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  Egusa shook Fuchida’s hand. “Whoa! Congratulations, commander!”

  Fuchida took the paper and slid it back into his folder, snapping it shut. As a career military man he obeyed his orders, but he didn’t like working without a clear objective. He was uneasy. He leaned closer to Egusa. “All of the very best airmen have been brought together on these southern bases. So many swords being sharpened, but no plan for battle ...”

  September 5, 1941. The Imperial Palace, Tokyo.

  In the evening, Emperor Hirohito held a final briefing in his office standing with General Sugiyama, his sixty-one year old Army Chief of Staff; Admiral Nagano, Chief of the Imperial Japanese Naval General Staff; and Prime Minister Konoe. With an impending Imperial Conference the next morning to discuss the decision of war with the United States, everyone wanted the decision to be clear beforehand.

  The Emperor in his impeccable black suit spoke to Sugiyama. “In the event we must finally open hostilities, will our operations have a probability of victory?”

  “Yes, your majesty, they will,” he calmly replied while nodding his head downward.

  “And can you carry out the southern operations as planned?”

  “I believe so.”

  Hirohito’s voice began to rise. “At the time of the Rokō Bridge Incident in China, the army told me that we could achieve peace immediately after dealing them one blow with three divisions, and that Chiang Kai-shek would give up right away. That was four years ago! You were army minister at that time!”

  Holding his gaze downward, the old general answered. “Your majesty, China is a vast area with many ways in and many ways out, and we met unexpectedly large difficu –”

  “You say the interior of China is vast? Isn’t the Pacific Ocean even bigger than China?! Didn’t I caution you each time about those matters? Sugiyama, are you lying to me?!”

  All were stunned at the extraordinary outbreak of emotion from the Emperor, his face red with anger. He turned and paced away.

  Lifting his head, Sugiyama responded, “If we waste time, let the days pass, and are forced to fight after it is too late, then we won’t be able to do a thing about it.”

  “All right, I understand.” The Emperor collected himself as he stood near a tall window draped with burgundy curtains and sighed hard as he looked out into the unknown blackness.

  Konoe raised his voice. “Your majesty, shall I make changes in tomorrow’s agenda? How would you like me to go about it?”

  The Emperor continued to stare into the night, his white-gloved hands behind his back. Konoe was appearing weaker every day, leaning toward negotiations while Sugiyama and Nagano looked stronger. Negotiate and wait? Wait for what? Time was running out. “There is no need to change anything.”

  The following morning in the formal council chamber, the meeting of the cabinet went on as planned. Emperor Hirohito weighed the arguments while listening to a wide-ranging discussion on all of the possibilities and considerations of expanding the war into Southeast Asia, or the southern operation as it was called, the complications if the Soviet Union attacked from the north, and a possible war with the United States.

  General Sugiyama held the floor. “The United States will not be able to be defeated; however, with success in the southern operation, Great Britain will be crushed, producing a great change in American public opinion. Therefore, a favorable conclusion to the war is not necessarily beyond hope. We must develop the rich resources of the southern area and utilize the economic power of the East Asian continent in order to establish a durable, self-sufficient economic position. We will continue to work with Germany and Italy to break up the unity of the United States and Britain. Linking the victories in Europe with our victories in Asia will produce an advantageous situation for us. In this way we could hope to come out of the war somewhere even with the United States.” The general, his chest covered with medals, bowed, then stood upright, and took his seat.

  On his raised platform, the Emperor held a report in his hands. “Regarding this Outline for Carrying Out the National Policies of the Empire, having listened to everything said today, I ask that you would continue to complete all preparations for war with the United States, Britain, and the Netherlands and to be prepared to come to a final decision on war by the end of October. At the same time, I want it to be clearly understood that I want full cooperation for diplomatic negotiations for a settlement, if it is at all possible.”

  Head nodded around the room, but Hirohito knew most of their minds were made up. The Emperor laid the sheet gently onto the desk before him and reached into his breast pocket to retrieve a small piece of worn paper which he carefully unfolded. It was a well-known tanka, an ancient form of Japanese poetry, written by Emperor Meiji in 1904 at the uncertain outset of the Russo-Japanese war, a war in which Japan was ultimately victorious. Emperor Meiji was Hirohito’s grandfather. Adjusting his glasses, he read the words solemnly:

  Across the four seas

  all are brothers.

  In such a world

  why do the waves rage,

  the winds roar?

  The room was dead silent. All wanted to confidently predict the future, and even more, to assure it, but Hirohito knew that these were things no one could possibly know, least of all, himself. He looked up with gravity, briefly glanced at a few faces, carefully folded the poem, and slowly slid it back into his pocket without a further word.

  Chapter 21

  Fall, 1941. Keuka College, just outside Rochester, New York.

  With a cream colored sweater wrapped over her shoulders, sleeves tied across her chest, Peggy clutched her books as she crossed the grassy campus with her roommate, Jean, a slightly stout girl in a long, plaid skirt.

  “Music major,” Jean said. “Been playing piano since I was six. What about you?”

  The changing leaves set off the claret brick of the main building behind them as they headed toward the lake in the autumn air.

  Peggy looked up at a tree, then let her eyes wander across the clouded sky. “Sociology – I think.”

  “Why’s that? Sounds hard.”

  “I don’t know. I guess I just like working with people.” Just then a small flock of mallards descended on the lake and skidded across the water to a stop. “Hey, good timing! I brought some bread to feed the ducks. C’mon, let’s go.”

  “The hunters’ll love us for fattening up the ducks.”

  Peggy looked back sternly. “Well, these ducks are heading south for the winter.”

  Chapter 22

  September, 1941. Kagoshima Air Base. The island of Kyushu, southern Japan.

  Three engineers in white struggled with an eighteen foot Type 91 torpedo on its cart below a green Nakajima bomber as another plane taxied past a long line of aircraft.

  In his office stacked with books and papers, Fuchida compared a textbook to his written notes in preparation for another class. An orderly tapped on his open door, but Fuchida didn’t look up.

  “Sir? Lieutenant Commander Genda is here to see you.”

  Fuchida could hardly believe his old friend was at the Kanoya base and excitedly rose just as Genda entered, smiling broadly. They shook hands and grabbed one another’s upper sleeve in a military embrace.

  “Genda! Where’ve you been hiding? It’s been too long, but I’ve been busy.”

  Genda tossed his hat on top of a filing cabinet. “So have I, but neither of us is as busy as we’ll soon be.”

  All the months of training and the mysterious gathering of pilots had aroused a lot of curiosity among the fliers, but none more than Fuchida. He knew there were a lot of places they could be heading, from northern China to Indochina, but he was prepared and far more than merely curious. “I’m listening.”

  As he lit a match, Genda motioned for Fuchida to have a seat, then he put the flame to his cigarette and waved the match out. “I’ve been in nothing but meetings for the last few months.” He strolled over to a sweeping map centered on the Pacific Ocean on Fuchida
’s wall, taking his time to survey it from side to side, his hands on his hips. Various notes were pinned around the edges and small rising sun flag pins marked territories of Japan as did Chinese and American flag pins in other places in East Asia and the Pacific.

  Fuchida knew this would be no ordinary conversation.

  “When Germany conquered France, we gained free access to what was French Indochina here,” Genda said pointing to a rising sun flag pin on the coast below mainland China, “... putting us in a better position to fight the Chinese, to obtain rich supplies of rice, and enabling us to later drive south to Malaya giving us access to essential tin and rubber. The colony of Indochina will soon be reorganized to assure a steady flow of rice at controlled prices.” He glanced at Fuchida to see he was following. “At the same time, the U.S. continues to give us ultimatums to abandon Manchukuo...” He swung his finger up north.

  Fuchida rose and continued Genda’s point, “... which is impossible. We need the natural resources, we’ve spent too many lives for it, and we’ll never accept orders from another nation like America.” Fuchida knew it would be a national disgrace, after urging the nation on year after year, to then give it all up and bow to the wishes of America. The demands were insulting.

  Genda turned to Fuchida and continued. “The U.S. continues to strangle us. First, they cut off high-octane aviation fuel, then high-grade scrap iron, then all iron and copper, and then all oil. Then, they froze all assets.”

  Fuchida folded his arms. He knew all this, but wasn’t sure where Genda was going. “You don’t need to tell me. I have a hard enough time getting gas for my own car.”

  “But more oil could be available to us in the Dutch East Indies if we expanded further south.” Genda took a long puff on his cigarette and looked at Fuchida from the side of his eyes. “You’d be interested to know that the Germans gave us captured mail from a steamer headed for Singapore which included a letter from the British cabinet to the Singapore government, the bastion of military power in the area.” Genda paused. “The British said that they are completely unable to defend Singapore and can send no fleet to her aid. None. It’s wide open.”

  At this Fuchida raised his hand and shook his head. “But if we launch into the East Indies, the American fleet would immediately sortie to attack and cut us off using the Philippines as a base.” The U.S. had been slowly building up strength in the Philippines for this very reason, and Fuchida knew it.

  “So the best battle plan is to cut the sword from our opponent’s belt before he can ever draw it.” Genda looked at Fuchida’s puzzled face for a moment, then plucked a rising sun flag pin from the edge of the map and planted it on Oahu, Hawaii. Fuchida’s eyes widened. “Yamamoto plans to attack Pearl Harbor. We will completely destroy the American fleet before it’s ever deployed.”

  “Pearl Harbor? Are you out of your mind? That’s the stronghold of the U.S. fleet!”

  “Exactly,” Genda said as he calmly picked up a set of rising sun flags and began removing the flags of other nations following his explanation. “At the same time, we’ll simultaneously attack Hong Kong, Indochina, Malaya, Singapore, the Philippines, Wake Island, and Guam, then seize the Dutch Indies with her oil, making them all a part of Greater East Asia. America will be paralyzed and Australia and New Zealand will be isolated.”

  Fuchida’s mind reeled as he ran his hands through his hair and studied the new layout. In all of his many imaginations, the thought of attacking Hawaii had never seriously crossed his mind. He folded his arms. He could only stare in disbelief as he began taking it all in while searching for the weaknesses of the plan. His eyes penetrated every new flag on the map. “That would take months of preparation and planning.”

  “What do you think you’ve been doing down here all this time?” Genda plucked U.S. flags from the Philippines, Wake Island and Guam. “What do you think I’ve been doing all this time?” He plucked British flags from Hong Kong, Malaya, and Singapore; Dutch flags from the East Indies, Sumatra and Java; and Australian flags from New Guinea, replacing them all with Japanese flags.

  “From Japan to Hawaii and back? That’s a round trip of over eight thousand miles, beyond the limits of our longest range ships. And besides, how could such a huge fleet travel so far, completely undetected by the Americans? It doesn’t seem possible.”

  “We’ll refuel on the open seas.” Reaching back to the map and leaning down he swept his hand below Hawaii. “The Americans are scouting south and west, so we’ll approach from due north.” He looked Fuchida in the eyes. “Admiral Yamamoto has insisted on the absolute need for a surprise aerial assault, and that we must act swiftly and decisively. The attack will be extremely difficult, but not impossible, so I recommended you for the job, and Yamamoto himself agreed. He wants you to command the combined squadrons of the carrier fleet. The American battleships are Yamamoto’s primary targets, but I want to take out as many carriers as well. With the Pacific fleet out of the way, they’ll be forced to negotiate terms favorable to Japan.” Genda jabbed the British and American flags onto the fringe of the map.

  “Does Yamamoto plan to take Hawaii as well?”

  “No. We wouldn’t have the resources with the southern operation in full swing. The U.S. doesn’t want war with Japan, and we don’t want war with them. Hitler conquered America’s old friends and Roosevelt did nothing. We’re willing to bleed and die for our Emperor, but all they care about is baseball and jazz music. Sink their fleet, kill their men, and they’ll be begging for peace. They’ll give us anything we want. The war’ll be over in a few months. They’ll keep to themselves and we‘ll retain all conquered territories, free from interference.”

  “And the Germans,” Fuchida said, “are pounding on the gates of Moscow.”

  Genda moved in close to Fuchida. “Our 1937 naval building program is complete. Japan has never been stronger, and America has never been weaker. This is our one, great chance. Success will guarantee our free reign in the Pacific.”

  Fuchida studied Genda’s impassioned face for a moment, then turned back to the map, his eyes fixed on Oahu. “So success at Pearl Harbor is the key, then, isn’t it?”

  “That’s the key.”

  Fuchida stood gazing at the map. “Yamamoto’s pushing in all his poker chips on this one, isn’t he?”

  “We all are. He said that nothing less than a fatal blow will do. Understand that Yamamoto insists that diplomatic negotiations continue and that the strike force be fully prepared to turn back no matter what stage we’re at, even if we’re one day away from the attack.”

  Fuchida knew as well as Genda that “negotiations” between diplomats in Japan and Washington were little more than window dressing to justify the expansion of the war. The diplomats may have captured the front pages of the newspapers, but in reality, they had become irrelevant. The Emperor’s cabinet of war hawks was driving off any doves and they felt that whatever they had the power to take, they had the right to take as well.

  Fuchida looked over the newly arranged map and took a deep breath. “The negligence and arrogance of the Americans will be their undoing. If they’re asleep ... they deserve to be defeated.”

  A grin took over Fuchida’s face as he turned to face Genda. “I was born a boy at the right time.”

  Genda smiled back. “So was I.”

  Chapter 23

  October, 1941. High desert bombing range, Washington.

  A twin engine light bomber roared past in the open sky. Inside the Douglas A-20, Jake sat motionless peering through the bombsight with his hands twisting control dials, oblivious to the deafening drone of the engines.

  The instructor hunched over him with a hand gripping the fuselage frame, the other holding a stopwatch. He yelled over the din of the engines. “What altitude did you dial in?”

  Jake yelled back without moving. “Fifty-three hundred feet, sir.” To become a bombardier, Jake studied long and hard to pass complex exams focalizing on math – his favorite subject. It felt nice to
know he was finally good at something. This was certainly more interesting than handing off tools to a mechanic or raising domestic fowl.

  “True air speed?”

  “Two hundred and twenty knots, sir.”

  “When the target comes into view, release your payload just a half-second early to compensate for rack lag. Hit the outside second ring, and I’ll buy you a beer. Don’t worry – it takes a while to get the feel of it all.”

  “OK. OK. I see it coming up. OK, there it is. Bombs away!”

  The instructor clicked his timer and stared at the dial. Jake looked up at his face, waiting.

  On the ground a spotter in a small tower watched the chalk target through binoculars. Seeing a small puff of smoke he grabbed the radio. “That’s a hit sir – inside the first ring.”

  The instructor reached his hand up to his headset. “The first ring? Copy that.” He shook his head. “You got me for two beers, Jake. You’re killin’ me.”

  Jake did his best to hide his glowing smirk, but failed.

  Chapter 24

  October, 1941. Central Philippine University, Iloilo City.

  Two students in all white slung a baseball back and forth on the campus yard in front of several stucco, two story buildings, also white, with beige awnings over the windows. Tall coconut palms accented the campus surrounded by dense, tropical foliage. In 1901, a donation of $2,000 from John D. Rockefeller to the Baptist Church in the Philippines was enough to found a Bible college which later became Central Philippine University, a small school with a growing reputation.

  Standing before a blackboard full of scrawled notes, Jimmy in his white suit adjusted his round-rimmed glasses and held up his index finger as the class of eighteen students filed past him toward the door. “The quiz will cover the timeline of the kings of Israel and Judah. Tuesday.”