The Pearl Harbor Murders (19 page)

A little before four a.m., a minesweeper signaled the destroyer
Ward
of the sighting of a possible periscope three-quarters southwest of the harbor's blinking entrance buoys. General quarters were sounded by Lieutenant William Outerbridge, captain of the
Ward
—summoned to the bridge in his pajamas, over which he wore a kimono—and for half an hour, the destroyer searched the restricted waters outside the harbor, and saw nothing, their sonarmen hearing nothing.

Then at 6:30 a.m., a
Ward
crewman spotted the half-submerged midget sub trailing the supply ship
Antares
toward the harbor entry, whose torpedo nets—usually blocking the channel—were wide open. Lieutenant Outerbridge sounded general quarters again, and took chase, quickly closing to within a hundred yards, firing and missing, then—with a point-blank hit—nailing the sub at the juncture of its conning tower, sinking the seaweed-shrouded sub, then pounding it with depth charges until the wounded ship bled oil.

The
Ward,
little realizing it, had just fired the first shots of the Pacific War.

Though this encounter had taken place within five miles of Battleship Row, Oahu continued to slumber—Lieutenant Outerbridge, who of course promptly radioed a coded message of the sinking to the commander of the Fourteenth Naval District at Pearl Harbor—did not receive a request for "additional details" until 7:37 A.M.

Just before dawn, atop a ridge on the northern shore of Oahu, one of Colonel Teske's mobile radar stations was scheduled to be shut down at seven a.m. General Short had these half-dozen trailer-mounted units in operation only a few hours a day, primarily for training purposes. Private George Elliot and Private Joe Lock-ard were working a four-hour graveyard shift, three in the morning till seven; but the track that was supposed to pick them up for breakfast was late, and Private Elliot left the equipment on after seven, merely for the practice.

And just as dawn was threatening to break, a notably strong wave pattern blipped on Elliot's five-inch-diameter oscilloscope, indicating dozens of aircraft, about 130 miles north, heading toward Oahu—at a speed, they soon estimated, of around 180 mph.

Elliot called this in to the Air Warning Service at Fort Shafter, where Lieutenant Kermit Tyler—assuming these blips represented some B-17s expected in from the mainland—told the radarman, "Well, don't worry about it."

Lockard suggested they shut down the radar set, but Elliot wanted some more practice: he watched until the swarm of planes was only twenty-two miles north of Oahu, at which point the patterns disappeared. Unaware that this meant the planes were lost in the dead zone of the hills, as they crossed the shoreline, Elliot switched off the set and logged his final report, at 0740...

... content that he'd had enough practice for one day.

The blips on his screen had been forty-three Zeros, forty torpedo bombers, and one hundred bombers, the first wave of planes launched at six a.m. by the Japanese battle fleet 275 miles due north of the radar station. Their shadows racing across the checkerboards of sugarcane and pineapple fields, the 183 silver planes streaked over the lushly tropical, dreamily peaceful island, where a harbor as still as a millpond awaited, part of a golden landscape basking in the tranquillity of a Sunday dawn.

At around 7:30 a.m., Hully Burroughs and his father sat at a round wicker table on the Niumalu patio, having breakfast. Hully was in bis tennis whites, O. B. in a short-sleeved woven tan shirt and khaki slacks, an ensemble that looked vaguely military; both men were in sneakers. The plan was to play tennis after breakfast, so they again ate light—orange juice and coffee and muffins and fresh fruit.

Their houseguest, Bill Fielder, was still on the pallet in the bungalow, sleeping it off, dead to the world. The chief topic of discussion between father and son was their frustration that the Sunday paper was late: Hully's brother Jack's comic strip, based on ERB's John Carter of Mars stories, was making its debut today.

"Well, it's not like we haven't seen the proofs," Hully said, buttering a muffin.

"Sure, but I'm anxious to see it in color," O. B. said, obviously disappointed that he couldn't read this latest Burroughs spin-off—helmed by his eldest son, a fact of which he was inordinately proud—over his morning coffee.

Neither father nor son had mentioned anything about the murder investigation that had so consumed them the day before; this was a new day—witness the endless blue sky puffed with clouds, the surf rolling gentry to shore, hear and feel the wind whispering through the fronds, a strangely still morning, quiet, serene ... Sunday.

When the first sounds of artillery fire interrupted that serenity, shattering it even, Burroughs, coffee cup in hand, looked at Hully with one arched eyebrow.

"No," Hully said, to the unasked question.

And O. B. nodded.

After all, yesterday's papers had said that heavy guns would be fired from various parts of the island, over the next few days; and Oahu was a continual site of war games and realistic maneuvers.

As the sounds of battle built, other patrons of the Niumalu, at other tables, were exchanging the same information:
this was just a drill, some kind of Navy battle practice, or the Army having target practice....

A woman at a nearby table said in an English accent,

"What a wonderfully realistic imitation of a European air raid."

"Well, now I know how they sound," her male companion, an American, said matter-of-factly.

Soon, as father and son wandered to the tennis court, rackets in hand, Burroughs was saying, "You get used to these damn maneuvers, living on a military island like this. But I have to admit, after what we learned yesterday, I'm damned nervous. You don't think this could be..."

From the direction of the beach, the sky rumbled, and it wasn't thunder.

Nonetheless, Hully shook his head. "Dad, we'd be hearing sirens—it'd be all over the radio, by now. We'd know if this were more than just gunnery practice."

So they began to play tennis. Before long, many of the Niumalu guests had gathered on the sandy patch adjacent to the tennis court, that sunbathing area where, not so long ago, Pearl Har-ada had lounged in a pretty pink bathing suit. From there, the rubberneckers could enjoy—just past the stubby wooden fence—a clear view of the coast, from Diamond Head to beyond Pearl Harbor and Barbers Point, though a hill kept them from seeing the Naval base.

Even from the court, Hully and his dad could quite plainly see—pausing between serves—bombs falling into the ocean not so far away, dense black smoke billowing up as if the water were on fire.

"It's a practice smoke screen," somebody said.

"Sure doesn't sound like practice," someone else said, rather idly.

Antiaircraft shells were exploding in the sky, and ships at sea were firing, and the guests were oohing and ahhing, as if at a Fourth of July fireworks display, marveling at these "realistic maneuvers the Navy was staging."

Hully had just returned a serve, and O. B. had swatted it back, when a bomb went off surprisingly nearby, and Hully's attention jerked toward the beach, the ball bouncing past him, unattended. The hotel guests were rearing back in horror and surprise. Gasps and screams intermingled as they began to back away, and gradually turned and walked, and ran, to their bungalows or the lodge or just somewhere else, anywhere else, as long as it was inland.

At the sound of that nearby explosion, Hully had tossed his racket and his father had done the same, and as the guests rushed toward them, the Burroughs duo moved through the panicking crowd, swimming against the tide, running toward the beach.

Fred Bivens, eyes wide and unbelieving, came up to them, gesturing numbly toward the waters.

"A supply ship—it was standing just offshore, by Fort DeRussey.... A bomb blew the damn thing up! What kind of war games are these?"

Hully and his father looked out and could see bombs bursting over Pearl Harbor and Hickam Field.

"It's war, Fred," O. B. said gravely. "Not games."

Hully grabbed his father by the arm and said to him pointedly, "Then let's go take a prisoner."

O. B., understanding, nodded curtly, and they took off.

Feeling like idiots—they if anyone should have known this was the real thing—Hully and O. B. ran toward the Kuhns' cottage. As they passed by an open window of another bungalow, a radio blasted out an announcer's call to action:
"All men report to your post! Calling all nurses! Proceed to Pearl Harbor!"

And as they jogged by another open window, on another tumed-up radio, a different announcer was saying,
"Civilians
—
stay off the street! Stay home! Do not use the telephone! Oahu is being attacked—the sign of the Rising Sun is to be seen on the wings of the attacking planes!"

No radio was on in the Kuhns' quarters, but they found the door open and, inside, Adam Sterling, who had a .38 revolver in his right hand. The place was a mess, almost as if it had been searched; but that wasn't exactly the case.

The FBI agent, who might have been a tourist in his aloha shirt and chinos, looked at them and said, "Kuhn and his wife cleared out, sometime during the night."

Hands on his hips, O. B. snorted a laugh and asked, "Where the hell do they think they're gonna hide, on this island?"

Sterling stuck the gun in his waistband, shrugging. "Maybe with Jap sympathizers. Maybe they think that fifth column is going to rise up, or maybe an invasion is going to follow this goddamn air raid, and they're hiding till the outcome." Swallowing thickly, Sterling shook his head and his eyes locked with O. B.'s. "Jesus,
Ed
—did we
have
to be right?"

Explosions, muffled, underscored the agent's statement.

“This is it," O. B. said through clenched teeth. "This is the attack. But my question is—is
this
what Pearl Harada knew?"

Sterling shook his head. "No—but close. Last night, after you and I struck out with General Short and Admiral Kimmel. .. and what a morning I bet they're having ... I couldn't sleep. So I went over to the dining room, where the Harbor Lights were dragging their be-hinds through a performance ... two of their members murdered, what a damn pall that cast."

"I can imagine," Hully said.

"Yeah," O. B. said to the FBI agent, "but what the hell does that—"

Nodding, the FBI man picked up his train of thought. "I talked to a young man in the band who, as it turns out, was ... secretly... Terry Mizuha's
other
best friend." He grunted a humorless laugh. "Hell, why mince words at a time like this? Terry Mizuha's boyfriend—his lover."

O. B.'s eyes narrowed to slits. "What did this 'lover' tell you?"

Distant explosions continued to accentuate the FBI agent's words.

“Terry had confided in him, Ed—just like Pearl had confided in Terry. Nonspies aren't much at keeping secrets, you know. Seems our esteemed Japanese vice consul, Tadashi Morimura, is not a diplomat at all—

he's a spy named Takeo Yoshikawa. A top espionage agent... So much for 'legal' spying."

O. B. and Hully exchanged glances; then O. B. asked, "Is that an act of war? Having a spy pose as a diplomat?"

Sterling barked a hollow laugh. "Kind of a moot point right now, don't you think?"

And an especially loud explosion seemed to agree.

The FBI agent gestured to a telephone on a small table. "Listen, the hotel phones are out. Maybe some Jap plane snagged the phone lines. So I can't call the office, and anyway it's just a skeleton crew over there; and I can't contact anybody at home, obviously. I'm on my own—you and Hully want to help?"

Hully was nodding, emphatically, as O. B. said, "Sure—how?"

Sterling's smile had a sneer in it. "I want to get over to that Japanese embassy and arrest that son of a bitch, Morimura/Yoshikawa, plus I want to take all those other Nips into custody, right down to General Counsul Kita....You got a gun, Ed?"

O. B. nodded. "I still have Otto's L¸ger—in the bungalow."

"Get it. That is, if you want to help out."

"Oh, I want to help." Eyes so tight they seemed to be shut, O. B. stood almost nose to nose with the FBI agent (or would have if Sterling hadn't been so much taller) and said, "Listen, Adam—Pearl knew more than just Morimura's last name, I'm sure of it That bastard Morimura or Yoshi-something
knew
about this attack. This invasion got Pearl killed, and that Terry fella as well—they're the first casualties of this new war. Well, the Army and Navy have their hands full right now—you bet we'll be glad to help the FBI get that bastard."

Sterling and Hully tagged along as O. B. headed back to the bungalow to get the German's gun. As they approached, Bill Fielder—in his bare feet, his green sportshirt unbuttoned, zipping his chinos—came tumbling out, bumping into Hully.

The young ensign's face was unshaven, his eyes red, his dark hair sticking out here and there with sleep-induced cowlicks.

"Christ, have you heard?" Bill asked.

With bombs bursting in air—just like "The Star Spangled Banner"—this was a fairly absurd question.

"It's no drill," O. B. said.

"I gotta get to the
Arizona,"
Bill said desperately, wheeling from Hully to O. B. to Sterling. "You gotta drive me there! I gotta get in this! I gotta help!"

"Keys to the Pierce Arrow are on the coffee table," O. B. said, pointing to the nearby screen door. 'Take it—try not to get my buggy shot the hell up... or yourself."

"Thank you, thank you," Bill murmured, and ran back inside the Burroughs cottage.

Sterling paused for just a moment, watching Bill through the screen, and Hully was surprised to see that the FBI agent—this strong-jawed six-foot-two Tarzan type—had tears welling.

"The men on those ships getting bombed," he said softly, voice catching, "they're all boys like that—average damn age is nineteen."

O. B. whispered, "Dying out there, right now."

Then Bill, clutching the car keys, came streaking past them, flashing a nod of thanks and a grimace of a smile.