The Final Countdown, page 12
Laurel was looking up at him. “What is it, Art? You look like something’s wrong.”
He nodded, still scanning the horizon. “Listen … you hear them?”
She raised to one elbow. “Planes. I guess. It could be a boat.”
He shook his head. “No. They re planes. And they’re low. Too low. Chappy! Get the hell up!”
The senator pushed the hat from his face. “What is it?”
Bellman didn’t have to answer. Now they could all hear the deep-throated rumble of engines coming closer. “Art, those crazy planes again?” he asked.
“Uh uh. Those are radials. I was just telling Laurel there’s no reason for them to be this low. Except maybe someone’s in trouble.”
“Look!” They turned to Laurel’s cry, looked where she pointed. Two small dots on the horizon moving toward them, slowly. “What are they, Art?” Chapman asked again.
Bellman shrugged. “Dunno, Chappy. Scouts or fighters, by the size of them. Can’t tell yet. Too far away. We’ll know in a few moments when they’re closer.”
“I’ll be in my cabin,” Laurel announced, leaving for the ladderway. Chapman nodded to her, and he joined Bellman standing by the stem rail. The steward had come to the deck from below and stood by the ladder. When the senator roused from a nap he almost always wanted a drink. Harvey would stand by until the request came. But at the moment the senator and Mr. Bellman were preoccupied with those aircraft coming closer to them.
Aircraft approaching head-on always surprised you. They were tiny dots way out, then you could see the wings and the round shape of the fuselage, and abruptly, faster than a man realized, they were upon you. The hornet sounds turned into a swelling roar and then an overwhelming rush of thunder as they passed directly overhead. The three men on the stem ducked instinctively as the two planes flashed over them and continued beyond, beginning a slow turn.
Chapman gripped Bellman’s arm. “Did you ever see anything like those before? I swear they had Japanese markings!”
Bellman’s face reflected his own suspicions. “Red ball insignias. Japanese, if they’re anything. But—” “But what? What were they?” pressed Chapman. “Chappy, I don’t know,” Bellman said candidly. “When I first saw them I thought they were Pr36 fighters. Curtiss jobs. Radial engines, single-seat, low wing. But there’s something different about these. I don’t know. And those Japanese markings… .” His voice trailed off as he searched his memory.
“From everything I’ve ever heard about Japanese planes,” Chapman said with open disdain, “they’re made of bamboo and rice paper. Those planes were sleek, Art. They didn’t look like they were made by people with buck teeth and rotten eyesight.”
“No, no,” Bellman said thoughtfully, “they didn’t. But I swear those markings are Japanese.” He looked across the bright ocean as the two dots continued in their turn. “I think they’re coming back.”
“Well, we’ll know soon enough,” Chapman said easily. “Besides, how could they be Japanese, anyway, this far out in the ocean from Japan? They wouldn’t have the range.”
“Could be carrier based,” Bellman murmured.
“You don’t sound as if you believe that,” Chapman laughed. “A Japanese carrier this close to the Hawaiian Islands? They’d never take that kind of chance of getting Roosevelt pissed at them. Lose their trade advantages with us? No way, Art, no way.” Chapman turned. “Harvey! Make it a tall, cool one.” “Yes, sir, Senator.”
Petty Officer Jiro Simura looked up from the cockpit of his sleek Zero fighter. Hiroyu Togawa held perfect formation off his wing, the two planes flying as one. They had maintained the flight precision for which they were so well-known among the other carrier pilots. A perfect team, leader and wingman, picked especially for this long-range patrol well ahead of their task force. And now Simura was disturbed. They were under the strictest orders to maintain radio silence. He could understand why. So far as anyone knew the task force might never have existed. It moved across the Pacific expanse without knowledge of its presence or its purpose. Radio silence was absolutely critical, Simura and the other pilots had been told.
And now there was that American ship, by its flag. A yacht of some kind, and worst of all, it had a tall aerial mast. That meant it could reach American navy installations in Hawaii. If it reported sighting two Japanese fighters, their whole mission would be revealed. Simura waved to Togawa. The other pilot looked back and Simura held up a clenched fist and downpointed thumb. Togawa nodded at the prearranged signal. Attack the unknown vessel immediately. Try to sink it. They had no bombs, but each fighter was equipped with two machine guns and two 20-mm cannon, and that was a thin-hulled and vulnerable target. Simura signaled Togawa to ease slightly away from his own fighter so that they would have a better field of fire. They rolled out of their turns and dove for the yacht
Art Bellman followed the two aircraft through powerful binoculars. “I don’t believe it,” he said quietly.
“What is it?” Chapman questioned.
“Chappy, I don’t give a damn about buck teeth or bamboo, but those markings are Japanese, that means there is a Japanese carrier somewhere in this area. We’d better notify the navy at once.”
Chapman snorted. “We tried that before, remember? All we got was a lot of crap about notifying the proper authorities or something, and that means probably Monday morning at the earliest.”
“I don’t give a damn about before,” Bellman snapped. “This time you say they’re Japanese planes and that—shit, Chappy, call in a mayday, for Christ’s sake! Get their attention somehow.”
“Mayday? That’s an emergency, Art, and we don’t have—”
His mouth remained moving and he tried to talk but no words came forth. A stuttering sound rolled across the water from the planes now rushing directly at them in a steady dive, but preceding the sound was the white froth of ocean boiling in spouting rows that kept moving toward the yacht. The noses and wings of the Japanese planes were ablaze from the firing guns and cannon.
“My God, they’re shooting at—!”
A cannon shell exploded in his chest. Chapman had no time to even cry out in horror as Bellman’s torso erupted in a huge gout of spraying blood, bones, and flesh. At the same moment the impact hurled his body wildly through the air like a rag doll. Blood splashed mi Chapman and instinct brought him flat to the deck. Immediately over his head came an ear-splitting roar of glass shattering, wood being tom apart, the heavy cough and explosions of cannon shells going off. Chapman hugged the deck. He looked up as their engineer came rushing up the ladder. “Durrell! Go back down! Get down, for God’s sake!”
Machine gun bullets pounded the ship from its bow back to the stem, cannon shells intermixing and exploding steadily. Four holes appeared magically in Durrell’s head, and as he stood motionless, his head came flying apart as if a grenade had gone off inside an overripe melon. Chapman vomited, choking and gasping. Above the tumultuous roar he heard Laurel scream. Smoke billowed from the entranceway to the below-deck cabins. “My God,” Chapman moaned. He started to his feet when cannon shells exploded across the yacht again and he hugged the deck, his face slippery from the blood all about him.
Commander Bill Damon’s face showed shock, then amazement as he listened to his headset “Captain!” he called, at the same moment punching in the bulkhead speakers. “It’s Alert One, sir!” he said to identify the voice on the speakers.
“… coming around for a second run. Jesus, they’re firing everything they’ve got against that yacht. We’ve got smoke and some flames visible. You copy, Old Salt?”
Captain Yelland let his war room continue controlling the two Tomcat fighters shadowing the Zeros. He turned to his operations officer. “Mr. Damon, I assume this was their second firing run?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dick Owens looked at them, confused. “Is that the same yacht radar picked up before?” He knew by the answering looks he was right. “What’s this about Japanese fighters? And they’re shooting up the yacht? What the hell is going on here?” He asked the question at the group. He received no direct answer.
Instead, Yelland turned to the civilian, and instantly Dick Owens was aware that these two had had some heavy conversations with no one else present. There was too clearly a deep understanding between them.
“Are we thinking the same thing?” Yelland was saying to Lasky.
The civilian scientist nodded. ‘It’s got to be, Captain. Advance patrol has to be the answer. They find a ship, they can see the aerials and that means—”
“Of course,” Yelland said quietly. “Knock them out before they can get off a message about the presence of Japanese fighters.”
“For Christ’s sake!” Owens shouted. “What’s going—”
“Commander Owens” Yelland said icily. It was enough to snap Owens out of it.
“Yes, sir,” he said with instant control.
“A question. You’re the historian here. Where was the Japanese fleet, the task force that struck at Pearl Harbor, at this same time, on the sixth of December in 1941? Better yet, show us on the plot table. Now.” They moved to the plotting board and Owens’s finger circled a small area. “The northwest sector of Pearl Harbor, Captain. Round about here.”
Yelland nodded, looked sideways at Owens. “Dick, have the recce plane check out that area. I want maximum altitude, everything they can get If they sight any surface craft, they’re to remain as far distant as possible. Get oblique radar coverage and whatever the cameras can pick up. Avoid visual contact if at all possible. Get on it right away.” ,
“At once, sir,” Owens replied.
Behind .diem the speakers crackled into life again and they turned with the urgency of the Tomcat pilot’s voice. “They’re making another run! Old Salt from Alert One, they’re shooting that ship to pieces down there! Request permission to break up the attack. Repeat, request permission to open fire. Over!” The men on the bridge watched Captain Yelland, shrouded in some mysterious agony of indecision.. Thurman’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“For God’s sake, Skipper! You heard them! We’ve got to—”
Yelland’s finger stabbed the transmit button. “Old Salt One to Alert One. Hold your fire. I repeat, hold your fire. That is an order. Confirm. Over.”
The men on the bridge—with the exception of Warren Lasky—stared in dismay at their captain.
“Get these life jackets on!” Chapman shouted to Laurel and the steward. “Get them on right now, god-damnit! Our only chance is to get the hell off this tub. Jesus, will you two move it? They’re coming in again!”
Laurel and Harvey slipped into the life jackets, moving at the same time to the deck opposite to that of the diving fighters. Laurel stopped suddenly, wide-eyed, staring at Chapman. “Charlie 1” she cried out suddenly. “Where’s Charlie?”
Chapman grabbed in desperation at her arm. “Laurel! For God’s sake, not now! They’re coming at us again!”
She jerked away, started for the entryway to below decks. Chapman lunged at her, shouting to Harvey. “Get her!”
They grasped her arms, fought off her frenzied attempts to reach the ladderway. “Over the side!” Chapman yelled. “Damnit, they’re almost on us! Throw her over the side!”
Laurel screamed, but the two men were as desperate and much stronger. They picked her up physically and threw her over the rail into the sea, jumping after her. Chapman spit out water as he came up to the surface, looking wildly for Laurel. “Swim, damn you!” he railed at her. “Get away from this thing!” He started swimming furiously. Harvey was already paddling for his life, and after a final agonized look behind her, Laurel followed.
Behind them they heard the, stuttering of the machine guns and then the heavier coughing bark of cannon firing. Almost at the same instant a wave of heat passed over them. “Down!” Chapman screamed. “Get under!”
Three heads ducked under the water as the yacht exploded in a great sheet of flame and erupting debris. Laurel had a split-second image of blood appearing on Chapman’s head, and then he flopped still and his face fell into the water. She screamed his name, swimming wildly to reach him. She lunged across his body and jerked back on his hair to bring his face out of the water. He coughed water and gasped for air and she held him upright. “I—I’m okay now,” he said. “Hit … I think I was hit.”
“It’s your head.”
“Never mind that I’ll be okay. Where’s Harvey? Did he—there; he’s okay. Good God—the ship.” Flames enveloped the yacht and they swam steadily away from the heat washing over them.
“Alert One, this is Old Salt One. How is it down there? Over.”
“Old Salt One, there’s been a pretty bad explosion. The entire yacht is covered in flames. Looks like they hit the fuel tanks. The ship’s a goner. Over.”
Yelland nodded to himself. He looked at the men with him on the bridge as he continued talking directly to the fighters. “Report on any survivors.”
“Uh, hard to see. Lots of smoke and we’re using binoculars and— Yes, sir, I can see three Mae Wests! Bright yellow, in the water. Uh, Old Salt One, those bastards are going in for another run! They’re going to strafe them in the water. Request permission to fire. Over.”
Yelland felt he must walk the thin razor line of action. He made a sudden decision. “Alert One, start your descent immediately. Do whatever you can to pull their fire, but do not open fire with any weapons. Do you understand? Pull their fire, but do not use any ordnance. Confirm; Over.”
“Yes, sir!” The voice cracked hard from the speakers. “No shooting, but we’ll get ’em! Over.” Then they heard the first Tomcat pilot calling his wingman. “Fold ’em back, Mickey. Full AB’s and let’s go.” “Roger, One. Wings coming back now.”
On the bridge they could picture the scene. The Tomcats had been holding high-altitude formation with their wings swept forward for maximum lift at slow speed. Now the wings swept full back, turning each Tomcat into a giant arrowhead shape. Afterburners spat flame from the jet engines now screaming at full power, and in brief seconds, noses pointed down steeply, the Tomcats ripped through the speed of sound and plunged earthward in a steep curving supersonic rush.
Chapman and Laurel struggled to remain concealed by debris hurled about them by the explosion. They floated in a sputum of deck chairs, screens, cushions, sections of paneling, and other wreckage. “That’s it,” Chapman gasped, struggling to assist Laurel. “We’ve got to get out of these life jackets. Those pilots are aiming at the yellow color. Get it off, girl! When I tell you, dive under the water. It’s our only chance.”
He slipped out of his own jacket “Be ready, now.” He looked for Harvey, who was still wearing his life jacket. Goddamn! In that white jacket and bright yellow vest he was a brilliant target. “Harvey! Get the hell out of your vest! Get under the water when they come at us again!”
He heard engines winding up in another dive as the Zeros rolled from their turns. Harvey’s voice was the rattle of death. “Can’t … I can’t, sir. I can’t swim. I-”
“Get under!” Chapman shouted to Laurel. “They’re firing again!” He swam desperately to reach the steward, but at the same moment the sea boiled as bullets and cannon shells ripped up a fine of boiling foam. Chapman took a deep breath and went under. He heard bullets smacking the water and the cannon shells exploding. Then the blows stopped and he broke the surface, gasping, looking for Harvey. He was as helpless as a toy duck in a shooting gallery, and—
“Oh, Jesus.” The top half of Harvey’s head was gone. Chapman turned to swim towards Laurel, who looked in wide-eyed horror at the corpse bobbing up and down in the water.
Jiro Simura broke sharp left after the firing run, just high enough for his wingtip to clear the water. He knew Togawa had plenty of room to ride the high side of the turn, and both men had the chance from minimum altitude to search for the survivors. That at least three of the Americans had escaped the ship just before the explosion was evident The life jackets and moving arms told them that. One now was dead, the corpse slumped bloodily amidst the debris. But the other two must be killed. Simura rolled out into a steady climbing turn to five hundred feet and came about sharply once more. His face remained devoid of expression, neither triumph nor sadness. This was his duty. His orders were clear. If they encountered any American craft that might signal the enemy, they must dispose of them before any radio signals might be sent on to their main base. He was convinced they had destroyed the yacht before a radio signal could be dispatched. Now they must continue their duty—be certain that there remained no survivors to compromise the secrecy of the great task force. Simura saw signs of splashing. Ah; the Americans would not fool him. Two people in the water. They had shed their life vests so as not to be clear targets. But he had them in sight Without taking his eyes from the two people swimming below, he gave the hand signal to Hiroyu Togawa to commence another strafing run. This must be their final attack; fuel was running low.
A flash to his left startled him. He looked up and his eyes widened in surprise and disbelief. What could that be! Two silver shapes and they had no wings, rushing at terrible speed straight toward himself and Togawa! He was an experienced aviator and a single glance told him a great deal. He saw no place for a propeller, only a great wedge-shape, another flying immediately behind and close to the leader. But their speed—it was not possible! He stamped hard right rudder and slammed the stick over to the right in a punishing corkscrew roll out of the left turn, knowing Togawa would stay with him. The Zero could out maneuver anything the Americans could put in the air, but these machines could not be, and—
He had no time for further thought as the great arrow shapes exploded into being, so fast was their speed. The strange machines had rushed at them from the very waves and now they pulled up to whip directly before the rolling Zeros. Simura’s world filled with a blurred streak as the machine tore past him. He knew what would happen next and frantically he jerked back on the throttle to kill power and speed, but it was too late. A tremendous blow smashed the Zero, whipping the stick painfully against his thighs. Never before had he ever heard the sound of another plane in flight over the roar of his own engine. It simply was too loud, but for the first time he heard a thunder, a deep howling cry, and then another explosive wave hurled the Zero fighter wildly from his control. His ears rang and his vision blurred. He tried to comprehend what was happening, but all he could do was fight desperately for control before his fighter struck the water. To one side he saw Togawa recover barely in time, pulling up sharply from the same terrible blow that had struck his own Zero. Simura tried to understand. There had been no flashes of machine guns or cannon. He knew the severe turbulence that could come from another machine’s wake as you flew into it, but this was more, a fierce explosive blast that—
