The Final Storm Part 1

The final storm.

a novel of the war in the Pacific.

Jeff Shaara.

For Brenda At Last.

TO THE READER.

The story of the end of the war in the Pacific pushes us toward a delicate line between what we know to be simple history (the facts) and what many of us prefer to think should have happened. Sixty-five years after the event, many of us sit in judgment on the way the Second World War was brought to a close, some of us wondering if there could have been a better way, or perhaps a more moral way to end the war. In the American psyche, those debates are likely to continue for a very long time. But those debates will not be found here.

This story attempts to complete what I began in a trilogy that dealt with the war in Europe. Those stories involved America's first involvement in the fight against the Germans and concluded with the fall of Hitler. Half a world away, there had been another, far more brutal war, against an enemy who was even more successful than Hitler in conquering a vast swath of territory and threatening to slice off an enormous part of the world from our definition of civilization. Had the j.a.panese been allowed to maintain the empire they sought (and nearly won), all of Asia, including China, Korea, and Indochina, Thailand, Burma, and Malaya, would have become part of an empire that would also have included Australia, New Guinea, the Philippines, Indonesia, and the thousands of islands that spread from those lands all the way east to Hawaii, and north to the Aleutians. What might have followed is speculation, of course. Would the j.a.panese have invaded the United States (which was one purpose of the conquest of the islands in the Aleutian chain, to serve as a base for such an operation)? Or, strengthened by the raw materials drawn from the riches of the lands under their control, would the j.a.panese have been strong enough to shove their armies across India, or drive southward to Central and South America?

The urgency of meeting the challenge in the Pacific seemed to many Americans to be secondary to the threat posed to our allies by Hitler. Despite the grotesque insult inflicted upon the United States by the j.a.panese attack at Pearl Harbor, the government, particularly President Roosevelt, understood that Germany's conquest of Europe, including England, was a more immediate threat. And so greater resources were poured out of American factories toward that part of the world. But the Pacific was hardly ignored. After Pearl Harbor, the United States struck back at the j.a.panese, and in what now seems an amazing feat, fought both wars simultaneously, against two very different enemies, in two very different ways.

Though my plan had been to complete this story with Europe, I could not just walk away without touching upon the Pacific. (I was also inspired by letters received from a number of Marines, who were quite vocal that "ignoring" their story was altogether inappropriate. It's hard to disagree.) Some have written to me, expressing frustration that I am not attempting to tell the entire story of the Pacific campaigns through another complete trilogy. There are reasons for that, which include the requirements of my publisher. My choice was to follow No Less Than Victory in rough chronological order, and move through the spring and summer of 1945, to the final collapse of j.a.pan. Thus this story deals with the extraordinary fight on Okinawa, and then, an event unique in world history, the dropping of the atomic bomb on Hiros.h.i.+ma. The points of view vary considerably. Some are familiar: Admiral Chester Nimitz, President Harry Truman. Others are perhaps less well known: Colonel Paul Tibbets, General Mitsuru Us.h.i.+jima, General Curtis LeMay. And then there are the unknown: Marine Private Clay Adams, Dr. Okiro Hamis.h.i.+ta, whose voices have carried me far deeper into this story than I expected to go.

If you are looking for either a strident argument in favor of the atomic bomb, or an apology for American immorality, you will find neither here. This story is told through the eyes of the partic.i.p.ants, whose perspectives and decisions and experiences reflected what was happening around them. There is no judgment in hindsight, no moral verdict on my part. That just isn't my job (and never will be). Libraries are filled with volumes that pursue an agenda, political or otherwise, about our role in ending the war. I am merely a storyteller, and this story is as accurate historically as I could make it, told by the voices of the men who made the decisions, who gave the orders, and who took their fight to the enemy. There was only one world for them, a world in which the enemy had to be defeated at all costs. That's why I wanted to tell this story.

Every day, we lose countless numbers of those who partic.i.p.ated in this fight. In every case, when I have spoken with veterans, they remind me that once they are gone, their memories will go with them. Unless, as one GI said, someone tells the d.a.m.n tale. Fair enough. This is my attempt.

JEFF SHAARA.

April 2011.

INTRODUCTION.

Contrary to what many of us are taught, the Second World War does not begin on September 1, 1939, with Hitler's army invading Poland. In fact, by that time, a war has already been fought on Asian soil for eight years.

In the summer of 1931, the most militant among the j.a.panese Imperial High Command fabricate an incident that, to them, justifies an all-out invasion of Manchuria, China's northernmost province. More "incidents" are revealed, which lead to attacks against the major Chinese cities of Shanghai and Nanking. The primitive Chinese army is no match for the well-trained and well-equipped j.a.panese, and in mere months, vast swaths of Chinese territory fall into j.a.panese hands. By the mid-1930s, j.a.panese aggression has inspired the League of Nations to offer what amounts to a slap on j.a.panese wrists. But the Chinese begin to counter, and under the command of Chiang Kai-shek, the Chinese army begins at least to slow the j.a.panese down. Though the political ramifications of a war between such distant (and foreign) cultures produce few concerns in the West, it is the ma.s.sacres of Chinese civilians that begin to draw Western attention. The numbers of dead and the ferocity of the j.a.panese soldiers are staggering, reports causing President Roosevelt to issue a partial embargo on raw materials allowed to enter j.a.pan. As the brutalities against Chinese, Korean, and Southeast Asian peoples escalate, Roosevelt ups the ante by freezing j.a.panese a.s.sets held in the United States. The j.a.panese respond with loud indignation and claim the need for self-protection from such aggression. They sign the Tripart.i.te Pact, aligning themselves with Germany and Italy, each nation pledging to come to the aid of the others in the event of further hostility from their new enemies.

In 1940, with war now spreading across Europe, a new power emerges in the j.a.panese government, whose civilian voices have grown increasingly weak. The army a.s.sumes increasing authority, and from that army comes General Hideki Tojo. Tojo is vehemently anti-American, a philosophy he imposes on j.a.panese culture whenever possible. Tojo also commands the j.a.panese secret police, a force that stifles dissent among the moderates, whose voices are all but snuffed out. In September 1940, building upon a reputation for ruthlessness in Manchuria, Tojo becomes war minister. Immediately he puts his harsh feelings for the United States into strategic planning. Tojo believes that both America and Britain have been weakened considerably by the war in Europe, and all signs point to Germany's eventual victory. Thus a confident Tojo begins to plan for the ultimate achievement, a war to conquer the vast resources of the United States. It is not a view shared by the j.a.panese navy. Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto delivers a scathing report that calls any engagement with the Americans utter foolishness, and he is supported by many of the admirals who know they will be on the front lines of a fight that must inevitably span the entire Pacific. Despite Yamamoto's reluctance, Tojo orders him to create a plan that will ensure a swift and decisive victory. Yamamoto knows that boldness and surprise are the twin ingredients of success against a formidable foe. He plans to make exceptional use of both. Despite discussions between j.a.panese and American diplomats in Was.h.i.+ngton, Tojo has no intention of reaching any peaceful solution. Aware that Yamamoto's plans call for a sneak attack at the very moment their diplomats are talking peace, Tojo remarks, "Our diplomats will have to be sacrificed."

What the j.a.panese do not know is that the Americans have broken their communications code and are fully aware that soothing words in Was.h.i.+ngton belie what is taking place in the Pacific. American intelligence knows that j.a.panese wars.h.i.+ps have put to sea, but there is no specific word of their mission. Regardless, on Hawaii, the two Americans in command, Admiral Husband Kimmel and General Walter Short, are informed that hostilities with j.a.pan could begin at any time. Though he is warned that the j.a.panese seem poised to attack the Philippines or Borneo, Admiral Kimmel never receives word that Was.h.i.+ngton believes Hawaii to be a target as well. Thus his preparations are minimal, ordering two attack aircraft carriers away from Hawaii to ferry aircraft to Midway and Wake islands. It is the only stroke of luck the Americans will experience. With no reconnaissance planes searching for trouble anywhere close to Hawaii, the American commanders are blissfully unaware that nine major j.a.panese wars.h.i.+ps, along with six aircraft carriers and a scattering of smaller escort s.h.i.+ps, are steaming toward the U.S. fleet from the northwest. At 6 A.M. on December 7, 1941, the first of two waves of j.a.panese dive bombers, fighters, and torpedo planes begins an attack at Pearl Harbor that will cost the United States twenty-one s.h.i.+ps, more than three hundred aircraft, 2,400 dead, and 1,100 wounded. Despite the isolationist sentiment that still pervades the mind-set of a vast number of Americans, the j.a.panese attack on Pearl Harbor shatters American complacency. America is in the war.

Even while the smoke rises from Pearl Harbor, j.a.panese invasion forces surge into the Philippines, virtually obliterating a powerful force of American heavy bombers and fighter planes commanded by General Douglas MacArthur. MacArthur's ground troops, totaling 100,000 Filipinos and 25,000 Americans, are routed completely, and despite a valiant American defense on the Bataan Peninsula and the island fortress of Corregidor, the j.a.panese prevail. Though MacArthur escapes, the combined forces, under American general Jonathan Wainwright, are forced to surrender, and thus begins the transfer of the prisoners to j.a.panese prison camps in what will become known as the Bataan Death March. Sixty thousand Filipinos and fifteen thousand Americans endure unmasked brutality and torture along a sixty-mile course that transforms how most Americans view their new enemy. Where barbarism and ma.s.sacres in China had seemed a distant problem, now the realities of j.a.panese atrocities come home to the United States.

Throughout late 1941, the j.a.panese surge engulfs Thailand, Korea, Hong Kong, and Indochina. In the Pacific, the American island of Guam falls, as well as the great chains of islands spreading all across the south and central Pacific, which now become j.a.panese strongholds. To the south, the j.a.panese conquer the British fortress at Singapore and sink two British battles.h.i.+ps, Prince of Wales and Repulse, which were thought invincible. The combined blows are a knife in the morale of the British, who had believed their power in that part of the world was una.s.sailable. But the j.a.panese continue to press forward, and by early 1942 they occupy and fortify the Dutch East Indies, the Solomon Islands, and New Guinea. Though Wake Island also falls, some five hundred Marines on the island make a valiant though hopeless effort to hold the j.a.panese away. What is only a minor thorn in the j.a.panese side becomes a significantly heroic symbol that gives hope to the Americans that the j.a.panese might not be unstoppable after all. That optimism is further fueled by two enormous engagements, one at sea, the other in the air. In May 1942, the two opposing navies engage in a slugfest in the Coral Sea, northeast of Australia. Though the American and Australian navies suffer the greater loss in wars.h.i.+ps, the fight ultimately prevents the j.a.panese from carrying out their planned invasion of Australia. Farther north, in June 1942, the Americans confront a ma.s.sive j.a.panese fleet attempting to complete the work begun at Pearl Harbor. The j.a.panese attempt to lure the American carrier fleet into a trap near Midway Island, northwest of Hawaii. But planes from those carriers instead devastate the j.a.panese fleet. The loss of their largest and most modern wars.h.i.+ps, including most of their aircraft carriers, is a blow from which the j.a.panese will never recover.

At home, the j.a.panese people and much of their military are being told that the engagements against the enemy are one-sided victories, that the j.a.panese effort is meeting only with success. With senior commanders believing the tale, the j.a.panese military loses the sense of urgency that their situation ought to demand, and little effort is made to sh.o.r.e up the devastated fleets. The same is true for j.a.panese airpower, which has been badly shaken by the increasing skills of American pilots and the improving technology of American aircraft.

On April 18, 1942, the j.a.panese people receive their first taste that what their government is feeding them might not be the complete truth. Sixteen American B-25 medium bombers are launched from the carrier USS Hornet, and make a one-way bombing run over Tokyo. The raid, led by Lieutenant Colonel Jimmy Doolittle, is both success and tragedy. All but one of Doolittle's planes are lost, though many of the crews survive. The raid has no real tactical effect, but to the j.a.panese people, the sight of American bombs falling on the j.a.panese capital is eye-opening in the extreme.

In Was.h.i.+ngton, the American strategy begins to gel. If there is a push to be made against the vast territories now in j.a.panese hands, it will come from two spheres of control. The more southerly sphere, based in Australia, is commanded by General Douglas MacArthur. The more northerly, because of the vast amount of ocean involved, will be commanded by Admiral Chester Nimitz. Thus begins a two-p.r.o.ng campaign aimed at driving hard into the j.a.panese bases, which both men believe are overextended. In August 1942, the American First Marine Division, led by General Alexander Vandegrift and supported by troops from Britain, Australia, and New Zealand, launches an invasion of a part of the Solomon Islands anch.o.r.ed by the island of Guadalca.n.a.l. The goal is to drive a wedge into the j.a.panese supply lanes that threaten Australia, and isolate j.a.panese troops based on New Guinea and surrounding islands. Moreover, the j.a.panese are rapidly constructing a major airfield there, which will only enhance their presence through that entire part of the Pacific. What begins as an invasion of a single island eventually grows to a fight that involves the ground, air, and sea arms of both sides, and becomes the first extended combat action of the Pacific war. The losses to the j.a.panese are horrific, and when the fighting ends, the j.a.panese must face the reality that the tide has turned against them. Both Nimitz and MacArthur realize this as well.

On the mainland of Asia, a different war is being waged. Beleaguered Chinese forces under Chiang Kai-shek are surviving only with the a.s.sistance of the British and Americans, who have created two supply routes for sustaining Chiang's army. One, through Burma, is too vulnerable to j.a.panese attack and so can barely be sustained. The other, far more dangerous, is "the hump," an air route from India across the Himalayan Mountains to China, where fleets of planes and some of the most ill.u.s.trious pilots in American aviation history haul much needed supplies for the Chinese. But Chiang's army is receiving help from ground and air forces as well, led from India by American general Joseph Stilwell, and inside of China by the Flying Tigers, an American fighter plane wing led by General Claire Chennault. But the two Americans never work effectively together, and Stilwell in particular alienates the British, whose a.s.sistance he needs to continue the flow of supplies out of India. Seeds of dissension are sown as well by Chiang, whose corrupt officers and brutal training methods cannot ever put a fighting force into the field to match the j.a.panese. Worse for Chiang, in China's north there is a new rival leader emerging, whose own army is doing what it can to combat the j.a.panese. His name is Mao Tse-tung.

In the Pacific, the Americans seem to be falling into the exact kind of strategy the j.a.panese are now hoping for: a piecemeal, grinding a.s.sault against a vast scattering of j.a.panese island outposts. With sea and air power decidedly in their favor, the Americans believe that overwhelming bombardment of j.a.panese positions will allow the Marines and army ground troops an advantage in sweeping ash.o.r.e in so many of these crucial outposts, where airfields and deepwater anchorages await.

The j.a.panese have purposely expanded their empire into lands where precious war materials, especially oil, rubber, and metal ores, can be ferried to factories in j.a.pan. Cutting those supply lines becomes a priority, mostly for MacArthur, who knows that the j.a.panese have established large and powerful bases all around resource-rich New Guinea. MacArthur continues his drive up toward the j.a.panese forces, which results in several sharp engagements, including the Battle of Bougainville, costly for both American and Australian troops.

By this time, it is apparent that a compet.i.tion has developed between MacArthur and Nimitz, most of that energy coming from MacArthur, who has as his primary goal the liberation of the Philippines. Despite strategic considerations that seem to point more to mainland j.a.pan as the most desired goal, MacArthur insists that his efforts be directed at recapturing the nation to whom he has pledged his return. MacArthur has significant popular appeal, especially with the troops in his command, and in Was.h.i.+ngton not even the chiefs of staff are willing to back him down. Thus the two-p.r.o.ng strategy of the Americans begins to resemble something more like a race.

While the complex strategies and vicious campaigns continue, one particular disaster befalls the j.a.panese. Code intercepts reveal to American intelligence that Admiral Yamamoto will be traveling a certain route at a certain time through the area approaching Bougainville. In response, American fighters rise to intercept the j.a.panese admiral and his escorts. They are successful. On April 18, 1943, Yamamoto's plane is shot down, and j.a.pan loses arguably its greatest military planner of the war.

While MacArthur's forces press the fight through the Solomons, still close to New Guinea, Admiral Nimitz aims his spear on a more direct trajectory toward j.a.pan. In November 1943, the next major a.s.sault in the chain occurs at an island atoll called Tarawa. Led by General Holland "Howlin' Mad" Smith, two Marine divisions struggle mightily to erase the j.a.panese positions, which are a.s.sumed to have been badly chewed up by heavy naval gunfire. Instead the Marines wade ash.o.r.e only to find themselves in one of the most costly fights of the Pacific campaign. One more experience awaits them as well. Facing certain defeat, enormous numbers of j.a.panese soldiers engage in banzai attacks, hordes of men throwing themselves en ma.s.se into the Marine positions. The cost in human life is staggering, and the Americans begin to realize that the j.a.panese are very different indeed. Young Marines embroiled in pitched battles suddenly confront the bizarre, screaming waves of enemy troops pouring into Marine positions with murderous intent yet also an astonis.h.i.+ng eagerness to die. When faced with utter defeat, the j.a.panese choose suicide over surrender, seeking a kind of honor that few Americans can understand.

In the United States, the casualties absorbed on Tarawa are made public: more than a thousand Marines dead, with twice that many wounded. Whether or not the American public fully appreciates the kind of enemy they are fighting, they are rudely awakened to the kind of sacrifice the Marines are being asked to make.

In early 1944, the fights continue, with MacArthur jamming his troops through the Admiralty Islands close to New Guinea, while Nimitz's carriers and wars.h.i.+ps support the Marines in the Marshall Islands, primarily on the atoll of Kwajalein. By February 1944, Nimitz pushes farther toward the next great chain of islands, the Carolines. There the j.a.panese maintain one of the most fortified bases in the entire Pacific, the island of Truk. Over time, superior American air and sea power obliterates the j.a.panese fleet in Truk Lagoon and destroys more than three hundred j.a.panese aircraft.

In June 1944, the greatest amphibious invasion of all time is coming to fruition a world away, on the beaches at Normandy. Though the American newspapers focus almost exclusively on what General Dwight Eisenhower's forces must accomplish, Admiral Nimitz is engaging in a Pacific campaign that will rival Normandy in its significance. The last great chain of islands that secure the waters far from j.a.pan are the Marianas, and while Eisenhower's army and airborne troops slug their way through the French countryside, Nimitz launches a.s.saults on the island of Saipan, a two-week campaign that claims 14,000 American casualties, two-thirds of them Marines. Less than two weeks after Saipan is secured, Nimitz orders the start of an a.s.sault on Guam, to recapture the American island lost so early in the war. At nearly the same time, the Marines and soldiers on Saipan press onward, a short few miles to the island of Tinian. While the fight for Tinian proves not nearly as costly as Saipan, Guam is another matter altogether, with a loss of 8,000 American casualties.

By September 1944, the Normandy campaign draws to a close, and Allied commanders are well aware that Germany's defeat is only a matter of time. In the Pacific, both MacArthur and Nimitz are accomplis.h.i.+ng victories as well, but for MacArthur the big plum still awaits: the Philippines. For Nimitz, the island hopping continues, the next target a fortified j.a.panese outpost in the Palau Islands, called Peleliu. Protected by underground fortifications, the j.a.panese have strengthened their position on Peleliu to one of invincibility. But the Americans proceed as they always have and bombard the island with enormous firepower. On September 15, expecting a stroll on the beach, Marines advance onto Peleliu only to learn that the j.a.panese are still waiting for them, protected from the navy's sh.e.l.ling by a network of underground hiding places. The fight that follows lasts more than two months and becomes one of the most vicious of the entire war. The First Marine Division alone suffers more than 6,000 casualties.

Despite the extraordinary cost to the Americans who continue their drive toward the enemy's homeland, that drive produces results, including the resignation of the humiliated Hideki Tojo.

With the Mariana Islands now in American hands, long-range B-29 bombers can make strikes directly onto mainland j.a.pan, and begin to do so with perfect regularity. It is a symbol that few j.a.panese can misinterpret. But the airfields are not adequate for the sheer volume of planes the American forces know they must use to bring j.a.pan down. Closer to j.a.pan lies another atoll, Iwo Jima, where the j.a.panese have already constructed an airfield the Americans know they must have. The value of Iwo Jima lies in its closer proximity to j.a.pan and the fact that American bombers have demonstrated a woeful record of mechanical failures, which have sent hundreds of crewmen into the sea. What the Americans do not know is that the 20,000 j.a.panese troops burrowed into the small chunk of volcanic rock have learned the lessons from Peleliu and Saipan. Dug into a thousand or more caves and supported by an enormous battery of heavy artillery, the j.a.panese await the inevitable invasion with perfect calm. The island is small enough, barely four miles long, that j.a.panese defenses spread like a fine spiderweb through the entire island.

On February 19, 1945, more than 60,000 Marines and soldiers make their landing, only to confront a firestorm that pins them to their beaches. The ensuing fight lasts six weeks, ending on March 26. The losses to both sides are staggering. On Iwo Jima the j.a.panese once again demonstrate that few will readily accept surrender. Of the 20,000 troops who defend the island, fewer than three hundred are taken prisoner. But the fight to the death has accomplished what the j.a.panese now seem to prefer. The Americans suffer 26,000 casualties, more than a third of their force. The numbers are so appalling that American newsmen are not given the figures, so that the American people will not learn of the astounding cost of the fight for several months.

With the losses so astoundingly high, the Americans know they cannot sustain many more fights like Peleliu and Iwo Jima. Though MacArthur sticks to his guns and drives into the Philippines, Admiral Nimitz and the strategists in Was.h.i.+ngton understand what the generals in Europe have learned as well. Waging a safer fight from the air will not be enough to win the war. But the airfields close to j.a.pan are crucial, and the islands are essential for basing troops for the eventual invasion of j.a.pan. The maps show plainly that one more island lies in their way. Far larger than Iwo Jima, with deepwater s.h.i.+pping and a dozen airfields, the island is in fact a country, occupied by some quarter million natives, along with their j.a.panese overseers, estimated to number close to 150,000. This fight will be the first where American troops will strike at a place many j.a.panese consider their own soil. It is called Okinawa.

PART ONE.

1. THE SUBMARINER.

EAST CHINA SEA, NORTH OF FORMOSA.

FEBRUARY 21, 1945.

The boredom was overwhelming. Even in the darkness, with a low warm breeze, he felt the restlessness, held the sharp stare at what should be the horizon. It was hidden, of course, black water meeting black sky, no hint of the dawn still several hours away. They had patrolled these waters for more than two weeks, some calling it an adventure, the eagerness the crew felt to be back on the search for the scattered j.a.panese supply s.h.i.+ps. Two months before, they had been a.s.signed to rescue patrol, close to mainland j.a.pan, a vigilant search for downed American pilots, or even the j.a.panese. But enemy pilots were very few now, the j.a.panese air force so depleted, or more likely, so wary of the superiority of their enemy that they seemed to avoid dogfights with the American fighters completely. He hadn't paid much attention to that kind of talk, the newsy communications that filtered down through the chain of command. He was much happier thinking about the American pilots they had rescued, his crew cheerfully hauling aboard coughing breathless men, soaked and s.h.i.+vering, desperately happy to be alive. It was a genuine thrill to rescue a pilot, every sailor feeling that special pride, more so if the man happened to be from a carrier, a naval pilot, and so, one of their own. The pilots were more than just grateful, and in their momentary euphoria they made loud promises of lavish gifts, nights on the town for everyone aboard the sub. The promises usually included a rendezvous in Honolulu or even San Francisco, talk that every crewman enjoyed. The job had been made worthwhile by the beaming grat.i.tude of the men they had saved. It didn't hurt either that as the rescued pilots were returned to their aircraft carriers, they were often exchanged for tubs of ice cream, a luxury few submarines carried on their own.

The pilots of the newer American fighters had found that their planes were considerably more agile, and significantly more armored than the legendary Zero, and so the fights grew increasingly one-sided. After long months of terrific casualties among its pilots, j.a.pan seemed to pull the Zeroes out of the sky, holding them back for some purpose no one thought much about. Now the rescues were usually B-29 crews, more likely the result of some mechanical failure in the air than the direct result of combat. Though the B-29 was the largest and most modern bomber of the war, the plane could be a curse to fly. The B-29 had chronic problems with the engines: overheating, flameouts, which might be just as deadly as an accurate strike of an enemy anti-aircraft gun.

The sub rolled slightly to the side, riding a crossing swell, the captain caught off guard, a slight stumble against the steel of the bulkhead. All right, stay awake. But the empty seas were intoxicating, dreamlike, and he thought of the hard bunk down below. Not yet. After dawn you can catch a few winks, but right now your job is up here.

He never fully trusted the instincts of his younger officers, though he knew that his exec, Fred Gordon, was a good man, would likely have his own boat one day, and maybe sooner than the captain preferred. Combat losses to the submarine crews weren't catastrophic, not compared to many of the aircrews above them. Many of the men simply rotated out after several months at sea, fatigue playing a huge part in their decreasing efficiency. But there were combat losses, and the officers who came from Annapolis seemed to feel that far more deeply than their crews. He thought of the Tang, sunk a few months before, could see the face of Ed Beaumont. Never thought you'd be the one, Eddie. Lucky in love, lucky in poker, and your fish gets sunk by your own d.a.m.n torpedo. Happens I guess, and by G.o.d you took a few j.a.p b.a.s.t.a.r.ds with you. Something to be said for that, I suppose.

The Tang had gone down in the midst of a chaotic fight in October the year before, after plowing straight through a j.a.panese convoy. Her skipper, d.i.c.k O'Kane, had already gained a reputation for pure audacity and brilliant success, having sunk nearly two dozen j.a.panese s.h.i.+ps. But on that one night, after causing havoc among a j.a.panese merchant fleet, the Tang had been struck by one of her own torpedoes, some kind of malfunction that sent the torpedo on a circular course. It was a horrific dose of irony to a crew that had poured so much devastation into their enemy.

They say the skipper survived, he thought. Didn't know O'Kane too well, but Eddie loved him. Scuttleb.u.t.t says O'Kane will probably get a Medal of Honor, but I doubt it matters much now. Sure as h.e.l.l doesn't matter to the men who went down with the d.a.m.n s.h.i.+p.

The communications intercepts indicated that at least a dozen of the Tang's crewmen had survived and were being held in j.a.pan. From all he had heard, his friend Beaumont was not among them. So what's worse, he thought. If it's up to me, I'd rather have a lung full of water than some j.a.p b.a.s.t.a.r.d beating the c.r.a.p out of me every five minutes. That's gonna be the best day of this d.a.m.n war, the day we can spring our boys from the j.a.p POW camps. It'll happen, sooner or later. He slapped the steel beside him. How much more can those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds throw at us? No s.h.i.+ps out here, no convoys anymore. The j.a.ps have gotta feed their people, and every piece of their army needs gasoline and oil, and whatever else it takes to keep going. That's my job, isn't it? Send that stuff to the bottom. h.e.l.l, here I am, a boatload of torpedoes, and a crew full of p.i.s.s and vinegar. He stared hard into the darkness. So where the h.e.l.l are you?

The navy had ordered many of the submarines to keep close to the j.a.panese mainland, still on rescue patrol, the overwhelming number of bombing missions still a priority, and those subs would continue to pluck unfortunate aircrews out of the water. Some performed the task within clear sight of the j.a.panese coastline, a risky maneuver, made more so by the vigilance of j.a.panese patrol boats, who sought the same prize. The game was a vicious one, some of the subs engaging the j.a.panese in firefights on the surface, in water too shallow for diving. Whether rumors and reports of outrageous atrocities were true-all that talk of torture and beheadings by their j.a.panese captors-the determination to save the downed fliers increased with every bombing mission.

As j.a.panese convoys seemed to scatter into oblivion, speculation increased through the American command that the j.a.panese were in desperate straits, food and fuel being parceled out to the military in a trickle, and even less to the civilians. The Americans began to understand how seriously they were strangling the j.a.panese homeland. The search for seagoing targets became even more intense. Despite the ongoing need for air rescue patrols, many of the subs were ordered away from j.a.pan, back toward the s.h.i.+pping lanes around Formosa and the Philippines, where the j.a.panese freighters had once traveled unmolested. The greatest challenge now was for the sub commanders to find a target.

The submarines had played a far greater role than most back home would ever know, very few glowing reports in the newspapers, no flow of interviews reaching the home front in glamorous dispatches from men like correspondent Ernie Pyle. As the navy began to be more successful in reaching and breaking the flow of j.a.panese supplies, the subs borrowed a tactic from the Germans, wolf packs, prowling the seas along the Chinese coast, out through the islands to the east, and then around mainland j.a.pan itself. The j.a.panese had no effective counter, and the losses to their merchant s.h.i.+pping had been devastating. Their convoys had mostly stopped, and the Allies knew from secret code intercepts and the firsthand accounts of the submarine patrols that the j.a.panese were quite simply running out of s.h.i.+ps. Even the j.a.panese wars.h.i.+ps had ceased to be a major threat. Nearly all the great naval battles in the central Pacific had been decidedly one-sided affairs. From Midway to Leyte Gulf, Truk Lagoon and the Coral Sea, the superiority of American carrier-based planes and the wars.h.i.+ps they supported had crushed the j.a.panese naval forces, forces that now mostly remained within the safety of their own ports. But j.a.panese submarines still patrolled the sea lanes, searching for targets that were far too numerous for the Americans to completely s.h.i.+eld. The Americans knew that the j.a.panese technology in radar did not measure up, but their torpedoes were superior, a game of catch-up the Americans were just now realizing. j.a.panese submarine crews were well trained, considered elite units. The American sub commanders knew that it was their counterparts who had the tools and the skills to strike back, their stealth making them the most formidable foe the j.a.panese could still bring to the fight.

The sleepiness had gone, a second wind the captain usually felt after midnight. He had gone below for only a brief respite, a quick trip to the head and a handful of chocolate bars. The crew was as alert as he was, the late-night s.h.i.+ft the best men he had.

He pulled the wrapping from a piece of chocolate, tossed it down the hatch. No trash overboard, his own rule. They would never leave anything behind, no clue that the Americans had ever been here. A candy carton or a piece of paper floating on the waves might be the best stroke of luck a j.a.panese lookout could have.

The air was still warm and thick, the light breeze barely any relief. He stood upright in the conning tower, stretching his back, the warm chocolate leaving a sweet film in his mouth. There was sweat inside his s.h.i.+rt, and he thought, after daylight, I'll get a shower. He laughed at the thought, his admonition to the rest of the crew. No one showers before the cook. I'm not going to smell anyone's BO in my d.a.m.n pancakes.

A sudden swirl of wind engulfed him in the stink of diesel exhaust and he fought the cough, the breeze returning, carrying the exhaust away. The salt spray came now, another s.h.i.+ft of the wind, catching the white trail of wake. Dammit, he thought, make up your mind. These are supposed to be trade winds, blowing in one d.a.m.n direction. So they tell me. Idiot weathermen. Come out of your comfortable office at Pearl and see this for yourself. This d.a.m.n ocean makes up its own mind, and takes the wind with it. The sub rolled again in a slow, steady rhythm, riding the soft swells, the seas still mostly calm. He glanced to one side, the s.h.i.+mmer of reflected moonlight, a thin sliver coming up low to the east. He judged the size of the wake, thought, twelve knots. We'll keep that up for a while. No reason to worry about getting anywhere fast. No place to go. He thought of the binoculars around his neck, useless. For now the best eyes the sub had were down below, the careful watch of the radar man, Hockley, a boy who seemed to be good at only one thing. Fortunately for the crew, that single talent was spotting the enemy on the radar screen, separating out the noise and blips of whatever might interfere with those blips that actually mattered. He glanced at the microphone to one side. No, if there's something to say, they'll let me know. As he kept his stare on the invisible horizon, there was a familiar twist growing inside of him, anxiousness, the silence unnerving. How in h.e.l.l can we be the only people out here? There's not even an American fish anywhere close by, not that anyone told me about. The Queenfish is well south of us, pretty sure about that. The Grouper and the Pompon are closer, but not that close. They're doing the same thing I'm doing, wondering where the h.e.l.l the j.a.ps have gone. Any one of our boys gets near us, I know d.a.m.n well that we'll pick him up first. They know it too. He laughed quietly, thought of the ongoing bet he had with several of the sub captains. We'll spot you before you spot us. One more thing that kid down there is good at. The sub's name lingered, Pompon. That d.a.m.n Bogley already owes me fifty bucks. I'll meet you at Guam, Captain, and you better fork it over. You don't want me broadcasting all over h.e.l.l and gone how I snuck up on you from astern within five hundred yards and scared h.e.l.l out of your sonar guy.

He turned, scanned the ocean in all directions. This is one big d.a.m.n bunch of water, and somebody else has to think this is a good place to be. I'd be a lot happier if I had somebody to chase. Beats h.e.l.l out of wandering around in the dark. He usually took to the open air of the bridge when the night came, and the other officers knew to leave him alone, unless he asked someone to stand with him. They'll think I'm a real jerk if I b.i.t.c.h about my quarters, he thought. I've got the luxury suite on this bucket, and those boys have to sleep a dozen to a berth, and share each other's farts and BO in the process. He glanced below, faint red light glowing up through a haze of cigarette smoke. No one b.i.t.c.hes, at least not so I can hear 'em. And my exec hasn't said anything. I guess we're a happy lot. Yo ho ho. That's it. We ought to put up a Jolly Roger. Nah, I bet the j.a.ps wouldn't have the first idea what the h.e.l.l that was. I'm guessing they don't watch Errol Flynn movies in Nipland. The playfulness was forced, and he knew that, was still feeling the uneasiness, the itchy tension. Dammit, something just isn't ... right. Too much ocean and too much of nothing. Down below, the lower level of the open-air bridge, the anti-aircraft guns were unmanned. No j.a.p planes on patrol out here, he thought, not at night. That's for sure. He focused, blew away the thoughts from his brain, stared hard at the black silence. Okay, Captain, you better let them keep all that c.o.c.kiness in those offices at Pearl. All it takes is one lucky j.a.p b.a.s.t.a.r.d to drop his eggs too close to us, or spot us underwater. What idiot thought that painting our subs black would make them invisible? This d.a.m.n water is so clear, a black sub looks like some big d.a.m.n sea monster. Might as well have been sending up flares, to make it easier for them to spot us. Black. How many shouting matches did Admiral Lockwood have to have with those War Department morons before someone figured out to paint these things to match the d.a.m.n water? Gray's not perfect, but sure as h.e.l.l beats black. He glanced up, the tip of the two periscopes above him. And then someone decides we should paint the subs pink. Pink for G.o.d's sake. Supposed to blend in with the ocean. I haven't sailed this tub through one patch of pink water. But what the h.e.l.l do I know? I'm just out here fighting the enemy. Those engineers and design folks have the tough job, figuring out how much cream to put in their coffee. Now they say we sank every d.a.m.n s.h.i.+p the j.a.ps have. I'm not believing any of that, not for one second. Somebody's gotta know we're out here, and maybe they're watching us, some smart d.a.m.n destroyer captain shadowing us. He scanned the blackness, thought, okay, stop that. Hockley would have raised h.e.l.l down there if anything was around us. And you don't need to show anybody on this crew a case of the jitters. Most of them are too young, too green to know just how human I am. A sub captain's got ice in his blood, yeah. That's it. Ice. Nerves like steel wire. That's what they're told anyway. That's how they think I got this job.

He thought about that, wasn't really sure how he got the job. Yep, I wanted it. It was a plum job, of course, a sub commander ranking among the navy's most elite. Nearly all of us are Annapolis grads, the elite, by d.a.m.ned. Yeah, that was tough, worth it for sure. My parents were all gooey about it, my old man bragging to his neighbors. h.e.l.l, why not? His boy did good, not like some of those clowns I grew up with. He recalled the graduation with a smile, hats thrown in the air, all the slaps on the back, loud, boisterous calls for what was next, all that glory. But that was nearly a decade before Pearl Harbor, and n.o.body knew anything about what was next. Ask my buddy on the Tang. Or those poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds on the Growler, or the Swordfish. Glory, my a.s.s.

"Captain. Radar reports a sighting, sir."

The noise jolted him, the voice of Gordon, his exec. He grabbed the microphone, held it to his mouth, pressed the b.u.t.ton.

"What is it, Gordy?"

"Sighting at two four zero, moving ... um ... zero four zero ... looks like ten knots."

It was a bad habit Gordon had, that first burst of excitement, tossing out estimates before he had the precise numbers.

"Slow down, Lieutenant. What's their range?"

"Sorry, sir. Seventeen thousand yards." He paused. "Ten knots confirmed."

"Stand by, Gordy. Send Fallon up here."

"Aye, sir."

He glanced toward the compa.s.s, his sub moving almost due north, and he stared out toward the direction of the sighting, behind him to the left. Ten miles. Nothing to look at yet. But he's heading roughly toward us, might cross behind us. Ten knots is pretty d.a.m.n slow. Must be a real piece of junk. He had a sudden flash, his mind fixing on a new thought. Or he's on the prowl, looking for something. Yep, that's a whole lot better. If we can get the jump on a j.a.p wars.h.i.+p, that's a whole lot bigger prize than sinking some tub full of rice.

The young seaman, Fallon, rose up through the hatch, a nineteen-year-old who had a knack for precision, and the sharp eyes to match. Fallon stood stiffly, said in a low whisper, "Sir?"

"Richie, man the TBT. We're too far away to see anything, but that's about to change."

"Aye, sir."

Fallon turned close to the high-power binoculars, affixed to the railing of the conning tower, what the navy called the Target Bearing Transmitter. The binoculars were connected electronically to the instruments below, part of the system that impressed every officer in the fleet. It was called the TDC, for Torpedo Data Computer, a bulky piece of equipment near the radar station that, in combination with the radar system, could compute a target's speed and heading, which would translate that information for the precise heading and speed the sub should maintain when firing torpedoes. The captain never pretended to know how it worked, and as long as he had crewmen who knew how to operate the thing, that was fine with him. They had already been credited with sinking seven j.a.panese merchant s.h.i.+ps, and if the man who invented the TDC wanted a pat on the back for that, the captain was ready to offer it.

He looked at the glow on the hands of his watch.

"Three-thirty, Richie. We've got maybe two hours before visual. I'm not waiting."

He reached for the microphone, pressed the key.

"Helm. Left full rudder, go to heading two seven zero, maintain fifteen knots."

"Aye, sir. Left full rudder, two seven zero, at one five knots."

"Lieutenant Gordon, secure the radar."

The exec's voice came back immediately, Gordon expecting the order.

"Done, sir."

No need for anyone to pick up our signal, he thought. j.a.p equipment isn't too hot, but they can sure as h.e.l.l pick up a radar beam. He settled back against the steel of the bridge's railing. Now, we wait. As long as they don't change course, we'll run right into them.

The sub was in full turn now, and he braced himself against the steel, the young seaman doing the same. He ignored the compa.s.s, knew that the helm would get it right. Done this too many times. So, who the h.e.l.l's out there? Is he alone? Too far away now, but we'll know pretty soon. We'll keep the radar off for twenty minutes, then give another quick look. Hockley's got a good eye, can pick out whatever the h.e.l.l it is in a flash. j.a.ps can't home in on us if we're quick. I like good surprises, not bad ones. He stared out toward the unseen vessel, his thoughts beginning to race. What the h.e.l.l are you, and where the h.e.l.l do you think you're going? This is my d.a.m.n ocean, pal.

He had dropped down into the cramped conning tower, leaned close to the radar station, had to see it for himself. Above, his executive officer had replaced him in the open air of the bridge, alongside the young seaman, Fallon. There was a high tension throughout the tight s.p.a.ce, the hard familiar odor of grease and bodies, young hands on the switches and controls, every man doing his job in perfect silence. Below his feet, in the s.h.i.+p's control room, he knew it was exactly the same, a little more room, but men elbow to elbow, perched at their various stations, waiting for any order that would put them into action. The captain bent low, stared at the dark screen, said, "All right, Hockley, activate radar. Five seconds only."

Hockley flipped the switch, the round green screen flas.h.i.+ng brightly, both men staring intently, the blip prominent.

"It's moving closer, sir. Eight thousand yards, ten knots. She'll pa.s.s in front of us ..."

"Secure radar. I know where she's heading, son. We'll get a real good look in about fifteen minutes." He turned toward the sonar station, saw another young man, Gifford, earphones clamped to his head. Gifford had his eyes closed, intense concentration, and the captain knew what was coming, waited for it. Gifford's eyes popped open and he looked toward the captain, nodded, a low voice.

"It's a freighter, sir. Pitch too low for a destroyer. The screws are too heavy." He seemed to catch himself, puzzled, and the captain waited for more.

"It sounds like ... two s.h.i.+ps, sir. Two different rhythms."