Like Miyuki, not a few of the wives had also noticed Wheeler’s body. A few white scars that stood out on the well-tanned body; a touch of chest hair—“to show he was a man,” the wives gossiped; an exceptionally well-developed chest; and arms that women did actually talk about.
Prior to her knocking on the door, Miyuki had removed the two small squares of thin rubber sheet from between her starched white uniform and her brassiere. In her little room, Miyuki had amended the front of the brassiere so there was a hole on each cup about the size of her thumb, to allow her generous nipples to protrude. By using the dodge of the rubber squares, Miyuki was able to walk around the servants’ basement and the club just as prim and proper as the kindergarten teacher she once was, but in Commander Wheeler’s suite, her two nipples were prominent and impossible to miss.
While she was straightening the bed, she was careful to take time at the foot of the bed; the foot faced the bathroom that was in truth larger than her entire little room. While fussing, she had leaned over the bed, her legs slightly apart for balance, and, sadly, the skirt of her starched white uniform had ridden up her legs to show the bottom of the garter clips. She did not finish the bed straightening until she was sure that Commander Wheeler had a long view of her legs.
Wheeler crossed his arms to further emphasize the size of his chest. Miyuki affected a blush and was genuinely getting excited. Apart from a growing, warm dampness, she could sense her nipples swelling. Wheeler was looking directly at her nipples on her large chest—a very generous D cup. Miyuki bowed her head and looked at the floor. Her extreme passivity excited Wheeler—here was a young woman, clearly aroused and simply waiting to be taken and ravished. While looking at the floor, Miyuki could just glimpse the swelling in the silk pajamas shorts she was hoping to see.
“Miss Okino, how long have you been with us now?”
Still firmly looking at the floor, “Just under five years, sir.”
“And are you happy here with us?”
“Oh yes, sir; this is so much better than my last job in the Philippines working for an English planter. The master’s wife there would beat me, and they were both very cruel. I love working here and working for you, sir. Everyone is so nice. The American people are so much nicer and friendlier than the English, and the food here is so much better. Oh yes, sir, I love it here; I would do anything to stay.”
By this stage, Wheeler was standing directly in front of her, so she could see the top of his pajamas and his developing masculinity. He put his hand under her chin and slowly lifted it. She raised her chin and looked into his eyes, as softly as she could. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders and slowly ran his hands down her arms. She pursed her lips and opened her mouth and started a very slight panting. Her nipples were doing their part in the seduction, and were now proud of the holes in her brassiere and formed two rather large bumps on the starched white jacket.
Wheeler was an experienced hand at this, the oldest of rituals. But Miyuki knew, even better than the white man, the steps in this ritual: first the blush, then the nipples, then the slight panting, leading to more panting. All the time, Miyuki’s desire was to simply have him push her onto the bed and ravish her. But, that could be a story that Wheeler might find a little too obvious when he reviewed his latest conquest later. So Miyuki simply increased the tempo of the panting.
Sure enough, Wheeler took her hand and placed it on the now fully tumescent lump in the pajamas. Without speaking, Miyuki knelt on the floor and undid the string of his pajamas. She was pleased to see he was cut—she hated uncut. The English planter was uncut and as a consequence he smelled terrible down there, and the English planter was big, and he did what all women hate most—he used her hair as if her hair was a handle, and her head as some kind of machine.
In contrast, the American was a gentleman, and an experienced gentleman at that. He knew that while ravishing an employee or servant, or even a whore, there was a certain protocol that it was polite and proper to follow. And it was more than just polite—giving the girl a good time and the noise and the arching of the back and sometimes even her legs folding under so her heels touched her hips, all this was the most enjoyable part. And he loved to see his conquests perspire as lust took over.
Miyuki was sure to use just enough teeth to elevate Wheeler’s excitement, but not too much to have him complete early in her mouth. After a few moments, and without being prompted, Wheeler pushed her onto the bed.
Miyuki said,
“Sir, can I take my uniform off first? Please, sir?”
“Sure thing.”
Miyuki quickly stripped to her stockings and garter belt—she was anxious for Wheeler not to see the brassiere. She folded her clothes and, for the first time, took the initiative and climbed on top of the big Texan. She rode him as hard as she could, emitting what she judged to be the best level of panting and groans—enough to keep him excited, but not too much to have him become apprehensive. (Her second concern was actually groundless—Wheeler boasted to anyone who would listen that he would “fuck any piece of ass I want, and no one was going to stop me.”)
Miyuki relaxed and let herself actually climax twice before she felt Wheeler tense and finally complete inside her. He was a strong and virile man who took a good 15 seconds to complete the elemental act. She was clearly pleasing her commandant.
“Sir, let me get you a warm towel,” she said jumping off the bed before he could stop her.
Wheeler smiled to himself, “this placid Asian poontang is beyond belief.” He was very much of the camp that held that Asia was a man’s world.
“Sir, I will return to your suite after you have dressed. I am sorry for the interruption, sir. I will dress now, I will not take long, sir.”
Wheeler actually laughed at that statement, as Miyuki darted into the bathroom.
Miyuki opened the bathroom door in less than a minute. Back to prim kindergarten teacher, Miyuki bowed.
“Honey, that must be a world record for any woman to get dressed.” Wheeler said.
“Please tell me if you need me again, at any time, sir. I am always available for you, sir. I love it here and will do anything to stay here, sir.”
Miyuki left; after closing the Commandant’s door, she replaced the two squares of thin foam rubber. Thus started an illicit affair that Miyuki had been dreaming about for five years, and it was a partnership made in heaven—the tall, rich, strapping Texan commander of the most important club in the Islands with the soft, gentle, but intensely physical, young, placid, Japanese servant girl.
More importantly, it was the activation of the Imperial Japanese Navy’s single most important agent. The intelligence gathered by Miyuki from the gregarious and boastful American was so valuable, and her position so critical, that she had not one but two cut outs, and no radio traffic was ever used. She never liked radio and she especially hated radio men, who she found to be uniformly unreliable as well as congenitally nervous—what was it, the electrons? Instead, a special protocol was used whereby her coded messages were passed by the second cut out to a fishing boat that would pass the package to a submarine. And this only occurred when there were completely clear days so the “fishermen” could scour the skies with their high-powered binoculars before banging a submerged brass bell with a hammer to tell the submarine the exchange could safely be made.
Miyuki’s material was of astonishing importance—she was even able to glean some of fragments of King’s and Nimitz’s top-level strategic thinking. In Tokyo, Yamamato himself was heard to comment that it was like having a frank, professional conversation with Admirals King and Nimitz over brandy and cigars at the Palace Hotel.
Yet this was not the most valuable achievement Miyuki performed. For that would occur on the actual day of Operation Z.
On that seminal first Sunday in December, Miyuki put on a freshly starched white uniform and took her bicycle to ride the hour to the Officers’ Club. She was sure the always-late bus to the Officer’s Club would not
appear due to the day’s mayhem, and this suited her purpose. The first part of the ride was easy, around the coast road, then the climb started and it became steeper and steeper. Half way up the climb, she dismounted and paused. Through years of training, she instinctively gasped at what she saw and drew her hand to her mouth, just as a plain person would have done when confronted with such scenes of destruction and devastation.
“You’re always being watched,” her trainer in Tokyo had repeated and repeated.
“Never let your guard down until you are again on Japanese soil.”
So she went through the ritual of mopping her brow, of putting her arms akimbo and stretching her lower back, of tsk’ing to herself. But throughout this charade, her sole professional interest was the fuel tanks. This gargantuan farm of tanks held sufficient fuel for all ships in the U.S. Pacific Fleet for six months. Think of it, six months, or twice as much fuel as her poor homeland possessed. And through the smoke, Miyuki saw all the tanks, pristine and intact—the Japanese attack had failed.
Miyuki slowly turned her bicycle—“you are always being watched”—and rode back down the coast road. She did not stop at the three cinder block billets, but rather continued until she reached the abandoned fishing village. It was more a small hamlet of five or six tumble-down shacks where nine years ago some local fishermen with the unenthusiastic backing of some local investors planned to start a pearling operation. Of course, the combination of lack of capital and the native Hawaiians aversion to anything that even approached work doomed the cockamamie scheme from the start. But three years ago, the quietness and absolute stillness had caught the eye of an agent of the caliber of Miyuki.
She dismounted and placed her bicycle out of sight behind the first shack. She then walked to the second shack and entered. It smelled of feral cats. It was dark and dank—almost no sunlight entered. She opened the front window a fraction and sat there on a wooden crate, listening for five minutes. As her ears slowly became accustomed to the quietness, she heard nothing apart from a far-off sound of a siren wailing out the end of an era.
After ten more minutes, when she was satisfied the hamlet was deserted, she struggled to push the heavy cast iron table in the center of the room to one side. She knelt on the floor and brushed away the dirt she had placed there. She removed the outer board and was presented with the sight of a large steel padlock. Unlocking the padlock, she removed her treasure, a treasure for which she would give her life, or the life of her first son. Gently, she removed the radio set and went through the starting procedures. Machinery and radio valves always intimidated her, but she had overcome this fear; she had to succeed, so she did.
She strung the aerial wire. Once the radio set was warmed up and operational, she started typing in Morse, “181-79,” over and over again. She had to get the message through and this message was so important that a code cypher was not sufficient—encrypted text could always be cracked, whereas a one-time book was infallible, albeit limited. One hundred and eighty-one was her agent number; 79 was the message—“oil tanks not destroyed.” After only 30 seconds, her heart leapt, “SN”—“message understood,” and the code of Yamamoto’s signal ship.
Her career was over. No champagne, no syrupy speeches, no silly parties, just the satisfaction of knowing that she had done it.
She turned off the radio set, removing the radio tubes—she had to use her handkerchief because they were so hot. She smashed each one in turn. She spent ten minutes destroying the rest of the radio. She removed the two small drums of fuel she had cached in the room five months earlier and splashed all of the inside of the shack. Her final act was to remove the strike-anywhere matches from the cache. Before striking the match, she paused by the front window, more out of tradecraft than out of necessity. Hearing nothing, she opened the front door, struck the match and put it to one of the soaked rags.
Walking away without looking back, Miyuki retrieved her bicycle.
Miyuki returned to her billet. She went into the first building where the hated local Hawaiians lived. My God it was a shambles. No wonder Wheeler had fancied her—what man in his right mind would want to stick his thing into one of these native women?
To her surprise (and delight), the two girls in the common room ran to her and embraced her,
“Sister Miyuki, help us; what are we to do; are the Japanese coming? Help us sister, we love you; help us, please.”
Miyuki considered a sarcastic tone, but instantly realized that would not work with this local peasant stock.
“Girls, all will be fine; let’s have tea.”
“Tea, yes. Tea. Why did we not think of that? Yes, tea would be wonderful.”
The babbling continued and eventually tea was made.
In the ward room of his flagship Nagato, Japanese Marshal Admiral and commander-in-chief of the Combined Fleet, Isoroku Yamamoto, looked up at the startled junior intelligence officer.
“What is it, lieutenant?”
“Sir, 181 has signaled 79. Sir, this is the real 181, on the frequency reserved exclusively for him.” (Only Yamamoto knew the truth about 181).
“Admiral, sir, this is a real 79.”
“Thank you, lieutenant. Please ask Commander Genda to join me. That will be all.”
Two minutes later, Commander Minoru Genda entered the ward room, smiling from ear to ear,
“Well, it’s the Ginza for me when we’re back next week.”
Genda was referring to the 1,000 year old shopping and “entertainment” center of Tokyo. Originally a silver mine, the town had evolved to become the location of the most beautiful and also the most pliable women in Japan.
Yamamoto looked up. A small, short man, and extremely popular with his sailors, he was not quite so popular with his peers—General Tojo detested him and Tojo was not alone. Yamamoto’s face was that of a 16th century Flemish portrait—stern, severe, and unsmiling.
“79.”
“Really?”
“Yes, fucking really. Yes, for the sake of fuck, really. Now get the planes reloaded with bombs and let’s get the job completed.”
While saying this Yamamoto had been essentially polite, albeit forceful in his language. All this changed when Genda was so foolish to say without thinking, “But, Admiral, all the pilots are tired.”
‘I was so thoughtless’, Genda later admitted in the victory party, ironically at Chuo-Ku 3-6-1, Matsuya Ginza.
Yamamoto sprang to his feet with such savagery that Genda expected the Admiral to hit him.
“Tired? Are you out of your fucking mind, tired? Oh, poor fucking babies, let’s get them some warm miso soup. I am so sorry, I did not realize the babies were so tired, I am so fucking sorry.”
Yamamoto did not shout this—shout would be far too weak, scream starts to approach the tone, but that’s still a little weak. Think of a man using his voice with a greater volume than it is actually capable of.
All this was delivered to Genda with such proximity that Yamamoto’s nose touched Genda’s twice.
“I will be on deck in ten minutes and I expect to see the first flight launched.”
“But what about enemy submarines?”
“Christ all-fucking-mighty.” (Yamamoto had learned at his days at Harvard that Americans were some of the most creative swearers.)
“Are you a complete, total—complete—fucking retard?”
“We’re in a fucking war and you’re interested in the safe fucking play? Genda, you are a total fucking moron. Got it? A total moron. I want 32 ‘planes in the air in twenty minutes, even if I have to lead them my fucking self. Is that clear, you fucking moron?”
Genda nodded and left.
Alone, Yamamoto knew that he had just rolled his last dice with Genda. By treating Genda in this brutal manner, Genda would never trust the Admiral again, and Yamamoto had just destroyed their friendship. But, Yamamoto reflected, desperate times require desperate actions, and Genda’s greatest weakness was his addiction to consensus. But, consensus in most cases
was weakness.
Miyuki was lingering over tea when the first explosions were heard. Her heart leapt. All this work, all this time, putting up with the Hawaiians, and the American wives. She went outside. The sky was black with burning oil. Oil that was the life blood of any navy. And now the islands were being drained of all their precious oil and all because of her “181-79.”
25: Winston’s Delight
Washington
Sunday, 7 December 1941
After the events of the past week, Hopkins and Tugwell were pleased to have a quiet early lunch together in the main dining room of the Willard. Although very different men, they enjoyed each other’s company and shared the bond of serving the President. Often, they had noted that he was a true bastard at times—Judge Holmes’s quip about “a second-rate mind, but a first-rate disposition” was quoted.
After the young waiter had brought their coffee, Hopkins said,
“Christ alive, is it possible to repeat this past week?”
Tugwell smiled and shook his head,
“Perhaps a repeat of the San Francisco earthquake of ‘06, that’s about the only thing.”
Both men laughed.
But their laughter was ended by the appearance at the entrance to the dining room by a frantic Smithers.
“Fuck, no,” Hopkins muttered.
Without hesitating, Smithers raced to their table.
“The President needs you, now. Now. Right now.”
Hopkins was about to say something but thought the better of it. Smithers threw a ten-dollar bill on the table.
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