Pearl Harbour - A novel of December 8th Read Free

“Long A,” “Too Fast,” “Sloppy Ending.” And his listeners claimed that all those men on the other side, whom they knew so well, had stopped sending more than a week ago, replaced by others. Over coffee, the whispered agreement was that the Jap carriers were all at sea. With each passing day, he had, on a small folding map kept in his desk, drawn a wider circle, ranging outward another four hundred miles as to where they might be.
    That circle, this morning, lapped far beyond the Marshalls, down to the coast of New Guinea, and arced up to within less than three hundred miles of here, the Hawaiian Islands.
    Somewhere out there the main striking force of the Japanese Fleet must be moving, and when they moved they would move to strike and not dally about; therefore they were at the forward edge of the circle on his map. He could not shake from his mind the comment of a friend, who in a day or two might be his enemy, about what Japan had learned from its war with Russia of forty years past. The first strike must be the fatal blow to their enemy if ever they had a hope of winning.
    He stopped his pacing and looked back across the narrow harbor. Eight battleships of the line were tied off, a ninth in dry dock. They were what most considered to be the strength, the backbone of America’s presence in the Pacific. If I were to make a fatal blow, it would be against them.
    He stubbed out the cigarette on the pavement, ignoring the slightly perturbed look of the marine guard stationed outside the administrative headquarters of base. To hell with looking for a bucket to snub out the butt. He fished another cigarette out of the pack and lit it.
    Looking back to the main gate he saw a taxi pull up, and absurd as it was, he started toward it. Kimmel always arrived in his own chauffeured staff car, never a taxi, but maybe it was carrying someone who could shake things loose.
    He slowed. Five sailors piled out, all of them obviously drunk to the point of collapse. Laughing, shouting, cursing, they started to argue with the driver.
    The security at the barred gate came out of their small office, wearily shaking their heads.
    Something compelled Watson--at least it would be a diversion for the moment--and he walked the hundred yards up to the gate.
    “Damn cabbie is robbing us blind!” one of the sailors was moaning as he fumbled in his pockets.
    The marine guard at the gate stood silent, obviously annoyed at this disturbance of the peace of a Sunday morning.
    Watson stepped around the gate, not even sure why he was doing so, and the marines, seeing his approach, came to attention and saluted, though they looked at him with a bit of a jaundiced eye. He had long ago acquired some of the idiosyncrasies of those buried down in the basement office of Naval Intelligence: rumpled uniform; in his case, the replacement hand, his claw as he called it; a coffee stain or two on his jacket; unshaven for two days; he looked not much better than the drunken sailors, but nevertheless they came to weary attention and saluted.
    “Problem here?” Watson asked.
    At the sight of him the drunken sailors came to pantomimes of attention, several offering exaggerated salutes, though a chief petty officer, still holding a touch of sobriety, saluted formally.
    “Sorry, sir,” he said, swaying slightly.
    “Two dollars,” the cabbie snapped, leaning out his open window.
    “Like hell,” one of the drunks replied, “you said a buck for back to the base.”
    “That’s before one of you got sick in my cab. Now I got to clean it!”
    “We ain’t got the money,” the sailor who had obviously gotten sick replied, barely able to stand.
    The petty officer looked at Watson and shrugged.
    “We’re broke, sir,” he said thickly.
    “I’ll take care of it,” Watson said, and in fact he was glad for the momentary distraction. He could well remember more than one similar night in his own life.
    Watson pulled out his wallet, found two bucks, and went up to