Robert Conroy - Rising Sun

Use of his left arm had returned somewhat. He would perform tasks that didn’t require skill, like picking up something large, but other tasks, like picking up a pencil or turning the pages of a book or newspaper were still difficult at best.

His trip to San Diego had been interrupted by more vital traffic, and he found himself convalescing in San Francisco. He’d been told that he would be treated for a while, maybe a few weeks, and then likely discharged if he wanted it. He’d served his country well, an overweight major had told him, and he’d gotten his wounds and medals. The major said that Farris was a hero. Steve almost told the major to go screw himself. He knew he wasn’t a hero. He also wasn’t certain he wanted to be discharged. He’d been scared to death during the final Japanese attack. Stecher had been the real hero and Steve was glad that Gavin had put the sergeant in for a medal. The poor bastard had wanted so much to kill Japanese in revenge for their killing his brother, it was a shame that he’d gotten himself killed just when it seemed like he was coming to grips with his personal tragedy.

A PFC with a clipboard came in. “You Lieutenant Farris?”

“I am.”

“Well, sir, I got orders from some Canadian doctor in Vancouver to put you on a bus to Kansas City.”

“Are you kidding?”

The PFC grinned. “Yes, sir. One of the docs who was looking you over put me up to it. His cousin is the guy in Vancouver who treated you. Actually, you’re scheduled to go by train to San Diego and it leaves in two hours. Can you be ready?”

Farris laughed and almost jumped out of his chair. “Damn right I can.”

Even the normally dour Admiral Nagumo was stunned by their good fortune. Not one, but two American carriers would soon be in the Gulf of California.

“I cannot believe that fortune is finally on our side,” Nagumo said.

Even Yamamoto grinned. “What happened to your normal state of pessimism?”

“Perhaps it is overwhelmed by the possibility that we may actually be able to bring this war to a conclusion favorable to Japan before the full might of the United States is brought to bear against us. That possibility would make even a corpse giddy. But tell me, what convinces you that this is not a trick designed to draw us into an ambush?”

Yamamoto stood and looked out at the large map of the Pacific that dominated his conference room on the battleship Yamato . He too had been wondering the same thing. Was it too good to be true? There was a saying he’d heard in America—if it seems too good to be true, it probably is too good to be true.

After a long moment, Yamamoto answered. “For one thing, the source is Germany, our ally. For another, I believe we can verify the existence of the carriers.”

Nagumo nodded sagely. “But what if our attempts at verification are discovered? That will induce the Americans to depart the area, won’t it?”

“Indeed, and that is why we must be extremely circumspect. Germany has volunteered to provide the eyes that will confirm the existence of the two carriers and I have accepted their offer.”

Nagumo was clearly unhappy. “I would prefer that Japanese eyes do the confirming. I do not trust our Nazi allies. They detest us almost as much as they hate Jews.”

“Agreed, but we might not have a choice. If we use a floatplane from a sub, we run the risk of it being discovered and the Americans will know we are on to them and will flee. Nor can we get any surface ships close to the Gulf of California without being discovered by American planes and radar.”

Nagumo nodded. “You are right. We do not have a choice. But I do not like the idea of putting our destiny in the hands of the Germans.”

“Nor do I,” Yamamoto said, “but we are not in a position to choose our friends.”

Yamamoto walked over to the map of California that was taped to the wall. It amused him that it clearly said it came from a National Geographic . Still, it was an excellent map. He fervently hoped that the Americans had trouble getting decent maps of Japan.

“Once the presence of the carriers is verified, we will attack them with overwhelming force and sink both them. We will lose planes and possibly even ships, but it will be more than worth it. We will distract them from protecting the carriers by using our battleships and heavy cruisers to bombard Los Angeles and San Diego. The bombardment will come first, which will cause the Americans to divert planes to protect their cities and the civilian population.”

“Will you notify Tokyo of your intentions?” Nagumo asked.

Yamamoto bristled. “No. I command the fleet and I do not need permission from anyone to do battle with the Americans.”

Nagumo nodded solemnly. “Keeping the attack a secret with only the fleet aware of what we hope to achieve will keep our plans even more secure. While the Americans cannot read our codes, there might be a blabbing mouth in Tokyo and news might somehow reach our enemies. As much as I would prefer that we receive blessings from Tokyo, I agree that this is something that we alone must do.”

Yamamoto smiled. He didn’t need anyone’s permission or blessing, but it still would have been good to receive. Now if only the existence of the American carriers could be verified. Their destruction would result in Japanese control of the Pacific for at least several more years. The longer the growing might of the United States Navy was kept at bay, the more likely the Japanese Empire would emerge from this war with an honorable peace that would provide Japan with both economic and military security.

There was another problem that could arise should they be victorious. There would inevitably be calls from the hierarchy in Tokyo to make additional punishing attacks on the United States. Perhaps there would be pressure on him to invade Australia and Oahu, stretching his slender resources. These would have to be dampened and tempered with reality. What some called “victory disease” could prove fatal.

Still, Yamamoto thought, he would use the fleet to make selective attacks on the United States after the victory in the Gulf of California.

Juan Escobar was a proud man who was both mystified and angry at what had happened to his once proud and orderly world. An aristocrat who considered himself more Spanish then Mexican, he deplored the fact that crude, illiterate peasants of Indian descent had done so much to change his world. Not only did he no longer receive the respect that was his due as a descendant of the conquistadores, but he saw thinly veiled contempt in the eyes of many from the lower classes. Even worse, these communist-inspired cretins had almost destroyed his beloved Holy Mother Church’s influence in Mexico with their liberal and egalitarian ideas.

Yes, there currently was a shaky accord in place between the Mexican government and the Church that promised to end the fighting, but his beloved Church remained in a seriously reduced role, and Escobar did not like that. The Church represented God and, therefore, should be in charge. His late uncle had been a bishop and had been adamant about the Church’s proper role in the world. He believed that all governments should be subordinate to the Papacy. He knew that some laughed at him and called his beliefs archaic, but he knew that his way was the truth.

It had come as no surprise to the fifty-year-old Mexican Army colonel that he found himself drawn to the ideas of Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party. Hitler knew what to do with the communists. Mexico needed its own Hitler. He held onto the now fading hope that it would someday be a man named Juan Escobar. Even though Hitler did little to support Catholicism, Escobar was confident that the Nazis would change when victory over utterly godless communism was theirs.