Robert Conroy - Rising Sun

Finally alone in the booth, he emptied the contents of the box. He now had more than ten thousand dollars and three sets of identification. He also had a .32 Colt revolver. Krause happily departed the bank, found a car, hot-wired it, and drove off inland along with much of the population of San Diego. He was confident that the police would have too much on their hands to worry about a stolen car, especially when they would recover it shortly. He was uncertain as to exactly where he would go, but east would be the general direction and then he would take a Greyhound bus to somewhere. Kansas City sounded like a nice destination. He would be a German refugee who’d fled Hitler before the war. Yes, that would get him sympathy. Maybe, he thought, he would make it after all.

He laughed. The Third Reich was doomed to a slow death in the frozen steppes of Russia and would ultimately be trampled by the vengeful Soviets, but there was no reason for a similar fate to befall him.

Admiral Chester Nimitz clutched his chest and tried to hold back the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. In the background, his aides, his staff, were imploring him to go to a shelter. A couple had even tried to pull on his arm, but he had shaken them off. However horrible this was, it was something he had to see, especially since he had caused it.

Nimitz recalled an old phrase: “What hath God wrought?” No, this time it was: “What Hath Chester Nimitz wrought?” It was his decision to try to lure the Japanese fleet to California and now he had them. He laughed bitterly and recalled another saying: “Be careful what you wish for, it might come true.” He now had to accept the possibility that the name Chester Nimitz would go down amid the host of history’s fools. Custer and whoever had led the Charge of the Light Brigade and demanded the assault on the Somme would welcome him as a failed comrade-in-arms.

Through the window of his office, he could see small boats moving fearlessly through the attack, picking up survivors from the sunken destroyer. There were precious few sailors being pulled into the boats, and Nimitz assumed that many of them were dead already.

Another enemy salvo crashed onto the base, destroying a warehouse. Something in it exploded with a roar. The hospital had collapsed and he hoped the patients and medical personnel had gotten out. The shore batteries had already been silenced. Japanese ships and planes were shelling and bombing with impunity, and he had invited them in. Intelligence said that at least six and possibly eight enemy carriers were approaching the Baja, so where had the planes bombing and strafing the base come from? Either the Japs had more carriers than anyone thought, or they were using anything that would float and hold planes.

Regardless, the full fury of Imperial Japan was descending on San Diego and Los Angeles, which was also being bombed and shelled. The Rose Bowl stadium had been shelled and the “HOLLYWOOD” sign had been blown off the hill. The handful of fighters he’d held back to provide a token defense had been shot down.

Another explosion rocked the area. A bomb or shell had hit a fuel depot and resulted in billowing flames surging skyward.

“Admiral, let’s go.”

It was one of his aides. This one was brave enough to be insistent. Nimitz allowed himself to be led down the stairs to a place that was, theoretically at least, safe. If the enemy force approaching the Baja was not destroyed, or at least defeated, his name would be reviled.

Nimitz paused. He had a horrible thought. What if Yamamoto had seen through the trick and no Japanese fleet was actually going to the Baja? Perhaps they would turn around, or even head north, attacking and devastating other coastal cities as they went. Perhaps they’d seen through his clumsy ruse and knew that there were no carriers in the Baja. If the Japs made such a fool of him, the word “reviled” wouldn’t begin to describe the contempt he would endure.

Belowground, in his reinforced concrete bunker, his staff looked at him, relief evident on their faces that he’d finally joined them. He made a mental note never to scare them again. A second mental note was that whatever happened, he would endure it.

“What’s the latest?”

“The Jap surface fleets are turning back, sir. Either they’re out of ammo or out of targets.”

“Neither,” Nimitz said. “They’re trying to lure us out. They want us to send all our planes after them and we’re not going to do that. How many planes attacked here and Los Angeles?”

“Maybe thirty apiece,” another aide said. “We think they have a small carrier off each city. Allowing for typical pilot exaggeration, we shot down an estimated twenty of the enemy.”

“A heavy price for a decoy,” the admiral thought out loud.

Another aide looked at him eagerly. “Sir, radar on the hills overlooking the Baja report that the enemy carriers are within their range. They also report that the Japs are close enough to start launching large numbers of planes.”

Nimitz sat down in leather admiral’s chair. Despite his many doubts, the Japs were going to attack. Perhaps this wouldn’t be such a bad day after all.

Toki ran up to his friend and embraced him in a most unJapanese display of affection, a wide smile on his face. “Today is the day, my friend, go bravely and sink their ships.”

Masao slapped him on the back and laughed. It was a good day to be a Japanese warrior, a samurai. “Make up your mind. A while back you were certain we were doomed because the Americans were so powerful. Now you seem confident that we’ll defeat them. Which is it?”

“Of course I have doubts. Nothing is certain in life, except, of course, death.”

They were standing on the flight deck alongside Masao’s Zero. The deck was humming with pilots waiting to be given the word to take off, while mechanics performed whatever last-minute wizardry they did to make sure that the magnificent Japanese planes flew.

Finally, the order was given and pilots eagerly climbed into the cockpits of their planes. Along with Zeros, the Kaga was going to launch all of her Aichi D3A dive bombers with their five-hundred-fifty-pound bombs, and her Nakajima B5N torpedo bombers with their Type 91 torpedoes that had warheads containing more than five hundred pounds of explosives. Just about every plane from every carrier would be involved in the attack. Only a handful of Zeros would remain behind. Some had wondered about the wisdom of that decision, but the revered and infallible Yamamoto had said that fortune favors the bold. The Americans could not attack the Japanese fleet because they had no carriers at sea, although they would surely have some land-based planes guarding their ships. Ergo, there was no need to retain planes to fight off any American planes.

With a roar, Masao was airborne. The sight of the vast aerial armada took his breath away. A mighty host of planes was headed toward the American coast. He exulted. In a short while the two American carriers would be at the bottom of the Gulf of California.

As he and the others drew closer, they could see dots in the air. Yes, the Americans were rising to meet them. Good, Masao thought, victory would be even more complete when they were all shot down.

Soon he was both high enough and far enough along to see the distant shapes of the American ships. They appeared to be dead in the water. Something nagged at him. They didn’t look quite right. He dismissed the thought. After all, weren’t they in the Gulf for repairs? That must be why they looked strange.

He wiped any distractions from his mind. There was no time for daydreaming. First, he had to fight his way through a surprising number of American planes that were racing to meet him. The more of them to shoot down, he thought happily.