Max Collins - The Pearl Harbor Murders

Sterling's smile was bitter; he shook his head. "All I keep thinking is 'poinsettias and hibiscus.' "

From the back, Hully said, "That radiophone call?"

"Code," Burroughs said.

Sterling nodded. "Code, all right-for certain kinds of ships."

Burroughs glanced at his son. "Maybe that bastard did know-our esteemed vice consul."

Traffic began to move again-as sirens wailed, and the sky roared.

"If we can ever get to the Consulate," Sterling said, through tight teeth, "we'll just ask the son of a bitch."

On a windy plain ten miles north of Pearl Harbor lay Wheeler Field, the Pacific's largest American fighter base. U-shaped barricades had been constructed to protect Wheeler's nearly one hundred fighter planes, Army Air Force P-40s and P-36s; this morning, however, the planes were clustered on the runways, wingtip to wing-tip-playing out General Short's antisabotage strategy, a policy the other Oahu bases were following, as well. Japanese planes pounced on the sitting ducks, dropping bombs, unleashing cannon fire and machine-gun blasts, chewing up the rows of parked fighters, fuel tanks igniting, leaving the hangars, enlisted men's barracks and PX in flames.

Dive-bombers swooped so low, inflicting their damage, that phone lines got snagged, and men on the ground could see the gold teeth in the grins of Jap pilots as they flashed by. No time to fight back, unarmed airmen died in their beds, or running for their planes, or for safety, though the base had no air-raid shelters. Their ammunition-locked away to keep local saboteurs from getting it, courtesy of General Short-was out of reach, stored in one of the burning hangars, bullets popping like popcorn in the conflagration.

Then the planes soared away, leaving thirty-nine men dead, and many more wounded.

Just north of Wheeler, at the suburban sprawl that was Schofield Barracks, sounds resembling explosions roused the interest of soldiers, who-upon glancing outside the mess hall-saw a plane with a black canopy and fuselage marked with a red spot, circling the roof of the building housing HQ. Breakfast trays in hand, several soldiers were arguing over whether this was a Jap plane or some strange Navy craft, when buglers trumpeted an alert. The men tossed their trays and ran from the mess hall into the quadrangle; others sought out rifles, and two artillerymen ran to the rooftop and fired at planes with Browning Automatic Rifles, emptying clips at the dive-bombers.

One of the Jap planes crashed.

Cheers went up.

Then a new topic of conversation took over among the frightened young soldiers: how much would it hurt to be shot by a Jap bullet? Was it true the Nips only used.25 caliber ammo?

Admiral Kimmel had gotten up early on this fine Sunday morning; every other weekend, he would meet with General Short for eighteen holes of golf. Today, Lieutenant Colonel Throckmorton and Colonel Fielder would be joining them.

He'd recently moved into this house at Makalapa Heights, about five minutes from HQ, and the place was underfurnished-severely lacking the touch his wife would have brought to it. On days off like this, he missed her dearly; but most of his time was so filled with work, he scarcely remembered he had any private life.

This week had been filled with protracted discussions over whether the fleet should be kept in Pearl Harbor or sent to sea; and now this business was looming of the supposed espionage activities that Adam Sterling-a good man, if overeager-and the ever-imaginative Ed Burroughs had brought to his attention last night.

He was still in his pajamas, and hadn't even shaved yet, when Commander Murphy, duty officer at HQ, called to say the Ward had ash-canned a sub near the harbor.

"Sorry to bother you on Sunday morning, sir," Murphy said.

Kimmel realized this was probably just another false alarm-incorrect reports of subs in the outlying area were common.

But he said, "You acted correctly, Commander-all submerged sub contacts must be regarded as hostile….I'll be right down."

Around five minutes later, freshly shaved and just getting into uniform, Kimmel again answered the phone and once more it was Murphy.

But this time the businesslike commander's voice was strangely shrill: "Sir, we have a message from the signal tower saying the Japanese are attacking Pearl Harbor-and this is no drill!"

Kimmel slammed the phone down and ran outside, onto the front lawn, into the garden which overlooked the base, buttoning his white uniform jacket as he went.

The sky was filled with the enemy-the Rising Sun on their wings. He knew at once this was no casual raid, by a few stray planes.

"Unbelievable," he murmured.

Aghast, he stood frozen among the flowers-poin-settias and hibiscus in bloom-watching Jap aircraft swoop down on the base, circling in figure eights, dropping bombs, turning and dropping more, machineguns chattering. Explosions rocked the sky-and ships, fires already burning fiercely on their decks. "Impossible," he whispered.

Four miles west of Pearl Harbor, the Ewa Marine Corps Air Station was hit by two squadrons of silver planes bisecting the field at two hundred mph, fishtailing to better lash their bullets into broad patterns.

Of the base's forty-nine fighters and scout planes, thirty were decimated on the ground.

Four blocks from Beretania Street, the black Ford managed to crawl through the traffic jam and make it across Kuakini Street, bordering Pauoa Park, where on the left-hand corner squatted the two-story concrete compound of the Japanese Consulate.

Sterling pulled up in front, into the no-parking zone, and Burroughs and his son hopped out, following the FBI agent up the stairs, where-oddly-Consul General Nagao Kita stood halfway down… in his dark blue silk pajamas.

Burroughs had met the usually affable Kita before, socially, as had Sterling-the consul general was short, plump, with dark thick hair, and a broad, bushy-browed face that, with its flattened pug nose, gave him the appearance of a cheerful ex-prizefighter.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Kita said, arms folded, smiling like a friendly genie.

"Don't you know there's a war on?" Sterling demanded.

Kita shrugged. "This is just another American exercise-an elaborate one, I admit."

"Take a look at the color of that smoke," Sterling said, nodding toward the sky. "It's black, not white- fuel oil. Your planes are bombing Pearl Harbor."

"Nonsense."

"I'm going to have to take you in custody, Mr. Kita. We're at war, and I have evidence of espionage on the part of your vice consul."

The smile disappeared into an impassive mask. "I'm a diplomat, Mr. Sterling. Even if we are at war-I have certain rights."

"You have no rights-American boys are dying right now in this vicious underhanded attack. Where is your vice consul? Where is Yoshikawa?"

Kita's eyes tightened. "I know no one by that name."

"I'll settle for Morimura, then."

A siren screamed and tires squealed as a police car came to a halt next to the black Ford. Three uniformed police officers-two Hawaiians and a Chinese- jumped out, shotguns in hand, and so did a plainclothes officer… Detective John Jardine, a.45 automatic in his fist.

Jardine took the steps two at a time and joined the little discussion group, nodding to Burroughs and Hully, then saying to Sterling and Kita, "We're putting this building under armed guard."

"Why?" Kita said, his impassive face finally offering up a frown.

"For the protection of the consul general," the Portuguese detective said, "and the members of your staff."

Kita lifted a bushy eyebrow. "And if I don't want your protection?"

Jardine's wide thin mouth made a faint smile. "Well, we could wait an hour or so, for a nice mob to build, and then throw your ass to it."

That seemed to sober Kita, who said, "Shall we step inside?"