That, it turned out, was not a problem. Colonel Omori had accompanied the combined kempetei and Japanese marine patrol, and the seven Americans had been taken into custody with barely a whimper. Now they stared at him in disbelief and horror. All had been beaten bloody in a brutal interrogation coordinated by Omori.
“I am satisfied,” the colonel concluded. “These poor creatures know absolutely nothing.”
No surprise, Charley thought. “What will you do with them, sir?”
Omori shrugged. “As I’ve told you, according to international law, they became outlaws by not surrendering.” He nodded to a kempetei sergeant, who drew a pistol, held it against the skull of one of the sailors, and casually blew his brains out. The others began to moan and cry out, but the sergeant moved quickly down the line, and all were dead within a few seconds.
“I believe that was fairly merciful, don’t you, Sergeant Finch?”
“Yes indeed, sir.”
“They are not worthy of our time and resources. I must admit, however, that you did an excellent job of finding them. We will return to Oahu and plan your next assignment.”
“May I ask what it might be?”
Omori smiled. “Lieutenant Goto has been on Hawaii for only a short while, but he has confirmed that there is a sizable American group operating in the interior. It will be a much more difficult assignment than this, but I am confident you can locate them and lead us to them.”
Charley did not share Omori’s enthusiasm. However, he was not in a position to argue. On a previous occasion, the colonel had reinforced the fact that, if Charley either balked or failed, he would be returned to the prison compound and the prisoners informed that he had been a Judas to them. Charley shuddered. The POWs would tear him to little bloody pieces. So, he thought grimly, he would do what he had to. But there was nothing wrong with making his situation more pleasant while he waited.
“May I ask a favor, Colonel?”
Omori froze him with a glare. Dogs did not ask for favors, and it was apparent from his look that Omori thought more of dogs than he did of Charley Finch. “What?”
Charley bowed. “Sir, it involves my living conditions. The food and the refreshments are excellent, sir, but I would like something other than the Korean woman you gave me.”
Omori laughed. The sergeant had been assigned one of the homeliest of the comfort women he’d brought with him. She’d spied on Charley for Omori and reported him to be harmless and not even a good lay. “Do you want a Japanese woman?”
Charley professed shock. “No, sir. I am not worthy.”
“That is right, Sergeant Finch. You are not worthy and you never will be. Only a Japanese man is worthy to screw a Japanese woman. Yet you have performed faithfully. I will get you an American, a young white woman. Would that satisfy you?”
Charley said that it would, and Omori walked away from him. It occurred to the colonel just who would be assigned to fuck Charley Finch. He had met her while questioning people regarding the disappearance of Alexa Sanderson. She was otherwise useless and would be perfect.
The engineer from Boeing was short and skinny, and had thick glasses. His 4-F draft status, which precluded him from entering the military because of physical problems, was virtually painted on his forehead. If, however, he could turn the giant flying boats into bombers, neither Colonel Doolittle nor Admiral Spruance would care about his physical appearance.
The engineer’s name was Bart Howell, and he was as pompous as he was frail. They were gathered outside an immense hangar, and Howell began to speak. “As I saw it, the problem was the hull of the flying boat. In a conventional bomber, the bombs are stored in racks in the belly of the plane and released more or less simultaneously through a large bomb bay. This is impossible since the watertight integrity of the flying boat must be maintained. A bomb bay would be an invitation to a sinking.”
“We understand that,” Spruance said with mild impatience. “Have you come up with a solution?”
Doolittle stifled a grin. If the little prick hadn’t, then they’d wasted a trip out to the desert and someone would get his butt ripped. Spruance was mild-mannered and polite to a fault, but he didn’t suffer fools.
Howell took out a handkerchief and wiped his glasses. “Yes, sir, we have.”
The blunt statement startled both men, even though it wasn’t totally unexpected. Howell led them into the cavernous hangar, where a series of wooden struts resembling the skeleton of a giant whale had been constructed. “Gentlemen,” Howell said, “this is a mock-up of the hull of a Boeing 314 flying boat.”
Doolittle pointed to a series of short metal chutes in the interior of the plane that canted toward the back and ended in the hull.
Howell smiled. “That, Colonel, is the solution. A large bomb-bay door would collapse from the pressure of the water both on landing and on takeoff. However, we concluded that a dozen or so small holes wouldn’t result in enough seepage to cause a problem. The metal chutes are bomb racks designed to hold one 250-pound bomb each, or a large number of four-pound incendiaries. With the holes in the hull angled toward the tail, the pressure on the hull is minimized and, prior to landing and takeoff, a series of dead bolts will be used to secure the hatches. There will no doubt be leakage, but nothing you can’t control with some pumping while on the water, and it will simply drain out when airborne.”
Doolittle walked around the skeleton craft. The solution was so simple and so elegant.
Howell continued, “Someone must remove all the dead bolts so that a trigger mechanism in the cockpit can actually open the hatches and release the bombs.”
“How accurate will the bombing spread be?” Spruance asked.
“Not very,” Howell admitted. “In a way it would be like firing buckshot from a shotgun. The higher up the plane is, the wider the spread. I strongly recommend low-level bombing to ensure any semblance of accuracy.”
Doolittle couldn’t imagine the tiny engineer ever firing a shotgun, but he agreed with Howell’s estimate. High-level bombing was extremely inaccurate with conventional bombers, and this would be far worse. Nevertheless, it was now evident that the giant flying boat could be transformed into a weapon that could fly to Hawaii and back.
“Mr. Howell, when can you have these racks made and ready for installation?” Spruance asked.
Howell smiled proudly. “I presumed you’d like them, so I’ve had the machine shops working on them day and night. We now have enough for three planes and will have the rest in a week. Then we can begin installation and practice.”
“Excellent, Mr. Howell,” Spruance said and then added somberly, “I know I don’t have to tell you how important it is that no one finds out about your work.”
Howell wiped his glasses again and shook his head tolerantly. “I assure you of my discretion, Admiral. However, even a nearsighted idiot like me understands that you are not configuring a long-range plane like this as a bomber so you can attack Seattle. I hope you destroy all the Japs on Hawaii.”
Doolittle smiled. He was beginning to like the little man. Perhaps the guy would like a drink? “So do we, Mr. Howell,” he said. “So do we.”
Lieutenant Jamie Priest looked across to where Suzy Dunnigan sat taking notes. He tried to catch her eye, but she didn’t look up and he dared not move. He was by far the most junior officer in the room, and his job was to make like wallpaper until and unless someone asked him to do something.
Admiral King and General Marshall had arrived in San Diego the day before via a grueling ride in a bomber. Now, after a night’s rest, they and their small staffs were more than eager for the briefing Admiral Nimitz had prepared. As usual, Admiral Spruance was with Nimitz. Admiral Halsey was out with his carriers off Australia.