Weapons of choice

Moertopo held up his hand until the copilot gave him the sign that they had broken into the Yamato's frequency. He pointed a finger at Kakuta and nodded.

"Yamato. Yamato. This is Admiral Kakuta. Commander of the Second Carrier Striking Fleet. This is Admiral Kakuta of the Second Carrier Striking Fleet. We are flying inbound on a heading of two-four-three relative to your position. Please acknowledge this transmission."

"This is Chief Signals Officer Wada," came the startlingly clear reply. "Stand by."

The men in the helicopter waited as a full minute dragged by. They were all tense, even though they still sat well outside the range of the fleet's antiair defenses. Moertopo had explained that they might not have sufficient fuel for a round trip to the Yamato and back. The Panther bucked violently on turbulence, adding to the stress. Admiral Kakuta was about to repeat his message when a cold, angry voice filled his headset. It was like having the commander in chief growl into his face from just a few inches away.

"So, Kakuta," rumbled Isoroku Yamamoto. "You have broken radio silence again."

"Yes, Admiral…"

At this point, Kakuta's nerve failed him. He groped for the right words to carry them through the next few minutes, and nothing came. The roar of the Panther's engine filled the warm, close space. He was acutely aware of the vibration of the airframe and the eyes of the men around him, boring in, urging him to speak. But what could he say that would not mark him as a lunatic? The right form of words. That was all he needed. Their refusal to take shape in his mind was absolutely maddening. He might never…

"Admiral Yamamoto."

It was Hidaka.

"Who is this?" Yamamoto demanded.

"Lieutenant Commander Jisaku Hidaka, of the Ryujo, sir. I am accompanying Admiral Kakuta on this mission. It was on my initiative that we undertook it."

"No!" mouthed Kakuta as his subordinate bared his neck to the blade. The dishonor of allowing one's inferior to accept blame for such a perilous scheme-he might never live it down.

"So," snarled Yamamoto. "Another mutineer. Or are you just a maniac, Commander?"

"You will think us both maniacs, initially, Admiral. But we have come as saviors. If we speak falsely, let the spirits of our ancestors bear the shame."

"Oh, they shall bear a heavy burden of shame, believe me, Hidaka."

"I believe not, Admiral. You were steaming toward defeat and catastrophe. We can avert that, if you will just hear us out."

"I am listening. No doubt the Americans are listening, as well. The whole world is waiting on you, Lieutenant Commander Hidaka."

"Here we are now, entertain us," Moertopo sung under his breath.

Hidaka shot him a withering look. The reference meant nothing to him, but the potentially disastrous effect of that one line of English did not bear thinking about.

"Admiral Yamamoto, begging your pardon, but we shall not even attempt to explain ourselves over the radio. It would be futile. We shall be over your position in approximately twenty minutes. We shall maneuver to land in front of your forward eighteen-inch turrets. I am informed it will be a very dangerous approach. The pilot requests that you adjust your heading in order to place the wind across your decks."

"It will be more than dangerous," exclaimed Yamamoto. "It will be fatal. You cannot land a seaplane on a battleship. I am warning you. I will have you shot down if you approach the Yamato."

"We are not in a seaplane, and we can land without damaging the Yamato. Please do not shoot us down. You will soon understand. Hidaka out."

He drew his fingers across his throat, motioning Moertopo to sever the link.

The commander in chief was cut off mid-rant.

Admiral Kakuta stared at him as though he had just lost his mind. Nobody spoke to Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto like that.

Hidaka gestured helplessly.

"From what I have heard, the Admiral is a gambler. So am I."

Yamamoto's mouth opened and closed. Opened and closed. But no sound emerged.

Perhaps they could land on the Yamato after all. That thing, that giant insect in which Kakuta had so quickly navigated across fifteen hundred kilometers of fog-shrouded sea-and at night! — it seemed to hang in the air as if suspended from a thread. No. No it didn't seem to hang in the air. It simply did hang there.

The seas were running at two and a half meters. The bulk of the Yamato would pass through a single wave as though it were composed of nothing more than smoke. But over the long haul from Hashirajima the ceaseless roll of the northern Pacific had imparted a long and rhythmic plunging motion to the sixty-five-thousand-tonne battleship. Yamamoto, who had quietly ordered the ship brought around when he had finally laid eyes on Kakuta's mysterious "seaplane," stood transfixed in the freezing night air as the pilot hovered over the forecastle. The aircraft dipped when the bow dipped. Rose when it rose. It was almost as though the pilot were dancing with the hulking behemoth beneath his wheels.