Rising Sun (4 page)

In the distance, a handful of sailboats, silhouetted by the moonlight, moved gracefully across the swells. It was a scene from another world, another era. Tim wondered if Japanese warships were just over the horizon or if enemy periscopes were surveying the shore, and if they could see the two of them walking together and what they thought about it. Maybe some Jap captain was laughing and planning their destruction. The enemy planes that had attacked the day before had come from a carrier that had to be out there somewhere.

Amanda looked up at the stars. “If I can’t get on a transport, I’ll sail to California.”

“You’re joking.”

She bristled and stamped her bare foot, splashing both of them. “I am not joking, and please don’t tell me you’re one of those men who thinks women are fragile and innocent creatures who can’t do anything without a big strong dumb man helping them. You may be big and strong and probably not dumb, and have nice brown eyes, but I can manage well enough alone. I can sail a boat and I have friends who can do it as well, and oh yeah, I know an old guy who owns one. Give me a decent sailboat and enough food and water and I can sail it anyplace.”

He took her hand. She did not pull it back. “If it comes to that, Amanda, do it.”

The Japanese had committed terrible atrocities when they’d taken Hong Kong and the Philippines. They’d targeted nurses and hospitals for many of their most savage outrages, slaughtering the patients and raping the nurses before murdering them as well.

She managed a smile. “Want me to look you up when I make it to California?”

“I would like that a lot.” He pulled her to him and they embraced. He felt her body shake. She was crying. He kissed her and she held him tightly. “We’ll meet in California.”

Her response was to kiss him back.

* * *

The three submarines that were to take the forty men of Spruance’s staff were docked in slips located below the fleet headquarters. It was the same building where the now-disgraced and removed Admiral Kimmel had watched both his fleet and his career destroyed.

Along with Tim and Captain Merchant, another ten men would be squeezed into what they had been told were already extremely tight quarters. Tim was well aware what that meant, having spent a couple of days in a sub before the seaplane had picked up him and the admiral. Tim was larger than average, and the average submariner was even smaller than that. For that matter, so too were pilots and many others in the military. There was, he thought ironically, simply no room for larger people in many military professions.

Before boarding, they were gathered in a conference room by their skipper, a very young, short, and lean lieutenant commander named Torelli who gave them a stern lecture.

“I know I am junior in rank to most of you, but let there be no doubt—I am the captain of this sub and I will make all decisions while you are on board. To begin with, you will be assigned bunks and you will spend as much time as possible in them and I don’t care how cramped and uncomfortable they might be. This is in order to keep you out of the way of the crew, who have assignments that must be carried out if we are to arrive safely. If we are in danger, you will lie perfectly still in those bunks and not even talk. If you have to piss or crap, do it right there and don’t worry about it. We don’t believe that the Nips have any sound-detecting devices like sonar, but we’re not certain so nobody’s taking chances. When necessary, we will run as silent as a mouse. We don’t think their radar’s all that great either, but a lot of things were proven wrong on Pearl Harbor, weren’t they?”

That comment was greated with grunts and growls. The Japanese had been terribly underestimated.

Torelli continued. “The food on board will be shitty at best and the heads are inadequate for the needs of the crew, much less an additional dozen men. Cleanliness might be a virtue in another world, but such virtue will have to wait until we reach California. For those of you who’ve never been on a sub, it will stink like a sewer when you go on board, so a little more shit odor and body stench won’t make a hell of a lot of difference, and it will get worse the longer it takes for us to get to California.”

“Will you attack Jap ships if we spot any?” Merchant asked.

“My orders are to deliver you safely and not pick any fights. We will only defend ourselves and then only as a last resort. I have four torpedoes left from my last patrol. Since we’re heading to California, the powers here declared I couldn’t have any more of their precious supply.”

“Have you sunk any ships?” Tim asked.

“Nothing to write home about,” Torelli said. “Two small freighters.”

Torelli didn’t add that most of the torpedoes he’d fired had either malfunctioned or missed, and he didn’t think his aim had been off all that often. He’d had a Japanese light cruiser dead to rights and the many torpedoes he’d fired had failed to explode, even though he’d heard two of them clang against the enemy’s hull. This was an issue that was very common and a cause of great concern among American submariners. He’d reported it up the line to Admiral Lockwood, who now commanded the sub force and was waiting for the bureaucratic shit to hit the fan.

Like children in grade school, they were paraded single file out to the dock. Tim looked around. It was two in the morning, a time when all good Japanese spies should be asleep, and all but the most essential lights were off in the harbor. Naval intelligence and the FBI said there weren’t any spies around, but who could be certain? Tim was one of many who wondered just how the hell the Japs had known so much about Pearl Harbor. The only logical answer was that there had been spies, probably Japanese consular officials, maybe others.

The sky was clear and there was a half moon, so there was some visibility. There was no real reason to suspect any of the population of Hawaii of being spies, but one could never be too careful. What they couldn’t see, they couldn’t report.

Even though there was a war on, secrets were hard to keep, and several dozen onlookers were present. Both curious military personnel and a handful of civilians were kept behind a tall wire fence by armed sailors. Some of the civilians were dependents and looked distraught. Tim looked to see if Amanda was one of them, and there she was. He waved and she waved back. She didn’t smile. He thought she looked a little lost, and he ached at leaving her behind to what might be a terrible fate.

Tim needed only a little help making it down the submarine’s deck hatch and into the hull. As promised and as he recalled, the odor of oil, grease, and God only knew what overwhelmed them and a couple of officers gagged.

“Pussies,” muttered a sailor and other crewmen laughed.

“I guess we are pussies,” said Merchant. “Dane, I’ve talked to Torelli, and you and I are going to be bunking by each other. I’m taking the top, of course. I’ll be the senior officer in the group and rank does have some privileges.”

“Understood, sir.”

“If we’re going to spending a lot of time cheek by jowl, I’m going to pick your mind about anything you know about Japan and the Japanese. If nothing else, it might help pass the time. If you bore me, I’ll have Torelli fire you out a torpedo tube. If what you know is useful, you’ll be giving some briefings to the staff when we get to California. If we get to California, that is.”

The sub began to move and there was a disconcerting feeling when she slid bow down and submerged to periscope depth. The tug led her and the two others out of the harbor and through the narrow channel that led to the ocean. If the enemy was anywhere, they would be waiting for them to emerge from the harbor.

They lay in their bunks with hearts racing. They wouldn’t have far to go before they reached relative safety, as the island of Oahu was considered by some to be a mountain that jutted up from the ocean depths; the dropoff to truly deep water would be sudden and soon.

After a surprisingly short amount of time, Torelli gave orders and the sub dived to deeper waters. They had made it out of Pearl Harbor and were on their way to California. They hoped.

A few miles back, Amanda and a handful of others stood by the empty space that once held the three subs and watched and stared. That they could see nothing at all was both frightening and reassuring. For Amanda, it was a terribly lonely feeling and she tried hard not to cry. She felt a sudden and intense kinship with the man she’d so recently met and barely knew. Now, however, she had her own decisions to make, but one thing was tremendously important. She had to get to California.

* * *

The train from hell had taken an eternity, or so it seemed to Second Lieutenant Steve Farris, U.S. Army. Hell, the starting point, had actually been Chicago and the train had been overfilled with GIs and their duffle bags and some equipment, minus weapons and helmets. They had been en route to the West Coast to reinforce the troops waiting and watching for a Japanese invasion. Instead of the couple of days a train trip should have taken, the journey from hell had lasted for two long weeks. Two weeks without proper food, not enough water to drink and wash with, and, when they went through the mountains, plenty of scenery, but no heat. The toilets had backed up almost immediately and toilet paper ran out as well.

He’d even seen his first stabbing as two soldiers had gotten into an argument over something. One man wound up with a switchblade in his gut, while the other was placed under arrest and would be charged with attempted murder. Farris been shocked by both the sudden violence and the tremendous amounts of blood that had been spilled.

The men in his brand-new platoon had looked to him for leadership and Farris couldn’t provide it. The men, with the exception of Platoon Sergeant Stecher, who treated him with the polite contempt of a veteran for a novice, were all straight out of basic training and scarcely knew how to put on their uniforms. Farris wasn’t much better. He was a ninety-day wonder recently graduated from Officer Candidate School and didn’t know much more than his men, and he sure as hell didn’t know what to do when men settled arguments with knives.

Nor could he get much help from his company commander, Captain Lytle, as that man had spent most of the trip drunk. Lytle had commandeered the only compartment on the train and had filled it with crates he’d brought along. Stecher said that Lytle had owned a bar back in Pennsylvania and had brought most of his inventory.

Finally, somehow, they had made it to San Diego and the platoon stood in the train station with several hundred other men in wrinkled and filthy uniforms. Sergeant Stecher stepped up to Farris and made no effort to salute. Farris ignored Stecher’s quiet insolence. “What now, Lieutenant?”

“Food, water, and a shower, sergeant. At least that’s what I want, and then maybe some sleep.” He saw some Red Cross people giving out donuts and told Stecher to send the men over to get something to eat. To his mild surprise, Stecher didn’t put up a fuss. Maybe Farris had said the right thing. After all, didn’t an army travel on its stomach?

Captain Lytle walked unsteadily up to them. “We are now a recon battalion and part of the Thirty-Second Infantry Division currently stationed here in San Diego. When your men are through stuffing their faces, there are some trucks to take us to temporary quarters, and after some training, out to our patrol areas.”

Farris saluted and went to gather his troops. They were part of an understrength and poorly trained National Guard detachment from Pennsylvania that had been fleshed out with a number of raw recruits, brand-new officers like Farris, and a handful of real soldiers like Stecher. They were all part of a civilian army girding for war and were a long way from being soldiers. Well, he thought, so was he. The really disconcerting fact was that he was the senior lieutenant in the company, a de facto second-in-command to Lytle. The other three lieutenants were even less experienced than he and had received their commissions a few weeks after he had.

For the thousandth time he wondered why he hadn’t pulled some strings and gotten into the navy, even if it had to be as an enlisted man. At least sailors had decent places to sleep and even better food, he was told, and they didn’t have to march through swamps or climb mountains. He’d envied his uncle and still did, even though Uncle Tim had gotten damn close to being killed in the Midway Massacre. Tim had managed to get a telegram to the family that all was well, which had both relieved and shocked them. Nobody’d had any idea he was out on any ship, much less the doomed
Enterprise
.

Stecher returned and glared at Lytle as the short, pudgy captain departed. “What the hell does he mean by patrol areas? I want to kill Japs, not patrol some fucking beach.”

Farris didn’t think that patrolling a beach in Southern California was all that bad an idea, especially in the summertime when California girls went out sunbathing. He’d heard delicious rumors that a lot of them swam and sunned in the nude. Yes, he’d like to patrol those beaches.

However, he understood Stecher’s concern. The sergeant’s brother had been killed at Pearl Harbor and he wanted revenge. Steve had heard the story a dozen times, and it always ended with a rightfully furious Stecher raging that “The fucking Japs murdered him. He was running across a field and one of their planes strafed him. Who the hell would cut down a man who’s running away?”

Farris had no answer. He deeply sympathized with the sergeant and said so, but there was nothing he or anyone else could do. The army would send them where it wished.

Originally it appeared that they’d been slated to go elsewhere, and rumors first said it would have been North Africa or some other place that was dry and dusty. This made sense when they were first given some desert gear. But then came the Midway debacle and fears rose that the Japanese would attack the West Coast; thus, they and large numbers of other American soldiers were sent on their way to San Diego.

Base was a tent city outside San Diego. Still exhausted from their trip, Farris and the others were issued additional equipment and uniforms and assigned places in the tents that would be their new home, at least for a short while.