Briggs hit hard, gave a roar of outrage, and bounced to his feet. Moon grinned and danced on the balls of his feet. “Had enough?”

  Somebody laughed and that more than anything else brought blood to the petty officer’s face. He landed a blow this time, a solid left hook, and the sailors hollered for blood as Moon’s head snapped back.

  But then, as Briggs prepared to follow with his right, something went horribly wrong. A rock-hard fist struck the ridge over his right eye. The heavy Marine Corps ring cut the sailor’s skin, and the blood made it difficult to see.

  The petty officer was game though, and made no attempt to touch the wound. He stepped forward, launched a quick flurry of blows, and felt at least two hit home. However, much to the deck ape’s surprise, the soft gut wasn’t as soft as it looked. Hard muscle lay just beneath the fat.

  The combatants were about to go after it again when the front door burst open, and the Shore Patrol arrived. There were six of them, the exact number Pockets had suggested over the phone, and their uniforms were wet. Somebody threw a chair. The nightsticks started to rise and fall. The army sergeant, the one with the money, disappeared.

  That’s when Briggs, still intent on leveling his foe, took one last swing. It was a serious mistake. Moon, still hoping to make it out through the back door, brought a knee up into the petty officer’s unprotected crotch.

  Briggs was still falling, still screaming, when the baton struck the marine’s head. That’s when darkness fell. But later, much later, he would remember the ride to the brig, the rain, and the way it thundered on the truck’s metal roof. The sound had a martial quality, like the drums in the Marine Corps Band, and the rhythm carried Moon away.

  PEARL HARBOR STRIKE FORCE, DECEMBER 6, 1941, 07:15

  The cabin felt like a cell. Admiral Nagumo had been called out twice during the night—each time with the news that the storm had worsened—a fact made obvious from the wild, almost impossible up and down movements of the ship. A huge ship, one of the most seaworthy in his fleet, which raised the obvious question: If the Kirishima was hard-pressed to deal with the storm—then what of the smaller ships?

  Questions, hopes, and fears swirled like the storm itself as Nagumo stared at his watch, waited for the minutes to tick away, and left his cabin when he always did—at exactly 07:15.

  A rating saw Nagumo in the corridor and took strength from his calm, seemingly emotion-free countenance. “He looked the way he always does,” he told his shipmates later that day, “like a man with a stick up his ass.”

  All of the men laughed but still took comfort from the fact that not even the worst of storms could force their admiral to alter his daily routines.

  Nagumo sensed something was amiss the moment he stepped onto the bridge.

  The ship’s captain, Akira Imai, appeared to be in mourning. The rest of them, including the navigator, chief gunnery officer, and fleet liaison officer looked similarly depressed. Nagumo kept his face expressionless. He strode to the windscreen, stared out through the spray-spattered glass, and said a single word: “Report.”

  The rest of the officers looked at Imai, who, as flag captain, had the responsibility of delivering the news. “Sir, the fleet remains on course . . . but we are running six hours behind schedule. There have been no ship sightings . . . and no suspicious radio traffic.”

  Imai cleared his throat. “There is some bad news, however. Two of the tankers are missing. The Koga launched a seaplane, which was unable to find them. Perhaps they were blown off course, or suffered mechanical difficulties, but there’s another possibility as well.”

  Nagumo kept his eyes forward. Focused on the point where the gray sky and the gray sea came together. “Go on.”

  “Lookouts aboard the Zuikaku reported a large ball of flame. It lasted for a full half minute.”

  There was silence on the bridge as the officers allowed their admiral to reach his own conclusions. Nagumo could see the encounter in his mind’s eye. Two tankers, both off course, converging until . . . He could imagine metal slicing metal, fuel gushing outward, followed by the fatal spark. Yes, deep down, he knew the oilers were gone. So what to do? Could the fleet continue without them?

  Nagumo did the mental math. At fifteen knots the fleet consumed fifty tons of fuel per hour. That equated to twelve hundred tons per day, or a tanker load every eight days. Of course prior to the storm his ships had been steaming at nearly thirty knots. The higher speed would triple fuel consumption to thirty-six hundred tons of fuel per day, or a tanker load every three days. Now, with only four tankers left, the Japanese admiral had a twelve-day supply of fuel.

  Enough to attack Pearl Harbor and make it partway home. Once freed from the necessity to maintain radio silence he could request that tankers be sent to meet him. Would they be available, however? Especially given the nearly simultaneous assaults on Hong Kong, Singapore, the Philippines, and Thailand? Maybe, maybe not. All depended on the fortunes of war.

  He could turn the Strike Force around, thereby abandoning the attack on Pearl Harbor, and shaming himself in the process, or proceed and risk putting his fleet into a vulnerable position on the return voyage. Neither option was especially attractive.

  But what if there were a third, way? A plan so risky, so audacious, that it would be worthy of a Nelson? What if he ordered the fleet to increase speed, put the Strike Force back on schedule, and attacked Pearl Harbor. But rather than disengage as planned, what if he put a landing force ashore? A force that could capture the fuel he required? Or, failing that, hold long enough for reinforcements to arrive?

  Though not equal to imperial marines or regular army units, his sailors had received basic infantry training while in the Japanese equivalent of boot camp. Could they secure a beachhead? Hold it for up to five days? Maybe, if his fighters controlled the air and if the landing party had sufficient naval fire support.

  Nagumo turned to his staff. A full five minutes had passed since the conclusion of Imai’s report, and the officers were beginning to wonder if the admiral would ever speak again. He eyed them one after another. “The attack will go forward. However, rather than withdraw as originally planned, we will land and radio for reinforcements. Are there any questions?”

  The officers had dozens of questions, and some doubted the wisdom of such a course, but none had the courage to say so. The matter was settled. The Strike Force would attack, land on American soil, and raise the Japanese flag.

  TASK FORCE 8—U.S. PACIFIC FLEET, DECEMBER 7, 1941, 05:30

  Hundreds of miles west of Oahu, having just delivered some planes to Wake Island, the ships of Task Force 8, which consisted of the carriers Enterprise, Lexington, and their escorts, began the long run to Pearl Harbor.

  Squadron leader James T. Lockhart heard the dull rattle of his alarm clock, fumbled for the switch, and turned the device off. Then he yawned, swung his feet out onto the cold decking, and rubbed his eyes. This particular day promised to be like all the others. First, he would brush, shave, and shower. After that he would slip into a flight suit, grab some coffee, and visit the “met” shack. Once equipped with the weather forecast, the pilot would check the flight operation plan, drink more coffee, and down a fried egg sandwich. After that it would be time to brief his men regarding the day’s training mission, take one hellacious pee, and head for the flight deck. That’s where he would meet up with “Pistol Pete” Macklin, the petty officer who served as his gunner, climb into the single-engine Douglas SBD Dauntless, and head for the place he liked best: the wild blue yonder. It would be a good day, no a great day, and he would enjoy every single moment of it.

  PEARL HARBOR STRIKE FORCE, DECEMBER 7, 1941, 06:00

  Dozens of motors coughed then roared as the famous Z pendant broke out at the Akagi’s masthead. Chocks were pulled, lights flashed, and the deck crew cheered as each fully loaded plane fought its way up into the air. Some scraped the wave tops, a fighter crashed in the ocean, but the rest made it off. The first strike wave consisted of forty-nine Vai bombers, forty Kates, and forty-three Zeros for cover.

  Commander Mitsuo soon broke through the clouds into bright sunlight. He ran his fingers along the “thousand-stitch” good-luck belt fastened around his waist and turned his bomber toward the south. The target was ninety minutes away.

  THE ISLAND OF OAHU, DECEMBER 7, 1941, 07:00

  Pilot instructor Julie Lockhart forced herself to keep her hands and feet off the controls as her student kicked the L-2’s rudder too far to starboard, brought it back, and paused at the end of the taxiway.

  This was the worst part of teaching people to fly, the part where she handed the controls of her precious plane over to some half-baked playboy like Reggie Haines and could do little more than sit there while he manhandled the monoplane out onto the runway.

  It was too early to drink, even for Reggie, so Lockhart was fairly confident that her student was sober. He ran the engine up, eyed the instruments, and tested the controls.

  Then, with a thumb’s-up from Lockhart, the student pilot released the brakes and opened the throttle. The little plane bumped along the ground, through a couple of potholes, gathered speed, and soared into the air.

  The Taylorcraft L-2 was light, even with two people aboard, which meant that the Continental 65-horsepower engine had no difficulty pulling them up off the ground. It was noisy though, which served to keep conversation to a minimum.

  Reggie might be a heel, but there was no mistaking the look of pure joy that took over his face. It was that, plus the need for fuel, that drove Lockhart to give lessons.

  It was a bright sunny day, with miles of emerald green pineapple fields slipping by below, and the Pacific glittering off the starboard wing. Off to port, their tops wreathed in clouds, jagged mountains rose. They were volcanic in origin and made for a dramatic backdrop.

  “All right,” Lockhart said when the altimeter read four hundred feet, “you got her up here—let’s see if you can put her back down.”

  Reggie didn’t like touch-and-go landings, but he knew they were good for him. He put the plane into a wide, gentle turn.

  Rogers Field quickly reappeared. It looked very, very small. Still, Lockhart knew it was at least twice the length of a carrier’s flight deck. Was she good enough to put a dive-bomber down on a spray-slicked deck? The way her father, Comdr. James T. Lockhart, could and did? Yes, Lockhart believed that she was, not that she would ever get the chance to find out.

  Reggie, oblivious to his instructor’s thoughts, prepared for the final turn. If he could execute some perfect landings, maybe, just maybe, Julie would agree to have dinner with him. A rather agreeable prospect because, in spite of the lengths to which she went to disguise the fact, his instructor was both pretty and well put together.

  Then, having fed her a few drinks, well, who knew? It was an amazing world and anything could happen. Especially if you were both wealthy and good-looking. Reggie completed the turn, lined up on the runway, and nailed the landing.

  THE ISLAND OF OAHU, DECEMBER 7, 1941, 07:49

  Comdr. Mitsuo Fuchida guided his bomber around the Kodakan peaks, took a look through his binoculars, and gave the necessary order. “Notify all planes to launch attack.”

  His radio operator obeyed and the famous letters “To To To” went out to all pilots (the first two letters of Totsugeki, or Charge!) and the first wave of torpedo bombers dropped out of the sky.

  Moments later, as the lead aircraft swept over Battleship Row, a second prearranged signal was sent: “Tora! Tora! Tora!”

  The signal meant that the surprise attack had been successful.

  Admiral Nagumo was sipping a cup of tea when the news arrived, and he gave a single nod of approval. That, as the members of his staff knew, was as much praise as any of them were likely to receive.

  While the torpedo bombers attacked the battleships, the first group of dive-bombers hit the tightly packed planes at Hickam Field. Explosion after explosion shook the ground as debris flew high into the air, smoke darkened the sky, and army personnel struggled to save what they could.

  The sound of church bells blended with the wail of air raid sirens as the battleships Oklahoma and West Virginia were struck by multiple torpedoes.

  The battleship Arizona’s forward magazines blew shortly thereafter, and a column of dark red smoke boiled high into the air. More than a thousand American sailors died within a few horrible seconds.

  There was some good news, however, in that while the Maryland, the Tennessee, and the Nevada had sustained damage, all remained afloat. Reeling from the impact of the attack, but unwilling to submit, the navy fought back.

  The men of the Nevada, managed to bring her antiaircraft guns into action a little more quickly than some of the battlewagon’s sister ships, but at least one of them had no idea what to do. Having just reported aboard, his sea bag still lying at his feet, Seaman Brad Hoskins stood and gaped as the battle raged around him.

  Planes appeared, bombs dropped, and a series of explosions marched across Ford Island. Klaxons went off, orders were shouted, and men ran every which way. Though having just graduated from boot camp, Hoskins knew he should go to his battle station, but he hadn’t been assigned one yet. That’s why he was standing there, wondering what to do, when an ensign paused long enough to point at a nearby gun tub. “See that .50? See those planes? See what you can do.”

  The officer disappeared after that, and Hoskins, still attired in his white shore rig, climbed up into the gun tub. There had been one opportunity and one opportunity only to fire a .50 during training, and he hoped he remembered how. It took the better part of five long minutes to fumble the ammo locker open, pull the belt into place, crank a round into the spout, and aim the gun at the sky. A quick three-round burst served to confirm that the weapon was operational.

  More confident now and determined to make a difference, Hoskins looked out over the battleship’s stern. There, coming in from the port side, was a B5N “Kate.” The sailor swiveled the pintlemounted .50 to the right, squeezed the trigger, and watched tracers arc away. That’s when he realized that by the time the shells arrived at the point he’d been aiming at, the plane had been there and left. A beginner’s mistake. Hoskins used some of the vocabulary he had acquired during his stay in boot camp, made the necessary adjustment, and allowed the next Japanese plane to fly into his bullets.

  It did, the prop flew apart, and the 1,000-horsepower Nakajima engine screamed loudly as the bomber hit the water, skidded forward, and did a full somersault.

  Hoskins wanted to look, wanted to celebrate his victory, but that was when a 1,764-pound torpedo launched by another Kate struck the ship’s bow and opened a forty-by-thirty-foot hole. The force of the explosion threw the sailor down. He got up, grabbed the .50, and pressed the trigger. The world was on fire.

  THE ISLAND OF OAHU, DECEMBER 7, 1941, 08:05

  Like most fleet marines, the soon-to-be-civilian Mike Moon could sleep through lectures on sexual hygiene, jungle downpours, and storms at sea. That being the case, he had little difficulty sleeping through the first minutes of the Japanese attack. “Pockets” McKenzie shook his shoulder.

  “Moon! Get up! The Japs are bombing Pearl!”

  The marine sat up, groaned as his head started to throb, and took a look around. The holding cell looked exactly as it had the last time he’d been a guest there. Green walls, cream-colored iron bars, and much abused steel furniture. The irregular thud, thud, thud of antiaircraft fire brought Moon to his feet.

  A generous mix of sailors and marines were crowded around the cell’s heavily barred window. Briggs, the petty officer who had been sacrificed to Moon’s retirement fund, was not among them. He, it seemed, had been taken to a hospital.

  Moon elbowed his way into the crowd, took a look at the thick column of smoke that poured up from the harbor, and turned away. Pockets was waiting. “What do you see?”

  “Smoke, Pockets, a whole lot of smoke. Call the guard . . . let’s see if we can talk our way out of here.”

  The corporal nodded obediently. “Sure, Sarge, what then?”

  Moon looked surprised. “Then we’re gonna fight. That’s what they pay us for, isn’t it?”

  McKenzie nodded.

  “All right then,” Moon finished, “and get me some aspirin, too.”

  THE ISLAND OF OAHU, DECEMBER 7, 1941, 08:10

  The little Taylorcraft L-2 had no radio, and due to the fact that both its occupants were focused on touch-and-go landings, neither of them noticed the Japanese planes until a Mitsubishi A6M2 bounced them from behind.

  The only warning that instructor Julie Lockhart had was when two streams of 20-mm shells flew past the L-2’s canopy and lost themselves in the cane fields below.

  What Lockhart did next was part instinct and part training. Thanks to many hours spent in the cockpit with her father, she understood the importance of altitude. That’s why she grabbed the controls and pulled the stick back as far as it would go. Reggie took immediate offense. “Julie, what the hell are you—”

  The rest of the student’s sentence was lost as the L-2 shook violently and the Zero shot past. “You’d better hold on,” Lockhart advised grimly, “because this bastard plans to kill us.”

  And the Japanese pilot did plan to kill them. It was either that or suffer the contempt of his fellow fighter pilots. The fact that he had fired on a civilian plane and missed was more than embarrassing, it was shameful, and there was only one way to set things right.

  Lt. Nagamo Shigeyoshi put his fighter into a wide turn. The small plane with the blue fuselage and yellow wings had a head start on him by that time, however, and was headed for the tall jagged mountain range off to the east. The fighter pilot followed.

  Lockhart had flown the pass before—and her father had grounded her for it. Now, as the green-clad slopes closed around her, she performed a series of wingovers. Right, left, and right again. Tracers flew past the cabin, and Reggie flinched. “Holy shit . . . have you lost your mind? Land this thing before you get both of us killed!”