Sterling had already explained that this was not just the club's weekly Saturday-night dance, but an annual cabaret-style benefit show put on by "talented young ladies" who worked on the post. Right now they could hear a small combo—piano, drums, guitar and bass fiddle—accompanying a thin female voice doing Ella Fitzgerald's "A Tisket a Tasket," passably.
Once inside, they peeked in at the wood-paneled dining room, which was decked out with ferns and floral arrangements, and every linen-covered table had fresh-cut flowers; between two lava-rock columns was the stage area, where various amateurs were coming up to sing and dance and do their best. The men in the audience were in dress uniform and the women in their fanciest gowns, and the club was brimming with brass—in addition to Short and Fielder, who were positioned up front (unfortunately), Burroughs spotted Major Durward Wilson of the 24th Infantry Division, Lieutenant Colonel Emil Leard, and Lieutenant Colonel Walter Phillips, Short's chief of staff.
"Wait in the bar," Sterling told Burroughs, who did as he was told, as the FBI man waded gingerly into the sea of high-ranking officers.
With the benefit show in full sway, the bar was empty, but for the bartender himself, and Burroughs ordered a root beer at the counter, and retreated to a booth.
A few minutes later, Sterling returned with both General Short and Colonel Fielder, neither of whom seemed happy. Nor did they did seem inclined to join Burroughs in the booth, and the writer crawled out and stood and apologized for interrupting their evening out.
"I hope there's a good reason for this, Mr. Burroughs," the slim, wiry general said tightly.
Burroughs jumped right in. "You already know about the Mori radiophone call, and the Jap Consulate burning its papers. What you don't know is mat Otto Kuhn, the German 'sleeper' agent, is working with Vice Consul Morimura, in an effort to pin the murder of Pearl Harada on an innocent man."
The general frowned, but with interest. This news perked Fielder's curiosity, as well. Short gestured to the booth, said, "Let's sit down—I'd like to hear this."
Burroughs and Sterling sat across from the general and the colonel. Both men seemed keenly attentive as the writer told them what Kuhn had admitted about the phone call, and that Morimura had flaunted his spying activities, right down to the powerful telescope in his private room at the Shuncho-ro.
Sterling said, "My office has clearly underestimated Morimura—he's put on a good front as a womanizer and buffoon. But it's apparent he's involved heavily in spying, though much of it may be legal."
"This is intriguing information, Mr. Burroughs," the general said, nodding thoughtfully. "But I as yet fail to see a reason for your sense of urgency...."
"Pearl Harada's uncle is on the FBI's list of dangerous Japanese-Americans here in Oahu. She may have been involved in something having to do with espionage, or overheard something." Burroughs turned to Fielder. "Wooch, that girl made a concerted effort to have me arrange a meeting between the two of you."
Fielder shrugged. "Of course—because she and my son wanted to get married...."
This was news to Short, who looked sharply at Fielder, who went on, faintly chagrined.
"My son and that girl knew I would forbid such a union, and she wanted to try to win me over."
"That's right," Burroughs said. "And we've been assuming that she was going to bat her eyes and sweet-talk you and just generally appeal to your basic goodness... but Wooch, what if she was going to prove herself to you by handing you sensitive information?" -
Fielder's eyes narrowed, and so did Short's.
"I spoke to that girl minutes before her murder," Burroughs said. "She was anxious to see you, Wooch, as soon as possible. She had a real sense of urgency about her, let me tell you ... and somebody else had enough of a sense of urgency to murder her before she could talk to you."
Fielder seemed stunned, trying to absorb this.
"What do you think she knew?" the general asked.
"I can only guess," Burroughs said. "But if the Japs, through Morimura, are waking their sleeper agent... literally ... and murder is being committed, right down to framing some poor fall guy ... it must be something important. Something ... urgent."
"It would certainly seem that Morimura and Kuhn are worth serious investigation." General Short turned to Fielder, who was after all his top intelligence man. "First thing Monday morning, I want you to meet with Agent Sterling and whoever's handling this murder case."
"That would be Detective John Jardine of the Prosecutor's Office," Burroughs told the general, "but do you really think you should wait until Monday?"
Short raised an eyebrow. "Morimura is a diplomat—with protected status. If he's been involved in illegal espionage, that status dissolves. Kuhn we can simply have arrested. Nevertheless, we need to tread slowly, carefully."
Burroughs leaned forward in the booth. "General Short, what if Pearl Harada had information indicating invasion was at hand?"
"Mr. Burroughs, war is at hand, unless these negotiations with the Japs start going someplace, quick... Washington indicates we could have hostile action at any moment."
"Well, then—"
"And I'm grateful to you, Mr. Burroughs, for this information indicating that espionage efforts here in Oahu are heating up."
The writer was shaking his head. "General, I'm not talking about war, I'm talking about invasion—a sneak attack. Your man Colonel Teske believed it would come by air at dawn on a Saturday or Sunday—when the Japs know they would have their best shot at rinding our ships in port and many men off duty, our guard dropped."
"Our 'guard' is never dropped, Mr. Burroughs," the general said, crisply, defensive irritation unmistakable in his tone. "War is coming but almost certainly not in Hawaii—I asked my chief of staff just yesterday what the odds were of that, and he told me, flatly, 'Zero.' "
Then Short was out of the booth, Fielder too, the general thanking the writer for his patriotism and his conscientiousness.
"This activity by Morimura and Kuhn is unquestionably pertinent," he told Burroughs and Sterling, who were still seated in the booth. "We're on alert against sabotage, espionage activities and subversion right now. When the Japs attack—whether it's the Philippines or Borneo—we'll have to be ready to handle a bloody uprising of their local fifth column."
And, after a few polite smiles and nods, General Walter Short and Colonel Kendall Fielder were off to rejoin their wives, who were listening to a trio of girls from the camp PX singing "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy."
"Hell, Ed," Sterling said, ashen, as the two walked out into the officers'-club parking lot in the still, crisp air, "if your hunch about invasion is correct, the general's antisabotage efforts could backfire tragically."
"How so?"
"Well, in this antisabotage alert he's implemented, Short's ordered ammo boxed up and locked, to prevent theft. And all the warplanes are disarmed and massed close together, in the middle of open tarmacs."
The writer's eyes popped. "Are you serious? That makes a perfect target for an enemy air raid!"
The FBI agent shrugged, glumly. "It's easier to guard the planes that way, Short says—against the 'fifth column' of local Jap saboteurs."
Burroughs shook his head. "And what I told him about Morimura probably only reinforced that notion."
As they headed out of Schofield in the black Ford, Burroughs said to Sterling, "We have to talk to Admiral Kimmel. We have to try him."
"That's probably not advisable...."
"Do you know where he is tonight?"
"I do," Sterling admitted. "A party at the Halekulani, given by Admiral Leary and his wife."
A number of the Navy's top brass lived at the Halekulani Hotel.
"Drop me at my car," Burroughs said, "and I'll meet you over there—in the lobby."
Just beyond Fort DeRussey, on the ocean side of Kalia Street, the Halekulani was a low-key, casually posh hotel whose buildings and cottages seemed interwoven with the Hawaiian landscape. The House Without a Key bar was
named after Earl Derr Biggers' s first Charlie Chan mystery, a small resonance Burroughs might have savored, under less tense circumstances: John Jardine's late colleague on the Honolulu PD, Chang Apana, had been the basis for the fictional Chan.
Burroughs and the FBI agent found Admiral Kimmel in the company of Rear Admiral Draemel and Admiral Pye and their wives, sipping cocktails at a table under the big hau tree on the Halekulani terrace. A grouping of tables nearby made up a dinner party of around a dozen—all top brass and their wives ... except, of course, for Husband Kimmel, whose wife was back on the mainland.
Sterling approached the stern, broad-browed admiral, apologizing for the intrusion, and politely asking for a few minutes of his time.
In the charming, pale pink, wicker-furnished lobby, standing near a huge window looking out on a seemingly impenetrable thickness of tropical garden, Burroughs and the FBI man laid out their cards for Admiral Kimmel. It took a while longer than the meeting with Short and Fielder, because Kimmel knew nothing of the Mori radiophone call, though he was aware of the Japanese Consulate burning their papers.
"That's only natural," the stately admiral said, a faint touch of Kentucky in his voice, "at a time like this."
"With war imminent, you mean?" Burroughs said.
"Yes. Now what is this business about murder, and espionage?"
They filled him in slowly, and the admiral listened, absorbed, frequently nodding. Burroughs and Sterling exchanged occasional glances, both men feeling they were getting through to Kimmel.
But in the end, the admiral's reaction mirrored the general's.
"This begs prompt action," Kimmel said. "First thing Monday morning."
"Admiral Kimmel," Burroughs said, "Sunday is the perfect time for an invasion...."
The admiral's clear blue eyes seemed tranquil. "The Japs may indeed invade, tomorrow—somewhere in Southeast Asia, that is."
"What about here? In Hawaii?"
"No one gives that possibility much credence. Just last week I asked my operations officer what the chances were, of a surprise attack on Oahu, and he said, 'None.' I hope you won't mind if I rely on the advice of our leading military minds and not... forgive me ... the creator of Tarzan?"
The admiral thanked both men for their diligence, and returned to the terrace and the single cocktail he was conservatively making last all evening.
Soon the writer and the FBI man were back at the Niumalu, in their respective bungalows; when he took his leave, Sterling seemed weary and defeated. Burroughs felt about the same, but was relieved and even energized to find Hully at home. They had company: Hully had hauled his inebriated and somewhat battered friend, Bill Fielder, to sleep it off, which he was doing, on a pallet on the floor.
Father and son sat on the couch and exchanged their tales of the evening's investigations, each surprising, occasionally delighting, the other with revelations and adventures.
But finally it was left to Hully to ask, "What does it all add up to, O. B.?" .
His father shrugged. "Harry Kamana is innocent—and so, most likely, are Bill and Stanton and the other 'jealous lovers.' Pearl Harada was killed for a classic motive: she knew too much."
"But what did she know, Dad?"
"I can't tell you, Son—and neither can Pearl."
Hully sighed. "I guess our investigation is over."
"Ours is—but when Sterling and Jardine get together with Colonel Fielder of Army intelligence, Morimura and Kuhn won't stand a chance."
"And when does this happen?"
"Monday."
"Monday." Hully stretched, yawned. "I guess it can wait that long."
And—with Bill snoring on his pallet on the floor—Hully folded out the couch into a bed, while his father trundled off in hopes of a good night's sleep, minus any nightmares or other rude awakenings.
* * *
THREE:
December 7, 1941
THIRTEEN
War Games
After the midnight closing of the Navy's new Bloch Recreation Center—where the Arizona's dance band had come in second to the Pennsylvania, a much-contested decision—and with the dimming of the clubs and bars of the city, garish Hotel Street included, the blush in the sky over Honolulu began to fade, until the heavens again belonged to the stars. Oahu itself seemed to slumber, with only the slowly turning hands of the Aloha Tower's quartet of clock faces to mark the passing of another tropical night.
By three a.m., the darkness was broken chiefly by stoplights pulsing red, and mute, deserted streets twinkling with Christmas lights. A few pleasure palaces in Chinatown ignored the curfew, their entryways scarlet with the neon promise of sin, beckoning foolish tourists and fearless servicemen. And offshore, to the west, at the entrance to Pearl Harbor, red and green buoy lights winked in the dark, as if they and the night shared a secret.
In these deceptively peaceful hours before dawn, out in the blackness beyond the reef, destiny was bearing down upon Oahu. Three hundred miles north of Honolulu, an armada charged through heavy seas at a clip of twenty knots—destroyers and cruisers, battleships and aircraft carriers, bombers and torpedo planes—while, much closer to Oahu, a small fleet of submarines already had the island surrounded, and five midget submarines were even now gliding toward their targets.
A little before four a.m., a minesweeper signaled the destroyer Ward of the sighting of a possible periscope three-quarters southwest of the harbor's blinking entrance buoys. General quarters were sounded by Lieutenant William Outerbridge, captain of the Ward—summoned to the bridge in his pajamas, over which he wore a kimono—and for half an hour, the destroyer searched the restricted waters outside the harbor, and saw nothing, their sonarmen hearing nothing.
Then at 6:30 a.m., a Ward crewman spotted the half-submerged midget sub trailing the supply ship Antares toward the harbor entry, whose torpedo nets—usually blocking the channel—were wide open. Lieutenant Outerbridge sounded general quarters again, and took chase, quickly closing to within a hundred yards, firing and missing, then—with a point-blank hit—nailing the sub at the juncture of its conning tower, sinking the seaweed-shrouded sub, then pounding it with depth charges until the wounded ship bled oil.
The Ward, little realizing it, had just fired the first shots of the Pacific War.
Though this encounter had taken place within five miles of Battleship Row, Oahu continued to slumber—Lieutenant Outerbridge, who of course promptly radioed a coded message of the sinking to the commander of the Fourteenth Naval District at Pearl Harbor—did not receive a request for "additional details" until 7:37 A.M.
Just before dawn, atop a ridge on the northern shore of Oahu, one of Colonel Teske's mobile radar stations was scheduled to be shut down at seven a.m. General Short had these half-dozen trailer-mounted units in operation only a few hours a day, primarily for training purposes. Private George Elliot and Private Joe Lock-ard were working a four-hour graveyard shift, three in the morning till seven; but the track that was supposed to pick them up for breakfast was late, and Private Elliot left the equipment on after seven, merely for the practice.
And just as dawn was threatening to break, a notably strong wave pattern blipped on Elliot's five-inch-diameter oscilloscope, indicating dozens of aircraft, about 130 miles north, heading toward Oahu—at a speed, they soon estimated, of around 180 mph.
Elliot called this in to the Air Warning Service at Fort Shafter, where Lieutenant Kermit Tyler—assuming these blips represented some B-17s expected in from the mainland—told the radarman, "Well, don't worry about it."
Lockard suggested they shut down the radar set, but Elliot wanted some more practice: he watched until the swarm of planes was only twenty-two miles north of Oahu, at which point the patterns disappeared. Unaware that this meant the planes were lost in the dead zone of the hills, as they crossed the shoreline, Elliot switched off the set and logged his final report, at 0740...
... content that he'd had enough practice for one day.
The blips on hi
s screen had been forty-three Zeros, forty torpedo bombers, and one hundred bombers, the first wave of planes launched at six a.m. by the Japanese battle fleet 275 miles due north of the radar station. Their shadows racing across the checkerboards of sugarcane and pineapple fields, the 183 silver planes streaked over the lushly tropical, dreamily peaceful island, where a harbor as still as a millpond awaited, part of a golden landscape basking in the tranquillity of a Sunday dawn.
At around 7:30 a.m., Hully Burroughs and his father sat at a round wicker table on the Niumalu patio, having breakfast. Hully was in bis tennis whites, O. B. in a short-sleeved woven tan shirt and khaki slacks, an ensemble that looked vaguely military; both men were in sneakers. The plan was to play tennis after breakfast, so they again ate light—orange juice and coffee and muffins and fresh fruit.
Their houseguest, Bill Fielder, was still on the pallet in the bungalow, sleeping it off, dead to the world. The chief topic of discussion between father and son was their frustration that the Sunday paper was late: Hully's brother Jack's comic strip, based on ERB's John Carter of Mars stories, was making its debut today.
"Well, it's not like we haven't seen the proofs," Hully said, buttering a muffin.
"Sure, but I'm anxious to see it in color," O. B. said, obviously disappointed that he couldn't read this latest Burroughs spin-off—helmed by his eldest son, a fact of which he was inordinately proud—over his morning coffee.
Neither father nor son had mentioned anything about the murder investigation that had so consumed them the day before; this was a new day—witness the endless blue sky puffed with clouds, the surf rolling gentry to shore, hear and feel the wind whispering through the fronds, a strangely still morning, quiet, serene ... Sunday.
When the first sounds of artillery fire interrupted that serenity, shattering it even, Burroughs, coffee cup in hand, looked at Hully with one arched eyebrow.
The Pearl Harbor Murders Page 14