Fatal 5

by Karin Kaufman

  # # #

  Across town, Nigel Avery walked carefully down the wooden steps of Jack’s apartment after gently closing the screen door. Today he was a termite inspector, gray overalls, baseball cap with the company logo, the whole bit. He enjoyed the irony; instead of making bugs go away, he was installing them. But it was a good daytime cover. If anyone asked, he was sorry, he just had the wrong house. He knew Jack was giving a lecture at the University right now, and that would give him plenty of time.

  He was less sure anything would come of it. There was still nothing to show for all his time with the Professor. As he slipped across the street into his van, he looked back at the place. What a dump. He had done some checking into Turner’s story. It didn’t make sense, a guy with Turner’s money and position staying at a place like that.

  After looking at his watch he drove off toward downtown to grab an early lunch.

  19

  When Jack returned to his apartment later that night, he had to admit the dinner with Thornton hadn’t gone that badly. The Professor seemed in a much better mood, full of superlatives about Jack’s lecture that day, the angles Jack had taken about the risks of the Doolittle mission versus its gains. They had talked like peers.

  A few nights ago, Jack had wondered if Thornton had become resentful of his success. If so, no signs of it tonight. And the food was delicious. Once again, Thornton had served white zinfandel, and had given Jack another fresh bottle to take home. Jack left shortly after dinner. Thornton said he understood. Besides, he had an important phone call to make.

  Maybe Jack should give this second bottle to Rachel. After class that afternoon, he got the feeling she’d hoped they might have lunch together, but he felt the need to make a dent in his book. He had made some progress before getting ready to leave for dinner.

  At the moment, Jack was sitting in the stuffed armchair of his apartment living room, holding a new book Thornton had given him at dinner. It was a pictorial essay about the Doolittle Raid, published earlier in the year. It was supposed to include a number of previously unpublished photos, provided by a widow of one of the sailors on board the USS Hornet, the aircraft carrier used to escort Doolittle’s bombers to Japan.

  He took a sip of coffee and opened the book. It was one of those over-sized, coffee table affairs, big on pictures, short on text. But he didn’t care. In no time at all he was drawn in. He reread the highlights of the mission, the personal accounts of some of the survivors. The first set of pictures showed each of Doolittle’s sixteen crews on the Hornet’s deck, just days before the raid. Each five-man crew had taken their turn, standing proudly in front of a B-25 Mitchell, the bomber used in the raid.

  As Jack stared at the men’s faces, his thoughts turned toward those who didn’t make it back, the ones killed or captured. A list at the end of the chapter paid tribute to these fallen heroes. Jack went back and forth, comparing the list to the faces in the group photos. It struck him how young they were, full of confidence and courage, standing there smiling at the camera without a care in the world. They had no idea this trip would not go as planned. They wouldn’t be having that party in Chunking Colonel Doolittle had promised. Some would shortly fall into the hands of the Japanese and be tortured and starved for the duration of the war. Others would be cruelly beheaded. Some would die as their B-25’s sputtered out of fuel in mid-air or crashed into the sea. The survivors would never view life quite the same.

  But not on the day of these pictures. Here they were all alive and well. A team united against a common foe, ready to risk everything for their country. He knew he should put the book down and work on his book, but he didn’t want to stop.

  Even after downing two cups of coffee, though, Jack found himself nodding off to sleep. He tried fighting it with a glass of Diet Coke, but it didn’t work. He could hardly keep his eyes open. He finally surrendered, got up, turned out the lights, and turned in.

  He was fast asleep before the clock struck ten.

  # # #

  Jack awoke to a low rumbling sound, a sound that didn’t belong.

  It seemed to fill the darkened room. He felt the sensation of his bed swaying slowly and gently beneath him. His mattress was harder than usual, bowing a little in the center, like a hammock. His soft, cottony comforter felt more like a scratchy woolen blanket. Occasionally, he heard a creaking metal sound.

  He opened his eyes, squinting at first. They adjusted to a dim red glow coming from somewhere below him in the center of the room. He had the strange sensation the ceiling was just inches above his head. Reaching out his fingertips, he felt a thick canvas-like material. It was hard and curved from one side to the other.

  Oh, God, he thought, where am I now? He pounded twice on the surface above him to see if it would give way.

  “O-o-w!” someone yelled. “Geez, Jack. What’d you do that for?”

  Jack froze. Not again.

  “It took me forever to fall asleep,” the voice said.

  “I’m sorry,” Jack replied. “I, uh—”

  “Save it for the Japs. I’m on your side.”

  The Japs again. I’m back in World War II. Oh, God, no.

  He panned the room. It was larger than his bedroom, big enough to hold fifteen or twenty bunks, stacked in threes. Definitely not the barracks at Hickam field. Okay, slow down. Get it together. This is just a dream. Somehow, it’s happening again. But it’s only a dream.

  “You say something, Jack?” the voice from above inquired.

  He must have been thinking aloud. But what difference should that make? This wasn’t really happening. He was asleep. There wasn’t anybody above him. None of this was real, just a figment of his overactive imagination.

  “What’s the matter, Jack? Can’t sleep?” the voice asked, pausing briefly for Jack’s response. “Now that we’re getting close to the target, I’m the same way.”

  He wanted to ask what target.

  “Jack?” the voice persisted.

  “No, I can’t sleep,” Jack said. He was talking to a phantom, but it seemed impolite not to answer.

  “Whatta you think about all this?” the voice whispered. “Think we’re gonna make it?”

  What should he say?

  “It’s okay, Jack, you don’t wanna talk about it. I keep trying to put it outta my mind, too. I was doing pretty good when we first got on this tub, but the last couple a nights…knowing tomorrow night’s the big night and all. I guess it’s startin’ to get to me.”

  Jack just listened.

  “It’s not I’m afraid. You know? Not like I want to back out or nothing. When I heard we were hitting Tokyo I was as excited as everybody else. But after hearing the Colonel talk about some of us not coming home, and that Navy lieutenant telling us what to expect from the Japs if we’re captured…I realized that could be me. You know? That could be me not coming home.”

  Tokyo? Bunks, swaying bed? It had to be…

  Somehow he was on the Doolittle Raid to Tokyo.

  20

  Jack wondered how he could possibly be aboard the USS Hornet, back in April of 1942. The video and lecture this morning. The book he was reading tonight.

  “You don’t wanna talk, Jack. That’s okay.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Jack said. But would they be fine? It was already becoming difficult to remember he was dreaming. The fear and danger he was starting to feel, the uncertainty, was so real.

  “Would you guys cut out the racket?” an angry voice yelled from across the room.

  “Yeah!” another said. “Prima-donna flyboys.”

  Suddenly, the silhouette of an upside down face and head appeared from above. “Since you can’t sleep and I can’t, what say we go topside, get some fresh air?”

  “I say—do it,” groaned one of the others.

  “All right,” Jack whispered. “You lead the way.”

  The young man flipped over, landed on the floor with a thump, then walked down the aisle toward the far end of the room, fading into
the darkness. Jack slid off trying not to step on the sailor below and followed after his dream friend. He found him sitting on a bench getting dressed and found a locker and uniform with his own name on it.

  The uniform was similar to the one he wore at Pearl. Then he remembered: Doolittle’s men were also in the Army Air Force. They had come aboard this navy carrier bunking down with the sailors for the two-week trip out to the target area. The mission was intended to be a payback for Pearl Harbor. Everyone knew sixteen bombers could hardly even the score for the damage caused by hundreds of Japanese planes. This was intended to be a moral victory, like a punch in the nose. The Japanese government had vowed to its citizens that American planes would never attack the home islands.

  As Jack dressed, he started figuring out some other things. That he was bunking in a compartment with so many men meant he was not an officer. As an enlisted man, Jack was probably an engineer/gunner. He finished dressing as his new friend made his way out of the room, ducking under the low-hanging doorway. Jack put on a brown leather flight jacket and quickly followed.

  The hallway provided a little better visibility. Jack saw his imaginary friend clearly now. He had a boyish face and energetic smile, wore an odd khaki-colored baseball cap, pulled tightly over his head. He was a few inches shorter than Jack, slender and well built. Jack couldn’t readily identify him from any of the photographs in the Doolittle book he’d read. He read the name on his jacket: Fitzmaurice, Sgt. Donald. The name sounded familiar. He knew he’d read something about him.

  “You ready?” Fitzmaurice asked.

  “I’ll follow you.”

  The two walked down a wide hallway with a low ceiling, covered with white hoses and pipes. At either end were oval hatchways with thick steel doors hanging open to one side. Beyond the hatchways, the halls went on for a full city block both ways, dotted every fifty or sixty feet by dim lights fixed to the ceiling. Without breaking stride, Fitzmaurice ducked his head through the first hatchway. Jack followed carefully. He eyed a steep ladder connecting to the deck above.

  “With the kind of schedule we’ve been keeping lately,” Fitzmaurice said, “you’d think I’d be dogged tired right now. But I’m wide awake.”

  “Me, too,” Jack said. He followed Fitzmaurice up the ladder steps. He was just about to climb to a third deck when Jack halted. Through a hatchway to his left, he caught a glimpse of the hangar deck. “Hey, Fitz. Hold up!”

  Jack stepped into the hangar deck and stood mesmerized, drawn by the irresistible sight of dozens of vintage Navy planes, all in mint condition. Wildcats, Devastators and Dauntlesses were crowded together, their wings folded to conserve space. A small group of men in gray jumpsuits were strapping down five-hundred pound bombs on dollies. Jack heard the whirling sound of a large elevator drop out of the ceiling. When it stopped, four men hurried off with empty dollies, replaced by four others with full ones. The elevator rose. Jack realized this flurry of activity was for their mission to Tokyo.

  “What’s up, Jack?” Fitzmaurice asked, finally catching up.

  “Huh? Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just…” Jack stumbled for words. How could he tell Fitzmaurice he’d never seen planes like this before and just wanted to stand here a few minutes taking it in?

  “Gawkin’ at these Navy birds? They ain’t nothin’ compared to what we got!”

  “No. It’s just…I realized all these bombs are for us, for our mission.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Fitzmaurice said. “Hard to think every one of those bombs are going to explode in a million pieces tomorrow. Hopefully they’ll blow up a lot of Japs along with them.”

  Jack looked at Fitzmaurice, so young and naive. He had no idea what to expect, but Jack knew almost every detail.

  “If we hurry we can catch the sun coming up. The last one we’ll see on the ocean for a while. Tomorrow we’ll watch her come up in China!”

  Jack looked at his watch. It was 6:15am. He tried to recall the exact time everything would start breaking loose. He followed Fitzmaurice back to the stairs. After passing through several more decks, they came out a hatchway into the chilly morning air.

  The wind was strong out on deck. The dark sky had begun to fade as the sun pushed its way into the day. Jack looked toward the rear of the ship and saw the outlines of the sixteen B-25 Mitchells bunched together. Both men huddled against the wall of the carrier’s island as the wind baptized them in a biting spray of saltwater.

  “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” Fitzmaurice yelled, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Let’s go up the island a few more decks, get out of this mist.”

  “I’ll go where you go.”

  Further up, the wind was still raging, but at least they escaped the saltwater bath. “I’m gonna miss this ol’ crate, you know?” Fitzmaurice said. “I never thought when I joined the Air Force I’d ever be out to sea on a carrier. I’m gonna have some stories to tell my kids, when I have them. Lieutenant Hallmark said this mission’s gonna be one for the books. It’ll be something to say we was on it. Won’t it?”

  Hallmark…Hallmark. That name rang a bell.

  “Wouldn’t it be great,” continued Fitzmaurice, gazing toward the horizon, “if we got to shoot down a Zero or two?”

  Jack remembered from reading the book last night. Lieutenant Dean Hallmark. Flight number six. That’s one of the crews that gets captured. That’s where he’d heard of Fitzmaurice. Jack looked at his gleaming face. A young warrior all ready for battle, a battle Jack now knew would be his first and last. He was one of the seven who died in the raid. Lieutenant Hallmark was his pilot. Their plane would ditch just off the China coast in a storm. Two of the crew, Fitzmaurice and another man, were so seriously injured they couldn’t swim out of the surf. The three remaining men, all officers, would be captured. Two of them would die at the hands of the Japanese; one would just barely survive four years as a POW.

  A sinking depression overcame him.

  “You all right, Jack?”

  “No, I’m fine. It’s just like you said. Knowing this is the big day.”

  “You mean big night,” corrected Fitzmaurice.

  No, big day, thought Jack. Fitzmaurice was technically correct. The original plan called for the bombers to lift off the deck later that night when the task force would be within four hundred miles of Tokyo. The Mitchells had to be this close to ensure they’d have enough fuel to land safely on mainland China after dropping their bombs.

  Jack knew history recorded a different scenario.

  “Big night if we’re lucky,” Jack said.

  “Whatta you talking about?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that being, what, six hundred miles away from Japan now, it’s possible we’ll get spotted before nightfall and have to launch sooner, that’s all.”

  “Hope you’re wrong,” Fitzmaurice said. “We’re gonna be tight for gas as it is.”

  Jack decided, at least for now, not to divulge any of his inside information. It didn’t seem to alter anything in his last dream, and he didn’t see what good could come of it now. He looked down at the crowded bombers below.

  B-25’s were land-based bombers better than twice the size of an average carrier plane. They looked so out of place on the carrier deck, like a teenager riding on a tricycle. As his eyes traced the distance from the first bomber to the bow of the ship, he was amazed that any of these big birds got airborne, let alone all of them. He wondered which plane was supposed to be his.

  “You hungry, Jack? I think we can hit the chow line now if we want.”

  Jack looked at his watch. Twenty minutes had passed. Jack knew the action would begin early that morning. The Navy spotters would see a Japanese trawler, and the big plan would immediately fall apart. He thought it happened around 7:45. “Sure. I’m game,” he replied.

  “You’re what?”

  “Uh, sure. Let’s go eat.”

  The galley was one deck below the sleeping quarters. All of shiny glistening steel. It was noisy, the lights were too bri
ght, food in massive quantities were piled high in metal tubs, sleepy young men stood bumper to bumper pushing trays along a narrow shelf. A big-bellied guy in a sleeveless T-shirt sloshed scrambled eggs down on metal plates in between puffs of a bent cigarette dangling from his mouth.

  Jack looked down at the food on his platter. It was a better looking than the food at Hickam Field. Besides the eggs, which looked real, there was a healthy stack of pancakes and four links of sausage. It even smelled good.

  “Dig in,” Fitzmaurice said, “starting tomorrow it’s rice, rice, and more rice.”

  Jack began to eat. It even tasted good. He didn’t stop to think it was just dream food. Other things brewed in his mind. It was almost 7:00am. He had forty-five minutes to uncover which plane and flight crew were his.

  “Say Jack, how did your guns work yesterday in the test? Any problems with the turret? Thatcher said his were stickin’. He can’t get the turret to spin without auxiliary power from the cockpit.”

  Thatcher, thought Jack. He remembered Thatcher. He was Ted Lawson’s engineer/gunner. Lawson wrote the book-turned-movie, “Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo.” The movie that starred Spencer Tracy and Van Johnson.

  “Uh…no problems,” Jack said. “Everything seemed to be working fine.”

  “Lieutenant Hallmark said he wanted me to go over every inch of that plane again, being our last full day. You get the same from Manch?”

  Lieutenant Manch—that was Jack’s answer. “Uh, yeah. Sure did. Going to be a busy day.” Jack must be the engineer/gunner in Manch’s crew. Jack remembered Manch, because he was so tall. He’d also been mentioned several times in the movie and even more often in Lawson’s book. At least that part of the riddle was solved. If Jack could only find out which plane Manch was on.

  Jack remembered something else: Manch was a co-pilot. The pilot’s name was Lieutenant Gray. Gray would have his name stenciled under the plane’s window. A simple stroll to the deck should put the last piece of the puzzle together.