Peterson nodded to himself. The little yellow men couldnât have done it all on their own. Say what you would about the Nazis, but theyâd shown the world they knew what the hell they were doing when it came to war.
He saw the thick black smoke rising into the blue tropical sky when he was still a devil of a long way out from Pearl. More and more of it came up every minute, too. âJesus,â he said softly. With or without help from Hitlerâs Aryan supermen, the Japs had done something really terrible here.
Radio from Pearl Harbor abruptly cut off. He didnât think it was silence imposed by command. More likely, a bomb had wrecked the transmitterâthe signal went away in the middle of a word.
As Peterson drew closer to Oahu, he saw more smoke rising from the Marine Corps airfield at Ewa, west of Pearl Harbor. In fact, people in Honolulu used Ewa as a synonym for west , the same as they used Waikiki for east . Till he got close, though, the small smoke from Ewa was lost in the greater conflagration of Pearl Harbor.
And the closer he got, the worse those fires looked. The tank farms had to be burning, sending untold millions of gallons of fuel oil up in smoke. Peterson swore softly, more in awe than in anger. This was a disaster, nothing else but. Somebodyâd been asleep at the switch, or it never could have happened. Heads would roll among the big brass. Theyâd have to. But that did nobody one damn bit of good now.
âBandits!â In Petersonâs earphones, that was more a cry of exultation than a mere word. âBandits dead ahead!â
He peered through the bulletproof windscreen. Sure as hell, there they were: shiny silver planes with meatballs on their wings and sides. They were tiny as toys now, but swelled even as he watched. âCome on, Marv!â he called to his wingman. âTime to go hunting!â
âIâm right with you,â Morrison answered.
Peterson more than half expected the Japs to run away. Now theyâd have to fight, after all, not just kick somebody while he was down. Did they really have the balls for that? But theyâd seen the planes from the Enterprise , too, and here they came.
His thumb tensed on the firing button on top of the stick. Just when he thought he had the first of the enemy fighters in his sights, though, the Japdid a flick roll and zoomed upwards. Christ, but heâs maneuverable , Peterson thought, and then, with a twinge of alarm, He climbs like a son of a bitch, too .
He gave his Wildcat full throttle. If the Jap wanted to dogfight, heâd play along. Marvin Morrison stuck to him like a burr, the way a good wingman was supposed to. Several of the Wildcats were shooting now, flames spurting from the four .50-caliber machine guns each one carried. A Japanese fighter fell from the sky trailing smoke and flame. Peterson whooped.
But the enemy planes were firing, too, and the shells from their wing-mounted cannon bit chunks out of the fighters from the Enterprise when they hit. And they seemed to be able to hit whenever they pleased. Peterson rapidly discovered that dogfighting the Japs was a mistake. It was like trying to pick up water with a fork. Their fighters could turn inside his and out-climb him as if the Wildcat were nailed to the mat.
This isnât right , he told himself. What the hell are they doing with hotter planes than weâve got?
âIâm hit!â Morrison wailed in his earphones. âIâm going down!â The wingmanâs Wildcat spun toward the ground and the sea far, far below. Flames licked back from the engine cowling toward the cockpit.
âGet out!â Peterson screamed. âGet out while you can!â But he didnât think Marvin Morrison could.
And then he had to stop worrying about Marv and try to save his own skin. The Jap heâd been hunting had been hunting him, too. Now the bastard was on his tail. Peterson jinked like a maniac, but he
He saw the thick black smoke rising into the blue tropical sky when he was still a devil of a long way out from Pearl. More and more of it came up every minute, too. âJesus,â he said softly. With or without help from Hitlerâs Aryan supermen, the Japs had done something really terrible here.
Radio from Pearl Harbor abruptly cut off. He didnât think it was silence imposed by command. More likely, a bomb had wrecked the transmitterâthe signal went away in the middle of a word.
As Peterson drew closer to Oahu, he saw more smoke rising from the Marine Corps airfield at Ewa, west of Pearl Harbor. In fact, people in Honolulu used Ewa as a synonym for west , the same as they used Waikiki for east . Till he got close, though, the small smoke from Ewa was lost in the greater conflagration of Pearl Harbor.
And the closer he got, the worse those fires looked. The tank farms had to be burning, sending untold millions of gallons of fuel oil up in smoke. Peterson swore softly, more in awe than in anger. This was a disaster, nothing else but. Somebodyâd been asleep at the switch, or it never could have happened. Heads would roll among the big brass. Theyâd have to. But that did nobody one damn bit of good now.
âBandits!â In Petersonâs earphones, that was more a cry of exultation than a mere word. âBandits dead ahead!â
He peered through the bulletproof windscreen. Sure as hell, there they were: shiny silver planes with meatballs on their wings and sides. They were tiny as toys now, but swelled even as he watched. âCome on, Marv!â he called to his wingman. âTime to go hunting!â
âIâm right with you,â Morrison answered.
Peterson more than half expected the Japs to run away. Now theyâd have to fight, after all, not just kick somebody while he was down. Did they really have the balls for that? But theyâd seen the planes from the Enterprise , too, and here they came.
His thumb tensed on the firing button on top of the stick. Just when he thought he had the first of the enemy fighters in his sights, though, the Japdid a flick roll and zoomed upwards. Christ, but heâs maneuverable , Peterson thought, and then, with a twinge of alarm, He climbs like a son of a bitch, too .
He gave his Wildcat full throttle. If the Jap wanted to dogfight, heâd play along. Marvin Morrison stuck to him like a burr, the way a good wingman was supposed to. Several of the Wildcats were shooting now, flames spurting from the four .50-caliber machine guns each one carried. A Japanese fighter fell from the sky trailing smoke and flame. Peterson whooped.
But the enemy planes were firing, too, and the shells from their wing-mounted cannon bit chunks out of the fighters from the Enterprise when they hit. And they seemed to be able to hit whenever they pleased. Peterson rapidly discovered that dogfighting the Japs was a mistake. It was like trying to pick up water with a fork. Their fighters could turn inside his and out-climb him as if the Wildcat were nailed to the mat.
This isnât right , he told himself. What the hell are they doing with hotter planes than weâve got?
âIâm hit!â Morrison wailed in his earphones. âIâm going down!â The wingmanâs Wildcat spun toward the ground and the sea far, far below. Flames licked back from the engine cowling toward the cockpit.
âGet out!â Peterson screamed. âGet out while you can!â But he didnât think Marvin Morrison could.
And then he had to stop worrying about Marv and try to save his own skin. The Jap heâd been hunting had been hunting him, too. Now the bastard was on his tail. Peterson jinked like a maniac, but he
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