Harry Turtledove - Days of Infamy

We’re up first, Fuchida thought. Good. Ignoring the growing ache in his belly, he spoke to his radioman: “Relay the position to our aircraft.”

“ Hai, Commander- san,” First Flying Petty Officer Tokunobu Mizuki said. He took care of that with his usual unflustered competence.

Fuchida worried that the Americans would intercept the float plane’s signal and learn where the fleet was. He shrugged. With their electronics, they would see from which direction the Japanese strike was coming and trace it back anyhow. Maybe we should have thrown them a curve, thought Fuchida, a baseball fan. Probably too late to worry about it now.

“Shindo here, Commander.” The fighter pilot’s voice, calm as usual, sounded in Fuchida’s earphones.

“Go ahead,” Fuchida said.

“Question, sir,” Saburo Shindo said. “If we spot the American airplanes on their way to our fleet, do we peel off and attack them, or do we continue with you?”

“Come with us,” Fuchida answered without hesitation. “We’ll need your help to keep the Wildcats off us, and the Zeros up over our ships will tend to the Americans.”

“All right, sir. That’s the way we’ll do it, then. Out.” Lieutenant Shindo broke the connection. Fuchida smiled to himself. Shindo, no doubt, would be telling the fighter pilots of the decision. Just as surely, he wouldn’t raise his voice while he did it. With his machinelike competence, Shindo might have come out of the Mitsubishi aircraft plant himself.

Somewhere not too far away-and drawing closer by several kilometers every minute-an American officer was likely listening to the same question from one of his subordinates. How would he answer it? How would his answer change the building battle? We’ll see, Fuchida thought.

As when planes from the Japanese carriers attacked the Enterprise and then the Lexington — and as when aircraft from the Lexington delivered their alarming counterstroke-the two fleets here would not draw close enough to see each other and turn their guns on each other. This war was overturning centuries of naval tradition.

Sudden excited gabble filled Fuchida’s earphones. Dryly, Petty Officer Mizuki said, “Some of our men have spotted the Americans’ airplanes, sir.”

“Really?” Fuchida matched dry for dry. “I never would have guessed.” Mizuki chuckled.

A moment later, Fuchida saw the Americans himself. They were flying a little lower than the Japanese, and noticeably slower: their torpedo planes were lumbering pigs, obsolete when compared to the sleek Nakajima B5N2s in Fuchida’s strike force. American torpedoes weren’t all they might have been, either. Several duds had proved a hit from them wasn’t necessarily fatal, or even damaging.

Would the Wildcats climb up and try to strike the Japanese? Fuchida hoped so. They were slower than Zeros in everything but an emergency dive, and gaining altitude would cost them still more speed. Shindo and the rest of the Japanese fighter pilots had to be licking their chops.

But the Wildcats pressed on to the south, not leaving the attack aircraft they were assigned to shepherd. Fuchida nodded to himself. He would have made the same choice. He had made the same choice for his side. He ordered Mizuki to radio word of the sighting back to the fleet.

“Aye aye, sir,” the radioman answered. “I would have done it without orders in a minute if you hadn’t spoken up.” From a lot of ratings, that would have been a shocking breach of discipline. Mizuki and Fuchida had been together for a long time. The petty officer knew what needed doing in his small sphere as well as Fuchida did in the larger one.

Each strike force slightly adjusted its course based on the direction in which the other had been flying. If the Americans had thrown a curve… Fuchida refused to worry about it. He already had the approximate bearing from the Japanese reconnaissance aircraft.

He had the bearing. He knew how far he’d come. Where were the Americans, then? All he saw was the vast blue expanse of the Pacific. He didn’t want the men he led spotting the fleet ahead of him. He was their leader. Didn’t that mean he ought to be first at everything?

No matter what he wanted, he wasn’t quite first. But he spied the enemy warships just after the first radio calls rang out. Like the Japanese, the Americans used cruisers and destroyers to surround the all-important carriers. The smaller vessels started throwing up antiaircraft fire. Puffs of black smoke marred the smooth blue of the sky.

A couple of shells burst not far from Fuchida’s bomber. Blast made the Nakajima shake and jerk in the air. A chunk of shrapnel clattered off a wingtip. It seemed to do no harm. The B5N1 kept flying.

“Torpedo planes, dive bombers-work together,” Fuchida called. “Don’t let the enemy fighters concentrate on one group. Fighters, protect the attack planes. Banzai! for the Emperor.”

Answering “ Banzai! ”s filled all strike-force frequencies. Here came the Wildcats that had been orbiting above the American fleet. Muzzle flashes showed they’d started shooting. The four heavy machine guns they carried were not to be despised. If they hit, they hit hard.

As if to prove as much, a burning Zero spun toward the Pacific far below. A Wildcat followed. It was out of control, the pilot surely dead, but it didn’t show nearly so many flames as the Zero. Wildcats could take more damage than their Japanese counterparts. They could-and they needed to, for the Japanese had an easier time hitting than they did.

“Level bombers, line up behind your guide aircraft,” Fuchida called out over the radio. The tactic had worked extremely well above Pearl Harbor. The level bombers scored a surprising number of hits there. Back in December, though, their targets lay at anchor in a crowded harbor. Now they were twisting and dodging all over the sea. Hits wouldn’t come easy. We can only do our best, Fuchida thought.

Down below, antiaircraft fire caught an Aichi dive bomber as it was about to heel over and swoop on a carrier. Instead of diving, the Aichi fell out of the sky, rolling over and over and breaking up before it hit the water. Two more brave men gone. Two more spirits in Yasukuni Shrine.

Fuchida switched places with the second plane in his group of five. First Flying Petty Officer Akira Watanabe was the best pilot in the Japanese Navy, and his bombardier, First Flying Petty Officer Yanosuke Aso, was also the best. They needed to pass right over the center of the enemy fleet. As always, hitting carriers came first.

“Be ready!” Watanbe called to the pilots behind him. His plane bounced upward as the bombardier released the load. Fuchida’s B5N1 also lurched in the air as its bombs fell free. More bombs tumbled down from the planes that followed him. Suddenly, the aircraft was lighter, more maneuverable. And it needed to be. Mizuki, who handled the rear-facing machine gun as well as the radio, opened up on something-presumably a Wildcat-behind the bomber.

Now that Fuchida didn’t have to fly slow and straight for the bombardier’s sake, he threw his Nakajima into aerobatics as violent as its engine and frame could stand. The rest of the planes in his group were doing the same thing-all but one. That one, flames shooting from the wing root and the engine cowling, plummeted down toward the sea.

Petty Officer Mizuki let out a wordless shout. Fuchida corkscrewed away to the left. Planes usually broke to the right, to take advantage of the torque from their props. He hoped his maneuver would catch the Yankee on his tail by surprise. And it did-the Wildcat shot past him, close enough for him to see the American’s startled face. If only he had a forward-facing machine gun… But he didn’t, and the Wildcat got away.