“There’s been a palace coup,” Willoughby said, his German accent thickening with excitement. “We have intercepted a number of broadcasts over the last ninety minutes—many of them uncoded. It appears that Hirohito is dead, and the enemy government has been thrown into some confusion. The army is announcing that the surrender is a hoax and that all units are to fight to the end. The navy is announcing that all troops are to lay down their arms, by command of the Emperor—but the order was issued before Hirohito was killed. The prime minister, Prince Konoe, is announcing that Hirohito’s brother Prince Chichibu is the new Emperor. Chichibu will also get custody of Hirohito’s twelve-year-old son.”
“Who’s got the boy now?” MacArthur asked.
“The lord privy seal, Marquis Kido. He’s a real power behind the throne.”
“Yes, I know. I met him some years back with my father. He and Hirohito were very close. Where are they, or do we know?” MacArthur asked.
“Yamamoto, the war minister, claims they’re safe. There’s a recording made by Hirohito that everybody wants, and the radio station seems to be the schwerpunkt, the decisive point of this battle. There’s going to be blood in the streets, I think—quite possibly even civil war.”
MacArthur rose from the bed, energized, thinking. Willoughby obligingly held up a silk dressing gown. The Supreme Commander slipped his arms through the sleeves of the robe and absently pulled it closed around his chest as he paced across the room. Though it was the largest room in the hotel, it was still a small space. He could take only a few strides before he was forced to reverse course.
His mind worked through details, analyzing the new developments. The surrender news had reached him the previous afternoon, first in a broadcast from a very skeptical George Patton. An hour later, advance units of the First Marine Division had reported that the enemy troops in front of their positions were laying down their arms and turning themselves in. Not long after that—and not far away from the initial surrenders—a column of the Seventh Infantry had been savagely mauled as it marched into a well-planned ambush on the road to Tokyo.
“The weather?” asked MacArthur.
“Still improving, General. But not fast enough.”
“I know. I can see that.” Looking out the window, over the small balcony, MacArthur could see clouds scudding across the sky, stars glimmering between them. But the speed of their movement indicated a powerful wind, and wind was the enemy of the troops still waiting to land on the storm-lashed coast.
The skies were continuing to clear as the typhoon moved off to the northwest. Even though both of the General’s armies had seized several small ports, there had been so much storm damage at those installations that the offloading of heavy equipment was proceeding at only a snail’s pace.
“Are we still awaiting the trucks and the rest of our transport?” the General demanded.
“Yes, sir. The surf has settled some, but it will be morning or midday before we can even begin to bring vehicles ashore on the beaches.”
MacArthur sat down on the edge of the bed and propped his chin with his arm resting on one knee. He sighed. He knew the order he had to issue, though it was gall in his mouth.
“Radio Patton. Tell him that he must get to Tokyo with all possible speed. Support the new Emperor. Get that surrender message out. And order the First and Eighth armies to continue advancing on the double—on foot, until their trucks can catch up with them. Try to take surrenders whenever possible, but if the Japanese fight, then fight back. Awaken the headquarters staff, too—I want us to move out within the hour.”
“Very well, General. Preparations for our departure are already under way. I will go now. Sorry to have awakened you, sir.”
MacArthur waved him away. He was back on his feet, still pacing, thinking, eager to be on the move, when his valet arrived thirty seconds later with his uniform, cap, and—strangely, in the predawn darkness—a new pair of sunglasses.
IMPERIAL PALACE, TOKYO, JAPAN, 0355 HOURS
Captain Ogawa Taiki stepped over the bodies of his men. More than three dozen corpses lay on the grounds of one of the palace gardens, neatly laid out in the rows where they had taken their lives. Only a few of the participants in the ill-omened raid were still alive. Some had elected to go home first, or perform some other necessary acts before dying. Perhaps there might be one or two dishonorable cowards who would simply run away to vanish into the growing chaos that was Japan.
Ogawa was the only surviving officer. Watanabe had blown his brains out almost as soon as he realized what had happened, and several hours earlier the captain had served as second for those among the junior ranks who wished to die immediately. It had been a hard task; without his sword, he had administered a killing shot to each man who committed traditional seppuku. For those without a knife, he stood by in case their bullet to the brain did not result in rapid death.
Afterward, he had wandered aimlessly through the halls, the gardens, and the courtyards of the great Imperial Palace. He knew that the place was not abandoned, but nobody interfered with his restless pacing or tried to accost him. His thigh wound, that almost forgotten stab from the ridge on Guadalcanal, had flared up with burning pain, but Ogawa had not allowed himself to limp. Instead, he endured the agony of each step as necessary, albeit only preliminary, punishment for his unspeakable crime.
He and his men had unwittingly slain a god, the Son of Heaven himself.
After an unknown time, he had returned to the scene of the tragic mistake to find that some people—servants, presumably—had quietly come to remove Hirohito’s body. Ogawa was glad for that. He had been unwilling to touch the lifeless form—in truth, he was unworthy to commit such a blasphemous act—but he had not wanted the Emperor to lie where he had died. At least that minor detail had been attended to.
Now he was the last man standing. He would go without the help of a second, knowing he was unworthy of a traditional death. A bullet would suffice for him, as it had for so many of his men.
It was finally time. He lifted his Nambu service pistol to his head and looked one more time at the neat, still shapes that had been his men. He was ready to join them.
At the very last minute, a disturbing question occurred to him. Should he shoot himself in the mouth or underneath his chin? Perhaps in the temple? He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected that a bullet in the mouth was the most likely to be fatal. Opening his jaws, he laid the barrel on his tongue, tasting the cold, slightly acidic metal.
He fired. A sharp sound, then darkness.
After a time there was light again, followed by excruciating pain. His lungs, as if in direct challenge of his intentions, strained to draw breath, and air somehow seeped through the blood and torn flesh that gurgled in his throat. The bullet had been too low, Ogawa could tell—it had emerged from the back of his neck without lodging in his brain.
Ogawa wept bitter tears. He had failed at even this task! Desperately he tried to grope for the pistol, to make a second shot.
It was then that he realized he could no longer move his arms or his legs.
SOUTH OF HITACHI, HONSHU, JAPAN, 0622 HOURS
(OPERATION CORONET, Y-DAY + 4)
The column of Sherman tanks, each M4 with five or six marines sitting on the hull, moved at a measured pace past Hitachi and proceeded down the road toward Tokyo. Major Greg Yamada sat on the lead tank next to the man they called Captain Ski, Captain Pete Rachwalski, USMC. The two officers warily eyed the ridge on the inland side of the road and instinctively ducked at the sound of an engine backfire. Still, there had been no shots since they had moved out at first daylight.
Yamada had thoroughly interrogated the Japanese lieutenant colonel who had commanded the defensive position at the bridge. The man’s troops had been inexperienced and underarmed, but he had sited his two antitank guns and six machine guns exactly at the right position to stop a column moving down the road. When the marines had come back from inspecting the positions, their faces had been gray. They kn
ew that many would have died if they had tried to storm across the river.
The colonel had informed Yamada that he had received the order to surrender over the Imperial Japanese Army channel of communications. He and his men had been only too glad to lay down their arms, and the nisei major from G-2 had quickly understood why. They were mainly simple farmers and laborers called up to serve in this civil defense battalion. If they had followed their orders to fight and die here, they would have inevitably called down destruction on the neighboring village, which is where most of them lived. For them, as well as for the marines and the tankers, the war could not have ended soon enough.
After the two companies—Rachwalski’s marines riding on Allen’s tanks—had proceeded cautiously over the bridge and through the defile, Yamada had concluded that the surrender was real, at least on the part of this one local unit. As to whether or not the regular army troops would honor the same orders, he readily admitted to both captains that he could not be sure.
As a consequence, they advanced as if they were still on a combat mission. Captain Allen rode in a jeep following just behind the four lead tanks. The rest of the Shermans rumbled along behind them, followed by the trucks and half-tracks that constituted the rest of Company D. Each tank’s commander rode high in the turret, the hatches open so that they could get a good look around. Some of the tanks’ main gun barrels were trained down the road, while others were canted to the right or the left. Marines held their carbines and Tommy guns at the ready but displayed admirable fire discipline—there were no stray shots from jumpy fingers on the triggers.
“It’s like the whole goddamn country is holding its breath,” Rachwalski observed.
“Yeah,” Yamada agreed. “Let’s hope we can all exhale pretty soon, before anything else blows up.”
“Captain! Captain Ski!” The shout, barely audible over the engines and road noise, came from behind them. They turned to see a sergeant on the next tank back waving and gesturing still farther behind on the road.
Yamada looked back past the column of Allen’s armor and was startled to see that a lot more vehicles were back there than had been following them just a few minutes ago. Edging his way past the turret to the front deck of the tank, the major shouted at the company commander in the jeep directly ahead of him to get his attention.
“Captain!” he shouted, gestured to the road behind them. “We’ve got company!”
Whether or not Allen could hear what he was saying over the rumbling of the tank engines—it seemed unlikely—the captain understood what he was trying to communicate. Allen waved the company over to the side and stood up in his jeep to get a look behind as the M4s growled to a halt.
The overtaking column continued toward them quickly. It clearly consisted of more American tanks—the big, humpbacked Shermans were unmistakable—and as it drew closer they could see a jeep leading the way. The little vehicle was racing down the highway with almost reckless abandon, and when it got closer still, they saw a flag with four stars flying from the front fender. At least thirty or forty tanks rolled behind it, the whole group charging along at nearly top speed.
“Looks like your boss is coming,” Captain Rachwalski shouted with a grin. He had come to the back of the tank after Yamada. The engine was idling now, so they could converse merely by raising their voices.
“Looks that way to me, too,” the major admitted as the tank came to a halt. “Though, as I recall, you’re working for him too, at the present.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said the marine, still smiling.
Yamada and Rachwalski hopped to the ground and joined Captain Allen in saluting smartly as General Patton’s jeep rolled up and squeaked to a hasty stop. The CO of XIII Corps stood up in the passenger seat and was instantly recognizable—they had all seen dozens of pictures of him in Stars and Stripes—even before they saw the polished helmet and, the twin, ivory-handled pistols, like a pair of Gene Autry’s six-guns, hanging in holsters at Patton’s belt.
“Hello, General,” Allen barked. “Welcome to Company D of the 117th!”
“As you were,” declared Patton, casually saluting but remaining standing in his jeep, his hands braced on the top of the windshield. His voice was surprisingly high-pitched. “Are you the men who took that surrender yesterday evening?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Nice bit of work—goddamn fine work!” declared the general, smiling broadly for a second. Then his craggy visage creased into a scowl. “But now, you’re going too fucking slow!”
“Sir?” queried Captain Allen.
“We’ve got orders to get to Tokyo as fast as we can. You fellows were in the vanguard, but looks like you’ll be following me for the rest of the way.” Patton was smiling again, an expression of almost childish delight. “Tell me, are you ready to make some tracks?”
“Yes, sir, General!”
Patton’s eyes wandered over to Yamada and narrowed. “You’re the translator, right? From Colonel Koch’s section? The one who reported back after talking to the prisoners?”
“Yes, General. That was me.”
“Not bad work, boys. Almost good enough to have been Third Army,” Patton said with a grin. All three officers took that for the high praise Patton intended. He waved toward the back of his jeep. “Hop in, Major… ah… Yamada. I might need to do a little parleying when we get down to the Imperial Palace.”
“Very good, sir,” the major replied, hastening to scramble over the rear fender of the jeep, wedging onto the small seat beside a captain who moved over just enough to give him room.
“You men pick up the pace,” the general said, waving to Allen and Rachwalski. “We’ll see you in Tokyo!”
“Yes, sir!” both captains replied, but their answers were lost in the roar of the engine and the rising cloud of dust as the command jeep accelerated down the road.
SOUTH OF MT. NIKKO, JAPAN, 0713 HOURS
A convoy of Nissan 70s filled with heavily armed Imperial Guards, with motorcycles taking point and rear, sped in the direction of Tokyo. The roads were of variable quality, and for stretches of miles the cars would bump and jostle their passengers unmercifully. During the early morning hours they had passed through small, sleepy towns like Kazo, Omiya, and—as dawn was coloring the sky—Kawaguchi. They had encountered no other vehicles throughout the seventy-mile drive, descending from the high country toward the Kanto Plain and the great capital city.
Lord Privy Seal Marquis Koichi Kido and the Emperor formerly known as Prince Chichibu rode together in a car indistinguishable from the rest. Kido understood the logic of the anonymous vehicle. It was important to keep their actual location a secret, because there were people—mainly young officers of the Imperial Japanese Army—who would not stop short of murder in order to see that this war continued. Young Akihito, Hirohito’s son and the next in line of succession after the new Emperor, rode in a different car several spaces farther back in the convoy.
The marquis clutched the handle on the interior of the door as the convoy careened around a surprisingly sharp curve. Kido well understood the gravity of the situation. The Showa Emperor was dead. Before he had been killed, he had ordered a surrender of all the armed forces, and that order had been broadcast to all units of the Imperial Japanese Army and the Imperial Japanese Navy. Many units had laid down their arms. But some army officers were resisting.
And the people of Nippon had yet to hear their Emperor’s final command.
The lord privy seal’s hand closed around the envelope he had been gingerly cradling, ever since Yamamoto had brought it to him nearly ten hours before. It was a recording, the last official words—the last command—of the Showa Emperor.
After the attack on the palace, Yamamoto and Kido had escaped with the precious record, speeding into the countryside north of Tokyo, climbing the winding roads leading into the mountains, to the town of Nikko. This was where young Akihito had been sent earlier in the war for his own safety. Akihito’s uncle, his father’s younger broth
er Chichibu, lived there as well.
Yamamoto and his convoy had arrived at the royal residence before midnight, but it had taken several hours for the new Emperor and his nephew to recover from the shock of recent developments—the news of the Emperor’s death had not reached them until the war minister’s arrival—and to prepare themselves for the trip to the capital. Finally they had gotten onto the road, racing back to the city through the predawn hours.
With guards alert in every vehicle, the column now pulled into Tokyo. War Minister Yamamoto, in the lead Nissan 70, guided them to the Imperial Radio Complex. This official government installation was the central broadcast facility, backed up by a powerful transmitter and several tall antennas. By some stroke of fortune, it had escaped serious damage during the war.
They pulled up before the sprawling pagoda-shaped building. Yamamoto’s people were in control. The whole installation was surrounded by armed men wearing the uniforms of the Special Naval Landing Forces—elite fighters who, like the United States Marines, functioned as soldiers under the command of the navy. These Imperial Japanese Marines stood aside as Yamamoto, Kido, the Emperor, and young Akihito climbed the front steps of the building.
“Do you wish to come in with us, War Minister?” asked the lord privy seal. He still held the envelope containing the recording of the Emperor’s first—and last—address to his people.
“I will stay here, with my troops,” Yamamoto replied. “In case…”
“I understand,” said Kido. “Good luck to you.”
“And to you,” the war minister replied. The two men bowed formally to each other.
Accompanied by a dozen bodyguards carrying light submachine guns, the lord privy seal turned and followed the royal party into the building.
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