Ken seats himself into the passenger seat and buckles in. Gary returns from the house holding a large basket in one hand and two folding canvas chairs in the other. He stores them in the trunk and jumps behind the steering wheel.
“Windows down or the A/C today?” Gary asks.
“Please, leave the windows down. Maybe on the way back I might prefer the A/C, but for now, I feel rested and it is a beautiful morning.” Ken adjusts his cap, his chonmage poking through an opening in the back. Printed across the front is the name of the company he founded, “KEN’S CLIMATE CONTROL-ALL ISLANDS,” superimposed over an outline of the Hawaiian Islands.
It proves to be about a forty five minute drive to the base. After passing through security they park as near to the Utah as possible and walk to their usual spot where Gary sets up the chairs in the little bit of shade available at this time of the morning. As they settle in they hear someone calling them.
“Morning there, Captain. I see you brought your first mate with you again.”
They look around and spot their friend, Captain Clint Reardon. He’s sitting on a lawn chair about fifty feet away, has an earphone in one ear, is sporting a worn golf hat which shades his good eye and is holding a bottle of Kona Big Wave in his right hand.
“Good morning yourself, Captain.” Ken throws the senior Reardon a casual salute. “Your Dodgers winning?” Ken smiles as he waits for a reply.
“Not yet, it’s only the pregame. They’re playing one of those damned stupid inter-league games with the Yankees. Damned stupidest idea I ever heard. Inter-league play! Christ, next thing you know they’ll be playing the all-star game in England!” Captain Reardon takes a deep drink, pulls his cap down over his good eye, and settles a little more deeply into his chair.
“Sorry to hear that, but good luck to your Dodgers!” Ken smiles as Gary pulls out a bottle of flavored water and hands it to him.
“Thank you, now go ahead and make yourself comfortable,” says Ken as he opens the bottle, takes a drink, screws the cap back on and places it into the built-in cup holder. Gary pulls out a bottle of his favorite island soda, Waialua Root Beer, and settles in. He’s anticipating a good story about how his grandfather started the air conditioning business, or perhaps how Ken and Sun first met. Gary, however, is in for a shock today.
“First,” says Ken in a near whisper, “let us take a few moments of silence to honor the fifty four sailors who lie entombed within the Utah.”
They always begin their visits to any of the military memorials with a silent prayer. Gary’s favorite site is the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific, often called the “Punchbowl.” However, he loves any opportunity to go to Pearl and is just happy to have time together with his grandfather. They spend several minutes in silence, Ken, with his eyes closed, and Gary staring at the rusting hull of the battleship Utah jutting from the still waters of Pearl Harbor.
“Gary,” Ken’s voice is just above a whisper, “today is different than most for today it has become apparent to me and your Kapuna things could be changing very soon and not likely for the good.” Gary appears to be both puzzled and concerned.
“Are either of you sick?” Gary leans forward, anxious for the answer.
“No, Gary, it is nothing like that. We are both fine.”
“I’m just glad you’re both okay.” Gary, visibly relieved, is keenly aware of their advancing years and makes a deliberate effort not to think about it and visits them as often as possible.
“Your Kapuna and I always believed we would take the story I am about to tell you to our graves. Unfortunately, an event we read about in today’s newspaper may change everything as one of the things I have learned over the years is good news reporters do not let go of good stories and I fear I am a good news story, perhaps a very good news story.” His gaze switches back and forth between Gary and the still waters of the harbor as he searches for the right words.
“Grandfather, I didn’t see the paper today. Is there a problem with the company?”
Ken smiles, “If only that were the case, then it could be fixed. No, I fear the problem lies with me and with who I really am.” Gary stares at his grandfather while trying to comprehend, but fear of the unknown rules the moment.
“I don’t get it. What kind of story could possibly be in the paper about you and what do you mean it has to do with who you are? You’re my father’s, father! I’ve known you my whole life. Everyone knows who you are!” Ken passes him the front page of the paper and points to the headline. Gary quickly glances through the story before handing it back.
“Fine, someone digs up a skeleton. Obviously it wasn’t you they dug up, so what’s the problem?” Ken opens his water, takes another drink, returns it to the cup holder and continues.
“Let me begin with the fact my name is not Ken Kida.” Gary interrupts, “Oh, I get it now. I was expecting a story, so you are really giving me a story!” Gary laughs, but only half-heartedly. The serious look on Ken’s face quickly washes away his grin and he turns serious himself.
“Grandpa, I am trying to understand. You are serious, so please continue. I won’t interrupt anymore.” Knowing he now has Gary’s full attention, Ken re-settles himself into his chair.
“You do not know anything of my parents, really, besides the fact they both passed away and did not live here. There is a good reason for that. My father, your great grandfather, was an officer in the Japanese Imperial Guards Cavalry and was killed in an incident in China while fighting the Russians when I was only eight years old. In fact, it was the reason I studied Chinese as I felt I might someday find myself fighting in China. The point I am trying to make is simple, I was not born here, or even in the United States. I was born and raised in Japan.”
Confusion washes across Gary’s face as he reaches over and picks up the newspaper again. Ken waits as he reads the entire article, but when he finishes, he still looks as if he has no idea how the story could impact them.
“I’m sorry, grandpa, but I still don’t understand what this story has to do with you.”
“The body they found over in Kailua was my shipmate, Sadamu Kamita, of the Imperial Japanese Navy secret weapon, the I-16-tou.” Ken recalls the memory of his departed friend and smiles. “Kamita liked to call it, Yokoyama’s Boat.”
“Wait please,” Gary interrupts. He’s half confused and half ready to cry. What he’s being told is about as foreign to him as anything imaginable.
“Who is Yokoyama and what kind of boat are you talking about?”
Ken sighs, unconsciously begins stroking his beard and takes a deep breath before continuing.
“Gary, I was an officer in the Imperial Japanese Navy having graduated from Eta Jima, which is the Japanese equivalent of Annapolis, in 1939. My birth name is Masaharu Yokoyama, not Ken Kida. I only assumed the name Ken Kida once I was on Oahu. You see, the name was provided to me by associates I met here,” Ken pauses a moment, “though you might consider them to have been spies, or perhaps worse.”
“When you say ‘here,’ you mean Oahu?” Gary is desperately trying to come to grips with what his grandfather is telling him while also feeling a little sick to his stomach. He reasons to himself, on the one hand this is his grandfather, a man he has known all of his life and on the other, well, suddenly his grandfather is a stranger, a stranger from another world.
“Please continue and I’ll hold my questions for later. My stomach’s churning so it’s better if I don’t talk.”
Ken takes another sip of water as his ninety-plus year old body combats the eighty degree weather.
“I understand.” Ken is quite cognizant of the anxiety in Gary’s voice. “To answer your question, by ‘here,’ I mean Oahu. I am what you might call an ‘illegal alien’ for I did not come to Oahu as a friend of the United States. The saga of how I came to find myself on Oahu began in April, 1941, while I was in my home country of Japan.
I was about two years removed from the Academy when I received reassignment orde
rs transferring me to a top secret ‘Special Unit’ being formed within the Imperial Japanese Navy. The other members being called to the ‘Special Unit’ were as uninformed as I. All we knew was we were reporting aboard a mystery ship, and once there we would engage in ‘special training.’ That’s all my orders said: ‘special training.’ I found it to be incredibly exciting.”
Though Ken appears to be staring at Gary, he’s no longer sees him. His mind is speeding back in time and though his eyes are open, he no longer recognizes the present. The past is quickly streaming into focus and Ken’s voice takes on a younger and more energetic tone as his memories from 1941 usurp the present.
Ken is a handsome young naval officer as he finds himself aboard the I.J.N. CHIYODA. He’s sitting in the ship’s wardroom with about three dozen men. It’s a mix of academy graduates and engineering petty officers. A hastily constructed stage dominates the front of the wardroom.
Suddenly, from the back of the room a sailor calls out: “Attention!”
Every person in the audience jumps to attention as the ship’s commander, Captain Kaku Harada, makes his way to the stage, climbs the steps and walks behind the podium. Glancing around the room he finds himself facing some of the cream of the Japanese Navy, all of whom are staring at him, waiting for his words.
Harada, only about five foot, five inches tall has a very broad chest, developed from years of weight training. Combined with his deep-set eyes and even deeper voice, everyone present cannot help but respect him. The fact the Navy has placed him in charge of this training is an indication to the men of the admiration Harada obviously commands with his superiors. He is resplendent in his dark blue dress uniform adorned with numerous medals and ribbons. He tends to wear his hat ever so slightly tilted back as he wants to be certain everyone in the audience can clearly see his eyes. He motions for the assembly to sit.
“I am honored to have been appointed by the Commander-in-Chief of the Combined Fleet, Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, to train you for a most secret and potentially glorious mission. Admiral Yamamoto and the Emperor are asking each of you to accept a very special task, a task which marks a landmark event for our great Navy,” says Harada in a deep, booming voice.
“This ship is not merely a seaplane carrier. No, not any longer; this vessel has been converted to serve as a figurative ‘nest’ for an innovative type of warfare. The Imperial Navy has a new secret weapon and you will see to its delivery directly into the heart of the enemy fleet!”
With the last comment Harada finds he must pause as polite applause sweeps across the room. Once the audience quiets down he continues.
“What we have devised and for which you will be the instruments of delivery is, indeed, a true ‘Oke-Hazama’ strategy! Over the next few months you will learn how to perfectly execute a massive underwater surprise attack in the honorable tradition of the great Admiral Nobunaga Oda himself!”
Most the officers instinctively rise from their seats in response to the mention of Admiral Oda. Smiling, Harada motions for the group to resume sitting.
“We plan to educate you thoroughly in the use of this new secret weapon and to deploy it against a numerically superior fleet, likely that of the United States, though it could prove to be Great Britain.” Harada pauses while making eye contact with various officers. He looks directly into the eyes of Ken, who tenses up in response, before Harada continues.
“In what will prove to be a lightening underwater attack, you will torpedo the enemy’s capital ships long before they are even within range of our own surface taskforce. While they are foolishly focused on the superior battleships of the Imperial Japanese Navy you will swiftly, and at unheard of submerged speeds, move in on them as if underwater Samurai. You will strike them telling blows from below the surface which shall be a complete surprise to the enemy in the true tradition of ‘Oke-Hazama!’”
Harada always calculates his moves so as to maintain his audiences’ attention. He pulls the podium out of the way, pushes an armchair to the center of the stage, and seats himself. Leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, he continues, though in a lower and much softer tone of voice.
“Each of you has been carefully chosen for your respective assignment and even the Emperor has been involved in the selection process, along with Admiral Yamamoto and his staff. They have full confidence in your ability to fulfill this mission.” He is interrupted by a murmuring that rolls across the room at the mention of the Emperor and Admiral Yamamoto in the same sentence. He abruptly sits upright, allowing his arms to rest on either armrest.
“Having said this, should any of you prefer posting to another task, for any reason at all, please speak now or visit my aide later today. It is essential each of you be entirely dedicated to this plan if it is to succeed! Should you elect not to participate, no shame will follow you; of that I can promise. Nobody will ever know you had even been here. If your heart and soul are not fully dedicated to the mission at hand, and trust me when I say it is a glorious mission, then please, it is your duty to withdraw.”
Harada pauses to allow his audience an opportunity to respond. After waiting about thirty seconds, as he makes eye contact with most of the officers in the audience, he concludes nobody desires a transfer and continues.
“For now, this is all I can state. Tomorrow, however, we will commence your training and you will be shown our new secret weapon. I urge all of you to eat full and satisfying dinners and sleep well tonight for tomorrow is the beginning of a series of great and wondrous challenges.”
A sailor in the rear of the room calls out: “Attention!”
Everyone jumps to attention as Harada quickly exits. Once he is out of sight the same sailor calls out: “Dismissed!”
Ken sits down and stares at the stage as most of the officers begin to shuffle out. He does not know what the nature of the mission is and has conflicting feelings. On the one hand, he should be honored to be among the chosen few for a special mission. On the other hand, he cannot help but feel nearly overcome by a stinging sensation of impending dread.
Ken blinks his eyes several times as he becomes aware of his physical surroundings and his conscious mind chases his recollections back into the past. His quick return to the present coupled with the reality he is over ninety years old and sitting within a peacetime Pearl Harbor floods him with a tidal wave of fatigue. Gary notices his face appears to be turning slightly grey.
“Grandfather!” Gary reaches into the cooler and pulls out a cold bottle of flavored water. He twists off the cap and offers it to him. “You don’t look so good. Have some water.”
Ken smiles, accepts the bottle and takes several small sips while glancing towards the harbor. The upper mastheads of several ships anchored side-by-side in Middle Loch help bring him the remainder of the way back from his first day on the I. J. N. Chiyoda.
“Gary, I think it better for us to continue later this afternoon as fatigue sets in much more easily these days. Especially when it is this hot.”
“I think some rest is a good idea, grandfather. Don’t worry, I’ll carry everything back to the car. You just take care of yourself and we’ll be home before you know it!”
Gary stands, closes the cooler and folds his chair. Ken also rises, but before he can begin to fold his chair, Gary grabs it from him and pops it closed with a metallic clank.
“Have no fear Gary; I am fine and we will continue our talk later this afternoon. I have a great deal of my history to cover.”
“I think I’m looking forward to it, but my concerns for you have now risen above and beyond any potential health issues.” Gary leaves one hand free as he assists Ken to the car.
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT’S ALL A MATTER OF MAKING A RECORD
Pastwa’s sitting behind his desk surrounded by stacks of old files, leaving him with precious little workspace. Yamura is a few feet away, rummaging through one of several boxes bursting with severely yellowing files. Her hair, which a few hours ago was neatly pulled back, i
s starting to loosen and several strands are wildly askew. They have not taken a break for hours as the vision of Reardon walking in, unannounced, motivates them to press forward. Clarke enters with additional boxes, a donut wedged between his right hand and the boxes.
“Where would you like these, Sir?” Clarke looks around the cluttered office while waiting for Pastwa’s response.
“Just anywhere there’s a space or anywhere you can make a space.” Pastwa pauses, looks over at Yamura and realizes they have worked through lunch.
“Clarke, we really need you to run out and bring us some sandwiches. Oh, and please put on some fresh coffee.” Pastwa realizes he’s overlooked Clarke’s own lunch. “Make sure you get something good for yourself while you’re at it.” Pastwa returns his attention to the dusty file he was reading. Yamura thinks to herself that Chris just read her mind as she’s starving.
“Right away Sir! Be back before you know it!” Clarke turns to Yamura.
“Any special requests Ma’am?” Yamura looks up at Clarke, who’s still holding a donut.
“Whatever you get is fine with me, but please be double quick about it. I’m starving.” She smiles at Clarke who appreciates being allowed to make his own lunch choice for her. He has attended to their food tastes on dozens of occasions and prefers to believe he knows their culinary dispositions better than they do. Clarke takes a bite from his donut as he runs through the doorway, stopping in the vestibule just long enough to put on another pot of coffee before rushing to the PX.
The PX at Pearl Harbor is a wondrous collection of food and goods and also has several better-than-average fast food options. Clarke has several venues from which to choose at low PX prices and has the menus memorized. He rehearses the orders as he jogs to the PX.
Back at the office Pastwa suddenly stands upright and lightly hits the side of his forehead with his right palm. “I have an idea.”
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