Gunto was standing now, his breakfast dropped in his rising terror. These weren’t Cult aircraft, Gunto was sure of that. They were moving much too fast. And this meant only one thing.
He tried to shout a warning, but nothing would come out when he opened his mouth. The first two jets passed right over him a second later and Gunto studied them in the blink of an eye. They were of different types; one was smaller than the other. Oddly, both appeared to be in somewhat battered condition—Gunto could clearly see that their underwings had been reinforced with sheet metal and wire and they were both badly in need of a paint job.
And they had one other thing in common: they were both carrying so many bombs under their wings they were actually sagging from the weight.
The second pair of aircraft screamed over just as the first pair were dropping their bombs right in the center of Food and Water Facility Number One. They, too, looked battered, paint-chipped, and beaten; they, too, were carrying enough bombs to bend their wings.
A total of twelve airplanes roared over his head in less than thirty seconds, each one raggedly yet effectively delivering its payload and swooping up and away again. Gunto watched it all, with his mouth open in shock as the food and water facility was destroyed in a series of huge bomb blasts and smaller, yet no less destructive secondary explosions.
The billowing smoke became so thick, Gunto had to get down on his knees just to breathe. The smell of the smoke was incredibly acrid, like the worst kitchen fire in the world. This was the result of the huge fire now burning away enough food—fish, rice, and dried fruit, mostly—to feed the Cult forces on Oahu for two months.
As soon as the attacking jets had completed their bombing runs, each returned for one brief strafing run and then quickly turned and roared away. In his half-conscious state, Gunto couldn’t help but feel that the pilots flying the battered jets were somehow in a great hurry, as if the airplanes themselves would break apart if they didn’t get back to wherever they’d come from soon enough.
As the last of the jets departed over the horizon, he turned to look at what was left of the Cult’s huge Food and Water Facility Number One. There wasn’t much that wasn’t burning—warehouses of food, barrels of cooking oil, the bodies of his comrades. As the heat from the flames singed his eyebrows and beard, he knew the place was devastated beyond all hope of repair.
He also felt that he might very well be the only survivor of the lightning-quick airstrike. And that would not bode well with his commanders, who, in catastrophic cases such as this, prized the heroic death of their soldiers over survival.
Gunto felt a strange feeling of peace come over him. If he was, in fact, the only one left, then what should he do to justify his survival? Should he try to find a working radio and call for help? Should he run to the next Cult position and summon aid? Or should he simply throw himself on his sword and be done with it? No, he thought, his mind slowly losing its capacity for rational thinking. Surely soldiers at other Cult positions nearby would see the smoke from the devastated supply depot. And he’d long ago lost his taste for dying for the Cult’s brutal, misguided cause.
What Gunto decided he should do then is put out the fires.
By himself.
With this in mind, he began to walk along the seawall, shielding himself from the flames, heading toward the massive water tank farm located a quarter mile from the burning storage facility. From there he would unfurl a fire hose all the way down to the nearest burning structure and he would play water on to it until help arrived.
Half-mad now, he was running up the small hill that housed the water farm, giggling at the thought that he might have to use all of the twenty million gallons of water in the storage tanks to put out what was left of the burning supply base. What the hell would his officers think of that? Would they reward him for using the only clean water supply on the island of Oahu to fight an overwhelming losing battle to the flames? Or would they execute him? Would it matter either way?
He never really got to answer his questions—a low, thunderous roar suddenly overwhelmed him. It was so loud, so hot, it knocked him to the ground and sent him sprawling down the hill and back down to the seawall.
Only then was he able to open his eyes and see what had caused the ungodly fire and screeching. He looked up to see another airplane—but this one was unlike any he’d ever seen before. It looked more like a spaceship than an airplane. It was painted red, white, and blue and was shaped like an arrowhead. Unlike the other attack jets, this one did not look like it was in need of repair. Quite the opposite. It looked like the most sophisticated thing that had ever taken to the air.
Gunto watched as the strange airplane roared overhead and turned up to the right. Six bombs fell from its delta-shaped wings, all six slamming into the cluster of water tanks at the top of the hill. They all blew up at once, the explosions sending huge geysers of water and steam into the air. In an instant, Gunto suddenly found a tidal wave of hot, steamy water rushing down the hill toward him.
He leaped back behind the seawall before he could even think about it. In seconds the torrent of water was rushing over his head, carrying sand, dirt, stones, and tree branches with it. He screamed at the top of his lungs in sheer terror, and closed his eyes to await his end.
But just as suddenly as it had started, the boiling hot torrent of water stopped. He couldn’t believe it at first; when he dared to look up over the protective wall, he saw that the water had gone in all directions, like one great fountain, and had thus dissipated quickly. Ironically, much of it flooded into the burning food storage facility, extinguishing some of the still-rampaging flames.
Sucker-punched with his third shock of the day, Gunto was drooling heavily, his heart racing so fast, it felt as if it was about to explode.
Then the roar came back and he turned to see the strange delta-shaped jet bearing down on him. Shaking, he reached for his sidearm, withdrew it, and pointed it at the oncoming jet. In what he imagined was his last second of life, he could feel the pilot’s eyes burning in on him, one trigger press away from blowing him to bits.
He closed his eyes. He heard the guns on the airplane open up. He took one last deep breath …
It was over in a split second. He heard the cannon shells whizzing by his ears. He felt the searing heat on both sides of his face, he could smell the stink of the expended cordite.
But amazingly, he was still breathing. He opened his eyes and saw that his body was still whole.
He was still alive.
Gunto looked at the ground in front of him to see two burning tracks, one on either side of him. He couldn’t believe it. The pilot had laced two perfect rows of deadly cannon shells on either side of him.
Gunto turned just in time to see the strange jet rocket over the horizon, always to wonder, but never to know why the pilot had chose to spare him.
Off Pearl Harbor
It took the commander of the Flying Dragons twenty minutes to pass the ceasefire order to his rampaging troops.
Once the roar of weapons fire died down, a strange silence descended on the ship, one that somehow seemed to quiet even the racket still going on around them.
The commander cried out for his men to bring any prisoners to him, but none were brought forward. He demanded his NCOs do a quick body count of enemy dead, but again, he’d received no quick reply. There were no enemy dead.
It was slowly sinking in exactly what was happening on the seized ship, and by logical projection, what was happening all around them. He rushed to the ship’s bridge, where, horrified, his worst fear came true: the ship’s controls were set and being run by a small microprocessor unit. So too was the ship’s modest array of AA weapons. They were being fired by another microprocessor which was crudely attached to the top of the fire control system panel by strands of duct tape. A quick study of the microprocessor’s sequencer told the commander that the AA guns were simply firing in a completely random pattern, providing the full effect that they were being fired by human fingers on
their triggers.
Taped above the panel was a gaudy metal plaque. It was engraved in both English and Japanese, the lettering set off by imprints of two frolicking dolphins.
The plaque said: “Compliments of Ironman.”
The Flying Dragons’ commander bit his lip as he stared out of the ship’s bridge at the kamikaze still raining down on the ships all around them. In the midst of the “battle” he realized he was the only one on the Cult side who knew what was really going on. It was simple, really.
The ship he had chosen to seize was empty.
All of the American ships were.
Forty-three
Aboard the USS Fitzgerald, five days later
JT TOOMEY WALKED ONTO the bridge of the Fitzgerald to find his friend Ben Wa sound asleep in the captain’s chair.
He couldn’t blame him—more than half the bridge crew was sleeping, either in their chairs or curled up on the floor of the bridge itself. Things had been so hectic in the past ten days, and the crew so overworked, that many had simply taken to sleeping in any spot where they could lie down.
The bridge navigation officer was awake, though, and a simple nod from him told JT that all was well in the running of the aircraft carrier for the moment.
“We’re cruising at five knots,” the officer told him. “At this speed and course, we should be at the supply ship rendezvous point within ten hours.”
JT wearily thanked the man and then turned his attention back to Ben, who was slowly but surely waking up.
“Sleeping on the watch is court martial material, old buddy,” he told the reluctant captain of the huge aircraft carrier, handing him a cup of coffee and then pouring one for himself. “They could throw the book at you.”
“Let them,” Ben replied, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “Maybe then I could get some real sleep—in a prison bed.”
Just about everyone onboard the three surviving ships of the Task Force was beyond exhaustion—yet for the first time in a long time, all of them were also in a relative state of peace. Their long mission was at last coming to an end. They were slowly making their way eastward, heading for a meeting with a supply ship dispatched from recently liberated San Diego. The ship was carrying food, fresh water, fuel, and other supplies the men on the Fitz as well as the USS Tennyson and the USS New Jersey had gone without for what had seemed like ages.
The day before, Ben had written a letter which would eventually be delivered to General Jones. In it he asked that each member of the Task Force, both living and dead, be awarded a special medal in appreciation for his courage above and beyond the call of duty. Their participation in the attack on Japan, in the unexpected action against Okinawa, and finally their pivotal role in the final battle at Pearl Harbor more than qualified them for such a citation.
The original six-day Operation Long Bomb had stretched into more than a month of nightmarish combat and hellish conditions. And through it all, the members of the Task Force had relied on intelligence, élan, and above all, innovative strategy in order to emerge victorious against overwhelming odds.
Their role in the Pearl Harbor action was the epitome of this All-American brains-versus-brawn credo.
It had been Hunter’s idea to send the 150 empty ships to the Hawaiian coastline—vessels provided in an extremely short time by his friend Ironman and made to look “real” with advice from the F/X battalion, who’d joined the Task Force after the Okinawa campaign. The hardest part was retrieving the skeleton crews from the decoy ships before dawn broke over Oahu on that fateful morning almost a week ago. This was done with the help of the New Jersey’s speedy fleet of small patrol craft.
By appearing to fall for the Cult’s bait to invade Hawaii, the UA had, in fact, not only tricked the Cult into expending their entire force of kamikaze Zeros, but had also isolated more than 300,000 of their best Asian mercenary troops on the island of Oahu. Those soldiers were now surrounded by real UA warships and trapped on the island, facing at the very least a life of isolation on the very territory they had so brutally conquered. Bereft of substantial food and water, and cut off from the rest of the world, the Asian mercenaries would have somehow to fend for themselves—or die trying. One thing was clear: there would be no humanitarian relief drops from the UA or anyone else.
It was a somewhat disturbing yet necessary way to remove the brainwashed rampaging Asian hordes from further enslaving the helpless peoples of the Pacific and Asia itself. Yet in the final analysis, the harsh sentence was actually more of the Cult’s own doing than anything done by the United Americans. It was the Cult which had foolishly redeployed to Oahu in the first place. It was they who had emptied the island of its remaining citizens (now all safe on nearby Molokai and under the protection of the combined JAWs-New Jersey National Guard teams), and then stupidly stored all their stolen food and water in one place. And it was they who had foolishly left that crucial target virtually undefended in the false euphoria following what they thought was the destruction of the Americans’ “invasion” fleet.
The Cult had also succeeded in blocking their one and only escape route: by sinking the 150 empty decoy ships—and sacrificing nearly two thousand pilots and planes in the process—the Asians had created a massive underwater reef of wreckage so extensive, it effectively sealed off the approaches to Pearl Harbor, which was the mooring site for all of the Cult’s remaining transport ships. In fact, there were so many sunken ships in the inner part of Mamala Bay that it would take an army of professional salvage experts years, if not decades, to remove them all, a task not likely to begin anytime soon.
Even hopes of escape by air had been quickly dashed by the Cult themselves. They had little in the way of large aerial transport in the first place, and the pilots of the few large airplanes that did exist had been too fearful to take off after the battle, so rampant was the belief that UA jet fighters were nearby, waiting to pounce. In reality, no UA jet aircraft from the mainland had come anywhere near the Hawaiian battle area—per Hunter’s plan, none was needed. The Cult’s simple yet incorrect assumption that the UA would attack from the air was enough to divert the Cult’s energies into building their vast SAM and AA defense around Pearl Harbor, a mammoth effort that turned out to be a complete waste of time.
Now, as JT sipped his coffee, he passed a set of photographs to Ben. They were high-altitude snaps taken on Oahu by the Kephart Brothers in their SR-71 Blackbird and just transmitted over the radiofax to the Fitz. Some clearly showed gangs of Cult soldiers aimlessly wandering the countryside, obviously foraging for food, for water, for shelter. Other photos showed dozens if not hundreds of bodies floating at the bottoms of Oahu’s many cliffs, evidence of the mass suicides that were inevitably taking place on the island.
Ben was horrified at the photographic depiction of the wide-scale hari-kari.
“Those are all the cowards,” he said, pointing to the clumps of dashed, floating, broken bodies. “The cowards and the lazy bastards who don’t want to put the effort into living.”
“Ironic, isn’t it?” JT said. “They did the crime, but now they don’t want to do the time. I say, the hell with them. Maybe in a few years we’ll go and help those tough enough to survive. But it ain’t going to be anytime soon.”
Suddenly, one of the carrier’s corpsmen ran onto the bridge. His face was furrowed with equal parts of confusion and relief.
“Sirs, come quickly,” he shouted to JT and Ben, all pretense of military protocol gone. “Something’s happening in sick bay …”
JT and Ben burst through the door of the sick bay less than a minute later.
Crunch was there, as were the ship’s two doctors, and their small staffs.
They were all gathered around the bed in the center of the room. The gaggle of wires, tubes, and IV lines had been pushed away from it. The oxygen tent was also gone. And sitting up in the middle of the bed, wearing a wide but weary grin, and eating a bowl of ice cream, no less, was a very conscious Yaz.
Ben and JT were p
leasantly astonished. “What the hell has happened?” Ben asked.
“He’s back,” Crunch said, smiling broadly himself. “I was sitting here with him. One minute he’s still out like a light, the next he’s sitting up and staring at me with that shit-eating grin …”
JT and Ben both reached over and enthusiastically patted Yaz on the back. The relief that their friend seemed to be recovered was overwhelming.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” JT told him. “Have a good nap?”
Ben turned to the doctors. “Is he as good as he looks?” he asked.
“Better,” the first doctor replied. “All his vital signs are stable. Heart rate, pressure, breathing—all normal, or better than normal. The only problem is that he’s hungry—but only soft food first.”
“Means no booze,” JT told Yaz.
“After the dream I’ve had,” Yaz replied, never losing a bit of his smile, “I never have to drink again.”
The second doctor was nodding in agreement. “He’s told us what happened to him,” he said. “And it’s the most extreme case of hypnotic suggestion I’ve ever heard of. One for the books …”
“‘Hypnotic suggestion’?” JT asked, mystified. “How in hell …?”
Yaz suddenly did lose part of his grin. “It was from the videotape of Hawk’s first flight back from Okinawa,” he said. “I was watching it in the CIC when this whole thing hit me. It was like a kick right in the fucking head. It took me a while to realize what had happened exactly—I’m not really sure I even know now, at this moment. But I saw a face somehow projected on the storm clouds—maybe by a laser beam or something. But it was definitely caught on Hawk’s videotape. And then, when I realized just whose face it was, well, I guess I couldn’t take it. I guess I just went under and …”
Both JT and Ben interrupted at the same time. “Whose face was it?”
Yaz began to answer when one of the doctors intervened.
“Not now,” he said, almost sternly. “Maybe later, but not now. We’ve got to be careful. There’s always the chance of a relapse. Just make sure no one views that videotape until we get back to the mainland and get it into a controlled situation …”
War of the Sun Page 28
