Rising Sun

by Robert Conroy

  Yamamoto sucked in his breath. It was almost the same thing that had happened to the German superbattleship, the Bismarck, in May of 1941. Unable to retreat and doomed to steam in circles, she had been surrounded by British ships and blown to pieces. Would the same happen to the Yamato, the pride of Japan? It was unthinkable. At least he’d had the dubious pleasure of watching as the Yamato’s mighty 18.1-inch guns fired over the horizon at San Diego. But would that be the ignominious end of her military career? Not if he could help it.

  “The Kongo will take the Yamato in tow if quick repairs cannot be made,” Yamamoto said to Captain Shotoku. “We cannot sit here and wait. The Americans will be here shortly.”

  Shotoku nodded and left. Orders would be made for the battleship Kongo to tow the larger Yamato out of danger. The two ships’ rate of speed would be slow and they would be vulnerable until they were out of range of American land-based planes. In the meantime, Yamamoto gave instructions that he and his staff would transfer to another ship, the destroyer Umikaze, which was close by. At less than one tenth the size of the Yamato, he and his staff would be cramped, but they would get away to fight another day.

  But the crew of the Yamato would not be so fortunate. He had no illusions. It was extremely likely that the American planes and ships would find and attack the two battleships with overwhelming force. The gambler in him estimated the two battleships’ chances of survival as one in fifty.

  Many of the Yamato’s crew would not look at him and those who did showed faces full of dismay, disappointment, shock, and anger. Japan had been defeated. How could that be? Yamamoto had no answer. All he knew was that the men of the Yamato would likely all die within the next few hours unless a miracle occurred, and he did not believe in miracles. He accepted their anger at him as his due. He had failed.

  * * *

  The floatplanes reported that the navy fighters and bombers had ceased their attacks on the two Japanese battleships. One, the Kongo, was reported to be down at the bow and barely making headway, while the other, the monster Yamato, still steamed slowly. The Kongo had been towing the Yamato, but they had separated.

  American pilots confirmed that the Yamato was moving in a wide circle to starboard. Skillful ship handling had enabled the Yamato to lengthen the distance between herself and both the coast of California and the approaching American carrier. At the rate she was moving, however, it would take an eternity for her to make it to safety.

  The United States Navy in the Pacific was again down to one aircraft carrier, the Essex, and she was just about out of ordnance. Her bombs had been used up and so too had her pilots. A couple of planes had crashed while trying to land on the Essex, which caused Admiral Spruance, now on the battleship Washington, to call a halt to the attacks. The Essex would be resupplied and her pilots rested before she resumed the fight.

  Thus, the older battleships and Admiral Jesse Oldendorff entered the field of battle. The Colorado and Mississippi had been augmented by the Pennsylvania, a survivor of the attack on Pearl Harbor. The admiral now flew his flag on the Pennsylvania, which he considered appropriate when he thought of her history and her resurrection from Pearl Harbor. Admiral Nimitz’s foresight in moving his squadron from Puget Sound to join with the Pennsylvania at San Francisco caused Oldendorff to smile. He wanted nothing more than to strike back with his battleships before they were sent to a museum. The defeat of the Japanese squadron off Anchorage, while satisfying, had not been enough. He and the ships’ crews all wanted a shot at the enemy, battleship to battleship. It didn’t matter if the Kongo and Yamato were damaged; he wanted his ships’ guns in at the kill.

  “Greene, how far can an eighteen-inch gun fire?”

  Commander Mickey Greene rubbed his still-raw jaw. It was a hell of a question and nobody really knew the answer. Nobody had ever seen an eighteen-inch gun and had no idea of its range or velocity. A really good gun of that size had been considered an impossibility. Once again, the Japanese had been underestimated.

  “I’ve got to guess at least twenty-five miles, sir, maybe closer to thirty.”

  The admiral turned to the rest of his staff. “All of which means we’ll be within range of her guns before we can hit her. Assuming, of course, that the monster has any guns left that can fire after all the punishment she’s been taking.”

  Greene swallowed. Of course the Yamato would have weapons left. No matter how many times the ship had been hit by bombs and torpedoes, she was still afloat and moving and had to be presumed dangerous.

  Oldendorff gave the orders. “We will concentrate on finishing off the Kongo. The Mississippi and Colorado will go to port and we will go to starboard. She’ll be between us and we’ll bracket her quickly.”

  It almost wasn’t necessary. The American ships opened fire on the badly damaged Kongo at just under twenty miles. Colored dye showed which splashes came from which ship and within only a few minutes, the battleships’ fourteen- and sixteen-inch shells began smashing what was left of the Kongo. Several explosions ripped through the Japanese battleship and she began to list to port. There was no return fire and no sign of lifeboats being lowered. Nor were any Japanese sailors jumping from the doomed vessel into the ocean. If there were any living souls on the Kongo, they had determined to go down with her.

  Or maybe their officers wouldn’t let them run, Greene thought. The Japanese were all nuts, so their sailors would likely obey such an order and die at their stations. He saluted their bravery, but not their common sense. Why the hell would anybody want to die when they could live? At first he had wanted to die when he saw the mess the fires had made of his face, but that went away. Yeah, he would be scarred and they would remind him of his ordeal every day, but most of the worst had faded and he would live a reasonably normal life.

  The Yamato was nearly forty miles away from the destruction of the Kongo. Even though over the horizon, smoke from the numerous fires slowly destroying her was plainly visible. Vectored in by the pall and the guidance of the floatplanes, the three battleships again began their dance. At twenty miles, they opened fire. Again the brightly colored splashes guided the shells until they too smashed into what had been the massive symbol of Japanese might.

  There was no response and the American ships continued to move in closer until they were firing at only a few miles, point-blank range. The three American ships formed a line so their shells wouldn’t hit each other, and prepared to launch torpedoes.

  “The damn thing won’t sink, won’t stop,” muttered Green.

  Oldendorff heard and nodded. “We may be pumping shells into a corpse. If the torpedoes don’t kill her, we’ll just pull back and let her steam in circles for all eternity. For all we know, her engines are so well protected we haven’t done a thing to them.”

  They moved closer, now only a couple of miles away. Through binoculars, Green and others could see the utter destruction on her deck.

  Wait! Was that motion? Green stared at the sternmost turret on the ship, the “D” turret. Yes, it was slowly turning and her guns were rising. The sons of bitches had been lying low. The three guns pointed directly at the Pennsylvania like three massive eyes and then fired.

  All three giant shells slammed into the Pennsylvania. The American battleship was well-armored but not against this. Two shells penetrated her hull and a third struck her superstructure. The ship reeled from the titanic shock. One, the shell that struck her superstructure, obliterated all traces of life there, while one of the shells that pierced her hull found one of her magazines. A few seconds later, the Pennsylvania exploded. She broke in half with the two pieces floating briefly before slipping beneath the waves and taking her entire crew with her.

  In a vengeful fury, the crews of the two remaining American battleships ships first pounded the surviving turret into rubble and then fired every shell and torpedo they had, reducing the Yamato to a burning hulk. After an eternity, she rolled on her side and sank.

  They had redeemed the Pennsylvania and sunk the migh
tiest battleship in the world. But at what cost?

  CHAPTER 23

  FARRIS FOUND IT DIFFICULT TO PUSH THE WHEELCHAIR WITH HIS left arm in a sling, so he let Nancy Sullivan help out, enjoying the slightly erotic feel of her body against his as they pushed along the long corridor.

  Once again the hospitals were full. What the newspapers were calling the Battle of the Baja or the Miracle of the Baja had been a complete American victory, but there still had been many casualties. Farris pushed past wards full of heavily bandaged men, some of whom were terribly maimed. Farris could not help but think of his good fortune in surviving so much fighting with nothing more than a bum shoulder that was going to keep him out of combat. Instead, he would be assigned to a training command in the Fourth Army, an assignment that he’d requested instead of a discharge and was fine by him. He’d had enough combat for several lifetimes. Besides, he’d just found Nancy and didn’t want to leave her.

  All of America was enjoying the incredible, almost miraculous victory. Five Japanese carriers were confirmed sunk and two more were badly damaged and probably out of the war for good. The battleships Yamato and Kongo had been found and sunk, at the cost of the Pennsylvania. A huge relief convoy was en route to Hawaii stuffed with supplies and medicine. Was the end of the war in sight? Based on his firsthand experiences with Japanese fanaticism, he thought it unlikely.

  “Would you mind hurrying?” Dane asked.

  Farris declined to answer. This had been a daily ritual for a couple of weeks now, complaints and all. Dane was still in a brace while his broken back and fractured ribs healed, but at least he was no longer in that massive and ugly-looking cast that had confined him to bed. He’d been informed that his war was over too, and that he would be given a medical discharge. Numerous doctors said he was damned lucky he wasn’t paralyzed. The debris that had hit him on the Saratoga had broken his back. Just as the army couldn’t take a chance on someone with a bad shoulder going into combat, the navy couldn’t do the same for a man whose back would take a very long time to return to normal.

  “Are we there yet?” Dane mockingly whined in a kid’s voice.

  Farris laughed. “Be still.”

  “In a couple of weeks I’ll be able to walk and then I’m going to kick your ass.”

  “I look forward to it,” Farris said, meaning it.

  “I still outrank you.”

  “Screw your rank,” Farris said genially while Nancy giggled.

  They pushed open the double doors to the cafeteria. It was between meals and only a handful of people were present. Dane took control and pushed his wheelchair toward another one. He parked alongside, and he and Amanda embraced as best they could under the circumstances. Both her legs were in casts from foot to mid-thigh. They kissed and others in the cafeteria either watched approvingly or turned away to give them a semblance of privacy.

  After a moment, Amanda completed the ritual by awkwardly hugging Nancy and again thanking her for finding her under the rubble and staying with her until she could be dug out. Both of Amanda’s legs had been badly broken but were healing, and she would be out of the casts in a couple of days. It would be a while before she and Tim could resume life together, but it was on the horizon. They’d already discussed just how they’d manage sex when they were released, and decided that, like porcupines, very carefully would be it for a long while. That was fine by them. They just wanted to be together.

  “Guess what?” Amanda said, changing the subject. “Grace came back from San Francisco with everything we wanted to know about Mack’s safe deposit box.” She and Sandy had give Grace power of attorney and she’d gone north to meet with Zuckerman, Goldman, and a rep from the State of California.

  Dane didn’t really care. That was part of her life, not his. Still, he was more than a little curious. “Are we rich?”

  “I really don’t know. They found only thirty thousand dollars, which is below what the State of California said they’d tax, so it belongs to us. They also found some stock certificates, and Zuckerman suggested that I keep the stocks while Grace and Sandy split the cash. Apparently they really need the money while I don’t. He thought the company was a good one doing a lot of work for the government. He says International Business Machines should be worth quite a bit some day. He said that we should hold on to it and wait. Regardless, we now have a thousand shares of IBM.”

  Tim thought he approved. “We’ll have plenty of time to think about it. First, we have to get out of these things, and then we have to learn how to walk again.”

  Amanda nodded solemnly. “And we’d better figure out how to make love without breaking anything. At least we’ll have a place to live when that time comes.”

  After Merchant had been killed, Farris had continued making rent payments on Merchant’s apartment, on Dane’s behalf. The landlord didn’t care who rented as long as someone paid, and Tim had the feeling that Steve and Nancy had spent some intimate time there as well, and why the hell not? Grace hadn’t wanted to live there. Too many memories, she’d said and, after a few drinks, wondered why the men she liked kept getting killed.

  Nancy nudged Steve and they walked away to give the newlyweds some more privacy. “I think we have a couple of hours before the two lovebirds have to be back in their wards. Any idea how to spend that time?”

  Steve almost leered, causing Nancy to blush and laugh. “I can think of a few,” she said.

  * * *

  The ride from Fairbanks to Anchorage was depressing. First, Ruby and Bear had to wait for a convoy to form up. Even though the army was reasonably confident that any remaining Japanese were either dead from wounds, starvation, or exposure, there was always the nagging possibility that one or two were lying in wait for an opportunity to kill themselves and anybody else in the name of the emperor.

  When they finally got to the ruined little town, it was even more depressing. Even though the army was setting up shop and building an airbase, Anchorage itself was a burned and broken shell. Ruby had a difficult time convincing a couple of young MPs that she was the owner of the pile of charred rubble that had once been her restaurant, her one and only source of income. In the ruins, she found very little of worth to her.

  While she was looking through the debris, she was approached by a man who said he was a real-estate speculator, and would she sell to him? They haggled right then and there and he ended up paying cash for the property, giving her what she felt was about a third of what it was worth. She didn’t care. It was time to move on with her life.

  She did talk to the army and pointed out where she’d seen the Japanese shoot and kill the men they’d pushed into the water. She was somewhat gratified when her information resulted in divers finding several bodies. They would continue to search for others. The murdered young men would be going home, she thought with a good deal of satisfaction. And so would she, only it wouldn’t be Anchorage.

  “We should live in Fairbanks,” Ruby announced.

  “And do what?” Bear asked. His world was changing, too, and he wondered what the future would bring.

  “Well, they’re building a new airbase up there as well, and the road to the south is now open. If we play it right, we might have enough money to open a bar and restaurant, and you can make some cash guiding officers out into the wilderness to do some big-game hunting, Alaska style.”

  “That’ll do for the summertime,” Bear said, “but what will we do in the winter?”

  Ruby smiled. “Why, we’ll do what everyone else does up here in the winter. We’ll drink ourselves silly and screw our brains out.”

  He smacked her on the bottom. “Damnation, why didn’t I think of that? What the hell are we waiting for?”

  * * *

  Admirals Chester Nimitz and Ray Spruance were the toast of the nation, a fact which perplexed them because of their innately shy natures, and annoyed Admiral King, who rather relished publicity. Their pictures had graced the covers of Time, Life, Collier’s, and the Saturday Evening Post. Even
Nimitz had to acknowledge that Yamamoto and what remained of his fleet were clearly on the ropes. The Japanese were pulling back and, from the intercepts they’d gotten, were going totally on the defensive.

  The one-sidedness of the wide-ranging fighting still stunned Admiral Nimitz. The Saratoga was already back in action after some miracle-working by repair crews in San Diego and, in the next few months, would be joined by no fewer than three fleet carriers and nine escort carriers. Additional new battleships were on the way including one Iowa-class monster that might even be a match for the Yamato’s remaining sister ship, the Musashi. Most felt that the day of the battleship was over, but maybe the Musashi would fall prey to the guns of the Iowa and her sisters. The admirals thought that would be suitable justice for Pearl Harbor and the destruction of so much of San Diego and Los Angeles.

  More than three hundred American planes had been shot down in the battle, but more than half of their pilots had been recovered and most of those rescued would return to service. Not so with the Japanese. Intercepts said they acknowledged four hundred and fifty planes and pilots lost. Even the Japanese admitted that they could not replace the quality of the men who’d died in the battle. In future plane-to-plane encounters, the edge would now belong to the United States. The American pilots had not died in vain.

  Enough melancholy, Nimitz thought. There was a duty to perform. After a lot of investigating and haggling, it was finally determined that one torpedo from the Shark had damaged the Yamato sufficiently that she could not flee to safety, thus causing her destruction. Yes, planes and gunfire had ultimately sunk her, but it was Torelli’s torpedo that had slowed her down to the point where the planes and ships could catch and kill her.

  All he had to do was remind Torelli that neither he nor his crew were to say anything about modifying their torpedoes. He still could not fathom why the brains at BuOrd in Washington couldn’t get it through their heads that something was wrong with their expensive toys.