The man sighed. “Nothing can bring Kami back, and nothing can eliminate your night with Omori. What I can do is ensure that nothing further happens to you. I wish to move you from here to one of the other islands. There you will be with friends of mine and out of Omori’s reach. There are comparatively few Japanese military in the islands, and Omori doesn’t have the resources to search for you.”
“How much time do I have to think it over?”
“None. I want you to leave now. You are not the only woman in Omori’s stable. There are two other Americans who’ve already been turned into opium addicts and whores by him. He will use you for a couple of weeks, and then you will be passed around to a succession of other Japanese officers. What happened to you last night was bad enough. How would you like to service half a dozen men each time? In six months, I predict you will be dead of drug usage, or dying of it, or of syphilis.”
The hooded leader knew this wasn’t the truth. So far, Alexa Sanderson was the first woman Omori had attacked, but it was felt that she needed to be frightened into moving.
Alexa was convinced. She would go, and right now. “Let me pack a few things. What about my friend? Will you take her?”
The leader shrugged. “If she wishes it. However, if it is the friend we saw you with, she has a small child. I doubt that she would wish to live the life of a refugee with him.”
And that, Alexa thought, tells me that there will be danger where he is sending me. However, she decided it would be far better than the lingering agony Omori had in store for her. He was right. Melissa was better off where she was. Alexa wanted to say good-bye to her friend but decided against it. Melissa was safer in a state of honest and plausible ignorance.
“Now, please take off the mask,” she asked.
He did as requested, revealing the face of a Japanese man well past middle age. She looked into his eyes and saw deep sadness that was possibly as great as her own, along with strength and more than a hint of cruelty. This man would be a terrifying enemy.
“Who are you?”
“I am Toyoza Kaga, and I am a merchant in the area. I am Japanese born, but I have no wish to see the Japanese military succeed. Is that acceptable, or does the fact of my race offend you?”
“Do I have a choice?” Alexa asked grimly. “How will you get me off the island without the Japs”-she caught herself and flushed while Kaga smiled slightly-”I mean, without Omori’s men finding me?”
“That will not be difficult. Each night scores of fishing boats leave and return without the Japanese caring. Our occupiers have done nothing to hinder commerce between the islands. Quite the contrary; it is in their best interests to encourage fishing to help feed the people. You will be on one of the boats.”
Alexa rose. She felt strength and hope returning to her. “All right, let’s get going.”
Colonel Jimmy Doolittle thought he had seen everything in his years in the army and the air corps. Now, he knew he was wrong.
Doolittle was forty-five and had taken a slightly unusual route toward higher rank. Instead of attending West Point, he had graduated from the University of California and later earned a doctorate at MIT. He had joined the army in 1917, resigned in 1930 to work in private aviation, then reenlisted as a major in the summer of 1940.
As the short, trim colonel walked along the beachfront with Admiral Nimitz, he could only gawk at the array of planes floating before him. None of his experience had prepared him for what he was seeing and what he thought the admiral was going to tell him.
Finally, he found his voice. “Admiral, what the hell am I supposed to do with these big, ugly monsters?”
Nimitz grinned. “Bomb the Japs.”
Lined up before them and in the waters of the bay were eight flying boats. They looked like so many gargantuan geese on parade and, from the upward cut of their bows, seemed to be mocking him. But Doolittle knew one thing: He was a bomber pilot, and flying boats were not bombers. The fact that they rested in the water precluded them from having bomb bays. They were slow, fat passenger planes, not warplanes.
He sighed. “What do you want bombed, and why me, sir?”
Nimitz explained in reverse. He said that Doolittle had a reputation as an intelligent, creative, and flexible commander. Doolittle’s original plan had been to bomb Tokyo using sixteen B-25 bombers that would fly from a carrier, bomb Tokyo, and land in China. Doolittle’s abilities while training for this army-navy foray had impressed the navy, which had asked for him to be seconded to their command.
“And let’s face it, Colonel, not too many navy pilots know anything about large bombers, and these planes are going to be just about the largest bombers the world has ever seen.”
Doolittle thought he knew the answer but had to ask. “And my target? It’s no longer Tokyo, is it?”
“No, it’s not. Your target is the fuel depot at Pearl Harbor. According to our intelligence sources, it is nearly rebuilt now, and, when it is finished and filled, Pearl Harbor will be a viable forward base for the Japanese. As it stands, the Japs have only a scratch force in and on Oahu, and the longer we can keep things that way, the easier it will be to retake the islands once we have achieved naval superiority. Therefore, your job will be to destroy that depot just like the Japs did to us.”
Doolittle saw the irony in the situation. “And why not launch my B-25s from a carrier?”
Nimitz smiled. “Let’s just say we have other plans for our carriers. Besides, once launched, where would you go? Hawaii is in the middle of nowhere. Flying to China would not be an option, as it would be if you bombed Tokyo. You’d be forced to land in the sea if you used B-25s. However, with modifications and drop tanks, these flying boats can take you from California to Hawaii and back.”
Doolittle whistled. “The Japs’ll never expect a plane that can do that trick.”
“You will have the fullest cooperation from both army and naval engineers in reconfiguring those passenger craft into weapons. May I presume you already have some thoughts?”
Doolittle smiled. It would be a helluva challenge, but the admiral was right. And yes, there were a few thoughts percolating in his skull.
“Two questions, Admiral.”
“Shoot.”
“First, let’s say I arrive over Pearl and I see targets that may be more inviting than a fuel depot, for instance, a row of sleeping carriers. How much discretion will I have?”
“All you wish. That’s one of the reasons we chose you.”
Doolittle felt like jumping in the air. “Fantastic! Now, sir, when do you want me to be ready?”
Nimitz smiled benignly. “Yesterday.”
Commander Mitsuo Fuchida greeted his old friend Minoru Genda with heartfelt warmth as they met in what had been the officers’ club of Wheeler Field, out by Schofield Barracks. After they’d exchanged pleasantries and treated each other to a drink, Genda brought up the reason for the meeting.
“Fuchida, you have done a marvelous job of, first, reducing the American forces on Oahu and, second, rebuilding this devastated base. May I assume that all your planes and pilots have been transferred from Molokai?”
“You may, indeed. The fields at Molokai have been dynamited, which makes them useless for anyone else, although they could be rebuilt fairly quickly. I must admit, I am not comfortable with so many potential airstrips so close to Oahu and no one watching over them.”
Genda agreed. “Unfortunately, our resources are stretched thin. However, you are flying patrols over all the islands, aren’t you?”
“Of course. But with only sixty planes at my disposal, I have only a handful on overland patrols at any given time. I am afraid that most of what goes on in the islands is unseen by my men.”
Fuchida was forced to divide his air resources among ocean patrols, which were deemed more critical because they looked for carriers; anti-sub duty off the entrance to Pearl Harbor; overland patrols; and the maintenance required to keep the planes in the air. At least a third of his planes were being serviced at all times. In the event of an attack, he was confident almost all of them would rise to fight, but the situation stretched his current overland patrols thin, too thin, in his estimation. “You know, Genda, I lost nearly a hundred pilots taking Oahu,” he said.