“You’re joking,” Amanda said.
“Nope. He worked for a bank that doubled as a brokerage house and he was stealing from them for about five years. He took the money and put it into cash and securities because he thought opening an account, even in another bank, would attract attention. When the Crash came, both the bank and the brokerage disappeared before they caught on to the fact that they were short some money.”
“How much?” Sandy asked.
Grace shrugged. “Who knows? Mack said he wasn’t interested in going back and claiming it because he was perfectly fine with his current life. Right now, it is sitting in a safe-deposit box in San Francisco. He did, however, write up a will a few days ago leaving it all to the three of us to be divided equally. The Three Stooges was the way he put it. If he doesn’t live, it’s ours, whatever it is.”
Amanda laughed sardonically. “Are you telling me we could be filthy rich and dying of thirst in the middle of the world’s largest ocean?”
“He gave me the key to the box, but I couldn’t do anything with it unless I had something to prove it belonged to me, like the will. When we get there, I guess we’ll find out.”
“But first we have to get there,” Sandy said.
Mack died that night, never regaining consciousness. They waited until morning, said some prayers, and gently pushed him into the sea. They’d wrapped him in a sheet so they didn’t have to look at his face as his body bobbed up and down. Nor did they have anything to use as an anchor. Fortune was kind, and the catamaran soon outdistanced Mack’s body. Unspoken was the fear that they’d have to watch while he was devoured by sharks, but that didn’t happen either. In a few minutes, he was gone, out of sight but not out of their minds. He’d been the one who really understood the boat and the ocean.
“We’re all alone, now,” Sandy said.
“Think we’ll make it?” Grace muttered.
“I don’t think we have a choice,” Amanda whispered. She wondered what Tim was doing now and what he would do if he was in such a predicament.
Admiral Yamamoto was angry and frustrated. Once again the foolishness of the code of bushido was hampering operations. His submarine captains had reported numerous sightings of American merchant ships, but few had done anything about it. A score of long-range submarines lay in wait off the major American cities like Los Angeles, San Francisco, San Diego, and, farther north, off Portland, Tacoma, and the British base at Vancouver. They, however, were waiting for the American Navy to emerge, not contemptible merchant ships. Sinking the American merchant ships could help cripple the American economy, but that point was lost on the devotees of bushido. He recalled a phrase from his time spent in the United States—with friends like these, who needs enemies?
Their excuses had been piously clever. They reminded him that they only carried a limited number of torpedoes; therefore, the precious weapons should not be wasted against lowly merchant shipping. Once the torpedoes were gone, it meant that the submarines would have to return to Japan for resupply while American and British warships cruised unimpeded. The fact that major American warships did not cruise at all in the Pacific did not deter the devotees of bushido. The goal of the submarine was to kill other warships, and merchant shipping was beneath them.
Regarding the supply of torpedoes, the sub captains had a point, so the first step toward solving their torpedo problem was to seize the large island of Hawaii and utilize Hilo Bay as a base. The other islands, including Oahu and the city of Honolulu, they would continue to ignore. The reinforced American Army garrison was no threat. It was stranded on Oahu.
The distance from Tokyo to San Diego was just under fifty-six hundred miles and using Hilo would cut the trip more than in half. With the American garrison on Oahu helpless and under long-range siege, the attack on Hilo would be a walkover and would largely eliminate the excuse that there weren’t enough torpedoes.
An attack on the Alaskan city of Anchorage was planned. It would give the Japanese Army, now suddenly cooperating with the navy, a North American base and one only twenty-four hundred miles from San Diego. Army Colonel Yasuyo Yamasaki commanded the garrison on Attu. His would be the invasion force. His unit would be reinforced, removed from Attu for the invasion, and the northern flank of the Japanese Empire would be protected. He had spoken with Admirals Nagumo, Toyoda, Kurita and Koga and all were in agreement that submarines and other surface warships must attack merchant shipping. Even though Yamamoto was admiral of the Combined Fleet, and senior, the others would also use their considerable influence to get the more junior and more aggressive commanders to comply.
Another solution to the supply issue was the usage of Japanese civilian tankers and freighters to provide the subs with fuel, food, ammunition, and, of course, Type 94 torpedoes while submarines were on station off America’s West Coast. These were just getting into place and would be situated far enough in the central Pacific where it was hoped they wouldn’t be noticed by American patrols. Japan had begun the war with sixty-five submarines, although twenty-one of them were obsolete, with another thirty-seven under construction. They would never be able to keep up with America’s production capabilities.
Therefore, Yamamoto’s goal was to keep at least five subs on station at each of the major American ports where they could inflict maximum damage, while the others were resupplied or were repaired. There were scores of other cities on the coast, but he would need an infinite number of subs to cover them all.
Of course, the Americans were confronted with the same dilemma. They could not place warships all along the length of the American-Canadian coastline. Nor could they protect all their ports even with the many hundreds of airplanes intelligence reports said they were assembling. Nor could their radar cover everything as well. The coast was just too vast.
Even better for Japan, the Americans were condemned to fight from stationary positions while his ships, the subs in particular, could move stealthily and at will to any place and attack in strength before the Americans could respond. At least that was the theory, he thought. He had allowed the Americans far too much time to gather strength after their defeat at Midway. Yamamoto had to admit that he hadn’t expected such an overwhelming victory either and, therefore, had little in the way of concrete plans when it so suddenly occurred.
At least Japanese torpedoes worked, he thought. It didn’t matter how many submarines the Americans had if they couldn’t sink anything with their flawed weapons. There had been so many reports by Japanese captains of American torpedoes going under Japanese ships, or bouncing off their hulls, that he didn’t doubt there was a major issue that must be driving the Americans insane.
When Dane arrived at his nephew’s camp, Steve Farris immediately and facetiously asked whether he should salute, shake hands, or kiss his uncle on both cheeks. After telling him to go screw himself, Tim laughed and hugged his nephew. It felt good to laugh. It took his mind off Amanda and the litany of defeats the country was enduring.
“Where the hell’s my car?” Dane asked with mock anger.
“Sitting on blocks back home and quietly rusting away. I took the tires off and put them in the basement.”
“Good thinking.” Tires were as valuable as gold. While there was a sufficient amount of gas available if everyone paid attention to the rules of rationing, rubber for civilian uses had virtually disappeared.
Dane had brought enough steaks and beer to feed the platoon, and distributed them, keeping two of the best pieces of sirloin and half a case of beer for the two of them. He assured his nephew that he’d paid for it, and that nobody was going to jail. Steve assured him that he didn’t much care. A third of the platoon was on duty and enough was saved for them. Even though it was Sunday, they would be on duty with their eyes open. It would not be like what happened at Pearl Harbor, that never-to-be-forgotten Sunday in December.