Black Wind by F. Paul Wilson
He wished Meiko were here in the ward room to see the reverence with which the pilots treated her contribution to the attack, but she had locked herself in the cabin that had been assigned to her and refused to come out.
"You are sure these positions are accurate?" Fuchida said.
"I cannot speak for the submarine nets," Matsuo said, "but I have seen the ships in the harbor and they are situated exactly as on that map."
"Then there are no aircraft carriers in port?" The commander could not hide his disappointment.
"No. The last one left on Thursday. But eight heavy battleships sit there along the central island, waiting to be sunk."
A murmur ran around the room as the pilots of the vertical and torpedo bombers pressed more closely around the table. Matsuo drew Commander Fuchida aside.
"I'm a little bit worried," he said.
Fuchida raised his eyebrows. "About what?"
"Our target. Doesn't it strike you as strange? Ninety-six ships in port, eight of them battleships lined up like targets? The fact that the Strike Force has not seen one ship or reconnaissance plane during its entire journey, even this close to the Hawaiians? And now this diagram of the harbor, identifying and locating every single ship in the east loch? Isn't it all just a little too perfect?"
"Perhaps. But I prefer to think of it as American overconfidence. ‘Who would dare to attack us?' they say. Hours from now, they will learn."
"I just hope it's not a trap."
Fuchida shook his head. "No trap. And if it is, we will fight our way through it and out of it. We have contingency plans ready in case the surprise element is lost." He bowed. "But I appreciate your concern."
"One more thing," Matsuo said as the commander began to turn away. "I understand one of the fighter pilots is sick."
Fuchida nodded. "An ear infection. He can't be allowed to fly."
"I will take his place."
"I don't know…" Fuchida said slowly. "I will have to think about that."
Matsuo knew this was a typically Japanese way of saying no. He pressed the commander.
"If it was a dive bomber, I wouldn't ask. I don't know the first thing about dive bombing. But I am fully trained in the A6M—trained by the admiral himself. I have taken part in the planning of this operation since the admiral conceived it, and I claim the right to take part in its execution."
Fuchida hesitated, and Matsuo's heart sank. He desperately wanted to strike back at America, at Frank Slater for having had Meiko, at all the Mick McGarrigles and Japanese Exclusion Leagues and Alien Land Laws, at the land of a thousand daily slights whose people had treated him like eta, at the land that had forced his country into this desperate act. Then the flight commander's face broke into a smile like the sun pushing from behind a cloud.
"Of course. You have earned it."
Matsuo bowed low, his exultation lifting him like a wave.
He hurried to Meiko's cabin to tell her the good news. He knocked on her door repeatedly but there was no answer. He tried the handle but it was locked from the inside. Either she was sound asleep or feigning it. He suspected the latter. He ached to sit with her and make her understand his actions, but had no time. Take-off time for his fighter wing was only hours away, and he had so much to do before he was ready.
Matsuo spent the next two hours being briefed on the flight plan. The assault force would consist of 353 planes attacking in two waves. He would be flying one of the fighters providing cover for the first wave. Take-off time for the first wave was 6:00 A.M.; the second would take to the air an hour and a quarter later.
As he donned the fresh uniform he had been given, he could hear the roar of the plane engines as the mechanics turned them over and gave them a final tuning on the flight deck above.
He was given a special breakfast of sekihan—red beans and rice—and a cup of sake for a ceremonial toast. He raised his glass with the others, but only touched it to his lips. Instead of drinking it, he left it as an offering on the Agaki's portable Shinto shrine.
He hung the clipboard with his flight plan around his neck and tied a white hachimaki around his head before he donned his flight helmet. On the way down the corridor, he was handed a bento containing rice balls, pickled fruit and fish, chocolate, and caffeine tablets. The box lunch trembled in his hands as he trotted up the stairs. He would need no stimulants to keep him awake this morning. He felt as if he were coming apart with excitement.
He stepped out onto the deck amid the roar of all the idling engines and felt the cut of the salty east wind. The sky was bright as the sun began to peek over the horizon, a sign, a portent—the real-life model of the Japanese flag. The stiff wind raised heavy, white-topped swells on the brightening sea. Pearl Harbor was 230 miles south and slightly east of where he stood. He hoped the sky was as clear there.
A deckhand pointed him toward his plane and he ran for it. He used the familiar routine of climbing into the cockpit and preparing for flight to calm the almost unbearable tension mounting within him. He let the thrum and shimmer of the running engine pulse through his body. He loved this plane—a Mitsubishi A6M2 Zero-sen, the best fighter in the world. Not the fastest, not the most powerful, not the most heavily armed, but it could outmaneuver and knock down anything else in the sky.
He checked his instruments, closed his cockpit hood, and waited as the Agaki and the other five carriers turned into the wind. He watched the other fighters take off one by one, then it was his turn.
He fought a swirl of vertigo as he nosed toward the end of the deck and saw its rhythmic rise and fall above and below the horizon as it fought the swells. He gunned the engine for all it was worth and shot down the deck. He was airborne before he reached the end and then he was climbing at forty-five degrees.
A sudden exhilaration swept through him and he began to laugh. He laughed all the way up to the holding level where he circled protectively with the other fighters until all forty-three of them were in the air. Then the bombers began to take off.
* * *
Matsuo chewed his lip as he watched the endless fluffy white expanse of cloud cover below. The sun was bright and warm here at 15,000 feet as he kept watch over the 140 bombers of various types a mile below. But where was Oahu?
Ninety minutes flying at 180 miles an hour—the Hawaiian archipelago should have been directly below. But who could tell? Lieutenant Commander Itaya was in charge of the fighters, but he and everyone else was following Fuchida's lead. Were they worried, too? Or did they know exactly where they were? Due to the absolute radio silence they were maintaining, Matsuo could only sit back, hope for the best, and follow the leader.
And then, as if by Divine design, the impenetrable clouds broke open and the sandy shore of a lush green island burst into view far below. He had burned the coastal outline of Oahu into his brain and immediately recognized Kahuku Point, its northernmost tip.
Right on target.
Matsuo waited for the signal from Fuchida. If he fired his flare gun once, it meant they had the element of surprise on their side; twice meant "surprise lost."
Suddenly it came—a single flare. Matsuo saw the dive bombers drop toward sea level, readying to spearhead the assault. He waited for the fighters to begin dividing into assault groups as planned, but Itaya's plane made no move. Had he missed the signal? Then came another flare. Did that mean "surprise lost," or was Fuchida repeating the single flare for the fighters' benefit?
Matsuo felt a twinge of unease. If "surprise lost" was the message, were they blithely gliding into a tiger's den?
Too late to worry now. Itaya was peeling off with his group toward Hickham Field. Matsuo's group leader was dropping down toward the valley between Oahu's two narrow mountain ranges. Matsuo followed. He would know soon enough when they reached their target: Wheeler Field. If the Army P-40 fighters based there were in the air and ready for battle, he would have the answer to his question.
As the seven planes in his group streaked over Schofield Barracks, Matsu
Maybe it wasn't a trap after all.
Matsuo checked his watch. 7:54. Almost 1:30 P.M. in the American capital. Already Monday in Tokyo. The fourteen-part declaration of war had been delivered by now. Nothing more to do but follow through with the plan of attack.
He looked ahead and saw the triangle of the intersecting runways at Wheeler Field, dead center in the island. No turning back now.
Let the war begin.
* * *
I had lain awake all night as the pain in my right arm subsided from a white-hot coal to an icy throb that made me feel as if a part of me were dying. All night I had watched the harbor, waiting to see the ships start weighing anchor and moving out to the open sea. But nothing happened. The lights on the big ships remained stationary. All that moved were the running lights on the skiffs and ferries shuttling between shore and the anchored fatties. And after a while, they too became still.
I waited for the dawn, hoping I'd been wrong, that I'd missed the departure of the likes of the Arizona and the Pennsylvania. But as the sky lightened, I saw them—all ninety-six of them.
A faint ray of hope came with the sun. Maybe the attack had been called off. Maybe the declaration of war was never sent. As the sky continued to brighten, I figured that had to be it. A last-minute settlement had been reached—
—and then I heard the sound of planes.
* * *
Matsuo followed his group leader in a shallow dive toward the Wheeler airstrips. To his surprise, he saw P-40s lined up in neat rows on the apron, their engines quiet, their propellers still. He felt a surge of relief.
No trap. They aren't waiting for us. No trap.
He dove toward the dormant aircraft, strafing them with the 20mm cannon in his wings. He saw the P-40s shudder and crumble under the onslaught of lead. Some exploded as their gas tanks caught fire.
It was over almost as soon as it had begun. Like target practice. A few of the planes managed to gain the air and, after a brief dogfight or two, the survivors streaked off to protect the harbor. Once again, he was assailed by doubt.
Too easy. Too damn easy.
Matsuo's group left the P-40s burning on the ground as they roared south to join the attack on the harbor. Matsuo held hack. He circled Wheeler and made one last low pass to check on the damage they had inflicted. He was satisfied that few if any of these planes would ever fly again and was about to turn south toward Pearl Harbor when he heard a metallic spang against his fuselage. He looked down and saw a lone American soldier standing on one of the landing strips firing up at him with an automatic pistol.
Matsuo loosed a burst from his 20mm cannons to frighten the man off. The bullets tore up the paving on either side of him but he stood his ground like a statue, pistol raised, firing round after round at Matsuo's plane. Matsuo veered off and circled the field again, watching as the man calmly ejected a spent magazine and loaded a fresh one.
Matsuo came at him again, lower this time, straight at him. Still the man refused to budge. He raised his pistol and began firing again. Matsuo had him in his sights. All he had to do was press the trigger on his stick to fire the 7.7-mm machine guns above the nose and the lone American below would be torn to shreds.
But he held his fire. He found something precious in that man below. His defiant courage spoke to Matsuo, struck a resonant chord within. He could not kill him like this—from high above with such an immense advantage in firepower.
He veered off and dipped his wings in salute.
And he thought, if America had many soldiers like that one below, Japan was in big trouble.
But why weren't there more like him scrambling for their planes? It seemed as if the entire island was asleep. The declaration of war had been delivered. Hadn't anyone been warned?
Puzzled and disturbed, he flew south toward the harbor. It was 8:20. The first wave should have been through with its attack. The second would be arriving soon.
He saw the smoke long before he saw the harbor, and decided to veer eastward before inspecting the damage. He wanted to check Halewa Heights first.
* * *
I sat there on the ground, pinned to the tree like some goddamn insect, and watched the carnage.
The torpedo bombers came in first, swooping in low toward the ships on Battleship Row, dropping their explosive fish, then veering off. Then came the dive bombers, and finally, the high, horizontal bombers. I saw black and gray bursts of antiaircraft fire begin to blossom in the air, but too late—too damn late!
Suddenly the Arizona exploded. One moment it was there, bravely weathering the attack, next its whole front end detonated, shaking the very ground under me as its forward magazine took a direct hit and sent fiery debris a thousand feet into the air.
God! The men aboard!
Her crew must have numbered a thousand. How many could have survived that?
Ahead of her, I saw smoke gush from the Oklahoma as she began to capsize. And still the attack went on, relentlessly, until the entire harbor was engulfed in smoke. And just when I thought the Japs had to be out of bullets and bombs, another wave appeared to renew the assault.
What was happening? It was all wrong. The declaration of war should have been decoded and the fleet warned hours ago.
This was all my fault. I had known about the attack. I had lain here all night figuring the people with Purple magic would relay the warning. But they hadn't. Someone, somewhere, had screwed up. I could have made the difference. I could have raised the warning but I didn't. Instead, I chose to spare myself the pain of pulling free of that nail. I sat here and wasted all that time waiting for someone else to do it.
In a blind rage—at Japan, at Meiko and Matsuo, but most of all at myself—I tried to yank my arm free of the spike. The volcanic pain that erupted through me made the world dim and waver. As I fell back against the tree trunk and watched the swimming sky, I heard the drone of a single-engine plane. I looked up.
A lone fighter with big red suns on its wings and fuselage came over the trees and circled twice above me.
I didn't have to see the pilot to know who it was.
* * *
Matsuo looked down on the wooded slope high on Halewa Heights. Frank was still there, fixed to his tree as Matsuo had known he would be. A boy without honor grows into a man without honor. He banked away and flew over Honolulu, noting that it was virtually unscathed by the attack.
Perfect, he thought as he circled around toward the pall of black smoke that marked the east loch of Pearl Harbor.
Everything had gone exactly as planned. Only military targets had been hit. He wanted to get a look at the damage to the fleet before he rejoined his group at the rendezvous point.
He brought his Zero in low from the east, cruising over the oil tanks and then the Naval Hospital before he banked north toward Ford Island. His heart thudded in his chest as he saw the carnage there.
The east loch was in shambles. His attention was immediately drawn to the line of battleships along Ford Island. They had received the brunt of the attack and were barely visible through the roiling, oily smoke. Two of the battleships had already been sunk, and another was on its way down. He saw men scrambling up and down ladders and around the still-operable antiaircraft guns and across the overturned hulls, or swimming frantically through the burning water.
And he saw so many other men who weren't moving at all as they lay on the decks or floated facedown in the harbor.
Even if the attack were called off now it would already be a success. He should have been cheering but he could not find his voice. The searing, tearing horror of all the death and violence below seeped into his cockpit and engulfed him with its stench. He tried to shake it off, tried to force a sense of triumph and vindication by calling up visions of Mick McGarrigle's sneering face, but it didn't work. Instead he found himself remembering Mrs. Worth, who had saved him from that mob in San
…and suddenly he was seeing Frank's face as he left him nailed to that tree last night. By all the gods, had he really done that? Had he really taken a spike and driven it through another man's arm? A man he had known since childhood?
Choking back the bile that surged into his throat, he pulled back on the stick and sent the Zero into a steep climb, away from the carnage below, far up to where the air was clean. Soon he was high over the open sea, heading for the rendezvous area twenty miles northwest of Kanea Point. He was low on gas and hoped he would meet a bomber or two there. They had homing devices and Zeros did not. Without them, he would never find his carrier.
He found two horizontal bombers circling. He fell in with them and began to follow them north, hoping to escape forever the terrible devastation at Pearl Harbor by leaving it far behind.
But the memory of those burning ships and all those dead men and the others struggling so desperately to stay alive followed him all the way back to the Agaki.
* * *
The great carrier had been as silent as a floating coffin since the planes had taken off this morning. But now Meiko heard the sound of running feet and excited voices. She opened the door to her cabin and peeked out into the corridor. Empty. Yet from somewhere above she thought she heard cheering.
She decided to go see. If nothing else, it would get her into the open. Despite the stale air in her quarters and a queasy stomach from the ceaseless roll of the ship, this was the first time she had ventured outside.
She had heard Matsuo knocking before he left; she had crouched silently on the other side of the door, wishing him away. She hadn't wanted to see him, not after what he had done to Frank. He wasn't the Matsuo she had left on Sagami Bay—he had become a brutal stranger.
And yet, since the planes had roared off at dawn, she had done nothing but worry about him.
The cheering from the flight deck doubled in volume. It was 10:00 A.M. Could the planes be returning so soon? She hurried up the stairs.