Goto read his mind. “Do you want Captain Kashii to send patrols out farther into the hills? The captain would very much like to go chasing the Americans.”
Omori nodded. “Yes. Keep the Americans worried that a Japanese patrol could be right behind them.”
Even as he said it, the colonel knew it was wishful thinking. An entire army could hide in the hills and crags that glowered down on him. It was an amazing island. There were even active volcanoes and flowing lava out there. How the devil did an army deal with a lava flow? The Americans would be found either through Finch’s treachery or blind, dumb luck. He’d put his money on Finch.
Kentaro Hara laughed and bowed. “How do I look? Am I not a worthy soldier of the empire of Japan?”
Akira Kaga laughed at his friend’s antics. “No, you do not look like a Japanese officer. For one thing, you are too neat.”
Hara pretended to be hurt. “I have my pride.”
“And so do the Japanese soldiers,” Akira answered seriously, “but they show it in different ways, and looking slovenly is one of them. The true warriors in the Japanese army are contemptuous of spit and polish. They prefer to affect the look of a rugged warrior, a seasoned campaigner; thus, their uniforms always look like they’ve been stolen from someone larger and slept in for a great while.”
Hara sighed as he took off the Japanese army tunic that had been made for him by one of several seamstresses employed to copy Japanese uniforms. It had been determined that it would be easier and safer to have them made by trusted people. Thefts would alert the Japanese to the fact that not everyone wearing a uniform was on their side. The conspirators’ infiltration was something they wanted kept hidden for as long as possible.
Akira was pleased with the progress they’d made. Already there were enough uniforms to outfit thirty volunteers, and he had more than that ready to fight.
“All right,” Hara said. “I’ll get something that doesn’t fit, but I won’t be happy. It won’t be up to my standards.”
“Screw your standards.” Akira laughed. Behind him, his father entered the room.
“A marvelous display,” the older man said.
“Too bad they don’t allow one-legged officers in the Japanese army,” Akira said with regret. Although several of his volunteer force had experience in the national guard, none had served in the Japanese army and none had seen combat. His men would have the benefit of his experience, but he could not lead them.
“Is there still no word as to what will be expected of us?” Hara asked.
“None,” Toyoza answered honestly. The Americans on the Big Island had been silent about what a rebel force of Japanese might be used for. The message sent to Colonel Novacek had been received with surprise and apparent delight. The colonel had responded that he would be happy to coordinate with a force of Japanese-Americans at a time in the not too distant future.
But as to what, when, and where, Novacek had not said. Either he was being prudently tight-lipped regarding his plans or he hadn’t figured out what to do. Toyoza Kaga suspected the latter. A force that could pass as Japanese was not to be squandered.
“Weapons,” Akira said. “What good are all the uniforms in the world if we don’t have weapons?”
“The Americans said they would take care of that,” his father said tolerantly. Again, just how they would accomplish this had not been mentioned.
“And I want to lead, Father,” Akira said angrily. “No, I have to lead.” Toyoza Kaga nodded his head sadly. He had regained his son and did not want to risk losing him again. “I know. It will be done. I’ve contacted a doctor who will direct the making of an artificial leg for you. You won’t be able to run or march very well, but, yes, you will be able to lead.”
CHAPTER 18
Jake rubbed his eyes and squinted out into the near dark that signaled the end of one of the longest nights of his life. He had been up all night, and only anticipation was keeping him going. He longed for a cup of coffee, but that was a commodity that had been unavailable for a very long time, along with cigarettes and beer. He rarely smoked, but he craved a cigarette now.
Standing beside him, Captain Karl Gustafson fretted and worried. Gustafson was a large and rawboned man with an out-thrust jaw. An engineer for more than twenty years in civilian life, he wore what remained of his uniform in uncaring disarray. Unlike most Swedes, who were impassive and calm, he paced nervously, waiting like an expectant father to see if his idea was a good one or if it would die at birth.
Small fires staked out an area more than a hundred yards wide and half a mile deep. It was a rectangle that ran from the top of an ocean cliff and ended well inland. Both Gustafson’s and Jake’s greatest fears were that the lights would be seen by the wrong people and missed by the right ones. Farther inland, but on a line from the cliff, their radio sent out a beeping signal every minute. The radio beeps were long-range homing devices, while the rectangle outlined by the small fires was the ultimate destination.
There was a risk of detection, but, despite their apprehensions, it was deemed a small one. The Japanese knew the Americans sent messages from the interior of the island and had made little attempt to stop them. It was also routine for the Japanese not to send out patrol aircraft at night. They’d gotten used to seeing nothing and had stopped looking. What few planes they did use to patrol over Hawaii came during the light of day.
There was even less of a chance of detection from the ground.
First, no one lived in the vicinity, and, second, the Japanese didn’t send ground patrols this far west of Hilo. While they had stepped up their efforts near Hilo since the massacre, this part of the Big Island might as well not have existed.
Jake noted that the daylight was not that far off. There was a definite glow to his rear, indicating that the sun was about to rise over Hilo. He hoped the Japs had slept soundly.
“Yes!” said Gustafson exultantly. He pointed out over the darker western sky.
“Can’t see a thing, Gus,” Jake said as he stared into the gloom.
“Then clean your eyeballs and look where I’m pointing.”
A few seconds later, Jake did see the dark silhouette against the sky. Almost immediately, the plane dipped gently and landed between the rows of fires. One down. Jake felt like applauding, and a couple of the score of men with them did clap their hands.
In intervals of two to five minutes, the rest of the flight touched down. Immediately, the wings of the F4F Wildcats were folded and Gustafson’s people covered the planes with camouflage netting that resembled the barren landscape of western Hawaii.
As this was happening, other men ran with straw brooms to wipe away the tire tracks.
“Plane! Freeze!”
The yell had come from a lookout and was their worst fear. If they were detected, their efforts were doomed. They all dropped to their knees and curled up. One of the pilots was slow to respond and had to be manhandled to the ground.
“Clear,” yelled the lookout. He looked a little shamefaced. The “plane” he’d seen over the hills leading toward Hilo had been a large bird. Jake slapped him on the shoulder and told him he’d done the right thing by being cautious. Privately, Jake thought he’d aged a decade in the few minutes since the warning cry.
Eleven planes had landed. There were supposed to be twelve. The flight leader was Lieutenant Ernie Magruder, USN, who looked too young for his rank. He had a pencil-thin mustache that didn’t make him look mature. Jake guessed his age at twenty-one.
They waited awhile and then, sadly and reluctantly, gave up on the stray plane. The sky was bright and the fires were put out. “Nielson didn’t make it,” Magruder said softly. “Helluva way to go.”