Finally, he found his voice. “Admiral, what the hell am I supposed to do with these big, ugly monsters?”

Nimitz grinned. “Bomb the Japs.”

Lined up before them and in the waters of the bay were eight flying boats. They looked like so many gargantuan geese on parade and, from the upward cut of their bows, seemed to be mocking him. But Doolittle knew one thing: He was a bomber pilot, and flying boats were not bombers. The fact that they rested in the water precluded them from having bomb bays. They were slow, fat passenger planes, not warplanes.

He sighed. “What do you want bombed, and why me, sir?”

Nimitz explained in reverse. He said that Doolittle had a reputation as an intelligent, creative, and flexible commander. Doolittle’s original plan had been to bomb Tokyo using sixteen B-25 bombers that would fly from a carrier, bomb Tokyo, and land in China. Doolittle’s abilities while training for this army-navy foray had impressed the navy, which had asked for him to be seconded to their command.

“And let’s face it, Colonel, not too many navy pilots know anything about large bombers, and these planes are going to be just about the largest bombers the world has ever seen.”

Doolittle thought he knew the answer but had to ask. “And my target? It’s no longer Tokyo, is it?”

“No, it’s not. Your target is the fuel depot at Pearl Harbor. According to our intelligence sources, it is nearly rebuilt now, and, when it is finished and filled, Pearl Harbor will be a viable forward base for the Japanese. As it stands, the Japs have only a scratch force in and on Oahu, and the longer we can keep things that way, the easier it will be to retake the islands once we have achieved naval superiority. Therefore, your job will be to destroy that depot just like the Japs did to us.”

Doolittle saw the irony in the situation. “And why not launch my B-25s from a carrier?”

Nimitz smiled. “Let’s just say we have other plans for our carriers. Besides, once launched, where would you go? Hawaii is in the middle of nowhere. Flying to China would not be an option, as it would be if you bombed Tokyo. You’d be forced to land in the sea if you used B-25s. However, with modifications and drop tanks, these flying boats can take you from California to Hawaii and back.”

Doolittle whistled. “The Japs’ll never expect a plane that can do that trick.”

“You will have the fullest cooperation from both army and naval engineers in reconfiguring those passenger craft into weapons. May I presume you already have some thoughts?”

Doolittle smiled. It would be a helluva challenge, but the admiral was right. And yes, there were a few thoughts percolating in his skull.

“Two questions, Admiral.”

“Shoot.”

“First, let’s say I arrive over Pearl and I see targets that may be more inviting than a fuel depot, for instance, a row of sleeping carriers. How much discretion will I have?”

“All you wish. That’s one of the reasons we chose you.”

Doolittle felt like jumping in the air. “Fantastic! Now, sir, when do you want me to be ready?”

Nimitz smiled benignly. “Yesterday.”

Commander Mitsuo Fuchida greeted his old friend Minoru Genda with heartfelt warmth as they met in what had been the officers’ club of Wheeler Field, out by Schofield Barracks. After they’d exchanged pleasantries and treated each other to a drink, Genda brought up the reason for the meeting.

“Fuchida, you have done a marvelous job of, first, reducing the American forces on Oahu and, second, rebuilding this devastated base. May I assume that all your planes and pilots have been transferred from Molokai?”

“You may, indeed. The fields at Molokai have been dynamited, which makes them useless for anyone else, although they could be rebuilt fairly quickly. I must admit, I am not comfortable with so many potential airstrips so close to Oahu and no one watching over them.”

Genda agreed. “Unfortunately, our resources are stretched thin. However, you are flying patrols over all the islands, aren’t you?”

“Of course. But with only sixty planes at my disposal, I have only a handful on overland patrols at any given time. I am afraid that most of what goes on in the islands is unseen by my men.”

Fuchida was forced to divide his air resources among ocean patrols, which were deemed more critical because they looked for carriers; anti-sub duty off the entrance to Pearl Harbor; overland patrols; and the maintenance required to keep the planes in the air. At least a third of his planes were being serviced at all times. In the event of an attack, he was confident almost all of them would rise to fight, but the situation stretched his current overland patrols thin, too thin, in his estimation. “You know, Genda, I lost nearly a hundred pilots taking Oahu,” he said.

“A high price,” Genda said solemnly. The hundred pilots were equivalent to the flying crews of two carriers. Replacements were arriving, but they did not appear to be of the same quality as those killed, and this fact made both men uncomfortable.

Genda brightened. “At any rate, I have good news for you. Your work here is done. You are needed with the fleet.”

“Marvelous.” Fuchida could barely contain his enthusiasm.

“Nagumo is taking the carriers south through the Coral Sea to Port Moresby. He hopes to lure the Americans to battle and inflict a crushing defeat. He has been told that you are the best man to command all the fighters.”

Fuchida inhaled deeply. It was an enormous honor. “I will do my best.”

Genda clapped his friend on the shoulder, a most un-Japanese gesture of camaraderie. “Your best will be more than sufficient, my friend. We hope, a thrust toward Australia will knock both them and New Zealand out of the war and secure our southern flank. After that, we can destroy the British in the Indian Ocean if the remainder of the Americans won’t fight. Perhaps,” he said solemnly, “it will end the war.”

Fuchida shook his head. Perhaps had been said too many times. “I am not that confident. I saw how desperately the Americans fought to keep this place, and I do not think they will let the loss of Australia, or even several of their carriers, deter them. Do you know there are still Americans active and fighting on the other islands?”

Genda was surprised. “I had no idea.”

Fuchida laughed harshly. “It’s not something that either Admiral Iwabachi or Colonel Omori wants publicized. Just the other day a patrol was ambushed and wiped out on Hawaii, only a few hours away from Hilo, and we can do nothing about it. We know that there is a great deal of clandestine radio activity, which we cannot pin down, and every third sailor on the food ships must be a spy, regardless of nationality. Frankly, my friend, I would not doubt that our conversation will be reported to Washington tomorrow.”

Genda laughed nervously. Was the man serious? They were virtually alone in a large room. Native Hawaiians made up the serving staff, and there was a sprinkling of American Negroes working in the kitchens along with other Hawaiians. These were civilians who had worked at the base before the war and professed no love for the United States, which had treated them harshly. No, Fuchida had to be kidding. “It can’t be that bad,” Genda said.

“It isn’t,” Fuchida responded, “but it’s bad enough. You do know that we are not getting the full support of the Japanese community here, don’t you, and the Hawaiians are almost totally unresponsive? We’ve been here for almost five months, and there’s been no official clarification of our long-term policy regarding the islands, and the Japanese and Hawaiian people who would be our allies are beginning to worry and wonder.”

The two men rose and stepped outside. The Hawaiian sun had bathed the lush green land in brightness. Even the scars of the recent battles looked cleansed and unthreatening. With the low mountains as a backdrop, it should have been a vision evocative of the grace and elegance of Japan itself. Instead, it had taken on a sinister, hostile appearance, with the mountains looking like so many rows of sharks’ teeth.