story: MAC.ThePearlHarborMurders (the ending...)

FIFTEEN 　Retaliation 　 　In less than half an hour, in a peacetime attack unparalleled in the modem world, Japan had delivered the worst Naval defeat in American history. 　Thick black smoke draped Pearl Harbor, where all seven battleships moored at Ford Island had suffered damage, all hit by one or more bombs. In the overturned hull of the Oklahoma, most of the crew remained imprisoned, while others were trapped in the capsized Utah; rescue efforts in either case were hampered by continual strafing, until the silver planes of the Rising Sun finished their runs. 　In the lull that followed the first wave of attack planes, the Americans worked frantically to prepare in the event of another blow-and one was coming: a second wave of 169 fighters and bombers crossed the northern coast of Oahu at 8:40 a.m. 　Fifty-four high-level bombers and thirty-one fighters streaked toward Hickam Field and Kaneohe Naval Air Station and other bases, seeking more American planes on the ground to blow up, often strafing civilian vehicles and residential areas, apparently just for the sheer hell of it. Eighty-one dive bombers prowled for any surviving warships in the harbor, with ships awaiting repairs becoming additional targets-like the flagship Pennsylvania, and the destroyers Downes and Cassin, all in Dry Dock #1. 　During this second attack, however, the Japanese pilots met stronger American resistance, and had to deal with billowing black smoke, a cover of their own raid's creation, obscuring their targets. The commander of the second wave of fighters, encountering fiercer ground fire than he'd anticipated, wound up crashing his Zero into a flaming hangar; and efforts to sink the fleeing battleship Nevada, to seal off the harbor with a mass of steel, proved unsuccessful. 　Small victories, in so large a defeat. 　With the exception of the occasional scurrying Oriental, disappearing down an alley or into a doorway, the streets and sidewalks of Chinatown were deserted. The rows of shops and cafes were as abandoned as an Old West ghost town, lacking only tumbleweed; the hustle and bustle of the Aala Market-where Sunday was just another day, any ordinary Sunday, that is-replaced with an eerie silence, deserted stalls filled with fresh fish whose dead faces stared with mute curiosity, as if to say, Where is everybody? Under a sky black with storm clouds of war, the smell of burning could be detected: not the acrid stench of fuel-oil fires from the harbor, but the crackling scorch-scent of refuse disposal, mingled with the unmistakable smell of fear. All around Chinatown, in metal drums or (as at the Consulate) washtubs or in backyard bonfires, issei and nisei were burning books written in the Japanese language, as well as Rising Sun flags and pictures of the emperor and photos of family members in Japan, even apparel like kimonos and getta; they were burying samurai swords and family heirlooms in their backyards-doing their frantic best to nullify any signs of Japanese influence and culture in Honolulu. 　Burroughs found in Japanese-dominated Chinatown nothing to confirm the long-held local apprehension that-in the case of war with Nippon-Oahu's Japanese would come charging into haole neighborhoods brandishing guns or even samurai swords. Nor was there any sign of them skulking off to plant dynamite satchels and mines under bridges and piers or at military installations and electric lines. And predictions that your own maid, your neighbor's houseboy, the cop on the beat, the farmer down the road, the nisei Hawaii Territorial Guard members, would band together against "Americans" (which they of course were themselves) hardly seemed to be materializing. 　The distant echo of explosions provided a thunderous backdrop as Ed Burroughs and his son walked by the sampan dock, where the blue boats bobbed, unattended. 　"So much for a fifth column," Burroughs said to Hully, looking around at the desolation, as they approached the small grocery near the Aala Market. 　"I'd feel better about this," Hully said, clearly a little nervous, "if Agent Sterling were at our side." 　Burroughs held up his palm, where the tiny German automatic nestled. "We'll be fine. Sterling has his own job to do." 　"Well, the door's open, anyway," Hully said, and brushed aside the hanging black beads and gestured, politely, for his father to go in first. 　The writer stepped inside, Hully right behind him. The wooden storefront was unattended; the place had a curious fragrance, similar to incense-though to Burroughs the unfamiliar scent suggested decay. His son had told him about the shop, but Burroughs was not prepared for how little the "grocery" had to do wife his American preconceptions. He glanced around at the walls of shelves lined with jars and baskets of strange herbs, roots, dried seaweed, and other exotica. 　"I guess he's out of Ovaltine," Burroughs said dryly. 　With his left hand, Burroughs slapped the "Please Ring" bell on the counter, which stretched along the left of the shop. 　A door, opposite the beaded one they'd come in, cracked open, apparently from a rear storage area. 　"Shop is closed," Yoshio Harada said. Then he recognized them, and the grocer stepped into the storefront, closing the storeroom door behind him. He half bowed. "Burroughs-san ... Burroughs-san," he said, acknowledging them both. 　"The door was open," Burroughs said, nodding toward the beaded entry. "Sorry to drop by unannounced, but this is an extraordinary morning, wouldn't you say, Mr. Harada?" 　Nodding again, the diminutive, trimly mustached man-in a white shirt, grocer's apron, blue trousers, and sandals-shuffled behind the counter at the left; the shelves rising behind him provided a bizarre backdrop of gnarled roots, shark fins and seahorse skeletons. 　"A terrible day." Harada was hanging his head. "I am ashamed to be Japanese on this day." 　"No kidding?" Burroughs leaned a hand against the counter; his other hand, with the little gun, was behind his back. "I heard you used to have the emperor's picture on display." 　Head still bowed, he gestured with both hands, as if disgusted. "I threw it away, many weeks ago. We work so hard to be accepted-to be good American. In one morning, all is undone. I am angry at Japan." 　A faraway explosion seemed to punctuate his sentence. 　The little grocer shook a fist at the sky. "Dirty Japs!" 　"Not bad," Burroughs said, chuckling. "If Weiss-muller was as good an actor as you are, Harada, I'd be a happy man." 　Harada looked up at the writer, blinking. "Who? What?" 　Moving closer to the counter, Hully went into their prepared spiel. "We've just come from the Japanese Consulate, Mr. Harada. General Consul Kita says you and Morimura are buddies." 　Harada frowned in apparent confusion. "I know no one named Morimura." 　"How about Yoshikawa?" Burroughs asked, innocently. "A rose by any other name... You see, I thought, what with bombs dropping and all, you might be just the guy to help get the vice consul out of the limelight." 　The grocer shook his head. "I know nothing of what you speak." 　"Well," Burroughs said, "to tell you the truth, we were bluffing. Kita didn't mention your name. Matter of fact, I doubt Kita even knows your name, unless the Consulate buys seafood and vegetables from you." 　"They do not." 　"After all, Kita's not the espionage agent-he'd likely be kept out of the know, for security reasons. It's Morimura-that is, Yoshikawa-who's the spy in the woodpile." 　Harada's frown no longer seemed confused, though his words continued down the path of denial: "I understand none of what you say." 　"There's no fifth column in Oahu," Burroughs said with a grin, which quickly vanished. "But there is a tiny network of real spies. That radiophone call was a signal that this Sunday would make a fine morning for a surprise party. Your niece knew something was up- more importantly, she knew you were an agent, just like Otto Kuhn, and Morimura." 　Now the mask dropped and a tiny, but very nasty smile, etched itself on the bland features. "Are these things you can prove?" 　Burroughs shrugged. "Hell, I'll leave that to the FBI." He jerked a thumb at Hully. "My son, here, is the one who really put it together." 　Hully said, "I couldn't stop thinking about Morimura bawling Pearl out-she wasn't one of his conquests; he wasn't her type. Why would she even know him? Then it came to me: through you...." 　"As the grocer making deliveries to the Niumalu," Burroughs said, "you could easily maintain contact with your German 'sleeper' agent. And Pearl was aware of your relationship with both Kuhn and Morimura. After all, she lived with you, up above your shop, before she moved to the Niumalu, so she knew you and Morimura were in league-and she knew or figured out that he was an espionage agent; she even knew his real name. She got wind of something big coming up, and she was going to turn you, and Morimura, in to military intelligence... to show her loyalty to America." 　'To prove herself," Hully said softly, sadly, "to her boyfriend's father." 　Harada held out both empty palms and shook his head, smiling as if this was all too far-fetched, too absurd. "And you think this ... Morimura... killed my niece?" 　"No." Burroughs twitched a smile, nodding right at the grocer. "I think you killed her. I know you killed her. You confronted her about what you considered her disloyalty, to her family, to Japan, and she told you she was going to Colonel Fielder, to tell him everything. You struck her down, with a goddamn rock, crushed 　her skull-then Morimura helped cover it up, by calling Kuhn and having him finger the wrong man." 　Now the grocer folded his arms and his chin raised; his tone was quietly defiant, now. "I would take offense at these accusations, but they are ... foolish." 　"Oh, there's more. You got to thinking about your niece's close friend, that homosexual musician, and got worried that she may have talked to him, shared what she knew. Or perhaps she bragged to you that she had told Terry Mizuha what she knew, thinking it would protect her, would keep you from harming her. Either way, she was too naive, or maybe too nice a kid, to understand that this is war: that one more casualty, more or less, is nothing to a soldier... even if it is his own niece." 　Harada said nothing; however, a faint sneer could be detected under the trim mustache. 　A slight tremor in his voice, Hully said, "You made an unscheduled, unexpected delivery of seafood to the Niumalu-the day after your niece was murdered! If you had any human compassion or decency, you'd know how suspicious, how wrong that would seem to a normal person." 　"You murdered Terry Mizuha at the hotel, probably in his room," Burroughs said, "tossed him in your pickup truck, like another swordfish, and hauled him to the beach." 　Hully added, "Though you probably picked up your pal Morimura to help you carry him down that rocky slope to the beach." 　Harada smiled, just a little, then looked at each man, one at a time, with quiet contempt. "You will try to prove this, how?" 　Burroughs shrugged. "Like I said, it's not our job to prove it-that's up to the feds, and Detective Jardine. But they're a little busy this morning ... so I thought I'd help out." 　Burroughs brought his hand out from around his back and aimed the Lьger at the grocer's chest. 　"What is this?" Harada asked, only his eyes betraying any alarm. 　"It's what we Americans call a citizen's arrest." 　The backroom door flew open and suddenly Morimura was at Burroughs's side, pressing the nose of a .38 revolver into the writer's neck. 　"This is not judo," Morimura said. "This is a gun." 　The slender, handsome spy wore golf clothes-a checkered sweater vest over a white shirt and knee pants with high checkered socks; well, Kita had said Morimura had a golf date, this morning. 　With a sigh, Burroughs set the little Lьger on the counter. The grocer did not take the weapon, rather he reached under the counter and swung out a sawed-off shotgun. Hully and his father exchanged glances-this was not going quite as planned. 　"I hope you'll forgive me for eavesdropping," Morimura said, looking a little ridiculous in the golf outfit, though not enough so to take the edge off the weapon he'd stuck in the writer's neck. 　'Til let it go this time," Burroughs said, as the cold steel of the spy's gun dimpled his flesh. 　Morimura's expression was smug but his eyes had a 　wildness, a fear, in them. "You should write detective stories, Mr. Burroughs. You put the pieces together very well." 　The writer looked sideways at his captor. "What now, Morimura? You don't mind if I don't call you 'Yoshikawa'-I'm used to you the other way." 　Morimura offered half a smile. "The ineffectual, buf-foonish ladies' man, you mean? I must give you credit, Mr. Burroughs-you never did accept that masquerade." 　"By any yardstick, buddy, you're no diplomat. You'll face the firing squad, as a spy." 　The half smile dissolved into a full scowl. "You're facing a firing squad right now, Mr. Burroughs-something I have no intention of doing." 　"What are you going to do?" Burroughs did his best to show no fear; and he wasn't afraid for himself-but his son, at his side, that was something again. "You can't just kill us." 　"Really?" Morimura laughed softly. "Do you see anyone around to be a witness? Mr. Harada and I will be on the tiny island of Niihau, by nightfall, and a few days later, a submarine will take us to ... friendlier waters." 　Burroughs locked eyes with the spy. "Did you know, Morimura? Did you know today was the day?" 　The spy smirked, shaking his head. "I suspected- all signs indicated that was the case... but it might have been next week, or the next. What was the difference, with your military so obsessed with fighting fifth columnists, and ignoring the real threat?" 　Hully was looking at the little grocer, the big hollow eyes of the man's shotgun looking back at him. "How could you do it? How could you kill your own niece?" 　Harada's features were impassive, even proud. "She was a traitor." 　Hully's eyes were on fire, his nostrils flaring as he said, "She was a beautiful, talented girl, and you murdered her, you heartless son of a bitch!" 　Harada shrugged. 　Morimura's smile was pursed, like a kiss, and then he said, "Who was it said, 'War is hell'? Whoever that wise man was, he was so right, even if he was an American ... now if you will please to step in back, in the storeroom." 　Burroughs put up his hands and so did Hully, and Morimura reached behind him and pushed the backroom door open with one hand, and with the other he kept the revolver trained on the writer, the grocer keeping a bead on Hully. Morimura motioned with the gun for them to follow him into the back. 　The spy did not see Adam Sterling come into the open doorway behind him, and the grocer didn't see the FBI agent in time to warn Morimura, either. With a swift, vicious chop to the base of the neck, Sterling sent Morimura sprawling to the floor, the .38 tumbling from the spy's hands. 　Burroughs caught the weapon in midair, and Hully snatched the Lьger from the counter, while Sterling was pointing a .38 revolver of his own at the grocer behind the counter. 　Though he had a shotgun in hand, Harada was facing three guns, all trained on him, from various directions. 　"Drop it," Sterling advised. "You can't win this game." 　Harada thought that over; then he swung the sawed-off shotgun up and around and under his chin and squeezed both triggers, the explosion shaking everything-and everyone-in the small shop. What had been Harada's head dripped and dribbled and slithered down the weird jars of roots, herbs and skeletons, crawling like strange sea creatures. Then the mostly headless body slid down to the floor and sat, out of sight. 　Hully was covering his mouth, horrified. Through his fingers, he said the obvious: "He ... he took his own life." 　"You're going to be seeing a lot of that," Burroughs said, "in the coming days." 　Sterling was hauling Morimura to his feet; the dazed spy, his perfect hair askew, looking fairly idiotic in the golf togs, gave the FBI man a bewildered look. 　"Judo," Sterling explained. 　Less than two hours after it had begun, the sneak air attack on Pearl Harbor was over. The silver planes again receded into specks on the horizon, taking off in varied directions, one more act of deception designed to confuse the enemy as to the attackers' origin point. The raiders left behind a Pearl Harbor that was a smoldering, twisted landscape of inconceivable devastation. The two pieces of the Arizona lay on the bottom of the harbor; the West Virginia, too. The Utah and Oklahoma, capsized; the California sinking; the Cur-tiss, Helena, and Honolulu damaged; the Raleigh barely afloat; the Nevada, the Vestal, beached. Fires raged on bomb-damaged ships-the Maryland, the Pennsylvania, the Tennessee. 　On Ford Island, the husks of dozens of planes lay in charred disarray, while hangars burned around them. On the oil-pooled surface of the harbor floated debris, much of it human. And along the Oahu shores, the pummeled air bases continued to ooze smoke. 　Corpsman attempted, often vainly, to identify bodies and body parts at the Pearl Harbor Naval Hospital. At the base of Alewa Heights, just below the Shuncho-ro teahouse-where the Japanese vice consul had wooed geishas and perpetrated espionage-a makeshift morgue was set up. 　The triumph of the Japanese, however, was not complete. Huge fuel tanks, holding millions of barrels of oil, had gone unsullied. The Navy Yard itself, that sprawl of repair facilities and shops, was secure. The Naval ammo depot went untouched, as did the submarine pens. Smaller warships by the score escaped damage; and the raiders had failed to find-much less destroy-the aircraft carriers of the Pacific Fleet. 　The greatest miscalculation, of course, was the nature of the attack itself-the sheer villainy of such a peacetime assault To the Japanese military, this was a glorious day of victory, but just one day-a war, after all, was made of many days. 　But December 7, 1941, was not just any day. 　Americans would remember it 　 　 　 　Epilogue 　 　On the afternoon after the attack-in response to a radio request for help from all able-bodied men-Ed and Hully Burroughs were issued Springfield rifles and dispatched to patrol the waterfront in a civilian guard, helping to dig slit trenches along the shore. 　With the help of his friend Colonel Kendall Fielder, Burroughs earned the distinction of becoming the oldest American correspondent to cover the Second World War, making three trips to Pacific war zones. He was vocal in his support for Hawaii's Japanese-Americans, though his stereotypical, propagandist portrayal of "Japs" in his WWII novel, Tarzan and the Foreign Legion, rivaled that of the Germans in Tarzan the Untamed. 　Colonel Fielder also became known for championing the rights of Japanese-Americans; possibly he'd been touched in some private way by the deaths of his son and his son's nisei fiancee. At any rate, largely due to the efforts of Fielder and a few others-including FBI agent Adam Sterling-99 percent of Hawaii's 160,000 Japanese-Americans remained free, unlike the widespread mainland interments. 　Shortly after Pearl Harbor, Burroughs turned his hand to mystery writing, even briefly converting Tar-zan into a detective, though without particular success, including a wild crime story entitled "More Fun! More People Killed!" that The Saturday Evening Post turned down. 　After suffering several heart attacks, Edgar Rice Burroughs died in bed, on March 19, 1950, slumping over the funny papers, which were open to 'Tarzan." 　Ed Burroughs was very proud of his son Hully, who a few weeks after the Pearl Harbor raid enlisted in the Army Air Corps at Hickam Field; First Lieutenant Hul-bert Burroughs went on to be a distinguished aerial combat photographer. Toward the end of the war, Hully married Marion Thrasher; after his father's death, he took the reins of ERB, Inc., working with his brother John Coleman Burroughs to effectively administer the legacy of Edgar Rice Burroughs. 　Otto Kuhn and his wife were arrested at a beach house, and imprisoned at the Sand Island Detention Center; Tadeo Yoshikawa (alias Tadashi Morimura) was transported to an interment camp in Arizona and, in August 1942, exchanged for American diplomats held in Japan. 　Kuhn and Yoshikawa were two of only a dozen individuals determined to have actively engaged in prewar espionage in Hawaii; grocer Tosbio Harada was another. All of them had been sent to Hawaii under false names and/or pretenses; none were representatives of any local fifth column of Japanese-Americans. No such fifth column was ever shown to exist. 　Sam Fujimoto fought with the celebrated all-Japanese 442nd Regimental Combat Team, and later graduated from Yale Law School, becoming a successful Honolulu attorney. 　Harry Kamana and a smaller version of his band toured the Pacific Theater for the USO. 　After the war, Detective John Jardine was instrumental in the cleaning up of police corruption on Oahu; he retired in 1968, died a year later, widely regarded as the finest homicide detective Oahu had ever known. 　Both Admiral Kimmel and General Short were forced to retire and a hurried government report in January 1942 branded them with "dereliction of duty." Though a later report absolved them of this charge, the stigma remains, and Admiral Kimmel's son Edward has made a concerted effort to have his father and General Short advanced on the retired lists to their highest wartime ranks of four-star admiral and three-star general. 　General Short in his later years spent much time on his garden, cultivating flowers, not actively seeking rehabilitation of his reputation; he died in 1949. Admiral Kimmel-though on December 7, 1941, he seemed to blame himself, at least in part-spent the rest of his life trying to restore his good name, dying of a heart attack in 1968. 　The exact circumstances of the attack on Pearl 　Harbor, and the reasons for the success of that attack, remain the subject of controversy and debate, involving Congress, the president and media coverage, even sixty years after the fact. 　What did the Washington High Command know concerning Japanese intentions and military targets prior to the raid, and why did Washington fail to pass along this information to Kimmel and Short? If the general and admiral had been privy to this information, would they have taken more seriously the Mori message and other evidence of espionage the FBI agent and the creator of Tarzan brought to their attention, the Saturday evening before that fateful Sunday morning? 　This Pearl Harbor mystery remains unsolved. 　 　 　A Tip of the Panama 　 　This book is a combination of the factual and the fanciful. Details herein of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor-including espionage mat led up to that attack-are largely factual, although the murder case is a fictional one; and I make no claim, large or small, for this novel as any kind of definitive account of this pivotal event in our history. Any blame for historical and/or geographical inaccuracies is my own, reflecting, I hope, the limitations of conflicting source material. 　Like my previous "disaster mysteries," The Titanic Murders (1999) and The Hindenburg Murders (2000), this novel features a real-life writer as amateur detective. Edgar Rice Burroughs was a great childhood favorite of mine; I was an avid reader of both the Tarzan tales and ERB's science fiction, well into my teens. The narrative technique of separating two protagonists and following the adventures of each in alternating chapters-used in this book-is one I learned from Burroughs. Tarzan the Untamed, incidentally, was my favorite of the novels-and the controversy over that "anti-German" title is accurately reported herein. 　Burroughs and his son Hulbert were indeed present on Oahu-and living at the Niumalu Hotel-on December 7, 1941; they were, in fact, playing tennis when the bombing began. My fictionalized portrayal of them is based largely upon two wonderful biographies: the massive, seminal Edgar Rice Burroughs: The Man Who Created Tarzan (1975) by Irwin Forges; and a book I found as compulsively readable as any Burroughs novel, Tarzan Forever (1999) by John Tali-aferro. Also helpful were the early Burroughs biographies, The Big Swingers (1967) by Robert W. Fenton, and Edgar Rice Burroughs: Master of Adventure (1965) by Richard A. Lupoff. So was Tarzan of the Movies (1968) by Gabe Esso. 　A number of characters in The Pearl Harbor Murders are historical figures and appear under their real names, including (of course) General Short and Admiral Kimmel. Colonel Kendall Fielder existed, but the character Bill Fielder is fictional; grocer Yoshio Harada existed, but Pearl Harada is fictional. Adam Sterling is a composite of several FBI agents, one of whom lived at the Niumalu and was friendly with Ed Burroughs. The Kuhns, Colonel Teske (name changed), Tadeo Yoshikawa (a.k.a. Tadashi Morimura), Fred Bivens, George Elliot, Joe Lockard, William Outerbridge, the Morton family, Nagao Kita, and John Jardine are historical figures; Dan Pressman, Jack Stanton, Sam Fu-jimoto, Terry Mizuha, Frank Kaupiko, and Harry 　Kamana are not, although most have real-life counterparts. Marjorie Petty did visit Oahu shortly before the attack, but (to my knowledge) never dated Hully Burroughs; as a buff of pinup art and artists, I couldn't resist noting the presence in Honolulu of this real, live Petty Girl. 　Despite the use of real names and an underlying basis in history, these are all characters in a novel, fictionalized and doing the author's bidding. 　My fact-based novels about fictional 1930s/'40s-era Chicago private detective Nathan Heller have required extensive research not unlike what was required here. As usual, my Heller research assistant, George Hagenauer, provided valuable input and came up with research materials on both Pearl Harbor and Edgar Rice Burroughs. 　Many books on both Hawaii and the Pearl Harbor attack were consulted, but none was more valuable than Pearl Harbor Ghosts (1991) by Thurston Clarke. Mr. Clarke's wonderful book is a vivid picture of Honolulu in 1941 filtered through a modem prism; this work- along with Tarzan Forever-provided the spine of my research, and I am indebted to him. 　Other Hawaii references consulted include: All the Best in Hawaii (1949), Sydney Clark; Aloha Waikiki (1985), DeSoto Brown; Around the World Confidential (1956), Lee Mortimer; Detective Jardine: Crimes in Honolulu (1984), John Jardine with Edward Rohr-bough and Bob Krauss; Hawaii: A Profile (1940), Merle Colby; Hawaii Recalls (1982), DeSoto Brown, Anne Ellett, Gary Giernza; Hawaii: Restless Rampart (1941), Joseph Barber, Jr.; Hawaiian Tapestry (1937), Antoinette Withington; Hawaii! "... Wish You Were Here." (1994), Ray and Jo Miller; Hawaiian Yesterdays (1982), Ray Jerome Baker; Honolulu-Waikiki Handbook (1994), J. D. Bisignani; The Japanese in Hawaii: A Century of Struggle (1985), Roland Kotani; Remembering Pearl Harbor (1984), Michael Slack-man; Roaming Hawaii (1937), Harry A. Franck; The View from Diamond Head (1986), Don Hibbard and David Franzen; Waikiki Beachboy (1989), Grady Tim-mons; and When You Go to Hawaii (1930), Townsend Griffiss. The latter-a book I stumbled onto in a Honolulu used-book store while researching the Nathan Heller novel Damned in Paradise (1996)-was again particularly useful. 　Two especially helpful references were Pearl Harbor (1969) by A. J. Barker, and the groundbreaking Day of Infamy (1957) by Walter Lord. I also screened the film Tora! Tora! Tora! (1970), directed by Richard Fleischer, Toshio Masuda and Kinji Fukasuku. Other valuable references on the attack include: At Dawn We Slept: The Untold Story of Pearl Harbor (1981), Gordon W. Prange; The Broken Seal (1967), Ladislas Far-ago; Dec. 7 1941 (1988), Gordon W. Prange with Donald M. Goldstein and Katherine V. Dillon; Infamy: Pearl Harbor and its Aftermath (1982), John Toland; Long Day's Journey into War: December 7, 1941 (1991), Stanley Weintraub; Pearl Harbor and the USS Arizona Memorial (1986), Richard A. Wisniewski; and Pearl Harbor: The Verdict of History (1986), Gordon W. Prange with Donald M. Goldstein and Katherine V. Dillon. 　Internet research led me to several useful articles, including "Alewa Teahouse One of the Last of Its Kind" by Rod Ohira (Honolulu Star-Bulletin); "The Pearl Harbor Spy" by Wil Deac (thehistorynet.com); and the wonderful overview article "Turning Points: One Sunday in December" by Edward Oxford (American History magazine), the single most important research document for my portrayal of the attack itself. 　I would like to thank editor Natalee Rosenstein of Berkley Prime Crime for having the foresight to allow me to do this book sooner rather than later-and then to graciously grant me a brief but vital extension; my agent and friend, Dominick Abel; and of course my wife, Barbara Collins, who interrupted her own writing to help me survive various sneak attacks along the way. 　 　 　 　About the Author 　 　Max Allan Collins has earned an unprecedented nine Private Eye Writers of America "Shamus" nominations for his "Nathan Heller" historical thrillers, winning twice (True Detective, 1983, and Stolen Away, 1991). 　A Mystery Writers of America "Edgar" nominee in both fiction and nonfiction categories, Collins has been hailed as "the Renaissance man of mystery fiction." His credits include five suspense-novel series, film criticism, short fiction, songwriting, trading-card sets and movie tie-in novels, including such international bestsellers as In the Line of Fire, Air Force One, and Saving Private Ryan. 　He scripted the internationally syndicated comic strip "Dick Tracy" from 1977 to 1993, is cocreator of the comic-book features "Ms. Tree" and "Mike Danger," and has written the "Batman" comic book and newspaper strip. DreamWorks has bought motion-picture rights to his 1998 graphic novel, Road to Perdition. 　Working as an independent filmmaker in his native Iowa, he wrote and directed the suspense film Mommy, starring Patty McCormack, premiering on Lifetime in 19%, as well as its 1997 sequel, Mommy's Day. The recipient of a record four Iowa Motion Picture Awards for screenwriting, he also wrote The Expert, a 1995 HBO World Premiere film; and wrote and directed the award-winning documentary Mike Hammer's Mickey Spillane (1999) and the innovative feature Real Time: Siege at Lucas Street Market (2000). 　 Collins lives in Muscaline, Iowa, with his wife, writer Barbara Collins, and their teenage son, Nathan.

story : MAC.ThePearlHarborMurders (part 13-14)

THIRTEEN 　War Games 　 　After the midnight closing of the Navy's new Bloch Recreation Center-where the Arizona's dance band had come in second to the Pennsylvania, a much-contested decision-and with the dimming of the clubs and bars of the city, garish Hotel Street included, the blush in the sky over Honolulu began to fade, until the heavens again belonged to the stars. Oahu itself seemed to slumber, with only the slowly turning hands of the Aloha Tower's quartet of clock faces to mark the passing of another tropical night. 　By three a.m., the darkness was broken chiefly by stoplights pulsing red, and mute, deserted streets twinkling with Christmas lights. A few pleasure palaces in Chinatown ignored the curfew, their entryways scarlet with the neon promise of sin, beckoning foolish tourists and fearless servicemen. And offshore, to the west, at the entrance to Pearl Harbor, red and green buoy lights winked in the dark, as if they and the night shared a secret. 　In these deceptively peaceful hours before dawn, out in the blackness beyond the reef, destiny was bearing down upon Oahu. Three hundred miles north of Honolulu, an armada charged through heavy seas at a clip of twenty knots-destroyers and cruisers, battleships and aircraft carriers, bombers and torpedo planes- while, much closer to Oahu, a small fleet of submarines already had the island surrounded, and five midget submarines were even now gliding toward their targets. 　A little before four a.m., a minesweeper signaled the destroyer Ward of the sighting of a possible periscope three-quarters southwest of the harbor's blinking entrance buoys. General quarters were sounded by Lieutenant William Outerbridge, captain of the Ward- summoned to the bridge in his pajamas, over which he wore a kimono-and for half an hour, the destroyer searched the restricted waters outside the harbor, and saw nothing, their sonarmen hearing nothing. 　Then at 6:30 a.m., a Ward crewman spotted the half-submerged midget sub trailing the supply ship Antares toward the harbor entry, whose torpedo nets-usually blocking the channel-were wide open. Lieutenant Outerbridge sounded general quarters again, and took chase, quickly closing to within a hundred yards, firing and missing, then-with a point-blank hit-nailing the sub at the juncture of its conning tower, sinking the seaweed-shrouded sub, then pounding it with depth charges until the wounded ship bled oil. 　The Ward, little realizing it, had just fired the first shots of the Pacific War. 　Though this encounter had taken place within five miles of Battleship Row, Oahu continued to slumber- Lieutenant Outerbridge, who of course promptly radioed a coded message of the sinking to the commander of the Fourteenth Naval District at Pearl Harbor-did not receive a request for "additional details" until 7:37 A.M. 　Just before dawn, atop a ridge on the northern shore of Oahu, one of Colonel Teske's mobile radar stations was scheduled to be shut down at seven a.m. General Short had these half-dozen trailer-mounted units in operation only a few hours a day, primarily for training purposes. Private George Elliot and Private Joe Lock-ard were working a four-hour graveyard shift, three in the morning till seven; but the track that was supposed to pick them up for breakfast was late, and Private Elliot left the equipment on after seven, merely for the practice. 　And just as dawn was threatening to break, a notably strong wave pattern blipped on Elliot's five-inch-diameter oscilloscope, indicating dozens of aircraft, about 130 miles north, heading toward Oahu-at a speed, they soon estimated, of around 180 mph. 　Elliot called this in to the Air Warning Service at Fort Shafter, where Lieutenant Kermit Tyler-assuming these blips represented some B-17s expected in from the mainland-told the radarman, "Well, don't worry about it." 　Lockard suggested they shut down the radar set, but Elliot wanted some more practice: he watched until the swarm of planes was only twenty-two miles north of Oahu, at which point the patterns disappeared. Unaware that this meant the planes were lost in the dead zone of the hills, as they crossed the shoreline, Elliot switched off the set and logged his final report, at 0740... 　... content that he'd had enough practice for one day. 　The blips on his screen had been forty-three Zeros, forty torpedo bombers, and one hundred bombers, the first wave of planes launched at six a.m. by the Japanese battle fleet 275 miles due north of the radar station. Their shadows racing across the checkerboards of sugarcane and pineapple fields, the 183 silver planes streaked over the lushly tropical, dreamily peaceful island, where a harbor as still as a millpond awaited, part of a golden landscape basking in the tranquillity of a Sunday dawn. 　At around 7:30 a.m., Hully Burroughs and his father sat at a round wicker table on the Niumalu patio, having breakfast. Hully was in bis tennis whites, O. B. in a short-sleeved woven tan shirt and khaki slacks, an ensemble that looked vaguely military; both men were in sneakers. The plan was to play tennis after breakfast, so they again ate light-orange juice and coffee and muffins and fresh fruit. 　Their houseguest, Bill Fielder, was still on the pallet in the bungalow, sleeping it off, dead to the world. The chief topic of discussion between father and son was their frustration that the Sunday paper was late: Hully's brother Jack's comic strip, based on ERB's John Carter of Mars stories, was making its debut today. 　"Well, it's not like we haven't seen the proofs," Hully said, buttering a muffin. 　"Sure, but I'm anxious to see it in color," O. B. said, obviously disappointed that he couldn't read this latest Burroughs spin-off-helmed by his eldest son, a fact of which he was inordinately proud-over his morning coffee. 　Neither father nor son had mentioned anything about the murder investigation that had so consumed them the day before; this was a new day-witness the endless blue sky puffed with clouds, the surf rolling gentry to shore, hear and feel the wind whispering through the fronds, a strangely still morning, quiet, serene ... Sunday. 　When the first sounds of artillery fire interrupted that serenity, shattering it even, Burroughs, coffee cup in hand, looked at Hully with one arched eyebrow. 　"No," Hully said, to the unasked question. 　And O. B. nodded. 　After all, yesterday's papers had said that heavy guns would be fired from various parts of the island, over the next few days; and Oahu was a continual site of war games and realistic maneuvers. 　As the sounds of battle built, other patrons of the Niumalu, at other tables, were exchanging the same information: this was just a drill, some kind of Navy battle practice, or the Army having target practice.... 　A woman at a nearby table said in an English accent, 　"What a wonderfully realistic imitation of a European air raid." 　"Well, now I know how they sound," her male companion, an American, said matter-of-factly. 　Soon, as father and son wandered to the tennis court, rackets in hand, Burroughs was saying, "You get used to these damn maneuvers, living on a military island like this. But I have to admit, after what we learned yesterday, I'm damned nervous. You don't think this could be..." 　From the direction of the beach, the sky rumbled, and it wasn't thunder. 　Nonetheless, Hully shook his head. "Dad, we'd be hearing sirens-it'd be all over the radio, by now. We'd know if this were more than just gunnery practice." 　So they began to play tennis. Before long, many of the Niumalu guests had gathered on the sandy patch adjacent to the tennis court, that sunbathing area where, not so long ago, Pearl Har-ada had lounged in a pretty pink bathing suit. From there, the rubberneckers could enjoy-just past the stubby wooden fence-a clear view of the coast, from Diamond Head to beyond Pearl Harbor and Barbers Point, though a hill kept them from seeing the Naval base. 　Even from the court, Hully and his dad could quite plainly see-pausing between serves-bombs falling into the ocean not so far away, dense black smoke billowing up as if the water were on fire. 　"It's a practice smoke screen," somebody said. 　"Sure doesn't sound like practice," someone else said, rather idly. 　Antiaircraft shells were exploding in the sky, and ships at sea were firing, and the guests were oohing and ahhing, as if at a Fourth of July fireworks display, marveling at these "realistic maneuvers the Navy was staging." 　Hully had just returned a serve, and O. B. had swatted it back, when a bomb went off surprisingly nearby, and Hully's attention jerked toward the beach, the ball bouncing past him, unattended. The hotel guests were rearing back in horror and surprise. Gasps and screams intermingled as they began to back away, and gradually turned and walked, and ran, to their bungalows or the lodge or just somewhere else, anywhere else, as long as it was inland. 　At the sound of that nearby explosion, Hully had tossed his racket and his father had done the same, and as the guests rushed toward them, the Burroughs duo moved through the panicking crowd, swimming against the tide, running toward the beach. 　Fred Bivens, eyes wide and unbelieving, came up to them, gesturing numbly toward the waters. 　"A supply ship-it was standing just offshore, by Fort DeRussey.... A bomb blew the damn thing up! What kind of war games are these?" 　Hully and his father looked out and could see bombs bursting over Pearl Harbor and Hickam Field. 　"It's war, Fred," O. B. said gravely. "Not games." 　Hully grabbed his father by the arm and said to him pointedly, "Then let's go take a prisoner." 　O. B., understanding, nodded curtly, and they took off. 　Feeling like idiots-they if anyone should have known this was the real thing-Hully and O. B. ran toward the Kuhns' cottage. As they passed by an open window of another bungalow, a radio blasted out an announcer's call to action: "All men report to your post! Calling all nurses! Proceed to Pearl Harbor!" 　And as they jogged by another open window, on another tumed-up radio, a different announcer was saying, "Civilians-stay off the street! Stay home! Do not use the telephone! Oahu is being attacked-the sign of the Rising Sun is to be seen on the wings of the attacking planes!" 　No radio was on in the Kuhns' quarters, but they found the door open and, inside, Adam Sterling, who had a .38 revolver in his right hand. The place was a mess, almost as if it had been searched; but that wasn't exactly the case. 　The FBI agent, who might have been a tourist in his aloha shirt and chinos, looked at them and said, "Kuhn and his wife cleared out, sometime during the night." 　Hands on his hips, O. B. snorted a laugh and asked, "Where the hell do they think they're gonna hide, on this island?" 　Sterling stuck the gun in his waistband, shrugging. "Maybe with Jap sympathizers. Maybe they think that fifth column is going to rise up, or maybe an invasion is going to follow this goddamn air raid, and they're hiding till the outcome." Swallowing thickly, Sterling shook his head and his eyes locked with O. B.'s. "Jesus, Ed-did we have to be right?" 　Explosions, muffled, underscored the agent's statement. 　'This is it," O. B. said through clenched teeth. "This is the attack. But my question is-is this what Pearl Harada knew?" 　Sterling shook his head. "No-but close. Last night, after you and I struck out with General Short and Admiral Kimmel. .. and what a morning I bet they're having ... I couldn't sleep. So I went over to the dining room, where the Harbor Lights were dragging their be-hinds through a performance ... two of their members murdered, what a damn pall that cast." 　"I can imagine," Hully said. 　"Yeah," O. B. said to the FBI agent, "but what the hell does that-" 　Nodding, the FBI man picked up his train of thought. "I talked to a young man in the band who, as it turns out, was ... secretly... Terry Mizuha's other best friend." He grunted a humorless laugh. "Hell, why mince words at a time like this? Terry Mizuha's boyfriend-his lover." 　O. B.'s eyes narrowed to slits. "What did this 'lover' tell you?" 　Distant explosions continued to accentuate the FBI agent's words. 　'Terry had confided in him, Ed-just like Pearl had confided in Terry. Nonspies aren't much at keeping secrets, you know. Seems our esteemed Japanese vice consul, Tadashi Morimura, is not a diplomat at all- 　he's a spy named Takeo Yoshikawa. A top espionage agent... So much for 'legal' spying." 　O. B. and Hully exchanged glances; then O. B. asked, "Is that an act of war? Having a spy pose as a diplomat?" 　Sterling barked a hollow laugh. "Kind of a moot point right now, don't you think?" 　And an especially loud explosion seemed to agree. 　The FBI agent gestured to a telephone on a small table. "Listen, the hotel phones are out. Maybe some Jap plane snagged the phone lines. So I can't call the office, and anyway it's just a skeleton crew over there; and I can't contact anybody at home, obviously. I'm on my own-you and Hully want to help?" 　Hully was nodding, emphatically, as O. B. said, "Sure-how?" 　Sterling's smile had a sneer in it. "I want to get over to that Japanese embassy and arrest that son of a bitch, Morimura/Yoshikawa, plus I want to take all those other Nips into custody, right down to General Counsul Kita....You got a gun, Ed?" 　O. B. nodded. "I still have Otto's Lьger-in the bungalow." 　"Get it. That is, if you want to help out." 　"Oh, I want to help." Eyes so tight they seemed to be shut, O. B. stood almost nose to nose with the FBI agent (or would have if Sterling hadn't been so much taller) and said, "Listen, Adam-Pearl knew more than just Morimura's last name, I'm sure of it That bastard Morimura or Yoshi-something knew about this attack. This invasion got Pearl killed, and that Terry fella as well-they're the first casualties of this new war. Well, the Army and Navy have their hands full right now- you bet we'll be glad to help the FBI get that bastard." 　Sterling and Hully tagged along as O. B. headed back to the bungalow to get the German's gun. As they approached, Bill Fielder-in his bare feet, his green sportshirt unbuttoned, zipping his chinos-came tumbling out, bumping into Hully. 　The young ensign's face was unshaven, his eyes red, his dark hair sticking out here and there with sleep-induced cowlicks. 　"Christ, have you heard?" Bill asked. 　With bombs bursting in air-just like "The Star Spangled Banner"-this was a fairly absurd question. 　"It's no drill," O. B. said. 　"I gotta get to the Arizona," Bill said desperately, wheeling from Hully to O. B. to Sterling. "You gotta drive me there! I gotta get in this! I gotta help!" 　"Keys to the Pierce Arrow are on the coffee table," O. B. said, pointing to the nearby screen door. 'Take it-try not to get my buggy shot the hell up... or yourself." 　"Thank you, thank you," Bill murmured, and ran back inside the Burroughs cottage. 　Sterling paused for just a moment, watching Bill through the screen, and Hully was surprised to see that the FBI agent-this strong-jawed six-foot-two Tarzan type-had tears welling. 　"The men on those ships getting bombed," he said softly, voice catching, "they're all boys like that-average damn age is nineteen." 　O. B. whispered, "Dying out there, right now." 　Then Bill, clutching the car keys, came streaking past them, flashing a nod of thanks and a grimace of a smile. 　Burroughs went in and retrieved the Lьger, and followed after as the FBI man dashed toward the crushed-coral parking lot where the Ford waited, Hully right there at his father's side. 　"Didn't miss the fire this time, Dad," he said. 　"Wish to hell I had," O. B. said. 　There were tears in his father's eyes, as well; but- as was the case with the FBI man-Edgar Rice Burroughs's jaw was firmly set. 　 　 　FOURTEEN 　Under Fire 　 　At the same time as Edgar Rice Burroughs and his son Hulbert were sitting down for breakfast at the Niumalu, two barefoot young fishermen were settling in on the enlisted men's landing at Pearl City. Sitting on the pier in only their khaki trousers, having yanked their T-shirts off (once they'd slipped out of their mother's sight), the Morton boys-Don, eleven, and Jerry, thirteen-did not brandish poles: instead, they unfurled a simple ball of string out into the water. 　The boys were old hands at this, though they were resigned to slim pickings, even if on occasion they had managed to snag a hapless perch; and while the morning's fishing would certainly be on the dull side, Don and Jerry would no doubt be entertained by the harbor's always interesting parade of ships and sailors, planes and pilots.... 　Puffs of wind gently stirred the glassy surface of the water, and the sun peeked from behind cotton-candy clouds, promising a hot, lazy day-a typical Sunday for the two boys, although the fish did seem to be biting, for a change. 　Seeking more bait, Don scrambled up to their house, only two hundred yards from the landing, while Jerry lounged in the golden sunlight, squinting as he took in a view any kid might relish, the ships of the Pacific Fleet strewn before him like so many toys in his tub. Groupings of destroyers convened about their tenders, to the north and east; and cruisers faced into the Navy Yard piers, at the southeast. Farther south lay the cruiser Helena, and-in dry dock with two destroyers- the battleship Pennsylvania. To the west were more destroyers, in and out of dry dock. 　Lording over it all, in the middle of the harbor, sat Ford Island, where even now the boys' stepfather was on duty at the seaplane hangars. Patrol planes and carriers were stationed there, carriers moored on the northwest side, battleships on the southeast. Only today, Jerry noted, the carriers were all out at sea. 　But there was still plenty for a kid to look at-the Utah, a battleship turned target ship; the seaplane tenders Swan and Tangier; the mine layer Ogala; cruisers like the Raleigh, Helena and Detroit; the old gunboat Sacramento with its thin, old-fashioned smokestack; and-on the far side of Ford Island-an exciting lineup of funnels and masts, the "trees" of Battleship Row, the Arizona, California, Maryland, Nevada, Oklahoma, Tennessee, and West Virginia. What other kid's bathtub armada could compare to that? 　Still, all of this was old news to Jerry, who was glad the fish were biting. Otherwise, this had the makings of another really dull Sunday-that must have been why somebody was playing with firecrackers, off in the distance someplace. 　Twenty miles east of where Jerry and Don were fishing, on the windward coast of the island, Japanese fighter planes and dive-bombers were swooping down on Kaneohe Naval Air Station. 　One moment all was quiet, the next men were running after guns and ammunition, shouting, cursing, as the enemy planes made scrap metal out of the big PBY patrol planes at the station, moored to buoys in the bay and sitting unmanned on ramps. 　Thirty-three Army planes were either damaged or destroyed. 　All were in flames. 　Don Morton was halfway down to the pier from the house, bringing more bait, when an explosion pitched him onto his face. The eleven-year-old covered his ears, his head, as three more blasts rocked the world over and around him. 　Then, scared spitless, he scurried back up the slope and ran inside the house, just as his mother was coming out, her face white, her eyes wide. 　Standing there in the doorway, she leaned down, putting her hands on his shoulders. "Go down and fetch your brother-now! Hurry!" 　Don did as he was told, even as planes were gliding by overhead, housetop level. The boy heard gunfire and realized it was coming from above, and the dirt road nearby puffed up, making little dust clouds, as the pilot strafed the area. 　As dust danced on the road, Don-momentarily frozen-yelled, "Jerry!" 　And then the boy turned and ran back to the house, and his mommy. When he got there, Don saw their next-door neighbor, a Navy lieutenant, in his p.j.'s., out on his own front yard. 　The funny thing was, the grown man was crying too, crying for his mommy. 　FBI agent Sterling was at the wheel of the black Ford with Burroughs in front, and Hully was in the backseat, sitting forward, like a kid. 　As they headed for the Japanese Consulate, downtown, Burroughs was dismayed to see civilians failing to take cover, standing out in their yards and on the sidewalks, staring skyward, pointing at the plumes of black smoke, some laughing, convinced they were watching the military training exercise to end all such exercises. 　Perhaps they were, he thought. 　At first the traffic was nonexistent, the streets vacant, spookily, ominously so; and as the spectators began to get the point-as radios around the city informed them this was "the real McCoy!"-the citizens of Honolulu scrambled inside, leaving the sidewalks and front yards empty, as well. 　For several blocks, the emptiness-punctuated by the muffled sound of explosions-was eerie, almost as if the world had ended, leaving behind only brick and concrete. 　Suddenly, vehicles were everywhere, speeding, careening, civilian autos and taxicabs packed with sailors and soldiers desperate to get back to their ships and posts, delivery vans and ambulances and fire trucks, sirens screaming.... 　Soon the FBI agent's Ford was snarled in traffic. 　Sterling, pounding the wheel impatiently, turned to Burroughs. "You really think Yoshikawa alias Mori-mura knew today was the day?" 　Burroughs shrugged, sighed; the German's little automatic was in his hand. "Maybe not. Maybe he just knew that some Sunday soon, Oahu would be the target." 　Sterling's smile was bitter; he shook his head. "All I keep thinking is 'poinsettias and hibiscus.' " 　From the back, Hully said, "That radiophone call?" 　"Code," Burroughs said. 　Sterling nodded. "Code, all right-for certain kinds of ships." 　Burroughs glanced at his son. "Maybe that bastard did know-our esteemed vice consul." 　Traffic began to move again-as sirens wailed, and the sky roared. 　"If we can ever get to the Consulate," Sterling said, through tight teeth, "we'll just ask the son of a bitch." 　On a windy plain ten miles north of Pearl Harbor lay Wheeler Field, the Pacific's largest American fighter base. U-shaped barricades had been constructed to protect Wheeler's nearly one hundred fighter planes, Army Air Force P-40s and P-36s; this morning, however, the planes were clustered on the runways, wingtip to wing-tip-playing out General Short's antisabotage strategy, a policy the other Oahu bases were following, as well. Japanese planes pounced on the sitting ducks, dropping bombs, unleashing cannon fire and machine-gun blasts, chewing up the rows of parked fighters, fuel tanks igniting, leaving the hangars, enlisted men's barracks and PX in flames. 　Dive-bombers swooped so low, inflicting their damage, that phone lines got snagged, and men on the ground could see the gold teeth in the grins of Jap pilots as they flashed by. No time to fight back, unarmed airmen died in their beds, or running for their planes, or for safety, though the base had no air-raid shelters. Their ammunition-locked away to keep local saboteurs from getting it, courtesy of General Short- was out of reach, stored in one of the burning hangars, bullets popping like popcorn in the conflagration. 　Then the planes soared away, leaving thirty-nine men dead, and many more wounded. 　Just north of Wheeler, at the suburban sprawl that was Schofield Barracks, sounds resembling explosions roused the interest of soldiers, who-upon glancing outside the mess hall-saw a plane with a black canopy and fuselage marked with a red spot, circling the roof of the building housing HQ. Breakfast trays in hand, several soldiers were arguing over whether this was a Jap plane or some strange Navy craft, when buglers trumpeted an alert. The men tossed their trays and ran from the mess hall into the quadrangle; others sought out rifles, and two artillerymen ran to the rooftop and fired at planes with Browning Automatic Rifles, emptying clips at the dive-bombers. 　One of the Jap planes crashed. 　Cheers went up. 　Then a new topic of conversation took over among the frightened young soldiers: how much would it hurt to be shot by a Jap bullet? Was it true the Nips only used .25 caliber ammo? 　Admiral Kimmel had gotten up early on this fine Sunday morning; every other weekend, he would meet with General Short for eighteen holes of golf. Today, Lieutenant Colonel Throckmorton and Colonel Fielder would be joining them. 　He'd recently moved into this house at Makalapa Heights, about five minutes from HQ, and the place was underfurnished-severely lacking the touch his wife would have brought to it. On days off like this, he missed her dearly; but most of his time was so filled with work, he scarcely remembered he had any private life. 　This week had been filled with protracted discussions over whether the fleet should be kept in Pearl Harbor or sent to sea; and now this business was looming of the supposed espionage activities that Adam Sterling-a good man, if overeager-and the ever-imaginative Ed Burroughs had brought to his attention last night. 　He was still in his pajamas, and hadn't even shaved yet, when Commander Murphy, duty officer at HQ, called to say the Ward had ash-canned a sub near the harbor. 　"Sorry to bother you on Sunday morning, sir," Murphy said. 　Kimmel realized this was probably just another false alarm-incorrect reports of subs in the outlying area were common. 　But he said, "You acted correctly, Commander- all submerged sub contacts must be regarded as hostile....I'll be right down." 　Around five minutes later, freshly shaved and just getting into uniform, Kimmel again answered the phone and once more it was Murphy. 　But this time the businesslike commander's voice was strangely shrill: "Sir, we have a message from the signal tower saying the Japanese are attacking Pearl Harbor-and this is no drill!" 　Kimmel slammed the phone down and ran outside, onto the front lawn, into the garden which overlooked the base, buttoning his white uniform jacket as he went. 　The sky was filled with the enemy-the Rising Sun on their wings. He knew at once this was no casual raid, by a few stray planes. 　 　"Unbelievable," he murmured. 　Aghast, he stood frozen among the flowers-poin-settias and hibiscus in bloom-watching Jap aircraft swoop down on the base, circling in figure eights, dropping bombs, turning and dropping more, machineguns chattering. Explosions rocked the sky-and ships, fires already burning fiercely on their decks. "Impossible," he whispered. 　Four miles west of Pearl Harbor, the Ewa Marine Corps Air Station was hit by two squadrons of silver planes bisecting the field at two hundred mph, fishtailing to better lash their bullets into broad patterns. 　Of the base's forty-nine fighters and scout planes, thirty were decimated on the ground. 　Four blocks from Beretania Street, the black Ford managed to crawl through the traffic jam and make it across Kuakini Street, bordering Pauoa Park, where on the left-hand corner squatted the two-story concrete compound of the Japanese Consulate. 　Sterling pulled up in front, into the no-parking zone, and Burroughs and his son hopped out, following the FBI agent up the stairs, where-oddly-Consul General Nagao Kita stood halfway down... in his dark blue silk pajamas. 　Burroughs had met the usually affable Kita before, socially, as had Sterling-the consul general was short, plump, with dark thick hair, and a broad, bushy-browed face that, with its flattened pug nose, gave him the appearance of a cheerful ex-prizefighter. 　"Good morning, gentlemen," Kita said, arms folded, smiling like a friendly genie. 　"Don't you know there's a war on?" Sterling demanded. 　Kita shrugged. "This is just another American exercise-an elaborate one, I admit." 　"Take a look at the color of that smoke," Sterling said, nodding toward the sky. "It's black, not white- fuel oil. Your planes are bombing Pearl Harbor." 　"Nonsense." 　"I'm going to have to take you in custody, Mr. Kita. We're at war, and I have evidence of espionage on the part of your vice consul." 　The smile disappeared into an impassive mask. "I'm a diplomat, Mr. Sterling. Even if we are at war-I have certain rights." 　"You have no rights-American boys are dying right now in this vicious underhanded attack. Where is your vice consul? Where is Yoshikawa?" 　Kita's eyes tightened. "I know no one by that name." 　"I'll settle for Morimura, then." 　A siren screamed and tires squealed as a police car came to a halt next to the black Ford. Three uniformed police officers-two Hawaiians and a Chinese- jumped out, shotguns in hand, and so did a plainclothes officer... Detective John Jardine, a .45 automatic in his fist. 　Jardine took the steps two at a time and joined the little discussion group, nodding to Burroughs and Hully, then saying to Sterling and Kita, "We're putting this building under armed guard." 　"Why?" Kita said, his impassive face finally offering up a frown. 　"For the protection of the consul general," the Portuguese detective said, "and the members of your staff." 　Kita lifted a bushy eyebrow. "And if I don't want your protection?" 　Jardine's wide thin mouth made a faint smile. "Well, we could wait an hour or so, for a nice mob to build, and then throw your ass to it." 　That seemed to sober Kita, who said, "Shall we step inside?" 　"What a good idea," Jardine said, then turned to the FBI man, who was already holding open the door. "Agent Sterling, we intend to fully cooperate with your office. If I might ask, why are Mr. Burroughs and his son with you?" 　"I had to press them into service," Sterling said, as they allowed Kita to lead the way into the vestibule. "I've been cut off from my office." 　"Glad to have your help," Jardine said, nodding at both Burroughs and Hully. "But why do I have the feeling we're still working the Pearl Harada murder case?" 　"Help us find Vice Consul 'Morimura,' " Burroughs said, "and you'll find out." 　A guard fence separated Pearl Harbor from the two thousand acres of Hickam Field, biggest Army base on Oahu, home of the Army's bomber squadrons. Here, a quarter mile of neatly arranged A-20s, B-17s and B-18s served themselves up to the hungry waves of silver planes. The incessant bombing and strafing-not only of the sitting-duck aircraft but barracks, support facilities and hangars-did not dissuade the men of Hickam from working fiercely to disperse their aircraft, or from fighting back. 　Two Japanese-American civilians-laborers employed at the field-helped set up a machine gun and fed it with ammo belts while a boy from Michigan fired away at the diving planes. 　Standing near a hangar, Corporal Jack Stanton-one eye slightly swollen, even blackened, from his Hotel Street brawl of the night before-saw the friend standing next to him strafed into explosive splashes of blood, bone and flesh. Horrified, then energized into action, Stanton ran across the tarmac-not even pausing when another bomb blew a khaki-clad soldier in two-and managed to climb up into a bomber. 　Stanton began firing the machine gun in the nose of the bomber, its deadly chatter knocking one of the silver planes out of the sky. 　But when a Zero swooped down, delivering its own machine-gun fire, the fuel tank ignited and Stanton was trapped in the cockpit, flames all around him, caged in a crackling hell. 　Stanton didn't bother trying to get out. As the flames slowly consumed him, he kept firing up at the sons of bitches, and witnesses said his red tracer bullets could be seen zinging skyward, long after flames had encompassed the nose of the plane. 　Winging eastward in groups of three, past the Pearl Harbor entry, cutting inland at an altitude of a mere sixty feet, twenty-four torpedo planes threw their supple blue shadows across the Navy Yard and the Southeast Loch, closing in on Battleship Row-where those gray behemoths, the Arizona, California, Maryland, Nevada, Oklahoma, Tennessee, and West Virginia, pride of the Navy, slumbered in the sunlight. In groups of two, coming from the west, sixteen more torpedo planes took a direct route across the island, their targets the ships docked on the far side of Ford Island, as well as those at the Navy Yard piers over the east channel. 　Aboard the battleships, barely awake sailors perceived the approaching attack planes as nothing more than specks-but those specks grew ever larger as they zeroed in on the harbor, crisscrossing. Swabbies-like civilians-at first dismissed the planes... crazy Army pilots, damn Navy fliers showboating, ain't that a hell of a drill.... 　"That's no star on the wing!" a sailor or two, on every ship, would finally say, more or less. "That's a red ball!" 　And sailors, scattering like naughty kids caught in some act, yelled, "It's the Japs! It's for real! It's war!" 　PA systems barked orders, bugles blared, ships' alarms trilled, and on every vessel in the harbor-130 of them-all hell broke loose, from the startled sailors on deck who had seen the planes "dropping fish" (torpedoes) to the poor bastards sleeping in on Sunday who had to tumble out of their racks, and scurry to then-battle stations, pulling on their clothes as they went. 　Five torpedoes, in rapid succession, blasted the Oklahoma, sending the battleship rolling slowly, inevitably to port. Breakfast dishes went flying, shattering, mess tables upended, lockers spilled open, and in the belowdeck barbettes, massive gun turrets tore free from their housings and tumbled grindingly down the slanting platforms, crushing crewmen. 　When eleven-year-old Don Morton-frightened by the low-flying, strafing planes-came scooting back home without his brother Jerry, his mom wasn't mad. She just hustled him into their car and they drove down to the landing, where Don and Jerry had been fishing. 　No other cars were around, but she honked her horn all the way, and Don thought maybe she was scared, too-they were driving right toward where all the explosions were coming from. 　Suddenly Jerry came bursting out from some algar-roba bushes, calling, "Mom! Mom!" 　She stopped the car, let Jerry in, and hugged him. 　"A man helped me," Jerry said. "He pushed me into the bushes when a plane was coming." 　"What man?" his mother asked. 　"That man," Jerry said, and pointed to the body of a Marine corporal alongside the dirt road. 　Don's mom turned their car around and headed for Honolulu, as explosions shook the world all around them. 　Bill Fielder, in the borrowed Pierce Arrow convertible, had a hell of a time trying to get to Pearl. He was crazy with desperation-all he could think of was getting back to his ship! 　But it was a slow go. At first the streets were empty, but quickly they became clogged with cars and taxis, as well as emergency vehicles. Bill would whip his car around the jams, whenever possible, riding on the sidewalk if he had to. The sky boiled with black oil smoke, and it seemed like the end of the world-he passed by several water mains that had broken, shooting geysers fifty feet in the air, and people had loaded their cars up with toys and clothes, sometimes with baby buggies or bicycles strapped on the roof, like European war refugees, heading for the hills. 　The rolling lanes of the Kamehameha Highway were choked with civiUan cars and taxis piled with servicemen scrambling to get to their posts. It seemed to take forever, crawling toward Pearl Harbor. Finally, when he came over a rise, at the highway's highest point, he got a panoramic view: silver planes skimming over the sea toward battleships, bombs whistling down, dive-bombers howling in on their targets, shells exploding in midair, machine guns chattering, low-flying fighters strafing anything and everything, the harbor a mass of fuel oil, smoke and flames. Even from this distance, the acrid smell of burning and battle seemed to singe his nostrils. 　The worst of it was the battleships getting hit so hard-the Oklahoma had already capsized, and the Arizona could be next. 　He felt sick-at heart, to his stomach. 　"Come on, come on, come on!" Bill yelled, and he laid on his horn-not that honking would do any good. Everyone caught in this jam wanted it to move along just as badly as Bill did. But he was frustrated, knowing that time was running out. 　He just wasn't aware how soon. 　A bomb hit the Pierce Arrow, obliterating it, and Bill, leaving a charred, flaming husk of an automobile and very little of its driver. 　Bill Fielder had just become the first Arizona fatality. 　Moored aft of the Tennessee, a massive 608 feet long, the Arizona carried a main armament of twelve fourteen-inch guns, her hull shielded at the waterline by a thirteen-inch thickness of steel, with twenty inches of armor housing her four turrets. No more formidable weapon of war-at-sea was known to man than a battleship such as this. 　An armor-piercing bomb hit the ship between its number-two gun turret and bow, punching a hundred-foot hole in the deck, then exploding in a fuel tank below. Within seconds, almost two million pounds of explosives detonated, forming a fireball of red, yellow and black, the ship lifting twenty feet in the air, tossing men like rag dolls, ship's steel opening like a blossoming flower to spread petals of huge red flame. 　The halves of the ship tumbled into the water, where her skewed decks were walked by burning men, a ghostly, ghastly crew staggering out of the flames, one by one, dropping dead. 　Seaman First Class Dan Pressman-whose previous battle had been on Hotel Street, last night-had been manning a gun-director unit above the bridge, when he sustained burns over most of his body; still, he managed to make use of a line that had been made fast to the mast of a repair ship moored alongside the Arizona. 　Pressman and five other badly burned sailors-suffering shock, but wanting to live-swung high above the water on the line, going hand over hand to safety, even as their ears were filled with the screams of fellow crew members on the burning, dying halves of the ship, or in the water beneath, which, surrealistically, was on fire, too. 　Her superstructure enfolded in flame, the Arizona- her shattered foremast tipping forward-settled to the bottom of the harbor, three-quarters of her crew.... some 1,177 officers and enlisted men ... dead in the most devastating of all the blows delivered by Japan in the surprise air attack on Pearl Harbor. 　In his quarters at Fort Shafter, General Short had just gotten into his golfing gear, for the planned eighteen holes with Kimmel, Fielder and Throckmorton, when he heard explosions-which he recognized at once as bombs going off. 　He didn't think anything of it-the Navy was obviously having some sort of battle practice, and he was mildly annoyed that no one on Kimmel's team had warned him about it... unless they had told him, and he'd forgotten it. 　But the explosions seemed to build, grow nearer, and that got the general's curiosity up. He wandered out onto his lanai-the very porch where the evening before an FBI agent had told him about a possible coded message-and he could see smoke to the west, a lot of it... and black. 　Shrugging, he was heading back in to have some coffee before he left for the golf course, when he heard a loud knock at the front door. His wife was not up yet, so he went to answer it quickly, in case she had somehow managed to sleep through the Navy's infernal racket. 　Wooch Fielder, in blue sport shirt and blue slacks, was standing on the front porch. Fielder had the startled expression of a deer perked by the sound of a hunter, and his face was fish-belly white. 　"What's wrong, Wooch? Am I late?" The general looked at his wristwatch. "Didn't think we were playing till-" 　"Sir, we're under attack-it's the real thing." 　More explosions. 　The general leaned out the door, asked, "What's going on out there?" 　"Bicknell says he saw two battleships sunk." 　"Why, that's ridiculous...." 　"Sir, both Hickam and Wheeler have phoned- they've been hit." 　Short drew in a sharp breath; then, crisply, he said, "Put into effect Alert Number Three. Everybody to battle position." 　"Yes, sir." 　"Do it, Wooch-I'll be right with you." 　And he shut the door, reeling, knowing that if the Japs would mount a damn-fool sneak air raid, they might even risk landing troops; there was no telling how seriously this attack might develop. 　General Short knew only one thing for certain: he had to get out of these damn golf togs. 　Don and Jerry Morton's mother, terrified by the explosions around them, stopped the car, and led her boys into a sugarcane field, where they all sat with hands on their ears, heads between their knees. 　Now and then, Don's mother would ask either him or Jerry to peek up and see if the airplanes swooping overhead were American. 　And, for the next two hours, they never were. Shivering, Don wondered if his stepfather was okay on Ford Island. 　(He was not: the boys' stepfather had been among the first to die today, hit by a bomb on the Ford Island seaplane ramp.) 　The U.S. Pacific Fleet was a family of sorts-big, and yet small enough that most men knew anyone else in their specialized line of work; a man might enlist and stay on one ship until retirement, twenty or thirty years later. Officers had ties, as well, often going back to Annapolis days. Admiral Kimmel knew thousands of his men by sight, and hundreds by name, and dozens were his personal Mends. 　From his office window at fleet HQ, Kimmel could do little more than stand and watch his ships... and his men... die-the admiral helplessly bearing the thunder of exploding bombs, and the anvil clangs of torpedoes ravaging his ships, bleeding rolling clouds of smoke. 　His people tried to establish communications with the areas under attack, and sent messages to ships at sea, advising them of what was happening at Pearl. They could hear explosions and see waterspouts and, of course, the funnels of black smoke. 　"I must say," Kimmel said quietly to the officers around him, "it's a beautifully executed military maneuver ... leaving aside the unspeakable treachery of it." 　As he stood there, a bullet came crashing through the window and struck him on the chest-leaving a sooty splotch on his otherwise immaculate white uniform. He bent to pick up what turned out to be a spent .50-caliber machine-gun slug. 　Softly, he said, "I wish it had killed me-that would've been merciful." 　Then he reached up and, with both hands, tore loose the four-star boards on bis shoulders; he went into his office and came back wearing two-star boards, having demoted himself. 　At the Japanese Consulate, Jardine and Sterling-with Burroughs and Hully tagging after-searched the compound. General Consul Kita was along, as well, a bored fat man in his pajamas; and when Jardine came to a locked door, toward the rear of the main building, he demanded that Kita open it. "I have no key," Kita said, unflappable. 　The acrid smell of smoke was leaching out from around the door. 　"They're burning papers again," Sterling said. "Kita, tell them to open up!" 　Sighing, seemingly blase, Kita began to knock, but no one answered; Burroughs yanked the man aside, and Sterling crashed his shoulder into the wood, several times, until the door finally splintered open. 　Four Japanese men in sport shirts and slacks were standing around a washtub in which they had been burning papers and codebooks. Around them in the small nondescript room were file cabinets whose drawers yawned open. 　Hully snatched a brown, accordion-style folder out of one of the men's hands, before he could dump its contents into the tub of flames. Jardine hopped into the tub and stamped out the fire, like he was mashing grapes into wine. 　Sterling had Burroughs train his gun on the four men while the FBI agent patted them down for weapons- they had none. One of the men was the Consulate's treasurer-they were all officials of the consulate. 　"Look at this," Hully said, holding up a sheet of typing paper taken from the brown folder. The white sheet bore a detailed sketch of ship locations at Pearl Harbor. 　"Where's Morimura?" Burroughs demanded of their prisoners. 　"Or should we say 'Yoshikawa'?" Sterling said. "Where is he?" 　None of them replied. 　But Kita, suddenly helpful, volunteered, "He had a golf match this morning." 　Sterling glanced at Burroughs. "Well, he's not in the building." 　"Nor is his driver," Kita said. 　Jardine took charge of Kita and the others, and Sterling, Burroughs and Hully checked out the Consulate's garage: the Lincoln was gone. 　"So we head for the golf course," Sterling said. 　"He won't be there," Burroughs said. "He's in hiding." 　"Where the hell 　Burroughs twitched a smile; Hully was nodding as his father said, "I think I know." 　And-under a sky momentarily quiet, but still thick with black smoke-they dashed out to the black Ford just as three more carloads of uniformed police, heavily armed, were forming a cordon around the consulate.

story : MAC.ThePearlHarborMurders (part 11 and 12 )

　ELEVEN 　Hotel Street 　 　The exceptionally beautiful weather and the lopsided victory in this afternoon's football game coalesced into a night of rampant partying, excessive even for a Saturday in Honolulu. The city was rife with private parties and public revelry, and alive with music, from radios bleeding syrupy Hawaiian strains, seemingly designed to make lonely men feel even lonelier, to a lively battle of the bands at the Naval Receiving Station at Pearl Harbor, where the U.S.S. Arizona band was going over big, with the upbeat likes of "Take the A Train." Hotel ballrooms, like the Royal Hawaiian and the Ala Moana, were offering fox-trots, while swing music emanated from the town's less stodgy bandstands, like those at the Niumalu or the dance hall at Waikiki Amusement Park. 　Swing also jumped from jukeboxes up and down Hotel Street, where sailors and soldiers swarmed in ribbons of white and khaki. A fleet of rickety taxis, wheezing buses and rattletrap jalopies charged down the two-lane highway connecting Pearl Harbor and Honolulu, conveying the invading horde to their dropping-off spot: the Army and Navy YMCA, at the eastern end of Hotel Street, a suitable starting point for an evening of good-natured debauchery. 　Awash in garish neon, flickering under the strobe of fluorescent bulbs, Hotel Street was a glorified alleyway lined with low-slung stucco buildings wearing tin awnings like gambler's shades. To boys longing for home, the midway that was Hotel Street seemed to echo carnivals and state fairs, this rude collection of taverns, trinket counters, massage parlors, photo booths, pool halls, shooting galleries, curio stores, tattoo artists, and dime-a-dance joints. 　Along the narrow sidewalks of every block were one or two barbershops, the barbers invariably young attractive Japanese women, and at least one lei shop, with pretty Hawaiian girls stringing flowers. Other sorts of "leis" were available, as well: hotels whose rooms all had the shades drawn-the Rex, the Anchor, the Ritz- attracted lines down the block of sailors and soldiers waiting to choose between two varieties of "room": three dollars for three minutes, or five dollars for an extended stay, up to ten. Relatively safe, too: the local police, in turning a blind if well-paid eye, insisted on weekly blood tests for these unofficially sanctioned soiled doves. 　Hully and Jardine had recruited Sam Fujimoto to join on their Hotel Street expedition. Sam knew both 　Ensign Bill Fielder and Corporal Jack Stanton, the former better than the latter, but in either case enough to recognize either in this sea of uniforms. Starting at the west end, Hully and Jardine, who were on a first-name basis now, took one side of the street, while Sam took the other-they had agreed to rendezvous at the Black Cat Cafe in an hour and a half. 　"You figure whoever killed Pearl Harada," Hully said to the Portuguese detective, "killed Terry Mizuha, as well." 　They were shouldering their way down the tight, teeming sidewalk, faces around them flushed with neon-theirs, too. 　"Probably," Jardine said. 　"Why was Terry killed? What could he have known?" 　Jardine shrugged. "It's possible this Terry was a real eyewitness ... which may be more than can be said for Otto Kuhn." 　A group of sailors slouched under a tin awning in front of a cafe, laughing, smoking, caps at jaunty an-gles, pant legs flapping in the almost cool breeze. 　Hully said, 'Terry wouldn't've had to be an eyewitness to be dangerous to the killer. Everybody knew he and Pearl were best friends. She might have confided in Terry about something that allowed him to know, or anyway strongly suspect, the murderer's identity." 　Jardine nodded. "There's another possibility." 　"Which is?" 　They were passing by a shooting gallery where soldiers were throwing baseballs at milk cans, and sailors were playing Skee-Ball and pinball. 　"Perhaps," Jardine said, 'Terry Mizuha wasn't strictly mahu-maybe he was even closer to Pearl than we've been led to believe." 　"Oh, that's crazy...." 　"Is it? Gates have been known to swing both ways, on this island. Suppose this jealous sailor pal of yours, or that soldier, came upon Terry and Pearl, together on the beach?" 　"What, and confronted by a sudden act of violence, Terry fled?" 　"Yes ... and was afraid to come forward, for fear of looking a coward-hoping his silence would buy him a free pass from the killer." 　"I don't buy it, John." 　The detective summoned a thin smile. "Well, it's your own damn fault, Hully." 　"My fault?" 　"You're the one that started me thinking-I was content with Harry Kamana as the murderer." 　Looking for Bill and Stanton, Hully and Jardine tried various taverns-the Two Jacks, the Mint, the New Emma Cafe-wading through clouds of cigarette smoke laced with the smell of stale beer, sorting swarms of sailors and soldiers, who were crowded at tables, packed in booths, flirting with Oriental waitresses, whom they so greatly outnumbered. None of the fresh, young, happy, sad faces belonged to Bill Fielder or Jack Stanton. 　Hully and the detective checked tattoo parlors, where boys sat bare-chested under bare bulbs as Filipino artists inscribed American flesh with hula girls, anchors and "Mother." They tried curio shops where this sailor bought a fringed pillow cursively designated "Honolulu," and that soldier purchased a monkey-pod carving. They tried storefront photo studios, where gobs and GIs posed with pretty, grass-skirted Hawaiian girls who had no interest in a date. They tried cafй's-the Bunny Ranch, Lousy Lui's, Swanky Franky-where servicemen who had gotten drunk too fast tried to sober up just as quickly. No Fielder; no Stanton. 　They tried a dime-a-dance joint, a barnlike second-floor ballroom not unlike a church hall or an Elks club. A small combo-piano, guitar, drums-played slow tunes; tables were scattered on either side of the heavily varnished, underlit cavern. Many of the girls were surprisingly good-looking, Hully thought, a variety of Japanese, Chinese, Puerto Rican, Hawaiian and combinations thereof-also the occasional white girl- in low-cut, shoulder-baring evening gowns. No liquor was sold on the premises, nor was it allowed to be brought in. 　"These girls don't look like prostitutes," Hully whispered to Jardine, as the two stood on the sidelines. 　"They aren't," the detective said. "See that blonde over there?" 　Jardine was indicating a dazzling blonde dancing with an older man, a Filipino. 　"She's somebody's wife, I'll lay odds," the detective said. "These are nice girls. They aren't allowed to date the customers-aren't allowed to leave until closing, when their mothers or their husbands pick them up." 　But Hully wasn't looking at the blonde, anymore. He was nodding toward a soldier. "Hey-that's him.... That's Stanton." 　Corporal Jack Stanton was dancing with an attractive if overly made-up Japanese girl in a low-cut blue satin gown that would have made her the hit of any prom; she was holding the boyishly handsome, brown-haired soldier close, her small fist tightly clenching a curling strand of tickets. She looked just a little bit like Pearl Harada, particularly to somebody drunk, like Jack Stanton. 　When the tune ended-"Moonlight Becomes You"- Jardine went out onto the dance floor and tapped Stanton's shoulder, as if he were cutting in. 　Stanton glared at the little fedora-sporting detective, but when Jardine held up his wallet, displaying his badge, Stanton swallowed and nodded, with morose inevitability. Hully couldn't hear what either man was saying-he had secured a small table at Jardine's request-and watched as the broad-shouldered, athletic-looking Stanton walked subserviently along with the diminutive detective, over to the waiting table. 　Hully pulled out a chair for the corporal. 　Suddenly Stanton's submissive attitude shifted; he seemed to bristle at the sight of Hully, saying, "I know you." 　"I know you, too, Jack." Hully gestured to the chair and, in a not unfriendly way, said, "Sit down." 　Stanton was scowling. "You're Bill Fielder's friend." 　"I'm one of them." 　Jardine said to Stanton, "Sit down." Not so friendly. Stanton sat. He was inebriated, but short of sloshed. Jardine sat on one side of the soldier, Hully on the other. 　The detective said, "I brought Mr. Burroughs along to identify you. I could have embarrassed you by going to your commanding officer and requesting a photo, you know." 　Stanton's eyes narrowed. "Why didn't you?" 　"I wanted to hear your story." 　"What story?" 　"The story of you and Pearl Harada." 　Stanton swallowed. Then he put his elbows on the table and began to cry into his hands. The shabby little combo was playing "Fools Rush In." 　Jardine gave the corporal a handkerchief. Stanton thanked Jardine and used it, drying his eyes, blowing his nose. 　Then the detective said, "You and Bill Fielder got into a tussle over Pearl Harada last night. Want to tell me about it?" 　Swallowing again, Stanton shrugged, saying, "It wasn't much of a 'tussle'-I punched him and he punched me. Then it got broke up. That's all." 　"Why did you punch him?" 　"Because ... Pearl was my girl. I wanted him to stay away from her." 　"You mean you were still seeing her? She was dating you, at the same time as Fielder?" 　He shook his head, glumly. "No ... no. She broke it off with me, weeks ago. I just... couldn't get her out of my mind. Couldn't accept it. She was... so beautiful. So much fun... sweet... talented... smart..." 　Jardine waited until Stanton stopped crying again, then said, "You were seen arguing with her last night." 　"I know." Stanton worked up a sneer. "By that fairy Mizuha. He told you, right?" 　Jardine's face was as impassive as a cigarstore Indian's. "The way this works is, I ask the questions. You argued with her?" 　"It... it wasn't really an argument. I was ... a little drunk. I yelled at her." The soldier leaned against an elbow, hand to his forehead, as if taking his own temperature. "She just looked at me, like ... like she felt sorry for me. And maybe a little ... disgusted... after I wouldn't stop yelling. I almost think that's what hurts most of all." 　"What?" 　"That she died thinking I was a jerk." 　More tears followed, then Jardine asked, "Where were you, around twelve-thirty, one o'clock?" 　"Back at Hickam." 　"What time did you argue with Pearl?" 　"Midnight-right after the band got finished." 　"Where did you go, after the argument?" 　"I told you-Hickam. I took a cab. I was in my rack by twelve-thirty, or damn close." 　"You were in the barracks?" 　"Yeah." 　Jardine was jotting this down in his little notebook. Hully realized these assertions would be easily 　checked: the cab could be tracked; and whether or not Stanton had been in the barracks at the time of the girl's death. Pearl had been alive at twelve-fifteen, when she'd taken her leave of Hully's father, at their bungalow. And Hickam Field was twenty minutes from Waikiki. 　If he was telling the truth, Stanton couldn't have been Pearl Harada's murderer. 　"I want you at Central Police Station at ten o'clock Monday morning," Jardine said to the corporal. "For a formal statement. If you need to have your commanding officer call me, I work out of the Prosecutor's Office at City Hall." 　And Jardine handed Stanton a business card. Stanton held it between thumb and middle finger and stared at it like a chimp trying to figure out a math problem. 　Stanton's expression was one of astonishment. "You don't really think I... listen, I didn't... Do I need an attorney?" 　"That's up to you, Corporal. If you were a prime suspect in my mind, I'd be taking you in right now." 　He was shaking his head, his eyes as intense as they were red. "I wouldn't have hurt her. I would never have hurt her. I'd sooner kill myself. Do you have any idea what I'm going through? What it feels like inside my head right now? Inside my gut? My heart?" 　"Monday. Ten o'clock." 　"I thought Harry Kamana did it. Didn't you arrest him?" 　'Ten o'clock. Monday." 　Jardine rose and Hully followed suit. 　"What about Fielder?" Stanton asked, still seated. "Where was he when Pearl was ... ?" 　"We're going to find that out," Jardine said. He touched the brim of his fedora, in a tip-of-the-hat manner, and headed for the door, Hully trailing after. 　Just as they were going out, Hully saw Stanton heading back out to the dance floor with the Japanese girl, the combo playing, "I Got It Bad and That Ain't Good." 　The Black Cat was a long, open-faced cafй that benefited from its proximity to the YMCA across the street, where buses and cabs had brought-and would later pick up-sailors and soldiers ... anyway, those who weren't sleeping it off in a room in the big, rambling, palm-surrounded Y. 　Sam Fujimoto was at a table right on the street with two sailors-one of whom was Bill Fielder. The other was Dan Pressman. The Black Cat served liquor, but all three were drinking coffee. 　"Nice work," Jardine said to Sam, pulling up a chair, Hully doing the same. 　Bill sat slumped in his chair, his expression dour, his handsome features puffy, his dark hair uncombed. Blond, blue-eyed Dan Pressman seemed more alert, and was watching Bill the way a parent watches a child. Hully's hunch was that Bill had been tying one on, and Dan had laid off the booze, to keep an eye on his friend's safety and welfare. 　"Found Bill and Dan down at the Tradewinds," Sam said. 　"Rough joint," Jardine said, and showed his badge to the two sailors. "I'm Detective Jardine. How are you doing, Bill?" 　"My fiancee was murdered," he said, just slightly slurring his words. "How the hell you think I am?" 　"When did you see Pearl Harada last, Ensign?" 　Dan said, "Detective, if you want to question Bill, don't you think it'd be more appropriate if you waited till he's-" 　"I'll talk to him now," Bill said sharply. "Right now. I'm sober-sober enough. And I don't have a goddamn thing to hide." 　"You should have a lawyer," Dan said. "This is a murder case." 　Bill batted the air. "They already caught the guy. Didn't you catch the guy?" 　"Harry Kamana is in custody," Jardine said. "When did you see Pearl last, Ensign?" 　"At the Niumalu. I left about a quarter to midnight. ... The Harbor Lights were still playing." 　Jardine gazed out from under the shadow of the fedora brim. "She was your girl, wasn't she? Why didn't you hang around to spend some time with her, after?" 　"I wanted to talk to my father. I was spending the weekend with my folks-and I knew I'd have the chance to talk to Dad about... about Pearl and me. About us getting married." 　"Did you talk to him?" 　"Yes." He shook his head, rolled his eyes. "Oh yes indeed." 　"It did not go well?" 　He grunted a humorless laugh. "It did not go well." 　"What happened?" 　Bill leaned forward, weaving slightly; his words remained slurred but coherent. "Just a shouting match. My mother tried to calm both of us down, but... I went to the guest room, slammed the door. That was the end of it." 　"What time was this?" 　"I got home just after midnight. We must have argued till one o'clock, one-fifteen." 　Jardine glanced at Hully: this would seem to be an alibi for both Bill and his father. . . unless one was covering for the other. 　"Ensign Fielder," the detective said, "I mean no disrespect ... but you were not the only man in Pearl's life." 　Bill slapped the metal table and the coffee cups jumped, spilling a little. "You're wrong! I was the only man in her life." 　Jardine's voice was a persistent near monotone. "What about Jack Stanton? Harry Kamana?" 　Bill gestured with an awkward hand. "They were old boyfriends. I didn't say she was a... a nun. But we were engaged-she wasn't dating anybody else, wasn't seeing anybody else. Just me." 　"How would you have felt if you found her in the arms of another man?" 　The ensign bobbed forward. "Would it make me want to kill somebody? Is that what you want to know? Sure, Detective ..." 　Touching his friend's arm, Dan said, "Bill-easy, now ... watch what you're saying...." 　"I'd have wanted to kill the son of a bitch who was with her... not Pearl. Never Pearl. But that didn't happen, Detective, and it wouldn't happen, couldn't happen. She loved me, I loved her. We were engaged. She was going to be ... my wife." 　"What if you found her in the arms of Terry Mi-zuha?" 　Bill blinked. "Why would she be in that queer's arms? What the hell kind of stupid question is that?" 　Jardine handed Bill a business card. "That's my office number at City Hall. But I want you down at Central Police Station at eleven o'clock Monday morning. Can you remember that?" 　"Yeah." Bill was looking at the business card, trying to make his eyes focus. "Why do you wanna talk to me again?" 　"I want your formal statement. I don't think you did this thing, Ensign Fielder, but you are a suspect. You may wish to bring an attorney along." 　Bill's head was rocking, slightly. "I don't understand this-Harry Kamana did it! He had goddamn blood all over himself! Somebody saw him do it, right? Why..." 　"We can discuss this Monday. Show up sober, Ensign." 　Then Bill was on his feet, raving, ranting. "You let that bastard Kamana out, I'll kill his ass! You understand? You wanna arrest me for a murder, you'll get your chance...." 　Dan also got to his feet, latching onto Bill's arm. "Take it easy, Bill. Just stop talking, goddamnit." 　A male voice chimed in: "Did you kill her, Fielder? Did you murder my girl?" 　As if he'd materialized, Corporal Jack Stanton was standing next to the table. Now Hully and Jardine were getting to their feet, as Stanton grabbed the startled Bill Fielder by his khaki blouse, with both hands. 　"Why did you do it, Fielder?" Stanton demanded, his eyes crazed. "Was she throwing you over? Coming back to me?" 　Bill threw the first punch. Then the two heartsick, drunken servicemen were slugging away at each other, flailing, stumbling out into the street, mostly missing, occasionally connecting. Within seconds a crowd of sailors and soldiers had formed around them, cheering them on. 　Jardine was shaking his head, giving Hully a look. "Oh hell," he said wearily. 　It was only a matter of minutes before the crowd turned itself into a brawling mob, sailors belting soldiers, soldiers smacking sailors. Fielder and Stanton were no longer visible, swallowed in the sea of white and khaki, with shouted obscenities mingling with cries of pain. 　The gunshot froze them all. 　Then their eyes turned to the little Portuguese detective who had fired his .38 revolver into the air. The sailors and soldiers did not have time to process this before the MPs and Shore Patrol descended, blowing whistles, shouting admonitions, arresting a few of them, the bulk scattering. 　Hully found Bill Fielder in a pile on the pavement, 　barely conscious, fairly battered; Stanton was nowhere to be seen. Hully and Dan Pressman-who had not gotten involved in the fracas-walked Bill to the table and sat him down. 　Dan said to Hully, "Listen, I need to catch a liberty ship. You want me to haul him back to the Arizona?' 　"No-I'll baby-sit him tonight," Hully said. "Clean him up, and let him sleep it off." 　Jardine was talking to the Shore Patrol and the MPs, showing them his badge. 　"You guys always have this much fun on Hotel Street?" Hully asked Pressman. 　Dan grinned. "Every time." TWELVE 　Party Crashers 　 　In the golden Hawaiian moonlight, Schofield Barracks-the largest military base in the United States- looked like a perfecdy idealized American town, right off the cover of The Saturday Evening Post or the back lot of MGM. If it were not for the surrounding fields of sugarcane and pineapple, no one would guess the Hawaiian location; if it were not for the sentry-guarded entry, no one would take this for an Army post. Street after street was lined with stucco and brick houses on well-manicured lawns, ranging from bungalows to near mansions, depending on the ranks of their occupants, of course; and-set off in splendid isolation, like castles of the realm-massive brick structures for various military purposes. 　Burroughs pulled up outside the gate, waiting for FBI agent Adam Sterling. He had called the agent at the Niumalu, where Sterling had been brooding in his bungalow, after an unsuccessful meeting with General Short on the lanai of the latter's home, at Fort Shafter, the Army administrative quarters just outside Honolulu. 　"Well, get out here to Schofield," Burroughs had told the FBI man, from a phone booth outside a gas station with a magnificent view of Pearl Harbor that rivaled the Shuncho-ro's. "I have new information for the general, and I won't be able to get past the guard without your help." 　Burroughs filled Sterling in on what he'd learned from Kuhn and Morimura, and the FBI man, excited, said he was on his way and hung up. 　The writer had paused to look at the view, before driving to nearby Schofield. Pearl Harbor was spread out before him, warships moored in pools of yellow luminance, signal lights blinking back and forth, search beams stroking the sky. 　A chatty little Japanese man in coveralls-who had introduced himself as Mr. Sumida, the service station's owner, and who had smiled during every moment of gas pumping and windshield cleaning-was also admiring the glittering view, as Burroughs paid for his gas. 　"So beautiful," Mr. Sumida said. "Like great big Christmas tree!" 　Somehow this observation was less than comforting, and now-as Burroughs waited for Sterling outside the Schofield gate-he wondered how his son and Sam Fujimoto were faring. About now they would be combing Hotel Street for Bill Fielder and Jack Stanton, and \the writer was well aware of the potential perils of that sleazy strip of sin. 　Sterling pulled up in a black Ford, government issue no doubt, and Burroughs left the Pierce Arrow and hopped in front, on the passenger side. The FBI man showed his ID to the guard and they soon were rolling through the lush, suburban "barracks." 　"We're probably on a fool's errand, Ed," the FBI agent said. The rangy, square-jawed Sterling-who still reminded Burroughs of a hero from one of his own books-seemed frazzled at the end of this long day, his white linen suit rumpled, his tie a limp, wrinkled rag. 　Sterling proceeded to tell Burroughs that when he'd arrived at Fort Shafter at seven, for a promised ten-minute audience with the general, both Mrs. Short and Mrs. Fielder were already seated in the general's car with its motor running, in the driveway, waiting to go to the party at the Schofield Officers' Club. 　Short had been unimpressed with the transcript of the Mori radiophone call. "If this is code," the general had asked skeptically, "why do they talk in the clear about things like planes and searchlights?" 　While the wives fretted and fumed in the car, Sterling had tried to make his case to Short and Fielder (who lived next door to the general). 　"General Short thought the Mori call was 'quite an ordinary message,' " Steriing said to Burroughs, pulling into the officers'-club parking lot. "Nothing much to get excited about." 　"And of course Fielder parroted that view," Burroughs said dryly. 　"The worst of it is, the general said he appreciated my 'zeal,' but perhaps I was being 'too intelligence-conscious.' " 　Burroughs, shaking his head, said, "Is there such a thing, with war hanging over us?" 　"When it comes to matters like these," Sterling said, as he parked his car in the nearly filled lot, "it's easy to be wrong.... Morimura being a case in point, on my part." 　Burroughs was getting out of the car. "You might have done better with General Short during working hours. When a man's wife is waiting for him in a car, dressed to the nines ready to go to a party, his judgment is easily impaired." 　As they walked up to the entry of the unpretentious brick building, the FBI agent warned Burroughs: "The general was pretty patient with me at his house, all considering, but this interruption may be something else again." 　Sterling had already explained that this was not just the club's weekly Saturday-night dance, but an annual cabaret-style benefit show put on by "talented young ladies" who worked on the post. Right now they could hear a small combo-piano, drums, guitar and bass fiddle-accompanying a thin female voice doing Ella Fitzgerald's "A Tisket a Tasket," passably. 　Once inside, they peeked in at the wood-paneled dining room, which was decked out with ferns and floral arrangements, and every linen-covered table had fresh-cut flowers; between two lava-rock columns was the stage area, where various amateurs were coming up to sing and dance and do their best. The men in the audience were in dress uniform and the women in their fanciest gowns, and the club was brimming with brass-in addition to Short and Fielder, who were positioned up front (unfortunately), Burroughs spotted Major Durward Wilson of the 24th Infantry Division, Lieutenant Colonel Emil Leard, and Lieutenant Colonel Walter Phillips, Short's chief of staff. 　"Wait in the bar," Sterling told Burroughs, who did as he was told, as the FBI man waded gingerly into the sea of high-ranking officers. 　With the benefit show in full sway, the bar was empty, but for the bartender himself, and Burroughs ordered a root beer at the counter, and retreated to a booth. 　A few minutes later, Sterling returned with both General Short and Colonel Fielder, neither of whom seemed happy. Nor did they did seem inclined to join Burroughs in the booth, and the writer crawled out and stood and apologized for interrupting their evening out. 　"I hope there's a good reason for this, Mr. Burroughs," the slim, wiry general said tightly. 　Burroughs jumped right in. "You already know about the Mori radiophone call, and the Jap Consulate burning its papers. What you don't know is mat Otto Kuhn, the German 'sleeper' agent, is working with Vice Consul Morimura, in an effort to pin the murder of Pearl Harada on an innocent man." 　The general frowned, but with interest. This news perked Fielder's curiosity, as well. Short gestured to the booth, said, "Let's sit down-I'd like to hear this." 　Burroughs and Sterling sat across from the general and the colonel. Both men seemed keenly attentive as the writer told them what Kuhn had admitted about the phone call, and that Morimura had flaunted his spying activities, right down to the powerful telescope in his private room at the Shuncho-ro. 　Sterling said, "My office has clearly underestimated Morimura-he's put on a good front as a womanizer and buffoon. But it's apparent he's involved heavily in spying, though much of it may be legal." 　"This is intriguing information, Mr. Burroughs," the general said, nodding thoughtfully. "But I as yet fail to see a reason for your sense of urgency...." 　"Pearl Harada's uncle is on the FBI's list of dangerous Japanese-Americans here in Oahu. She may have been involved in something having to do with espionage, or overheard something." Burroughs turned to Fielder. "Wooch, that girl made a concerted effort to have me arrange a meeting between the two of you." 　Fielder shrugged. "Of course-because she and my son wanted to get married...." 　This was news to Short, who looked sharply at Fielder, who went on, faintly chagrined. 　"My son and that girl knew I would forbid such a union, and she wanted to try to win me over." 　"That's right," Burroughs said. "And we've been assuming that she was going to bat her eyes and sweet-talk you and just generally appeal to your basic goodness... but Wooch, what if she was going to prove herself to you by handing you sensitive information?" - 　Fielder's eyes narrowed, and so did Short's. 　"I spoke to that girl minutes before her murder," Burroughs said. "She was anxious to see you, Wooch, as soon as possible. She had a real sense of urgency about her, let me tell you ... and somebody else had enough of a sense of urgency to murder her before she could talk to you." 　Fielder seemed stunned, trying to absorb this. 　"What do you think she knew?" the general asked. 　"I can only guess," Burroughs said. "But if the Japs, through Morimura, are waking their sleeper agent... literally ... and murder is being committed, right down to framing some poor fall guy ... it must be something important. Something ... urgent." 　"It would certainly seem that Morimura and Kuhn are worth serious investigation." General Short turned to Fielder, who was after all his top intelligence man. "First thing Monday morning, I want you to meet with Agent Sterling and whoever's handling this murder case." 　"That would be Detective John Jardine of the Prosecutor's Office," Burroughs told the general, "but do you really think you should wait until Monday?" 　Short raised an eyebrow. "Morimura is a diplomat- with protected status. If he's been involved in illegal espionage, that status dissolves. Kuhn we can simply have arrested. Nevertheless, we need to tread slowly, carefully." 　Burroughs leaned forward in the booth. "General Short, what if Pearl Harada had information indicating invasion was at hand?" 　"Mr. Burroughs, war is at hand, unless these negotiations with the Japs start going someplace, quick... Washington indicates we could have hostile action at any moment." 　"Well, then-" 　"And I'm grateful to you, Mr. Burroughs, for this information indicating that espionage efforts here in Oahu are heating up." 　The writer was shaking his head. "General, I'm not talking about war, I'm talking about invasion-a sneak attack. Your man Colonel Teske believed it would come by air at dawn on a Saturday or Sunday-when the Japs know they would have their best shot at rinding our ships in port and many men off duty, our guard dropped." 　"Our 'guard' is never dropped, Mr. Burroughs," the general said, crisply, defensive irritation unmistakable in his tone. "War is coming but almost certainly not in Hawaii-I asked my chief of staff just yesterday what the odds were of that, and he told me, flatly, 'Zero.' " 　Then Short was out of the booth, Fielder too, the general thanking the writer for his patriotism and his conscientiousness. 　"This activity by Morimura and Kuhn is unquestionably pertinent," he told Burroughs and Sterling, who were still seated in the booth. "We're on alert against sabotage, espionage activities and subversion right now. When the Japs attack-whether it's the Philippines or Borneo-we'll have to be ready to handle a bloody uprising of their local fifth column." 　And, after a few polite smiles and nods, General Walter Short and Colonel Kendall Fielder were off to rejoin their wives, who were listening to a trio of girls from the camp PX singing "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy." 　"Hell, Ed," Sterling said, ashen, as the two walked out into the officers'-club parking lot in the still, crisp air, "if your hunch about invasion is correct, the general's antisabotage efforts could backfire tragically." 　"How so?" 　"Well, in this antisabotage alert he's implemented, Short's ordered ammo boxed up and locked, to prevent theft. And all the warplanes are disarmed and massed close together, in the middle of open tarmacs." 　The writer's eyes popped. "Are you serious? That makes a perfect target for an enemy air raid!" 　The FBI agent shrugged, glumly. "It's easier to guard the planes that way, Short says-against the 'fifth column' of local Jap saboteurs." 　Burroughs shook his head. "And what I told him about Morimura probably only reinforced that notion." 　As they headed out of Schofield in the black Ford, Burroughs said to Sterling, "We have to talk to Admiral Kimmel. We have to try him." 　"That's probably not advisable...." 　"Do you know where he is tonight?" 　"I do," Sterling admitted. "A party at the Halekulani, given by Admiral Leary and his wife." 　A number of the Navy's top brass lived at the Halekulani Hotel. 　"Drop me at my car," Burroughs said, "and I'll meet you over there-in the lobby." 　Just beyond Fort DeRussey, on the ocean side of Kalia Street, the Halekulani was a low-key, casually posh hotel whose buildings and cottages seemed interwoven with the Hawaiian landscape. The House Without a Key bar was named after Earl Derr Biggers' s first Charlie Chan mystery, a small resonance Burroughs might have savored, under less tense circumstances: John Jardine's late colleague on the Honolulu PD, Chang Apana, had been the basis for the fictional Chan. 　Burroughs and the FBI agent found Admiral Kimmel in the company of Rear Admiral Draemel and Admiral Pye and their wives, sipping cocktails at a table under the big hau tree on the Halekulani terrace. A grouping of tables nearby made up a dinner party of around a dozen-all top brass and their wives ... except, of course, for Husband Kimmel, whose wife was back on the mainland. 　Sterling approached the stern, broad-browed admiral, apologizing for the intrusion, and politely asking for a few minutes of his time. 　In the charming, pale pink, wicker-furnished lobby, standing near a huge window looking out on a seemingly impenetrable thickness of tropical garden, Burroughs and the FBI man laid out their cards for Admiral Kimmel. It took a while longer than the meeting with Short and Fielder, because Kimmel knew nothing of the Mori radiophone call, though he was aware of the Japanese Consulate burning their papers. 　"That's only natural," the stately admiral said, a faint touch of Kentucky in his voice, "at a time like this." 　"With war imminent, you mean?" Burroughs said. 　"Yes. Now what is this business about murder, and espionage?" 　They filled him in slowly, and the admiral listened, absorbed, frequently nodding. Burroughs and Sterling exchanged occasional glances, both men feeling they were getting through to Kimmel. 　But in the end, the admiral's reaction mirrored the general's. 　"This begs prompt action," Kimmel said. "First thing Monday morning." 　"Admiral Kimmel," Burroughs said, "Sunday is the perfect time for an invasion...." 　The admiral's clear blue eyes seemed tranquil. "The Japs may indeed invade, tomorrow-somewhere in Southeast Asia, that is." 　"What about here? In Hawaii?" 　"No one gives that possibility much credence. Just last week I asked my operations officer what the chances were, of a surprise attack on Oahu, and he said, 'None.' I hope you won't mind if I rely on the advice of our leading military minds and not... forgive me ... the creator of Tarzan?" 　The admiral thanked both men for their diligence, and returned to the terrace and the single cocktail he was conservatively making last all evening. 　Soon the writer and the FBI man were back at the Niumalu, in their respective bungalows; when he took his leave, Sterling seemed weary and defeated. Burroughs felt about the same, but was relieved and even energized to find Hully at home. They had company: Hully had hauled his inebriated and somewhat battered friend, Bill Fielder, to sleep it off, which he was doing, on a pallet on the floor. 　Father and son sat on the couch and exchanged their tales of the evening's investigations, each surprising, occasionally delighting, the other with revelations and adventures. 　But finally it was left to Hully to ask, "What does it all add up to, O. B.?" . 　His father shrugged. "Harry Kamana is innocent- and so, most likely, are Bill and Stanton and the other 'jealous lovers.' Pearl Harada was killed for a classic motive: she knew too much." 　"But what did she know, Dad?" 　"I can't tell you, Son-and neither can Pearl." 　Hully sighed. "I guess our investigation is over." 　"Ours is-but when Sterling and Jardine get together with Colonel Fielder of Army intelligence, Morimura and Kuhn won't stand a chance." 　"And when does this happen?" 　"Monday." 　"Monday." Hully stretched, yawned. "I guess it can wait that long." 　And-with Bill snoring on his pallet on the floor- Hully folded out the couch into a bed, while his father trundled off in hopes of a good night's sleep, minus any nightmares or other rude awakenings. 　THREE: 　December 7, 1941 thanks for reading.