1942

The brave part of him had hoped that the mission would go off, while the sane part had hoped it would be canceled. The radio signal from Oahu had eliminated all choices, and Novacek had given the order to take off. Magruder had no idea what had transpired to make his chances of success now minimally acceptable, but someone must already have done something to the Japanese. This meant that persons unknown had stuck their necks out to ensure that he could attack. The least he could do was make the effort.

Then he was out in the air and flying free over the white-capped ocean below him. His two companions were beside him. He watched and waited while the other Wildcats flew into the sky.

There were no mishaps, and an elated Magruder whooped. Their radios were off. There was to be no chance of someone hearing a conversation in English and being warned.

Magruder’s flock of geese formed up on his taillights. The night was partly cloudy, and the lights were a chance that had to be taken. He hoped that anyone seeing them would think they were stars or, better yet, not think at all. When he was satisfied that all was well, he turned and headed north. He would fly at a fuel-conserving height and speed. This would enable him to have as much fuel as possible left to complete his mission and get the hell away.

Get away? He laughed at the notion. If he was lucky, he might have an hour’s worth of fuel left after his mission and be able to land on one of the islands. There was no way in hell he was leaving the territory of Hawaii this night.

He tuned his radio to the commercial Honolulu station. As always, it was on, and he began to follow its signal as if it were a homing beacon. He wondered if it was the same station the Japs had followed in last December.

Then he could see the dark bulk of Oahu against the silver of the sea, and the glow of the illuminated Japanese fleet below. He thought there was a bonfire out toward Wheeler Field, but he was too far away to be certain. Besides, who the hell would have a bonfire going on a night like this?

Lieutenant Commander Tom Meagher was almost distraught. Before the war, he had flown the giant flying boat to and from Hawaii a number of times and knew he could find the place, but this night he had lost his companions.

Doolittle had designated Meagher’s plane “Tail-end Charlie” because of Meagher’s experience with the plane and the route, and now he had fucked up royally.

Frank Tomanelli, his copilot and a young lieutenant j.g., looked at him nervously.

“We’re not lost, are we, sir?”

“Of course not. I know exactly where we are. We’re over the fucking Pacific. Can’t you see?”

The attempt at humor was lost on Tomanelli, who was afraid of several things-Meagher, the Boeing 314, and the Japanese, in that order. Tomanelli was barely acceptable as a copilot of the giant plane, and this was his first lengthy flight in it. However, the lieutenant had volunteered for the mission, which made him a good guy.

The problem had been a minor mechanical glitch that had worked itself out. Meagher’d had to feather an engine and then restart. It was one of those things he’d never truly understand. Probably a piece of crud in the engine that had simply disappeared. It had been only a few minutes, but it had caused him to fall back, and now he couldn’t distinguish the other four planes in the sea of stars and blackness ahead of him. This was getting seriously like the last time he’d flown the 314 from Hawaii. That was many months ago, when he’d ferried a number of high-ranking brass out of Pearl and even dropped off some soldiers on the Big Island. He sometimes wondered what became of them.

Meagher toyed with the idea of speeding up, but that carried the probability of passing the others and arriving over Honolulu too early. The thought of crashing into them was discounted as just too improbable, considering the vastness of the ocean.

“Where are the others, sir?” Tomanelli asked.

“Out there,” Meagher said sharply, and Tomanelli shut up.

Meagher checked his fuel. By his calculations, they would arrive over Hawaii with more than half remaining. At least that part was going right. With his bombs gone, his return load would be much lighter.

Tomanelli had regained his courage. “What’re we going to do now?”

“Lieutenant, we are going to do what we’re supposed to. We’re gonna fly to Hah-vah-ee and see if we can find us some Japs to plaster with all this crap the government has assigned to us.”

Tomanelli gulped audibly. “Alone?”

Meagher looked at him in mock surprise. “Of course not, boy. We’ll have our guardian angels with us.”

Sergeant Charley Finch hated moving during the night through what he thought of as jungles. There was nothing to see, and, with his miserable tracking skills, he might turn around and be headed back to Hilo before he realized his mistake.