Rising Sun

by Robert Conroy

  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.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Harry Hogg had similar thoughts as he and his fellow pilots waited for the order to take off. It seemed like they were going to wait for the Japs to get real close before taking them on, which seemed like a dumb idea. He’d much rather get them as far out as possible.

  When the order finally came, he and hundreds of others took off from dozens of hastily scratched-out fields and flew over the waters of the gulf. He laughed as he thought that his P38 probably cleared the end of the runway by a hair. Now where the hell were the Japs?

  Radar directed them toward the Japanese air fleet. After a few minutes, they didn’t need radar. The sky was filled with enemy airplanes.

  “Jesus, look at them all,” Harry announced. For many this was their first combat flight and radio discipline was lousy.

  “Every fucking plane in the world,” someone said with awe in his voice.

  “Shut up and remember your orders,” snarled the major. Yeah, Hogg thought, our orders.

  There was no longer time to think, only react. Planes swirled and turned. Tracers streaked through the air as the two immense forces mingled in a giant lethal dance. A Japanese plane appeared for an instant in front of him and Hogg fired a short burst, missing. Damn it to hell, he raged. Another Zero appeared and it exploded, shot down by somebody else. A P47 spiraled downward, missing one of his wings by mere feet. He urged the pilot to bail out but saw nothing. He couldn’t watch. He had to take care of himself and follow his damned orders.

  More planes exploded or tumbled to the sea. He shot at a Zero and it burst into flames. He yelled with happiness until the major again told him to shut up and remember his orders. Fuck the major, he thought. He had just shot down a Zero.

  Suddenly, he was through the swarm. He looked about and saw that a number of other twin-tailed planes had also cleared the brawl. They formed up and headed west. They had their orders. Hogg wondered if other squadrons had similar orders.

  * * *

  Torelli and the Shark had lain low while the Japanese battleships and cruisers headed toward San Diego. Other than sending a quick burst of information describing what they’d seen—four battleships and eight cruisers, along with a dozen destroyers—they’d honored their orders and stayed submerged.

  It annoyed Torelli that he hadn’t been able to tell fleet headquarters that the biggest, baddest battleship in the world had just roared over his sub as they hid below the waves. Like everyone, he’d heard rumors that the Japs had a monster ship with bigger guns than anyone else had, but hadn’t lent any credence to them. Now he knew that everyone’s nightmares were true.

  He figured the enemy battleship at seventy to eighty thousand tons, far more than anything the U.S. Navy could throw against it. He dreaded the thought of what the shells from her mighty guns might do to San Diego and the naval base, much less what they could do to an American warship.

  When the sound of ships’ engines faded and he thought it was safe, he ordered the sub to periscope depth and looked around. Nothing. He raised the radio antenna and immediately got a signal from Pacific Fleet. The gloves were off. Now any Jap ship was fair game. Los Angeles and San Diego were being bombarded.

  “I wonder why we couldn’t attack before?” Crowley asked.

  “Ours not to reason why and all that high command type bullshit,” Torelli answered with a smile.

  “Any chance we’ll get a shot at that big one?”

  “If we do, will our torpedoes work?”

  Crowley grimaced. “We’ve done our damndest.”

  Torelli patted his young executive officer on the shoulder. “Then get them loaded and ready to shoot.”

  CHAPTER 22

  DANE’S FLIGHT TO TASK FORCE 18 HAD BEEN UNCOMFORTABLE, cramped, and exhausting, but surprisingly short. The American fleet wasn’t hiding anymore. It was on its way.

  As to comfort, there simply wasn’t enough room in the PBY for all the additional people and their gear. They couldn’t move for fear of interrupting something important being done by the crew, and sleeping was done in fits while seated. They tried to find room for Spruance to rest, but he insisted on sharing their mutual discomfort.

  Dane considered it a real miracle that their pilot found the small fleet in the vastness of the Pacific. When Dane looked down on it, he was both impressed and disappointed. The Saratoga and the Essex looked tiny and puny and only began to take on substance when they flew much closer. The two new battleships, the North Carolina and Washington, however, were sleek and deadly-looking creatures. Too bad they were already obsolescent, he thought. They looked like wolves straining to get among the sheep. Too bad the Japanese weren’t sheep. He also counted a good dozen destroyers in a loose circle around the carriers and battleships. Once it would have been an impressive array, but that was all changed.

  The PBY put down alongside the Saratoga and the men were taken by launch to the carrier. Dane was mildly surprised to see the PBY crew with them. Merchant told him they couldn’t take the chance that the plane might be spotted on the way back and enemy fighters vectored back to the carriers. It made sense but it was a shame to see the perfectly good flying boat quietly sink beneath the waves.

  Task Force 18 was so named because its predecessors, TF 16 and 17, and been destroyed either in the battle of Midway or its aftermath. Using the names of the predecessor units would have been bad luck and sailors were very superstitious.

  Spruance’s group crossed the crowded flight deck, where planes and pilots awaited the word to go, and went to the flag bridge. They were greeted by Halsey, who looked like hell. He appeared exhausted and what was visible of his skin was covered by scabs. His skin disorder, psoriasis, had indeed flared up and the man appeared to be in agony. In Dane’s opinion, the belligerent little admiral looked far worse than when he’d last seen him in San Diego. He wondered if the psoriasis was caused by the intense pressure and responsibilities of command. He wondered if his thoughts were unkind. Halsey was a brave and capable man. The two admirals spoke quietly f
or a few minutes and Halsey left, his head down.

  When Spruance returned to the group, his expression was grim. “Halsey’s going to sick bay. He’s turned command over to me. Nothing, however, is changing. We are steaming toward the Japanese. We will be in range in a very short while, much sooner than I expected. As soon as radar shows them launching their planes to strike at our dummy carriers, the Saratoga and Essex will turn loose our planes and hit them with everything we have.”

  Merchant asked the first question on everyone’s mind. “When will Admiral Halsey resume command?”

  Spruance sighed. “Not for a while. I think this battle’s going to be mine.”

  Merchant continued. “Then what about Japanese radar? Do we still assume they don’t have it on their ships?”

  Spruance paused. If the Japanese did have radar on their ships, the American force could be steaming into another ambush. His men needed to know what they were up against, but they weren’t cleared to know too much.

  “Just like us, Captain, very few of their ships have radar, and, just like ours, it isn’t very reliable. All indications are that their ships do not carry long-range radar if any at all. I know it’s dangerous to presume, but we have no other choice.”

  A young ensign burst in on them, saw Spruance, and saluted. “Sir, we just got word that the Japs’ carriers have launched their planes. They all appear headed for the Baja.”

  Spruance paused for a moment and appeared to look upward. Dane wondered if he was seeing a chance at redemption or the likelihood of losing more carriers. Or maybe he was praying. Finally, he smiled. “We will attack immediately.”

  * * *

  As soon as the shelling appeared to stop, rescue parties began swarming over the smoking ruins that had once been a major naval base. In most cases, the buildings had been emptied, and their occupants fled to shelters or trenches like the one that had protected Farris and Nancy Sullivan.

  Not so the hospital. Originally a three-story office building located on a rise outside the base proper, it had been struck and devastated by several Japanese shells. The temporary wooden buildings and Quonset huts surrounding it had been smashed and were burning. The stench of scorched flesh filled the air, gagging rescuers.

  As an officer who’d volunteered to help, Farris was given a dozen sailors and Marines who didn’t seem to notice that their commander was from the army and that he was having trouble with his left arm. There were lives to save and no time for bullshit.

  Farris’s shoulder now ached and he could hardly lift his arm. So much for getting better, he thought. Worse, though, was the information from Nancy that the hospital was where Amanda worked. Since she had not shown up to help with the injured, they could only presume that she’d been in the building when the shells hit. Even though he’d only met her a couple of times, she was now family and Steve was deeply upset that she might have been buried in the hospital.

  A few people, most of them badly injured, had been found alive and carted off on stretchers, and Nancy had helped carry them. When he mentioned it, she shrugged it off, explaining that she’d studied Japanese fighting methods and that leverage more than compensated for brute strength.

  More frequently, though, what they found were dead bodies or, worse, parts of bodies. One of the sailors near Farris pulled on a human leg and screamed when it came out of the rubble without the rest of the body. Farris tried to calm the young man down and sent him off when he couldn’t stop shaking. Unfortunately, the finding of bodies and partial bodies was all too common. He wondered if the hospital had been targeted intentionally and then dismissed the thought. Even though there were large red crosses on the buildings, he doubted that the Japanese could even see them. No, these were more likely random shots with tragic consequences.

  “Lieutenant, over here!”

  Farris scrambled over to where a small cavelike opening appeared in the debris, possibly leading to the basement. He stuck his head in. His spirits sagged as he smelled dust, smoke, blood, excreta, and death. If Amanda was in there, God help her. Regardless, the tiny opening would have to be enlarged.

  Nancy was beside them. “Just make it big enough for me and get me a flashlight. I’m a lot smaller than you guys and can make it where you can’t. I only wish I hadn’t worn a skirt.”

  The men nodded enthusiastically and began digging. Farris noted that nobody seemed to care anymore that she was part Japanese. Hell, everyone was too busy carrying dirt from the rubble.

  A few moments later and Nancy slithered in through the slightly enlarged hole. She carried a flashlight and wore a helmet that looked incongruously large. Someone had slipped her a set of fatigues that, hopefully, would provide some protection from contact with the rubble; she wasn’t concerned about modesty, saying if somebody wanted to see her skinny legs, let them look. A rope was tied around her waist. If something happened, maybe they could pull her out. At least they’d know where to find her.

  Inside the cave, she turned on the flashlight and recoiled. A man’s face was staring at her. His eyes were wide open but unseeing. She checked under his chin for a pulse and found none. A few other limbs protruded from the rubble. She checked and found no signs of life. She began to think that this was a dangerous waste of time. But she continued to look and scrambled farther in. She saw an arm sticking out and she felt for life.

  “Oh, Jesus,” she said and began to crawl back.

  Another few moments, and her head popped up in the sunlight. She saw Farris. “Get me some canteens and begin opening that hole real fast.”

  Masao howled with glee as one of the evil looking twin-tailed American fighters broke in half under the impact of his guns and plummeted into the sea. It was his third kill of the day, and, even better, it appeared he was through the American planes defending the carriers.

  His was not the only plane to break through to the enemy ships that were now nothing more than fat targets anchored in the bay. Others were ahead of him and beginning their bombing runs. Large splashes rose near the American ships and a couple of bombs struck the carriers, sending debris skyward. Masao thought the carriers looked strange and the flying rubble different than what he expected. However strange, he thought, the American carriers were going to die. He noticed there was no antiaircraft fire coming from them and he wondered why as he began his run. Perhaps their guns had been removed as part of the repair process.

  “Abort, abort,” came the order over his radio. “Those aren’t real ships. Pull up! Pull up!”

  Masao hesitated only for an instant before obeying. Even so, his momentum carried him over the “carriers” and he had the sickening realization that they were indeed dummies. Where then were the real American carriers? Had the Japanese planes been lured to this site so they could duel with the American planes, or was there a more sinister reason? If it was to be a duel of planes, he was confident that the American fighters were no match for his fellow Japanese, even though so many of the pilots were inexperienced replacements.

  The radio crackled again, and this time his commander’s voice was almost frantic. “All planes, return to your carriers. The Americans are going to attack our carriers.”

  Stunned, Masao turned and joined hundreds of others as they began to chase the American fighters who, he now realized, had let them slip through on purpose. He could see the American planes gaining altitude and disappearing in the direction of the carriers. He was astonished at the speed of the American planes and the altitude at which they were flying. Perhaps Toki had been correct—the Zero was indeed obsolete.

  “The carriers are under attack,” the shrill voice came over the radio, but how, he wondered? The American planes were in sight and still a ways from them. The truth dawned. If they had just attacked the dummy carriers, then where were the real ones? They were now attacking the Japanese carriers, that’s where. He howled his rage and vowed vengeance on the Americans.

  * * *

  Toki stood behind Admiral Nagumo on the bridge of the Kaga and tr
ied to make himself small and unnoticed, and to a large part, he succeeded. The admiral was obviously conflicted as he received the information that the American carriers weren’t in the waters off the Baja as expected. Both the American and Japanese airplanes were now en route to the Japanese carriers, with at least some of the Americans due to arrive ahead of the Zeros.

  Toki listened as other staff officers outlined the dilemma. The Japanese planes had already made a long flight to California and now were headed back. They would have some fuel, but not enough to sustain a long fight. Thus, they would have to be refueled, and if the Americans were in the area, that would be both dangerous and chancy. Staffers argued about their options. Some said the Zeros should destroy the Americans using what fuel they had and take a chance on ditching.

  Nagumo finally made the decision. All carriers would be ready to receive planes and refuel them as quickly as possible. It had to be done that way. If Japanese planes were forced to ditch, they and their pilots were as good as lost. So too might the carriers be lost without planes to protect them. Nagumo said the ambush was a serious setback but he was confident that Japan’s superior planes, pilots, and sailors would prevail, turning the situation into an opportunity for a decisive victory. After his uncharacteristic optimism earlier, Toki was not so certain. Nothing had gone right this day.

  In the meantime, the fleet would prepare to defend itself against the Americans flying in from the east. They would meet a storm of antiaircraft fire that would hold them at bay until the Zeros closing in on them took over. It meant, though, that the carriers would be on their own for at least a little while. Toki found that idea very disturbing.

  Toki joined the lookouts peering through binoculars, searching for first sight of the Americans approaching from California. This would be the first time he would truly see combat. Watching as pilots departed and returned wasn’t the same thing. He felt nervous, afraid. Did everyone feel that way, he wondered? At any moment he could be blown to pieces and he decided he didn’t like that at all.