"No," Hully said, to the unasked question.
And O. B. nodded.
After all, yesterday's papers had said that heavy guns would be fired from various parts of the island, over the next few days; and Oahu was a continual site of war games and realistic maneuvers.
As the sounds of battle built, other patrons of the Niumalu, at other tables, were exchanging the same information: this was just a drill, some kind of Navy battle practice, or the Army having target practice....
A woman at a nearby table said in an English accent,
"What a wonderfully realistic imitation of a European air raid."
"Well, now I know how they sound," her male companion, an American, said matter-of-factly.
Soon, as father and son wandered to the tennis court, rackets in hand, Burroughs was saying, "You get used to these damn maneuvers, living on a military island like this. But I have to admit, after what we learned yesterday, I'm damned nervous. You don't think this could be..."
From the direction of the beach, the sky rumbled, and it wasn't thunder.
Nonetheless, Hully shook his head. "Dad, we'd be hearing sirens—it'd be all over the radio, by now. We'd know if this were more than just gunnery practice."
So they began to play tennis. Before long, many of the Niumalu guests had gathered on the sandy patch adjacent to the tennis court, that sunbathing area where, not so long ago, Pearl Har-ada had lounged in a pretty pink bathing suit. From there, the rubberneckers could enjoy—just past the stubby wooden fence—a clear view of the coast, from Diamond Head to beyond Pearl Harbor and Barbers Point, though a hill kept them from seeing the Naval base.
Even from the court, Hully and his dad could quite plainly see—pausing between serves—bombs falling into the ocean not so far away, dense black smoke billowing up as if the water were on fire.
"It's a practice smoke screen," somebody said.
"Sure doesn't sound like practice," someone else said, rather idly.
Antiaircraft shells were exploding in the sky, and ships at sea were firing, and the guests were oohing and ahhing, as if at a Fourth of July fireworks display, marveling at these "realistic maneuvers the Navy was staging."
Hully had just returned a serve, and O. B. had swatted it back, when a bomb went off surprisingly nearby, and Hully's attention jerked toward the beach, the ball bouncing past him, unattended. The hotel guests were rearing back in horror and surprise. Gasps and screams intermingled as they began to back away, and gradually turned and walked, and ran, to their bungalows or the lodge or just somewhere else, anywhere else, as long as it was inland.
At the sound of that nearby explosion, Hully had tossed his racket and his father had done the same, and as the guests rushed toward them, the Burroughs duo moved through the panicking crowd, swimming against the tide, running toward the beach.
Fred Bivens, eyes wide and unbelieving, came up to them, gesturing numbly toward the waters.
"A supply ship—it was standing just offshore, by Fort DeRussey.... A bomb blew the damn thing up! What kind of war games are these?"
Hully and his father looked out and could see bombs bursting over Pearl Harbor and Hickam Field.
"It's war, Fred," O. B. said gravely. "Not games."
Hully grabbed his father by the arm and said to him pointedly, "Then let's go take a prisoner."
O. B., understanding, nodded curtly, and they took off.
Feeling like idiots—they if anyone should have known this was the real thing—Hully and O. B. ran toward the Kuhns' cottage. As they passed by an open window of another bungalow, a radio blasted out an announcer's call to action: "All men report to your post! Calling all nurses! Proceed to Pearl Harbor!"
And as they jogged by another open window, on another tumed-up radio, a different announcer was saying, "Civilians—stay off the street! Stay home! Do not use the telephone! Oahu is being attacked—the sign of the Rising Sun is to be seen on the wings of the attacking planes!"
No radio was on in the Kuhns' quarters, but they found the door open and, inside, Adam Sterling, who had a .38 revolver in his right hand. The place was a mess, almost as if it had been searched; but that wasn't exactly the case.
The FBI agent, who might have been a tourist in his aloha shirt and chinos, looked at them and said, "Kuhn and his wife cleared out, sometime during the night."
Hands on his hips, O. B. snorted a laugh and asked, "Where the hell do they think they're gonna hide, on this island?"
Sterling stuck the gun in his waistband, shrugging. "Maybe with Jap sympathizers. Maybe they think that fifth column is going to rise up, or maybe an invasion is going to follow this goddamn air raid, and they're hiding till the outcome." Swallowing thickly, Sterling shook his head and his eyes locked with O. B.'s. "Jesus, Ed—did we have to be right?"
Explosions, muffled, underscored the agent's statement.
“This is it," O. B. said through clenched teeth. "This is the attack. But my question is—is this what Pearl Harada knew?"
Sterling shook his head. "No—but close. Last night, after you and I struck out with General Short and Admiral Kimmel. .. and what a morning I bet they're having ... I couldn't sleep. So I went over to the dining room, where the Harbor Lights were dragging their be-hinds through a performance ... two of their members murdered, what a damn pall that cast."
"I can imagine," Hully said.
"Yeah," O. B. said to the FBI agent, "but what the hell does that—"
Nodding, the FBI man picked up his train of thought. "I talked to a young man in the band who, as it turns out, was ... secretly... Terry Mizuha's other best friend." He grunted a humorless laugh. "Hell, why mince words at a time like this? Terry Mizuha's boyfriend—his lover."
O. B.'s eyes narrowed to slits. "What did this 'lover' tell you?"
Distant explosions continued to accentuate the FBI agent's words.
“Terry had confided in him, Ed—just like Pearl had confided in Terry. Nonspies aren't much at keeping secrets, you know. Seems our esteemed Japanese vice consul, Tadashi Morimura, is not a diplomat at all—
he's a spy named Takeo Yoshikawa. A top espionage agent... So much for 'legal' spying."
O. B. and Hully exchanged glances; then O. B. asked, "Is that an act of war? Having a spy pose as a diplomat?"
Sterling barked a hollow laugh. "Kind of a moot point right now, don't you think?"
And an especially loud explosion seemed to agree.
The FBI agent gestured to a telephone on a small table. "Listen, the hotel phones are out. Maybe some Jap plane snagged the phone lines. So I can't call the office, and anyway it's just a skeleton crew over there; and I can't contact anybody at home, obviously. I'm on my own—you and Hully want to help?"
Hully was nodding, emphatically, as O. B. said, "Sure—how?"
Sterling's smile had a sneer in it. "I want to get over to that Japanese embassy and arrest that son of a bitch, Morimura/Yoshikawa, plus I want to take all those other Nips into custody, right down to General Counsul Kita....You got a gun, Ed?"
O. B. nodded. "I still have Otto's L¸ger—in the bungalow."
"Get it. That is, if you want to help out."
"Oh, I want to help." Eyes so tight they seemed to be shut, O. B. stood almost nose to nose with the FBI agent (or would have if Sterling hadn't been so much taller) and said, "Listen, Adam—Pearl knew more than just Morimura's last name, I'm sure of it That bastard Morimura or Yoshi-something knew about this attack. This invasion got Pearl killed, and that Terry fella as well—they're the first casualties of this new war. Well, the Army and Navy have their hands full right now—you bet we'll be glad to help the FBI get that bastard."
Sterling and Hully tagged along as O. B. headed back to the bungalow to get the German's gun. As they approached, Bill Fielder—in his bare feet, his green sportshirt unbuttoned, zipping his chinos—came tumbling out, bumping into Hully.
The young ensign's face was unshaven, his eyes red, his dark hair sticking out here and the
re with sleep-induced cowlicks.
"Christ, have you heard?" Bill asked.
With bombs bursting in air—just like "The Star Spangled Banner"—this was a fairly absurd question.
"It's no drill," O. B. said.
"I gotta get to the Arizona," Bill said desperately, wheeling from Hully to O. B. to Sterling. "You gotta drive me there! I gotta get in this! I gotta help!"
"Keys to the Pierce Arrow are on the coffee table," O. B. said, pointing to the nearby screen door. 'Take it—try not to get my buggy shot the hell up... or yourself."
"Thank you, thank you," Bill murmured, and ran back inside the Burroughs cottage.
Sterling paused for just a moment, watching Bill through the screen, and Hully was surprised to see that the FBI agent—this strong-jawed six-foot-two Tarzan type—had tears welling.
"The men on those ships getting bombed," he said softly, voice catching, "they're all boys like that—average damn age is nineteen."
O. B. whispered, "Dying out there, right now."
Then Bill, clutching the car keys, came streaking past them, flashing a nod of thanks and a grimace of a smile.
Burroughs went in and retrieved the L¸ger, and followed after as the FBI man dashed toward the crushed-coral parking lot where the Ford waited, Hully right there at his father's side.
"Didn't miss the fire this time, Dad," he said.
"Wish to hell I had," O. B. said.
There were tears in his father's eyes, as well; but—as was the case with the FBI man—Edgar Rice Burroughs's jaw was firmly set.
FOURTEEN
Under Fire
At the same time as Edgar Rice Burroughs and his son Hulbert were sitting down for breakfast at the Niumalu, two barefoot young fishermen were settling in on the enlisted men's landing at Pearl City. Sitting on the pier in only their khaki trousers, having yanked their T-shirts off (once they'd slipped out of their mother's sight), the Morton boys—Don, eleven, and Jerry, thirteen—did not brandish poles: instead, they unfurled a simple ball of string out into the water.
The boys were old hands at this, though they were resigned to slim pickings, even if on occasion they had managed to snag a hapless perch; and while the morning's fishing would certainly be on the dull side, Don and Jerry would no doubt be entertained by the harbor's always interesting parade of ships and sailors, planes and pilots....
Puffs of wind gently stirred the glassy surface of the water, and the sun peeked from behind cotton-candy clouds, promising a hot, lazy day—a typical Sunday for the two boys, although the fish did seem to be biting, for a change.
Seeking more bait, Don scrambled up to their house, only two hundred yards from the landing, while Jerry lounged in the golden sunlight, squinting as he took in a view any kid might relish, the ships of the Pacific Fleet strewn before him like so many toys in his tub. Groupings of destroyers convened about their tenders, to the north and east; and cruisers faced into the Navy Yard piers, at the southeast. Farther south lay the cruiser Helena, and—in dry dock with two destroyers—the battleship Pennsylvania. To the west were more destroyers, in and out of dry dock.
Lording over it all, in the middle of the harbor, sat Ford Island, where even now the boys' stepfather was on duty at the seaplane hangars. Patrol planes and carriers were stationed there, carriers moored on the northwest side, battleships on the southeast. Only today, Jerry noted, the carriers were all out at sea.
But there was still plenty for a kid to look at—the Utah, a battleship turned target ship; the seaplane tenders Swan and Tangier; the mine layer Ogala; cruisers like the Raleigh, Helena and Detroit; the old gunboat Sacramento with its thin, old-fashioned smokestack; and—on the far side of Ford Island—an exciting lineup of funnels and masts, the "trees" of Battleship Row, the Arizona, California, Maryland, Nevada, Oklahoma, Tennessee, and West Virginia. What other kid's bathtub armada could compare to that?
Still, all of this was old news to Jerry, who was glad the fish were biting. Otherwise, this had the makings of another really dull Sunday—that must have been why somebody was playing with firecrackers, off in the distance someplace.
Twenty miles east of where Jerry and Don were fishing, on the windward coast of the island, Japanese fighter planes and dive-bombers were swooping down on Kaneohe Naval Air Station.
One moment all was quiet, the next men were running after guns and ammunition, shouting, cursing, as the enemy planes made scrap metal out of the big PBY patrol planes at the station, moored to buoys in the bay and sitting unmanned on ramps.
Thirty-three Army planes were either damaged or destroyed.
All were in flames.
Don Morton was halfway down to the pier from the house, bringing more bait, when an explosion pitched him onto his face. The eleven-year-old covered his ears, his head, as three more blasts rocked the world over and around him.
Then, scared spitless, he scurried back up the slope and ran inside the house, just as his mother was coming out, her face white, her eyes wide.
Standing there in the doorway, she leaned down, putting her hands on his shoulders. "Go down and fetch your brother—now! Hurry!"
Don did as he was told, even as planes were gliding by overhead, housetop level. The boy heard gunfire and realized it was coming from above, and the dirt road nearby puffed up, making little dust clouds, as the pilot strafed the area.
As dust danced on the road, Don—momentarily frozen—yelled, "Jerry!"
And then the boy turned and ran back to the house, and his mommy. When he got there, Don saw their next-door neighbor, a Navy lieutenant, in his p.j.'s., out on his own front yard.
The funny thing was, the grown man was crying too, crying for his mommy.
FBI agent Sterling was at the wheel of the black Ford with Burroughs in front, and Hully was in the backseat, sitting forward, like a kid.
As they headed for the Japanese Consulate, downtown, Burroughs was dismayed to see civilians failing to take cover, standing out in their yards and on the sidewalks, staring skyward, pointing at the plumes of black smoke, some laughing, convinced they were watching the military training exercise to end all such exercises.
Perhaps they were, he thought.
At first the traffic was nonexistent, the streets vacant, spookily, ominously so; and as the spectators began to get the point—as radios around the city informed them this was "the real McCoy!"—the citizens of Honolulu scrambled inside, leaving the sidewalks and front yards empty, as well.
For several blocks, the emptiness—punctuated by the muffled sound of explosions—was eerie, almost as if the world had ended, leaving behind only brick and concrete.
Suddenly, vehicles were everywhere, speeding, careening, civilian autos and taxicabs packed with sailors and soldiers desperate to get back to their ships and posts, delivery vans and ambulances and fire trucks, sirens screaming....
Soon the FBI agent's Ford was snarled in traffic.
Sterling, pounding the wheel impatiently, turned to Burroughs. "You really think Yoshikawa alias Mori-mura knew today was the day?"
Burroughs shrugged, sighed; the German's little automatic was in his hand. "Maybe not. Maybe he just knew that some Sunday soon, Oahu would be the target."
Sterling's smile was bitter; he shook his head. "All I keep thinking is 'poinsettias and hibiscus.' "
From the back, Hully said, "That radiophone call?"
"Code," Burroughs said.
Sterling nodded. "Code, all right—for certain kinds of ships."
Burroughs glanced at his son. "Maybe that bastard did know—our esteemed vice consul."
Traffic began to move again—as sirens wailed, and the sky roared.
"If we can ever get to the Consulate," Sterling said, through tight teeth, "we'll just ask the son of a bitch."
On a windy plain ten miles north of Pearl Harbor lay Wheeler Field, the Pacific's largest American fighter base. U-shaped barricades had been constructed to protect Wheeler's nearly one hundred fighter planes, Army Air For
ce P-40s and P-36s; this morning, however, the planes were clustered on the runways, wingtip to wing-tip—playing out General Short's antisabotage strategy, a policy the other Oahu bases were following, as well. Japanese planes pounced on the sitting ducks, dropping bombs, unleashing cannon fire and machine-gun blasts, chewing up the rows of parked fighters, fuel tanks igniting, leaving the hangars, enlisted men's barracks and PX in flames.
Dive-bombers swooped so low, inflicting their damage, that phone lines got snagged, and men on the ground could see the gold teeth in the grins of Jap pilots as they flashed by. No time to fight back, unarmed airmen died in their beds, or running for their planes, or for safety, though the base had no air-raid shelters. Their ammunition—locked away to keep local saboteurs from getting it, courtesy of General Short—was out of reach, stored in one of the burning hangars, bullets popping like popcorn in the conflagration.
Then the planes soared away, leaving thirty-nine men dead, and many more wounded.
Just north of Wheeler, at the suburban sprawl that was Schofield Barracks, sounds resembling explosions roused the interest of soldiers, who—upon glancing outside the mess hall—saw a plane with a black canopy and fuselage marked with a red spot, circling the roof of the building housing HQ. Breakfast trays in hand, several soldiers were arguing over whether this was a Jap plane or some strange Navy craft, when buglers trumpeted an alert. The men tossed their trays and ran from the mess hall into the quadrangle; others sought out rifles, and two artillerymen ran to the rooftop and fired at planes with Browning Automatic Rifles, emptying clips at the dive-bombers.
One of the Jap planes crashed.
Cheers went up.
Then a new topic of conversation took over among the frightened young soldiers: how much would it hurt to be shot by a Jap bullet? Was it true the Nips only used .25 caliber ammo?
Admiral Kimmel had gotten up early on this fine Sunday morning; every other weekend, he would meet with General Short for eighteen holes of golf. Today, Lieutenant Colonel Throckmorton and Colonel Fielder would be joining them.
The Pearl Harbor Murders Page 15