some time.

  Another American plane strafed the Ryuju, starting fires in the bow area as poorly stored fuel ignited. Someone would be severely punished for neglect, he thought. Unless, of course, that the poor person had been immolated, and that would be poetic justice.

  In the meantime, Masao had shot down two more planes, including one of the twin-tailed ones. He wondered just how much longer the Americans could linger over the Japanese fleet before they ran out of gas. The carriers were already more than a hundred and fifty miles offshore, and heading westward at top speed.

  His question was answered when he suddenly realized that there were no more American planes in the air, instead they were dots fading in the distance.

  He’d had a marvelous day and so, he thought, had Japan. They’d avenged the ambush of Admiral Hosogaya’s force in Cook Inlet and bombed the city of San Francisco. But at what price, he found himself wondering as the exhilaration of battle faded and cold reality set in. Had they really won a victory? Two carriers were burning and would be out of the war for months, if not longer. They had not succeeded in bombing the base at Mare Island, and he was certain that the few bombs the Kates had dropped on San Francisco had been too few and too small to be significant.

  He was ordered to land on the Soryu. She and the Shinyu were undamaged. Masao wondered just where they would find room on two carriers to park the planes from four carriers when he realized to his dismay that there would be plenty of room. Victory? Where were the Japanese eagles? Where were his comrades? What kind of price had Japan just paid?

  An angry and frustrated Admiral Yamamoto held court in his quarters on the massive Yamato. Was ultimate victory slipping away? Again he clutched his mangled hand. It was reminding him of his mortality.

  The two men with him were his senior admirals, Takeo Kurita and Chuichi Nagumo. Kurita’s northern force now consisted of only two carriers and escorts, while Nagumo’s southern force included five carriers. It was an imbalance that he would have to correct. He would send the carrier Zuikaku north in partial replacement for the two that had been damaged in the attack on San Francisco.

  “I have radioed my apologies to the emperor for the disaster in Cook Inlet,” Yamamoto said. “Both he and Prime Minister Tojo were polite and consoling, but nothing can change the fact that Cook Inlet was the first defeat the Japanese Navy has suffered in modern times. Our only consolation is that the defeat is a minor one. No carriers or battleships were lost.”

  “Our intelligence failed us,” Nagumo said. “No one expected two American battleships to suddenly appear so far north.”

  “And without air cover,” Kurita added grimly.

  It upset them that the Imperial Japanese Navy possessed overwhelming air superiority but hadn’t used it. Nor had the Americans used any of their air power, including their lone carrier, the Saratoga. They had sent their battleship force naked and vulnerable in an attack that was both bold and unexpected. For the Americans to not use their planes had been an act of desperation, for the Japanese to not use them was an act of stupidity. At least one carrier, even a small one, should have been sent to cover the relief force.

  Yamamoto nodded. “We must accept the fact that the Americans are getting more aggressive. They have great numbers of planes protecting their major areas; therefore, we will not attack large cities again. Our planes and pilots are superior, but the Americans are good enough and can overwhelm our pilots by sheer we
ight of numbers. We will not directly challenge their air fleets again. There are more than enough smaller targets to satisfy our needs and make the Americans squeal. Nor will we use our carriers when we attack them. Instead, we will again use cruisers and destroyers, along with our submarines, to bombard them and bring pain to California and the northern coast.”

  “Then what of the carriers?” Kurita asked. “I hope you’re not suggesting they stand idle.”

  Yamamoto laughed bitterly. “While some of our carriers are looking for the Saratoga, the others will be in reserve and will hopefully be able to ambush overeager Americans.”

  The other two admirals nodded their approval. Carriers and battleships were too valuable to waste in smaller skirmishes. Japanese battle doctrine called for the Japanese fleet to engage major enemy forces in a climactic battle that would end the war. There had been some hope that Pearl Harbor would have accomplished that, but the absence of American carriers there had dashed that hope. Later at Midway, when the American carriers had been sunk, hopes had risen that the Americans would see reason and negotiate an honorable end to the war, one that would see Japan keeping her conquests. Those hopes had ended in disappointment. The Americans were not ready to negotiate and were not going to come out and fight a great battle; therefore, the Japanese fleet must change its strategies.

  Yamamoto continued. “I did not tell the emperor of our losses in the San Francisco attack. After all, we suffered no ships sunk even though the Akagi and Ryuju will be out of action for at least six months, probably longer. And we shot down nearly two hundred American planes, if our pilots can be believed.”

  They all laughed. Even at this late date in the war and with almost all pilots being experienced, they were still prone to unintended exaggerations. For too many, any plane they fired on had to have been destroyed.

  Yamamoto continued. “We lost seventy of our own planes and, of course, their pilots. That is roughly the equivalent of a fleet carrier’s entire flight crew. Replacement planes and pilots will be sent as soon as possible, of course, but it is doubtful that the pilots will be of the caliber of the men we lost. It does not help that our inventory of replacement planes is so small. We simply cannot produce enough planes to replace out losses.”

  “Have we had any success in locating the Saratoga?” Kurita asked. Like so many of his contemporaries, Takeo Kurita was a battleship admiral, but he recognized the need to eliminate the one remaining American carrier. Yamamoto felt that Kurita was not totally a supporter of the war. Well, he had his own doubts as well.

  Yamamoto laughed. “No, and perhaps she too is back in Shangri-La.”

  The others laughed as well and then grew somber. “What about our forces in Alaska?” inquired Nagumo. “Admiral Hosogaya and the survivors of the defeat have joined with Colonel Yamasaki’s army forces and are moving toward the Alaskan city of Fairbanks.”

  Yamamoto shook his head sadly. “For the time being they are on their own. The Americans are doubtless building airfields at several locations and will soon be able to bomb Yamasaki’s forces at will, as well as being able to inflict too much damage on any forces attempting to relieve or evacuate them. In short, our forces in Alaska are doomed. I have spoken with Prime Minister Tojo and he understands the situation. He is confident that Colonel Yamasaki and his men will fight on to the end as true Japanese warriors and will honor the code of bushido.”

  Yamamoto scowled. “In the meantime, we must double and redouble our efforts to find that one remaining carrier. She and her escorts must be sunk if we are to continue with our position of strength. We must put pressure on all our intelligence resources to find her.”

  More likely, he thought, she was no longer in the Pacific. He had to find out one way or the other. If the Saratoga had moved to the relative safety of the Atlantic, so be it. But if she was somewhere within striking range, she had to be destroyed, if only as a symbolic gesture.

  CHAPTER 12

  LIEUTENANT STEVE FARRIS WAS HOT, TIRED, AND DIRTY. AS A result of the train crash, the army’s duties had expanded to patrolling roads and railroad tracks, along with keeping track of who was using the beaches of the area. Some of his men wondered why, since it was announced that the crash was merely a tragic accident, but Farris knew better and some of his men suspected the truth. His uncle had quietly and confidentially told him that it had indeed been sabotage, and that there had been several other minor incidents as well. Nobody’d been hurt and damage had been minimal in the other incidents, and it was not definite that it had been the same person or persons as those who’d derailed the freight train.

  Both the navy and the army decided that the rail lines would be patrolled, and a several-mile stretch of tracks was now the responsibility of Lytle’s recon company, with Farris’s platoon having its own section to patrol.

  Farris initially thought he’d exercise his prerogatives as an officer and ride in a jeep while others actually walked the tracks in the hot sun, but two things changed his mind. First, the tracks did not run parallel to most roads, which meant that he would at times be a long ways from his men and, second, it didn’t seem right that he would be in relative comfort while his men hiked. Sometimes he thought it was hell to have both a conscience and a sense of responsibility. But if he didn’t, then he’d be just like his prick of a company commander.

  Stecher was back at camp with one squad, while the third patrolled the beaches. Another reason for taking a hands-on approach was the fact that this squad’s leader, Sergeant Adamski, was a tall raw-boned kid from Chicago who’d recently gotten his third stripe. Farris wanted to see how the young buck sergeant operated with a number of men, many of whom were older than he was. So far, so good, he thought. Nobody seemed to be taking advantage of the young sergeant.

  Farris let Adamski take the lead while he brought up the rear. It was a pleasant though warm day and the scenery was pretty. As tail end, he could dawdle and enjoy the view as well as observe his men. The sun was shining brightly, so the mountains in the distance could be seen clearly. One of these days he thought he’d like to go hiking or camping up one of them. The only times he’d slept in a tent were while bivouacking during basic and OCS, and that hadn’t been fun at all. He’d only fished a couple of times in his life and thought he might like to try that as well. Then he thought that cleaning and cooking fish might be a little more than he wished to take on.

  Farris also thought it would be nice to camp out with a real live girl and maybe both get naked in a sleeping bag. Maybe she would even clean and cook the fish he would catch. Damn, it had been a long time since he’d even talked to an attractive and single young woman. He thought it funny that the enlisted men were certain that young officers like him got all the women they could handle.

  Sure. The army was sexless and monastic, and he was in command of forty horny young guys, including himself. He’d heard that there were whores in town and really cheap hookers down across the border in Tijuana, but there was no way he was going to take a chance on getting the clap and fucking up his life. He laughed at his pun and wondered if he’d be young enough to start a family when the war finally ended. If the pressure got too bad, he could always resort to Rosie Palm or Mother Five-fingers if he had to, but it hadn’t gotten that bad yet. Jesus, what if he ever got caught playing with himself? A couple kids had gotten caught and became objects of scorn and ridicule.

  “Lieutenant! Come quick!”

  Adamski was standing over the tracks and the rest of his men had scattered. Farris ran up and looked down on the tracks.

  “Oh, shit,” Farris said. “Is that what I think it is?”

  A small device sat over the rail and it was connected to a box underneath. If it wasn’t a bomb, it would do until a real one came along. He checked his watch. According to the schedule he’d gotten, a large freight train was due to pass by in less than an hour.

  He sent the sergeant and a couple of men up the tracks to try and wave down the train if they had to. He radioed the
captain and was told he was unavailable, which meant he was too drunk to answer the call.

  “Damn it,” he muttered as he fumbled for a piece of paper he’d been given by his Uncle Tim. A phone number had been written on it, and Farris had one of his brighter troops climb a telephone pole and tap into a line. He called and an FBI agent named Harris responded and said he’d get the train stopped and would be there as quickly as possible.

  Harris said that Steve should not touch the device. “Don’t you worry,” Farris said.

  The soldier up the telephone pole called out and pointed. A dark-colored Ford station wagon was pulling into a dirt road a mile or so away, and it looked like one of those with wooden paneling.

  An hour later, Harris drove up in a civilian car and showed his credentials. A few moments later, a navy sedan arrived and Dane emerged.

  “Glad you called me right away instead of trying to get through channels,” Harris said.

  Farris smiled. “Channels were sort of interrupted.”

  Harris nodded. “I understand. Your CO’s an asshole. Your uncle said you were smart and he was right. You did the correct thing.”

  “We’ll take care of Lytle later,” Dane said, acknowledging that it was touchy for a navy officer to complain about an army equivalent.

  A couple of army trucks arrived and half a dozen men climbed down. Harris explained that they were ordnance experts who were skilled in demolitions. Hopefully, they could disarm the bomb, if it was a bomb.

  “On the off chance they can’t and something bad happens,” Harris said, “let’s say we get a few hundred yards away where we can’t be hurt if it goes off. Of course, the bomb disposal guys would be fucked, but that’s life.”