Lockhart grimaced as three slugs from the Zero’s 7.7-mm nose guns punched holes through the port wing.

  Reggie screamed as black volcanic rock raced at his face and passed out as Lockhart jerked on the stick and gave the rudder a decisive kick.

  The L-2 entered a steep bank, Shigeyoshi followed, but he knew it was too late. In his eagerness to catch the trainer, the Japanese pilot had opened the throttle just a hair too far. Now, as Shigeyoshi fought the forward momentum generated by the powerful 780-horsepower Mitsubishi engine, the mountain pulled him in.

  There was a reddish-orange flash, a boom that echoed off the surrounding slopes, and an avalanche of flaming debris. Chunks of metal were still falling, still shaking the foliage below, when the plane with the bright yellow wings shot out over Kaneohe.

  Lockhart pulled a 360 to check her six, realized that the airstrip on the other side of the bay was under attack, and looked for a place to land. The pilot spotted a likely looking field, put the L-2 down, and bumped toward a storage shed. “So, Reggie, it’s a good thing you want to fly. The Army Air Corps should have plenty of openings after this.”

  It was a perfect opening, a chance for the sort of snappy rejoinder that the playboy prided himself on, but Reggie was silent. His head rested against the instrument panel and the back of his khaki jacket was dark with blood. A quick glance confirmed that at least one 20-mm shell had punctured the plane’s roof, drilled a hole through his seat, and struck Reggie from behind. Lockhart swore, felt for a pulse, but couldn’t find one.

  Sunlight glittered off something on the deck. Lockhart released her seat belt to reach it. The pilot knew what the object was even before she brought it up into the light. The flask wore Reggie’s initials. Lockhart unscrewed the cap and took a swig. “Sorry, Reggie . . . You were a bastard, but you didn’t deserve that.”

  So saying, the pilot opened the L-2’s flimsy door, swung her boots down onto the ground, and walked away. A flight of enemy bombers passed overhead but Lockhart didn’t bother to look up. Tears ran down her cheeks. Tears for Reggie, tears for others who would die that day, and tears for herself.

  TASK FORCE 8—U.S. PACIFIC FLEET, DECEMBER 7, 1941, 08:40

  Comdr. James T. Lockhart had landed and been pushed off to one side when he heard the news. It was delivered by one of the airedales who worked the flight deck. He had wide-set eyes, a pug nose, and looked as serious as any nineteen-year-old could. “Did you hear the announcement, sir? The Japs bombed Pearl Harbor half an hour ago! They sank the Arizona and a whole lot of other ships, too.”

  Lockhart’s initial thoughts were for his wife and daughter. Martha would have been getting ready for church, and as for Julie, well, who knew? Still in bed most likely, or out at Rogers Field, tending her plane. He prayed both were safe.

  They sent for him after that, and the squadron commander was soon consumed by the demands of his profession. William “Bull” Halsey was pissed, very pissed, and wanted to strike back. Yes, the old man knew he was badly outnumbered, but he didn’t give a shit. The moment the task force was within range, both the Enterprise and the Lex would launch their planes.

  THE ISLAND OF OAHU, DECEMBER 7, 1941, 10:30

  After a second attack at 08:40, a third air strike swept over Pearl Harbor even as three of Nagumo’s destroyers, closely followed by two cruisers and the Kirishima herself, turned to port and entered the narrow passageway that led to Pearl Harbor. American shore batteries opened fire but were soon silenced by a well-coordinated air-sea attack.

  The antisubmarine nets had been destroyed by the same Japanese minisubs originally assigned to attack the American warships within the harbor itself. Now, with the last potential barrier removed, it was clear sailing for Nagumo and his ships. The lead destroyer opened fire within seconds of entering the harbor proper.

  The U.S. destroyer Monaghan, already damaged from backing into a burning fuel barge, was among the first to go as 120-mm shells hit her superstructure and a Japanese bomber put a torpedo into the ship’s side.

  The tender Curtiss was attacked next, followed by an oceangoing tug and a destroyer escort.

  That’s when the Japanese cruisers joined the fray. Their heavy 203-mm guns hit target after target even as their secondary armaments fired at anything moving, including ships, lifeboats, and trucks on the quay.

  What already qualified as an unmitigated disaster had been transformed into a scene from hell as Japanese bombs rained down on heretofore undamaged ships and facilities. Three bombs intended for CINCPAC HQ landed to the east and hit the oil storage facility that Nagumo had ordered his pilots to spare. Explosions rocked the harbor, flames consumed the tanks, and precious fuel went up in smoke as the Japanese admiral watched in disgust. Later, assuming there was a later, the guilty pilot would be identified and punished.

  Meanwhile, as one of the Japanese cruisers ran aground in the relatively tight quarters of the East Lock, the Kirishima made a slight turn to starboard and brought her enormous 14-inch guns to bear on the cruisers moored along the northwest flank of Ford Island.

  The Detroit and the Raleigh had loosed their moorings and were getting under way when the Japanese battle cruiser bore down on them.

  The Americans managed to loose one full salvo before the enormous shells, fired from less than two miles away, blew their ships apart.

  Having successfully dealt with two of the American cruisers, the Japanese battle cruiser steamed on.

  Strangely it was a submarine operating on the surface that put an end to the Kirishima’s mad rampage. It fired four fish, three of which struck the warship’s side and exploded.

  Later, they would talk about how the Japanese admiral stood unflinching as a piece of shrapnel tore the helmsman’s head off—and how he remained expressionless as Captain Imai ordered his crew to abandon ship.

  Though understrength, thanks to the fact that more than four hundred sailors had been inducted into the landing party, half of the Kirishima’s remaining crew were killed or wounded. Among those rescued from the harbor’s oily waters was Admiral Nagumo himself. Still soaking wet, he wrote the message to Yamamoto in his own hand and ordered that it be sent.

  It read: “Attack successful. Intend to hold Oahu. Request reinforcements.” There was more, including the urgent need for fuel, but the first three sentences were most important. Would Yamamoto agree? Time would tell. Nagumo ordered tea.

  THE ISLAND OF OAHU, DECEMBER 7, 1941, 10:35

  Lt. Comdr. “Westy” Wells paused in front of the cell, waited for someone to bellow “Attention on deck!” and was rewarded by almost instant silence. He was a mustang, one of the rare individuals to work his way up through the ranks, and he was known for his colorful language. “All right, you scumbags,” the officer growled, “you’ve heard the scuttlebutt and I’m here to tell you it’s true. Not only did the Japs bomb the shit out of Pearl, but judging from the movement of their ships, the bastards plan to come ashore.”

  In spite of the fact that the men were supposed to be at attention, there were exclamations of anger and muttered threats. Wells nodded agreeably. “Sucks, don’t it? Well, this is your lucky fucking day because somebody has to stall the shitheads while the doggies get organized and the civilians haul ass for the mountains.”

  Wells ignored the predictable groans and disparaging remarks about the army to wave a sheaf of papers. “Here’s the arrest log for the past three days—and here’s what I’m going to do with it.”

  A cheer went up as the naval officer ripped the forms to shreds. The brig rats were still cheering when a disgruntled guard unlocked the door and pulled it open. The officer grinned. “Now, I want the marine NCOs to step forward. The rest of you stand fast.”

  Moon looked at McKenzie and both men joined the half-dozen marines who made their way to the front of the crowd.

  “Excellent,” Wells said, “it looks like we have six NCOs. The rest of you will count off by sixes, join the appropriate squad, and file outside to collect your weapons. Any questions? Good. Now get your butts out there and kill some Japs!”

  PHILIPPINE SEA, DECEMBER 7, 1941, 10:42

  Thousands of miles to the west, on a Japanese aircraft carrier, an excited yeoman entered a compartment to find Adm. Isoroku Yamamoto playing a game of shogi with his staff gunnery officer.

  The naval officer accepted the message, read it, and gave a grunt of astonishment. Nagumo had not only attacked Pearl Harbor from the air but entered the harbor with elements of his fleet and planned to hold it! Not the sort of thing he had come to expect from this particular subordinate—but war has strange effects on people.

  The request presented something of a dilemma, however, since the battle group that best met Nagumo’s requirements was already committed to Wake Island. The special landing force consisted of two light cruisers, four destroyers, and four transports loaded with imperial marines. While six tankers was out of the question, four was doable, and could be rerouted from other destinations.

  But should he agree? The American stronghold on Wake Island was an important objective. Left intact it would leave the Americans with an important stronghold in the western Pacific. But Yamamoto was not one to dither over decisions, and he made the necessary call. Nagumo was about to hand Japan an even more significant victory than the one he’d been sent to secure and deserved whatever support he needed.

  Orders were given, messages were sent, and ships turned toward the east.

  Meanwhile, aboard the carrier Akagi, where Nagumo had established his flag, a message was delivered.

  The admiral waited for the ensign to leave the compartment, double-checked to make sure that he was alone, and opened the envelope with trembling hands. It contained three words: “Request approved. Yamamoto.”

  Elsewhere, not twenty miles from where Nagumo sat, the message was decoded and rushed to U.S. Adm. Husband E. Kimmel. He read it, read it again, and slammed his fist down on the heavy oak desk. “Get this to Halsey! On the double!”

  The Wave literally ran down the hall. Her heels rattled like a machine gun. The message was sent five minutes later.

  TASK FORCE 8—U.S. PACIFIC FLEET, DECEMBER 7, 1941, 13:20

  Squadron commander Lockhart joined the rest of Halsey’s staff as they crowded around the long rectangular plot table. Cigarette and pipe smoke swirled like clouds over the carefully drawn ocean. The small flatbottomed ships looked like toys, but the purpose of the meeting was deadly serious.

  Adm. Bill Halsey, sometimes referred to as “Bull” Halsey in the press, was in his prime. Having graduated from the Naval Academy in 1904 and won the Navy Cross during World War I, he was a naval aviator through and through. Never one to mince words, he went straight to the point. “Gentlemen, it turns out that Admiral Nagumo has some pretty sizable balls . . . Not only did the crafty bastard pick exactly the right moment to attack Pearl—it looks like he plans to put troops ashore.”

  There was a mutual gasp of surprise as the rest of the officers looked at each other in amazement. None had imagined that the Japanese fleet would linger, much less make plans to stay.

  “So,” Halsey continued, “we’ve got a problem on our hands, but a good problem, if there is such a thing. A reliable source informs me that Nagumo is short of fuel and that,” the admiral continued, pointing to a small cluster of ships east of Wake Island, “is the relief force sent to bail him out.”

  Halsey paused to examine the faces around him. “Our job is simple,” he said, “cut north, intercept the relief force, and destroy it.

  “Then, with that accomplished, the task force will turn east, and engage Nagumo’s fleet. Yes, I understand they have more ships than we do, but consider the facts: Nagumo’s fleet is low on fuel, his planes have expended most, if not all of their ordnance, and thanks to the expeditionary force he plans to put ashore, the bastard will be short-handed as well. Not only do we have the opportunity to sink his fleet, but we get some measure of revenge as well.”

  One of the officers called out, “Remember the Arizona!” and Lockhart did.

  THE ISLAND OF OAHU, DECEMBER 7, 1941, 16:20

  Rather than put the naval landing force ashore on a more remote part of the coastline, where its presence would hardly be felt, Nagumo ordered them to land at Waikiki.

  Yes, there was some light surf to contend with, but the approach was excellent, with plenty of room for his boats to make their way in side by side, a strategy that would force the Americans to defend a two-mile-long swath of beach. In addition, there were no shore batteries to speak of, no entanglements to slow his forces down, and once ashore the sailors should have little difficulty linking up with their counterparts in Pearl Harbor.

  The timing was risky, given how late in the day it was, but Nagumo was adamant. To wait for dawn was to give the Americans a full night in which to organize, redeploy, and prepare for his attack. By striking immediately he hoped to drive them away from the coast and out of Honolulu. Then, with that accomplished, it would be a relatively simple matter to wait for reinforcements.

  The key to Nagumo’s plan was the fact that Japanese sailors were not only trained for land warfare, but the weapons and other materiel required to equip them were routinely carried aboard his ships.

  Broadly speaking, the heavily reinforced landing party consisted of a headquarters group comprised of the commanding officer and approximately 50 support personnel, 8 rifle companies, each consisting of 1 officer, 7 warrant officers, and 292 enlisted men, plus the 500-man heavy-weapons unit. So, with the addition of 300 sailors spread across the communications, engineer, medical, supply, and transportation units, the total force had swollen to more than 3,000 men. The rough equivalent of three battalions . . . or 25 percent of Nagumo’s command.

  All of which meant next to nothing to the unfortunate Lieutenant Omato, who, in spite of his role as met officer, or perhaps because of it, had the dubious distinction of commanding the eighth rifle company, which, for some mysterious reason, had been assigned to hit the beach first and was therefore much more likely to take heavy casualties.

  Omato looked left, right, and forward. There were a lot of boats, and he sought to take comfort from that. The more targets the Americans had, the better. The sailors were ranked along both sides of the metal lifeboat and looked strange in their helmets, green uniforms, and canvas leggings.

  The met officer ducked involuntarily as what sounded like a freight train roared over his head. The 203-mm shell landed between two innocent-looking five-story hotels and sent a geyser of sand, rock, and lawn furniture high into the air.

  More shells followed until explosions rippled the full length of the beach, some of the smaller hotels crumbled, and smoke poured into the sky.

  That’s when the Zeros began their deadly runs. They arrived one at a time from the south. Their 20-mm wing guns blew divots out of lawns, cut palm trees in two, and shattered dozens of windows. The fighters couldn’t remain for long, however, not with the shortage of av gas, and were soon forced to leave.

  The sight of the destruction made Omato feel better. If the Americans were waiting for him, and if they survived the bombardment, they would be frightened and confused. Easy meat for his hearty sailors.

  A wave nudged the boat’s stern, the helmsman swore as it veered to starboard, and pushed the rudder accordingly. Omato stood tall, pushed his glasses higher onto his nose, and hoped his commanding officer was watching. It seemed that war, when properly conducted, was just as glorious as it was supposed to be.

  Meanwhile, on the top floor of a sturdy hotel, Staff Sergeant Moon, Corporal McKenzie, and a squad of “squids” lay huddled on the floor, prayed that the next 203-mm round would land somewhere else, and hoped the Zeros were gone for good.

  A sailor named Dudley took a swig from the bottle, one of many “liberated” from the hotel’s bar, wiped the opening with his sleeve, and passed it on. “So, Sarge, what’s happening out there? Is it time to kill the bastards yet?”

  “Not yet,” Moon replied, squinting through the binoculars. “But real soon . . . Are you sure you know how to operate that thing?”

  The .50-caliber machine gun sat crouched on the floor. The barrel cleared the windowsill by a good three inches with plenty of traverse. Dudley patted the weapon’s well-oiled breech. “Are you kidding? Hell, Sarge, we’ve got plenty of these babies aboard ship. I could fire one in my sleep.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Moon said, “because the bastards are getting close. Hear that?”

  Dudley listened. The crump, crump, crump of 203-mm shells was farther away from the beach now. “Yup, they’re shelling the bars.”

  “First Pearl and now this,” Pockets said darkly. “They deserve to die.”

  Moon watched the first boat hit the sand, saw the helmsman struggle to keep his boat bow-on, and knew the others were waiting, too. All up and down Waikiki Beach, teams similar to his had been installed in the upper floors of the better-built hotels, concealed in crawlspaces, and hidden in palm-frond-covered pits. When a marine captain named Oliver gave the word, the entire lot would open fire. Those who could, at any rate, realizing that some were dead.

  “Hold,” Oliver said over his radio, “hold . . . hold . . . now?”

  Moon gave the necessary order, heard Dudley open fire, and brought the M-l up to his shoulder. The Japanese sailors, many of whom had been forced to exit their boats in three or even four feet of water, were like ducks in a barrel, especially from fifty feet in the air. The machine guns cut the sailors to shreds while well-aimed carbine fire found officers and noncoms.

  The surf turned red with blood, more boats arrived, and more sailors tumbled out. Pinned at the water’s edge and unable to move forward or back, Omato didn’t have the foggiest idea of what to do. It was his radio operator, a plucky peasant from a hamlet outside of Sapporo, who told him what was needed. “Tell them to shell those hotels, sir. That’s where most of the defensive fire is coming from.”