Newt Gingrich Rewrites History

April 29, 2008 — -- Former House speaker-turned-author Newt Gingrich picks up right where he left off in his new book, "Days of Infamy."

Along with co-author William R. Forstchen, Gingrich has penned an adventure series about World War II in the Pacific where the authors contemplate how a change in one decision might have altered American history profoundly.

The pair's latest book is a follow-up to its first, which became a New York Times best-seller in 2007.

"Infamy" begins minutes after the close of their previous book, "Pearl Harbor: A Novel of December 8th, 1941." Read an excerpt of the book below.

Kailua, east shore of Oahu
December 7, 1941
22:50 hrs local time

Commander James Watson sat back in the chair, closed his eyes, and tried not to think about what was coming next. His wife and mother-in-law were whispering in the next room, debating if they should treat his wounded arm or not.

Don't think about it, think about something else, anything else, anything but today and the war.

And yet his mind would not cooperate. He had been in the Navy for over twenty-five years, nearly all that time without ever hearing a shot fired in anger, his job as a cryptanalyst, a code breaker, almost clerklike. Random chance seemed to have placed him aboard the ill-fated Panay, the American gunboat sunk by the Japanese in China. One could almost say he was one of the first casualties of this war, even though that wounding was nearly four years ago, back in 1937, a wound that had cost him his left hand. Retired out as disabled, he thought his life would be one of peace, teaching higher math at the University here in Oahu, until called back to service eleven months ago, lured back into the world of code breaking in the basement of CinCPac, Commander in Chief, Pacific, where he and his comrades had labored away tracking and trying to break the secrets of Japanese military signals. If war came again, he believed, he would experience it in the monastic basement office where never a shot would be heard.

Some dream, he thought, flinching as another wave of pain shot up his arm. He and his CO, Captain Collingwood, had suspected an attack might be coming toward Pearl, in fact he had actually written an urgent "eyes only" memo up to the top of the command chain, warning that a Japanese fleet might be in range of the Hawaiian Islands on the morning of December 7. And of course no one had listened.

Incredible, he thought, wounded yet again, in nearly the same spot, the stump of my left hand, hit when Arizona blew up. Damn, if I had not been hit while on the Panay four years ago, chances are I'd have lost the hand today. Is Fate trying to tell me something?

Another thought flashed through: the last Japanese strike plane departing the target area after their third attack—an attack which had devastated the oil tank farms, shattered the main dry dock, and truly rendered Pearl Harbor ineffective as a base for months to come—the way that plane was flown: audacity, courage. He wondered. Could it possibly be his old friend Fuchida at the controls? Strange he should think of him now, at this moment. They had only met once, at the Japanese Naval Academy ten years ago, when he had paid a courtesy call there and given a brief talk. Their correspondence had stopped as the crisis between their two nations deepened. He found himself wondering if Fuchida was out there, even now, planning another attack. So strange. I'd kill him if given the chance, and yet I still do think of him as a friend. It made him think of the poem by Thomas Hardy, about killing an enemy soldier but if you met him in a pub you'd buy him a drink or "help [him] to half a crown."

He heard a sigh, his mother-in-law sitting down beside him. He opened his eyes.

"You really do need stitches, James," she whispered. "I can do it, but we think you should go to hospital instead."

His mother-in-law, Nana, spoke in Japanese, peering thoughtfully at the wound, the bandage Margaret had put on it soaked clean through, and now peeled back.

"It will be OK, Nan," James replied. Given that her name was so similar to the American endearment for a beloved grandmother, he just simply called her Nan.

He looked down at the stump of his left arm, the hand lost in the Panay incident of 1937, and now, this morning, damn it, wounded there yet again, whether by a fragment from the exploding Arizona, Japanese strafing, or just random debris crashing down around him, he would never know. But he did know that it hurt, it hurt badly.

The side of the stump was slashed open nearly to the bone, and as Margaret had gingerly removed the leather straps of his mechanical "claw" he thought he would pass out from the firelike agony that was nearly as bad as the pain of original wound had been four years ago.

Margaret, sitting at the kitchen table by his side, held his right hand tightly.

"She's right. I can drive you over to Fort Bellows infirmary right now."

He shook his head. They did not know the chaos that undoubtedly reigned there; he did. And second, he did not want either of them anywhere near a military base right now. Random shots echoed from nearby Fort Bellows and an occasional thump from more distant Kaneohe. Everyone was on edge, panic stricken, and frankly he feared that the mere sight of his mother-in-law, or even his wife, who had mostly Japanese features, might set some hothead off. He remembered the nisei lined up, with hands over their heads, as he drove past a police station in Honolulu when coming home this afternoon. There was no telling how things might get on this island regarding Japanese civilians during a terror-filled night. And beyond that, there was no telling what the Japanese navy might do next.

"Stitch it up here," he said softly, forcing a smile. "Come on, Nan, you've dealt with worse."

As a child she had worked in the pineapple fields of the Dole plantation, carting water to the workers, and helping to stitch up more than one wound from machetes and the sharp prickly leaves of the plant that had provided a financial empire for some, and drudgery of the worst kind for the thousands of immigrants imported into the island to do the backbreaking labor. Nana had come over as a young woman in 1898, the same year the island was incorporated as a territory, and there met a Portuguese fisherman, with whom she had three children, with Margaret being the youngest. Tragically, two had died in the great flu epidemic of 1918, so Margaret, her Americanized name, held a special place in Nan's heart.

When first they had met during his posting to Pearl in 1920, the year Nan's husband died, lost in a storm, there had been an instant bond between Nan and him, as if he were a lost son, and in some ways a protective husband and father. Since he had never known his own mother, who died giving him life, Nan filled a deep role in his heart as well.

In some ways the marriage to Margaret, and his closeness to Nan, had changed his career as well. Languages had always come easily for him, and though the Japanese he learned was colloquial, nevertheless it made him one of the very few officers in the United States Navy who had a mastery of the language of what up until earlier this day was seen as a potential enemy but not truly a serious threat and now was a real enemy and a most serious threat indeed.

With the suggestion that she handle the surgery to his injured arm, Nan visibly trembled but then nodded, becoming her old stoic self. She went into her bedroom and came back out a minute later with her sewing kit. Margaret helped her, bringing a small pot of water to boil, dumping in a couple of large needles her mother had chosen and a long length of thread.

As he watched them, he suddenly regretted his own bravado, feeling a bit lightheaded. Memories of the Panay hit him. He remembered lying in the mud, a chief petty officer tying a tourniquet around his lower arm. He remembered the raging infection that hit within a day, the amputation of his hand while he was still awake, and the doctor fearing to use a general anesthetic because of the pneumonia that had hit him due to his aspirating the fetid waters of the Yangtze River.

Now that his mother-in-law actually had something to do, she was all business, watching the water boil, telling her daughter to wash her hands and then pour more iodine into the wound.

The sting of the iodine as Margaret gingerly pushed back the fold of puffy flesh made his head swim, and at the sight of his pain Margaret struggled to stifle her tears.

"No crying now," Nan announced. "Be brave like him."

Brave like him? He was all but ready to collapse in panic as his mother-in-law doused her own hands in iodine, fished the needle out of the boiling water with a spatula, did the same with the thread, expertly threaded the sewing needle, then turned to face him.

"Maybe you look away," she said in English, sitting down by his side. First she pried the wound open, looking at it carefully. The cut went clear to the stump of bone, blood rapidly oozing out as she spread it open.

"Don't see anything in there, looks like what hit you slashed across," she said in Japanese.

She gently closed the wound then held a needle aloft. Margaret grasped his good hand and he focused on her eyes.

Surprisingly the first puncture of the needle really didn't hurt all that much more, but after the third or fourth stitch, as she tightened the thread, pulling the open folds of the wound in together, he had to fight down the urge to scream. Even if he wanted to pull away he couldn't; the old woman with a powerful left hand was holding his arm in place, even as she stitched with her right hand.

Another eight to ten stitches went in. She even started to hum softly, and that did bring tears to his eyes. It was a traditional Japanese lullaby, one she used to hum to their lost child David when he was a boy, and also when he was sick and dying from leukemia nearly a decade ago.

From the corner of his eye he saw her draw the needle up one more time, bring it down, tie it off, bite the end of the thread off, and then smile.

"Good job," she announced proudly, and he looked down at her handiwork and, in spite of the pain, nodded. The stitches were well placed, even, close together.

The old woman wiped the bloody needle on her dress sleeve, dropped it back into her sewing kit, and then bandaged the wound.

"You go to bed," she ordered.

He fumbled in his breast pocket. It was empty, but for once Margaret did not object and reached around behind him for the half-finished pack of Lucky Strikes. She put one to his lips and even flicked his Zippo lighter.

"Thanks."

"Don't make it a habit," Margaret said, trying to force a smile. Leaning up, she kissed him on the forehead. "I plan to keep you around for a long time yet. The enemy can't kill you but those damn cigarettes will."

Funny the way she chose the word enemy. She was half Japanese. She couldn't bring herself to use the word Jap, but there was a bitter snap to how she said "enemy."

"I really should go back to the base."

"Not tonight you won't," Margaret replied forcefully, and her mother looked over her shoulder and nodded agreement.

"There is nothing more you can do tonight. Besides, you said your building was destroyed, and what will they need with a cryptographer anyhow?"

He looked at her a bit startled. In the eleven months since he had been called back to duty, not once had he used that word. He had even lectured his wife and mother-in-law on the fact that he could never discuss with them anything about his job other than that it had something to do with math.

"What secrets does a wife not know?" she said with a soft smile. "Remember I do your laundry, and you do have a habit of talking in your sleep at times."

She leaned over and kissed him again.

"Don't worry, dear. I'm not a gossip or a boaster the way some of these navy wives are. Your secret is good with me."

A flash illuminated the room. For a split second civilian thinking still held sway: it was a lightning bolt. Then more flashes, strobelike, one on another spaced fractions of a second apart. His mother-in-law stood by the kitchen sink, the light cascading in from the open window, covered by a curtain.

All three remained frozen in place, James unable to react.

Surely it couldn't be?

There was still silence, though out in the street below he heard screaming, panicked voices. A gunshot echoed.

A burst of blue glowing light ignited, holding steady, redoubling a second later, and then redoubling again. He thought he heard, as well, the distant sound of a plane engine, drawing closer.

He came to his feet, and going to the kitchen sink pulled the curtain back, ignoring the blackout order.

And he saw it, hovering over the airbase at Kaneohe, illumination flares floating in the sky.

The drone of the engine grew louder, and he pulled open the side door from the kitchen that led out to the open lanai and looked up.

Nothing for a moment. Another gunshot from the street, followed by several more.

"The Japs are coming! The Japs!" It was his neighbor, Ed Simpson, shouting wildly, pointing his pump shotgun to the sky and then firing again.

And now, out to sea, more flashes, several dozen and concurrent. At last came the distant sound of thunder from the first salvo of star shells.

"James?"

Margaret was by his side, clutching his left arm, forgetting about his wound and the pain it caused, his mother-in-law standing fearfully behind him, peering out from around his shoulder.

He counted the seconds, ten, fifteen . . . and then the impacts on the naval airfield, where a dozen fires still raged from the earlier attacks.

Seconds later the shock wave could be felt in the soles of his feet, and then finally the distant rumble of the explosions of five-, six-, and fourteen-inch shells.

He turned and looked to his right. Fort Bellows was but a half mile distant, upslope. There was a single flash of light in reply, a couple of seconds later the concussion of the lone eight-inch coastal gun washing over them, causing Margaret and her mother to jump.

More flashes out to sea. He had them sighted now, standing out in stark relief against the nearly full moon rising behind them. It was hard to judge, but it was apparent the ships out there were moving southward. If they were hitting Kaneohe, Bellows would be next, most likely within a few minutes, and their small town of Kailua was smack in the middle between the two.

"We're getting out of here now!" he shouted. "Margaret, get the keys for the car."

"James?"

"Now. We're getting out of here now!"

He turned to go back into the house. Wincing, he struggled to get his soiled, bloodstained uniform jacket back on.

Then Margaret was by his side, helping him to get the jacket up over his shoulder, taking the time to button it up. Though long ago he had mastered getting dressed and properly buttoned with one hand, Margaret had always insisted upon helping when she was around, and frankly even at this moment, it was still endearing.

A thought hit him about the panic that was breaking out. He opened up the drawer of the nightstand by his side of the bed and pulled out a heavy Smith & Wesson .38 revolver, snapped it open to check if it was loaded, closed it, and stuck it into his belt, the weight of it making him feel a bit ridiculous, like some desperado. For safety he had always kept the cylinder under the hammer empty; more than one idiot had accidentally shot himself carrying a gun with a cartridge under the hammer. He pulled out a box of shells and stuffed them into his pocket.

Margaret, watching him, said nothing. She hated guns, objected to his keeping a loaded pistol in their bedroom, but she didn't object now.

"Where's Mother?" she asked.

He looked around. She had disappeared.

"Damn it, Mother!"

He headed for her bedroom and found her there. She was on her knees, a tattered cardboard box pulled out from under her bed. Weeping, she was carefully sorting through aged, yellowed photographs, setting some aside.

"We don't have time now, Mother," he said, trying to be gentle.

She looked up at him, crying.

"These are all I have," she said in Japanese, and a lump came to his throat when he saw that most of the photos she was drawing out of the box were of her and David, one a framed picture of him on his baptism day, his grandmother proudly holding him.

Nothing had ever been said between Margaret and him about it, but there was only one small photograph of David on display in their house, on Margaret's vanity, her favorite picture of the two of them on his first day at kindergarten, her little boy about to face the world . . . and David was clutching her, arms around her shoulders, crying in front of the school, and she in tears, trying to smile bravely as he had taken the image. He did not know that his mother-in-law, had, in fact, saved all the other photographs across the years. On the day David died, in a blind fit of anguish, he had taken the photographs down from the walls, swept them off tables and mantle tops, and thrown them out. She had obviously recovered every one of them.

If he had lived, David would be eighteen now. Eighteen and ever so proud of his father, he might have gone into the Navy, and perhaps at this moment be down in that hellhole at Kaneohe, or dead back at Pearl Harbor.

"Take that one," he finally said, pointing to the baptism photograph, struggling to hold back his own tears as he reached out with his one hand and got her to her feet.

Clutching the one photograph, she headed for the door, Margaret running to hurry her along, and he could not help but notice that Margaret was cradling her favorite photograph of David as well.

They went out the front door and Margaret paused to fumble with the keys. Though one rarely locked one's home in this neighborhood, she now planned to.

"To hell with that," he shouted, moving the two of them along to the car.

And then, in that instant, it hit, the shock wave of two fourteen-inch shells racing overhead. He had heard such big guns fired before, hundreds of times while aboard the Maryland or Oklahoma, but never like this, never on the receiving end. He had heard it described as sounding like a freight train roaring down a mountainside. He had never heard anything like it in real life. A split second later the two shells impacted two hundred fifty yards away, and three hundred yards short of one of the coastal gun positions at Bellows.

It took just under a second for the shock wave to hit them—and when it did strike, it was with hurricane force, palm fronds flapping, several breaking off from the trees around their house to come clattering down, one smashing a window, followed by a heavy thundering patter of debris, shrapnel, clods of dirt, and broken bits of trees rained down around them.

He instinctively put his arms around Margaret and Nan, forcing them down, until the storm had passed.

"Up! Move it!"

He started to open the driver's-side door, but Margaret shoved him aside.

"I'm driving," she cried. Gone was the usually loving deference of his bride, who still carried a touch of her mother's traditions. She was now thoroughly American. She had a wounded husband who even with his claw on had to take it a bit slow around some of the curves while trying to shift gears—and she was in charge.

His mother-in-law was already in the backseat. He went around the '37 Plymouth and slid in on the passenger side even as the engine roared to life and Margaret slammed it into gear.

Tires squealing, she went down the steep driveway, nearly hitting the Johnstons' Studebaker, which was careering down the street.

"Damn Japs, damn all you Japs!"

It was Ed Simpson, now down on the street, vaguely waving his shotgun toward them.

Margaret, in yet another uncharacteristic gesture, gave Ed the finger, hit the gas, and they were off.

"Where to?" she asked, anger in her voice.

He didn't know how to respond. Was the bombardment the prelude to a night landing? War games had theorized that if the Japs did attack and attempt a landing, a diversionary force might come into Kaneohe Bay, which could serve as a sheltered anchorage and secure the windward side of the island. In a protracted fight for the island, the airbases at Kaneohe and Bellows could be used by their bombers and fighters.

This could very well be the softening-up blow for that invasion. Get away from here, then. But where?

"Your cousin Janice," he finally said. Margaret nodded in agreement, taking the next corner fast and hard, weaving around a car backing out of a driveway with headlights off, dodging around people standing in the street. Ahead he saw traffic, cars, the taillights of dozens of cars, their drivers and families all filled with the same thought. Head up Pali Highway and get the hell away from here.

And now he heard it again, but this wasn't a single salvo, it was a continual roar—dozens of shells screeching in, searching out Bellows, which was illuminated by star shells. Several of the fourteen-inch shells were short, one of them impacting into a storefront, a hair salon that Margaret frequented, just a block ahead. The explosion flipped a car high into the air, end over end, buildings to either side collapsing, and a geyser of water erupting up from a broken water main.

Margaret, now cursing loudly against the "damn Japs," wove around the wreckage like an expert, her mother sobbing at the sight of the broken bodies that had been torn apart by the blast.

Margaret ran the red light at the intersection, nearly getting hit by an old Model A as she skidded on to State Highway 61, where traffic was growing heavier by the second as more and more, in panic, started to flee, ignoring the orders of martial law. A lone cop, flanked by a portly national guardsman, holding an '03, stood impotent at an intersection, just watching the traffic race by.

And then everything slammed to a crawl, the twisting two-lane road ahead bumper to bumper.

More flashes of light, the air continually rent by the howl of incoming shells, impacting around Fort Bellows and the coastal gun positions up on the mountain slope. Several of the fort's guns were firing back, and cynically he knew that given the antiquity of the weapons and the ill-trained crews manning them, their reply fire was most likely splashing down miles wide of any target.

Crawling along at not much more than ten miles an hour, they started to gain up the side of the mountain, and he could see the ocean off to their left. Flashes continually rippled up and down along the horizon. Two heavy ships, undoubtedly battleships, were firing. Smaller, more rapid firing from closer in—those were destroyers—but then every couple of minutes, with almost stately precision, two giant eruptions of light, each turret lighting off a few seconds after the next, the gun blasts so brilliant, even from five or more miles out, as to cast shadows on the mountains, followed fifteen seconds or so later by geysering impacts of fourteen-inch shells, the concussion, even at this distance, numbing.

December 7, 1941

23:50 hrs local time

"God damn it!"

Admiral Halsey angrily rose from his chair, gaze fixed on the loudspeaker, as if it were an offending messenger and somehow he could take his rage out on it.

He turned to his signals officer.

"Broadcast that through the entire ship."

"Sir?"

"Are you deaf? You heard me. I want that broadcast through the entire ship now."

"Sir." It was Captain George Murray, who was in direct command of Enterprise. "The crew is exhausted. They need to get some sleep."

He hesitated for only the briefest instant, weighing the option.

"I want them to hear this. I want them to hear what they are fighting. Switch it on!"

He stalked out of the CIC and up to the bridge, the blackout switch automatically turning off the light in the corridor as he pulled the door to the bridge open, the glassed-in bridge illuminated only by red lighting.

"Admiral on the bridge."

No one turned, though all stiffened even as they stayed focused on their duty.

He looked over at the senior officer on the bridge, a young lieutenant, only a few years out of Annapolis.

"No change, sir," he reported stiffly, "heading 355, at ten knots. Course change to heading 040 degrees to commence in"—he paused and looked at the chronometer, illuminated by a dull red light—"in ten minutes, sir."

"Carry on."

He walked out onto the open bridge, again the ritual of announcing his presence, no one daring to look back at him, observers posted at each corner, scanning with night binoculars, watching both their escorting destroyers, one of them silhouetted by the moon, which was now coasting higher in the southern sky.

Damn, a good night for a hunting sub.

It made his stomach knot up. Take but one torpedo now, on this the first day of the war. Take me out of this fight before we can even start. The thought was enough to make him sick.

He knew the crews of his escorts were on full alert, double watch posted, but they were moonlit on a sea that was flattening out. One of those bastards could be out there right now, setting up for a shot.

The loudspeaker out on the open bridge crackled.

"All hands, all hands." It was Captain Murray. "By order of the admiral. This is a broadcast from a civilian station in Honolulu."

The loudspeaker crackled again, signal lost for a moment, wavering, and then came in clear.

"Three more explosions. I can see them. The Royal Hawaiian Hotel is burning." The signal wavered for a moment. "A Jap ship is lying in close to the shore at Waikiki. I can see the flashes of its guns." A long pause. "I've just been handed this. Do not leave your homes. The island is under martial law. Only military personnel or those authorized civilians reporting to bases, hospitals, or emergency centers will be allowed onto roads. I repeat . . . stay in your homes. Turn off all lights, turn off gas lines. Do not use your phones. . . ."

No one on the bridge spoke, Halsey stood silent, looking out to sea, to the northeast, as if somehow he could actually see the flashes of battle.

"Oh my God, this is close, I think right over my head." A rumbling sound overwhelmed the announcer's voice, followed several seconds later by an explosion that overloaded the broadcast signal.

"That was damn close," the announcer gasped, barely audible. "They're bombarding downtown Honolulu now. I'm not sure how much longer we'll be on the air."

A moment later he could feel Enterprise beginning to heel over slightly as it turned forty-five degrees to starboard, zigzagging. He looked back into the bridge. It was exactly two minutes past midnight.

A minute later they trimmed out onto their new heading. His helmsman was good—not the slightest deviation, no need to correct by even a degree or two. In the moonlight he could see the one escort on the exact same heading.

"I can see explosions. I think they're hitting Hickam," the radio crackled, signal wavering for a moment. "I've just received this. There is a desperate need for all negative type blood, especially AB negative, and positive as well. Please report to your nearest fire station where blood banks are being established. If stopped by military patrols, have them escort you to the nearest fire station. . . . There's more explosions, they're pouring it in now. My God it's horrible, just horrible."

Damn, he wished now someone would get the damn station to shut up. The Japs would, of course, be listening as well, helping them to adjust fire.

He went back in to the bridge, picked up a phone linking him back to the CIC.

"Turn that off, put me on."

"This is Halsey," he said, voice cold, even-pitched, his voice echoing through the ship.

"You just heard it. The damn Japs are bombarding Honolulu. Our civilians are now targets. Some of you men have families there, all of us have friends there. Now you know what we are fighting. At dawn we launch and we'll send those bastards to hell.

"That is all."

He slammed the phone back down into its cradle.

No one on the bridge spoke. He stalked over to his chair and settled in.

At first light he'd launch, with only sixty-four planes on board. Instinct told him that the bombarding force might very well be a lure to bring him into range and reveal his position. But there was no way in hell he was going to back off now. If anything, he just might get in the first punch and catch them by surprise.

Go in harm's way!

That had been drilled into him nearly forty years ago back at the Academy. John Paul Jones's words were engraved on the soul of every midshipman. He had trained for this moment across all the years since. He knew the odds. There had to be at least four Jap carriers out there, maybe five or six, and if he launched first against the bombarding fleet, he could expect a full counterblow.

After the first two attacks, there had been an attempt to set a rendezvous with Lexington, but both ships were now holding to complete radio silence after the third attack and what was assumed to be the destruction of CinCPac on Oahu. Without radio contact from the island to coordinate their movements without their having to reply, neither he nor his counterpart on Lexington, Admiral Newton, was willing to risk disclosing their location by maintaining radio contact. He and Lexington would have to go it alone. To try and coordinate could very well bring in every Jap sub and surface ship within a hundred miles. Anyway, American doctrine had been for carriers to fight in units of one and avoid offering the enemy a bunched-up target. Being on his own felt comfortable and was exactly what they had practiced in peacetime.

If this was Enterprise's last day, they would take as many Japs as possible with them.

IJN battleship Hiei
Five miles south-southeast of the main channel into Pearl Harbor
December 8, 1941
00:31 hrs local time

"Commence firing on Pearl Harbor," Captain Nishida Maseo, commander of the Imperial Japanese Navy battleship Hiei, announced.

Around him was a flurry of action. His gunnery control officer turned and picked up the telephone linking to the fire control center, where their elite crew, who had so long anticipated this moment, was standing ready. The bombardments of the last hour and a half, hammering the air and army bases at Kaneohe and Fort Bellows, with several salvos into Fort Shafter and Honolulu, had been but a preliminary. They had saved the bulk of their precious fourteen-inch shells for this moment, this moment when the real bombardment, the unleashing of hell would truly begin.

With their sister ship Kirishima following a mile astern, firing three hundred shells as well, they would lay down the equivalent destructive load of a six-hundred-plane air strike in the next two hours. Let Yamamoto talk of his carrier-based planes. Now was the moment to prove that it was battleships after all that would ultimately prove who was still the queen of battle upon the seas. The additional weight of the five- and six-inch secondary batteries on both ships, and the guns of their escorting destroyers and cruiser, would add yet even more chaos.

He could feel the vibration, the four massive turrets, each packing two guns of fourteen-inch caliber, rotating, imagine in the fire control room the final coordinates being fed in, observations from the scout plane circling above Pearl, even now dropping illumination flares over the still flaming dockyards, oil tanks, submarine pens, workshops, and hulks of the now impotent American battleships. If the Americans thought they had faced the fury of Japan before, they were mistaken. In a few more minutes they would know what true fury was.

Each salvo would be eight shells, each loaded with half a ton of high explosives, each shell capable of shattering anything within a hundred meters of impact. A hundred of them, capable of completely obliterating a square kilometer of ground and anything resting upon it.

The massive turrets, illuminated by the beams of moonlight, were visible from the armored bridge. To stand in the open now would shatter the eardrums of any man not well protected.

A klaxon sounded, the signal that the huge batteries, the massive fourteen-inches guns raised, were poised, waiting for the moment when stabilizing gyroscopes indicated that the guns were laying true and level.

The first turret lit off, its minute adjustments in angle and declination decided by the fire control team decks below in the armored citadel where the guns were controlled, though individual turret commanders could direct fire as well if need be.

The recoil of the fourteen-inchers actually staggered the ship. Those ill prepared and not braced for the blow were knocked off their feet by the massive recoil. Number two turret followed suit several seconds later, and then number three and four aft fired. Tons of shells winged upward, climbing to well over twenty thousand feet, reaching apogee, and then started to shriek down on the island. A mile astern the Kirishima exploded with a similar salvo. Sixteen massive blows were about to impact the wreckage-strewn Pearl Harbor and Hickam.

Pearl Harbor
December 8, 1941
00:32 hrs local time

He finally left his car in a side parking lot, beyond the main gate into the naval base. Traffic into the base was a mad tangle, stalled by a head-on collision between a Dodge convertible and an Army truck that apparently had come barreling out of a side street and plowed into the Dodge. Corpsmen were working on the driver of the Dodge as James stepped around him, the poor man a bloody mess, the driver of the army truck standing there woodenly, bleeding from a bad scalp wound and a broken nose.

As he looked around, he wasn't sure where exactly to go now that he was here. His headquarters was gone. He was not, in a sense, a fighting man. There were more than enough sailors, marines, and even some infantry swarming about in confusion, toting Springfields and BARs. A team trotted past carrying a heavy .50-caliber water-cooled machine gun.

He felt out of place now, wondering if he was just getting in the way. He couldn't even pitch in to help with the wreckage, or lift a stretcher; hell, he felt so light-headed he wondered if he should be on a stretcher himself.

Everything was illuminated by a lurid dim light, the flaming oil tank farms burning close enough that he could feel the radiant heat. Out in the harbor, Arizona, or what was left of it, was still awash in flames, thick coils of oily smoke from all the fires casting a heavy pall over the entire harbor and base, choking, dulling the illuminating fires so that there was a Dantesque feel to the entire scene, as if he had stepped into the first circle of hell.

He'd try for what was left of the office of CinCPac. Maybe someone there could give directions, point him to where Collingwood and the rest of the team were trying to set up operations, if such a thing was possible.

A brilliant, nearly blinding blue light ignited almost straight overhead just as he reached the main gate, which was still intact. All around him paused, looked up, pointing. A panicked sailor shouted, shouldering his Springfield and squeezing off a round at the parachute flare that hung several thousand feet above the base. A second flare burst into radiant brilliance, and there was the distant drone of a plane engine.

"We got incoming!" someone screamed.

A mad jostle started, men beginning to run, without direction, some diving to ground, others going beneath cars. A .30-caliber machine gun, emplaced in a circular sand bag pit by the gatehouse, pointed straight up and started to shoot blindly, tracers arcing up, and seconds later, dozens of guns were firing in panic.

He just stood there, watching, and then he heard it, that damn freight train rumble. He had driven from one bombardment straight into another.

The first two shells detonated somewhere over on Ford's Island, brilliant flashes of light. Several seconds later, two more. He could see dimly through the smoke a high geyser lifting up near the overturned Oklahoma, which was illuminated by the dozens of arc welders who were frantically cutting holes into the bottom of the ship, still trying to rescue comrades trapped within.

December 8, 1941

01:10 hrs local time

Captain Nagita actually smiled at the obscene interchange between one of his spotters and the American who had momentarily interrupted their fire control, even though his final insult was directed against the Emperor, which triggered cries of outrage in the radio room from those who understood English. Clumsy—the man's accent was obviously foreign, colloquial Japanese, not the precise, highly trained phraseology that all observers were drilled in as a precaution against just such a measure. But still it had delayed one salvo.

So far, they had fired off one hundred forty rounds of high explosive shells, nearly half of their entire allotment, the firing mission to leave sixty high explosive shells in reserve. Their full reserve of one hundred sixty-five armor-piercing rounds for any ship-to-ship action was, as yet, untouched.

He had ordered that each magazine hoist have armor-piercing shells ready to shift over immediately if any enemy ships did attempt to sortie, but so far, according to the spotters, it appeared as if the main channel was still blocked, and the two submarines that had supposedly gained position at the entryway into Pearl Harbor had not reported in.

The klaxon sounded again. Seconds later, each of his four turrets lit off in sequence with their massive loads, the ship actually heeling over, its thirty-six-thousand-ton bulk shoved nearly half a meter to port by the concussive blows.

The infirmary already was reporting nearly a score of injuries, including one man dead in number two turret. He had not stepped clear of the terrifying recoil of the gun breech, and the life was crushed out of him in but a fraction of a second. Though the crew was well drilled, this was their first taste of actual combat.

The lighter five- and six-inch guns continued to bark away, firing randomly into the general area of Pearl Harbor. Their random fire was intentional, designed to sow confusion and fear, shells striking without warning between the heavier impacts of the main batteries.

He looked up at the bulkhead chronometer. A little more than four hours to the beginning of nautical twilight; an hour and twenty minutes left to this mission.

Yamamoto might be cavalier about risking battleships, but then again he always was heretical in his views. Five miles off the enemy coast Nagita felt naked. The fires lighting the shore from Waikiki over to Pearl Harbor were a glowing beacon that could silhouette any ship even twenty miles out. He had always felt that the number of escorts assigned to the entire task force was far too small: only nine destroyers, two heavy cruisers and one light one, and now his commander had split the fleet, Yamamoto giving him but two destroyers and the cruiser Tone as protection against submarines or the prospect that the Americans might have been able to slip something out of the harbor, or for that matter bring something up from farther out to sea.

Regardless of what Yamamoto wanted, he'd stay on station here for only one more hour, then find reason to pull out and put a good hundred nautical miles between this prize of the Imperial Japanese fleet and any enemy shoreline.

They had reduced their rate of fire to a salvo every four minutes to conserve ammunition and also to give the guns time to cool. A sustained rate of fire much beyond that, justified in a battleship-to-battleship fight, but not here, would cause excessive wear on the precious gun barrels.

He could feel the rumble of the turrets slowly shifting as the ship made a steady ten knots, running due west. In seven more minutes they would come about and trace back, fire lifting to hit Hickam again, and then back over to Fort Shafter, which to everyone's amazement was continuing to fire back defiantly, but with absolutely no result other than a single near miss on a destroyer more than half an hour ago.

"Enemy ships to port!"

Startled, he turned away from gazing at the distant shore, cursing inwardly, night vision dulled by the glaring fires.

The warning had come via an observer aloft in the fire control tower, rung down and announced from the phone by a young ensign, obviously rattled by the news.

Nagita fixed him with a cool gaze.

"I want a bearing, and repeat the order calmly or you will be ordered off this bridge!"

The ensign gulped, nodded, spoke into the phone, and then looked back up.

"Sir. Enemy ships to port, bearing 170 degrees, range estimated nine thousand meters!"

"Fire star shells from our secondary batteries to port!" Nagita announced fiercely, his attention now turned away from the bombardment. "Order all main batteries to shift to armor piercing!"

Aboard the Ward

01:15 hrs local time

rear admiral draemel was silent out on the open bridge, night binoculars raised, trained straight ahead.

The silhouettes of the Jap battleships stood out clear against the blazing skyline of Oahu. Each bursting salvo on the all but defenseless base and city was a nightmare to watch.

How he had managed to slip out unnoticed was still a mystery to him. He had tried to sortie with every available ship that could turn screws, but after getting but three destroyers out to rendezvous with Minneapolis, his cruiser, Detroit, hung up on the wreckage in the main channel, blocking it off.

Ward had come in to pick him up. He was a bit surprised the young commander had risked this until he was piped aboard and recognized him as one of his cadets from the Academy, the young man grinning as he welcomed him. Together they had set off at flank speed to rendezvous with Minneapolis, which had remained twenty miles out to sea. He had planned to transfer his flag over to Minneapolis, but there was no time now. He'd use Ward for his flagship in this fight.

What an agonizing wait it had become once the Japanese bombardment started. Turn and go in for a straight-on encounter off of Diamond Head, or wait out here? The bastards were not just going to bombard the east coast, he reasoned, but then again, they just might. Several scenarios postulated an initial landing there to gain a land-based airfield so the carriers could offload and then put farther out to sea. The bombardment over there could be the opening move for an invasion.

No, to bombard Pearl at night would be too much of a temptation. Let them come in, let them sink their teeth into it, and maybe, just maybe, he could slip in and deliver his punch. Try to meet them head on, their guard will be up and they'll start clobbering us at twenty thousand yards. Let them focus on the other target, though it would be devastating to sit back while they clobbered Pearl, and then slip in for the kill.

So for the last hour and a half that was exactly what he had been doing, slipping in at just under twelve knots, trying to keep the wakes of his ships down at slower speed. At high speed, the wake boiling up astern of a destroyer could easily be spotted by a scout plane. In tropical waters, it would actually glow from the phosphorescence of the plankton stirred up. What was equally nerve-racking was the moon, now high in the southern sky. How could they not have been seen by now? Spotters aloft on the battleships were most likely half blinded by the flash of the big guns, and naturally, nearly all attention was focused on their target.

But still, by God, they should have a scout plane out to sea, and at least one destroyer!

The tension was overwhelming. He'd kill for a cigarette, but they were under strict light security.

He stood silent, listening to the litany of his spotters.

"Range, nine thousand two hundred yards, closing . . . range nine thousand yards, closing . . ."

They were now within easy gunnery range, the popgun turrets forward, a single four-incher ever so slowly adjusting, lowering barrels an inch at a time.

"Range . . . eight thousand, eight hundred yards, closing . . ."

He looked quickly to port and starboard. Damn if it was not like Nelson's battle line closing in at Trafalgar, or a cavalry charge of old, the nine destroyers and destroyer escorts in line abreast, four hundred yards separating each vessel, while Minneapolis approached from two miles astern, ready to come about and open with all guns once they were spotted, staying farther back due to her higher silhouette. He felt a knot in his stomach looking at the moonlight glinting off the churning wake astern. He could actually see the outline of the heavy cruiser.

For God's sake, can't they see us?

"We are well within torpedo range, sir."

It was the captain of the Ward, a damn good lad. It had taken guts doing what he did this morning, actually firing off the first shot of the war, nailing a Jap sub at the entry to the harbor a full hour before the bombs began to fall. Though he would not curse the name of a dead comrade, nevertheless, Kimmel should have been on that in minutes and had the base on full alert, rather than still berthed and sleeping.

Not now, don't think of it now.

"Wait," was all he said. "I want it close, real close."

He raised his heavy Zeiss night binoculars, not government issued; he had paid for them himself, and at this moment they were worth every dime. He trained them straight ahead. The Jap battleship stood out clear against the flame-bright shoreline. It was hard yet to identify it precisely, but a young ensign, inside the glassed-off bridge, had the reference books out and was claiming it was either the Hiei or her sister ship Kirishima. Eight fourteen-inch guns, sixteen six-inch guns, eight five-inch guns, thirty-six thousand tons displacement—one ship that outweighed his entire attacking force. The secondary batteries on that one battleship were capable of matching every gun he had.

"Range eight thousand six hundred yards, closing . . ."

Flashes of light winked from the battleship . . . from its port side.

He held his breath, waiting.

"Range eight thousand four hundred . . ."

A burst of light high above, several hundred yards directly ahead, bright shimmering blue of a magnesium parachute flare. A dozen more bursting within a second, illuminating the sea with a harsh, lurid light.

"Flank speed!" Draemel roared. "Signal all ships. Flank speed and engage!"

Within seconds he felt the surge hit. My God, he had not been on a destroyer in years. It took a stately battleship or heavy cruiser long minutes to build up momentum; this was like a race car. The stern actually sank down as the twin engines accelerated up, even on this old World War I veteran, the engineering officer below having waited for this instant, hands most likely clutched to the steam valves, ready to spin them full open.

He braced against the splinter shield.

To either flank he could see the other destroyers accelerating as well.

"Range, eight thousand two hundred and closing!" The voice of the young seaman calling out the chant had raised half an octave.

More flashes from the battleship. Seconds later the first shells arched overhead, kicking up geysers far astern.

"Forward battery fire at will, fire at will!" the Ward's captain shouted, and a few seconds later the single forward turret opened fire and began pumping out a round every eight to ten seconds, the other destroyers firing as well, while two miles astern, Minneapolis began to turn to port, its forward turrets lighting off, sending eight-inch shells screaming overhead in reply. As her turret astern was exposed, three more shells were on their way.

Someone hit on the first salvo, a flash on the deck of the Jap battleship.

"That's the stuff!" Draemel cried, slamming his clenched fist on the railing.

"Now charge, damn it, charge!"

It was the most un-Navylike of orders but it fit the moment.

Hiei
01:27 hrs

"All batteries engage to port. Signal engine room, full speed ahead, turn to heading . . ." he paused for a brief instant.

Damn Yamamoto. He had been warned of this. They were in the classic trap. On the lee of an enemy shore with no room to turn and evade, a clear target outlined by the fires ashore, and now an unknown number of enemy ships coming in on them from the open sea.

Turn in toward them?

No . . . run straight ahead. All our guns can bear while only their forward guns can fire in reply.

"Flank speed, bearing 260 degrees!" he ordered.

The heavy fourteen-inch turrets ponderously shifted, swinging about fore and aft, shifting to port, barrels depressing as the range finders aloft called down to the fire control center with the range and bearing of the rapidly closing targets, ordering ammunition loads switched to armor piercing.

It took a very long two minutes, a very long two minutes, but at last number one turret fired back.

Ward
01:29 hrs

The flash from the guns of their secondary batteries was blinding, burning out his night vision as he was focused on the ship.

"Range . . . seven thousand one hundred yards . . ."

The geyser of water blew two hundred yards forward of the destroyer to his port side, the column of water soaring a hundred feet into the air, seconds later the charging destroyer, pitching and rocking, slashing through the wake of the blast and the cascades of sea water showering down.

More flares were erupting above them. Suddenly a blinding spotlight clicked on, and then another, from the Japanese cruiser to the west of the battleship, the spotlight sweeping back and forth.

The flashes from his own single four-incher were blinding as well, so that he let his binoculars drop.

Eight bursts of light, as brilliant as the sun, fired in sequences of two, each sequence spaced a couple of seconds after the next from the battleship straight ahead, joined a few seconds later by the second battleship, which had been running a mile astern of his target. Their heavy guns were opening up at last.

My God, here it comes.

And it came, the fourteen-inch shells raining down, one striking directly between Ward and the destroyer to port, and then in a second his portside companion was gone, just simply gone, caught amidships, three quarters of a ton of armor-piercing slicing through the hull just above the water line.

The destroyer escort to his starboard side had taken a similar hit, but luck had held for her. The armor-piercing shells were designed for a plunging strike into an enemy cruiser or battleship, designed to slice through eight, ten inches of armor and then to keep on punching down before finally detonating. For the starboard-side destroyer escort, it had simply gone through the paper-thin superstructure of the bridge, killing four men, turning the ship's captain into a pulplike spray, and then punched through the starboard side to strike the sea a quarter mile away before exploding.

But for the ship to port, the shell had angled into the engine room, hitting a steam turbine which was encased with high-grade steel, and blown, the explosion breaking the back of the ship, tearing off the entire aft end, the flash bursting into the aft magazine for the five-inchers, igniting half a dozen tons of powder.

Another shell burst in the ocean seventy-five yards off the portside bow of Ward. Not a killing blow, though the overpressure underwater ruptured plates, and shrapnel eviscerated the crew of the forward antiaircraft gun, which had started to open up as well, silencing their brave but futile efforts.

"Range six thousand, five hundred yards!"

He looked over at the captain of the Ward. The lad stood not saying a word. Draemel smiled inwardly. Best damn tradition of Annapolis on display here. His boys were doing OK, and he was proud of them—but how many of these kids would die in the next few minutes, how many were already dead? He had heard some unsettling rumors. Suppose after all this their torpedoes weren't effective, suppose they just bounced off the armor siding of that thirty-six-thousand-ton monster straight ahead? If so, he hoped everyone on the damn ordnance board responsible fried in hell. He was pitting well over two thousand young men on this gamble. It had better be worth it.

He could not let his fears show now. There was only one order left to give, when to turn and launch torpedoes, and he prayed to God his nerve would hold long enough to do that—and that he lived long enough to do it right. He had seen the destruction in Pearl. It was payback time, and he wanted in on that first strike back.

There was a momentary eye contact between him and the young captain, illuminated by the flash of the Japanese guns. Both forced a smile, said nothing, but the look expressed a thousand words about fears, courage, the realization of what had to be done, and the realization of the price that job would require.

They were well within torpedo range now, almost suicidally close. But the farther out with his torpedoes, the slower the speed for the weapon once launched. At this range, to reach their target, speed would have to be set at under thirty knots. Hell, this old destroyer moved faster than that. He wanted them in damn close for a high-speed launch at maximum torpedo speed of forty-five knots. It was rumored the Japs could fire theirs from ten thousand yards or more away, but no, he wanted to be right on top of the sons of bitches and spit in their eye before he'd cut loose, to make sure they put her on the bottom of the sea.

Hiei
01:34 hrs

They were up to flank speed at last, running full out at over twenty-two knots, burning more fuel in a minute than they would cruising for a half hour at ten knots.

Another four miles and they would clear the west coast of the island and could turn northward and away.

Damn Yamamoto! He should have assigned all the destroyers with me, I'd have then had a protective screen to portside to intercept this unexpected attack, Nagita thought bitterly.

"Their range is four thousand meters!"

They must have launched by now, he thought. It would be suicide to come any closer. Already two of the attacking ships were gone.

He spared a quick glance to the charts. They had five miles of sea room to starboard. Should he turn in but then have no maneuver room, or race straight on?

He hesitated.

Ward
01:36 hrs

"Range four thousand, six hundred yards!"

Another salvo, another destroyer hit, bow shearing off, the ship for a second looking as if it would actually dig in bow first and upend over.

"Sir?"

It was the captain of the Ward, trying to sound calm, in spite of the hurricane of noise.

"One mile out," Draemel shouted, voice nearly drowned out by the bark of the lone four-inch gun forward. "I want it so close we can't miss! We're almost under their big guns, they're shooting flat trajectory, their heavy rounds passing over us now," and even as he spoke the bridge was rattled by the howl of a fourteen-inch shell shrieking past them, so close the concussive blast of the passing bolt was actually felt. It was followed a few seconds later by a strike from a six-inch shell, hitting the smokestack astern, blowing it apart. He could hear screaming from down on the deck.

"Aye, aye sir. One mile it is."

Hiei
01:38 hrs

"Turn to bearing 300!" Nagita shouted.

The Americans were insane. They were closing straight in! He could not help but be filled with a certain awe. Four of their ships were definitely hit, what appeared to be a cruiser farther out engulfed in flames. Kirishima, apparently not the target of this mad charge, was concentrating her fire on the larger target. Tone was racing out on a bearing of 220 degrees, angling across the western flank of their attack, her guns engaging the American cruiser as well. Idiots! It was the destroyers now that were the real threat. The cruiser could have waited.

Ward
01:40 hrs

"Range two thousand nine hundred yards! . . . she's turning sir, turning away!"

He didn't need his binoculars to see it . . . the battleship's silhouette was shifting, turning in toward land, running obliquely away.

He ran a quick calculation: running speed of torpedoes, target angling away at forty-five degrees now from their attack, it would lengthen the run. Give it two more minutes.

He hoped the torpedo officer aboard this ship was trained well and knew his settings. They were only going to get one shot to launch from starboard.

"In two minutes we turn hard to port, and launch. Radio that order, in the clear, to the other ships."

Pearl Harbor
01:41 hrs

James and the others in the radio shack stood silent. The bombardment had lifted once the insane charge of the destroyers had started. There had even been a scattering of cheers both in the shack and from outside along the docks.

But they had been able to hear every word of command, broadcast in the clear: the distress calls from destroyers crippled and falling out of the attack, and also the sudden silences, which spoke volumes.

"This is Ward. All ships, on my mark, prepare to turn in sixty seconds to bearing 280 degrees, and then launch torpedoes. Mark!"

"Fifty seconds . . ."

And then the radio just went silent.

Ward
01:42 hrs

He was still alive—at least he thought he was. The six-inch shell had slashed into the forward turret, a torrent of splinters and shrapnel washing up over the bridge, piercing the tissue-thin skin of the so-called splinter shield, glass of the bridge shattering behind him.

His left side was numb. He felt nothing, he tried to reach around with his right hand to feel it, but couldn't find anything to grab hold of. In the flashes of light he caught a glimpse of a petty officer, staring at him in shock, and then he looked down in amazement.

His left arm was gone just below the shoulder, blood pouring out in a pulsing stream. The Ward's young CO was on the deck by his side, at least what was left of his decapitated body.

He felt Ward begin to heel over hard. They were turning, preparing to launch. The petty officer was by his side, saying something about sick bay. He snarled at the man to stand fast and remain at his post.

The battleship was visible before him, now impossibly big, flashes of light, guns of every caliber firing, a torrent of shells slashing into the Ward, which was beginning to lose way even as it turned.

Damn it, God, give me a few more seconds, just a few more seconds!

"Torpedoes away!"

He turned and saw the splashes as the eight torpedoes, launched by pneumatic bursts of high pressure air, hit the water, one after the other. Looking back to port, it was hard to see, but it seemed that at least one other destroyer was still in the fight, turning, launching as well . . .

"OK, you bastards, now it's your turn to get some," he gasped.

Hiei
01:44:30 hrs

"Sir—torpedo wakes inbound!"

He held his breath, scanning the waters. Searchlights swept back and forth, one stopped, focused on a white, bubbling wake coming straight amidships.

Closer, it was racing in . . . too late to order evasive maneuvers. They were going to take this one!

He stepped back and away from the railing. The flash could roast a man alive. He prepared to shield his face with his arm.

Something hit, he could feel it . . . but nothing, no explosion.

By all the gods! He almost wanted to laugh . . . It was a dud.

And then a cry that more torpedoes were coming in.

Ward
01:45 hrs

Ward was dying. The engine room was reporting flood. He could barely hear it, he could barely hear anything now as he stood braced against the shattered splinter shield, hanging on with his one hand.

The petty officer, ignoring his protests, was bracing him up.

"I'm taking you to the doc now, sir!"

"Another minute," Draemel gasped. "They should have hit by now!"

"Goddamn torpedoes," someone was screaming, "Goddamn torpedoes! Duds, we're firing Goddamn duds!"

He felt an infinite weariness. My God in heaven, after all this, please God no. Don't let these men die in vain.

And then, as if in answer to his final prayer, it happened. A brilliant flash, so close he could feel the concussion as it raced through the water after hitting the Jap battleship amidships, and then, five seconds later, a second flash, far astern. Something told him that had to be one of his, one from the Ward, one from this crew.

"You did it, boys," he gasped, "by God you did it! Proud of you!"

The world was darker now. He could barely see the flash; everything was drifting out of focus.

"Proud of you, sir." It was the petty officer, laying him down on the blood-soaked deck. "You did it."

But Draemel no longer heard him as he drifted off, some memory floating for a moment, strange, not here. The grandkids, God, I'll miss them growing up. . . .

He was already gone when seconds later a direct hit from one of the Hiei's six-inchers burst in the forward magazine, delivering the death blow to a gallant ship and all but twenty of her hands.

Hiei
01:47 hrs

"I want a damage report now!" Nagita shouted, looking back at his wide-eyed staff.

Phones in the bridge were ringing, but he didn't need to be told that they were losing headway and the ship was no longer answering the helm.

His senior damage control officer was on one of the phones, talking rapidly, and yet still maintaining a sense of calm. Nagita knew he too had to regain control of himself.

The officer finally hung up the phone and turned back to face his admiral.

"One torpedo amidships, port side, detonating in a fuel bunker. Damage can be contained, but we'll lose most of the fuel. Transfer pumping has started.

"The second, though, sir. It struck portside astern. Possible damage to portside screw, and the rudder is not responding to the helm, sir. It's either gone or bent. We don't know yet."

Nagita took it in, saying nothing.

Yamamoto's foolishness, he thought bitterly, and now this. He looked to starboard. The enemy coast was little more than four miles away, shoreline bright with fires.

"The enemy?"

"All ships apparently destroyed, sir, or retiring."

He nodded.

"Foolhardy," he whispered, "but valiant. I never expected such courage from them. They could have launched from twice, three times the range but did not."

No one spoke.

"Signal our destroyers to prepare to take us into tow. We must clear these shores before dawn."

He walked back out onto the open bridge and leaned over the railing to look aft along the port side. Even in the dark, illuminated now by the burning hulks of two of the enemy destroyers, he could see where the water was darker and flattened out. They were hemorrhaging their precious oil and with each passing second slowing down, even as Hiei started into a uncontrolled turn to starboard, now listing as well. Back on the bridge he could hear his chief engineer taking control of the situation, ordering counterflooding to balance out the list, and to prepare a harnessed diver to go over the side to examine the rudder.

It was not yet two in the morning local time. In a little more than three and a half hours, the eastern horizon would begin to glow—and they would indeed be bait for the American carriers, if they were out there. He now wondered if that was Yamamoto's intent all along, a damaged battleship that the American aircraft carrier commanders could not resist attacking, and thus reveal themselves. If so, and he survived, he would take this to the Naval Board, the government, if need be even the Emperor. To toss aside a battleship for their flimsy carriers was criminal and must be punished.

Copyright © 2008 by Newt Gingrich and William R. Forstchen. All rights reserved.