“I didn’t kill him, I loved him,” lamented Grace.
“And I’m joking,” said Goldman. “Unfortunately, it was a bad joke.”
“I’m confused,” said Amanda. “Are you implying there’s enough money involved for someone to want to murder him?”
Goldman shrugged. “Who knows? He apparently cashed out all, or at least most, of his investments and put whatever he got into the safe-deposit boxes for which you have the keys. What’s in them we won’t know until and if they are opened.”
“Do you think it’s worth the effort?” Amanda pressed.
“I’d say probably. By the way, the legal effort will include someone, me, locating any of his living relatives who might file a claim that the will is invalid as well as dealing with the State of California, who might also say that the will is invalid and the contents of the boxes belong to the oppressed citizens of the state. What they’ll probably do is negotiate a percentage if it looks like you might prevail in court. By the way, we haven’t discussed my fee.”
Amanda sighed. “And how much will that be when you consider that we don’t have all that much money?” She decided not to mention the cash “refund” they’d recovered from Mack.
“Normally, I charge twenty-five percent of the proceeds. But, since you’re Mack’s friends, I’ll only charge a third.”
“What!” said Amanda.
Goldman laughed. “Glad to see you’re paying attention and understand basic math. Twenty-five percent is my fee.”
They agreed, signed a contract and some other forms, and left. It was time to go to San Diego and start earning a living. Goldman had a relative named Zuckerman in San Diego and they would communicate through him. Zuckerman was an attorney as well as an investor in real estate.
“I hope we’re doing the right thing,” Sandra mused as they waited for the ferry that would take them across the bay to Oakland and their car, “but I don’t know what the wrong thing could be.”
Amanda was about to answer when air-raid sirens went off. They looked about and scanned the skies along with thousands of other people who were staring skyward, puzzled and confused.
“There,” Grace shrieked and pointed. Hundreds of tiny dots were approaching from the south and heading over the Bay.
The Japanese were striking back.
Masao Ikeda piloted his Zero with the consummate skill of an experienced Japanese pilot, the best in the world. He and close to two hundred others flying both Zeros and the Nakajima B5N2 two-man carrier-based bombers had approached from the south of San Francisco because senior officers said that American radar likely did not extend that far. So they had circled behind where they thought radar would be, and apparently they were right. Radar was only dimly understood by the average pilot, and Japanese planes and most ships did not have it yet.
The waves of Japanese planes had flown at very low levels, well below what the experts also said were the limits of the radar devices that could identify a flying plane that could not be seen by the human eye. They had flown only a hundred feet above the ground and had been more concerned about trees and power lines than American warplanes. By coming from the south, it looked as if they’d also managed to avoid being spotted by any patrolling planes and ships.
The flight was both stressful and intoxicating. The terrain south of San Francisco surprised Ikeda. Unlike Japan, where cities were jammed with teeming multitudes, there was so much empty space and room for growth. He idly thought that he would like to visit the place some time. Perhaps after the successful conclusion of the war, where he would be treated as a conqueror and take his pick of white-skinned American women.
Today, though, he and his comrades would take revenge on the Americans for their disgraceful ambush of the Japanese convoy in what was a massacre unworthy of warriors. The planes from four carriers were taking part in this raid that saw them sweep unmolested over the rugged terrain south of San Francisco. Their knowledge of the area was minimal and they’d been reduced to reading road maps and magazine maps from sources like automobile clubs and National Geographic. Even so, it was impossible to miss the coastline and San Francisco Bay. Once over the bay, they turned north and east and headed toward the naval base at Mare Island. The bombers, referred to by the Americans as “Kates,” would drop their loads while the hundred and fifty Zeros dueled with American defenders. The Japanese did not think they could destroy the massive base with the fifty bombers and their relatively small loads. The purpose of the attack was to show the arrogant Americans that Imperial Japan could and would strike their home cities at will.
Ikeda had another hope. He was still a virgin when it came to enemy kills, and he was sick and tired of the teasing from his comrades. He would not even think of discussing the fact that he was a virgin when it came to women as well.
“Many enemy fighters!” came shrilly over his radio. “All directions.”
Ikeda looked around. Yes, American planes were swarming like angry bees from a hive. He exulted. There was no way he would not emerge with a kill; perhaps several enemy planes would fall to his guns. Another order sent the Kates back toward San Francisco, their secondary target. There were far too many American planes between them and Mare Island for the Kates to force entry. Now they were to bomb the city itself and then return to their carriers.
A shape flew across his nose. It was gone too quickly to fire at and Ikeda again cursed his luck. There! An American P47 was in his sights. He fired a burst and his tracers showed that the shells had fallen short. He fired again and the American plane lurched as pieces fell off. It began to smoke and headed toward the ground.
A kill, a kill! He howled with pleasure. He got his Zero on the tail of another P40 and blew it apart. A third plane, another P47, fell to his 20mm guns. He had to be careful, now. He didn’t want to run out of ammunition while surrounded by enemy wasps. He looked down and saw a number of parachutes. He thought about strafing the cowardly American pilots, but that would be a waste of ammunition.
“Break off. Return home.”
He snarled at the order, but it had to be done. A flash to his left and he saw a Zero explode. He fired a last burst at a P47, saw the shells hit but not kill the plane. Rumors said that the American plane was sturdy and the rumors, he thought ruefully, were correct. A flaming Zero fell from above him. He looked around and saw many, many American planes. The far fewer Japanese planes were all headed out to sea.
The Americans would chase the Japanese planes far to where the carriers waited along with the planes left behind to ambush any pursuit force. Ikeda tried to count the Japanese planes now flying west with him. He presumed that almost all the Kates had left the area and flown to safety, which meant there should be close to a hundred and fifty Zeros left. But where were they? Ikeda roughly counted much less than a hundred. Could the Americans have shot down so many? Nonsense, he thought. They must be scattered or following farther behind. Japan had won another great victory by bombing an American city and shooting down scores of enemy planes.
Even better, he, Masao Ikeda, was a virgin no more. Three confirmed kills and a possible fourth would tell all his comrades that he was a Japanese warrior.
Amanda cowered in the doorway of an office building while sirens continued to wail. There were many large plate-glass windows and she could visualize explosions sending knifelike splinters into the many hundreds of people running around screaming in panic. She saw a little girl knocked down and trampled. Amanda ran out and got the screaming child. Luckily she was only scared and bruised. A moment later, her sobbing mother took her and ran off. There were no bomb shelters. Of course not, she thought. San Francisco would never be a target despite all the hysteria regarding the possibility of a Japanese invasion. Damn politicians were wrong again, she thought angrily.