Harry Turtledove - Days of Infamy

“So it seems, sir,” Genda replied. “They appear to have slipped by our submarines at night, but flying boats report that large numbers of Navy ships and transports are no longer in West Coast harbors.”

“Why haven’t the famous flying boats found the enemy fleet at sea, then?” Vice Admiral Ugaki asked irritably.

“My guess is, the Americans are trying something sneaky,” Yamamoto said before Genda could reply. “They’ll come down on us out of the north, or maybe even from the northwest, instead of making a straight run from their Pacific coast. And the straight route is the one the flying boats and the subs will be patrolling most. What do you think, Genda- san?”

“That’s how it looks to me, too, sir,” Genda said. “They’ll assemble somewhere up in the north, hope they can defeat our carrier force, and try to land if they do.”

“Good enough,” Yamamoto said. “Well, the sooner we get out to Akagi and go after them, the better off we’ll be. We have better planes and better pilots, and I aim to take advantage of it.”

“Yes, sir,” Genda said, and then, “You’ll want to spend the night here on Oahu, won’t you, and fly out in the morning? You’ve been traveling for a long time.”

By the look on Vice Admiral Ugaki’s face, he would have liked nothing better. But Yamamoto shook his head. “I’ll rest when I get there,” he said. “I want to make sure I’m in place when the fighting starts. If I wait, it may start without me. You do have aircraft here that can land on a carrier?” His bulldog expression said somebody-probably Genda-would catch it if he had to wait while planes came back to Oahu from the Akagi.

But Genda pointed to a pair of Aichi dive bombers. “They are at your service, sir.”

“Good.” There was never anything halfway about Yamamoto. If he was unhappy, he was very unhappy. If he wasn’t, everything was rosy. He walked over to the edge of the runway, undid his fly, and eased himself on the grass. When he came back, he was smiling. “That’s a lot better than trying to piss in a tin can while an airplane’s bouncing all over the sky. Go on, Ugaki- san, while you’ve got the chance. You won’t make a mess here.”

“ I didn’t make a mess,” Ugaki said with dignity, but he walked off the runway and turned his back, too.

Admiral Yamamoto threw back his head and laughed. Now that he saw he’d got what he wanted, he was in a good mood. He cocked his head to one side and studied Genda. “Are you feeling well, Commander? You look a little peaked.”

Genda bit down on his lower lip in embarrassment. He hadn’t realized it showed. “I’m… all right, sir.” He gave himself the lie, for he started coughing and wheezing and had trouble stopping. “I’ve had a little trouble with my lungs lately; nothing too bad, though.”

“You ought to see a physician,” Yamamoto said.

“I intend to, sir-after we beat the Americans.”

“All right, as long as you’re well enough to help us fight them. You won’t do the Empire any good if you’re flat on your back.”

“Yes, sir. I understand that. I’ll get through the fight.” Genda knew he was trying to convince himself as well as Admiral Yamamoto. There’d been a couple of times when he almost did go to the doctor in spite of the action looming ahead. But whatever was troubling his chest had eased back, and here he was.

Here came the officer in charge of Wheeler Field: a lieutenant colonel. He bowed to Yamamoto and Ugaki in turn. “Honored to have you here, sir,” he told the commander of the Combined Fleet. “I trust you’ll do me the honor of dining with me tonight?”

“I’m afraid not,” Yamamoto said, and the Army officer’s face fell. Yamamoto did take the time to make sure the man understood it was nothing personal: “My chief of staff and I are going straight out to our flagship, as soon as you can put pilots into those Aichis. The Americans won’t wait.”

In the face of such formidable devotion to duty, the lieutenant colonel said the only thing he could: “Yes, sir.”

Genda knew a certain amount of relief. At least Yamamoto didn’t propose flying out to the Akagi himself. He had his wings, yes, but Genda didn’t think he’d ever made a landing on the deck of a flattop. Yamamoto caught his eye and raised one eyebrow slightly. Genda gave back an almost imperceptible nod. Yamamoto said, “And make sure you have a plane for Commander Genda as well. His assistance is bound to prove invaluable.”

“I’ll take care of it, sir,” the Army man promised. His eyes raked Genda. Who the devil are you? he might have asked. Genda didn’t enlighten him.

Inside half an hour, Admiral Yamamoto and Vice Admiral Ugaki were winging their way north. A little later, the lieutenant colonel scraped up another Aichi D3A1 and a pilot to ferry Genda out to the Akagi. He still didn’t know who Genda was or what he’d done to deserve singling out by name by the most famous officer in all the Japanese armed forces. That suited Genda-who cared for results much more than for renown-just fine.

The flight didn’t suit him so well. The longer it went on, the less happy his chest got. He tried willing the congestion away, as he had before, but didn’t have much luck. He huddled in the dive bomber’s rear seat, doing his best not to move. When the plane came down in the controlled crash that was a carrier landing, he had to bite back a groan.

Getting out of the Aichi after the pilot opened the canopy took all his strength. He dragged himself down to the flight deck and stood there swaying. Captain Kaku, who’d come out of the island onto the deck to greet him, took one look at him and snapped, “Go to the dispensary.”

“I’m all right, sir,” Genda protested feebly.

“Go to the dispensary. That’s an order, Commander.” Kaku’s voice had not a gram of give in it. Genda gave back a miserable salute and obeyed.

A doctor with round-lensed spectacles like Prime Minister Tojo’s listened to his heart and lungs with a stethoscope. “I’m very sorry, Commander, but you have pneumonia,” he announced. “It’s a good thing you came to see me. You need a spell of bed rest.”

“But I can’t!” Genda said.

“You have to,” the doctor said firmly. “Dying gloriously for the Emperor is one thing. Dying because you don’t pay attention to what germs are doing to you is something else again. You’ll be fine if you take it easy now. If you don’t, you won’t-and you won’t do your country any good, either.”

“But-” Commander Genda felt too rotten to work up a good argument. He supposed that went a long way toward proving the doctor’s point. They put him in sick bay. He lay on an iron-framed cot staring up at the gray-painted steel ceiling not far enough overhead. For this he had come out to Akagi?

JIM PETERSON LOOKED down at his hands. By now, the blisters he’d got when he started road work had healed into hard yellow calluses. No, his hands didn’t bother him any more. A steady diet of pick-and-shovel work had cured that.

Trouble was was, the work was the only steady diet he had. No matter what the Japs promised, they didn’t feed road gangs much better than they had the prisoners back at the camp near Opana. If the American POWs starved-so what? That was their attitude.

And getting enough to eat wasn’t even Peterson’s chief worry. If that wasn’t a son of a bitch, he didn’t know what would be. Making sure nobody in his shooting squad-and most especially not Walter London-headed for the tall timber took pride of place, if that was the right name for it. The man didn’t give a damn about anything or anybody but himself. Everybody knew it.