Hitori stood outside the navy yard at Pearl Harbour and thought of the breeze, letting himself drift apart, becoming a pale cloud of mist on the air. He floated into the military facility, past unwitting sentries and sailors. His cloud form wafted inside the headquarters of the signal corps, slipping unseen past an armed guard at the night entrance. In the coming hours, information crucial to the success or failure of the coming attack would be channelled through this place. For the Japanese to retain the element of surprise, it was vital that any early warnings of their incoming forces be stopped or stymied here.
The US Army had a mobile radar post at Opana Ridge on the north side of Oahu. That was bound to detect the attack waves of Kates, Vals and Zeros long before they could reach their targets on the island. The longer Hitori could delay news of that detection spreading, the better for the first wave of Japanese planes. No doubt there would be other warning signs, too. It was Hitori's job to delay detection for as long as inhumanly possible.
Having infiltrated the building, Hitori gathered himself back into human form at the end of a darkened corridor. It was Saturday night and the signal corps' headquarters was all but deserted, a skeleton crew keeping watch on Oahu's military communications. Intelligence files at the consulate stated that there was a shift change due before midnight, when staffing levels would fall even further. Hitori waited in the shadows. Long months in Manchuria had taught him the virtue of patience. When fighting an enemy like the Chinese, your goal was not to win the next battle but to achieve a certain, sustainable victory. That took years, even decades. Battles could be won in days, but wars took far longer. Patience was a virtue, even in war.
His patience was soon rewarded. Two men in uniform appeared from opposite directions and greeted each other as friends. Hitori melted into the shadows to observe them, quickly gleaning the fact that one of the pair, Harrison, was due to take over the graveyard shift. "I just got to hit the head before I start," Harrison told his colleague, a wry smile on his face. "I don't know what the cook is putting in his chilli, but it ain't doing me any favours." The two men went their separate ways, the tall, lean figure of Harrison hurrying into a room at the end of the corridor. Hitori waited a minute before following him. Anyone standing outside the bathroom would have heard a low murmur of voices, a scuffle and the sound of bones snapping like twigs.
Hitori emerged six minutes later, dressed in Harrison's pristine uniform. The owner's corpse was hidden above the ceiling titles in the bathroom, his neck broken, his eyes staring into oblivion and his mouth twisted into a silent scream of anguish. Hitori strode into the communications room and smiled at the ensign manning the systems. "Hey, how's it going?" he asked, speaking English with a generic American accent.
The lone ensign frowned at Hitori. "Where's Harrison?"
"He asked me to take his shift."
"Why?"
"He ate some of that chilli they were serving in the mess tonight. I told him not to, but he wouldn't listen to sense. You know what Harrison's like."
The ensign still wasn't convinced. "I'd better call the lieutenant, make sure he's happy about you stepping in. No offence, but I don't recognise you and I thought I knew everybody on the base." He reached for the phone, but Hitori was across the room in a flash, his hand closing over the ensign's.
Hitori pushed his thoughts at the ensign.
Don't call the lieutenant.
The ensign blinked. "Maybe I don't need to call the lieutenant."
He won't appreciate being disturbed.
"You know what he's like about being disturbed on a Saturday night."
You're feeling tired yourself.
The ensign yawned. "I'm exhausted."
Why don't you go to bed early? Get some sleep.
"Could you cover my last hour on shift? I'm dying for some sack-time."
"Sure, no problems," Hitori replied, removing his hand from the ensign's fist. "You get some shut-eye, I'll fill in for you."
"Thanks, you're a pal." The ensign slipped off his headphones and stood up, yawning once more. "Can't remember the last time I was this tired. See you tomorrow," he called on his way out.
Hitori took the ensign's place at the controls. A pair of clocks opposite him stated the time in Hawaii, Washington and Manila. It was 22.30 hours on Saturday at Pearl Harbour. The capital city of the Philippines was on the other side of the international dateline, but five hours behind. That meant it was 17.30 hours on Sunday in Manila. In Washington, it was already half past one in the morning of December 7th, 1941. War was about to engulf the Pacific.
PART THREE: War
Extracts from a speech delivered by President Roosevelt to a joint session of Congress on December 8, 1941:
"Yesterday, December 7, 1941 - a date which will live in infamy - the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.
"It will be recorded that the distance of Hawaii from Japan makes it obvious that the attack was deliberately planned many days or even weeks ago. During the intervening time the Japanese Government has deliberately sought to deceive the United States by false statements and expressions of hope for continued peace.
"The facts of yesterday speak for themselves. The people of the United States have already formed their opinions and well understand the implications to the very life and safety of our nation.
"Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory and our interests are in grave danger."
ONE
It was not yet dawn as Marquez, Chuck and Bravo got into their Dauntless bombers on the USS
Enterprise
. The carrier was still some two hundred miles west of Oahu, on its way back home to Pearl Harbour from Wake Island, but it was routine practise to send a scouting mission of SBDs ahead to look for potential enemies. If all went to expectations, they should arrive at Ford Island in the centre of Pearl Harbour in time for breakfast, around 08.00 hours.
It was standard operating procedure for the bombers to patrol in pairs, and Chuck had chosen Marquez as his wingman for this mission. It would be good training for the younger pilot, Chuck believed, and he preferred sharing the morning sky with Marquez to some of the alternatives. Bravo refused to be anybody's wingman and would always usurp the authority of any senior pilot to whom he was assigned. Chuck had seen enough of Bravo's tail on their last pairing and possessed little urge to repeat the experience.
All eighteen SBDs were airborne by 06.30 hours, the air group led by Commander Young. No sooner had Chuck and Marquez started the scouting mission than Bravo flew past, having already broken protocol and abandoned his partner. The cocky voice addressed them through the radio earphones in their flying helmets. "Hey, slowcoaches, last one back to the field at Ford Island has to buy the drinks tonight!" Before Chuck or Marquez could reply, Bravo swept past and flew on towards Oahu.
"Just once I'd like to see him fall on his ass," Marquez muttered, his voice crackling through the static in Chuck's earphones.
"Amen to that," the senior pilot agreed. "His antics are gonna get somebody killed one day. Let's hope it's only him."
Hitori had been listening intently throughout the night, scanning the radio frequencies for any hint that the Americans had detected what was coming. He was bemused to hear a Hawaiian radio station playing music long after most people would be in bed. Still, it might prove useful as a homing signal for approaching Japanese aircraft. There was some chatter about the sighting of a submerged submarine approaching Oahu on a westerly course around four in the morning, but the American vessels involved did not seem concerned. To Hitori, it sounded as if similar sightings were not unknown in the waters around Hawaii, another useful piece of happenstance.
When the clock displaying the local time on the island reached half past six, Hitori offered a silent prayer in the name of the emperor that all the planes leaving the Japanese carrier fleet to the north of Oahu would meet with success in their mission. Less than thirty minutes later there was another report of US ships sighting a submarine in the defensive area west of the island. The sub was attacked with shots and depth charges, but subsequently went unseen. The Americans presumed it had been sunk or driven off.
It was past seven o'clock and the sun had risen before Hitori heard any inkling that the Americans were aware of what was coming. The radar operator stationed on Opana Ridge called headquarters to report a blip on his screen, representing a sizeable force of at least fifty unidentified aircraft 100 miles north of Oahu and closing. Hitori responded and told the private all the signal corps personnel had left for breakfast. He knew there was still time for US planes to be scrambled if the alarm went any further up the chain of command, turning the surprise attack into a massive dogfight above the island. By delaying that, Hitori knew he was probably saving hundreds of Japanese lives. The act was not entirely selfless, since the best chance for him and Kimura to escape Oahu depended upon the attack being a success, enabling their getaway plan.
A few minutes later Hitori heard another station contacting the radar operators, telling them not to worry about the blip. A flight of planes from the US mainland was due that morning, explaining the unexpected blip on the radar. Hitori could not help smiling. Even the Americans seemed determined to ensure that the surprise went ahead unhindered and undetected. Still he lingered, waiting for the minute when the first attack wave was due to pass the northern headland of Oahu. Once that happened, there were less than fifteen minutes before the first Japanese bombs fell on US soil.
Hitori used that time to fulfil the final objective of his mission, destroying the communications centre at signal corps headquarters. He picked up the chair on which he'd been sitting for the past nine hours and smashed it into the radio equipment again and again, until all that remained was a smoking, sparking heap of scrap metal. The building had been given as a key target to the incoming bombers, but until they arrived, he didn't want anybody else using the equipment to raise the alarm. Once the job was done, he strode from the communications centre. Now came the hardest part of the mission, getting to his escape route in early morning sunshine without being burned alive. Even if he made it in time, would Kimura?
Paxton's head was pounding fit to burst, his tongue felt as if someone had swapped it during the night with an overused leather strop from a barber's shop, and every part of his body ached. He had a horrible suspicion it was morning, but for the life of him the marine couldn't remember what had happened the previous night to leave him in such a state. Paxton doubted it was anything to be proud of and certainly nothing good. Having no urge to open his eyes and be blinded by daylight, he delegated the task of discovery to his other senses so that they could assess the situation and report back.
A cool breeze floated over his skin, spreading goose bumps across his body. His body was stark naked, except for a sheet of coarse material gathered around his back and buttocks, and his right hand was lying atop something moist and sticky. Paxton could hear birds calling in the distance, and a car engine roared into life nearby, before rumbling away. Three smells tangled with each other in the air: the sweet and sickly scent of hibiscus flowers, the stale tang of urine and something metallic, yet all too human. It's the smell of blood, Paxton realised. What the hell had he done last night?
The marine opened his eyes, squinting to lessen the shocking glare and brightness of his surroundings. Slowly, gradually, he adjusted to the light and opened his eyes wider. He was on a porch, lying on a day bed. Bamboo blinds hung around the outside of the porch, shielding it from prying eyes. Paxton relaxed a little. Perhaps things weren't so bad after all? Then he turned to his right and saw what was sticking to his hand.
Kissy Nagara's lifeless eyes stared back at him, a mute accusation in her glassy, empty pupils. Her face resembled boiled chicken flesh, white and devoid of colour, drained of all life. But her neck was a rich ruby red, blood still bubbling from two jagged puncture wounds in the skin. Paxton's hand had slid beneath Kissy's neck and gotten sticky in the tacky crimson residue congealing on the sheet. He pulled his hand free and it jerked the material, so the dead woman rolled closer to him, like a sleepy lover seeking an embrace. Paxton instinctively moved further away to escape Kissy's corpse and fell off the bed, landing heavily on the cold wooden floorboards. He hissed an obscenity, cursing himself for having gotten so drunk that... No, I didn't do that to her, Paxton decided, his mind racing in a dozen different directions. I'd remember if I had done something like that, something that depraved... wouldn't I?
The marine noticed his shorts beneath the day bed and pulled them on, grateful that they had not been soaked by the urine leaking through the mattress. He had felt dead drunk while floating back to consciousness, but the sight of Kissy's corpse had sobered him up in record time. Paxton glanced around, searching for the rest of his clothes. They must be here, somewhere.
"Looking for these?" a cold, chilling voice asked.
Paxton twisted around to find the manager from Tokyo Joe's standing at the other end of the porch, holding the marine's discarded clothes out at arm's length. What was the man's name again, Paxton wondered, his memory still an alcohol raddled blur, Kawasaki? No, Kimura. "They're mine," the marine said, his voice hoarse and rough at the edges. Kimura threw Paxton's clothes into the wild, unkempt garden beyond the porch. "Hey! I said those are mine," Paxton protested, getting to his feet. "Be careful with them."
"You're in no position to lecture me about being careful," Kimura sneered, looking down his nose at the marine. "Waking up next to the butchered body of a Japanese spy, today of all days, that won't look good on your file."