On Seas So Crimson

by James Young

  Well this ought to be interesting, he thought, skidding to bring his nose around in a pursuit curve. The reconnaissance aircraft saw him and put its nose down, trying to add speed. Despite the pilot’s best efforts, Adam was quickly able to close within range, the twin engines swelling in his reticle. The aircraft’s tail gunner opened fire on him, the tracers arcing back behind the Spitfire just as Adam squeezed his own trigger. White flashes all along the fuselage, exploding glass, and sudden cessation of return fire told Adam he had hit the tail gunner, while white smoke that quickly became black from the port engine told him that the reconnaissance aircraft had been severely damaged. Adam pulled up to avoid running into the back of the aircraft, turning to look behind his wingman…where he saw a single olive green aircraft closing rapidly from behind.

  “Break Kantor! Break!” Adam shouted in Polish as he brought his own nose around. Flight Officer Kantor didn’t question his order, whipping his own Spitfire into a tight turn just as the closing Japanese opened fire. Adam’s sense of relief turned to horror as the olive green fighter managed to cut inside of the Spitfire’s turn, gaining enough lead to open fire again even as Adam was closing from the Japanese pilot’s port side. Firing a snapshot, Adam saw his burst knock pieces off his target’s tail just before the two fighters crossed paths.

  He just fucking outturned a Spit, Adam thought with a moment’s panic, pulling up into a loop. Looking through the top of his canopy, he watched the enemy fighter continuing to turn after the now diving Kantor. Rolling through the loop into an Immelman, Adam followed the two other aircraft down.

  Dammit, dammit, dammit, Adam thought, angry at himself for getting greedy. Slipping side to side, he checked his rearview mirror to make sure there were no other enemy fighters behind him, then poured on the coal. The enemy pilot never realized that Adam had a speed advantage, presenting an easy target as he focused on trying to catch Kantor. Lining up the reticle, Adam fired and this time was rewarded with a brilliant streamer of fire that engulfed the enemy fighter’s fuselage. Before Adam’s horrified eyes the Japanese fighter’s canopy came hurtling back, followed a moment later by a burning comet with writhing limbs.

  Ignoring the falling fighter, Adam rejoined with Kantor. Turning, he looked the other Spitfire over, noting several bullet holes just behind the cockpit and down the fuselage.

  “You all right Two?” he asked in French.

  “Yes, yes,” the shaken Pole answered. “But next time, I think we let the extra kill go.”

  Adam laughed in relief.

  “Follow me, I think we’ve done enough for today,” Adam said. Even as they winged back towards Java, he kept a sharp lookout behind them, expecting more Japanese to make an appearance.

  Well we can outrun and outdive them, but I’ll be damned if I try to outturn one of those bastards if we do this again, he thought as his hands shook on the controls as he came down from the rush of adrenaline and fear, and he took several deep breaths to calm himself. Unbidden, the image of the burning Japanese pilot came back to his mind, and he found his mouth suddenly thick with saliva as he had the urge to vomit. He swallowed forcefully, hating his reaction.

  Then again, the point where burning another man alive becomes blasé might be the point where I need to eat a bullet, he mused to himself. It wasn’t the first time he had set a man afire, and he had the sinking suspicion it was not going to be the last.

  Batavia was upon him before he knew it. As Adam passed over the airfield while Kantor landed, he noticed a group of twenty or so people gathered at the front of the four Spitfires that had already landed.

  I’m always worried when there’s a welcoming committee. Turning into his own final approach and lowering his landing gear, he wondered who the gathered people were. Shrugging, he plopped down in a perfect landing and then taxied over to the end of the line of Spitfires.

  You know, it might be a good idea to start staggering these aircraft, Adam thought as he opened the Spitfire’s canopy and was hit by Batavia’s tropical heat. He quickly shrugged out of his flight jacket, just as a flashbulb burst at the edge of his vision. As if that had been a starting gun, he was suddenly beset by a horde of questions shouted at him in Dutch. Adam stepped out on the wing, then took off his Mae West, oxygen mask, and flight helmet. Placing the items on his seat, he shrugged out of his flight tunic and immediately felt cooler as the cacophony died down around him.

  “Mr. Haynes! Mr. Adam Haynes!” someone shouted. Adam snapped around, recognizing the speaker’s Midwest twang. He saw that the individual calling to him was a slightly rotund, brown-haired man in a tan suit. Two of the local constabulary were making a hole for the man as he got closer to the Spitfire. Stepping to the ground, he turned to face the man as the latter was furiously mopping at his face.

  “Adam Haynes, you are a hard man to find,” the stranger said.

  “I’m sorry, have we met before?” Adam asked, casually crossing his arms so that his right hand was closer to his still holstered revolver. The Dutch policeman standing to the man’s right noticed the movement and tensed.

  “My name is Harold Parks, and I’m with Standard Oil,” the man continued, extending his hand. Moving his hand away from his holster, Adam extended his own hand as the hubbub around the two of them died down.

  “Is there someplace private we can talk?” Parks asked, looking at the reporters pressing all around them.

  “Clear the way!” someone shouted, then repeated their statement again in what Adam could only assume was Dutch. The two policemen, hearing the voice, immediately started gesturing for the gathered press to get out of the way. Adam recognized Wing Commander Collins walking behind four more Dutch police, but did not recognize the man walking beside him in the uniform of a Dutch East Indies officer.

  “Well Mr. Haynes, glad to see that you made it back in one piece,” Wing Commander Collins said stiffly.

  Why does your tone make me doubt your sincerity? Adam thought.

  “That makes two of us,” Adam replied wryly as the Poles joined him.

  Collins gave him a slight smile, his face softening. He turned to the officer beside him.

  “This is Wing Commander Wevers of the Dutch East Indies Air Force,” Collins continued.

  Commander Wevers shot out his hand, and Adam took it. The Dutchman shook vigorously then, giving a sound of joy, dragged the American in for an immense bear hug.

  “Thank you! Thank you!” the man said in heavily accented English as he let Adam go, then turned to the gathered group. “Thank you all for…how you say…avenging my men.”

  Ah, that explains it, Adam thought, slightly bemused.

  “Our pleasure,” Petr returned. Adam could see the Pole was almost overcome with emotion himself.

  Kindred spirits, these men, Adam thought. Which is unsurprising given that their home countries are still occupied.

  “Mr. Haynes, I really do need to give you my information as soon as possible,” Parks said, getting a strange look from Collins.

  “Wing Commander Wevers, is there someplace we can go in private?” Adam asked. Getting a puzzled look, Adam was about to ask Collins for help when Parks rapidly translated. Nodding emphatically, Wevers began barking at the gathered reporters and the police, gesturing towards a cluster of buildings at the north end of the airfield. There was a low murmuring among the crowd but the press throng began to grudgingly move away from the group of pilots.

  “I’ll be along in a moment, Wing Commander,” Adam said, gesturing for Parks to follow him. Once they were out of earshot, Adam turned to find his companion reaching inside of his suit jacket to pull out an envelope.

  “I have a message from your father,” Parks said flatly.

  Oh you can go fuck…Adam thought, his expression turning into an ugly scowl.

  “Please Mr. Haynes, I think you need to read this,” Parks pressed. “It’s urgent, and he’s had a hell of a time finding you.”

  “Funny thing about that,” Adam snapped. “I seem to
recall last time he saw me he considered me a disgrace and that I could consider myself disinherited for being a ‘paid assassin’.”

  Parks handed the message over without saying anything further. Adam snatched the envelope from his hands then put it in his pants pocket. Parks shook his head.

  “I was given clear instructions to make sure you read the message,” Parks said sharply.

  Adam shook his head in disgust as he took the envelope back out of his pocket.

  “Well can’t have one of father’s minions go back without…” Adam started, recognizing the handwriting as that of his father’s personal assistant, Cassandra.

  Oh my god…

  “When was this letter written?!” he snapped.

  “It was given to me two days ago. I understand it first arrived in England in mid-August.”

  “Fat lot of good it would have done me there,” Adam muttered, then said louder, “I assume you have a way for us to get out of here?”

  “Yes,” Parks replied. “I have an itinerary, but only if you can leave in the next three hours. Otherwise you will have to wait until tomorrow morning.”

  “Give me a few moments to make my goodbyes,” Adam said, his voice thick as the enormity of the letter’s contents began to register.

  “Understood. I’ll get my driver to come around to the flight line,” Parks said.

  Adam headed back to the clump of officers, fighting the burning in his eyes. Seeing the look on his face, the Poles took a couple of steps towards him.

  “Adam, what is wrong?” Kantor asked in heavily accented English.

  “My mother…” Adam began, his voice cracking. “My mother has cancer. She may already be dead. I am sorry, my friends, but I must leave you.”

  Sea of Japan

  1000 Local (2000 Eastern)

  7 November (6 November) 1942

  With a muttered curse, Isoro shoved the throttle forward, waited for the engine to respond with a spew of black exhaust smoke, then pulled back gently on his stick while applying left rudder pedal. The round nose of his Shiden fighter skidded back online with the carrier Akagi’s gently pitching deck, and he felt the fighter begin to lift slowly back from just above the waves. Sweat beading all over his face, Isoro watched as the carrier’s landing lights indicated that the Shiden was back on the correct path for touching down on the carrier’s deck.

  I am glad we do not use an officer for this as the Americans do, Isoro thought grimly. I would be so ashamed that another pilot saw how I am handling this aircraft. Even as an experienced pilot, Isoro had found the Shiden to be a handful during familiarization flights the previous week. Biting his tongue in concentration, Isoro tried to avoid thinking about the two men whom had died because their skills had been found wanting.

  Almost there…almost there...now! Isoro thought, feeling the fighter thump down hard and immediately pulling his throttle backward. A moment later he was jerked forward as the arresting hook stopped his forward movement. Exhaling in relief, he allowed himself a moment of giddiness before shutting down the engine. As the prop finished whirring, the Akagi’s deck crew sprinted out to shove the fighter forward. Isoro unbuckled, jumped out of the cockpit, and then almost ran towards the Akagi’s island while the deck crew manhandled the Shiden forward.

  “Honda!” Commander Mitsuo Fuchida shouted, causing Isoro to whip his head around. He saw the older man standing with Lieutenant Commander Itaya and a couple of other officers.

  Nothing good comes from being called over, he thought, steeling himself as he made his face impassive.

  “What do you think?” Fuchida asked amicably, gesturing towards the Shiden.

  It is a farm girl to the Zero’s geisha… Isoro thought internally.

  “It is much faster and it rolls quicker,” Isoro said tentatively.

  “Oh come on, we are not your sister asking how her kimono looks,” Itaya sneered derisively. “What is your honest opinion?”

  Isoro turned and looked as the next Shiden made its approach. He could tell the pilot was struggling with the controls, the fighter getting further and further out of the best glide path. Finally, with what he imagined was probably a scream of frustration in the cockpit, the pilot applied throttle and brought the fighter around to attempt another pass.

  “It is hard to learn,” Isoro said simply. “I enjoy the additional power and the way it rolls, but I miss flicking my wrist and changing directions like a bird.”

  Fuchida nodded, smiling slightly.

  “I can understand that,” the senior officer replied. “Still, if Captain Genda’s reports from Germany are to be believed, the Zero is close to being eclipsed by both the British and German fighters which battled over Britain last summer.”

  “Which means those American bastards will probably have something almost as good by the time we fight them,” Itaya said grimly. His response drew a sharp look from Fuchida, to which the Akagi fighter commander shrugged.

  “The man is not an idiot, Fuchida-san,” Itaya continued with a shrug. “It is easy to see that the Germans will be fighting the Americans before a year is out. When that happens, the oil flow stops and we are right back to late 1941 when we attacked the Communists.”

  We all know how well that went, Isoro thought.

  The roar of the next Shiden landing ended the conversation before Itaya could reveal more. The pilot hit the deck heavily, but still managed to catch the last arrester wire on the Akagi’s deck. Itaya shook his head in disgust.

  “We are going to break these fighters before we even get a chance to use them,” the man muttered.

  “Everyone is having a difficult time with their new aircraft,” Fuchida said stiffly. “We will do what we must for the Empire.”

  “Of course,” Itaya said. “I just do not look forward to the next few weeks.”

  IJNS Musashi

  1030 Local (2030 Eastern)

  Fifty miles to the Akagi’s southwest, Rear Admiral Yamaguchi found himself echoing Itaya’s sentiment. The Musashi’s flag plot was relatively empty, the cavernous space currently holding less than two dozen men gathered around a large scale map of the Pacific. The air passing through the vessel’s open portholes carried the normal sounds of a man of war at sea, from the sound of petty officers bawling out an unfortunate sailor to the low, steady rumble as the massive warship cruised at the head of the battleline stretched out behind her.

  “With the support of the aircraft from Singapore, I do not think that I need the carriers,” Vice Admiral Nobutake Kondo was stating. The stocky man with a broad, open face continued in a firmer tone as he gestured towards the Dutch East Indies. “I would rather have more escorts for the transports than have destroyers and cruisers tied to the Hiyo, Junyo, and Ryujo.”

  Across the table, a bald man in gleaming whites that contrasted with the other officers’ dark blue uniforms placed both hands on the table and pressed himself to his feet. The maneuver drew all eyes briefly to the missing index and middle fingers on his left hand, shortly before the taller, older man spoke.

  “Yamaguchi-san, can the Kido Butai fit the additional planes on their carriers?” Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto asked simply.

  This is why I wish Vice Admiral Nagumo had not been chosen to do the inspection, Yamaguchi thought to himself.

  “It will drastically lengthen the time it takes to launch and recover strike waves, sir,” Yamaguchi replied evenly. “We will hit harder, but only at the cost of having a second wave that has completely lost surprise. Losses will be heavy given the shore based fighters.”

  Yamamoto regarded the map.

  “What if we no longer planned to strike the Americans in Pearl Harbor?” Yamamoto asked, his eyes meeting Yamaguchi’s.

  There was a sharp intake of breath from one of the other conference participants. Yamaguchi kept his own face impassive even as he felt a current of shock course through him.

  For Yamamoto to argue that we will no longer attempt surprise means that a great deal has changed in the talks
with the Germans, Yamaguchi thought to himself. I wonder what they have offered us in concessions to so change our war plan. No matter, I am a sword for the Emperor.

  “According to our consulate Admiral Jensen, the new American commander, has begun rotating capital vessels on a three, rather than six, day schedule. He has also directed all vessels will be prepared to steam within four hours notice,” Yamamoto replied, his voice solemn. “For this reason, I believe it unlikely that we will catch most of the American fleet in harbor.”

  “It would be preferable to let the Americans come towards us in that case,” Vice Admiral Kondo said stiffly. “We would be able to attrit them as they steamed towards the Marshalls.”

  Kondo-san is always one for caution, Yamaguchi thought.

  “Rear Admiral Yamaguchi, do you think you can find the Americans at sea?” Yamamoto asked.

  “Yes, sir, I can,” Yamaguchi replied, his tone puzzled. “However, I would think Vice Admiral Nagumo…”

  “Vice Admiral Nagumo will be remaining in Germany for the near future,” Yamamoto replied, his tone pleasant despite having cut Yamaguchi off. “You are now in command of the Kido Butai, Vice Admiral Yamaguchi.”

  Yamaguchi felt a sense of shock as Vice Admiral Ugaki, Yamamoto’s Chief of Staff, stood with an ornate box in his hand. Opening it, the Chief of Staff revealed a Vice Admiral’s epaulettes as the gathered men began applauding.

  “Sir, I am honored,” Yamaguchi said, feeling his chest tighten as the shock wore off.

  “You have earned it, Yamaguchi-san,” Admiral Yamamoto replied formally. “I am sorry that our current exigencies have prevented us from having a formal ceremony. Nagumo-san indicated that you have always sought to conduct operations in the most aggressive manner with your division. When I asked him who should undertake this task if he were unavailable, you were his first choice.”