Whispers of a New Dawn (36 page)

“Bank left! Quickly!”

A fighter overshot their craft and turned quickly to come back.

Becky grabbed the stick in her cockpit. “Relinquish the controls to me, Kali!”

Kalino continued to grip her stick tightly, face rigid as the Japanese plane streaked at them. The front edges of its wings flashed. Moments later the canopy broke open and splintered as bullets cracked into the glass and into both cockpits.

“Let go of the stick!” cried Becky.

But her student’s hand remained frozen.

Becky jumped out of her seat and turned around. “Kali! You have to let go!”

Cold ripped through her head and body at the sight of her lifeless pilot and friend. She reached for her hand, pried it free, squeezed it, and let it fall. Unable to think, she put the Piper into a dive and turned it over and over as she did so. The dark shape of the Japanese plane swept past overhead.

She dropped hundreds of feet before pulling up. Trails of thick smoke littered the sky where Cadets and Pipers had gone down. The two fighters had both pounced on a yellow J-3 that was zigzagging desperately to throw off their aim. Finally it dove but the fighters hurtled after it. Their cowlings flickered. Becky took in her breath sharply as the Piper exploded in a ball of black and orange fire. At the last instant she saw the number on the fuselage and under the wing.

“Manuku!”

T
WENTY
-S
IX

H
ey, Wiz. Hey, Batman.” Raven cracked the door to their room.

“You guys getting up?”

“What time is it?” mumbled Batman.

“Just getting on to oh-eight-hundred.”

“Church isn’t till eleven.”

“Yeah, but you said you were going to go for a five-mile run with me.”

Batman lifted his head and stared at Raven. “I lied.”

“What about Wizard? Wiz, you want to go for a run and clean out the pipes?”

Wizard had his pillow over his head and didn’t respond. Batman grunted and rolled over. “Wiz was at the Wheeler Officers’ Club dance last night. Him and Hani. After he took her home there was an all-night poker game he got suckered into. He might rise from the dead at noon.”

Raven shook his head and closed their door. He spotted Lockjaw and Juggler heading down the corridor. “Hey. Either of you two want to put in a five-mile run?”

“Run?” Lockjaw glanced back. “We’re both looking for coffee. That’s the first order of the day.”

“Maybe after,” said Juggler opening the door of the bachelor officers’ quarters and stepping into the sunshine. “First I need some of Ground Chief Archer’s brew. He always cooks up a pot in one of the hangars.”

Raven joined them. “I can’t run with coffee sloshing around in an empty stomach.”

“He might have water,” said Lockjaw.

“He won’t have water,” responded Raven.

“No, probably not.”

“Just one cup.” Juggler grinned. “One cup, Thunderbird, and I’ll race you to the Ko’olau Mountains.”

“That’s a deal.”

Raven glanced at the P-40s lined up in rows wingtip to wingtip. Suddenly they all rose in the air along with tall columns of dirt and concrete, wings breaking, canopies shattering, huge streaks of red flame rising with them. Raven heard no sound. The planes lifted and turned over, the mud and dirt continued to billow upward, flames and smoke shot into the sky, but still it happened in silence as if it were not real but something he had dreamed up.

Lockjaw saw Raven’s stare and looked. “Hey—” he began.

A wave of sound and heat hit them. The three men winced and ducked as their hair blew backward and the roar of multiple explosions slammed into them. At the same instant several aircraft tore through the air right above their heads.

“Look at the paint scheme!” shouted Juggler. “Look at the red suns! They’re Japanese!”

“That’s a Zeke!” Lockjaw pointed at an olive green fighter banking. “It’s coming in for a strafing run!”

He threw his arms around Raven and Juggler and hauled both of them down with him. The front edges of the fighter’s wings flashed and concrete flew. They kept their arms over their heads as the Zero snarled past and more P-40s burst into flame. Juggler opened one eye to see a dive bomber pull up as black smoke boiled over the airbase.

“Vals are dropping the bombs!” he yelled. “They’re coming in from about five thousand feet! There are at least two dozen of them!”

Lockjaw rammed Juggler’s face into the tarmac. “Everything’s blowing up, Juggler. Keep your mug down or you’ll lose an eye.”

Raven felt the ground shudder beneath him as bomb after bomb targeted the P-40s. The reek of the smoke made him cough and he covered his nose and mouth with his hand. A sudden shock wave that rippled over his back made him glance over his shoulder. A building had just erupted, spewing yellow fire. Two hangars were blazing and overheated ammunition began banging away inside one of them.

“They’re going after everything.” Raven propped himself up on his elbows. “We have to try and save some of our fighters. They could be sending troopships in after this. We need something to fight back with.”

“Yeah.” Lockjaw scanned the sky. “No more Vals. What do you think?”

“Let’s go.”

The three men ran across the airstrip toward several P-40s that hadn’t caught fire. Kicking the blocks from the tires they began to push them away from the flight line to the edge of the runway one after another. After a few minutes Wizard and Batman ran up in their pajamas to help, followed by Whistler and Shooter, both in their boxer shorts.

“Zeros!” Batman shouted. “Scatter!”

Two fighters bore down on the airbase again, shooting up jeeps and trucks and planes and any man in sight. Raven saw tracers take down several of the ground crew. He flattened himself over a grease patch on the cement. The Zeros left and streaked south.

“Okay, that’s it, let’s get back at it.” Lockjaw jumped to his feet. “How many have we saved so far?”

“Twelve,” replied Whistler.

“There’s still a bunch that weren’t hit. Let’s roll them away from the ones that are burning.”

Raven hung back. “I’m going up.”

Lockjaw stopped running. “In what?”

“They never hit my P-36. I’m getting it gassed up and armed and I’m going after those Zekes. The Japanese aren’t going to pull another Nanking here.”

“Nanking? Who’s talking about Nanking? No way can your P-36 go up against a Zero.”

“I’m going up.”

“You’re my wingman, Thunderbird.”

“So crawl into one of your P-40s and let’s do our stuff. If they’re hitting us they’re hitting the other airbases, Lockjaw. For all we know they’re bombing Honolulu. They go after civilian targets in China all the time.”

Lockjaw’s eyes hardened. “Yeah. I’m with you.” He called to the others. “Me and Thunderbird are getting refueled and rearmed and
going after those bandits! If you can find a working plane jump in and run it over to one of the bunkers for gas and ammo!”

Raven leaped into his undamaged P-36, which was parked well away from the P-40s, and started the engine. He took it slowly across the runway to a refueling station and shouted to a few of the ground crew to give him a hand. Smoke and the stink of burning rubber tumbled over them as they pumped gas into the plane and loaded its machine guns with thirty- and fifty-caliber ammunition. Lockjaw was just preparing to make his run for takeoff when Raven’s plane lined up behind his.

“You hear me, Thunderbird?” Raven’s radio crackled.

“Roger.”

“Let’s get airborne.”

One of Raven’s refuelers waved for him to open his canopy. He hauled it back.

“What is it?” he asked.

“We just received word they’re hitting Pearl Harbor. Dive bombers, torpedo bombers, Zeros, the works.”

“They’re attacking Pearl Harbor,” Raven told Lockjaw. “They must be after the fleet.”

Lockjaw’s voice crackled back. “They’ve probably taken out the planes at Hickam and Ford too. We better get over there and give our navy boys a hand.”

“You get up. I’ll be right behind you.”

Raven began to pull his canopy shut when the refueler shouted, “Something else, sir!”

“What is it?”

The man hesitated. “It’s not confirmed. But I thought you’d better know.”

“Spit it out.”

“Word is they went after civilian aircraft too, sir. Peterson’s Air Service was strafed. Every Piper J-3 he had up in the air this morning has been shot down.”

T
WENTY
-S
EVEN

M
an battle stations!”

Dave Goff jumped out of his bunk, stripped off his pajamas, and threw on his uniform.

“What’s up?” he asked the man next to him who was yanking on his shoes.

The man shook his head. “Another crazy drill. Why Sunday morning?”

They joined scores of other men who were pounding up the metal staircase. Rushing onto the top deck, Goff saw clouds of smoke pouring from Ford Island.

“What’s the fire?” a man shouted. “What’s the fire?”

“Airplanes and hangars are burning!” an officer yelled back.

“How did it start?”

Five or six aircraft zoomed past the
Arizona
flying low.

The paint is wrong for army planes
, thought Goff.
It’s like an olive tan. Who uses that?

“They’re dropping torpedoes!” A sailor pointed. “Are they nuts?”

Long black shapes fell into the water. Everyone on deck could see them streak toward the
West Virginia
a few hundred yards away. Water and smoke shot into the sky with a roar and the
West Virginia
rocked at its mooring. Seconds later pillars of flame blasted up from the
Oklahoma
and the huge ship jerked sideways.

“Zekes!”

Several fighters raced through the harbor, machine-gunning the
decks of the battleships and the men struggling in the water. A column of spray suddenly erupted off the
Arizona
’s port bow and drenched Goff as he ran forward.

“Enemy dive bombers!”

Airplanes with red suns snarled past. Near misses sent seawater soaring into the air. Bombs whistled and groaned. The steel of the
Arizona
shrieked as a bomb exploded at the stern.

“What’s been hit? What’s been hit?”

Goff continued to make his way forward to gun turret II. Blasts on the port side, one striking the five-inch antiaircraft battery, knocked him off balance. Gunfire from the
Maryland
peppered the olive-green aircraft that swooped down on Pearl Harbor. One disintegrated in front of him, fire peeling open its wings and canopy, the pilot a screaming torch, the fuselage flying into dozens of pieces and scattering over the water.

“The
Nevada
is making steam!”

The AA batteries on the
Nevada
were thumping and smoke streamed from its single funnel as it prepared to cast off. Goff watched its flak pluck a Kate torpedo bomber out of the air and hurl it blazing into the sea.

“Goff! You made it!” An officer slapped him on the back as he entered turret II, just back from the bow and behind turret I. “How is it out there?”

“The sky’s thick with enemy planes, sir. They’ve torpedoed the
West Virginia
and the
Oklahoma
. The
Nevada
’s getting ready to make way. She’s not anchored next to anyone so she’s free to move.”

“The
Tennessee
? The
Maryland
?”

“There’s so much smoke and confusion, sir. They’re afloat and fighting back. That’s all I can tell.”

“What about ourselves? I heard explosions.”

“Dive bombers hit us. At the stern. And on the port side. One of our AA guns is out.”

“All right. Our turn to give it back. I need you to bring the ammo up from the forward magazine with the hoist, feed it, and handle the ejected shell casings. I have no idea where our loaders are.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“We’ve got a few shells ready to go here in the turret. Can’t do much against the planes unless they come in at mast level. But for all we know the Japanese are sending ships up the inlet past Hospital Point. If we spot ’em we’ll blow ’em out of the water.”

The gunner’s mate hollered, “Maximum elevation, thirty degrees!”

“Aye!” came the response. “Maximum elevation, thirty degrees!”

The officer hissed, “We’ll try to pick off the torpedo bombers coming in low over Ford Island.”

“We’re loaded up! Commence firing!”

“Open fire!”

Goff clapped his hands to his ears as the three fourteen-inch guns thundered. Brown smoke curled around the turret. He worked the machinery with another sailor, got the casings free, and propelled another set of shells into the triple breeches. Part of his mind worked at loading while another part prayed.

Men are going to die. Men have already died. I might be one of them. Whatever happens, Lord, stick with me. Stick closer than a brother
.